Greykin Mountain

| 40 | A Dream, A Memory, A Truth

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Jackson stared down the barrel of a silver gun.

          His mother trembled in fear as she held him tightly in her arms, begging and pleading that the men before them didn't fire.

          He could see the bloodied body of his father lying in the hall, but he didn't look human. A pair of ram-like horns sat on either side of his head, and the wings draping at his sides looked like those of a bat. His still, dead eyes shimmered red in the moonlight breaking in through Jackson's window, and the blood seeping through his lips wasn't crimson, but a deep, dark purple.

          "He's just a boy," his mother cried, shaking her head as her back hit the windowsill. "Take me—let him live!"

          The man cocked his gun, his glowing magenta eyes possessing a gleam of joy. "The Holy Grail spares no spawn of evil—man, woman, or child." He aimed the gun at his mother's face. "And wherever my bullet sends you, I condemn you to remain there for eternity."

          "Please!" she cried, tightening her grip around Jackson, who stared in utter confusion.

          A grin spread across the man's face as he slowly pulled his finger against the trigger—

          Then the white curtains flowed past Jackson's line of sight—the gun fired, and although she screamed, his mother was still standing.

          The curtains settled, and Jackson watched as a winged, horned man tore the gunman's throat out with his teeth. Blood sprayed up the nursery walls, and the other men aimed their weapons at the man.

          "Go!" the man yelled to Jackson's mother as he dodged a crossbow bolt.

          She didn't argue. His mother turned around and leapt out the window. When she landed on the grass, she didn't even grunt, despite the fact she'd just jumped from the sixth floor.

          And then she ran, carrying Jackson with her.

          She raced through the grass field, across the road, and into the sycamore trees which bordered Wroekstead and the busy, loud highway.

          Flashing lights, speeding cars, and blaring horns made Jackson shiver in his mother's arms. She stood on the side of the highway, panting and trembling.

          "Don't worry, Jackson," she breathed, looking down at him. "It's going to be okay. We'll be okay."

          And then, she raced across the busy road, heading for the forest on the other side.

          Jackson opened his eyes.

          He stared up at his bedroom ceiling, listening to the muffled voices pounding against his wall.

          Eric and his mother were yelling again.

          With a quiet huff, he rolled onto his side and tried to get back to sleep. But lately, he couldn't stop the nightmares. No matter how hard he tried, he dreamt about the night his father had died—the night his mother had fled Wroekstead with him. He had questions—so many questions. More than a little kid should have. But he couldn't dismiss them. He couldn't just play with his toy cars and do what his tutor told him like a normal kid. He wanted to know why his dad died, why those robed men were in his room, and who that winged man was.