At Water's Edge: The Last Elentrice, #1

By S McPherson

A fast-paced adventure for fans of Twilight and The Mortal Instruments.

What if there was another you, in another world?

DEZARAY IS FROM EARTH.

LEXOVIA IS FROM COLDIVOR.

BUT WHEN THEY ACCIDENTALLY TRADE PLACES… Dezaray is thrust into a world on the brink of war. And the only one powerful enough to stop it, is Lexovia.

Struggling between surviving in a strange world, moving on from her tormented past and not falling for the boy with blue eyes, Dezaray must also keep her identity hidden, masquerading as Lexovia, so the beasts that hunt the sorceress, don't learn that she's left the realm unguarded.

But the beasts aren't the only problem. Lexovia is stuck in England and knows little of the human world. And the sorceress soon discovers that England may carry magical secrets of its own.

As both girls strive to find a way to trade back and restore balance to their worlds, Dezaray begins to wonder if that's what she truly wants. Will she have the strength to leave when the time comes? And will Lexovia find a way to return before it's too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: S McPherson Books
• Release date: Jan 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9780993360510

Book preview

DEZARAY STORM

BAM! A blow right to the back of my head knocks me onto the floor. Drake is home, back from his Saturday night drinking binge with the boys. My eyes are watering. I hear him curse, but as usual it’s hard to understand him through the slurs. The stench of Stella combined with puke is so overwhelming my throat stings. Before I have time to catch my breath, Drake delivers another punch; this time to my left cheek. Blimey! My eye feels tight. The socket is suddenly too small and it seems my eye is about to explode out of it. I clench my fists and grit my teeth, telling myself not to fight back. I deserve this. His suffering is mine and I am the reason for it. He strikes me again. A ringing sounds in my ear and my head throbs.

I deserve this, I tell myself, though part of me screams to get up. To dive for the knife, I keep hidden under my pillow, but I won’t. The weapon I swiped from the kitchen so long ago, is nothing more than a comfort, I will never use.

Drake searches for an object with which to strike me but tonight I have hidden every possible item. He glances at my stool and my heart lurches – surely, he wouldn’t. He attempts to lift it but is too sluggish. At last, his arms are tired. For a few moments, he garbles and attempts to feebly kick my spine. I swallow the blood collecting in my mouth and remain perfectly still as, through squinted eyes, I watch him stumble and stagger from my room and into his own. He is gone for the night.

Not long after, I hear the front door slam and the thud of feet racing up the stairs, two at a time, in a panic to find out what Drake has done to me this time. I know it is Nathaniel.

‘Oh, Dezaray.’ Rushing in, Nathaniel kneels down and checks that no bones are broken before carrying me out of the room. My body cries in protest, but I attempt a smile that turns into more of a grimace. The adrenaline has worn off and the staircase appears to be getting narrower as Nathaniel ambles his way down, with me in his arms. I have the unpleasant sensation of chunks rising in my throat and a cold sweat prickles my forehead, my palms clammy. I moan.

‘Close your eyes,’ Nathaniel orders. I do. At first the world seems to spiral uncontrollably but I am eventually glad I obeyed.

I wake up on the couch in the living room, my injuries cleaned and covered. It’s been a while since Nathaniel last did this and I screw up my face – a part of me had hoped Drake and I had moved on from his bursts of rage.

Shortly after, Nathaniel enters, pushing the pinewood door open with his hip. He holds a tray carrying a teapot, two cups and saucers and a plate of various biscuits. Setting the tray down on the coffee table in front of me, he props a cushion behind my head and studies the bruise beneath my eye.

‘Hi,’ I smile weakly, ‘I didn’t think you’d come.’

‘Of course,’ he shrugs, ‘if I don’t get your all good text message then I’m coming over.’

The all good text message is a system Nathaniel and I put in place about a year ago. Every Saturday night, at ten o’clock, I am to text him to tell him I am okay—that Drake has ignored me as he usually does—however, if Nathaniel does not get that message, he is to rush over and rescue me…because we both know I am unlikely to rescue myself.

He pats my leg, ‘How do you feel?’

‘I’ve been better.’ I graciously accept the cup of tea he is offering and allow its heat to trickle down and warm my insides.

‘So,’ he purses his lips, ‘How many more times are you going to put up with this, Dezaray?’

I shrug, the movement sending a spasm of pain down my arm. ‘He’s my brother.’

Nathaniel scoffs. His jaw is taut and I know what is going through his mind. I remember a year ago, when Nathaniel had been tending to the garden and heard a commotion. Charging in, he had been shocked to find Drake laying into me, me on the floor in a blood-spattered slump. He had tackled Drake off me and the two had tumbled into a whirlwind of fists and feet. It ended when Drake had Nathaniel pinned, face down on the breakfast counter.

When Drake finally left us, I begged Nathaniel to stay out of it. It wasn’t worth him losing his job over, not to mention he was my only friend; I didn’t want to risk losing him too.

I watch Nathaniel remember and then he sighs. ‘If you won’t let me help you, Dezaray, then at least leave.’

‘Mum and Dad wouldn’t want that,’ I reason.

‘They wouldn’t want this either.’ Nathaniel snaps, ‘You can’t keep blaming yourself for their deaths, Dezaray.’

There is a pause.

‘Drake does.’

‘You have the wrong girl!’ I scream, but no one listens. He is grabbing onto my hand and pulling me but I am sure I do not want to go. I have no idea where I am, how I got here or who is holding me. The man is good looking but I have never seen him before. His skin is pale and his eyes are a striking blue, made only more stunning by the blackness of his tousled hair. There are others with us but I cannot make out their faces. Everyone is in a rush; that I know, but I do not know why.

‘I am not supposed to be here,’ I insist.

‘Dezaray?’ The boy says, stopping in his tracks. He is beautiful. My heartbeat quickens.

My eyes shoot open, my pulse racing. I lick my parched lips as I anxiously scan my surroundings. I am in my bed, my pillow beneath my head, no longer in a world I have never seen with a man I have never known. I blink, his face still clearly etched in my mind. Sighing, I roll over and go back to sleep.

‘It was so real,’ I tell Nathaniel the next morning as I pour myself a glass of fresh juice from the juicer on the patio table. ‘I can still see his face. Hear his voice. I was there.’

‘Where exactly?’ Nathaniel says, fumbling with the petunias.

‘I don’t know,’ I reluctantly admit. ‘It was weird, weird but really real!’ I know Nathaniel is not convinced. Like the time I told him of the cloaked people coming from the shimmer in the distance. He is sure I am merely concussed from last night.

‘Perhaps you had a wonderful dream and you would rather believe in that than face reality,’ he offers. I surrender, although deep down I am aware of how different last night’s dream was to any other I have had before. I eventually finish my piece of toast and leave for my carpentry class at Sanifud College.

The snow and gravel crunch beneath my feet as the wind stings my cheeks and chaps my lips. I pull my scarf tighter around my neck and readjust the hood of my fur-lined coat. Artificial fur of course, and not because I’m frightened of animal rights activists throwing blood or such like at me, but simply because the idea of having any dead parts of anything hanging from me, like cattle in a butcher’s freezer, is more than a little off-putting.

I shudder at the thought then quickly replace it with memories of the handsome stranger from my dream. Though I obviously didn’t want to go with him, there was something about him I craved. His voice offered me a comfort I have not known since mum died and it was almost as if his eyes could see straight to my soul. Despite the fact that it sounds completely mad, I have to admit that this man, whoever he was, made me...well…almost happy; a feeling I wasn’t even aware I was capable of experiencing anymore.

Then, an abnormal gust of wind knocks me to the ground, or at least that’s my story. It does not actually feel like the wind at all and I cannot escape the niggling feeling that I was in fact pushed over by something, or more specifically someone. I scan my surroundings but see no one; no one except a cluster of irritating girls from my class, leaning against a wall.

They are not impressed by my plain appearance: straight dark brown hair in a ponytail, un-plucked eyebrows and absolutely no makeup. Nor can they understand my genuine interest in our class topics. Yet, for some mystifying reason, they do appear to enjoy having me around enough to let me know just how much they don’t.

‘Who exactly are you looking for?’ Annabelle Delovsky says derisively as her team of clones giggle beside her. I have half a mind to yell ‘For the person who knocked me over, you tramp’ but I don’t.

‘My guess?’ a male voice says. ‘She seeks the one who caused her to fall.’

I look up. It is that unusual lad from class, the one who speaks just as oddly as he lurks, and lurks just as eerily as he strolls. The laughter in response does not faze him as he saunters over and offers me his hand. His coat is much too large for him and the hood from his jumper, as always, hides his face. Though ordinarily I would refuse his hand, and anyone else’s for that matter, today, what he said has left me somewhat intrigued. I accept and allow him to pull me to my feet.

We make our way to the doors of Sanifud in silence.

‘If it offers any comfort, I believe you,’ he says at last.

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘I often see and feel things I too cannot explain. I imagine you encountered a Spee’ad a moment ago.’

‘Why ever didn’t I jump to that conclusion?’ Though I feign sarcasm and disinterest I am itching for him to go on; perhaps explain what exactly a Spee’ad is.

‘You are right to say nothing. I’ve learned it’s best to keep those sorts of far-stretched truths to oneself.’

‘Well, thank you, but I never did say I saw or felt a thing.’

‘Aye. So, when you fell, whom did you seek if not one who none can see?’ He opens the door and walks through, allowing it to shut gently in my face.

I push it open and follow after him, unable to shake what he’s said from my mind. What is a ‘Spee’ad’? What exactly does he see or feel? Could it be the shimmer or the people in hooded cloaks? And what exactly did knock me over, as I am sure it was not the wind.

‘Stunning!’ Professor Moxy beams at me. I am not even paying attention and somehow still receive praise. Perhaps that’s the real reason Annabelle doesn’t like me.

‘Thank you, sir.’ I smile and continue hammering the nails into the base of my rocking chair, trying to pay attention this time.

A scrunched-up ball of paper lands on my desk. I look around the class and can vaguely make out the eyes of Peculiar Lad from under his hood. He is staring right at me. I discretely unroll the note and read:

Look outside.

I do so and struggle to conceal my amazement. By Beatrice Brook, the lake in the distance, I see the shimmer. Only it is much more than a shimmer now. From here I can tell that it is in fact a portal. Through it, I can no longer see the snow but instead am plainly staring into another dimension. The sun is shining there, not hidden behind clouds, and I can vaguely make out a mudded terrain and a line of trees.

Suddenly, the shimmer is gone. I glance at Peculiar Lad. He is no longer looking in my direction, but one thing is certain, he saw it too.

JAILBIRD

That night all thoughts of the portal are buried as I struggle through my shift at Steak Home. Sweat seeps freely from my pores and almost chewable puffs of smoke swell from the cigars of drunks, clouding up the restaurant. They sting my eyes and clog my nostrils. I cough, pressing one of the cool pint glasses to my head.

Steak Home, with the clever slogan: ‘Why stay home when you can steak home?’ coined by me, used to be grand. The must-be place for fun and steak lovers alike. It was what gave my family its fortune. When mum and dad died five years ago, Drake took over, and needless to say, Steak Home changed. The no smoking rule was quickly abandoned. The calming music that undetectably used to set the mood was replaced by loud, offensive dribble, and the well-kept booths promptly became un-kept. We still serve steak.

It was never my intention to work at Steak Home other than during the summers but it has been two full years now, and if Drake has his way, I will be doing evening shifts here for two thousand more.

After putting up with a series of uncountable insults, I decide I need a break. Pushing my way through the crowded kitchen, I grab my coat and head outside. I welcome the icy air and pong of rotting garbage. Anything is better than being in there. I lean against the wall and close my eyes.

In an instant, I’m in a forest: not dense but with a few sturdy trees about. There’s sleet on the ground and my feet slip slightly as I meander to a more crunchy section, covered in fallen twigs. I look around, the moon my only source of light. It feels as though someone is with me, watching me, but someone who cannot be seen. I take a step forward; a gentle breeze touches my face. My mouth goes dry…what now?

Then I hear a voice: his voice. ‘You jest at scars that never felt a wound,’ he says. I squint through the obscurity to get a glimpse of him but see nothing. I hear laughter: mine.

Then everything goes black and once again my nostrils register the stench from the restaurant bins.

My eyes snap open. What is going on? I exhale, clutching my knees for balance. It has been almost a fortnight and I have had visions of my mystery man more times than I can count. I wipe my clammy palms on my thighs and take a deep breath. Up until now, I had only seen him in my dreams, never sensed his presence so clearly nor been absorbed into the scene so completely. A part of me suspects Peculiar Lad could answer many of my questions, but for some reason when I am around him, I can’t bring myself to ask him any.

The door bursts open and I jump. It’s Drake. Why is he even here? He usually leaves Marceaux in charge.

‘Get back to work,’ he hisses, his greasy hair falling into his eyes. ‘I didn’t agree to run this place after you killed our parents simply to have you hanging out here.’ He slams the door behind him. I swallow the urge to scream, smacking my skull on the wall as I throw my head back.

It is a long and draining night. By the end of it, my feet ache and the predictable headache arrives. At last it is closing time, and as usual on my nights, I am the one to close up. I head to the backroom to get the keys but am stopped. Through the glass top of the office door I make out Tracey Bakeswell, one of the waitresses, stealing money from the safe. I watch for a while. This is not her first time. She knows the code and is not in the least bit wary. I push open the door.

‘Dezaray,’ her eyes widen as she forces an awkward smile, ‘keep this between us?’

‘You’re pinching.’

‘I know.’ She grimaces. ‘I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to but I truly am desperate.’

‘You’re stealing cash from my family business, Tracey.’

‘What family?’ she asks incredulously. ‘Everyone knows that since your parents died you don’t get a penny. If anything, you should be back here with me.’

I scan her hand. Not more than a few hundred.

‘Take what you have. Leave now and I won’t mention this to anyone.’

‘You’re a lifesaver.’ She smiles graciously and rushes out of the room.

I am lost in thought when the owl’s cry alarms me. I look up, the moon seeming at eye level; full, low and slightly red. Taken by its beauty, I stop and admire its reflection dancing on the brook. I smile wistfully. What I wouldn’t give to lie down in this water and float away.

Footsteps snap a twig nearby and remind me I should keep moving. Islon isn’t really a dangerous part of London but you never can be too careful. I continue on through the wood; being sure to remain on the overgrown footpath dimly illuminated by lampposts. As I walk, I allow the woods to claim my mind. I appreciate the low hanging branches of the tall robust trees, the flutter of the wind rippling the surface of the stream and the scuttles and flurry of the wildlife.

Something shiny in the shadows strikes my eyes. Peering through the lampposts’ haze, I recognise the man I’ve dubbed Tinfoil leaning against a tree just off the path. I call him Tinfoil because that’s what he always wears: tinfoil hat, coat, and fingerless gloves. I often see him on the weekends in town, yelling out predictions and profanities at passers-by. Most people give him a wide birth – especially since he once told a man he was heading for a fall, and the next thing I knew, that same man was in a wheelchair – however, I’ve never really bothered. Tinfoil never offends me in any way and usually fails to notice my existence, keeping his head down and his crinkling hands inside his torn pockets.

I move closer, preparing to give my usual nod on the off chance he looks my way, but stop when his head twists in my direction. His eyes widen with that crazed look I’ve seen him give others, and he jumps into my path.

‘I see the light,’ he gasps, ‘shining bright. Walk through it.’

I furrow my brow.

‘I see the light!’ he cries, ‘shining bright. Walk through it.’

My heart pounds as I stumble to get around him but he keeps leaping in my way.

‘I see the light. Shining bright. Walk through it.’

Oh dear. A crazy person is telling me to walk into the light, this can’t be good. I pretend to step one way, and when he follows, quickly step another, finally getting around him. His gloved hand grips my wrist, the folded foil poking at my skin.

‘Get off!’ I exclaim.

‘Tonight free.’ Tinfoil leans close, so close I can see a spit bubble bobbing from one lip to the other as they meet. ‘Tomorrow a cage.’

I gulp, twisting my wrist, but he’s surprisingly strong for such a withered character.

‘Tonight free. Tomorrow a cage.’ His eyes leave mine and lower to the ground. ‘Tonight free. Tomorrow a cage.’

I watch, unmoving as he repeats this a few more times, his grip lessening. Finally, he sets me free, still repeating the words to himself. Not bothering to hang around, I run through the woods, hopping over logs and boulders that others who do not visit here as often as I do would be unaware of.

I’m tired, exhausted in fact. Having been unable to sleep after last night’s run-in with Tinfoil, I somehow manage to drag myself to college and now to work. Though I tell myself not to dwell on the ramblings of a mad man, I still find myself wondering what this cage might be, and if it is literal or metaphorical.

I scowl as I line up with my co-workers. I hate when Marceaux gives me two dinner shifts in a row yet here I am, again, preparing for another evening with another unruly crowd. Or at least I am until Marceaux calls an impromptu meeting.

‘This is serious,’ he says as he pounds his wrinkled fist on the bar. ‘Someone...one of you,’ he points an accusing finger at the line of staff in front of him, ‘has stolen from Steak Home and I want to know who.’

Tracey and I exchange glances, neither saying a word.

‘It has been happening for some time now and I have looked the other way, hoping the culprit would one day confess, slip up or better: just stop.’ Marceaux eyes us disapprovingly. ‘But last night more than usual was taken, a few thousand to be precise, and I cannot allow this to continue. Now fess up.’

I am inwardly stunned. Tracey had definitely not had a few thousand in her hand. I peek in her direction and catch her eye; she looks away guiltily. Obviously, she had been hiding a lot more money on her.

‘How could it be any of us?’ Steven cries. ‘No one can get into that office without a key.’

All eyes are now on me.

‘Apparently, they can,’ and I shrug. Tracey Bakeswell did.

‘You were last night’s closer, Dezaray.’ Marceaux studies my reaction.

‘Yes, but no one knows the code to the safe besides Drake. Maybe he staggered in drunk a few nights and doesn’t remember.’ Something about the way Marceaux watches me makes me sure he knows I am lying. I have never been a good liar after all.

‘I too considered Drake, but he has an alibi for every incident. Do you?’

I shake my head. ‘Not unless someone saw me taking a walk in the woods. I’m sure the owls by Beatrice Brook could vouch for me.’

‘You realise, if you do not confess, they can simply run fingerprint tests,’ Marceaux snaps at us. A couple of cops stroll in from the backroom, looking like they are in the mood. Then something happens, something I never thought would.

‘It was Dezaray,’ Tracey cries. ‘I saw her. Last night and last Wednesday.’

‘What?’ I screech.

‘Do you deny it?’ asks Marceaux, smiling triumphantly.

‘Why would I steal from my own business?’ I cry.

‘Your business?’ Tracey scoffs and a few chuckles follow. ‘Everyone knows that, since your parents died, you don’t get a penny. It’s no wonder you were back there with your grubby paws all over what you feel is rightfully yours.’

Without thinking, I lunge across the table between us and smack her in the face. Perhaps it’s all the rage I’ve left to dwell inside me over the past few years. The anger I feel towards my parents for dying or at my aunt’s inability to care for me as she said she would but instead she left me with my brother, to use as a punching bag. I don’t know what it is, but flames of fury rip through me.

‘My nose is bleeding,’ Tracey squeals as I continue to maul her. Four strong hands pull at me.

‘Get off,’ I demand.

‘Come with me, Trouble.’ One of the officers sneers as he roughly yanks on my arm. I panic. I don’t like this. He’s hurting my shoulder and the other policeman is egging him on. What, with the sound of everyone laughing and the absolute betrayal of Tracey…well, I lose it. With all my strength, I whack the man in the mouth with a wooden salt shaker from the table. One of his teeth drops to the ground. He is angry now.

‘Theft? Assaulting a police officer?’ Tracey squeals. ‘You are done for.’

I detangle myself from the web of arms and bolt out the door. The cops are hot on my heels as they bound after me. Everyone from Steak Home has rushed to the window to watch. I’m going fast but there’s no doubt the police are faster. A stitch cripples my side. I glance behind and the one I struck is practically on top of me. In no time, he tackles me to the ground and slaps a pair of handcuffs around my wrists.

It’s bloody freezing in the cell they throw me into and they seem in no hurry to bring me that extra blanket I’d asked for. It seems Tinfoil was right. Last night I was free, tonight I am caged. What’s worse, they’ve tossed me into the same cell as some kooky old lady who keeps eyeballing me from her corner.

‘Can I help you?’ I ask impatiently.

‘Come into the light,’ she croaks. That’s a laugh. There’s hardly any light in this place.

‘I’m quite comfortable here thanks.’

THE LAST ELENTRICE

‘Many decades ago, before even I was born, the discovery of another dimension was made by a man named Michél Tranzuta. This other dimension he found was here; the world you and I live in,’ the old lady explains. I listen intently, hoping her story might answer some of my many questions. What is the portal? Where does it lead? What is a Spee’ad? And maybe, just maybe, who the man of my dreams is; literally.

‘When out walking one night, testing a device he had developed, Tranzuta stumbled through the portal and fell face first on to the ground by Beatrice Brook,’ she continues to explain.

‘I live by Beatrice Brook.’ I cock my head to one side, thoughtfully; could that explain those hooded figures I saw so many years ago?

‘Well, my dear girl, you live extremely close to a historical landmark,’ she shrugs, ‘though I suppose now it is just a dusty old lake by a deserted path, long since forgotten.’

‘What happened?’

‘Shortly after Tranzuta made his discovery, the two dimensions coexisted; the Coltis and the Corporeal, as they named us. A footpath was made, streetlamps set up and so it was. The Coltis would attempt to teach us their extraordinary abilities and some would succeed. We in turn would teach them about our ways, such as electricity, building and so on. It was a mystical time. The Elentri were my favourite empire within Coldivor. They were in fact everyone’s favourite.

‘The Elentri were kind, gentle and held more power than the other seven empires put together. They were stronger than the strongest, faster than the fastest, could jump higher than the highest...you get the gist. This of course was all prior to the reign of Vildacruz.’

‘Vildacruz?’ I cross my legs, prop up my elbows and cup my chin in my hands.

‘Terrorists,’ she hisses. ‘When the day of their ascension dawned, all sorts of creatures were somehow freed from Vedark, the realm of sinners and betrayers: Borum Wolves, vampires, warlocks and Exlathars – you don’t want to know. Only the Elentri held enough power to defeat them, so naturally, the Elentri were the ones they destroyed; men, women, and children.’

‘That’s horrible,’ I frown.

‘Oh yes.’ She nods. ‘But it was paramount for the Vildacruz’s survival. You see, on their eighteenth birthday, an Elentrice is gifted the power of their forefathers at a famed three-day ceremony called The Elenfar, making each generation stronger than the one before.’

I’m not quite sure I am buying this story but am enthralled all the same. Some batty old lady’s explanation for the odd occurrences in my life is far better than the complete lack of one I currently have.

‘When the Vildacruz finally took over, Earth promptly discouraged all ties with Coldivor and forbade anyone to pass through the portal,’ she goes on. ‘No one was allowed to enter and none were allowed to leave. This is the reason I am here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Five years ago, I was caught returning from Coldivor. I had no trial, no jury. I was simply tossed in this cell and the keys thrown away, I’m sure.’

My eyes widen. To think all this was going on is shocking but surprisingly not unbelievable. ‘Why did you even come back?’ I ask.

‘If it were my choice, I would have stayed there forever, but sadly one can only pass through the portal for ninety minutes. To try to stay on the other side for longer would surely end in death.’ She appears to consider her words as she licks her cracking lips. ‘You see, dear, every human has a counterpart. Someone seeming just like them but not them, living in a parallel universe. Both counterparts cannot co-exist for more than two weeks together in one dimension.’

Before I can interrupt, she holds up a bony finger to silence me.

‘Ironically, the portal takes two weeks to appear during which time you both grow weaker. Unless you are strong enough to pass through the portal on the fourteenth day, which most are not, you are best to spend no more than ninety minutes and then return to where you belong before the gateway is gone.’

‘There must be some way?’

‘Believe me, many have tried.’ She half chuckles, shaking her head ‘Some succeeded and some failed; killing themselves and their counterparts.’

Brutal! This fantasy land with all the answers, real or otherwise, is sounding a lot less attractive.

‘And nothing can change this?’

‘No,’ she sighs ‘though there is legend of a set of matching necklaces: the Provolian Pair. If each counterpart wears one, they can supposedly live harmoniously in the same realm.’

‘Really?’ I ask, intrigued.

‘Nothing but hearsay and tittle-tattle.’ She flaps her hand dismissively. ‘Find the portal, have your ninety minutes then