The Onyx Throne - Book One

Mitchell felt himself falling.

“No, that’s not right. I’m flying. Holy shit, I’m flying!”

He had no body. He had no eyes but he could see. Except there is nothing to see.

“Is this death? Is this what happens after we die? Crap, I hope I’m going to heaven.”

There was light before him. The sense of motion increased. He was falling after all. He was falling down a tunnel that seemed as long and as deep as the universe.

“Oh fuuuuuuuuuuck!”

The first thought that Mitchell had upon returning to consciousness was ouch. The second thought was also ouch.

“Owww, son of a bitch!” he groaned and tried to move. Pain. “Nope! Nope, not moving.”

He grunted as his muscles spasmed.

“There’s no way being dead hurts this much.”

He heard the sounds of someone else in extreme discomfort and knew then that he wasn’t alone. He tried to pull his muddled thoughts together through the haze of agony that was clouding his brain and remember how he’d gotten here. There had been the woman, Allora. She’d wanted him to see something in her house. Her empty house! They’d been attacked by three people, one looked horribly disfigured, and there had been explosions and swords and light. Magic! She’d used magic! That was really the only explanation Mitchell could think of. Magic was real. I’ve got to get up. I’ve got to move.

His face was pressed flat against a cool smooth surface. His head was throbbing and he could hear his heartbeat in his ears. It was like the worst tequila-induced hangover ever combined with the body aches of a nasty flu.

He opened one eye, the one not pressed into the glassy surface, and looked across an expanse of a polished black floor. There was a soft light from somewhere above him and it filled the room with a warm orange glow. A few feet away he could see a shape slowly getting to its feet. It was Allora. He watched as she pushed herself up to her hands and knees, breathed for a moment, then got up to one knee before pushing herself upright. She staggered a little, then turned and looked at him.

“Re wux kruth, Mitchell?”

“Huh?” Mitchell found the strength to roll onto his back. He felt something press into his side as his body turned. He reached back and found that it was fleshy and warm. Yanking it from under him, he saw that it was a greenish-gray arm cut off cleanly just above the elbow.

“Shit!” he cried out, throwing it aside. It landed with a meaty thwack on the stone floor. It was enough of a shock to get him moving and he sat up fully, groaning as his head throbbed.

“Are you okay, Mitchell?”

He looked up at her and she was standing there, as beautiful as ever, holding her hand out to pull him to his feet.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I think. Nothing’s broken. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, but all my fingers and toes are still attached.”

Mitchell eyed her hand a moment and then took it. She pulled him to his feet with ease and he staggered around just as she had. “I think I’m going to throw up,” he gasped, as his head swam and his stomach turned.

“Keep moving around,” she advised. “It gets better. The sickness should wear off momentarily, the aches and pains in about fifteen or twenty minutes.”

The room they were in was rectangular, maybe twenty feet by thirty feet. Composed of large blocks that fit smoothly together, the color of the walls suggested cut sandstone. About three feet down from the ceiling and spaced equidistantly around the perimeter were small balls of light that seemed to float against the wall. As much as he wanted to examine them, a flurry of questions suddenly pressed into his mind as the pain began to dissipate.

“Where the hell are we?”

“We are in Iletish, it is a kingdom neighboring Awenor. We are not on your plane of existence anymore. This is the home of an arcanist, a powerful one, named Revos. I’m sorry, but we do not have much time. If they tracked me to your realm then we are not safe here. We need to get my things and run.”

“Look, no offense but…” Mitchell stopped and reconsidered his words. “No, you know what? Offense intended. You need to tell me what the fuck is going on because I’m not going anywhere with you. I need to get back home. I don’t know how you brought me here and I don’t really care, but you need to do whatever that voodoo shit is and send me back. I have a job, a family, hell I have a date next week! So let’s go. Chop chop!”

Mitchell snapped his fingers at her, causing her head to pull back. Anger passed over her features.

“Send me back.”

The exertion of his outburst left him winded so soon after whatever that was that brought him here and he felt slightly dizzy as his heart raced in his chest. There were so many questions racing through his mind and he was sure he was running off pure adrenalin since a severed arm had barely phased him but he was prioritizing getting home first. He would deal with the PTSD later.

“Mitchell, I–” she cut off then, head cocking as she keyed in on something. Then she jerked up sharply. Immediately she reached for one of her long-bladed knives but before it was out of the sheath, Mitchell saw the air ripple just behind her, and a man just sort of… appeared, like he was stepping out from behind an invisible curtain. He was big but not like Tall Gray And Crispy had been back in the house. He looked human and was wearing some sort of leather armor. In his hand, he held a stout wooden club about two feet long and, as Mitchell watched, he started to bring it down, aiming it straight for the back of the girl’s head.

“Allora!” Mitchell cried out, but he was too late.

The club connected solidly with a sickening sound, and she crumpled as if her legs had turned to jelly. The big man looked at him his eyes flicked up and over Mitchell’s shoulder. There was the sound of movement behind him. Before he could turn to face the new threat, there was a sharp pain that exploded his whole world and he was once again unconscious.

*****

The first sensation Mitchell felt upon waking this time was a slow rocking motion. And heat. He felt as if he was sitting in a sauna and being cooked. His senses began to slowly come online and there was the press of bars into his back. His legs were bent and cramped and there was a stinging sensation around both of his wrists. He heard the rhythmic sounds of plodding feet and the creaking of wood and metal. Then the smell entered his nose. It was a heavy, musky scent that reminded him of summers at his grandparents’ farm in Illinois when he was a kid. The smell of horses and cows mingled together with an almost ever-present smell of manure.

Every part of him hurt. His back was cramped, his legs were stiff, and every rocking motion made him want to retch. His head was the worst of it, though. He imagined this is what it felt like to have your skull in a vice with someone slowly increasing the pressure. He felt like he wanted to crack his cranium open and pour his brain out onto his lap.

He wished for the painless void of unconsciousness but he knew he was up and there was nothing to be done about that now. There was a painfully bright light pressing into his eyelids and he was squinting before he even tried to open them. With an effort, he cracked open first one eyelid, then the other. He couldn’t stop the groan from escaping his lips as harsh sunlight pierced his retinas. He brought his hands up and noticed then that there were two manacles around his wrists that were linked by a short chain. There was some kind of writing on it but his eyes couldn’t focus well enough to make out what it might be. After blinking rapidly for several agonizing seconds, his vision started to clear and he could see the bars of his cage.

The bars were a sturdy-looking dark wood with iron bands at the top and the bottom holding them together. There was maybe an eight-inch gap between each one. The cage was barely four feet to a side and only a little higher. Mitchell was sitting, legs curled with his back against the rear of the cage. As near as he could make out he was in a wagon and, through the back, he could see a desert. Nothing but sand and burning blue sky to the horizon. Looking around he saw that he wasn’t alone. To his right was another occupied cage, this one containing Allora. He could make out her black hair, sticky with blood, dangling through some of the bars. Mitchell, remembering that he had been whacked in the head as well, reached back and felt the tender spot that was the source of the radiating pain that seemed to be traveling all the way down to his feet. Even the light pressure he applied to the large and oozing bump made his vision go blurry.

“I’ve probably got a concussion,” he said to himself.

Allora wasn’t moving. As he turned to get a look behind him he saw another cage, this one also occupied and when he saw who was inside, he couldn’t help but cry out and flinch away.

“Oh, shit!”

His voice was raspy and weak, but the creature in the other cage heard him and stirred. He was some sort of monster or demon. At any rate, he fit the description of demons that Mitchell had grown up with. His skin was a coppery-red color and he had long black horns that curled around to the back of his head. As his eyes opened and met Mitchell's own he saw that they were golden in color and they seemed to glow. Bisecting each pupil was a black slitted iris, just like a cat. His cheekbones were so pronounced that they almost looked like ridges of bone protruding from his skin and his nose was thin and came to a near point. His lips were black and as they parted and he began to speak, Mitchell saw white fangs where normal human incisors might be.

“Ava yorn, muthrak.” His voice was deep and rich and he didn’t sound at all put out by their current imprisonment.

Then, despite his best intentions, Mitchell started to retch. Overwhelmed by the movement of the wagon and the nausea from his head wound, his stomach contracted and he heaved. Not that there was much to throw up. It felt like hours since he’d eaten. That didn’t stop his protesting stomach, however. The more he heaved, the more the pressure built up in his head until he thought it really would crack open. Thankfully, he passed out before that happened.

*****

Mitchell awoke when warm water splashed him in the face.

“Rocen!” came a hard voice.

Mitchell blinked and brought his manacled hands up to wipe the liquid from his face. He was so thirsty he almost sucked the water from his fingertips but they looked filthy and he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. They were no longer moving. Looking around, he saw he was still in his cage in the back of the wagon. His body ached even worse than before if that was possible, but the air was slightly cooler although the sun was no less bright. His head was still pounding but not quite as bad as before. Added to all that misery, his throat felt like he’d been gargling with sand.

The figure standing over him with a now empty ladle glared down at him. It was the same man who’d hit Allora when they’d arrived in whatever this place was but Mitchell could see him better now. He was of normal human size. His armor was a mix of black and brown straps, buckles, and patches of leather that had to be murder in this heat but, despite a face covered in sweat, the man seemed to be dealing with it well enough. He had a sword at his left hip and a dagger at his right and he wore breeches tucked into well-worn leather boots.

The man said something to him that Mitchell couldn’t understand. Mitchell just blinked at him and the man repeated himself, a little angrier this time. Allora spoke up then, saying something to him and the man sneered at her. His jailer then looked to the front of the wagon and said something else incomprehensible. In the silence, Mitchell turned to look at her, his head only swimming slightly. She turned her violet eyes to his and they gazed at each other for a long moment. Her pale skin was streaked with sweat and grime, she had a black eye and blood had run down from the back of her head along her jaw and dried in a dark line but she was still beautiful. The tilt of her eyes still gave her a bit of an alien appearance, but he thought he could pick up a deep sadness in her expression.

After a few moments, another man appeared at the end of the wagon. He pulled himself up easily and stood next to the man with the ladle. He was outfitted in similar attire, sword included, and he had long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. It was then that Mitchell saw his ears. They were pointed and angled back slightly against his head and his eyes were a silvery blue that, despite the circumstances, Mitchell found beautiful. In the bright sunlight, the silver streaks in his eyes almost glinted. His shoulders were broad and his arms and legs were thick with muscle. He moved with confidence, like someone who knew what he was doing. He said something and then glanced at Allora who gave him a terse reply.

As Mitchell stared at him, he held out a hand and Mitchell saw then that he had a glove on. But not just a regular glove. There were almond-sized gemstones embedded into the leather across the back of his hand, one just behind each knuckle. Mitchell saw a couple of them glimmer with an inner light that was noticeable even in the brightness of day and felt a tingle across his skin. Then the man with the pointy ears spoke again.

“Can you understand me now?”

“Yes,” Mitchell croaked. “Water, please.”

God, he sounded pathetic, he thought. But that really was the most pressing thing on his mind. His lips were cracked and when he had reached up to feel them, his fingers had come away wet with blood.

“Give him some water.”

The other man went over to a barrel that was tied to the side wall of the wagon and scooped out some water. The ladle easily fit between the bars of the cage. Mitchell leaned forward and grasped at it, drinking it down greedily. It was brackish and warm but at that moment it was life itself. He groaned in relief.

“She says you’re not from here. Is that correct?”

“Yes. I’m from–” he started to say Phoenix but realized that would probably mean nothing to him. If what Allora had said was true, he was no longer even on Earth. He remembered then that she’d said they were in a different realm, whatever that meant. “Another realm.”

“I guess you were who she went to retrieve. Didn’t work out too well, did it?”

“No.”

Even with the water, his throat was still scratchy and raw. It hurt to talk.

“Unfortunately for you, we didn’t get to her before she dragged you along. Now your lot is tied to hers and, honestly, that’s not going to be too good for you.”

“Look, if you just send me back, I’ll forget about this whole thing. I don’t know what’s going on and whatever problems you have with her are between you two. They’re not mine.”

The man gave him a pitiless smile and wobbled his head from side to side. Allora had done the same over their meal. How had things spun so out of control since their burger just a short time ago?

“The moment she found you, her problems became your problems. And now you’re my problem. I don’t like problems.”

The man’s hand went to his sword. It looked casual but Mitchell was sure it was meant to emphasize his point.

“My usual instinct is to stab my problems until they stop being problems and then leave them in a ditch somewhere. You get my meaning?”

Mitchell nodded.

“We are supposed to bring her back alive and, if she had anyone with her, to bring them back, too. How alive you are when we get there is going to depend on how much of a problem you are to me and my men as we travel. It can go easy or it can go hard. If you piss me off enough I’ll slit your throat and leave your body to rot and deal with the punishment afterward. She’s the one Milandris really wants. You’re just extra. You and the cambion, that is.”

His jailer indicated the cage to Mitchell’s left where the red demon sat motionless and without comment.

Mitchell looked at Allora then and she was glaring at the big man, rage plain in every line of her face.

“And when we get there, this Milandris is going to kill me?”

The man shrugged. That gesture appeared to be universal, at least.

“Probably. But that doesn’t mean you need to suffer a lot before you die. If you try my patience, however, I will see to it that you do. I can chop a lot of pieces off of you without you dying and still fulfill the letter of my orders. So it’s up to you. You be a good human and we’ll let you out of the cage at night to sleep and make sure you get enough water and rations to survive. I can even pull the cover over the wagon and keep the sun from baking you during our daylight travel hours. It will save wear and tear on my gemstones since I won’t need to heal the blisters. We’ve got several more days of desert travel before we get to the southern road and cross into Awenor. Make my life or the lives of my men difficult and we’ll tie you to the back and drag you until the sun blisters your skin and the sand peels you like an overripe lana fruit. Your choice.”

Mitchell nodded. He didn’t know what a lana fruit was, but the meaning was clear enough. He wanted to say something witty or smartassed but nothing came to mind. Being an asshole would just get him hurt. Mitchell wasn’t a violent person but just then he wished for a gun. What would these medieval fucks do if he pulled out an AR-15? Never bring a knife to a gunfight, right?

“So, are you a problem, human?” The leader’s voice snapped him out of his John Wick fantasy. “Or are you going to obey and come along without trouble?”

“No problem,” Mitchell said, his voice cracking.

The big man looked at him a long moment, then nodded to the thug with the ladle. “Once you get the tents up, let them out and get them chained to the block. We’ll set out again five hours or so before dawn.”

The leader hopped off the wagon then and walked out of Mitchell’s line of sight. Waterboy fished out another ladleful from the barrel for the cambion as the leader had called him, which he drank without comment, and then covered the water and went about his tasks.

As they waited, Allora spoke to the cambion. He couldn’t understand what she said but she sounded angry. The demon said something sullen in return, and Allora responded with what sounded very much like a curse. They were quiet after that. She was clearly angry at him, but he couldn’t begin to guess why.

Mitchell ignored them both, knowing there was nothing he could say that either of them would understand. They, in turn, didn’t try to say anything to him. There was some sort of magic they could use to communicate with him if they wanted to. Allora must have used it on him back at Filmbar since she obviously didn’t speak English. He remembered the weird conversation with Dane, the bartender. Mitchell thought he’d been being an asshole at the time but now he figured he owed him an apology. Assuming he ever got back home, that was.

As Mitchell pondered the situation, he determined that her magic must have been targeted. She had used it on him but it only affected him and not other people. And it had stopped working once they came under attack at her house. If that really was her house, Mitchell thought. Jesus fucking wept, this is a mess.

While he waited for them to let him out, he took the time to examine his manacles again. They were a black stone material that appeared seamless as far as Mitchell could tell. They were joined by a short length of chain barely eight inches long with the iron links melded into the stone, also showing no indication of seams or of being worked. Etched into the stone was a geometric shape of some sort. Mitchell dredged up a memory of the fantasy books he used to read in high school and thought maybe they were runes. There had been similar designs on the doors at Allora’s house and really complex ones on the floor of the master bedroom that she’d used to bring him here.

This one was repeated again and again all over the surface of the manacle. Even as he watched, it flickered occasionally. It was hard to see in the sunlight but he could just make it out if he shaded one of the cuffs with his other hand. As Mitchell watched, fascinated by the little sparkle of light that would zip along a line of runes every few seconds, he noticed that every time it did, his head would throb. His headache was directly tied to whatever flashing was going on with his manacles. He had been clubbed over the head not too long ago. He also felt a slight tingle wherever the bracelets came into contact with his skin.

Mitchell had started to doze when the wagon rocked. Waterboy and a man that Mitchell hadn’t seen before got up into the bed and walked towards Allora’s cage. With a heave and a grunt, they brought it to the end of the wagon bed and hopped down. The new guy took a step back and drew a small axe from his belt and stood at the ready. Waterboy took out a key and slipped it into a lock on the front of the cage and the door swung open.

No one moved.

Waterboy spoke up. New Guy snapped back. Waterboy grimaced. If Mitchell had to guess, he would say the conversation sounded very much like ‘Do it.’ To which New Guy responded with ‘fuck you, I’m not doing it’ and then Waterboy called him a pussy or whatever the equivalent was on this shithole planet.

The men were clearly tense, but he didn’t know why. She was bound, bruised, sunburnt, and bloody. Surely she was no threat to them. If she’d had magic to use on them, she’d have done it already.

After a very pregnant pause, Waterboy reached in like he was trying to grab a snake before it could bite him and grabbed Allora by the collar, yanking her forward. The thin white shirt she’d been wearing when they’d been jumped ripped as she was pulled out of the cage and Mitchell watched as she tumbled head first onto the ground. He heard her body hit the sand with a muffled thump.

“Hey! Hey, there’s no call for that! Leave her alone you fucking asshole!” Mitchell shouted.

It had come out of his mouth before he even realized it. Ax Man was looking down at the ground at Allora who hadn’t gotten up yet and didn’t take his eyes off her. Waterboy did, though. Once again he said something in their language and even though Mitchell couldn’t understand it, the tone was clear enough. Shut up.

Mitchell fumed and his pounding heartbeat was doing his head no favors. He looked over at the cambion who sat watching the scene without reaction.

“A lot of help you are,” Mitchell muttered.

Perhaps sensing the words were directed at him, the red creature turned his head ever so slightly and those reptilian eyes looked at him appraisingly. He said nothing however.

From the rear of the wagon, Mitchell heard a series of sharp inhalations. Both men stepped back, Waterboy drawing his own sword and they watched the ground in front of them like something might spring up and rip their throats out. Instead, Mitchell saw Allora’s head slowly come into view as she got to her feet. The labored breathing was coming from her as she struggled to stand after hours of being curled up in a box. Except for that bit of noise though, she didn’t make a sound as she straightened her back and rose to her full height. She was nearly a full head taller than Ax Man and about the same height as Waterboy. There was a brief exchange between Waterboy and Allora and then she began to move. Stiffly, but she moved. They led her off somewhere to the side and Mitchell quickly lost sight of her.

A few minutes later they came back, and the process was repeated. They hauled Michell to the end of the wagon bed, just as they had with Allora and he smacked his head more than once but didn’t protest. They wouldn’t understand him and likely wouldn’t care if they did. The key was placed in the lock, and the door swung open. Both men stood at the ready as if he was going to lunge for them.

Mitchell held his manacled hands up.

“It’s cool, guys. We’re cool,” he said in what he hoped was a calming manner. “Be cool, honey bunny.”

Remembering them throwing Allora to the ground, he began to move on his own power, letting his legs extend for the first time in hours. The pain was almost immediate and he couldn’t stop the groan from escaping his throat. His muscles felt like they might tear. He reached up and gripped the top of the cage and slowly inched his way forward, his back and hip muscles protesting the whole way. His legs were going numb already and, despite his best efforts to stand on his own two feet out of the cage, his legs folded almost as soon as he put weight on them and he fell to his knees in the sand.

His back was one big knot of pain as he tried to straighten himself. He groaned again and his breath came out in gasps as he fought to deny them the pleasure of seeing him suffer. If Allora could do it, so could he.

After several agonizing breaths, the muscles in his lower back began to unclench and he could sit up almost straight. Moving his legs he managed to get both feet under him and, not quite able to suppress the groan of pain, stood on his own two feet. He was hunched, the muscles of his lower back a spasming ball of pain at the base of his spine, but he did it. His captors didn’t look impressed.

“Well, fuck them anyway,” Mitchell thought.

Waterboy indicated off to the side of the wagon and he could see a small tent had been erected near the front. As he hobbled forward on aching legs and stiff knees around to the front Mitchell got his first look at what had been pulling them and fouling up the air. It wasn’t a horse. It had four legs, but that’s pretty much where the similarities ended.

It was some sort of reptile and it put Mitchell in mind of a komodo dragon. It was about as high off the ground as a pony might be and was covered in rough sand-colored scales. It had a wide body and its legs were thickly muscled with small spiky protuberances at the knee joints. He could make out wide flat feet partially sunk into the sand and could see long wicked looking black claws partially emerge as the beast shuffled slightly. It looked to be maybe eight feet long from head to tail but upon closer inspection, he could see that the tail had been cut short. It had red eyes with a black slit down the center, not unlike his cellmate.

As Mitchell made his way to the tent the large creature eyed him with flat disinterest and then went back to what it was doing before, eating some unidentifiable furry creature. As he watched, it gulped the remaining chunks down and swallowed them without preamble. Mitchell guessed that it wouldn’t be much effort at all for that thing to swallow him just as easily. Its mouth was wide and slightly pointed at the front and it had spiky horns around its nostrils, along its upper jaw, and around its eye line. Its meal consumed, a film slid over its eye before the eyelids closed and it settled down into the sand. It wiggled its body getting comfortable and then, suddenly, a hum emanated from its chest that vibrated Mitchell’s insides. It was so low as to almost be beneath the range of his hearing.

The sand around the creature started to ripple and vibrate, almost like it was boiling and he watched in fascination as it began to sink beneath the dunes. It wiggled and shifted slightly as its bulk moved lower into the ground and after just a few seconds the only thing visible was the horns of its nostrils poking just above the sand. The leads to the wagon had apparently been designed with this in mind as there was enough give in them to allow it to submerge completely below the surface without putting tension on the straps. The sand that now covered the creature was almost smooth. If he hadn’t seen it he would never know it was even there. The skin texture and coloration of the scales and horns around its nose perfectly matched the reddish tan of the surrounding sands.

If he hadn’t witnessed it he never would have believed it. A vision of that thing exploding out of the sand to take down a passing creature flashed through his mind and he shuddered.

“Holy shit,” he muttered to no one in particular. Just then there was a shove into his shoulder and he stumbled forward a couple of steps but stayed on his feet. Turning, he saw Waterboy glowering at him and he kept moving forward.

He was led over to a small covered area that had apparently been erected just for them. It was basically a cloth lean-to with an overhang. The whole thing was held up by four different poles that had been driven into the sand and there were some rocks holding down the back flap.

He saw Allora laying on her back in the meager shade, her manacles now connected by a four-foot length of chain to a stone block near the back of the shelter. She looked to be already asleep. The white blouse she wore was ripped along one shoulder where Waterboy had grabbed her and yanked her out of the cage. The bruise around her eye was turning yellow and no effort had been made to clear the blood from her jaw.

Waterboy grabbed a separate length of chain and Mitchell noticed then that it sported four such lengths, each sunk into the center of the stone. Waterboy grabbed his manacles then and placed the end of the chain to the center of his manacles and they fused. Just like that. They flowed together like liquid merging at the bottom of a bowl. He left then, not even giving the obligatory tug to check the connection.

Mitchell wiped the sweat from his eyes and looked around. On the other side of the wagon about forty feet away was a larger tent where he could see three men going about some tasks. One was the leader, recognizable by the long ponytail. The two others he didn’t recognize. Snippets of conversation drifted to him over the sand but it was incomprehensible.

He was already exhausted but he knew he needed to move as much as he could. His legs were feeling better although his knees still ached a bit. The throbbing in his head was still present but not as intense. It was like a low-grade hangover headache at this point. He pulled at his chain experimentally, then walked to the edge of its length out past the protection of the covering and walked back. He saw the two men struggling with the cambion’s cage. He looked much bigger so probably weighed a lot more. He took a fair amount of pleasure in watching them struggle to try to move the cage to the edge of the wagon. When he turned and looked back at Allora she was sitting and looking at him. Her face was flat and unreadable.

“You really need a shower,” he said, sitting down next to her. His voice was still raspy. “You look like shit.”

She looked back at him but said nothing.

“You’re right. I’m sure I look like shit, too.”

He wanted to be angry with her. He wanted to yell at her and tell her how all this was her fault, but he found he just didn’t have the energy. If they were going to die at the end of this road, he didn’t want his last days to be spent yelling at someone who couldn’t understand him anyway.

As she turned and examined her surroundings she pushed some sweat-matted hair away from her face and Mitchell saw her ears then. They were pointed, just like the leaders, and angled slightly back against the sides of her head. Her earlobe was about an inch higher than a human ear and had small delicate folds. Allora wasn’t human. That should have shocked him but with everything else that had happened recently, this was a minor thing. At least she didn’t have green skin and tusks, he thought. And she was still heartbreakingly beautiful, pointy ears or no.

Mitchell ran his hands through the red-tinged sand letting it fall through his fingers.

“I hate sand, you know? It’s coarse, ro–.” Mitchell stopped mid-sentence and gave a feeble grin and looked sidelong at Allora as if she could understand the Star Wars joke. He wasn’t going to do it. He wasn’t going to make the easy reference.

His captors had finally wrangled the cambion’s cage to the edge of the wagon and they hopped down, gasping for breath.

“Si mi bivai.”

Allora’s voice was so sudden it startled him. She sounded apologetic. They shared a look but since Mitchell had no idea what she’d actually said, he just shrugged and went back to sifting sand between his fingers.

“Yeah, I could go for another milkshake, too.”

He decided to pretend they were having a regular conversation. “They have a cookie dough one that’s pretty good. I’ll get you that one next time. Barbarella is playing next week if you want to go with me.”

He looked back to her and she was watching his lips carefully.

After a moment she said “Mi– Mick shackeh.” She looked at him expectantly.

“Milkshake, yeah. Remember the ice cream? You drank it too fast and you got a brain freeze. I wish I had a photo, your face was priceless.”

Allora brought her hands up to her mouth and mimed drinking from a straw. The chain clinked as she did so. “Mik shake.”

Mitchell chuckled. “You got it.”

She gave him a weary smile.

Movement caught his eye and Mitchell saw their cambion companion being led over to their tent, as stiff-legged as they had both been. At the sight of him, Allora’s expression hardened and she turned her face away. If it bothered the creature, he didn’t show it. Or, at least Mitchell assumed as much given that he didn’t know how to read his expressions. It was his first time dealing with a non-human… Humanoid? He didn’t know what to call something like that.

The demon-like thing was taller than Mitchell by several inches and much broader in the chest. He was wearing a loose-fitting toga-like garment that cinched at the waist with a simple corded leather belt that also hooked across his shoulder. It was a cream-white color with gold trim and, though it wasn’t much cleaner than either he or Allora, looked to be well made. His red skin almost glistened in the desert sun but he didn’t otherwise look to be affected by the temperatures.

Once Waterboy got the chain connected he went off to take care of other matters and they were left alone. There was no guard set, at least not at the moment, so they clearly trusted in whatever these security measures were. Allora and Big Red must have known it was pointless as well because neither attempted to get free. If they weren’t attempting to do anything, he knew it would be a waste of time for him to try.

The cambion walked around a little bit, stretching his legs just as Mitchell had done before he returned to the shade and sat down opposite Allora. Mitchell was now between the two and he felt like he was sitting between an arguing couple. They were working really hard not to look at each other.

“How you doing?” Mitchell asked him after several awkward minutes passed. He stuck his hand out to shake. “I’m Mitchell.”

The creature looked at him and made a show of examining him from head to foot. Then he stared at the outstretched hand and cocked his head to one side. He then held out his hand and placed it in the air a few inches from Mitchell’s, mimicking the pose.

“Revos,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. It kind of reminded Mitchell of James Earl Jones.

“Is that your name? Revos?”

Mitchell brought his hand back since shaking hands was clearly not a thing here. He tapped his chest instead.

“Mitchell.”

The big creature tapped his own very well-muscled chest and repeated, “Revos.”

From his opposite side, Allora sniffed audibly.

He looked between the two of them. Revos just shrugged and lay back in the sand.

He wanted to scream at someone, wanted to cry. He wanted a goddamned beer and a swimming pool. Instead, he laid back in the sand and stared at the canvas roof of their shitty little tent as it rippled in the hot breeze blowing across the dunes. His chains clinked as he lay back and he tugged at them angrily.

“Fuck this whole fucking place,” he muttered. “Fuck magic, fuck beautiful girls with purple eyes and pointy ears, fuck swords, fuck giant lizard things, fuck big red demon-looking motherfuckers, and fuck the fucking sand. And especially fuck Waterboy, Ax Man, the other two fucks, and ponytail fucking Spock and his fucking problems.”