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: Blood's Kiss

By Rachel Anne Marks

The hare is tough to spot in the snow, white against soft white, but I see her. I have this sixth sense, an awareness of them, these little creatures that seem so scarce now. But so vital. My brother Jimmi was a trapper. The best.

Was...

The hare nestles just at the base of a tree about ten paces off. It’s white-grey fir shivers as I raise my bow. The sound of snow shifting in the early dawn crackles at the air. Mist drips from the dead branches above me onto my shoulder.

I let the sounds of the forest sink into me and look down the shaft of my arrow, aiming at the hare’s tender spot, below the front leg, and wonder if she has a knowledge like me. That it’s almost the end.

I breathe out and release the arrow.

It hisses through air and finds its home in flesh. Instant kill.

I take a weaving from my pocket, a small one. It’s just an offering of thanks for what’s being taken. Thread is scarce and needed for mending and patching the warn clothing supply, but as the Crone would say, if the ways of give-and-take are left behind, then what remains except chaos? 

I pick the limp body up, place the weaving of thanks on the ground, in the blood, and then pull the arrow out. It goes back in my quiver. The hare goes in my bag for later. It’s my second kill this morning. One more and we should do well enough for our supply of dinner and breakfast tomorrow, even though they’re boney things, living off bark mostly, maybe thin ailing roots beneath the constant blanket of snow. 

We all do what we have to, to survive.

Like me.

I should be apprenticing with the Crone, finishing my learning of runes and medicine, of bone magic and weaving spells. But when Jimmi went missing, someone had to take his place in the trap—to find the meals and fir to trade. And there was only me and Nessa left. It certainly wasn’t going to be Nessa. 

Has it almost been a year now? Nearly. Beltane came and Jimmi went out after the feasts—after the seven-day fires had turned to embers and ash—he went into the wood, a simple hunt, as always. But he never returned.

I watched him walk into the bone trees at the rim—I always did, it was tradition, good luck. Nessa stopped once she had the first baby but I still followed ‘til that last day. I stood at the wall, and watched his form fade into the shadow of the forest. 

I sat with the radio by my bed for weeks, hoping to hear his voice. Still, every time I come out here, I stop, click the signal on it and listen for an answer. Or try to see if I can find a strip of cloth left behind. Any clue of him. Anything would set my heart at ease. It’s the empty nothing, no information, the void, that keeps me awake in the night. That makes me imagine I can feel him pulling at me—begging me to save him.

I’d woven a blessing of return into his coat and everything. I’m not sure why it failed.

But I know he wouldn’t have abandoned us for the Hidden Places. 

He loved us. And he wouldn’t have left me like that, without a word, unless he didn’t have a choice in it.

The sound of a wren chatters in the far off brush. I walk on the path and listen to the trees. Dark limbs reach to grey skies against stark white backdrops, with silver briars speckling the underbrush. The branches moan and creek and I have to keep reminding myself the trees are dead—the way they sound off, it’s like they have souls. But they’re supposed to be green, not all sharp edges and colors of ash. I've only seen a few living trees, here and there, by the river, where the rocks hold enough warmth for the willows to take root. But once they were all green. Long ago, in the Before.

Mamma told me the tale, passed from her mother and her mother before, of thick emerald canopies and rich dark earth, of flowers speckling the valley in a blanket of violet and orange, of fruit that tasted of sunshine. There were even buildings full of so much food it could feed a whole village for weeks. 

Not now. Not anymore. 

Now everything’s rusted and threadbare. Ancient objects fill the barn behind The Great Kean’s hearth-home and no one can decide what the point was for half of them. The other half are useless.

One more hare, that’s all I need. Then I’ll take them to Jimmi’s hunting cave, skin and gut them, before heading home.

If only I could find a wolf. One of their pelts would be very useful for when Nessa has her new baby. I’ve been trying to track one for weeks and haven’t had any luck, though. I thought I found a trail yesterday, but it went off too far into the Deep. And it would be stupid to break a vow for comfort later. Certainly a pelt isn’t worth the danger of what might be that far into the forest. Where the briars and silver underbrush thicken even more, blocking any path, tricking the eyes. Where the trees seem to whisper and warn you to turn back. Where spirits of the dead guard the Hidden Places. And no human returns with their mind in tact. 

The Crone tells bone-chilling tales of the beings in the Deep that even I’m not desperate enough to follow those pathways. “If we leave them be, Nora, they leave us be,” she says. “They’ve got their own trials. But don’t be believin’ that poking at their boundaries won’t leave them sore. They’ll come for reparations. They always does.”

And so I steer clear of them. 

Okay, I admit, I might have ventured close before. Only once. I took a thin path a few feet—a few yards at the most—and I called out to Jimmi.

But he’d just gone missing, and I hadn’t been straight in the head. Mama kept weeping, saying he’d betrayed us. And the rest of the clan...all they could do was sneer and spit on the ground when I passed. I couldn’t take it anymore.

So, yes, I stepped closer and closer, I pushed the thick silver brush aside and once I saw the speckles of moss, the places in the trees where the life seemed to magically appear, I called out. “Please come home! We need you!”

And then I turned back and ran to the dead places again. Where it was safe. Nothing followed me. I didn’t hear the trees hiss or feel the spirits tug on my coat. There were no golden eyes in the mist. The only thing that I saw that matched the tellings of the fire-stories was the moss, orange and gold and green, in the crevices of the bark. 

Otherwise it was a wholly disappointing venture.

But I wouldn’t go in for a wolf. That would be nonsense.

Instead I slink my way through to the west end of the forest and look for more signs of life in the underbrush. It takes several minutes, maybe an hour, before I find something. A rubbed-on branch here, a scratch in the snow there. A tuff of fur.

But not rabbit fir.

I pick the tuff up and study it, smell it. Get a whiff of that heady oil smell.

My heart speeds up in excitement. 

What’re the chances? My wolf?  

I scan the trees, then, excitement tinging in my numb toes. All I need is a small sign, just a broken branch, a paw print. I listen with that other place inside me, I reach out, hoping to catch the feeling of warmth, breath, the pulse of blood. I reach into my pocket and rub my thumb over the weaving I made after Jimmi left, the prayer in criss-cross blue and knotted green, that asked for me to earn his gift, asked the trees to favor me, like they did Jimmi—well, at least they had until that last day—

A streak of grey moves to my right, in my peripheral. 

I stay utterly still, not even moving my head to look. I know it’s there. Like I sensed the rabbit, I feel the beast’s slick energy in the ground, distant, faded, but it’s there. And this time it’s not getting away. 

Oddly enough, it doesn’t seem to have noticed me. 

I breathe out, slow. And then I pick a tree, press myself against it, take up my bow again, notch an arrow, and allow myself a look beyond, into the trees.

The form blends into the surroundings like it’s made of them. If it weren’t for the puffs of breath in the cold air, rising from the briars ahead, I wouldn’t see it at all. And this is the same one. A male, I think. He has a thick line to his shoulders, but his nose is narrow, ears regal and tipped in silver. 

He’s going to look lovely on Nessa’s bed.

I raise my bow and aim. 

At the neck.

The wolf’s rhythm slinks over the ground.

And as I release the arrow a thought passes through my mind: the energy feels off. 

Not animal. 

But before the idea can take hold the silver arrow-tip hits its mark and a yelp echoes off the trees. 

Cont. in PART TWO

***

You can read more from Rachel Marks and see her artwork at:

                www.RachelAnneMarks.com

Five New Young Adult Stand-Outs

I'm a picky reader. I'll only read a book all the way through if I love it. But if I'm not thrilled, I rarely make it past page fifty. Who has time to read something just to finish it (okay, yes, I did make one exception below)? In that vein, I've compiled a list of YA books that I'm either thrilled with or desperately looking forward to. I'd love to hear your recent Top 5 in the comments below.

These Broken Stars is a book I've just finished listening to on audio format. What a wonderful adventure! This is the start of a new series (also soon to be a TV show) that takes you into a world that is both familiar and alien. While many of the themes and plot elements are timeless, they mingle the genres so well that you get lost in it all and can't help but forget the hundred other "shipwreck" stories that you've read.

I highly recommend this as a great new stand-out sic-fi!

Purchase: On Amazon

World After is the sequel to ANGELFALL by Susan Ee. I have been looking forward to this book for about two years now, at least, and it was well worth the wait. Ms. Ee adds to the lore and grows the story and you can still follow the character and love her, as easily as in book one. You have to read ANGELFALL first but I don't think it'll take you long.

This is an awesome post-apocolyptic YA with an angelic twist.

Purchase: On Amazon

More Than This is the new Patrick Ness novel about a boy who dies and then comes back—but his world is a little different. Now, I am a HUGE Patrick Ness fan. It's actually a little embarrassing. You know how girls get about Edward and Bella? Well, I had a similar spaz attack about Todd and Viola in The Chaos Walking Series. I geek out at those books. If a movie was ever made I may become a tad embarrassing to be around. I haven't read Ness' recent piece, but how could it NOT be amazing? Monster Calls, anyone? Hellooo?

Purchase: On Amazon

City Of Heavenly Fire is book bazillion-and-one in the Mortal Instruments Series by Cassandra Clair. I have to admit that it took me until a year ago to get through book one. City of Bones was torment. But I did the unthinkable and read the whole thing anyway, because my friend kept telling me it would be worth it. Well, she was right! OMG, this series rocks #AllTheThings. So, break the rule and force it. You won't regret it. In only two more weeks this book shall be mine. Oh, yes, it shall be mine.

A crazy huge world of awesome and adventure. Read these books!

Purchase: On Amazon

FATHOM is amazing! Because this is being re-released, I'm adding it to my list for the new year. I really love this book. Merrie is an amazing writer and the heart-felt romance and mysterious world she creates in this novel will last in your mind for days. You know those books that linger on the pallet? This is one of those stories. If you love celtic legends told in a new way, grab it!

A haunting tale of lingering death and new awakening.

Purchase: On Amazon

Now, I'd love to hear your Top 5 new picks...

Fiction Fridays: WINTER ROSE

Description: A dark and haunting tale of a young girl trapped in Winter, longing to be free. When Rose and her sister are left to fend for themselves and an ailing mother, they must fight both nature and the darkness of the soul to survive. 

What Readers Are Saying…

"I was taken aback by this piece. It was beautifully written, the rhythm and language of the author's word choice was something akin to a stake being pounded into your heart. And yet through the pain, you love it." ~ Kenneth Kao

"The timber and fiber of this book is remarkable. The characters are real and become even more so with each word. There is light and gentleness in the writing style. While the story is as old as time, the writer ensures it feels like the first time it's ever been written or read." ~ Leslie 

Excerpt:

I check the traps every day and watch for signs of life, in case they need to be moved. 

For three frustrating weeks they remain empty.

Then, one day, just when I decide I’m a fool and don’t have a clue what I’m doing, I find magic when I go check, spotting through the trees and underbrush, a dark heap lying in the snow. 

Excitement fills me and I can’t help smiling in satisfaction. My first catch. And whatever it is, it’s huge. A deer. 

No, maybe an elk. 

It’s a dark mound against the white ground, blood splattered around it like red rain fell in the night. I move closer, through the brush, and see a piece of my rope, tugged out and taut, across a fallen tree, like the beast tried to get away. I push aside a hanging branch. 

And freeze.

A boot. A cloak.

A lock of brown hair curls over a pale brow.

It’s not a deer. It’s a man. 

My heart lurches at the site of his strong hands, clutching the snow. His back, broad inside his coat. 

Fear laces through me.

I can’t tell what I’m afraid of. He could hurt me. He could be dead. I don’t have a clue which idea scares me more. 

His skin is pale and tinted blue at the fingertips, the lips. Tiny puffs of air emerge from his nose, slow, slow, and slower, like he’s fading away. 

I move around his head, to his legs, and try to get a better view of his foot. It looks like the knife I tied to my string trap impaled his calf. There’s swaths of blood in the snow and on his pant leg. The flesh that’s around the wound is dark and swollen—a sign he’s been here for most of the morning, a sign he might be past fixing. But it’s the cold that’ll kill him first.

He moans, and I jump back, pulse quickening. 

His face turns and I see now, he’s covered in mountain dust, his flesh smeared with black. 

From the mines.

I move back another step and have to clench my leg muscles to keep from kicking him. I consider pulling my knife from his leg and walking away, letting him freeze to death in the snow. It won’t take much longer. 

He’s a miner. He’s stains and soot and the smell of sweat in my lungs—

“Help,” comes a scratchy voice. His violet lips barely move. His eyes crack open, revealing green. Shimmery green, like summer.

I stare at him in wonder and shame. He looks so young. No more than seventeen or eighteen. He’s bleeding at my feet, and all I can think of is how I might make him suffer when he’s already in Hell.

I take in a deep breath and then kneel at his side. 

I study the wound more carefully. I tear his pants and look for embedded dirt or sticks. I touch around the area, checking for places gone hard with ice. His eyes follow every one of my movements, wide and watchful. His brow is tight with worry. It could be my imagination, but he seems frightened of me. 

He jerks back when I look straight at him, and then I remember. My eyes. They give me away for the witch I’ve become. 

“Just be still,” I say, a little too rough. “We’ve gotta get that blade out and tie a tourniquet on the leg to stop the bleeding.”

“You’re just…a kid,” he mutters. “Don’t touch me.”

“Oh, and you’re an old man. Well, I guess I’ll just let you lie here, then. That is, until a pack of wolves come by to help you out of your predicament.” I take off my overcoat to free my arms up to work. “It’s me who set that trap and it’ll be me who gets you out.” I study him. “What’re you doing out here, anyway?” 

He shakes his head, like he doesn’t know the answer to my question—or maybe he doesn’t want to tell me. “Running. Running away.”

“Running right into my trap,” I say. 

He looks like he’s still running in his mind, fear clear in his features. He coughs and clutches his coat closer to his chest. “There was a cave-in. In the mine.” 

“Another one?” I ask. When he doesn’t answer, I decide there’ll be time for questions later and say, “The wound doesn’t look too bad, but I’ve got to get the knife out, so sit still and look away.”

He doesn’t look away, but he keeps still as a statue. 

I reach for the dagger with purpose and don’t let myself hesitate. I yank before I can think of the consequences or the pain I’m causing. 

He hisses through his teeth and his face scrunches tight in agony.

I tear a strip from my skirt and cinch it tight to his leg, just below the knee, trying to stop the blood. Luckily, the flow is slowed from the cold. 

“We’re gonna get you somewhere warm,” I say. “But you have to help. Can you move?”

His teeth start to chatter—from cold or from shock—probably both. He stares up at me, brow pinched in doubt and torment, then he mumbles something about witches eating him, before he passes out. 

Perfect. Now I’ll have to drag him back to the hut on my own.

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