Fiction Friday: Blood's Kiss (Part Two)

By Rachel Marks

In Case You Haven't Read PART ONE go HERE

I run through the brambles, thirty yards, past patches of blood, following the red streaks in the snow, and come the stump of a burned-out tree. I catch-up to the source laying over a bed of black ash, and—

It’s not a wolf’s body. Not a wolf at all.

It’s a man. Naked. Trying to pull himself into the hole of the tree stump. 

My mind registers details so strange, I wonder suddenly if I’m still in bed, curled in my dream-quilt, playing out a wish in sleep. A wish to find my wolf, a wish that’s turned twisted and wrong.

He’s choking, gasping, blood running from the wound in his shoulder. The flesh there is torn in a jagged gash, the arrow is lying beside his hand, like he’s just torn it out. There’s markings all down his back in a green and blue pattern that look similar to the weaving that wards against storms.

I step back. Close my eyes. Open them again. 

He’s still there.

He’s whispering through the choking, a strange language. He grasps one of the large roots of the tree, and pulls himself forward. I hear, “Please,” in all the muttering, and then he coughs, spraying out a mouth-full of blood.

He’s not human, though. He may look it, but he’s not. His hair is too clean, too golden like the sun. His skin is pale as the moon goddess herself with markings of spells coloring him in the strangest places. And his ears. Humans’ ears aren’t shaped to a point at the tip like that.

I stumble back, knock into a tree, get my bow tangled in the brambles. 

“Please,” he says again. And his eyes meet mine. A golden promise of horror. They lock me in, like a giant’s fist. “Come closer,” he pleads. A genuine asking in his voice, desperation and pain. 

And I should nock another arrow, strike him through the chest, in one of those golden eyes. I should run.

But nothing in my head can make my hands move to grab a weapon, or make my feet whisk me back to safety. 

I’m stuck. Terror rises in me, swift as a storm. He’s golden, just like the stories.

...just like the sun.

“Come closer,” he says with more authority.

I step closer.

Bile rises in my throat. “No,” I grind through my teeth. But my body isn’t listening, it’s only able to obey him.

“Closer,” he hisses. Blood is now running over his shoulder, down his arm, and pooling in the snow between his fingers. “Just one small task and I’ll leave you in peace.”

I have no idea what he means. I have no idea what’s happening to me—will I be whisked off to the Hidden Places, like Jimmi? Am I to be the toy of spirits, tormented and held captive between life and death until I plead for the later? 

My will battles with his, and my insides become a tug of war. He’s stronger, so much stronger than I could’ve ever imagined. Control belongs to him, over my body, my limbs, as they betray me, taking me to his side, forcing me to kneel at the head of a beast. 

I clench my jaw, hold in a cry of rage, and feel tears freeze to my cheeks. “I’ll gut you if you touch me,” I say.

He rises a little, coming up to meet me, so close, his misty breath brushes at my cheek. “You shouldn’t have tried to kill me, little bird. It may have lead you to a new path, one you won’t cherish.” 

His hand rises and he touches his finger to my temple, beside my eye. A caress, light and delicate, sending a shiver over my skin, my body being coated with his power. It spreads, growing warmer, the shiver turning to buzz. The buzz turning to heat. So hot. A fire in my flesh. 

The snow beneath us melts and steam rises into the air.

I gape at him, getting a full view of my end, my wolf, a creature of myth and fire-stories, as lovely and terrifying as anything I’ve ever seen. The fire fills me, burning my core, blurring my vision, pulling me under. Until a sudden white flash bursts behind my eyes and the fire is gone. But there’s something new left there, inside me.

He touches his nose to mine. “Be quick, and don’t forget.” Obvious pain and fear echoes in his voice.

And then he kisses me. Gentle, delicate, a whisper of lips to mine. But with the kiss comes the knowledge of what I have to do. The white fire is gone as I open my eyes, seeing him, his eyes full of tears, resignation in his shoulders. He’s readying himself, telling me to act. Now.

My hand moves to my belt, to my dagger, pulling it free. I grip his neck from behind. Feel the chill of his skin. The rapid pulse beneath. 

And I strike. Shoving the blade straight through his heart, twisting it, hilt to chest. There’s a stillness that settles, his last breath coming out in a hiss. His eyes stay on mine, going dull, from gold to copper before they close. Tears spill out, running over his cheeks and chin. And he’s gone, that spirit of wolf in him drifting away like misty air.

The control on me releases but I can’t seem to move. I can only stare at my work and feel sick. 

What’ve I done? What’s just happened? 

I killed a man.

No, he isn’t a man. 

His body goes limp and he slumps down onto the steaming forest floor. 

(To be continued...)

Rachel Marks is an award winning author and artist. You can read more about her and see her artwork on her webpage: Shadow Of The Wood

Fiction Friday: Something a little bit different

By Merrie Destefano

For several weeks, the members of Ruby Slippers Media have been posting snippets of our work here. At first, I had planned to share a bit of my published work, maybe something from Afterlife or Fathom. That’s the reasonable thing to do, right? Show you something that will intrigue you and possibly cause you to buy one of my books. But I’d rather show you something I’m working on right now—something that’s not finished and that you couldn’t buy, even if you wanted to.

The newest creation always burns the brightest and gives off the most heat, in the creator’s heart anyway.

So, below is part of chapter 4, from my current WIP, titled The Summer of Fire and Ice.

Chapter 4

The room was brighter than any I’d been in before, with four oil lamps burning and a full fire crackling in the hearth. A welcoming heat rolled over me and I removed my cloak, carefully watching John as he stared down at the furry limbs spread across the table. They were from different animals, one hind leg was longer than the others and had silver fur, while the other legs were a dark grey; the torso was barrel-chested and wide and covered with black fur. I glanced in the nearby wheelbarrow and noticed that in the left over pieces, all of the heads save one had been crushed.

John reached into the barrow and drew out the one head that was still intact, jaws swinging open as he carried it to the table. I recognized it immediately. It was the head that had landed at my feet when I opened the front door.

I stepped back in horror, afraid its jaws were moving of its own accord.

“Do not worry, Mary,” John said. “It was only a reflex. Before long, the joints will stiffen, but for now they move easily. The beast is dead. But watch this.”

He took a stick and prodded one of the wolf’s legs. It flinched, as if trying to get away from the stick.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“I’ve never seen this before, except in frog legs, but this is why I came here. For years, I’ve been looking for the right place, the right circumstances. I thought if I got to a crime scene in time, I might discover it, but I never did. Then I heard about how every year, there were mysterious violent deaths here, in the mountains that surrounded Lake Geneva, and I heard that sometimes the dead bodies that were left behind weren’t fully dead.”

He lifted his head to look at me, his dark eyes so deep that I worried I could get lost in them.

“I don’t understand. How can something be dead, but not fully dead?” I asked.

“I don’t know. But it sounded so close to the theories of Erasmus Darwin, that I had to explore it. I was the one who convinced Byron to come here, when he had to leave England. He knew some of the local folklore, so he thought this might be an intriguing intellectual adventure.” John was watching me, his gaze moving from my eyes to my mouth, then back. “But I didn’t know that he was going to invite you or Claire. I would never have willing brought either of you to a place that might be dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid,” I told him, realizing that it was true. “I don’t fully understand these theories, but I would like to know more.”

He smiled and, for an instant, the room seemed even brighter. There was a childlike innocence in his expression that I had never noticed before. Perhaps he had been hiding it from me, just like I tried to hide my bouts of melancholy from others.

“You were right when you said I was about to perform an experiment,” he said as he drew several items from the bag he always carried with him. He began by threading a long, curved needle with pale, flaxen thread. “I’m going to try stitching the animal back together. I don’t know what will happen, especially since I have pieces from different wolves here, but if there really is life left in this flesh, it’s possible I may be able to—”

He paused, as if he didn’t dare finish his sentence. So I finished it for him.

“Bring it back to life.”

He nodded. Then he began to sew.

…….

I hope you enjoyed that portion of my latest creation! Thank you for stopping by to check out what’s going on at RSM blog. I hope you find something wonderfully beautiful and slightly scary to read for this weekend!

My book recommendations, if you're looking for something to read:

Lips Touch Three Times by Laini Taylor

The Hallowed Ones by Laura Bickle

Ironskin by Tina Connolly

Charm and Strange by Stephanie Kuehn

Merrie Destefano is represented by Natalie Lakosil of the Bradford Literary Agency. Merrie’s published work includes Afterlife and Feast (both with HarperVoyager), Fathom, The Plague Carrier and Waiting For Midnight (with Ruby Slippers Press), and How To Draw Zombies (Walter Foster). She’s also the editor of Victorian Homes magazine and founding editor of Cottages and Bungalows magazine. She is the founder and owner of Ruby Slippers Media and Ruby Slippers Press, and her website is here.