Illusory

Chapter 6

"How long do you think this is gonna take?" I asked breathlessly, having to raise my voice to be heard over the sounds of nature — sticks snapping beneath my feet, leaves rustling all around us, and birds calling overheard. I was already tired of this, of having to practically jog to keep up with Van, of having to watch out for tree roots and fallen limbs and nearly falling because of them, anyway — and we hadn't even been out here for ten minutes.

"Not too long, I'm sure," he called back to me. He was just as calm as ever, breathing evenly and not pushing himself at all, and I wondered how he did it. He worked out just as much as I did — which was approximately never — and spent even less time in the woods, so how was he doing this with so little trouble? "A few miles is nothing if you set the right pace."

"But this pace is killing me!" I whined. "Can't we just go back and wait for people with cars to come get us?" My foot caught on one of the tree roots I'd been keeping an eye out for, and my hand scraped against the bark of a tree as I caught myself. My palm began to bleed, but I kept moving, knowing that Van wouldn't show any sympathy for a tiny little scrape on my hand. Hell, I wouldn't have shown any sympathy for it, either.

"No," he said flatly. "We've already made it this far. We have no reason to stop now."

"But you don't even know how far we've made it!" A bright yellow leaf dropped from the tree above, fluttering slowly toward me on the breeze, and I knocked it aside before it could hit me in the face. "We could be going in the wrong direction for all you know! Or the pilot could've been wrong, and we're not even heading toward the right city!"

"I doubt the pilot would be wrong," he remarked dryly. "Pilots are men who get paid to know where everything is."

"Nuh uh. They get paid to fly planes," I argued, nearly tripping over another root. I huffed as I caught myself on another tree, smearing blood from my scraped palm across the bark.

"Well, yes, but they also tend to be very knowledgeable about the areas in which they fly those —" He stopped suddenly, holding a hand out toward me as he had on the plane to stop my approach. "What is...What is that?" he murmured to himself, squinting into the trees before him.

"I don't see anything," I whispered, but he didn't even seem to hear me. He crept forward as silently as he could, dead leaves still crunching softly beneath his feet, and he continued to hold his hand out to me, as if I would suddenly forget that he'd told me to stop and come barreling after him while belting out a show tune.

"Pulso!" rang out through the trees, a rugged, masculine voice that I'd never heard before, and it suddenly felt like a ball of quick-moving wind had slammed into my chest. I sailed backward several feet, coming down on a mass of sticks and sharp rocks that cut into my back through my jacket. My blanket and bag fell to either side of me. I gasped for air, trying to replace what had once again been knocked from my lungs, but I didn't dare move to do anything else.

"Subrigo!" came another cry of that unfamiliar voice, and the rocks and sticks that I'd just landed upon stabbed their way through my clothing and into my skin. I screamed and rolled onto my front, but the damage had already been done. Pain lanced through my back from a dozen different stab wounds, and though I reached back and clawed at the sticks and stones, there was nothing to be done about it.

"Ember!" I heard Van shout, leaves rustling and twigs snapping as he started toward me.

"Subrigo!" that voice yelled again, and the rocks and sticks jerked from my back and started another trip through the air. I let out a sobbing cry, tears blurring the wall of brown and yellow that spread out before my eyes, and let my arms fall uselessly to my side.