The Crossing

Chapter 2 Genna Edinburgh Scotland, Present Day Another gray, monotonous day. No surprise there. In the United Kingdom, dreary is a part of life and my life has been nothing but. For over three years, I have been in a private boarding school from hell, so, yeah, dreary is certainly a mainstream philosophy. Maybe it’s part of Great Britain’s miserable history, heroic tragedy, a predisposed national phenomenon. An American by birth, I should be immune to the bleak and dismal, but it seems, one way or another, we all harbor a bit of darkness. It just manifests differently. My own darkness began with the unexpected death of my parents, which ultimately led me here - MI-5’s Academy, a school for teens who entertain a death wish. Although I am certainly not at the SIS Academy by choice, I find it has a definite appeal for one such as myself, one with a particular proclivity for violence. And today is all about raw brutality. “Pair up,” The Academy's combat trainer orders our group of young arrogants. Dominic Kontos, a bull of man, is currently in command of fifteen pretentious teens, and we are his to freely torture for the next two hours. Like The Academy itself, Kontos finds ways to use his cadets as weapons against one another. I sigh. Pairing up is brutal, especially when the order comes from our trainer’s lips. Employed by the SIS for the past twenty years to train British agents for hostile action - any and all types, Kontos has been demoted to instructing their children, an assignment he ardently loathes, and he does not hide his resentment. He treats us like POWs, hoping to break us with harsh, physical contact and sadistic exercise. Kontos is extremely good at his job. I glance around the room. Eleven guys, two girls, and me. Shit. My only friend in The Academy, Meghan Sapsford, has been recently relocated to Egypt, leaving Ashleigh and Brittany two out of the three females left as cadets. Not only are the two seventeen-year-olds BFFs, but in the sparring ring, they’re like a couple of Yorkshire terriers, all teeth and claws. My body carries their scars - long, pale lines etched into my skin as a reminder of their hatred for me. I spot the two huddled by the towels, glancing my direction. Ashleigh is still wearing the black-eye I’d given her in the ring a week ago when she bit the top of my hand. The memory of my fist against her face and the unmistakable shattering of cartilage sends a welcomed chill up my spine. My hand ached for days, but my heart is still soaring. Strangely, I understand our trainer’s hostility towards us. Elitist snobs, most of the teens here are related to high-ranking, British agents. Of course, being American, I am nowhere near cultured enough to climb the ranks of their private club, but neither do I want to. I rather prefer the dank shadows of the uncivilized. She’s uncultured. The girl’s barbaric, almost like an animal really. Does she even own a decent pair of shoes? Genna only has one style, no style. She’d probably give a bloke the crabs. I’ve overheard their little comments again and again. I am American and I am definitely different. And I like the fighting ring. Chapter 3 Ian Edinburgh, Scotland Bloody Christ, the inside of my head is exploding. If I had a sword, I’d slice it from my neck. I roll from my stomach to my back. The sky is a blue loch above me. The sun owns the day, and the storm that knocked me witless is long gone. I shake my head, amused by my own foolish thoughts, my grandmother’s superstitions. Shite, what an arse. I’d actually believed I was being pulled through a’ chrois - The Crossing. I’d grown up with the lore of charmed portals leading to other worlds, other times, other realms. But it hadn’t happened. I am where I started before the storm's sudden arrival. The three stones. “Time travel,” I snort to the sky. One hand shifts to my sporran, searching for the dispatch in the pouch that hangs from my waist. The parchment brushes my fingertips. I’ve missed my contact. No doubt, Lord Murray will be sorely disappointed. I sigh, pushing to my feet, and note my steed is nowhere to be found. Shite. For good measure, I walk the perimeter of the mound one last time. Through a grove of trees comes a strange roar. I drop into a low crouch, creeping towards the sound - which fades quickly into the distance. I come to a clearing and my breath clots within my chest. A town, the likes I’ve never seen, sprawls out before me. Rooftops cover the land and reach out to the edge of the horizon. Smooth, black roads snake in and out of the massive village and colorful carriages, their tops shining with the morning light, rumble along. I blink, shaking my head. Bloody, fucking hell, am I dreaming? How do those carriages move without the aid of horses? Looking down at the town, my stomach rolls and sinks, rolls and sinks. I inch away from the sight, fighting the urge to lose my stomach. I turn and run. I run back towards the rebel camp and Lord Murray, towards Edinburgh, towards life as I know it. Barreling through the dense trees, branches pelt my face and scrape my legs. I shoot out of the woods, onto one of those black, shiny roads, and run straight into a rumbling carriage.