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Chapter One
Cyrus
It was late. Very late. Shadows were on street corners. Lampposts were igniting, giving reinforcements. The ominous air swept across the city of Nessmond frequently, giving the atmosphere a dreary, creepy mood. The moon was full tonight, laughing at anyone who would still be outside in the open, instead of sleeping in their cozy homes, where it was safe.
Unfortunately, tonight, the moon’s teasing was directly on Cyrus.
Cyrus knew that people who were outside after sunset were likely to run into trouble, but he didn’t think of it as his fault. The boy had fallen asleep in the alleyway next to an abandoned candy shop downtown. It was one of his usual hangout spots, away from anyone who’d like to do him harm. Plus, it was a nice place to think, read, write, or do many other things to kill time.
Now, Cyrus was hurrying home, praying he wouldn’t get killed by his parents or anyone in the shadows. He knew he wasn’t alone. No one was in Nessmond.
The thing was, though, if he did run into trouble, he wouldn’t be able to do anything. Cyrus never mustered up courage. Attackers could see him as an easy target. Then, if he got out of that miraculously, another obstacle would come his way: his parents. No support there.
Cyrus’ father, Wood, worked in a mine a couple miles from the city. The harsh job had turned the man’s heart cold and made of titanium. Wood and Cyrus didn’t exactly see eye to eye, but the lack of words between them stopped any conflict. Cyrus was glad of this. His father was a burly, muscular man with a short temper. You probably couldn’t go two seconds without that guy snapping at you for breathing. It couldn’t be helped.
Cyrus’ mother, Tara, was a more fragile soul. She stayed at home while her husband and son were away. Tara jumped and flinched at everything—the sound of a phone ringing, the door shutting, even the cat calling out. She was kind to her family, making her a bit of a pushover.
Thinking about those two were making it hard to walk. Cyrus could imagine his funeral, his mother weeping, his father telling people how much of a failure he was. He winced at the thought. Just keep moving, he thought to himself.
He had made it about five blocks when he started to hear footsteps behind him. Cyrus shivered. Don’t look back, Cy. They won’t attack. Just don’t look back. He kept walking, focusing on the sidewalk. With each step the boy took, the more steps behind him increased. His house was still a long way from here. He bit his lip. Maybe I could jus—
“We’re tired of followin’ you, kid! Where the hell ya goin’?” a slick, dark voice called. Cyrus stopped in his tracks, paralyzed from the person. In spite of himself, he turned his head slowly towards the speaker.
There were five of them, all male. They had devious smirks on their faces, a typical sign of being up to no good. Men like these were common all over Nessmond. They just didn’t come out during the day because the city militia patrolled the streets at that time.
Cyrus trembled when looking at them, his brown hair seeming to turn gray with fear, his blue eyes seeming to turn black. On each of the men’s leather jackets was a red insignia that had a picture of an eagle on fire on it. This was a symbol of the Alpha 23, an organization that held twenty-three skilled fighters that all had one goal: to make Nessmond a chaotic, twisted city.
The one who had talked was in front. He had a sheathed katana at his waist, just begging to be pulled out. “I said, where the hell ya goin’?”
Cyrus tried to speak. “I…I’m going h-home, sir,” he squeaked. “I won’t be any trouble, so please l-let me b—“
The one in front started to cackle with enjoyment. He stepped out of the shadows, revealing long, red hair and a scar on his nose. “You ain’t goin’ anywhere, kid. I ain’t got nothin’ personal against ya, but we’re a little low on money, so…” He grabbed his sword, slowly unsheathing it.
Cyrus’ blood went cold. His entire mind, heart, and soul was screaming, Get out of there, now! Without hesitation, his legs started to move faster than they ever had.
“You two! Get ‘im!” the red-head called. Two tall, skinny men ran past their leader and started to sprint after Cyrus.
Cy’s legs were burning. They were moving like squirrels that just had eight gallons of Red Bull. After about five minutes of running for his life, he turned the corner and realized that he was close to his house. All that was left was to cross through a small part of a large forest that stretched out to the city limit.
He could hear the gang members catching up to him. “You ain’t gettin’ away, punk!” on screamed.
The chase continued.
Cyrus crossed the street eagerly, not looking both ways. More important things were at stake. He entered the forest, the men not to far away from him. As he dashed through it, he dodged every tree, jumped over every bush, and avoided any trip-vines.
The boy eventually made his way across the maze of plants, barely far from the killers now. His house was in sight. Cyrus felt so relieved until his collar was tugged at. He looked back, still trying to run, which made him almost choke up air. A dark-haired man had caught him. “Think you could run, eh? You must be pretty stupid.”
Cyrus scrambled around, trying to get free. “And you must be an idiot if you won’t say it to my face!” he cried. Immediately he was perplexed. Did I…just say that…?
“WHAT DID YOU SAY?! Kid, you’re gonna regret sayin’ tha—“ His sentence was broken off by the sound of a kick or punch. The man’s eyes widened, and then he fell over, releasing his grip on Cyrus. Behind the gang member was his attacker, a figure in the shadows. The dark-haired killer’s comrade was knocked out on the ground not too far behind.
The shadow seemed to glare at the boy. “Go! I only kicked him! He should wake up soon!”
Cy nodded, wanting to just go home and forget this ever happened. He sprinted towards his house, praying nothing else bad would happen.
Out in the distance, a raven screeched.
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