Caught in the Ripples_An Epic Fantasy Read online

  Contents

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Title Page

  01 A WOLF IN THE WOODS

  02 TO THE COURT

  03 HELLO & GOODBYE

  04 THE GETHADROX

  05 PAPER HISTORY

  06 GOOSHACK & GUMPTION

  07 POSSIBILITIES

  08 LEAP OF LOVE

  09 SCREAM

  10 AS GENERATIONS GO

  11 RID US OF EVIL

  12 TICK TOCK

  13 ASSUMED NORMAL

  14 SAIL UPON A STORY

  15 SHIELD ME NOT

  16 THE EXLATHAR & THE BEAST

  17 DANIEL SCHAWSMITH

  18 CONDEMNED

  19 SIX DEGREES OF SEPARATION

  20 ‘TIS THE SEASON

  21 THE ORIGIN

  22 KILL SOME, KEEP SOME

  23 LITTLE GIRL

  24 SOLITARY SHRUB

  25 THE TALE OF THE GIANT

  26 TUMULTUOUS TUNNELS

  27 TRAPPED

  28 ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?

  29 LOOK CLOSER

  30 TRAITOR & THE TRAMP

  31 WARRIOR IN A RED DRESS

  Dreamers and make-believers

  About the author

  Sneak peak

  This book is dedicated to my beautiful mum for letting me move in with her, so I could reduce my hours at my day job and focus on my daydream.

  Published by S. McPherson Books

  Copyright © 2016 S. McPherson

  All rights reserved.

  Second paperback edition printed 2018

  Second eBook edition published 2018

  Caught in the Ripples is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-9933605-5-8

  No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information retrieval system without written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  To learn more about the author visit:

  www.smcphersonbooks.com

  Twitter: www.twitter.com/smcphersonbooks

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Smcphersonbooks/

  Instagram: www.instagram.com/s_mcpherson_books/

  Cover design by: © Keith Tarrier

  Cover illustration: © S. McPherson, Sara Salim

  Title-page art: © Ibrahim Al Saffar

  Logo design: © Charlene Devismes

  Formatted by Dragon Realm Press

  www.dragonrealmpress.com

  CAUGHT IN THE RIPPLES

  by

  S. McPherson

  The Water Rushes - Book 2

  A WOLF IN THE WOODS

  I hurtle through the portal, the shrieks of the trelion bird echoing behind me long after the gateway has gone. Beatrice brook shudders below and I plunge into it, submerged beneath icy water, ripples expanding around me like ribbons of lightning.

  I wait to rise to the surface, to instinctively come up for air but I can’t lift my head. A hand is holding me down; a strong hand whose pressure I know too well, Drake’s.

  Somehow, I swivel. The face is his but the eyes are a piercing blue: shocking, like Milo’s. As I gape at them in disbelief, I hear Milo’s voice, as though he were right beside me.

  ‘This is how it has to be,’ he says.

  I go to scream, but my cries are muffled by the weight of water slamming me down. I push against it, stretching up, reaching higher but only getting further away from the surface.

  ‘The Exlathars are back,’ Milo continues. ‘We think they were never gone.’

  Never gone? The words repeat themselves over and over as I sink deeper into the brook, now as vast as an ocean. My head throbs as bubbles tumble from my lips, and Milo’s eyes burn, watching whilst I drown.

  I wake up panting, my blind hand reaching out for the face I may never see again. Trembling, I sit, sifting through the nightmare, trying to figure out what of it was memory, what nightmare and what may have been a premonition.

  Idly, I run my fingers along the raised and raw skin on my wrist where the Exlathar gripped me the night of the battle. At the time it didn’t hurt as the beast yanked me through the sky—perhaps I was too pumped with adrenaline to notice—but within an hour, I was in agony. Even now, a whole three months later, the skin still tingles and remains a bright shade of scarlet.

  I press my palm to my forehead as though resting the weight of my problems there. I told myself I wouldn’t go back to Coldivor. I wouldn’t risk the lives of the Coltis, not again, but as the weeks go by, I wonder which choice is right. Sitting back and doing nothing certainly doesn’t feel right anymore; it never really did.

  A bird startles me as it flutters past the window. The magic-made sun of Feranvil is coming up, casting eerie shadows of the trees on my thin and fraying curtains. I turn away from them, my gaze meeting the rest of my flat. I haven’t lived here long but am already starting to feel at home in this little studio.

  Most things—kitchen appliances, television, ornaments and such—I took from Storm Manor a few weeks before I put it up for sale. But the small wooden dining table, chairs for two and the narrow single bed I currently sprawl across I had the pleasure of crafting myself. I even branded them with a golden ‘D’ floating on a silver cloud. A smile curves my lips as my fingers trace the logo embossed on my headboard.

  The sunlight bounces off it and I squint. After just a few days of living in Feranvil Farm, I learnt that it doesn’t take long for the sky to turn from pitch black to the rays of a glaring sun.

  The clock beside my bed tells me it’s almost time for work. Feeding my need for distraction Mrs Edwards got me a job in a small furniture shop in the F.F. town centre, a place called ‘Carve and Wood’. The owner, Mr Picklesby, is an elderly man, his spectacles perpetually perched on the bridge of his pointed nose and his face boasts a bushy red moustache. He’s thrilled to have me help in the shop and my favourite thing about him is how he doesn’t insist I talk when he can tell I don’t want to.

  Arching the kinks out of my back, I at last clamber out of bed and get ready, washing down a few slices of toast with a glass of orange juice and dressing in a pair of worn jeans and a shirt.

  Making my way down the flight of stairs that lead to the exit, I hiss like a vampire when the sunlight hits, then rummage in my bag for my sunglasses. Though everyone else prances around in a skimpy dress, vest and shorts, and seems to welcome the warmer weather, I don’t. The warmer it gets the more it reminds me that the last time I saw Milo there was snow on the ground. It reminds me of Coldivor and of how much I want to go back.

  I try to imagine what everyone is doing now. Not long after the Elenfar battle, the Exlathars returned and in full force. Apparently, the Court ordered all civilians to stay out of the issue and resume life as normal, but if I know that lot; normal will be a broad concept. I feel a pang in my chest. I wish I was a part of this revolution. I can practically hear the courts scathing laughter: a Coltis war is no place for a Corporeal.

  Letting out a hearty sigh, I eventually reach Carve and Wood’s door and let myself in, inhaling the familiar scent of wood, immediately feeling warmed by the sombre tones of chestnuts, browns and hazels. A row of beautifully crafted baby cots stands to my right; I spy my favourite: cherry wood rails with a gossamer peach canopy. Beds, wardrobes, desks and chairs are next.

  ‘Good morning love,’ Mr Picklesby calls from behind the till. He is tapping awa
y, stacks of cash lying on the counter beside him.

  ‘Good morning.’ I call back cheerily and automatically head to the backroom, hanging up my cardi and handbag. I enthusiastically roll up my sleeves and make my way over to the half-finished cabinet I’m working on, truly grateful to Mrs Edwards for this job. The familiarity, the comfort of doing something I’m good at is such an escape—exactly what I need. I work alongside four others: two men, Charlie and Peter and two overly friendly women, one considerably older than the rest of us, but none will come in until later and I delight in the morning quiet.

  At last, I run the final layer of varnish over the now finished cabinet and put away the brush. When I glance at my watch, I’m surprised by how much time has passed and look around for what feels like the first time in ages. The rest of the team have arrived and the small room resembles Santa’s workshop with screws strewn across the floor and various surfaces, plans, sandpaper and spilled coffee tumbling to the concrete tiles. There are various creations propped at strange angles as someone works on them and the sounds of hammers, sanders and table cutters fills the air.

  Stretching, I feel the gethamot slide across my chest and place my hand over it, glad I attached it to a chain; somehow it makes me feel closer to Coldivor. Pulling it from under my shirt, I irrationally frown at the dark green hand; the denomatrix. Of course, it’s dark green—it will only lighten tomorrow when the portal is supposed to open—but I still feel cheated, like time is deliberately taking ages to pass.

  ‘Finished already?’ Mr Picklesby sounds surprised as he comes in from the store front.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll find something else,’ I muse, glancing around.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ and he waves a dismissive hand. ‘If you’re finished, it means it’s time for lunch.’

  I twist my mouth into a grin. ‘If you insist,’ and I grab my bag.

  Instinctively, I walk away from Feranvil town centre and towards the highest hill, the one that separates it from the farm.

  As I come to the Bar & Grill, I try to spy Nathaniel through the latticed windows. I’m still not used to having him here. For a while he would simply visit for bank holiday weekends. Then Mrs Edwards offered him a job and he hasn’t looked back since. I don’t blame him. If there were a way for me to exist in Coldivor I wouldn’t think twice.

  At last, I see him serving a regular at the bar. Apparently it’s never too early for a pint. He catches my eye and dips his head. I wave in return, making my way to the entrance.

  ‘Hello there,’ Nathaniel booms, coming over and enveloping me in his arms. He smells like cider and warm fish.

  ‘Do you have a few minutes for lunch?’ I ask, hopefully. I hate eating alone these days; now I thrive on distraction.

  ‘Sure.’ He unwraps the blue apron from around his waist and tosses it over an empty chair before sitting down. ‘Julie will be back any minute anyway.’

  ‘Julie,’ I stress as I sit opposite him. ‘So informal.’

  ‘Yep, she’s a colleague now,’ Nathaniel chuckles, ‘no more “Mrs Edwards” for me.’

  ‘So you’re enjoying it here?’ I smile. ‘Well and truly?’

  ‘I am.’ He agrees.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘How about you?’ he asks more seriously. ‘How have you been?’

  ‘I’m good,’ but I don’t meet his gaze.

  ‘Well and truly,’ he murmurs.

  ‘Well and truly.’ I mindlessly stroke the gethamot under my shirt, lifting its chain and running it along my bottom lip.

  ‘You want to go back, don’t you?’ Nathaniel signals a barman who salutes and starts preparing two pints.

  I sigh. ‘Not necessarily back. I know I can never live there but, to live in a time where both worlds co-exist…I wouldn’t mind that at all.’ I grimace. ‘I’m mad, aren’t I?’

  Nathaniel pauses for a moment while he considers. ‘Yes.’ He says, ‘but then again, I never thought I could live in a beneath-the-earth world.’

  My mouth twists to the side. Ever since I left Coldivor, I’ve wanted nothing more than to still somehow be a part of it. I crave the magic, the wonder. I miss the people. I didn’t know them long but because of them I know myself. Howard and his roosenbick sandwiches, Yvane and her edge of neurosis, Milo…always Milo, and even Lexovia—strong, beautiful, and kind.

  For so long I mistook kindness as my brother Drake, telling me there was water in the kettle in case I wanted a cup of tea. Back then, I thought kindness was the days when Drake would ignore me and not punish me for our parents’ death. In all honesty, besides Nathaniel, I didn’t encounter much kindness, not until Lexovia and the others rushed out of that portal and rescued me in more ways than one. I swallow, clearing the lump in my throat.

  Nathaniel takes the beers from the barman, sliding mine toward me. ‘To living in a world without divides,’ and he raises his glass.

  ‘To living.’

  Barely able to contain my excitement, I watch the misty arrow of the gethamot twist and bend in all directions. I don’t know how, after all this time, but I’m still so hopeful that someone will be there to meet me at the portal, that this time it will be different.

  My shoes scrape and stumble over the gravel, stick in the mud and crunch over twigs as I hear birds singing, camouflaged in the leaves high above me. Then finally, finally I hear the familiar sound of Beatrice brook—its clear water rushing over the rocks, babbling to the pebbles. I almost squeal aloud. Today might be the day a piece of Coldivor comes back, if only for a little while.

  The arrow stops spinning and I sit down, leaning against a tree before pulling out my book and waiting.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asks a curious voice a little while later. I jump. A man dressed in uniform, though one I’ve never seen before, has silently stepped out in front of me. His uniform’s dark grey, almost black, a royal blue line running along the sleeves and trouser legs. The zip of his jacket is also blue as is the flat cap he wears, and his feet are swallowed by hefty black boots.

  ‘Just reading,’ I reply. I can’t say what it is but something about this man is making me feel uncomfortable. Perhaps the way his eyes shift or the way he hunches his shoulders.

  ‘Out here?’ he asks incredulously. ‘In the middle of the woods?’ He throws his arms out to the side and I notice a tattoo on his wrist, poking out from under his sleeve. It looks familiar but I can’t think why.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ I ask, closing my book and hoping this won’t take long. The last time I checked the gethamot, the denomatrix was almost lime green. The portal will open soon.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve heard about all those mysterious killings in town recently.’ He shakes his head at me.

  I’m surprised. ‘No actually, I haven’t.’ Perhaps it was mentioned once or twice in Feranvil but I find I don’t really pay attention to the news anymore, not unless it’s about Coldivor.

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘Where have you been living? Under a rock?’

  I want to laugh. He has no idea how right he is. Not wanting him here when the portal opens—I know all too well what happened to Imogen when she was caught crossing between worlds—I stand.

  ‘Has the killer been found?’

  He nods slowly. ‘We think so, but we’re not taking any chances.’ He rests his hand on his hip, a gun in his holster.

  ‘Who do you work for?’

  His face changes, becomes guarded and once again I’m uneasy. There’s definitely something off about him.

  Then he smiles a much too broad a smile. ‘Wood security,’ he beams. ‘Now, please, get yourself home where it’s safe.’

  I concede, not wanting to spend another minute with this strange man, and turn, making my way back out through the woods.

  ‘Wood security?’ Jude screws up his face. ‘What on Earth is wood security?’

  I shrug. ‘He said there’d been a lot of mysterious murders lately.’ I pull myself up on a higher branch of the tree we’re in, so I can see
more of Feranvil. The view really is spectacular from this hill, and especially from the vantage point of this robust sycamore tree. It’s far too high to climb but with the help of the tixtremidral spell—giving one the ability to hover—Jude and I venture up here every so often to practice a little bit of magic.

  Jude is more fascinated with other realms now than he ever was as the perpetual Peculiar Lad, and is even teaching himself portology, using some old textbooks he collected in Feranvil. He’s thrilled to have someone to share his knowledge with and I am a more than willing student.

  ‘Did he say what kind of murders?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, but there was something funny about him. I don’t know what, but…something. And he had a tattoo.’

  ‘Not a tattoo, Jude teases.

  I glare at him. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen it before, smartarse, only I couldn’t have.’

  Jude wriggles slightly on his branch to get more comfortable. I don’t know how he can lie along it like he does. I’d be terrified of falling off. This thought makes me a little rocky and I grasp a stub of a branch beside me for good measure.

  ‘Always trust your intuition,’ Jude muses.

  He summons a leaf to glide towards him. It comes to rest on his fingertip.

  ‘Luminaro,’ he intones and the leaf glows a brilliant shade of green.

  ‘You’re getting better,’ I observe.

  Jude grins up at me. ‘Your turn.’

  A fortnight passes quickly, and once again I follow the gethamot’s twisting arrow and arrive at the portal. I wait anxiously for it to open, flicking aimlessly through pages of a magazine and running the gethamot between my fingers. I don’t pay attention to what I’m reading; I barely even notice the images.

  Eventually, I give up and toss the magazine aside. I press my hands together, dig my thumbs into my palms, chew on my bottom lip. Today I’m not as excited as usual. I’m just more anxious.