Ascendants of Ancients Sovereign

CHAPTER 1

Soul to Soul





Fellow soul,

I truly hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the gods insisted that I be the vessel of truth. I’ve been forced to come right out and say it. We are dead—tragedies of a celestial uprising that destroyed a cosmos. We can no longer call Earth, Dukas, Redbone, Langormar, or whatever world you were from, our homes. But the revelation of this carnage was not meant to be the beginning of my tale.

Allow me, your spirited storyteller, to take you back to a period more than 14,000 seasons ago, to a series of Peaks that were lived just before the Great Destruction of Everything Known. Forgive me, for I must start my story on an inferior planet that was once known as Earth.

Your friend and fellow soul inside the Book of Immortality,

Phillip E. Jones





The Hometown of Sam Goodrich

Los Angeles, California





DR. SAM GOODRICH PUT the cold stethoscope on the boy’s chest and asked his patient to take two deep breaths. The child jumped. Once Sam determined the youngster was in good general health, and his flu-like symptoms could be treated with simple over-the-counter medications, he wrote out his recommendations and handed them to the boy’s mother.

“Mrs. Taylor, thanks for bringing Patrick in to see me. These should do the trick. He’ll be fine in a few days.” Forcing a smile, Sam dredged up a few other words of encouragement and then shook the woman’s hand before he left the room.

Walking across the hall, his smile faded. He shook his head and whispered under his breath, “Great ... another inconvenience. I just can’t do this anymore. I have to win tonight.” He opened the door leading to his next patient, forced another smile and entered. “Mr. Borgs, how are you today?”

Sam was muscular, with chiseled abs, which many women found to be their personal definition of perfection. At five-foot nine, 190 pounds, he was in amazing shape, and his cardio was exemplary.

Sam was not what many would consider a normal doctor. Despite being adored by his patients, Sam had a bit of a dark side. He loved to fight, and today was Sam’s big day—the first day of his professional fighting career.

For the last six and a half years, Sam trained tirelessly in the world of Mixed Martial Arts Combat. When he started in the sport, now his passion, his good friend, John, also a professional fighter and trainer, had used Sam as a life-sized punching bag. The doctor grew accustomed to being turned into a human pretzel, learning his body could be bent in ways that he never imagined. And being the friend that he was, John took great pleasure in delivering the abuse.

Nine years Sam’s elder, John had been one of the few people who understood Sam when the decision was made to put the 16 year old boy into the sport. Because John valued Sam, the boy evolved into a machine inside the cage while he savagely absorbed his mentor’s experience.

Sam was a different breed of fighter. He had a reputation for greatness outside the cage. He was known across the globe for his superior intelligence. He graduated high school at the age of 10, earned his Bachelor’s in Science at 13 and his medical degree just before turning 16. In short, Sam was a walking book of knowledge. His unparalleled ability to retain data amazed his professors and the world—but Sam often failed to show his brilliance.

Trying to fit in, Sam would intentionally hold back. He did not like the idea of being the freak, the brain, or the geek the other kids did not want around. He tried to hide his genius, studying only what was necessary to appease his father, but his best efforts to blend were often ruined by his desire to take charge, creating the opposite effect.

Despite Sam’s attempts to please his overbearing father, the medical community had other plans. They turned their backs on the minor, saying a 16-year-old was too immature to perform any type of patient care, let alone surgery. Sam was considered unemployable—simply too young to handle real world responsibilities until the age of 18.

The court supported this assessment after a number of private interviews, ruling that Sam had to be of legal age before becoming a surgeon. To Sam’s father, the medical world was prejudiced—an evil empire bound and determined to hold him and his son back.

The court’s ruling turned out to be the right call. Although a genius, Sam was over-confident, hot-tempered, quick to react, and lacked common sense at times. On the day of the ruling, the 16-year-old proved their point. He stormed out of the courtroom, screaming, “I hate all of you! You’re fools! You’ll need me one of these days, and I won’t be there for any of you!” He slapped the heavy wooden doors as he exited.

Though embarrassed, Sam’s father fought the ruling, appealing the decision to a higher court. With this appeal came another rejection, which thrust an even deeper jab into Sam’s pride.

Unable to control his hostility, Sam’s anger got the best of him. After being caught for public intoxication and vandalism, Sam was arrested.

To save the family further embarrassment after the press swarmed the police station, Sam’s father requested a private meeting with the judge. They determined Sam needed guidance from someone who could remain objective about the boy’s growing hostility. A counselor was brought in to stay with the family, assess Sam’s inability to maintain control, and then determine a course of action.

“This is for your own good, Sam,” was all Howard Goodrich said as he escorted his son into the counselor’s office.

The professional assessment suggested that all Sam needed was a physical outlet to release his suppressed emotions. After many conversations, a decision was made. Sam would take up Mixed Martial Arts as a way to channel his negative energy. The plan worked. In fact, it more than worked. Sam discovered another gift. He could fight—and fight well. Because of this discovery, a genuine smile returned to his face.

Not only did Sam learn he was an excellent fighter, he also learned he was an adrenaline junkie. He felt the brutal sport was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He no longer had to look for happiness. Along with healing people as the doctor his father had forced him to become, he would silence his hatred for the medical profession by beating people up—unknowingly scarring his soul in the process and feeding a demon that lurked within the darkest shadows of his mind.

Despite pleading with his father to give up medicine, Sam’s medical career developed. He hated the decision his father made to open a practice. Nevertheless, family money was to be obeyed, and on the day of Sam’s 19 birthday, the red ribbon was cut.

“Sam, John Marks with the Times. How does it feel to be famous and the head of a 12-story facility? Does it feel overwhelming to be a doctor at your age?”

Sam held up his hands to silence the crowd and then responded. “Okay, okay. First of all, nothing overwhelms me. But let me put today in perspective for you. What my father wants, is what my father gets. I’m not the head of anything, and you’re misguided if you believe otherwise.” Sam walked to the front of the stage and pointed at his father. “This is his dream, not mine.”

Sam’s open hostility forced his father to be flexible. Howard had to allow Sam to abandon his plan for Sam to become a trauma surgeon—a position Howard Goodrich revered—one that would have been a better career choice considering Sam’s need to take charge.

Despite Howard’s disgust for Sam’s barbaric decision to find fame in the cages of MMA, Sam’s life became a balancing act between the family business, patients and his love—fighting.





Now, fellow soul … not that it matters, since everything would eventually cease to exist because of The Great Destruction of Everything Known ... but Sam’s genius was a gold mine, despite the turmoil with his father. Thanks to Sam’s worldwide reputation, the family practice was an immediate success. Just as Howard had foreseen, other eager, high-achieving doctors applied for employment because of the publicity they would receive on the coattails of Sam’s notoriety.

The family practice employed 533 doctors, nurses, and therapists of different medical backgrounds. Sam’s parents, business-minded people with administrative experience, handled the day-to-day operations while Sam offered no additional help above a minimal effort. Instead, he pursued his passion.





Tonight, Sam hoped his first professional fight in Las Vegas would be the beginning of his rise to stardom and the end of his medical career. As he left his office on the 12th floor, a plain looking, dark-haired secretary named Melissa tossed Sam the keys to a new convertible Mustang and winked. “Go get ‘em, Champ. Your dad’s jet is fueled and waiting. Oh, and thanks for the big screen. My husband invited some friends over to watch you fight. It’s going to be weird to see you on Pay-Per-View. My girlfriend, Cindy, can’t wait for you to take your shirt off. Her boyfriend’s jealous.”

Sam grinned. “Okay, okay. Let me think. Tell Cindy when I look into the camera, I’ll flex my pecs. Make sure her stud knows I did it just for her.”

Melissa giggled. “Her boyfriend is gonna crap himself. I can’t wait to see his expression.”

Sam slapped the top of the counter Melissa was sitting behind. “Record it for me, will you? I’ve got to go. See you Monday.”

“Good luck!” As she watched him leave, she exhaled, “I so want that.”





Emotions flooded Sam as he arrived at the MGM Grand. The press and the fans of the barbaric sport swarmed his dad’s stretch limo. He had not fought professionally yet, but he was already on the cover of ESPN The Magazine. He had to laugh at the headline:

The Smartest Athlete in the World

Dumb Enough to Enter the Cages of MMA

Tossing the magazine to the seat, all he could do was hope to give a good show and live up to the hype. He would hate to be the first cage fighter on the cover with a losing record. He smirked at the thought and stepped out of the limo.

The surging crowd pressed in as he walked toward the arena entrance. He laughed inside, thinking, These people are fanatical. They won’t be so interested if I lose.

Women were shouting marriage proposals, which startled him. One woman lifted her shirt. “Sam Goodrich, marry me, and I’ll take care of you, baby!”

Like most red-blooded males, Sam surveyed the woman’s figure. He took the time to admire her long, shapely legs, and curvy hips. They were perfect. As his eyes moved upward, the coolness of the night only added to her beauty. Everything was exquisite, until his eyes focused on her teeth. They were the antithesis of her silky, brown, flowing hair. Her wretched smile exposed twisted gaps he could drive a bus through. Forcing a pleasant nod, Sam rushed inside.

The woman called after him. “Wait! Come back!”

A barrage of flashing lights greeted Sam as he stepped through the door. Almost blinded by their intensity, he somehow managed to work his way through the mob.

“Sam! Sam Goodrich!” a woman wearing a dark-blue, Dior, business suit and a large smile hollered. Her hair was pinned up, exposing a slender neck, and she was waiting next to the hallway which Sam had to enter to get to his dressing room. “Sam Goodrich, Martha Haige, ESPN. Will you take a moment to allow the fans to get to know you?”

Putting on his best smile, Sam responded, “Sure thing, Ms. Haige. What do the fans want to know?”

With cameras flashing and live video streaming throughout the Pay-Per-View world, Martha changed her tone. Her smile vanished and was replaced with a more serious expression. “You seem to be a bit of a mystery. I think the fans would like to know why a doctor would choose to fight. Why would a genius elect to be a part of the brutality? Can you help us understand what drives you to break your Hippocratic Oath?”

Sam searched for a response to Martha’s inquiry, but he was left speechless. The depth of her probing made him realize he could not answer because he did not understand the conflict within his own heart.

After an embarrassing moment of silence, Sam responded. “You’ll have to excuse me, Martha, I’ve got a fight to win.” He pushed past and hurried to the locker room, thinking, Ravenous woman! You’ll just have to wait until the show is over before I give you an answer.

The locker room door closed, shutting out the noise and providing a welcomed quiet. As Sam changed, one of his trainers readied the tape for his hands. He looked up. “Jerome, give me a minute, will you? Can you believe the audacity of that woman?”

Jerome gave an understanding nod, the light glinting off the gold ring in his ear. “You okay, man?”

“I wish John was here. I need him.”

“You don’t need John. You know he’s got to take care of the fam first. Besides, I got your back. We’ve got this under control!” Jerome patted Sam on the shoulder.

“Okay, okay. Just give me a minute.”

“Sure thing, bro, but you need to warm up, so think fast, alright?”

Sam watched as Jerome left the room. Martha Haige’s question continued to weigh on his mind. Why don’t I know this? Why can’t I answer her questions? Dang it, John, I need you.

Despite Sam’s agitation, he knew John’s daughter needed her father more than he did. Little Fannie was in stable but serious condition after a hit-and-run while she crossed the school crosswalk with her bike. Sam would not have come to the fight, but John had insisted. During his flight, he said another prayer for Fannie’s well-being. She was simply too young to end up paralyzed for life.





Sam’s opponent was tough, a man from Brazil who held a Mixed Martial Arts record of 18 wins, 3 losses, with 17 wins coming by way of knock out. This Muay Thai specialist was a nightmare to face for his first professional fight, and everyone was betting on the Brazilian to hand Sam his first trip to the mat, knocked out cold. A member of the press had joked, “The good doctor will be able to stitch himself up to save on medical bills.”

After warming up, the time came to enter the cage, but Sam’s stomach had other ideas. He stepped into the hallway outside the locker room, grabbed the nearest trash can and vomited.

Disgusted by his weakness, Sam used the wall to push himself up. He wiped off his mouth and then leaned against Jerome’s shoulder.

The trainer pushed back. “Man up, yo! You got this, dawg. Use that genius head of yours, and get it out of the clouds. Focus! What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Sam knew Jerome was right. It was time to own the situation and think things through. He needed to take charge of his body and control his emotions.

As they made their way to the cage, Sam was sure his puddle of puke would become the cover story for the sports writers, no matter if he won or lost. Gaining further composure, he continued to walk down the corridor into the arena, enjoying the idea of the press twisting his loss of control into a global laugh.

When the cage door closed, Sam stared at his Brazilian opponent and nodded. He felt nothing, neither fear nor excitement. He stood still, evaluating the weak points on the man’s body, systematically calculating how he was going to take advantage of each area to attain victory. It was as if a switch had turned on inside his mind. He knew his body was prepared from his perfect 12–0 amateur record. With confidence in this fact, the rest of the sport was mental—the easiest and yet the hardest part of the sport for Sam. The good doctor was ready to go to war.

The referee stood at the center of the cage and pumped his fist. “Let’s get it on!” he shouted.

The two men met at the center of the octagon. They touched gloves and circled one another to size each other up. The Brazilian threw a few jabs that Sam brushed off with no real damage before countering with a powerful, slapping kick to the Brazilian’s right, inner thigh. The loud smack energized the crowd.

Again the Brazilian attacked, this time lunging forward with his knee, only to pull back and strike with a well-placed, right fist. Sam arched his back in an effort to soften the impact to his face, but his reaction was too slow. He stumbled backward and fell against the chain links of the cage.

The Brazilian followed, aggressively attacking and searching for the next opening. Knees, punches and elbows rained down, but somehow, Sam managed to push the Brazilian away to create the distance he needed to regain his composure.

Sam shook out the cobwebs. Damn, this guy is good! he thought.

The two men moved in, locked up, and grabbed hold of each other’s necks in a Muay Thai clinch. The Brazilian tightened his grasp, pulled Sam close, and now the doctor’s stomach and ribs found a new meaning for the word pain. His body screamed from the lightning-fast impact of the crushing knees, and before he knew it, another series of alternating knees followed, one finding the bridge of his nose.

Dazed, everything seemed like one big blur. Punches were now coming from all angles. Sam could feel the control of his muscles fading, but he had been trained to fight back. With a last effort lunge, he swung and somehow managed to find the chin of the Brazilian.

Hurting, both men backed off to regroup. Nearly 10 seconds went by before they re-engaged, an eternity for this type of sport.

Again, the Brazilian grabbed Sam’s head. He scoffed in a heavy accent, “You’re not ready for this. Go home, and leave the fighting to real men. I don’t wish to hurt a child.”

The Brazilian’s insult hit deep. It opened a floodgate and awakened the dormant rage inside the doctor. For Sam, everything in the arena melted away as the fight continued. It was as if his foe had begun to fight in slow motion.

Once again, the Brazilian taunted, “I said go home, Amateur. You don’t have what it takes, boy.”

At that, Sam pulled back, surrendered to the anger rising from the center of his being and allowed his inner junkie to be fed. He struck the Brazilian with a solid, left hook, and followed it with a crushing, right kick to his opponent’s mid-section. The kick caused the Brazilian’s ribs to burn as he took a step back.

Again they circled. Moving in, Sam landed a leading jab, followed by another powerful left hook.

The Brazilian countered with a jab of his own and followed it by shooting in for a takedown.

Lifting Sam into the air, the Brazilian slammed the doctor into the mat. A barrage of punches followed as the Brazilian worked from half-guard to push Sam toward the cage.

It was not until after a gash opened above Sam’s right eyebrow that he was able to counter the Brazilian’s weight. He threw the Brazilian off, stood and backed up while wiping the blood from his squinting eye.

Sensing the advantage, the Brazilian followed. He led with a jab and then dove in for another takedown, but this time Sam was lucky.

Despite the doctor’s wooziness, Sam brought up a right knee that pulverized the Brazilian’s face. Blood erupted from his nose as the Brazilian fell limp to the mat.

Sam could smell victory—a gloriously pungent aroma emanating from the adrenaline that refueled his body. He threw his weight on his opponent and rolled him over. “I am ready for this. Don’t ever doubt me!” he hissed.

Surrounding the Brazilian’s body with both legs, Sam listened to the crowd scream as he buried the heels of his feet into his opponent’s groin. He threw his right arm under the Brazilian’s chin, sinking it deep into his throat while Sam’s right hand cupped the inside of his left elbow to lock the hold in place. To finish the maneuver, Sam placed the upper part of his left arm behind the Brazilian’s head and squeezed with all his might.

With a momentary breach of control, Sam’s inner demon was appeased as it stole the fighter’s sanity. “Never doubt me!” he shouted. With a wickedness he did not know existed, Sam tightened his grasp for the kill. “Die, Bastard, die!” The demon within embraced the predator Sam had become.

Sam’s grasp was so tight, it took only seconds for the Brazilian to tap, and the fight was stopped. The doctor had just won his first fight with a rear naked choke submission—but his arms had to be pried from the Brazilian’s throat.

As Sam rolled free, he screamed—not because he was happy about his victory, but more because the fight had been stopped, and his enjoyment of the kill had been stolen. A few more moments passed before Sam was able to rise from the mat. As he did, he appeared relaxed, though his mind was still scrambling to find the sanity he had lost to quiet the rage still pounding inside.

The cage door opened. Jerome ran in and hoisted the doctor into the air. “You did it, bro! John-boy would be proud. C’mon, man, show the fans you love ‘em and enjoy the moment.” He dropped Sam to his feet.

It took a second to sink in, but once Sam reclaimed control, he smiled. He knew his fame was about to take another giant leap forward, yet his mind would not allow him to stay in the moment. He wondered what this new roller coaster would be like, and because of it, he was already planning months ahead.

Sam faced the announcer who had placed his arm around him for the interview. “That was one hell of a fight, Sam. How do you feel?”

Sam grabbed the mic and pulled it close to his mouth. “I feel awesome!”

The announcer laughed and then pointed to the cut on Sam’s head. “It looks like you’ll be stitching yourself up after all.”

Sam smiled. “How did I know you were going to say that?” He looked at the camera, winked and then flexed his pecs.

As the crowd screamed, a foreign sensation consumed Sam. Instead of the euphoria he was accustomed to, a chill spread throughout his body. Something was not right. As the interview continued, the arena faded into darkness.

To fight the awkwardness, Sam focused on the announcer. He reached out to shake the man’s hand, but as he did, an unexpected evil happened. The announcer’s eyes turned glowing red, and his smile transformed into a mouth filled with razor-sharp, pointed teeth.

Sam’s heart pounded. He tried to react, but he was unable to lift his hand to strike the threat. He was helpless and unable to respond to the orders coming from his mind. His eyelids turned heavy, as if he had gone days without sleep, and the overwhelming weight of his body caused his knees to begin to buckle. He did not understand why it was happening.

Then, as fast as the sensation came over him, it went away. The next thing Sam knew, he was being congratulated on a great fight and asked how it felt to accomplish such an unbelievable victory.

Realizing he had not collapsed to his knees, Sam took a second to regain his bearings. He looked again into the announcer’s eyes, but this time they were crystal blue, accompanied by a bright smile.

Confused, Sam shook off the illusion. “Umm … I’m happy,” he replied before continuing with a list of clichés. “I have a huge amount of respect for my opponent. It’s too bad one of us had to lose. I’m just glad it wasn’t me.”

The fighter managed an unnerved smile as the crowd cheered. He lifted his hands skyward to acknowledge them, but the urge to leave the arena outweighed his need to absorb their adulation.

Sam’s curiosity drove him to look back at the announcer as he stepped out of the cage. The man was staring at him. The fighter watched in horror as the red glow returned to the announcer’s eyes, and a mouthful of wickedly sharp teeth re-emerged to scream their silent threats.

Sam’s face showed his fear as he rushed to the locker room with his trainer on his heels. His thoughts were racing, but no rational explanation could justify what he had seen. He was stumped, yet his brilliant intellect knew, somehow, the red glowing eyes of the announcer and his pointed teeth felt familiar, but how and why, he did not know.

Entering the locker room, Sam lay down on a bench in an attempt to quiet his mind while he allowed the doctor to tend to his wound. Red eyes, he thought. What the heck? Was I hit that hard?

“Stop fidgeting!” the doctor barked. “I can’t fix you if you don’t lie still!”

Sam’s face tightened. “Just stitch me up, and get off my back! And you better not leave a scar! The stitches need to be tight, or I’ll do it myself!”

The doctor would have argued, but he did not get the chance. A loud hissing sound, seemingly from nowhere, filled the room. It pierced Sam’s body and reverberated throughout the essence of his soul. A chill slithered up his spine as everyone in the room heard the words, “Your wish is granted!”

The trio exchanged glances. The unspoken question was WTF?

A moment later, Sam’s eyes shut, and his body began to convulse. Over a minute passed, and still the shaking would not stop. As panic set in, Jerome and the doctor tried to stabilize the fighter, but Sam was too far gone. The needle used to stitch his wound was left dangling from the gash above his brow as Jerome and the doctor’s eyes rolled up inside their heads. A foreign sensation overwhelmed them, and they, too, passed out, and then they collapsed.

With all obstacles incapacitated, the red-eyed announcer appeared in a cloud of smoke beside Sam’s motionless figure. He leaned down and whispered in the fighter’s ear. “I’ve missed you. Shall we see how long it takes before your memory returns, old friend? Can you believe the idiot doesn’t know I’m on to him? I’m far too clever for that.”

The announcer lowered his forehead to Sam’s. “I have plans for us. You simply need to be reminded of who you really are. All will be revealed when the proper moment arrives.”

The red-eyed announcer vanished with Sam’s body.





The Hometown of Shalee Adamson

Austin, Texas





SHALEE, A SHAPELY, BLUE-EYED blonde, pulled into the driveway of an old, rundown house. She rushed up to the front door and walked in without knocking, shouting in a thick, Texas accent. “Hurry up, Chanice! We’re runnin’ late! Our supper reservations are in 30 minutes, and it’ll take most of that to get there.”



A large woman sitting on the living room couch coughed.

“Hello, Miss K, how are you?” Shalee asked. “Are the pain meds still making you nauseous? Can I get you anything? You know me, gotta save the world. Might as well start with you.”

Kelly gave a chuckled cough and lifted her head as she struggled to respond. “I’m sick as a dog, darlin’ girl. Serves me right, I guess.” Again, Kelly coughed. “I should stop suckin’ on these stupid smokes.”

Kelly coughed again. This time blood spewed into her handkerchief. “Thank you for takin’ my baby with ya. She loves you to death, ya know? I can see you’re good for her. You have the kindness of an angel. I do believe you’ll save this here world someday. Yer just ornery enough to do it.”

Shalee smiled. “What kind of a woman would I be if I didn’t help? Shoot, it’s easy to love that little girl. She’s got a good spirit, and she’s downright adorable.”

“Ain’t she though?” Kelly groaned as she shifted to find a better position. “I can’t tell you how much my baby has grown since meetin’ you. That there Big Brothers, Big Sisters program is a genuine godsend. Chanice has said more than once she wished you was her real sister. She admires everythin’ about ya, and she especially loves those outfits of yours.”

Shalee pulled at the fabric of her $200 blouse, smiled and then directed her attention down the hallway. “Come on, Chanice! We need to get going! Do you have on the new dress I bought for you? It isn’t ladylike to be late, you know!”

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’ already! I got it on!” the ten-year-old yelled from the bedroom. “Mother threw up again. I’m almost done cleaning it up.”

Shalee looked around and shook her head. The house was a dump, along with the rest of the neighborhood which had been overrun by gangs. It was the kind of place she had worked hard to get out of.

Shalee’s family, a bunch of self-proclaimed rednecks, had become a statistic, a real-life tragedy. Only two of her seven brothers broke free from the dive they grew up in and made something of their lives. The rest of her siblings followed in their drunken father’s footsteps, shooting up and multiplying like rabbits. They made a bigger mess of things by adding more children to the world, and these innocent babies were growing up without proper role models.

Despite the obstacles put in front of her, Shalee had grown into a confident woman. She still lived in Austin, like the rest of her family, but had put her education to work. After graduating from the University of Texas with honors and began working on her Master’s in structural engineering. She had also landed a position with a prestigious architectural firm where she worked for the last three years. She had grown accustomed to her new life, and she was enjoying success.

Childhood poverty had taught Shalee to appreciate the finer things in life, right down to her exotic, leather, Jimmy Choo clutch. In spite of her eclectic taste for fashion, she never forgot where she came from. She often donated to local charities and sent her mother money on a regular basis—trying not to worry where she would gamble away the money.

Shalee opened the passenger door to her new, midnight-black Lexus with tan, leather interior. “Hop in.”

Chanice plopped down inside the sedan and began to cry. “Momma’s killin’ herself. I don’t understand why she’s still smokin’. It’s horrible! Can’t I come’n live with you, please? I don’t wanna live with my uncle when Momma dies. He’s mean.”

“Come on now,” Shalee encouraged. “Let’s take this one day at a time, okay? You know I’ll do whatever I can to help you. Let’s focus on some happier thoughts, shall we?”

Shalee wiped a tear from Chanice’s face, and as always, the young girl gave a brave smile. “Chanice, I’ll be there for you, no matter what. I love you. Do you understand that?”

“I know ya do,” Chanice confirmed, brushing away the tears. After a bit, the child’s gap-toothed grin found the conversation.

“Well, alrighty then! Since today’s my birthday, what do you say that us clever, little girls go celebrate, eat and shop. Shopping will make everything gooooooooood!” Shalee exclaimed in her best Jim Carrey impersonation. “High-five, little sis!”

“Yeah, I’m starvin’! Happy birthday, big sis!”

Shalee grabbed her iPod and chose a song that Chanice loved.


Lately when I look into your eyes

I realize you’re the only one I need in my life…


Swaying to the music, Shalee grabbed her hairbrush from the center console and used it as a microphone while she lip-synced. Chanice burst into laughter and started dancing in the car while Shalee sang, making up her own lyrics.


My little sis and me … oh, oh,

We don’t know how to describe

How happy we feel inside.


Chanice gave Shalee another high-five, took the brush and made up her own lyrics.


We’ve got butterflies

We’re going to fly higher in the sky

We can become anything we want

We’re like butterflies.


“You got it, lil’ sis! That rocks!”





Around 10 p.m., Shalee walked through the door of her home. She tossed her car keys on the buffet table, kicked off her Marc Jacob shoes and made a cup of warm milk to unwind before heading to bed.

If I could only get some sleep without it happening again, she thought. I just need one peaceful night before facing another hectic day of presentations, clients and umpteen phone calls. Thank goodness Mother’s taking care of Pebbles. I’m just too tired to deal with his big ol’ behind tonight.

She looked at the picture of the dog sitting on the coffee table. What a big boy you are … oh yes, you are, she thought in her best doggy voice as she stared at the image of the great dane before retiring for the evening.

After changing into her pajamas, Shalee sat on the edge of her bed, fluffed the pillows and then crawled beneath the covers. She had quilted her bedspread, and it was her most prized possession. It was even more prized than her closet full of expensive clothes. To Shalee, making something with her own hands added value, and the pattern she had chosen was adorable. The great dane puppies covering its surface were embossed. The way she had stitched around them made these lovable pups stand out. The padded feel of the blanket was comforting, and she enjoyed passing her hands across it.

Reaching up, she paused as she looked at the shade covering the lamp sitting on the nightstand. More great danes. Just like her blanket, they were frolicking about and covered its surface. When she twisted the switch, the light went out, and the puppies glowed in the dark.

Later that night, not long after Shalee had fallen asleep, her nightmares resumed. There would be no rest tonight. Instead, her eyes began moving wildly behind her lids.

The beings who were a part of her nightmares never revealed their faces. They always presented themselves as silhouettes. But tonight was different. Some of the beings’ features were discernible.

The first was a woman. Her hair was long, silky, dark and flowing. She had on a beautiful gown, and the lace covering her arms allowed her flawless skin to be seen. Angelic wings protruded from her back, and they were tucked against her body.

Behind her, a much larger being who remained undefined had his shadowy arms wrapped around her. A clearly seen dagger was pressed against her throat and its tip had been buried just beneath her skin. A dribble of bright-red blood was running down her neck.

With the tension of the nightmare increasing, Shalee tossed and turned. She unconsciously reached out and pulled her body pillow close for comfort, but it did not help.

The being who threatened the angel did not have a face. Just like her other dreams, his features remained ambiguous, and his eyes were nothing more than dark saucers. A massive army of shadowy creatures of all shapes and sizes was standing behind him. Some were small while others were hundreds of feet at tall and equally as long.

The dagger in the assailant’s hand had an ivory handle, but the blade was strange. The steel it was made from waved back and forth—similar to the way a serpent’s body would undulate and end at a point.

Opposing the angel’s attacker was yet another army. They, too, were silhouettes, but not as dark. They were gray, almost as if there was an aspect of good about them, yet they did not offer the sleeping Shalee a feeling of peace. Again she stirred, pulling the pillow closer.

Amidst the ranks of this gray army was yet another visible being. It was an image of a small girl who wandered between them. And as the dream took Shalee closer to the child, she could see it was Chanice. The child’s face looked vacant of emotion, and she was holding an urn filled with ash. The side of the urn had been engraved—Miss K.

A moment later, Chanice poked her head out from behind one of the members of the gray army. Her expression turned to sadness as the urn fell out of her hands. The vessel disappeared into the nothingness that existed beneath the feet of both armies as a wind swept through the masses. Piece by piece, Chanice crumbled and her remains were carried away.

Agonized, Shalee tried to scream, but she was unable to make a sound. Then as if some unseen being pulled at her, she was forced to face the leader of the gray army. The feeling was strange. It was as if he knew she was there. The majority of his body began to materialize as everything beneath his neck took shape. He was tall, and had on a long, brown, rugged, leather robe. Beneath it, he wore tan leather leggings. They were battle worthy, and over them, black, heavy boots extended high on the calf. His chest was covered with a white shirt that had a low cut neck, and above it, a hood had been pulled over his head, yet his face remained obscure and gray.

The weapon of the gray army leader was long. It hung from his right hip and had markings on its hilt, markings that disappeared beneath his hand as he unsheathed the blade. The steel the weapon was forged from pulsated, almost as if the weapon was reacting to some sort of secret melody—like it was alive.

The dark being hissed, still holding his dagger against the angel’s throat. “She’s mine,” he proclaimed as he tightened his grip. “She chose me! I’ll end her before I allow you to have her back!”

The chivalrous form lifted his sword and pointed it at the assailant’s head. For the first time since the nightmare began, Shalee realized that she had taken the place of the angel. Somehow, she had become the object of the gray-faced man’s affections. And worse, she could feel the pain of the wound that had been inflicted by the dark being’s dagger. She could even feel the heat of his breath as the force of his words beat against the back of her neck.

“I won’t leave empty-handed!” the gray leader warned. “I have suffered and will claim my reward on this very Peak! Stop hiding behind her and fight me!”

“Ha!” the dark leader scoffed. “As if you have the power to defeat me! This is my plane ... my domain. Go back and beg to live in his good graces, for you won’t find peace here.”

“The door has been shut,” the chivalrous leader retorted. He dropped his sword to his side. “There’s nothing to return to. If you have the nerve, let’s settle this.”

As the dark assailant removed his dagger from Shalee’s throat, he cast her aside. A moment later, he unsheathed a sword that hung from his hip, and accepted the challenge. With the blade pointed in the gray leader’s direction, the detail of this new blade became clear. It, too, pulsated like his challenger’s weapon, and it was equally excited for battle.

The sounds of searing steel filled the twilight sky as the combatants engaged. Both armies cheered, but now, an elderly woman emerged from the crowd and grabbed hold of Shalee’s arm. The woman’s hair was silver, and she was holding a staff with an orb attached to its end. Though only for a brief moment, Shalee felt a sense of serenity. The woman’s face exuded kindness, safety, and it was the only part of her vision that offered a feeling of solace. “I’m here for you, Child. Worry not,” she comforted.

As the battle between both leaders magnified, their armies cheered, but their voices could not be heard. The sounds of of what should have been cries for blood were captured by smoke that billowed out of their mouths and rose into the air like fog.

With the intensity of the battle escalating, the dreamscape changed. Worlds were destroyed and stars were extinguished. The fury of the fight left all life expelled in its wake. Utter despair settled across this alien plane of existence, and there seemed to be no end in sight to the devastation.

Shalee could no longer watch. In her grief, she cried out for the combatants to stop. Without regard for her safety, she stepped forward to intervene, but the result was tragic. Shalee was unable to utter a single word before the blade of the gray-faced leader inadvertently sliced her in thirds during a whirlwind of strikes intended to end his enemy.

Startled by her impending demise, Shalee sat up in bed as she screamed in a panic. “Ahhhhhhhhhh!”

Her blanket was laying on the floor. Sweat had saturated her pajamas, and her breathing was erratic. As the air conditioning attacked the moisture on her skin, a chill washed over her. She grabbed her pillow and wiped the moisture from her face and every other part of her skin that was exposed. “That’s the worst one yet,” she shuddered. “That poor angel. Wait a minute ... poor me.” She reached up to see if her neck was bleeding. It was. “What the...?” she blurted. “How?”

With no answer to her question in sight, she focused on slowing her pulse. She swung her legs over the side of her bed and slipped her feet into a pair of soft, pink, bunny slippers that she had kicked off beside the nightstand. Lifting her arms behind her head to catch her breath, it took a minute before her breathing returned to normal.

It had been more than six months since the nightmares began, and her therapist was stumped as to why her mind was taking her on these horrific trips. But tonight’s nightmare was so much worse than the others. Everything felt so real, but how? Why did I switch bodies with the angel? Am I connected to her somehow? she questioned as she pulled out a tissue from her nightstand and dabbed it against her neck.

A long period of silence passed as she continued to dissect the dream. I wonder who the old woman is. I’ve seen her before. Why does she keep showing up?

Shalee stood from the bed, stretched her arms, and arched her back. No relief, at least not like it normally gave. She lowered her arms and looked across the room into the dresser mirror. A frosty breath filled the air as it escaped her lips. “Brrrrrr,” she shivered as she stared at the goose bumps on her arms.

She stepped toward the mirror and looked at the reflection of her neck. Nothing—not even a scratch. She looked down at the tissue. It was still white. There was no blood on it. What in tarnation? she thought. I must be losing it.

After a moment, she laughed to expel her anxiety and spoke to her reflection. “What’s wrong with you, girl? Why are you acting this way? Pull yourself together. Go turn off the air, and get your butt back to bed. We’ve got one heck of a day tomorrow.” She reached out to the mirror and slapped at the reflection of her hand. “High-five, oh yeah.” A sassy wink followed.

Shalee turned to saunter across the room. As she did, her reflection did not mimic her actions. Instead, the image in the mirror scowled as she walked toward the door.

“Happy birthday,” the being hissed as its eyes turned red and its teeth elongated to sharp points. “This is the Peak of your harvest,” the being added. “Apparently you’re necessary. So be it.” The image in the mirror turned and walked toward the reflection of the door just as Shalee had done and vanished before it exited the room.

Oblivious to the presence, all Shalee wanted was a drink of water before she headed back to bed. Passing the thermostat, she turned off the air and entered the kitchen.

When she designed the home, Shalee had created a great room where the kitchen and living room flowed into each other. Her sense of taste was impeccable: granite countertops from Africa, top-of-the-line carpet from Europe, imported tile from Spain, and three styles of trim to complete the vision.

But tonight, as she turned on the lights, the color of the walls seemed dull. She stopped to take note. As she did, the temperature throughout the home dropped further at a rapid pace for no apparent reason.

“Sam Hill,” she whispered. Shalee headed out of the kitchen and rushed for the closet near the front door to grab a coat, but before she could cross the room, an immense pain surged through her body.

Shalee collapsed. As she fell, she caught a glimpse of a tiny figure out of the corner of her eye, but before the image became clear, her head collided with the edge of the coffee table. The glass surface shattered, almost knocking her out.

Struggling to pick herself up, a steady stream of blood poured from the laceration on the left side of her forehead. Her fear heightened as her mind filled with a sense of helplessness. The red liquid pooled on the floor, her arms trembled, and the room started to spin. Shalee slipped into unconsciousness as the red eyes of the being she never clearly saw faded into darkness.

A tiny squat of a man sat on the sill of a window. No more than two feet tall, his eyes burned red, and his teeth ended in razor-sharp points. He laughed as he dropped from the sill and knelt in front of the fireplace. After dislodging the valve on the gas line, he waddled across the room, jumped up and landed into a seated position on Shalee’s stomach.

“Your wish is granted, my lady,” the dwarf chuckled. “I wonder why the Collective chose you? I bet he had something to do with this.” Wiping the blood off her face, he critiqued her beauty. “You don’t appear to be special.”

The dwarf reached out and played with Shalee’s lips like she was his puppet. “Thank you for stealing me on my birthday, Mr. scary dwarf-man,” he made her say. “This is the best birthday ever!”

After amusing himself for a bit longer, the dwarf refocused. “No matter his intentions, I shall discover the truth of your function soon enough. You must be more to him than a baby maker.”

Leaning forward to touch Shalee’s chin, her body vanished. The dwarf’s eyes flickered, and the home exploded. Laughter was all that was left behind as the neighborhood shook. Shalee would be left in a coma and placed in storage for later use.





The Home of George Nailer

Orlando, Florida





GEORGE NAILER, AN ATHLETIC, clean-cut, blue-eyed man was sitting on the bed next to his sleeping daughter as he ran his fingers lovingly through her hair. She was his everything. They had spent the day going from store to store looking for the cupcake maker she had been asking for over the last month.

George tried to be the father he had always wanted for himself. He loved his daughter to the best of his ability. She was the only person he had never lied to, scammed, or manipulated. He may have been scum, but this little girl was his shining light to goodness.

He named her Abbie, which means “my father’s joy” since that was how he felt on the day she was born. Her five-year-old heart was angelic, and he loved her cute, little smile. Yes, he was wrapped around Abbie’s little finger. She knew how to reel him in whenever she wanted something, and though he would never admit it, all she had to do was ask, and she would get anything she wanted.

Growing up as the only child of a cruel father, George’s life was filled with constant beatings and sexual abuse. He had been forced to fight his way through childhood just to survive. Even getting food was a challenge since his parents wasted most of his father’s paychecks on their nasty habits during regular visits to the local drug dealer.

George knew he was emotionally scarred, and at the early age of 10, he turned to hustling to acquire the things his mother needed. He perfected his skills of manipulation to help her pay the rent, yet despite his best efforts, his mother often wasted the money on her habit. It was not her fault. His father was to blame for her addiction—everything was his fault.

The past played with George’s head. His life was like an endless loop of loathing, degradation and shame. The disgust of his situation ran through his veins like a poisonous venom.

Finally, on the eve of his 15th birthday, the poison spilled out. He had enough. After yet another threat to abuse him while watching TV, George jumped his father from behind. He swung without mercy, beating his father over the head with his fists and anything else he could get his hands on.

His father wailed in pain and shouted for help as George’s fists rained down again and again while George slipped further away from reality with each swing.

“You’re a piece of garbage!” the boy screamed. “You’re a loser! I hate you! You’ll never touch me again! I’m not your toy! I hate you!”

The police charged in and struggled to pull George off. A moment later would have been too late. He intended to kill his father. He thrashed without concern for the consequences, punching one of the cops in the groin while trying to break free. He screamed at the top of his lungs, “Let me kill him! That scum deserves it! Let me put him six feet under! Let me kill him! Let me kill him!”

Five months later, George’s stay in two juvenile mental hospitals had given him time to think. With his father serving 15 years in prison for his crimes, he finally had some peace. He had recouped much of his sanity and swore an oath—one he cherished and whispered 1,000 times—writing it down to carry with him always: “If I ever have children, I’ll protect them. They’ll never want for anything. I’ll never strike them in anger or make them suffer. I’ll never let them be touched in an inappropriate manner. My children will NOT suffer like I have.”

Later, in his adult life, George struggled in his marriage to Abbie’s mother, which caused him to break his oath. Instead of creating a sanctuary of safety, he gave Abbie a broken home. He hated his failure. Worse, he hated taking his daughter back to her mother’s home after their visits. The guilt tore at his heart.

His apartment was small, a two bedroom flat that had been elegantly decorated by the sweat of others. His hunger for the finer things in life was insatiable. He used others to get what he wanted, including countless women, spending most of his time living in their homes, emotionally tearing away at them until his needs were met. Once he had everything he wanted, he moved on without a goodbye or backward glance.

George took one final look at his beautiful Abbie, smiled, and pulled her bedroom door shut. Once it was secure, he turned and leaned against the wall.

“Damn, this is hard,” he mumbled. Rubbing his hands together to try to relieve the stress, he continued. “I won’t lose you, baby girl. I’ll fight. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you with me.” He reached into his front pants pocket and pulled out a summons.

George knew this would be the last time he would see Abbie until after the hearing. His ex-wife was suing for full custody and planned on moving out-of-state with her future husband. George was running low on the finances necessary to fight the fight. He did not have the wealth this new man possessed, but he did have a plan to fix the situation.

He sighed as he made his way to his room and fell across the bed. Tomorrow morning, he would press his Gucci clothes and drop off his little girl at her mother’s house before heading to work.

A big-time client was coming in from out-of-town, and George reveled at the thought of the commission he would make as a result of implementing this new plan. As a salesman for Turkman’s RV & Marine, George could sell ice to Eskimos if he needed to, and he’d lie at the drop of a hat to do it.

Early the next morning, George arrived at the dealership. The RV he planned to sell was fully loaded, right down to the 40-inch, flat-screen TV with satellite. George opened the door, bounded up the steps and headed for the window on the far side of the cabin. He removed the price sticker, and after a couple hours of careful manipulation, he had made a few perfect adjustments. He now had a new price, one almost $30,000 dollars over list—$970,000—and he would be damned if he did not hold to every penny.

His eyes turned cold as he stared at the numbers and thought, This is for my baby. You’ve got this one, Georgie boy. You’ve got this. She’s just another sucker.

When Brenda Olsen drove onto the lot, George waved. She had just come into a pile of money, and George’s mouth watered as he finally got the chance to size her up. A southern beauty with a soft dialect, Brenda’s pinned-up, blonde hair revealed an elegant neckline with an expensive pendant accenting it. She smelled of Victoria’s Secret Pure Seduction lotion, and her body matched her delicious personality. She was class with a capital “C” and victim with a capital “V”.

Brenda was an out-of-state referral who had driven down from Georgia. He knew from pre-qualifying her over the phone that it would be an easy sale. He also knew exactly how he was going to reel her in before she ever set foot on the lot.

During the sale, Brenda asked to see other models, but George looked her dead in the eye and replied without hesitation, “How can I, in good conscience, let you make that kind of mistake? This is a once-in-a-lifetime purchase. To settle for something beneath your class wouldn’t be right.” He put an exclamation mark on his statement by smiling through a set of white teeth.

George had spent years developing his silver tongue, the tongue of a liar and a cheat, using it to perfection. He was a self-proclaimed King of Deception. Even his own family bought into his tangled web—hook, line, and sinker. Even worse, he was the kind of liar who remembered almost everything he said, which made him dangerous.

George took the initial paperwork to his boss and placed it on his desk. Once the manager signed off on the deal, the two shared a laugh over Brenda’s ignorance. Thirty minutes passed before George took her into the finance manager’s office to draw up the final contracts.

As they waited, George buttered-up Brenda some more. “Why don’t you let me make things easy on you? I will personally deliver your vehicle to your home in a couple days, and then I’ll fly back. How does that sound?”

“Oh, George, would ya? That’s so generous of you. Thank you ever so much. You’re an adorable, little peach,” Brenda said as she threw her arms around him and gave him a hug.

“Anything to keep the customer happy,” George replied with a seductive smile as he thought about a woman from an old, rundown bar he had met a few nights earlier. He would ask this woman along for the trip, and they would have a swinging time. The RV was perfect for such an occasion.

Even as Brenda stopped hugging him, George continued making plans. He would drop the woman off at a local restaurant before arriving at Brenda’s home. He would go in alone and make a play for Brenda’s affections. She was a multi-millionaire, and he could easily imagine spending her fortune. He wanted her money in the worst way and would marry her to get it. Smiling inside, he rejoined the conversation, nodding at something Brenda was saying.

After finishing the deal, Brenda prepared to leave, but not without giving George another hug before she lowered into her silver Mercedes. “Drive safely, George. Bring my baby home in good condition.”

George smiled. “I’ll do just that, Brenda. You take care now. I look forward to seeing you again. Don’t you dare miss me before I get there.”

Brenda giggled and pulled away.





The next day, George rounded up the lady from the bar, and after a few minutes of smooth talk, she agreed a road trip sounded fun. It was noon when they hit the road, and the drive was smooth for the first two hours.

About 160 miles in, George began to feel tired and wanted to rest. He had told Brenda he needed a couple of days to get the RV to her home, and because of this, he could relax without worry. There was plenty of time to spend with his new friend before arriving in Albany.

“Do you mind driving for a bit?” George queried. “I’d like to get some rest.”

Smiling, the woman responded. “Sure, no problem.”

George pulled over and let her have the wheel. As he plopped down in the passenger’s seat, he thought, What did she say her name was again? Oh yeah, Tiffany. Hmpf.

George had not made much of a mental note of this fact since his attraction to Tiffany was nothing more than physical. He would never see her again once he dumped her in Georgia, so what did it matter if he failed to fully commit her name to memory? Nothing would be gained by manipulating her further, and she could find her own way home.

The player did, however, admire her body and longed for it from the passenger’s seat. She was soft in all the right spots, and although she was older, she was still young enough that gravity had not taken effect. He knew it would be an eventful night, and he was looking forward to every hour of passion they would conjure.

Tiffany had only been driving a few minutes when George heard her mumble something under her breath.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

The woman pushed her soft, brown hair behind her ear and smiled. Without moving her lips, George heard her voice echo inside his head as she glared at him. “Your wish is granted,” the voice hissed with a wickedness that frightened even him.

The air in the cabin turned cold to the point of being painful. The woman’s eyes began to glow red, and George could see the razor-sharp points of her teeth. She looked like pure evil, and as George tried to catch his breath, he realized he was in trouble. His eyes were becoming heavy, and as the sensation overwhelmed him, he slipped into unconsciousness—all the while hearing the echoes of Tiffany’s laughter inside his mind.

“I have plans for you, George,” Tiffany said as her eyes gleamed. “Shall we leave this pathetic Earth of yours?”

Suddenly, the RV collided with an oncoming tanker and both vehicles twisted into a pile of metal. Fuel poured across the freeway from a gaping hole in the tanker’s side.

The semi exploded with a horrific force, tearing a six-foot deep crater out of the concrete. At its widest point, the hole was 30 feet across. Many of the vehicles that had stopped were thrown. Some of them landed as far as 70 feet away from the epicenter of the blast.

The police investigating the scene accounted for the body of the man driving the semi, along with the other nine drivers the blast had consumed. Victims were scattered in every direction, many landing in charred, bloody pieces.

“It seems as if there was no one at the wheel of the RV,” the Highway Patrolman told the reporters who arrived on the scene. “It’s like a driver was never on board.”

The short, chubby reporter told his viewers: “In total, there are 14 dead. Those injured are being transported to the hospital. At this point, I’m not sure how many.”

Well, fellow soul … I don’t know if you’re one of the souls who can remember old Earth, but those were the events that happened there more than 14,000 seasons ago. Allow me to take you forward to a whole new world:

THE WORLD

OF GRAYHAM