Shea Berkley: The Fallen Prince

What is real? Is it only those things the eyes can see, or is it more?

The wind whispers all around us, invisible but real.

Emotions, gravity, oxygen, God—these are intangibles, unseen, but felt. Real because we believe in the daily evidence of their existence that surrounds us. But what if what you believe is so unorthodox you find yourself pulling away from the evidence?

What do you do when an ancient power rumbles within you…and you deny its release?

Cool air whispers against my bedroom window, seeping through the thin stretch of cheap glass to chill my skin. It’s been nearly a month since I was raised from the dead. I’m no zombie, but I don’t feel…right. I see the expanse of lawn and the back fence outside. I hear the wind slip through the woods beyond, and the gentle baaing of sheep. When Mom dropped me off at my grandparents’ sheep ranch in the fastest kiss-off of all time, I felt unloved. Abandoned.

How has this place of misty woods and magic become home in such a short time? It’s a feeling I’ve always feared. Usually when that comfy feeling sneaks in, it gets ripped away. But Mom’s not here to order a pack-and-go. I’ve got a whole other set of messed-up crazies to deal with. To look at it, you wouldn’t know, but this place is the gateway to another place, one that uses magic like we use McDonald’s for a quick hunger fix.

I get it. I used to lean on Kera, the girl from my dreams, an imaginary friend I created when I was young to help ease my loneliness. Not until I set foot in Oregon did I find out she was more than what my imagination could create. She was perfect and solid…and real. The girl from my dreams, the girl I’ve loved since I was in kindergarten, actually exists, and she wants me as much as I want her.

I stretch my hand out in front of me, seeing its reflection in the thin glass, and my vision blurs before I refocus and flex my fingers into a fist. All I want right now is sleep, but every time I blink, I get a flashing glimpse of what’s awaiting me in my dreams. It’s nothing good.

I’m haunted by a man, tattered and dirty, surrounded by hateful little glowing creatures called pux . There isn’t a “Hey, dude, can you spare me a fiver” quality about him. He always looks ready to skin me, fillet me, and spread me out for his little friends to eat. Freddy Krueger with all his visual scariness can’t touch the intensity of that man’s gaze.

There’s a realness to my dreams I can’t shake.

He knows my name is Dylan. Knows exactly who and what I am.

I’ve dealt with those who’ve wanted me and everyone I cared about dead, and now they’re the ones six feet under. After that, you’d think I wouldn’t be scared of anything. Apparently there are different levels of fear, ’cause I’m scared—scared of a man from a dream who stands in front of a collection of dead sticks and stares at me.

Laughs at me. Threatens me.

With my life history of being the wrong guy, in the wrong place, at the wrong time, you’d think a little mocking and a nasty threat wouldn’t faze me. But it does.

I stagger away from my bedroom window. I’m not sure I can continue without sleep for much longer.

The backs of my knees hit the side of the mattress, and I slump to the bed. I stare out the window, my mind grasping for a reason to stay awake.

Grandpa says the iron we stationed near the barrier to the firsts’ realm is working—iron poisons them, weakens those with first blood—but how would he know? I know first magic is powerful—I’ve experienced it in all its beauty and ugliness. It can keep a first’s true self hidden. Make them invisible. They could be close, and we’d not even know it.

My spine feels like butter under hot syrup, and without me realizing it, I’m flat on my back, my legs dangling over the edge of the bed, arms dead at my sides. The dips and swirls of the ceiling blur, and my eyelids droop. I curl my fingers against the sheets, fighting the inevitable.

And then it happens. My body yields, and I’m quickly swept along a tunnel of darkness. When my sleep-induced journey spits me out, my subconscious is beyond the wall that separates the human realm from the first realm. The dream takes me deep within the first forest to the place where singed wood and burned shrubs lie. It’s where that man brought me in a similar dream, but more importantly, it’s the place I destroyed to save my friends. I see my handprint nestled against a blackened tree trunk. See scores of dead firsts , the spirits of the pux burned to a crisp. When they notice me, they scatter, fearful of what else I’m capable of doing.

I don’t want to be here. My mind commands me to leave, but my feet won’t let me go. I slowly spin around and move deeper into the burned circle to a lump of damaged, twisted tree roots.

Jason.

A movie-buff wrestler who loved to play video games and stupid pranks. Typical all-American guy. He wasn’t prepared for Teag. None of us were.

I have few friends. Jason’s one of two who know who I really am. What I am. He accepted me…and this is how I repaid him.

Right here. This is where he died. This is where I buried him to keep his body safe from the pux . I kneel and place my hand against the roots. The pain at causing Jason’s death eats at me, its predatory jaws tearing through my soul like a raging bear. I close my eyes against the hurt. I never should’ve brought him into this realm. This wasn’t his fight.

Why has this dream brought me to this place? Is it to torture me? Am I to ask forgiveness? What’s the point? No matter what Kera says, I don’t deserve mercy. I don’t deserve forgiveness for what I’ve done.

With my head bowed and my knees digging into the damaged soil, a flash of heat burns against my palm. The roots flare, glowing bright. A sudden crack rips across the intertwined clump. I fall back just as Jason explodes from his grave with a loud growl. His chest heaves and his gaze is filled with a wildness I’ve never seen before.

I blink at him like a child seeing a circus performer leap through fire unscathed. He’s alive?

“Jason?” My voice is low. Unsure.

He doesn’t acknowledge me, only stands there, his massive, wrestler-honed body trembling.

I brave his crazed expression and take a step closer. My hand gives an odd tremble before I place it on his shoulder. He feels solid. More than alive. He’s thrumming with energy. I give the bulk of muscle a light squeeze. His attention is instantly on me.

“Dude,” I rasp. “I didn’t forget. I swear I’m coming back for you.”

He leans forward, his face inches from mine. “Then do it.” His voice rumbles from deep within his chest. “Time’s running out.”

I suddenly spin away into a dark void, and when next I take a breath, I’m in my room, awake. The ragged sound of my breathing is the only thing I hear. Sweat clings to my skin, and I pop upright. Oh my God. Jason is alive? I buried my friend alive!

I rub at my eyes, struggling with the horror of what I’ve done. But it can’t be true. I saw him die. I know without a doubt he’s dead. Something is definitely not right…

But what if he is alive, waiting for me to dig him out of the ground? Who could survive being buried alive for what…two weeks?

No one could survive. When I buried him, he was blue-lipped, no heartbeat, no-question-about-it dead. I tried to heal him, but I couldn’t. Healing is Kera’s gift, not mine.