The Nightwalkers

Prologue

Dust coats Dalia's nostrils like dry mucus, but she pushes forward, her forearm shielding her eyes as wind whips the braid from her hair. She hears Julian's deep voice behind her, breaking through the wind like rolling thunder. Dalia can't decipher his words, but the constant push of his fist against her back tells her all she needs to know. Her left hand, splayed out in front of her, reaching for stability against the raging wind that threatens to pull herself and Julian down, slaps against the wooden slat of a house, its paint eaten away from the blustering sand. Julian, stopped suddenly by Dalia's weight, slams against her, his nails digging into her back. She turns round and his face is inches from hers, his eyes glassy and his eyelids drooping with exhaustion. His cheeks are pale, almost white, and the color is drained from his lips. His mouth is open slightly, as if he's ready to tell her something dire, but he says nothing. It's as if he's sleepwalking. Dalia's heart sinks into her stomach. It's only been three days since the Nightwalkers cut Julian with one of their Dreamspire blades, but his body has deteriorated quickly. He's losing himself inside his own body. Dalia's head whips back round when a door slams close by and footsteps are whispers in the torrential wind. She grips Julian by his wrist and pulls him forward, and in his limp state, he drags along behind her with little resistance. She cups her lips with her palm and shouts into the storm. The footsteps shuffle, grow louder, then stop. Dalia screams again, and hands appear before her and grasp her own. She almost yanks away and runs, but another set of arms juts out and takes her by the shoulders. They both pull her forward, and the second set of hands puts his weight behind Julian and they push forward. A set of steps materializes, and the shadow of a deck pulses with the spinning sand. The figure, a man, who pulls Dalia forward, yells something over the screeching of the wind and they rush up the steps, the wind up their backs. Light floods the dark storm and a door spills licks of fire onto the wood deck in front of them. The man's hand latches onto the door handle and the hinges cry out as the door swings and slams against the side of the house, loosing shingles from the flimsy roof. They smash down around us, and a shard slices into Dalia's exposed left forearm as the man in front of her bellows to get inside, and they all stumble into the house, sprawling onto a damp red carpet laid out in the middle of the floor. Dalia lands atop the man, his breath whooshing from his lips as her elbow drives into his chest. Julian, loose limbed and limp above her, feels like a dead weight slamming into her back as he falls to the floor. The man behind him manages to stagger to the right and catch himself on a wooden chair beside him, his plexus caught by the top of the chair. The entire group lays panting for a moment, until the man under Dalia rubs at his chest and examines her bleeding arm.

"That needs to be cleaned."

She looks at him fully, at the house, finally able to study the two men after the underlying panic. He's slightly older than the second man, somewhere in his early thirties, with shoulder-length blonde hair and a set of white teeth. He wears a dark green tunic, dirtied with her dried blood, and brown pants tucked into long leather boots. His dark attire contrasts the bright red carpet under them and the roiling fireplace in the back of the large room. A kitchen is tucked into its right side, and oppositely, a small table seated for four is set near a library nook cluttered with dusty books. The second man, his arm strewn across one of the dining chairs, in stability or comfort, eyes Dalia curiously, then looks down at his feet to Julian, who slowly pushes himself from the floor, breathing deeply and bleeding again from the wound in his shoulder. Dalia rushes toward him, clamping her arms on his shoulders to force him to sit down, and lifts his chin with her finger.

"You stay with me, alright?"

What little intelligence and consciousness that lingers in his eyes makes him nod and slump against the rug. Dalia turns back toward the older man.

"Do you have somewhere to lay? He's injured and sick with fever."

The man nods, then holds his hand out to me while the younger man pulls Julian up by his arms and guides him out of the room.

"I'm Keel." Dalia takes his hand, shakes it, and gives him a weary smile.

"Dalia."

Keel nods in greeting, then pulls her hand towards his face and examines the bloody tear in her sleeve. He looks down at her and grimaces.

"Come with me."

She nods, then lets him guide her to the dining table as he rushes into the kitchen and clatters through the cupboards until he finds what he's looking for with a low, celebratory whistle. She watches the fireplace flicker and fall as Keel comes back to sit next to her and clean the cut. He tears away the fabric of Dalia's sleeve, exposing the jagged tear in her skin, and sucks on his teeth. It's not too deep, but rather nasty looking, running down Dalia's forearm like a snake and wrapping halfway around her wrist. He cleans it with antiseptic and a bandage, then wraps it tightly and forces her to take a tonic that leaves Dalia droopy-eyed and heavy with sleep. She thanks him, and he sits back, eyeing her with a narrowed gaze. The other man appears behind him, rubbing his hands on a bloodied rag and piercing me with the same look.

"Do you mind telling me your name?" Dalia says to the second man, and his lips quirk in a smile.

"Do you mind telling us yours?" She stares at the man's bloody cloth, the specks of red in his white sleeve.

"I already told you. It's Dalia."

Keel looks at her, his eyes devoid of any of their earlier softness. His lips curl into an identical smile to his friend's. Dread fills Dalia as he pulls out a Dreamspire and takes the bloody fabric from his friend to polish his blade with it.

"I think that you're lying. I really don't like that you're lying to me, Aniella."

Confusion masks the fear in Dalia's voice.

"Aniella? I don't know who that is. Please just let us be. Where is Julian?"

The young man looks fully at her and snarls. She can swear his canines grow as his eyes burn in triumph.

"Oh, he's dead." Dalia fights the tears that pool in her eyes, "He was a little harder to finish off than I thought. Still had some fight left in his bones. Guess the Nightwalker didn't finish the job well." He looks down at Keel, who now pulls the blade from its polishing. It shines bright as the sun. Dalia's heart falls into her feet.

"NO, Please. I don't even know who you're talking about. I've never heard of an Aniella. You must be mistaken. Did you really kill him?" Tears spill onto Dalia's cheeks, and she thrusts from her seat and rushes to the door.

"Oh, yes, Aniella." Keel says, "And we're going to kill you too."

His expression turns hate-filled and vicious.

How long did you expect to run from us?"

He flashes his teeth yet again, rising from his seat to box Dalia away from the door. She sobs, spluttering apologies and pleas, and inches into a small corner of the large room, death a mere strike away. Keel raises the knife over his head, and Dalia erupts, screaming and thrashing and striking with her fists. Keel, bats away her hand with nothing but a slap across the face. His blade arcs down, thrusting into Dalia's chest. Her dying wails are mute in the blustering storm.