Broken Kiss (a Teen Wolf story)

Part 13

            “Well,” Lydia muttered to herself, “it ain’t Kansas.”

            And it certainly wasn’t Earth. Or the earthly plane. She should have studied more multiverse theory. Not that such a place would show up in a physics textbook. No, the underworld was straight out of myth. But it was real. Her eyes darted about, from a stand of twisted, leafless trees to a series of low wallows in the ground.

            Everything was gray, from the ground to the pale dust coating her hands to the charcoal mountains in the distance. Everything was gray except her, and what should have been muted colors – the creamy blue veins beneath her skin, the pale green pajama bottoms she wore – were garishly bright.

            The air felt heavy, and a chalky taste was already settling in the back of her throat. She hadn’t thought to ask Peter whether the air was breathable down here. It wasn’t meant for the living and, as a werewolf, he’d be able survive harsher conditions than she ever could. But somehow she didn’t think he would have offered to bring her here if it would hurt her.

          She still held the bag she’d had a grip on. Inside, the three apples were nearly indistinguishable. One was a little brighter. One appeared more tarnished. But she couldn’t tell which was the gold one, and who even knew if touching it again would take her home. It was like being in Wonderland, except she hadn’t grown taller or smaller and there weren’t any tricksy creatures around.

            Shivering, she folded her arms in front of herself and spun slowly in a circle. There was no telling how large the space was. The horizon behaved differently, as if there were fluctuations in the angle of the ground meeting the sky. It gave her a headache, just trying to track it. What if something showed up, like that Cerberus or whatever had snatched Peter, and tried to grab her? Or decided it was ‘off with her head’ time?

            Lydia pinched the bridge of her nose. That was enough of those thoughts. Irrational thoughts. Lydia Martin was logical. The banshee side of her might follow different rules, but there were rules, and learning them had made her flexible in other things. She could handle this.

            So she was in a different dimension. Not a problem. Hades had invited her, and even if she hadn’t crossed over with him, that invitation still stood. So she was safe, probably. She just had to find Peter and get them both back. No problem. So, how did one pick a single soul out of a leadscape full of the dead?

            “Oh!” She didn’t have to use a werewolf dowsing stick or taste the dirt like a tracker in an old spaghetti western. The underworld should be full of her specialty – the dead. If Peter were as vivid as she was, somebody would have noticed him. She just had to listen in.

            Closing her eyes, she tried to empty her mind. Her hand clenched around the bag in anticipation of the onslaught. Empty, empty.

            She shook her head in frustration. She was too tense. This whole situation was so strange. It was like trying to force herself to go to sleep when she had a big test the next morning. Each calming thought was replaced by a stressful one. Except, these weren’t all stressful. She thought of the way that gravity shifted when she was in Peter’s arms. She held her breath and remembered Hades offering his hand. The sounds that meant Allison invaded next. That stupid song she played on repeat for two weeks then sang to herself for another two. The creak of the string when she drew a certain kind of bow tight. The dense thunk of an arrow splitting the bark of a tree.

            The song, in Allison’s breathy voice.

            The creak.

            The split. 

            Voices began to flow into her mind. A faint breeze lifted strands on hair away from her shoulders. Opening her eyes, Lydia gasped. All around her were people. Gray people, dressed in strange clothes but they were simply…strolling about. They moved with purpose, some together, their heads bowed as though they were in conversation. A few of them weren’t quite right. Odd shapes and inhuman anatomies. A few dragged things behind them: wooden carts like primitive wheelbarrows; shapeless bundles of fabric; and chains. Those ones looked like they were in pain.

            The murmurs grew louder, more clear. They talked amongst themselves. They talked about her. The underworld wasn’t empty. It had just taken her some time to find its frequency. But it certainly knew she was there.

            Eyes turned toward her, curious and blinking but eerie in that the whites and irises were both gray. She looked up and took an involuntary step back. It wasn’t the wind moving her hair. Wispy shapes swirled overhead. Fragments of them partially solidified into hands as they reached for her.

            One of the hands snatched at her hair, catching a few strands and ripping them loose, and Lydia flinched away. Her heart began to pound. The chalky air burned in her lungs.

            The split.

            The creak.

            That song, in Allison’s breathy voice.

            “Lydia?”

            She knew that voice. Of the thousands of voices flowing through her mind now, this one she recognized. This one, she would always recognize. She turned, not knowing what to expect. Would she be whole? Would she be dragging something? Lydia turned.

            Allison’s face smiled at her, all dimples and bright eyes. Or, they would have been bright if they weren’t gray.

            “Oh, God.” Lydia pressed her lips against her mouth. Allison’s smile faded. She looked down at herself – as solid as she had been when she lived – and plucked at the hem of her shirt.

            “I don’t look that bad, do I?”

            Lydia shook her head as tears filled her eyes and her throat tried to close. “No,” she rasped. “You don’t look bad at all.”

            Allison rolled her eyes – still creepy. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and nodded.

            “I look like crap. When you recover from your shock, you’ll notice, I’m sure.”

            “Why didn’t you call me?” Lydia asked.

            Allison’s expressed hardened, and she glanced around before moving closer. She still smelled the same, somehow.

            “Why do the scents of hair products and body wash transcend death?” Lydia asked.

            Allison laughed. “That’s more like it. Unfortunately, I have no idea how this works.” She raised her arms tentatively, and Lydia grabbed her and pulled her close. She was warm and soft, and those graceful arms of hers were still surprisingly strong. Allison.

            “But why didn’t you call me?”

            Allison pulled back and glanced around, then tugged Lydia aside as another wisp-hand reached for her. She pulled her bow off of her shoulder and drew an arrow from a thigh quiver.

            “Because,” she said, notching it. “If I'd called, you would have come. And it isn’t safe for you here.”