NORTH AMERICA
Beachrock, Massachusetts
He’d read the page probably a dozen times over.
Each time he tried to turn the page, he just started over again from the top. One finger tapping against the paper as he sat in his patrol car on the side of the road.
The manilla envelope bore the return address of a law firm in Boston. The header at the top read: In the superior court of the state of Massachusetts. Not far beneath that were the words David Theodore Wilson, Defendant.
She was divorcing him.
Absently, the man fidgeted with the wedding band on his hand without even being conscious of what he was doing. He’d been wearing it for eleven years. Twelve this next July.
They were supposed to have gone to New York for their anniversary, a trip they’d been saving for, except Dewey had gotten COVID and then their schedules had just never aligned for it to happen. Next year, they’d told themselves. And now it seemed that money was going to pay for lawyers.
With a sigh, the man tossed the papers and the manilla envelope they’d come in onto the seat beside him. He plucked a stained coffee cup from out of the center console and tasted coffee that had gone cold.
Eleven years. Dating through college. They’d actually met in high school, but had both been seeing other people then.
Now he was being asked to sign his name and let that all go.
As he started to fidget with the wedding band again, the radio suddenly came alive. “Adam-12, 10-21, over.”
Picking up the handset, Dave brought it toward it as he answered, “Adam-12. 10-4.” Then, he hooked the handset back into its holder on the dash.
Police band had too many people listening in. 10-21 was the code to tell him to phone dispatch, which would then be whatever they didn’t want to say over the radio.
Pulling out his cellphone, a swipe of his thumb and a quick tap called up his most frequently dialed number.
“Beachrock Sheriff’s Office.”
“It’s Wilson,” Dave announced, holding the phone in one hand as he spoke. “I just got a 10-21.”
Through the speaker, he could hear the sound of shuffling papers as the dispatch looked at their notes. “We just got a call from Bessie Chambers.”
Joys of a small town. Everybody knew everybody. Bessie Chambers was a retired school teacher. Had been Dave’s middle school math teacher for Seventh and Eighth grade in fact. She’d probably lived in Beachrock since before he’d been born.
“She said she was out on her kayak and encountered a body in the water.”
Already, Dave’s mind was filling in the parts unsaid. Bessie liked to kayak out on the coast. Kept up an old cottage that probably dated back to the Twenties. Small as hell, even for one person, but it had ocean views and a small pier.
“Kayak was too light to try and rescue, and water was too deep to get out. Sge dropped a pin on the location and believe the body should be washing up on shore.”
“I’m near the old fisherman’s wharf,” Dave said, already starting the car. “Near here?”
“Dropping the pin to you now.”
A ping signaled the arrival of the geo tag. “Got it,” Dave remarked, hanging up as he pulled up his phone’s navigation app and started to pull back onto the road.
As he did, he grabbed the handset and announced, “Dispatch, Adam-12. 76 to 10-32, over.”
“Dispatch. 10-4. Out.”
A drowning. Not exactly what Dave had wanted to have come up on his first day back.
Each time he tried to turn the page, he just started over again from the top. One finger tapping against the paper as he sat in his patrol car on the side of the road.
The manilla envelope bore the return address of a law firm in Boston. The header at the top read: In the superior court of the state of Massachusetts. Not far beneath that were the words David Theodore Wilson, Defendant.
She was divorcing him.
Absently, the man fidgeted with the wedding band on his hand without even being conscious of what he was doing. He’d been wearing it for eleven years. Twelve this next July.
They were supposed to have gone to New York for their anniversary, a trip they’d been saving for, except Dewey had gotten COVID and then their schedules had just never aligned for it to happen. Next year, they’d told themselves. And now it seemed that money was going to pay for lawyers.
With a sigh, the man tossed the papers and the manilla envelope they’d come in onto the seat beside him. He plucked a stained coffee cup from out of the center console and tasted coffee that had gone cold.
Eleven years. Dating through college. They’d actually met in high school, but had both been seeing other people then.
Now he was being asked to sign his name and let that all go.
As he started to fidget with the wedding band again, the radio suddenly came alive. “Adam-12, 10-21, over.”
Picking up the handset, Dave brought it toward it as he answered, “Adam-12. 10-4.” Then, he hooked the handset back into its holder on the dash.
Police band had too many people listening in. 10-21 was the code to tell him to phone dispatch, which would then be whatever they didn’t want to say over the radio.
Pulling out his cellphone, a swipe of his thumb and a quick tap called up his most frequently dialed number.
“Beachrock Sheriff’s Office.”
“It’s Wilson,” Dave announced, holding the phone in one hand as he spoke. “I just got a 10-21.”
Through the speaker, he could hear the sound of shuffling papers as the dispatch looked at their notes. “We just got a call from Bessie Chambers.”
Joys of a small town. Everybody knew everybody. Bessie Chambers was a retired school teacher. Had been Dave’s middle school math teacher for Seventh and Eighth grade in fact. She’d probably lived in Beachrock since before he’d been born.
“She said she was out on her kayak and encountered a body in the water.”
Already, Dave’s mind was filling in the parts unsaid. Bessie liked to kayak out on the coast. Kept up an old cottage that probably dated back to the Twenties. Small as hell, even for one person, but it had ocean views and a small pier.
“Kayak was too light to try and rescue, and water was too deep to get out. Sge dropped a pin on the location and believe the body should be washing up on shore.”
“I’m near the old fisherman’s wharf,” Dave said, already starting the car. “Near here?”
“Dropping the pin to you now.”
A ping signaled the arrival of the geo tag. “Got it,” Dave remarked, hanging up as he pulled up his phone’s navigation app and started to pull back onto the road.
As he did, he grabbed the handset and announced, “Dispatch, Adam-12. 76 to 10-32, over.”
“Dispatch. 10-4. Out.”
A drowning. Not exactly what Dave had wanted to have come up on his first day back.
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SHAYERIS
3,600 feet below sea level
The sediment hung thick in the water.
Stirring, the old sorcerer found himself winded and barely alive. Instead, glimpses of a hellish scene seemed to fade in and out as Vulko went in and out of consciousness.
He could feel the presence of others mulling around him. Rescuers? They seemed to be systematically picking through the debris.
A moment later, a pair of hands hauled the battered sorcerer from off the ocean floor. In his disoriented state, it was a moment before Vulko was even aware of being carried away. Details began to filter through the fog that seemed to muffle his brain.
These were guards. The royal guard? No. The royal guard didn’t wear this attire. These were... soldiers?
The edge of consciousness brought with it a deep sense of dread as Vulko realized that these were Venturian soldiers. Here, in Shayeris.
As his head hung down, the sorcerer tried to find the strength to look around. Venturian soldiers. On all sides. Moving through the city.
Shayeris had fallen.
Brought before a chapel on the edge of the city, the sorcerer was shoved down onto his knees. He knew even without raising his head who it was waiting to receive his submission. “Prince Slizzath,” Vulko spat dryly.
“I’m pleased you’re not dead,” the sorcerer could hear the mocking tone, the feigned concern, rolling around in his mind as the dark prince loomed at the makeshift throne up on the dias. “Having the Chancellor of the Silent School perform his duties overseeing the coronation will be a welcome show of tradition. Once this mess is cleaned up, of course.”
“You mean give legitimacy to your coup,” Vulko uttered flatly, at last finding the strength to try and raise his head.
The prince’s purple eyes were aglow with a hellish light, like a demon’s that were dreaming. “I wasn’t aware that legitimacy was a concern,” Slizzath remarked candidly, before repeating, “The king is dead. Long live the king. This is the order of things.”
Vulko just fell silent.
No longer amused, the dark prince made a dismissive gesture. “See that his wounds are treated.”
The soldier’s hands roughly seized the sorcerer, hauling him up from the floor.
“Oh, and Vulko. You’re in shock, so I’ll forgive your obstinance. This time,” the prince warned darkly, flashing a devil’s smile. “But make no mistake. The Chancellor serves the king of Shayeris. Serve well... and live.”
Stirring, the old sorcerer found himself winded and barely alive. Instead, glimpses of a hellish scene seemed to fade in and out as Vulko went in and out of consciousness.
He could feel the presence of others mulling around him. Rescuers? They seemed to be systematically picking through the debris.
A moment later, a pair of hands hauled the battered sorcerer from off the ocean floor. In his disoriented state, it was a moment before Vulko was even aware of being carried away. Details began to filter through the fog that seemed to muffle his brain.
These were guards. The royal guard? No. The royal guard didn’t wear this attire. These were... soldiers?
The edge of consciousness brought with it a deep sense of dread as Vulko realized that these were Venturian soldiers. Here, in Shayeris.
As his head hung down, the sorcerer tried to find the strength to look around. Venturian soldiers. On all sides. Moving through the city.
Shayeris had fallen.
Brought before a chapel on the edge of the city, the sorcerer was shoved down onto his knees. He knew even without raising his head who it was waiting to receive his submission. “Prince Slizzath,” Vulko spat dryly.
“I’m pleased you’re not dead,” the sorcerer could hear the mocking tone, the feigned concern, rolling around in his mind as the dark prince loomed at the makeshift throne up on the dias. “Having the Chancellor of the Silent School perform his duties overseeing the coronation will be a welcome show of tradition. Once this mess is cleaned up, of course.”
“You mean give legitimacy to your coup,” Vulko uttered flatly, at last finding the strength to try and raise his head.
The prince’s purple eyes were aglow with a hellish light, like a demon’s that were dreaming. “I wasn’t aware that legitimacy was a concern,” Slizzath remarked candidly, before repeating, “The king is dead. Long live the king. This is the order of things.”
Vulko just fell silent.
No longer amused, the dark prince made a dismissive gesture. “See that his wounds are treated.”
The soldier’s hands roughly seized the sorcerer, hauling him up from the floor.
“Oh, and Vulko. You’re in shock, so I’ll forgive your obstinance. This time,” the prince warned darkly, flashing a devil’s smile. “But make no mistake. The Chancellor serves the king of Shayeris. Serve well... and live.”
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NORTH AMERICA
Beachrock, Massachusetts
The police cruiser rolled off the asphalt, tires digging into the rocky sand as Dave went off the beaten path toward where the geo tag had indicated the body had been seen.
Even assuming it had washed up, the tide could have put it anywhere. “Dispatch, Adam-12. 23 10-32, over,” he announced, speaking into the radio clipped up on his shoulder. The weather had turned cool. The season was over, so there wasn’t likely to be many people about on the beach.
Indeed, Dave found a cold wind coming in off the bay, and not a soul in sight on the beach.
“Dispatch, 10-4, out.”
Walking down to the water’s edge, Dave let the tide roll over the top of his boots as he scanned the shore and started moving up the coast. For all he knew, the body could have washed up somewhere behind him. If it had washed up at all.
To be honest this whole thing felt like a snipe hun...
There. A shape stuck in the sand, as the water ebbed and flowed around it. As Dave started moving toward it, something was gnawing at the back of his mind. Something that made his pace quicken.
It was small. Petite? An overwhelming feeling of deja vu caused a cold sweat to break out, as a dread came over Dave.
Like he was reliving his worst day.
It was a kid. Face down in the water and sand. Kneeling down beside the body, Dave began to go through his duties with a numb sort of detachment. Pulling out his phone, Dave switched it to voice memo and began recording for the report he’d be drafting later. “Possible male. Maybe teen. Black hair. Clothing is...”
Dave stopped, his attention focused on the red and blue attire. The shirt was made of something like shark skin?
“What the hell are you wearing?” Dave uttered softly.
The body moved.
Dave Wilson probably lost at least ten years of his life in that moment, the jump scare causing him to drop his phone into the water.
He ignored it. Instead, his hands went to the boy’s neck. Two fingers pressed against the skin.
The color drained from Dave’s face at the realization that the boy was alive.Hooking one arm around the child’s body, Dave hauled the boy ashore with one hand while the other grabbed the radio. “Dispatch, Adam-12. 10-52. Repeat, 52.”
“Dispatch, 10-4, 52.”
Laying the boy down on the beach, Dave rolled him onto his back and was mentally running through his CPR training. Pulse, check. Breathing...
As though answering Dave’s unvoiced question, the child’s mouth opened as he seemed to start gagging. Then came the water. A proverbial geyser of water-vomit.
As the boy started to gag a second time, Dave went to turn him onto his side.
Instead, Dave watched with a kind of amazement as the world turned upside down. It was only a second later that his mind registered the fact that the boy had come up from the ground and, in so doing, tossed Dave aside like a used tissue.
He hit the beach in a rough landing, trying to tuck and roll too late. Pain shot through his knee and back.
“Adam-12, 10-52 is 76.”
Great. At this point, Dave wasn’t sure if that ambulance was for the kid. Or for him.
Catching his breath, Dave came up into a crouch and realized that the boy was now sprawled out in the sand.
A hand outstretched, deep hand impressions like the child had been trying to claw his way back to the water. Moving back over to the boy, Dave confirmed that the boy was breathing now. But out cold.
Just what in hell had just happened?
Even assuming it had washed up, the tide could have put it anywhere. “Dispatch, Adam-12. 23 10-32, over,” he announced, speaking into the radio clipped up on his shoulder. The weather had turned cool. The season was over, so there wasn’t likely to be many people about on the beach.
Indeed, Dave found a cold wind coming in off the bay, and not a soul in sight on the beach.
“Dispatch, 10-4, out.”
Walking down to the water’s edge, Dave let the tide roll over the top of his boots as he scanned the shore and started moving up the coast. For all he knew, the body could have washed up somewhere behind him. If it had washed up at all.
To be honest this whole thing felt like a snipe hun...
There. A shape stuck in the sand, as the water ebbed and flowed around it. As Dave started moving toward it, something was gnawing at the back of his mind. Something that made his pace quicken.
It was small. Petite? An overwhelming feeling of deja vu caused a cold sweat to break out, as a dread came over Dave.
Like he was reliving his worst day.
It was a kid. Face down in the water and sand. Kneeling down beside the body, Dave began to go through his duties with a numb sort of detachment. Pulling out his phone, Dave switched it to voice memo and began recording for the report he’d be drafting later. “Possible male. Maybe teen. Black hair. Clothing is...”
Dave stopped, his attention focused on the red and blue attire. The shirt was made of something like shark skin?
“What the hell are you wearing?” Dave uttered softly.
The body moved.
Dave Wilson probably lost at least ten years of his life in that moment, the jump scare causing him to drop his phone into the water.
He ignored it. Instead, his hands went to the boy’s neck. Two fingers pressed against the skin.
The color drained from Dave’s face at the realization that the boy was alive.Hooking one arm around the child’s body, Dave hauled the boy ashore with one hand while the other grabbed the radio. “Dispatch, Adam-12. 10-52. Repeat, 52.”
“Dispatch, 10-4, 52.”
Laying the boy down on the beach, Dave rolled him onto his back and was mentally running through his CPR training. Pulse, check. Breathing...
As though answering Dave’s unvoiced question, the child’s mouth opened as he seemed to start gagging. Then came the water. A proverbial geyser of water-vomit.
As the boy started to gag a second time, Dave went to turn him onto his side.
Instead, Dave watched with a kind of amazement as the world turned upside down. It was only a second later that his mind registered the fact that the boy had come up from the ground and, in so doing, tossed Dave aside like a used tissue.
He hit the beach in a rough landing, trying to tuck and roll too late. Pain shot through his knee and back.
“Adam-12, 10-52 is 76.”
Great. At this point, Dave wasn’t sure if that ambulance was for the kid. Or for him.
Catching his breath, Dave came up into a crouch and realized that the boy was now sprawled out in the sand.
A hand outstretched, deep hand impressions like the child had been trying to claw his way back to the water. Moving back over to the boy, Dave confirmed that the boy was breathing now. But out cold.
Just what in hell had just happened?
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