Threshold (Old Version)

Chapter Seven

“Scarlett, this way.”

A goggled and lab-coated version of my father appeared, taking a steely grip on my elbow as he guided me through the lab. We kept to the wall, dodging a few computers and other machines as we made our way into the main observation room. I fought to maintain a view of Malachi, but without much success. A few familiar faces floated about: Tristan, Dr. Elkaly, and one unexpected other surfaced in the crowd.

“Drew?” I whispered. The teenage lab assistant blanched after catching my eye, vainly attempting a shamed smile. It ended up more like a grimace.

“You wanted to know. So here you go.” My father twisted me back around, focused on a clear view of the hubbub at the center of the lab.

Malachi stood in the depths of it all. A guard was clamped onto each of his arms, his feet dragging against the ground. Blood dripped off his chin, a cut above his eye pulsing with the red liquid. I watched as the men forced him towards a pair of columns at the center of the room. They stood waist height, a jumbled contraption of tubes and wires sat at their tops, but the most pronounced characteristics were the manacles welded to each.

“Here you’ll get to see what that truly is.”

I barely heard my father—I was far too focused on Malachi. As the trio neared the columns Malachi started fighting back harder, managing to jab one in the gut with an elbow before they could get a wrist clamped in place.

“In some cultures they refer to it as a dream guardian. Of course, a more accurate term would be dream demon, but its other purpose is what interests us,” my father droned on.

Even from that distance, I could see the fire in Malachi’s eyes. His whole being seemed to pulse with rage, a storm the two guards could barely contain. They managed to force the other wrist into its manacle, but that only seemed to kindle the blaze, his arms jerking against the restraints.

Then his eyes finally met mine. The fire died in a moment, replaced with a stunned, frigid regret—a fierce regret of circumstances. The sudden change fell like a blanket on the room; the quiet was filled with shame and a deep, sated hatred. Malachi turned away, his body tense with tremors.

“Apply the receptors.” My father’s voice bounced around the room, startling the frenzy back into motion.

It took a third guard to wrestle Malachi’s arm into a position so that they could wrap some contraption around it. The mess of tubes and metal reminded me of a blood pressure cuff, the way it hugged Malachi’s arm, though no blood pressure cuff was so complicated. In another three minutes they had the second cuff in place.

“See, Scarlett, however it can be explain, this being holds an uncalculated amount of raw energy, which we can tap.”

“Why?” I squeaked.

“Because this can revolutionize energy production.”

“That’s not good enough,” I replied.

“This is our family legacy, Scarlett.”

“No.”

“How do you think your grandfather died? It was this. I am just continuing his research.”

I had always hoped that our mutual loss of a parent during childhood would bring my father and me together. It’d never worked out that way.

I looked back up to find some scientists wheeling a tall cylinder into the center of the room. In its top sat a large gem, gleaming with its own light. Scurrying hands connected tubes and wires, hooking Malachi’s cuffs to the machine.