Dark Muse (13 page)

It sprang at his legs and spun around them,
very much
al dente
. The bi-color tendril-noodles slapped his
flesh in a resounding thump due to his loose jeans. His scream
echoed through the clearing, recalling classic Led Zeppelin howls.
The three strands mocked angry pythons, squeezing the circulation
and blood from his limbs. They yanked like eager fishermen with a
winner on the line, except they
were
the line. Leo
wind-milled his arms to counteract the grass linguini’s pulling
which made him appear a trapped duck, complete with sound effects.
Then two more blades of the stuff recoiled and aimed higher, much
higher.

To his credit, his spastic nature and lack of
coordination probably saved his life. Only a moment after the
pasta-like things clamped around his jean-clad legs, he panicked
and fell backwards, straight onto the path.

The others surged forward, expecting the
worst, when Otis drew his oddly-notched sticks and slammed a
one-two-three-four that shook the entire floor of land. Muddy, Poe,
and Corey somehow managed to remain standing, but Leo visibly
vibrated free. The living linguini slunk back into the mass of
grass, if any of it actually
was
grass. Not knowing if it
reacted due to fear or the vibrations, no one acted like they
wished to find out. A collection of hands replaced the grass and
pulled him clear.

“Let’s go that way,” Poe yelled, and the band
headed west without question.

After about fifty feet, the edge of the
clearing appeared. As usual, Poe saw the obvious more easily than
anyone else did. It was amazing how her senses were enhanced not
only when one was taken away, but because she’d learned to focus on
the now, which was all she believed she had.

Muddy half-expected the trees that engulfed
them to swallow them whole. They didn’t, but fear still stoked his
anxiety and the feeling that the behemoths above could do business
with them if they felt the need. So, instead of stopping to check
on Leo’s injuries under the cover of the canopy, the foursome
continued to drag him to where the sun shone at the edge of the
tree line. The clearing was only another fifty feet or so, but with
their adrenalin fading, dragging the seventeen-year-old began to
feel like they were pushing a full manure truck with no wheels.

Otis complained the entire way, as usual,
which fit his personality, but also showed his fortitude. Any
extreme stress on his brittle bones could cause a break, possibly
compound, which in this situation, could kill him. But his only
concern right now was for a member of the band they barely knew. He
couldn’t let Leo die. Not here. Not another bass player
accident.

Then there was Muddy. Getting beaten around
by schoolmates for years, made fun of by them, even cousins,
teachers, etc. had done its damage. It gave birth to anxiety,
already festering within his flesh from problems in the classroom.
The fear of not being able to handle life as it was dealt disgusted
him. The drummer who was diagnosed with a lifespan of less than
eighteen years never faltered, at least in public, and treated the
world as his stage. Muddy acted as though he was the world’s
opening band reject, caught behind the curtains, chained by his own
demons.

The sun lashed through the last remaining
branches above them, stripping away the heavy shadows that further
weighed upon their backs. The group crashed to the ground as if its
rays had zapped the final bit of energy from their already aching
muscles. The five found themselves spread out on an open field,
with grass—real, short, non-moving grass.

For a moment, a jolt of anxiety raced through
Muddy’s veins before he realized they had cleared the obstacle. It
shook him out of his funk and onto his knees to check on their
wounded friend.

“Is he okay?” Poe asked, putting her hands on
his shoulder, propping up his head.

“Yeah,” Otis echoed. “He okay? I don’t think
I ever pulled that much dead weight before in my life!”

Leo stirred. “Just tell me—am I okay
?
What
was
that back there? No one told me there’d be noodles
masquerading as grass trying to kill me here!”

“Actually, it was more like thin
spaghetti.”

“The word’s linguini,” Poe added, “but green
and brown, like the fancy kind.”

“Guys,” Corey said, shoving Leo back a
little. “Instead of fussin’ and whining, check out what that Chef
Boy-R-Dee reject thing did to him.”

So they did. Thankfully, the unlucky bassist
had been wearing jeans. The living pasta grass had left them in
tatters, a hundred times worse than the styles teens bought in
stores. Corey and Muddy carefully stripped away the remaining
threads which were covered in sweat, blood, and—goo?

“Eww,” Corey said, shrinking back. “What is
that stuff?” he asked, rubbing it off his fingers onto the real
grass.

“What’s what?” Leo shivered beneath them.

Muddy swallowed a mouthful of foul tasting
stomach juice brought on by the red and clear mixture. He hated
blood. Great disposition to have as a son of a horror writer, but
he couldn’t help it. His belly even turned when watching gory
movies.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Plant spit?
Digestive juices?”

“Poison?” Poe added, as they shrunk back,
staring at their hands.

“I sure hope not,” Muddy replied. “If it is,
then we’re all screwed. We’ll need a whole new band this time.”

“Instead of worrying about yourselves,” Leo
whined, “can you please just tell me how bad it is?”

Nodding shamefully, Muddy went back to
peeling away the last bits of denim that stuck to his friend’s
legs. What he saw underneath sent his stomach into spin cycle and
he lost it. Swinging his head to the side, everyone cleared in
time. He vomited all over the clean, non-deadly grass.

“Dude,” Otis said, still backing away. “You
okay?”

He spat out whatever remained in his mouth,
gagging as he attempted to speak. “Yeah, I think so. Look at him,”
he whispered, not wanting to alarm Leo.

“Oh-oh,” came the collective response.

Leo dropped his head to the ground. “I heard
that. I’m dying, aren’t I?

The band members stared silently at each
other as each hoped to find the answer in someone else.

“Of course not,” Poe said in her best
reassuring voice. “It’s just a flesh wound.”

His fists smacked the soft grass. “This is no
time for movie quotes!”

“Okay, okay, let’s take a good look,” Muddy
said dryly. Humor seemed to be everyone’s defense mechanism
lately.

Once his system seemed bile-free, Muddy
examined the wound. As Poe dabbed up the blood in some tissues she
must have had in her pocket, what the pasta grass did became
clear.

Inch long “bites” traveled up and down his
leg, from ankle to upper thigh. The grass had to have some sort of
“teeth” or else just whipped and constricted so hard it bit into
the skin. But that wasn’t the worst part. Each slice in his skin
pulsated, as if something was pretty angry about being in there.
Muddy prayed it was only Leo’s system fighting a likely infection,
but something in him knew better.

“What the heck?” Corey said, leaning in
closer.

The paling flesh rose and fell as if a
spastic heart lie beneath each open bloody slit. As each wound
rose, it threatened to poke through and show what it actually was,
but stopped just short. As everyone gaped at his legs, an image
came to mind of the bugs Muddy usually felt beneath his skin. But
his never seemed to have a wild beat. Heck, these seemed to be
having their own little circus.

“So, am I okay? Am I dying?” Leo asked, more
panic in his once deep voice.

They looked at each other, next at Poe, who
usually equalized the group. She just stared, as if she could see
his grim future. “Sure,” she said, without an ounce of conviction.
“We’ll make sure you’re fine.”

“But what do we do? Drag him back through
that stuff and try to cross back over?” Corey stood, and began to
pace.

“I don’t know, but we need to do
something.”

Muddy gazed back at the forest and remembered
what lay beyond. “If we have to, so be it. But there’s got to be
another way.”

“There is, but you’ll have to come with
me.”

He turned to Poe, who shook her head
mouthing, “I didn’t say anything.” Instead she pointed to someone
behind him.

Chapter Eleven

“I said it, and you’ll have to come back with
me if you want your friend to be healed in time.”

They turned to the voice and saw that The
Accidentals weren’t the only people on this side.

The girl seemed to be about their age. Not as
striking as Poe, but seemingly familiar, especially in the eyes.
About five-foot-three, long, licorice-colored hair hanging without
a trace of curl, she stood nonchalantly watching the group as if
she met five misfits from another dimension all the time. But those
eyes...who did she remind him of?

“Um…hi,” Muddy managed to say.

“Who are you?” Poe asked. “And can you please
help us? He’s hurt.” She pointed to Leo’s leg just in case the girl
didn’t comprehend words.

The stranger tilted her head as if to gauge
the bassist’s condition then back at Muddy. “I’m Lyra,” she said in
a voice that sent shivers down his back, so smooth and lilting, as
if it slid from her throat on waves of silk. “I think we can help
your friend, but we’ll need to get him to the town. He was bitten
by the grass?”

Otis turned to the guitarist and whispered,
“We just crossed over into some parallel world with tons of weird
crap and they don’t even have a name for that stuff that attacked
Leo?”

“Why should we speak differently?” she asked,
her tone staying the same. “Where are you from? Obviously, not from
around here.” This time a slight grin cracked her expression.

“She knows?” Corey whispered. “How? Wait a
minute.” He leaned in closer and squinted at her. “Man, she looks
so much like…”

Otis hummed a song he knew for ages.

This time she giggled a little, but still
remained far enough from them. “It’s been awhile, but we’re used to
visitors. Actually, I’m surprised you got this far. Most don’t.
Either you’re pretty skilled or just very lucky.”

“I think it’s a little of both,” Poe replied.
“We had a little help.

“I know,” Lyra answered, her expression
unchanged.

But how
? Muddy wondered. Was
she
watching when we came with Silver Eye?

“No, I didn’t,” she said.

“Didn’t what?” Poe asked.

“Didn’t watch you when you came here with
Silver Eye.”

What the...?

Otis hopped to his spindly, short legs. “You
spying on us? Did you sic those big goons on us?”

She just gazed with an unchanging pair of
alluring eyes. “No. What lives out here have knocked off plenty of
our people in town. I stay clear of them. You should, too.”

“What do you mean? Knocked off? Killed?”
Corey asked.

She averted her gaze.

“A lot?”

“Corey,” Poe chided, slapping at his arm.
“Get a clue!”

Lyra visibly shook it off. “We need to get
him some help,” she said, pointing at their bassist.

Muddy’s body trembled as he sought his voice.
“Is he going to be okay?

She looked right into his soul and he swore
he heard, “
He will die if the poison reaches his heart. Many do
not make it with a bite like that, but I have hope
.”

The rest of the group did not react.

Did they hear what she said?

“You know they didn’t
,” she answered
and he realized the voice had bypassed his ears, straight into his
head.

Holy cow…

“They’ll hear if I want them to. Right
now, I need you to understand and not worry them.
” Her eyes
told him not to ask the details of her skill.

“Come with me,” she said aloud. “We need to
get him to the city—now.”

And so they followed.

She led them about two miles along the
winding, but much-widened path. The area lay open and as free from
obvious disaster as walking through a field of dozing kittens.

Never once did Corey flinch as he carried Leo
over his shoulder.

Muddy remembered he once got two stitches
from a kitten that his mom adopted.

Of course, he worried.

As they passed the final grove of trees, a
city appeared. Resembling something from pioneer times, houses
built of logs and wood planks stood everywhere. Towers rose in the
four corners of the development, which reached as far as their eyes
could see. It must have been at least a mile or so across and
possibly twice as long. Why people always imagined a city in an
unknown land to be medieval, he had no idea. Maybe it was because
of all those fantasy novels and movies. It seemed as though most
movie makers couldn’t imagine that any other civilization could
exist as anything
but
something out of King Arthur. Were
people so ignorant that they couldn’t imagine another culture was
capable of building a society to rival their own?

Yet there it was, something straight out of
the late 1800s, not the age of The Sword in the Stone and Merlin.
Within the quartet of towers lay a scene straight out of the Old
West. Buildings a few stories high reached into the clear blue sky
above, nestled in between the huddles of small houses and log
cabins. Busy, but not crowded, a small market bustled in the town
square. Colors bloomed outward in the shades of the basic
spectrum—blue, green, red, orange, yellow, purple—some white, but
very little black.

She halted before she reached the throng of
citizens. “I think it’s best if no one sees us.”

“Why?” Muddy wondered if more monsters lived
there, ones in human skins.

She looked around. “Let’s just say that
people in this town don’t look too kindly on your folk. They blame
you for the shape we’re in now.”