The Skinwalker

By A. C. Williams

The Veil between worlds smells like overripe fruit, a deep purple scent. Cloying. Decaying. Bruised.

The sanitized atmospheres of living worlds lack the depth and complexity of abandoned realms. They never smell like the Veil, suffused with the scintillating aroma of death.

I breathe it deeply.

Invigorating.

Its heavens, ever-clouded. Its ground, overrun with nightmare beasts. In between, one lonely little island, suspended in the sky.

Chaos, pure and simple. If I ever fit in anywhere, it would be here.

The Waygate’s portal shivers behind me, the crackling spark of an electric discharge illuminating a darkened path leading to the single source of light on the island.

The Emberstone Tavern, nestled snugly at the center of this floating rock, exudes radiant warmth. The scent of roasting meats and vegetables wars with the sickly-sweet aroma of the Veil.

Only a hint of celestial light can breach the hazy clouds, so I have no idea whether it’s midnight or noon. Time moves differently in the Veil, and while Waygates are the easiest means to reach the other worlds, there’s no telling how long my transit actually took.

I should find the Seventh Waygate and flee, since my pursuers are undoubtedly on my heels, but since when have I ever played by any rules but my own?

The next time I have to kill someone, I’ll choose some unimportant street rat rather than a gas-bag politician.

Rowdy laughter splits the murky air, and a figure in wind-toughened hides stumbles out of the tavern door, saluting a tower of whiskey barrels as he teeters onto his heels, his bronze goggles catching the amber glow of the lanterns. He wavers back and forth and squints at me through the gloom.

“Blimey!” He drags the word out like he’s chewing on it. “What’s a gal like you doing out here alone?” He saunters over and leans into my face, expelling breath that could peel paint.

Behold. A street rat.

“Goin’ my way, little girl?” He slides his arm around my shoulders with a lecherous wink. “I’ve got a private bunk on my airship with our names on it.”

I ratchet up an eyebrow at him. “You don’t know my name.”

He leans closer. “You could fix that.”

What a delightfully bold creature!

I despise delightfully bold creatures.

I tilt my face up just enough so he can see the feral gleam in my golden eyes before I stab two of my claws through his throat.

Human blood is warm, rich with the coppery tang of life, and I’ve always found it fascinating. Such an efficient delivery system to oxygenate their poor, weak little bodies.

The drunkard gasps and chokes as his life seeps down my arm. He collapses, his skin turning waxen and pale.

Fragile creatures.

I flick his blood off my fingers and kneel to dig through his satchel. Maps. A compass. A few parchment scrolls. And a military identity card for the Orrelian Confederacy, the largest country in the Seventh World.

“How fortuitous.” I nudge his lifeless leg. “It seems you were going my way after all.”

I peel the satchel off the dead corporal’s shoulder, snatch his goggles from his neck, and seize his ankle.

Ugh. Dead humans with their gangly, flopping limbs always seem to weigh so much more than their living counterparts. How troublesome.

Fortunately, the edge of the island isn’t far from where the fool came at me, and I’m much stronger than I look, so I reach the cliff in no time. Claws out again, I clutch the dead man’s ankle and fling him off the rocky side. The roiling clouds below swallow his body.

I wave after him. “Thank you for the helping hand, Mister—” I grab his identity card. “Corporal Rawdon Fallen.” I blink, then snicker. “Fallen.”

I salute the clouds and turn back to the tavern, draping his satchel across my body and fixing his goggles around my head. Much too big for me.

“Fallen! Where the devil is he?”

Movement at the tavern. Another man steps out of the orange light and peers into the gloom.

Oh, look. Corporal Fallen Rat has a friend.

What a bother.

This won’t be the worst part I’ve had to play, but once—just once—I’d love to mimic a human who knows something about personal hygiene.

My body goes cold like it always does when I shift, silvery skin expanding and stretching as I grow to fill the space the dead man left behind. My hair becomes his. My voice becomes his. All of me that remains are my golden eyes, shimmering like harvest moons in the dark.

Good thing Fallen’s goggles fit me now.

“Fallen!” The man waves at me from the tavern. “There you are.” He approaches and grabs my arm. “Captain called us back to the ship. We’re gathering at the Seventh Waygate.” The man jerks me forward. “What are you doing out here anyway?”

“Needed some fresh air.” I touch the tip of a fang with my tongue.

“Fresh air? In the Veil?” He spits on the shadowed grass. “Are you drunk?”

“Always.”

“Well, don’t let the Lieutenant know.” He drops my arm and marches forward, not looking back.

I smirk with the unfamiliar muscles in the weather-beaten face. “Oh, not to worry. He won’t suspect a thing.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A. C. Williams is a coffee-drinking, sushi-eating, story-telling nerd who loves cats, country living, and all things Japanese. She’d rather be barefoot, and if isn’t, her socks will never match. She likes her road trips with rock music, her superheroes with snark, and her blankets extra fuzzy, but her first love is stories and the authors who are passionate about telling them. Learn more about her book coaching services and follow her adventures on social media or on her website.

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