The Nowhere Gate Read online

  The Nowhere Gate

  By K.T. Munson

  ISBN 978-1724642561

  Copyright © K.T. Munson 2018

  1st Edition

  The right of K.T. Munson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the writer. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Cover art by Asahi Art

  Copyedited by Tanya Egan Gibson

  Dedication

  For Harmony.

  Loyal. Honest. Caring.

  You are the best of us.

  Other Books by K.T. Munson

  1001 Islands

  Frost Burn (Coauthored)

  North & South

  Unfathomable Chance

  Zendar: A Tale of Blood and Sand

  The Gate Trilogy

  The Gate Guardian’s Daughter (prequel)

  The Sixth Gate

  Chapter 1: Unknown World

  The world spun as darkness scratched at the edge of his vision. He blinked as he staggered forward, and his mind reeled. His head ached badly. He touched the back of it and inspected his fingers. Blood was smeared across them, but it was oddly muted. Everything moved sluggishly. He lurched to a stop. He fell to his knees and leaned against a tree. He didn’t know where he was or who he was. He felt both sick and giddy.

  His head ached as he dug into the recesses of his mind for any indication of his identity or where he’d come from. Suddenly, a woman’s face flashed in his mind. She reached out for him, her bright blue eyes widening in surprise. Soft golden hair framed her face. When he blinked, her image dissipated and the haze in his mind cleared. He glanced around, knowing without a doubt that this place was not familiar to him. It left him feeling helpless.

  He brushed his fingers against the rough bark. Where his fingertips met it, he could feel every groove with exacting detail. It was as though all of his senses were heightened. The scent of damp leaves after a recent rainfall overpowered him. He could go beneath that odor and pick out the smell of mildew after a recent thaw. It was spring, and the last of the snow had left buds of new growth in its wake. Amongst those smells he caught a whiff of cypress trees and an early blooming tree he didn’t recognize. The world was alive around him.

  A bird sung a melodious tune as the first tendrils of the morning sun broke through the tree line. He lifted his hand to block the glare of the sun from his eyes as he turned away. The sun’s heat warmed his palm as he felt himself come into focus. He glanced around the wooded area, freezing when he noticed a deer watching him. It seemed prepared to run yet was still, its ears shifting as though listening for something.

  He stood, and the deer continued to flick its ears as though it couldn’t hear him but could sense him. It looked…confused. He remembered all at once what it felt like to be a predator—though he still couldn’t remember who he’d been. He reached down into his boot and remembered that he liked knives and could kill. He remembered having been trained to do so. The thought made his stomach lurch.

  Images danced in his head as he took a few careful steps toward the deer. One more twitch of its ears, and it fled, bounding away deeper into the dank woods. For a moment he assumed the deer had smelled him, but then he felt it, too—the thing that had scared the deer. At first it was just a vague sensation. Seconds later it made his skin crawl and his hair stand on end.

  He glanced back and saw a dark form hovering between two trees. The form remained unmoving, but it was menacing. His breathing slowed as memories swirled, and he knew that the darkness was to be feared. He took a step back as the edges of his mind grasped for an explanation. But only his raw instincts remained. He didn’t have even a notion of his own name or any idea of what that thing was.

  He backed up, his eyes refusing to stray from the shape wrapped in a spiraling darkness. When it began to move toward him, he turned and fled. His head pounded from the sudden jostling, but his feet didn’t falter. The shape followed, hovering above the ground. Voices rang out in the distance, and he ran toward them. Perhaps he could lose the specter in the woods before he reached them.

  There. There! He could see figures through the trees. As he took a deep breath to yell out for help, he tripped over a root and his feet slipped out from under him. He skittered across the mud and leaves. Twigs and fallen bark scraped at his arms and hands. He felt blood well as he flipped over. The dark specter moved toward him, and he pushed himself back on the ground. It stared at him, seeming somehow confused, hesitant.

  “Arthur!” a voice called, cutting through his fear. The specter bolted.

  Righting himself, he rushing toward the voice. He burst from the tree line to the sight of buildings. Men worked in a camp while others patrolled the area. A young boy no more than ten years old with a funny hat glanced up toward him. His mouth was half open as he stared.

  “Arthur, thither ya are,” a man said before whacking the boy over the head. The man continued to speak to the boy, but he didn’t understand what he was saying.

  Although the boy watched him, the man didn’t seem to see him. He took a step toward the man. “Wait,” he called, but the man didn’t even pause. When he hurried after the pair, the boy quickly looked away. Like the boy, the man wore strange clothing and a gray apron stained with yellow splotches. He had never seen anyone dressed like that, not that he could recall anyway.

  He followed them into the middle of a small village. Everyone he came near acted as though they could sense but not see him. He felt a tension in the air as they walked. It was as though a barrier existed through which he could see out yet they couldn’t see in—one they could not even perceive. When he reached for a man’s shoulder, reality seemed to bend around him, the man glancing off his hand. It was like staring through ice on a lake—he could see the water beneath it but could not touch it.

  He watched as the men put up fences and listened to them discuss something in low voices. He turned in circles as he searched for something, anything, familiar. He held his hand up in front of his face to prove to himself that he indeed existed.

  It seemed that only he and that thing were trapped together. Though he had no idea where they were or how they had gotten there, he knew one thing for certain: they didn’t belong.

  Chapter 2: Lyreane

  Emera cried out on instinct as the Weavers chattered in the night. Her feet slammed across the ground, and her skirts flapped behind her. In the bright and eerie moonlight, her cape resembled pallid wings. Redoubling her efforts toward the gate, she cursed her luck. Emera had begun evacuating local villages, as there was little else to do for their inhabitants. Only one person could have stemmed their misfortune—one who right now had far too many demands on her time.

  Instinctively, Emera glimpsed behind her. She could see the creature’s glowing eyes.

  She screamed as a metal leg tore through her skirt and into the soil. She heard the fabric rip as she was thrown to the ground. Twigs and rocks cut into her palms. Her arms took the brunt of her fall, her long sleeves smeared with dirt and grass stains. Whimpering, she tried to crawl away.

  The Weaver clicked as Emera looked over her shoulder. Tears started down her cheeks. She lifted an arm and braced herself for the worst. She was certain that her last image would be of eyes that burned with an insatiable hunger and the last sound would be her own screams. The spider-like creature lifted its front tendril. When i
t brought it down, she closed her eyes. A moment passed, and then another. And still, nothing.

  She opened her eyes to see the Weaver’s claw hovering a breath above her leg. She jerked it back and gasped.

  When the Weaver hissed and wailed and began beating against what Emera now realized was a barrier, relief flooded through her. There was only one person who could have saved her. She caught a blur of movement out of the cover of her eye and then a figure dressed almost entirely in black stood between her and the Weaver.

  She had nothing in her hands, but Emera knew she didn’t need anything. With one glare from the figure, the Weaver started to cave in on itself, folding ever tighter until it screeched and impaled itself with all eight of its legs.

  Emera looked up at her savior and whispered, “Elisabeth.”

  “I’m sorry I am late.”

  The shield around Emera fell away as Elisabeth offered her a hand. Emera took it gratefully and got to her feet. As a Guardian, Emera knew much about Elisabeth. She was known by many names, but the best of them was Seer. Neither mortal nor demon, she was something between, and six months ago, a series of events had doubled her power.

  Emera nodded. “You came before any damage was done.”

  “Your dress looks quite done for.” Elisabeth smiled, and they shared a moment of understanding over how close Emera truly had been to dying.

  “How many were there?” Emera asked, glancing around.

  “Seven,” Elisabeth replied. She glanced over her shoulder. “Malthael is dealing with the last one.”

  “I am beginning to worry that there is something worse out there than the Black King,” Emera said, wiping her hands on her dress.

  When her scraped-up hands connected with the fabric, she hissed in pain. She lifted them and saw the little trails of blood they’d left behind. In all the excitement she had forgotten her wounds from the tumble, but she knew she was lucky it wasn’t worse.

  “We should get you back,” Elisabeth said. Emera could see the worry on her brow.

  She swallowed as Elisabeth put an arm around her. “Agreed,” Emera whispered.

  They made their way to the great stone doors carved into the side of the white mountain, Emera still shaking from fear and adrenaline. Elisabeth, on the other hand, was as unwavering as the mountain before them. She no longer quivered at the dangers of the world. She was now just as deadly as them.

  Emera was sure that Elisabeth’s new strength had come from her finally accepting herself and becoming whole. She was no longer two powerful individuals at war within a single body. She was now one unstoppable entity—one who was thankfully on their side.

  Elisabeth looked down at her and smiled. “What is it?” she asked, and Emera realized she had been staring.

  “I was just thinking about how fortunate we are to have you,” Emera replied as they reached the doors. “For all the harm the Black King caused, it is because of him that you are what you are.”

  Elisabeth looked surprised, and her eyebrows rose. Suddenly her expression became serious. “I am what I am because of Ki, Nanette, and my father, Malthael.”

  “I only meant you faced him as well as yourself, becoming who you were meant to,” Emera replied softly as she leaned against the door heavily. All of her energy had abruptly evaporated. She no longer wished to do anything but sleep.

  She fumbled with the trinket at her throat, a small mirror, using it to shine light at the coin-sized hole in the door. After a moment, the great doors gave way and opened to the antechamber within. Malthael strode up to them. She couldn’t deny that he still frightened her a little. It was hard to look at his black and golden skin, broken horns, and tail without flinching. Though he was mortal bound and reformed, he was still a demon.

  “Did the last one give you any trouble?” Elisabeth asked coyly.

  Malthael shot her a reproachful look. “It is taken care of.”

  As Elisabeth opened her mouth to respond, light shimmered off a bracelet on her wrist. She lifted her arm, the single blue gem on the bracelet casting an eerie glow around the antechamber. She sighed heavily and dropped her arm.

  “Unfortunately, my services are required elsewhere,” Elisabeth said. “See that you get those hands mended.”

  Elisabeth’s arms went out to her sides at hip level, and then she disappeared. That she could just vanish into nothing was still incredibly startling. She truly was a Spiritwalker, existing somewhere between the living and the Netherworld.

  When Emera turned her attention back to Malthael, he wore a grim expression.

  “How often does that happen?” Emera asked.

  “She is constantly needed,” Malthael admitted with a heavy sigh. Lines of stress stretched across his black-and-gold-flecked skin, something she had not noticed before.

  “She is the only defense we have,” she reminded him. Putting a hand on his arm, though careful to avoid the new abrasions, she walked with him into the mountain.

  The doors closed slowly behind them as bright white crystals shone from where they were embedded in stone. Here, the gold of his flesh shimmered, which made his broken horns appear menacing. If Emera hadn’t known what was in his heart, she might fear him. As it was, though, she had known him since the day he had become a Guardian all those years ago.

  “I help her as I can, but she is withdrawn,” Malthael muttered. Emera could see the father in him and the burden it was to the old demon.

  “It is that boy,” Emera surmised. “Ki.”

  “He is a part of it,” Malthael admitted as they made their way to the gate, “but there is more. Elisabeth is whole, but she is alone.”

  “Elisabeth has you and Nanette. Furthermore, every Guardian of the Gate is on her side,” she reminded him as they reached the stairs that led down to the gate. “She is far from alone.”

  “That is not the kind of loneliness of which I speak,” Malthael said, clearing his throat as Emera opened the gate.

  The surfaced shimmered and became viscous as they spoke. It seemed to roil with a life of its own as it reached out for them. Malthael stared at it, as he seemed unable to look at Emera. Emera understood his meaning and didn’t tease him for it.

  Emera couldn’t help but to pat his arm. “You mean she has no companion.”

  Malthael met her gaze. He said nothing—but then, what words could he say? Instead he nodded his head. “Contact us if there is trouble.”

  She nodded in return, but he was already halfway through the gate. When he was through, Emera closed it. What had been once blue and gelatinous was suddenly solid white stone. Instinctively, she reached out and touched it, wondering what ancient secrets it held.

  A mystery that no one will likely solve, Emera thought before heading to the mender’s wing.

  Chapter 3: Ashlad

  When Malthael stepped through the gate, he was startled to find Nanette asleep on the ground with Ashley curled around her. The large cat lifted its great head and narrowed its eyes. Though it might love Nanette and Elisabeth, Malthael couldn’t stand it. And the feeling was mutual.

  It was said that tigers were like Spiritwalkers—half in and half out. What wasn’t generally known was that most cats could be used as vessels to the Netherworld. They’d once been harbingers of death, but they’d loved the planets more. So they’d shed their old skins and kept only eyes that could see through the layers of the planets. They could sense everything around them, living or otherwise. In short, they were the closest beings to the Netherworld on the planet besides his Netherhounds, Nathan and Duke.

  The gate closed, casting them into momentary darkness. When the glowing mushrooms on the ceiling quickly filled the void, he stepped down the three steps that brought him to Nanette. The tiger bared its teeth, a displeased sound rumbling in his throat as he shifted his body. Malthael stood his ground and faced him down until Nanette stirred.

  She rubbed at one eye as she sat up. Her black hair hung loose around her shoulders, bunched on the side on which she’d be
en sleeping, and her petite form was almost completely lost amongst the tiger’s mass, making her look like a child in comparison.

  She turned her slightly upturned eyes toward him. “Uncle Malthael”—she patted Ashley’s head to quiet him down—“I was waiting for you.”

  Since Nanette had come to live with them, she had taken to calling him uncle. Demons didn’t have brothers—they had minions—so the idea of his being an uncle, not to mention an adoptive father, still sometimes seemed odd to him. No, more than odd, if he were honest with himself. More like outrageous. Yet there she was, smiling at him without fear and even a bit of love. Planet dwellers were so strange.

  “Has something happened?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Nanette said as Ashley rose to stand by her side. “Troy contacted you with urgent news while you were away.” She yawned.

  “They have decided Hipasha’s fate then?” Malthael surmised, hopeful that Jinq and his little apprentice would have their justice.

  “No, they’ve decided when they will confront her,” she said as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “Jinq asks that Elisabeth be present for her trial.”

  Malthael stopped and turned to Nanette in surprise. He frowned. “Why?” he grumbled. Elisabeth, after all, had so much else to do.

  “They believe Hipasha will retaliate, and Jinq wants to make sure he and Kerrigan are safe. I also suspect Kerrigan does not want to face her aunt without Elisabeth being present,” Nanette said. “You know how close they have grown since Elisabeth saved Kerrigan’s soul. Whenever she isn’t off fighting Netherworld creatures, she splits her time hunting for a way to locate Ki and searching for a way to separate Kerrigan’s soul from Jinq’s body.”

  Ki was lost, had been since he’d taken the Black King with him through the unconnected gate, but Elisabeth wouldn’t listen to reason, she had to find out for herself. Perhaps his daughter would find a way to bring him back, but Malthael didn’t see how. Either way he’d be there for her. When she wasn’t searching for a way to other unconnected gates, she was trying to undo what she’d done to save Kerrigan. Two souls were never supposed to share one body.