Clock City: Realm of Elestra, #2

By Rebekah Dodson

Since Mom died and left me with my abusive, drunkard of a father I don't have much of a life. My only sanctuary's hidden in the woods. At least until I find a jeweled dagger and it transports me to somewhere called Elestra. I seriously can't believe this isn't some crazy dream, with mechanical horses, cat people, demons, and even metal dragons.

I just want to go home, but everything is a disaster in Clock City.

Who's this mysterious girl who appeared in Elestra? Alayna wears strange clothes and keeps complaining about something called a "cell phone." She even has a demon with her who's sworn a life debt, and now I'm bonded to her to help save the kingdom.

I'm just Sebastian, a secret tinkerer. How am I supposed to help her, and the rebellion, save the city? My life has flipped upside down, and I don't know if I have what it takes.

No matter what happens it's up to us to show the world what freedom truly looks like.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebekah Dodson
• Release date: May 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393092643

Rebekah Dodson

Rebekah Dodson is a prolific word weaver of romance, fantasy, and science fiction novels. Her works include the series Postcards from Paris, The Surrogate, The Curse of Lanval series, several standalone novels, and her upcoming YA novel, Clock City. She has been writing her whole life, with her first published work of historical fiction with 4H Clubs of America at the age of 12, and poetry at the age of 16 with the National Poetry Society. With an extensive academic background including education, history, psychology and English, she currently works as a college professor by day and a writer by night. She resides in Southern Oregon with her husband, two teenagers, and three dogs.

Book preview

Prologue

MOST EDUCATED PEOPLE would say our DNA, the building blocks of our existence, only carried physiological traits and characteristics. How we look, the color of our eyes, our bodily proportions, even the proclivity for certain ailments and medical conditions. But a few researchers would have told you it went beyond those attributes and our DNA carried knowledge and experiences passed through generations.

Parker H. Whipple might just be a body of proof to this theory. Growing up as an orphan, young Whipple was discovered by a groundskeeper outside a novelty clock factory. The orphanage couldn’t locate his parents and named him for the last names of the clock shop owners—George Parker and William Whipple.

He was a quiet and shy young lad, avoiding the rough and physical contact games his peers at the orphanage engaged in daily as they grew. Instead, he passed his time tinkering and creating intricate do-dads. He seemed to know what they did, at least in his mind, but they made no sense to anyone else.

The night of Winter Solstice of his eighteenth year, he was assembling something which appeared to be an intricate timepiece stuck into a locket.

Several of the children who had been taunting him reported when he inserted a key into the locket he simply vanished, a jeweled dagger at his side.

When the shining silver gates of Clock City greeted him, Parker wasn’t surprised. Instead he glided through the gates which were welcoming him, as they did thousands of travelers from around Elestra.

The sights greeting him were wonderful to behold, yet he had multiple other things on his mind. He gazed at the towering palace, one hand wrapped around the dagger, the other touching the locket at his neck. His journey had finally taken him to where he knew would be his final destination.

It was time to confront a task far more daunting than any he had endeavored in the past. For this time, there was a personal cog in the gears of this challenging quest. His locket contained the only picture of his sister, the one he never knew.

My time will come, they will see. No more will the children torment me, and no more will they see the light of day.

Parker left his mortal name behind that day. He was now the Timekeeper.

Book I: Clock Queen

Chapter One: The Girl

IT WAS JUST AN APPLE.

A Red Delicious, the kind my mother used to buy. I remembered the pies and pastries she used to make and set on the windowsill of our kitchen to cool. We were the perfect nuclear family, after all, and wouldn’t be complete without the pie.

My father would come home and swing her around by the waist, and she would laugh and hug him. He’d pick me up and squeeze me to his chest and present me with a new doll.

My stomach rumbled as I stared at the apple. Glossy, plump, rouge. It was beautiful. I could just imagine crunching right into it and feeling the sweetness roll around my tongue. I was starving, and the apple looked like the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life.

I slipped it in my pocket.

I’d done it a dozen times before. Apples here, some string cheese there, but candy bars were the easiest to hide most of the time. The trick was not to act nervous or guilty, and they’d never ask you why you were staring at the fruits and vegetables.

Cool, calm, and collected, I made my way to the exit. The doors swished open, beckoning my escape. Close, so close. Freedom. And that juicy apple would be mine. If only the fantasy of my father and mother was too.

Hey! I saw you grab that!

I froze.

Get back here, Alayna!

I guess my sleight of hand needed some work. I looked behind me to see Francis, a boy I used to go to school with, jogging toward me.

Being caught wasn’t part of my plan, not today, even if our food budget always turned into my father’s beer budget.

Unfortunately, running head long into Mrs. Smithe and her followers, all decked out in diamond rings and hot pink polyester jogging suits, wasn’t part of the plan either. They whispered behind delicately manicured hands; a technique they had no doubt perfected in high school some twenty odd years before. "That poor, dear Winston girl, all alone in this world."

Tragic how her mother, Lydia, died.

Her father is a no-good alcoholic, I heard.

Can you blame him, after what happened to his wife?

Can’t say I do...

I was too busy making sure my coat covered my other purchases to worry about them at the time. Beside that apple I couldn’t resist, I had managed to wedge four snickers, three bags of beef jerky, a block of cheese, and some root beer under my torn, down jacket.

The apple fell and rolled to the floor, right into Mrs. Smithe’s manicured, sandaled foot. She stooped to pick it up and sneered at me.

Missing something, Alayna? Did you pay for this, Miss Winston?

Stop her! Francis called from behind me again.

Forgetting the apple, I just pushed past her and the two crones circling her back. Once in the parking lot, I had to make a snap decision—run for the woods and unload the food I’d lifted or go home.

A gust of wind blew my blonde braid over my shoulder as a few drops of rain fell on my face. There was a storm coming. My father’s shift wasn’t over for a few more hours, and I had to stop at home to get my journal. I couldn’t imagine if he’d found it.

My life would be over. Probably, quite literally. And who wanted to be caught in this rain? Not I, that’s for sure. The woods would have to wait.

I could imagine Francis was calling the police as I stood there indecisive. Good, I slowed my pace as I reached the park, I hope my father answers. Holding my coat tightly to my chest, I ran for the side of the building, down the back, and cut through the field that led back to my neighborhood.

Cutting out of the field through Emily Stone’s backyard, I hit the sidewalk running, my chest heaving, but I was sure I’d left the grocery store far enough behind. Two more blocks and I’d be home. Kicking rocks idly to the side, I strolled as if I wasn’t laden with stolen food under a woolen coat in eighty-degree Texas weather. My chest burned, and my forehead beaded with sweat from jogging like a crazy person. I just hoped I beat my father home.

The wind kicked up, blowing dust and tumbleweeds into the street. I shielded my eyes and gazed at the quickly disappearing sun to the west. The clouds were dark gray without the familiar twinge of green, and I knew it was just a typical Texas thunderstorm. No tornados would be in the forecast this night.

Sometimes I wished they would be, though. Being taken away to a magical land like Oz, with no drunken fathers, no crumbling trailer, and no empty cupboards sounded like a dream.

Except those things didn’t exist, and I was plain ol’ seventeen-year-old Alayna Winston, high school drop-out, and probably soon to be another statistic. It’s not that I wanted to drop out. I used to get good grades. I loved school.

But after Mom, well, somedays it was too much to explain to my homeroom teacher why my arm had welts, or my eye was just a little purple. There were only so many times I could fall down the stairs in a one-story trailer before the words credit deficient got thrown around, and finally I was too far behind to catch up. Whatever. They didn’t care about me, no one cared about me. I was invisible. 

I played my fingertips along the fence next to me idly. Francis and I used to be friends. Spotting the swings swaying slowly in the storm’s gusts of wind made me smile sadly.

He pushed me on those swings when I was in fifth grade. We played games on those monkey bars and hid under the oak trees and told secrets. Now he was a cashier at Jack’s Grocery, and I was just Alayna the shoplifter.

By the time I reached my block, I skidded to a stop three doors down when I saw my father’s cruiser in the driveway.

No, no, no, my mind raced a mile a minute. He can’t be home yet. It’s too early.

I had no choice. I had to cut around the back, sneak in my window, and try to leave without him noticing I was gone. It was half past seven or so. Maybe him and his Heineken had checked out for the night.

I cut between our house and the new neighbors’. Dad would probably hate them, though. They were gay and that wasn’t okay with him. I couldn’t wait to have a bar-b-que with them.

Reaching our backyard, I shimmied down the side of the trailer’s faded blue painted wall and around the abandoned steel swing set leaning precariously to one side. The back screen door banged freely open as the rain began to drizzle.

I knew I’d be stuck here with the rain on the way soon to be pelting everything in sight. Securing the door so it didn’t wake my father, I slipped to the wooden window just beyond the back door, hoisted it open, and pulled myself over the edge into my room.

Alayna.

My coat snagged a corner of the peeling wood on the window frame. His voice startled me. I tumbled into my room, my coat ripping open and spilling my stolen contents on the dingy shag carpet.

My father reached down and grabbed an orange. He threw it up in the air and caught it, swaying slightly as he did.

Not only was he home early, but I could smell the acrid booze on his breath from here.

I froze as always, wrapping my arms around myself, looking down. My hair was damp, my braid partially undone and disheveled.

You look like a tramp.

I didn’t answer. To answer was a mistake.

Where you been, girl?

I focused on my sneakers. They were a few years old, scuffed, grass stained on one side. Grass. I loved grass. I missed my mother. She used to let me play in the grass. In her garden.

Crack.

My lip trembled when he slapped me, but I knew whimpering just meant I was asking for it again, so I inhaled instead.

Where you been, girl? He demanded this time, his face an inch from mine.

Out, this time I answered because not answering would be a bigger mistake.

I though they was lying when they called me, telling me you ripped of Jack’s again.

I wasn’t—

Crack!

I could taste the blood on my lip. My stomach rumbled and all I could taste was copper. It was a terrible combination.

I’m sick of this, Alayna! He shouted, and he turned away from me, leaning his head on the door. You’re a good for nothing thief, and if you mother was here, she’d—

She’s not here, is she? I managed to mumble. Because she died.

What was that? What did you say?

N-never mind. N-nothing sir, I said nothing.

He turned back to me. White t-shirt tucked into the blue slacks he wore to the force every day. Heavy black boots finished his look of menace, but it was nothing compared to the wide belt around his waist, which he loosened.

I hate to do this girl, but I’ve no choice, none at all. It’s time you learned you can’t steal.

Tears spilled out of my eyes. I wanted my mother. No, father! I swear, it was the last time. The last time! I won’t ... never... My stomach rumbled harder this time and I felt like I was going to puke. Please, please don’t...

With a whip of his hand, lightning fast despite his intoxication, the belt came down against my shoulder and I didn’t have time to get my arms up. When I did, he brought it down again, the black leather stinging against my pale skin, drawing blood.

Two more times he brought it down, careful to avoid my face as his blows landed against my shoulder, side, and legs. I cried out each time, begging him to stop, but it was like he couldn’t hear me. He never heard me.

Panting, he slid his belt over his shoulder. I’m gonna call Robert and have him take you to the station. I’m sick of this, girl. You gotta learn sometime. Maybe a night in jail will change your mind about being a goddamn thief.

He stumbled out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him with a bang.

I hugged my knees, rocking there for a minute, tears running down my cheeks, trying to will away the pain. For some reason it was harder this time.

My journal. Where was my journal?

I scrambled for it under the bed mattress, just between it and the box spring, and finally grasped it. Ripping it open, I ran my hand over the drawing. The one from my nightmare last night.

A red sun with black lightning shooting from the corners, green flowers in a yellow field, and a giant wheel. I supposed it was more like a cog with the squared edges, but what it meant I didn’t know.

It was the same dream I’d had every night this week.

The thunderstorm pounded outside, crashing against my window as the wind picked up. I flipped the page to the scary little monster I’d drawn this morning. I hadn’t dreamt of him before, and his face was a blur. All I knew was he had stringy hair, beady black eyes, and he was no bigger than a dog. I wondered why I dreamed of him.

He scared me in a way, but part of me wanted to meet him. Anything terrifying like that was better than the hell I was living.

As I ran my hand over the painting, the creature’s eye blinked.

Wait, what?

Blinked?

I tossed my journal away from me, staring at it.

I’d finally cracked. I’d finally gone insane.

Just what my father wanted.

Maybe I did need a night in a jail cell like he wanted.

I shook as I thought of the confines of those little concrete cells. I shook so hard I couldn’t even cry. I just felt the rage building in me suddenly. I had nowhere to release it, nowhere to go.

Thunder boomed then, rattling the window, and shaking our little trailer.

Maybe this was my Oz moment, after all.

Snatching my journal, I opened my door an inch and peered into the living room just outside my door. There was my father, passed out on the couch.

You can do this. Run for it. You can do this, Alayna!

I heard my mother in my heard. My sweet mother, who made the best apple pie. She wanted me to escape, but I could never come back.

I was Alayna the thief, the drop out, not the run away.

I didn’t even care.

Knowing my father could shoot awake at any moment, I rushed past him and to the back door, not caring that it banged loudly when I ran out of it, not giving a single care in the world if he heard, if it woke him. Screw this place. Let a tornado take me away, or better yet, kill me. It was better than being here. Better than feeling his belt across my skin.

The rain pelted my skin, stinging with each drop as I raced away from the only home I’d ever known. I slipped my journal under my thin cotton shirt, hoping I could protect its fragile ink from the wet weather. Frozen for a moment at the edge of the driveway and stretching out my arm, I watched the rivers of droplets cascade down my fingertips.

It was a short-lived moment of wonder.

Alayna, get your ass back in this house! His voice, raw and violent, sent a shiver down my spine, colder and crueler than any rainstorm. He’s heard the door. He was awake. He was after me.

I had to get away from him. I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran.

Alayna Winston, you good for nothing brat, you’ve earned the end of my belt across your back again! His slurred voice boomed in the back of my head, fading like a nightmare I couldn’t wake from. This one didn’t have creatures and suns and flowers. This one was dark, deadly, disastrous.

It wasn’t my first rodeo running from the cops. I had developed a few skills hiding behind dumpsters, finding empty doors I could enter, and knowing which warehouses were always abandoned.

But this time, my feet pounded the pavement in a different direction. I headed downtown. If he called his friends at the station, I could lose them between buildings. It was better than being caught in an open field.

I ran past the back door of the baker pulling steaming pastries out of the oven, even this late in the day. The aroma of berries and cinnamon palpable on the roof of my mouth, but I couldn’t stop. I ran to the deserted corner playground, this one more pathetic than the one by my house, as the rain continued to pound around me. Puddles and muddy rivers formed around me, splashing my ripped jeans as I let me legs carry me wherever they wanted.

I ran past the church, while the bell struck eight, the loud clangs echoed off the crumbling gravestones on the side. I reached the end of the road and scurried down the path to the left, disappearing into the thick woods.

Finally, I could be safe from him, he would never find me out here. But what would I do when I ran out of food this time? I should have never gone home. What was I thinking?

The rain was relentless, soaking my shirt and the cover of my journal. I held the book tighter to my chest. It was my most precious thing, and I couldn’t lose it. Not only did it hold my hopes and dreams, but my nightmares. And I was most certainly certifiable for the latter.

I examined the remnants of the little tree house where Francis and I used to play as kids. It had been our secret play place, abandoned long ago by other children just like us. Once it had four walls, but now there were just two and some rotted board for a make-shift roof.

Bits of tattered blankets scattered the forest floor, a reminder of our early elementary days when we found this place. A few ancient dolls, now drenched, lay propped against an old log, their faded, striped hair wet and musty from the rain. Here and there were pieces of G.I. Joe’s from Francis’s precious collection.

Against one wall was my waterproof storage, another stolen item from my past. I peeked into the old cooler with the cracked lid. Once upon a time it held stolen treats but was long since empty. I had hoped to restock it, but today was no different than most days. 

The rain was easing, the wind a little less violent now. I huddled in the corner with a damp blanket pulled over me. Running from the store, running here, my energy was gone. My arms stung and my head pounded. Sleep. That was what I needed. Just a little sleep.

They never left me, even in my dreams. They were leaning over me, watching me sleep, while they cooed and cawed over me. I was so skinny, they’d say. They knew I’d go sometime, the way I was withering away like that. Mrs. Smithe and her gaggle of soccer moms, they knew what was right for me. My mother had hated them, all of them. Prancing ponies, she’s called them, who can’t see end of their nose. She was old fashioned sometimes, and I don’t think she fit in any more than I did.

In this nightmare, Mrs. Smithe would run her long fake nails down my cheek, scratching me just enough to bring a burning sensation to my skin, though not as bad as my father’s belt. You poor, dear soul, she’d whisper, and this time, only I could hear it clear as day. Her lips dripped burning venom, silently landing on the starched white sheet beside me.

I jolted awake. I could still feel her nails on my skin, her voice in my ear. Cold wracked my body, but heat rose to my cheeks that such a person could scare me more than my monster of a parent. So, I hid from her, from everyone. I became a nobody. An invisible loser. Not even Francis knew who I was anymore, I would bet.

I blinked, and my torn lawn chair creaked, bringing me back to reality. I sighed. The plastic strips from the weathered woven neon seat whipped in the rain drizzled wind like spider web strands. The ripped cardboard box hung from the tree above my seat, the only cover from the rain that splattered between the broken boards above me.

Even this late in the summer the sun was starting to set. Why wouldn’t it stop raining? The thunder and lightning had gone, but it was still sprinkling. Despite that, I didn’t want the sun to come out. The sun offered hope. False hope I couldn’t risk feeling. I wanted the darkness to swallow me and eat me whole. That way I didn’t have to feel anymore. 

I groaned as small tendrils of light, the last of the sunset, shone slowly through the forest, illuminating the glistening raindrops on the leaves, under brush, and on the moss. It was an anomaly, these woods in the middle of Texas, but here we were.

And despite the rain, I took out my journal and the ballpoint tucked in the pages. One end I’d chewed to death, but the other wrote just fine, even on damp pages.

Sunshine

Not like rain.

No.

Rain cleanses,

Washes away the pain.

Sunshine sets the inner pain on fire

Where others can see.

Nothing hides under the sun,

Deeds are known,

Sins of the father,

Regrets of thy mother.

My mother. I would never know why she had been on that road so late at night, when the oncoming truck had dealt the fatal blow—just down the road from my hiding place. Here I felt closest to her, even if she was gone.

As if my dark thoughts had willed it to stop, the drizzle ceased. I scribbled furiously across the page. More suns and stars, blood droplets and decaying flowers. I could feel the tears hit my cheek.

I miss you, Mom.

Why did you have to go and leave me with him?

My own father, a drunken, abusive asshole. I used to hate her because she was never there, and now I missed her terribly. I never knew her, not really.

She was gone all the time with her job, and I rarely saw her. How could she subject me to this torture my entire life? How did she not know?

After she died, I couldn’t hide the bruises anymore. Without her to chide him, the drinking had gotten out of control.

Falling behind in my studies, I eventually dropped out of school. I knew there wasn’t any money for college. Besides, I’d just be stuck here forever anyway. Doomed, like my mother, to die in despair without anyone to care.

I looked up, seeking inspiration from the nature around me. Surely, there was healing to be found in the plush leaves, the bending bark?

A blinding glint caught my eye a few feet away. The clouds moved across the sun, dancing the reflection among the leaves, the red hues of the fading light basked the green foliage in a dismal crimson. Prismatic hues splayed against the trees. The glint again. What was it? A rainbow? At ground level?

I sat my journal on the cooler and crept to where I’d seen the glimmer.

A large log marked the boundary of my fortress. It was covered in moss, no doubt a remnant from a tree fallen ages ago. The sun was quickly disappearing behind my back. For once, I wished it would stay.

It didn’t even gross me out when I reached behind the log. What would I find, anyways? Probably garbage, or something that had fallen out of someone’s truck from the highway. No one was ever in these woods.

I wasn’t expecting to find something priceless.

Sticking out from the thick, thorny underbrush on the south side of the trunk was a portion of a shiny blade.

A blade?

Not a knife. Not at all! An honest to God dagger!

It would be worth a fortune, maybe. Enough to get me ticket to, well, anywhere but here. I yanked hard and pulled out a short, curved blade. There were bits of leather clinging to its edges. I cleaned them away.

How had I not noticed this before? Had it been here the whole time? How was I blind to it? 

I held it up into the last glimpse of the sun, which was quickly being taken over by heavy gray clouds once more. It shone brighter than anything I had ever seen. I could see reds, oranges, purples, and blues.

The blade flashed rainbows from its cool steel. The hilt was something else, with woven leather, and was that a tiny wheel? A spring? I squinted at it again, covering my eyes with my arm.

I blinked once, twice. There was no glint off the dagger, and it just looked like a dull, gray weapon again.

Was that rust on the edge?

Or blood?

Then the strangest thing happened. The more I focused, the more I felt like it pulled me away. Not away, exactly, but inside myself. Like I was a spinning wheel and I was being sucked down a rabbit hole.

A rabbit hole? No, more like a hole with a tornado on the other end, landing me somewhere very far from home.

I wasn’t in Texas anymore.

Chapter Two: The City Gates

SILENCE.

Complete, utter silence.

Texas wasn’t silent, not at all.

There were always bustling noises from the highway, the honk of impatient commuters, and the blow of semi-trucks, the whir of speeding cars. And it was flat, very flat. A few trees with rolling brown fields and dead, dry tumbleweed.

Definitely not Texas.

Even the woods were gone. I stood in the middle of a field now, surrounded by rolling green hills. It wasn’t twilight anymore. Bright purple sunflowers, six feet tall, bent toward the harsh midday sun.

The Texas—that is, the not Texas—sun was shining—but it was pink.

I spun, the dagger in one hand, my other fist clenched and pressed to my mouth. Gone, it’s all gone! Panic rushed through me and I felt faint. My chair, dented cooler, boxes, they were all gone; only hills surrounded me.

There wasn’t a tree in sight, even on the sparse horizon. On a small rock next to me sat my journal, but it had changed. The plastic cover was now leather, and the spine was not glued, but woven with leather thongs.

The pen next to it was unlike any pen I’d seen before. The ballpoint had changed to a sharp point and had a peacock feather jutting from the other end. At least, I thought it was a peacock feather. Yellow and green, it was like nothing I had seen in any book before.

My surge of panic was so bad I could barely breathe. My stomach heaved, and I wondered if I really would puke this time. I glanced down at my tattered jeans and faded yellow crop top. My clothes hadn’t changed. I started to wonder if I’d hit my head. If I’d reached for the dagger and tumbled over the log and smashed my temple somehow.

Yes, that was it. I was just dreaming.

My dreams were filled with so much horror anyway; I could believe it. I pinched myself, but the world around me stayed the same. I reached behind me for my journal, my safety net.

Ouch!

Something pricked me. A thorn? No, bit me. Out here? What in the world?

I jerked my hand back.

A three-fingered claw pulled back as well.

I was reminded of Mrs. Smithe and pulled away, panicked, then stepped forward. What kind of creature could this be?

A small creature, no taller than my knee, stared at me intently, with solid black eyes that reminded me of the chihuahua puppy I had had when I was small. The pink sun reflected against his dark indigo skin. He reminded me sharply of a character I’d seen in a movie once and I wanted to throw a sock at it. 

But then I realized, I’d seen him somewhere before.

I’d drawn him.

Who the? What the ... are you?

He smiled; his mouth filled with dozens of sharp, pointy teeth. They were all so tiny, but I didn’t dare try to count how many. A cloth loin flap was secured around his waist and a belt across his flat chest held a small leather pouch. Tucked into his belt was a small dagger which only looked big enough to be a table knife.

Hi! His voice was shrill and squeaky, like a mouse from a cartoon.

I barely resisted a giggle. What was wrong with me? He could be dangerous.

Still, I drew him. I reached for my journal and flipped it open with one hand. You’re ... you’re him! I waved it at him.

The little monster peered at my crude drawing. That is indeed a very nasty picture of Dinga, son of Dingarel. Three elongated fingers ending in pointed nails pointed at his bare chest, which of course, sported four nipples.

Dinga? I