Path of Needles Chapter Eight Excerpt

From Path of Needles, Chapter 8: Big Eyes, Big Teeth

I knew it was a dream before I saw the eyes in the trees.

“This is creepy,” I said, the words echoing into the empty clearing. That’s where I was—a clearing in the middle of the forest, the day fading to dusk above me as the trees rustled wickedly in the wind. And they were wicked, those trees. I knew it like I knew I was dreaming, like I knew that this dream was different, and somehow that awful Clara’s fault.

It helped that the trees were glaring at me. Each trunk boasted, I kid you not, glowing red eyes, some slanted into glares, others wide and staring. Knowing it was a dream, I wasn’t as afraid as I think I should have been. After all, they were creepy, but it was just a dream, right? Couldn’t actually hurt me.

I shifted and something shifted with me. I looked down to see a basket hanging off my right arm. It was a cute little thing, all wicker and covered in checked gingham cloth. The wind rustled, and I realized I was wearing a long cloak over my jeans and shirt. It was a deep, virulent red.

“Great,” I said out loud. “Little Red Riding Hood. Really original, subconscious,” I muttered, pulling the hood up over my hair with my free arm.

The same dream-logic that told me to keep the cape pushed me towards the trees despite their wicked eyes. I bit my lip and started forward, because it was a dream and what else could I do? The eyes on the trees watched me as I stepped onto the path. I tripped and stumbled, falling to my knees and throwing a hand out to stop my fall.

“Ouch!” I pulled my hand back, cradling it to my chest as I hastily stood. Blood trickled out from a dozen tiny pinpricks. I reached down and found a jagged edge on the hem of my cloak, then ripped off a long swath of cloth and wrapped it clumsily around my hand. That done, I looked to see what had cut me.

The path was carpeted with shiny, silver needles.

“I think I’ve read this version,” I muttered to myself. I kicked vindictively at the stupid sharp things before setting forth once more. “This dream sucks.”

I kept walking. The metallic crunch of needles under my feet and the creaking of branches in the wind were the only noises. Every once in a while I glanced up at the thin crack in the trees overhead. As I walked the sky shifted colors from the dark purples of dusk to the deeper blues and blacks of night. For some reason I could see in the dark, though there were no stars or moonlight to light my way.

Eventually—and it could have been hours, days, or seconds, considering it was stupid dreamtime—I saw a light up ahead. As I got closer I saw that it came from a candle burning in the window of a small, thatched cottage. Despite knowing exactly which fairy tale I’d found myself in, I couldn’t fight my feet as they took me to the front door.

I raised a fist and knocked three times.

“Come in,” called a warm, familiar voice. A man’s voice. My heart sped up.

The door swung silently forward under my outstretched hand. Trembling, I stepped over the threshold. As I did so, the dream shifted once more, taking me from the fairy-tale forest to my apartment’s kitchen.

Light streamed through the open window, the breeze gently teasing our yellow curtains. City noises filtered faintly through the air. This was the kitchen of my memories—messy, filled with a few dirty dishes and takeaway boxes, but mine. I stepped inside, shaking needles onto the old linoleum as I breathed in the coffee-and-city smell of home.

“There you are, Kit-Kat,” my father said from behind me. My heart clenched. He hadn’t called me that since I was very small.

I turned around slowly, knowing that the door to the forest would be gone. My father stood in the kitchen doorway. He leaned against the doorframe, dressed in a posh suit, his hair tied back into a slick ponytail. It was exactly as he’d looked when I left home the night before.

“Hello, darling,” he said, and smiled.

“Well?” he continued, his voice so warm and familiar that my eyes began to water. “How do I look?” He did a little twirl on the heels of his dress shoes.

“Great, Dad,” I said, my voice shaking slightly. I clutched the basket closer to my chest as he stepped forward, still smiling at me, the right corner of his mouth just a little higher than the left. “You going to the premier tonight?” I heard myself asking, even as my legs began to tremble beneath me. He stepped forward again.

“No. Thought I’d stay in tonight. Maybe we can pick up a Chinese, watch some telly. Just like old times.”

I closed my eyes tightly as he spoke, the colloquialisms that were as familiar to me as my last name stabbing painfully into my chest. It’s a dream, I chanted to myself. A dream, a dream, a dream…

When I opened my eyes, he was standing right in front of me. This close, I could see that his teeth were yellow, his skin grey and unhealthy, eyes shocky and wide.

“I’m not going to say it,” I said, my breath coming in tiny gasps as I realized exactly what part of the story we had reached.

My father laughed, his strange skin crinkling at the edges as he did so. “Oh, come on, it’s all a bit of fun. Don’t you like my big eyes? My nasty teeth?” He grinned wide, showing off yellow teeth that had been filed down to sharp points meant for tearing.

I shook my head. “No,” I whispered, and took a step back.

“That’s too bad, Kit-Kat,” he said again, stepping forward until I was pressed against the kitchen table. “I guess we’ll just have to skip to the end.”

He pulled his hands out of his pockets and I screamed as I saw they were claws. I screamed again when he reached for me, snarling.  Fur rippled from beneath his skin, spreading up his limbs to burst out of the skin on his face. My father collapsed on the ground like shreds of leather and a snarling wolf in a tattered suit launched itself at me.

Just before the claws reached my throat, I felt a familiar jolt, like I was being yanked out of the apartment and up through the ceiling. As I was pulled from the dream into the black, I heard the howling wolf behind me, his cries chasing me even as I escaped.

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Excerpt From Empyreal Fate by Rachel Hunter

And Now! A Sneak Peak into Empyreal Fate! 

Darrion stared, dazed, into Amarya's face as she loomed above him, concern defining her frame. Lifting himself, he sat, uncertain how he had come to lie upon the ground. He did not remember falling; he had no recollection.

"You did well,” the elf congratulated, extending a slender hand.

Darrion rubbed his head, feeling a tenderness that had not been there before. "What happened?" he asked, taking her hand and rising.

            "I saw not of your mind, but from what I could figure, you gained entrance to the thoughts of a rambling oak. I know this to be true, for I could see your eyes swimming beneath the lids. Such does not occur unless a connection is made.” Amarya beamed, eyes sparkling with pride despite her pupil’s faint. With eager strides, she began smoothing the creases of his tunic. "You drifted too far, however – missing the mark. Your focus broke upon more than a single entity; your mind roamed in places it was not meant. As a result, your consciousness receded, and your celestial bond forged hollow spaces to compensate. Once that barrier snapped, the voices of many within the Illex, not merely the trees, poured through you. It was an overload of understanding – most mortals cannot handle such. But no need to fret; you’ve far surpassed the most capable of beginners. I am simply surprised you made contact at all."

            Darrion stepped back, feeling the lightness of his chest. With clouded thoughts, he speculated the feat he had barely attained. Few words could describe his awe - the confusion - that enveloped him. Dizziness clothed him as a tumbled reed.

Resting one palm against the bark of an oak, he listened - intent - as though searching for a beating heart against the trunk. Despite his wavering state, he was glad for Amarya’s tutelage. This feeling… it was almost surreal.

            "To my knowledge, never has a human discerned as much as you.” Amarya’s pale hand sought Darrion's shoulder, and he melted at her touch. "I'm uncertain what it means - for indeed, your ability comes as no coincidence… But the mortal mind proves oft unable to comprehend the spiritual realm. Not that it's impossible, but man forgets his possession. He knows not of the awareness beyond material senses. You, Darrion, are not like other men. You – you’re different." She shifted her jaw, examining him as if for answers.

"It’s true… I never knew the depths to which magic strayed," Darrion murmured, almost trembling from his ethereal venture. "I used to think it all frivolous tricks of the tongue."

"Not quite,” Amarya offered. "Those who perform incantations, as you suggest, are sorcerers - mere magicians who rely on handholds and false words to create masked illusions. In some cases – nigh, but rare - such illusions become reality. Regardless, the art lacks in form. Words are the derivation of mortals - a human contrivance, unnecessary for understanding. They are not real, as nature is real. Nay, words are but crude concepts – trivial in the matter of divine understanding. What is meant in one tongue may be opposite in another. How can a concept so unsure create something so pure? The answer is simple: it cannot.”

-–Scene from Empyreal Fate - Part One of Rachel Hunter’s Llathalan Annal series.

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