So, as you might know, I've been writing a book about necromancers and zombies and demons and witches... Well, I'm not done with it (about halfway-ish) but I have officially written ONE HUNDRED PAGES! I've never written one hundred pages of anything before in my whole life. EVER. This is like a holiday for me. I'm so excited and happy about it. To celebrate, I'm posting the first two chapters and prologue. I hope you enjoy it, and if you want more, please let me know! I'd love to be able to share the whole thing with you guys. :)
P R O L O G U E
Sara
Whenever the night has
reached its darkest point, I always manage to slip into dreams the best. They are my escape from the real world, my
savior. Without them I would be dead, or
insane, because reality is harsh and blistering. My father is the one that has taken all my
happiness and exiled it to the far reaches of my imagination.
In the night, in the dark, behind closed eyelids I can
visit far off worlds and places I will never see in this life. My imagination comes from my mother, who
always enjoyed a good book. When father
changed she stopped reading, but I began.
I found that the stories with worlds parallel to our own were the best
for escaping. They were so real, and the
heroine was always able to save the day after being swept into her immortal
lover’s arms and gone on an adventure.
There is one dream in particular that I always hope to
have. In it there is a boy. Just his silhouette, and few distinguishing
features, but if I ever saw him in real life I would know him immediately from
just the way he stands. It’s like a
signature. He’s slouched over just so,
with one hand in his pocket casually and hair that is always a mess
unintentionally. His other hand
sometimes runs through his hair, as if trying to re-groom himself, but
otherwise it hands at his side. He is
dressed casually, maybe a sweater or tee shirt, and probably jeans- baggy ones-
or cargo pants. He never wears anything
on his head to cover his hair but every once in a while I can tell that he has
glasses on.
He is the only thing in my dream. The room- if that is what it is- around him
is white. Pure white. There is no horizon, or anywhere to determine
where the floor ands and the walls begin.
There are no shadows because light comes from everywhere. Whether I am there or not is also
uncertain. I can see him and I can see
the room, but I cannot see myself and he doesn’t seem to see me. Perhaps in this dream I am just an entity,
floating around. Perhaps in this dream I
am dead, and seeing heaven. Or hell.
If I tried to tell anyone about this dream, even my
friend Brook, they would just write it off as a dream. But if father got ahold of the idea that
there was a better place, he would punish me even more. As far as he knows I don’t dream, I don’t
read books, and I don’t pretend that someday I’ll get up the nerve to run away
and never look back. If anything, that
would be a dream come true.
C H A P T E R O N E
Nile
February 7th
I’ve never hated being
alone as much as today. With the snow
falling heavily outside, and ice paving the walkway up to the church, only a
fire going and Minnie drifting around to keep me company, I begin to realize
how alone I actually am. And how little
help I would have with shoveling. Dad
and I had always done it together, and when he passed away, Abraham had
helped. Cairo had left a long time ago,
before we had moved to the abandoned church.
But now I was alone because Abe had decided that he
didn’t agree with me anymore, there were better things out there and he was
going to seize the day or something. He
also wanted to kill me, but that is a rather long story.
I stared into the fire debating whether it was a good
idea to bother shoveling or not. In all
honesty I didn’t want to because it was cold and slippery and I was lazy. However, our family had taken care of the
sidewalk surrounding our strange home for over five years and if we didn’t the
city might decide to send someone over to check up on us. Dad had made a silent deal with the city
manager, we kept it clean, they don’t bother us.
Not that they always realize that we’re there in the
first place. Half the time they
completely forget we exist because of Silas’ charms. He’s a voodoo priest and his wife’s a psychic. They have a little shop a couple of streets
over where they do readings for tourists and especially gullible
townsfolk. They live above their shop in
a two bedroom, one bath apartment.
Neither of them use their gift when reading people unless that person
happens to be part of the magical underground community and is actually
serious. They’re not scamming their
loyal customers or anything, but most people aren’t ready to face their future
head on.
Besides readings they both make charms and dole out
spells to the worthy and needy. Few people
know how good their charms actually are, and even fewer know about the
spells. I am proud to say that I am one
of their friends and they trust me with the truth.
The fire crackled and snapped. Scrouge, the hellhound who guarded the
church, was basking in the heat. He
acted like a puppy unless something bad was going down. I reached out and rubbed his belly. A tongue lolled out of one of his three
mouths and he rumbled affectionately.
Scrouge had three heads, all a mix of black and mottled grey, but only
one of them had blue eyes. These were
actually blind and he had been born that way as far as I knew. He relied much more heavily on the other two
sets and got around just fine.
A knock on the stain glass window nearest the door pulled
me out of my musings. A shape hovered
there, mottled and disfigured by the different colors that made up one of the
apostles. I stood up, shaking the pins
and needles out of my feet as I rose.
When I opened the door I came face to face with one very pissed off fae. And not one I knew.
“Gonna invite me in?
It’s freezing out here, sugar, and you’ve got a fire going,” her voice
was sweet, like chocolate, but mean.
Poison. Probably not a friend of
Kae’s, which meant, not a friend of mine.
“Your name?” I
asked. Few fae liked giving their name
out because then someone could force them out.
The fae couldn’t actually step into anyone’s residence without being
invited in and inside had to leave whenever they were commanded to do so by
name.
“Nell,” she smiled, showing pointed teeth.
“Good try,” I grabbed the door and began to shut it in
her face. Her arm shot out, showing her
Goosebumps, and grabbed the door. She
shivered again and then pouted.
“Nia. It’s Nia.”
“Lied once, why not lie twice? Sorry, but I don’t believe you,” I
shrugged. Either way, I didn’t care
whether this fae- obviously from the summer court- died in the cold or
not. I did not want her in my church
without having any power over her.
“Dammit! It’s Nia,
and I swear on it,” fae can’t break promises or deals, but they can lie like
anyone else if they aren’t full blooded.
And Nia, if that was her name, wasn’t full blooded or she wouldn’t be
able to have gotten past the iron gate.
“By Nia,” I shut the door in her face.
She pounded on the heavy wood for a moment and then
shrieked in rage when she realized I wouldn’t be opening it back up any time
soon. “I have a message from your
brother!” she called through the door.
This stopped me in my tracks. Whether it was Cairo or Abe I hadn’t heard
from either of them in a long time. I
turned on my heel and threw the door open wide.
“Come on in,” I said. My heart
was racing and pounding against my ribs.
Nia flounced past in her school-girl skirt and knee high
socks. She beelined it straight to the
fire place but stopped when she saw Scrouge.
I whistled for him to move and he got up grudgingly. I shut the door against the blowing snow,
however, plenty had already gotten in and melted, creating a puddle.
“I would love something
hot to drink,” the fae sung out. I
rolled my eyes but did as she requested pouring her a cup of coffee. I always had a lot on hand because you never
knew when you would be woken from your sleep by someone who needed me to raise
their dead.
I gave her the mug, a crappy ceramic one, and sat down in
front of the fire on the floor facing her.
She sniffed it once, and then just about swallowed it whole. Her face wasn’t even flushed and the coffee
had been fresh out of the pot. She wiped
her mouth with the back of her arm and then yawned.
“So what’s this message?”
“Oh, that, yes I almost forgot. Abraham sends his regards. Sort of.
He says he’ll be in town on the twentieth with a couple of his new
friends.”
“Friends?”
“Yeah, just a couple of people he’s met along the way.”
“Why’s he coming here?” I ran my hand through my hair
bewildered. Abe wanted me dead, so
unless something had changed, he was gunning to kill me.
Nia shrugged, uncaring.
I needed time to think.
Abe never did anything without a reason and he wouldn’t be coming here
unless he had one. Most likely he would
come to enact his revenge, but why would he announce it beforehand? That didn’t make the least bit of sense. I could prepare, or leave. No, I couldn’t leave. He knew I never would. This wasn’t just my place, it was Dad’s, and
I couldn’t leave it to the scavengers and the city so that nature could
eventually take back what belonged to it.
I looked at Nia over the rim of my coffee mug. She had her eyes closed in half-slits, like a
cat, and was staring into the fire. I
could see the tip of an ear through the part of her hair- it was pointed not
unlike Kae’s. Nia was either very close
to Abe, or extremely expendable. Either
way she wouldn’t, or couldn’t, say anything else. To me she had become useless.
“Get out,” my voice was low, and meaner sounding then I
had intended. Not that I didn’t care if
I upset her, just that I didn’t want Scrouge to maul her because I acted like a
threat.
Her eyes opened all the way and she looked me in the eye. I was suddenly dizzy and I dropped my
cup. I felt something in my head, like
it was moving around under my skin and I struggled against her eye contact. She was in my mind, intruding on any thought
I might be having or had had in the past.
Pictures and memories flashed across my minds’ eye. She was rifling through them looking for
something. I wanted to cradle my
pounding head in my hands but she was relentless.
A hiss snaked through her teeth. Whatever she was looking for she wasn’t
finding. I found it become harder and
harder to breathe and everything was starting to spin and flash. Suddenly I heard Scrouge barking and a
growl. Then a tearing of clothes and a
screech. Everything snapped back into
place and I could see clear as day again.
Scrouge had latched one of his heads onto Nia’s arm and was ripping into
it, tearing and shredding the skin.
Blood spurted out and dropped onto the stone floor.
“Get the hell of me, dog,”
she ripped her arm away. It was a bloody
mess, but in half a minute it had already healed fully and she was already out
the door. Before she completely slammed
it shut she looked at me over her shoulder and smiled, bearing her pointed
teeth again. “See you around,” and then
the door slammed shut.
* * * * * * * * * *
I cleaned the floor
with a warm bucket of soapy water and an old towel. Scrouge had done his job, well, part of his
job at least, and was now munching on a bone.
Not a real one, of course, I wasn’t much for desecrating graves, but a
beef flavored one. While on my hands and
knees I heard the door open again. I
looked up and was surprised to see a costumer.
He was maybe fourteen with spiky red hair and a messenger bag slung over
his shoulder.
“Can I help you?” I asked, getting up and throwing the
rag away. It was useless now because fae
blood, while as red as a humans’, would never come out. Even on the floor, made of solid, cut stone,
would always have a faint stain. It
wasn’t the first.
“Maybe, I need to speak with the dead,” he says.
Obviously he isn’t a trained warlock or even any part of
the Non-human world because if he was he wouldn’t have to ask.
“Sorry, I don’t do that kind of thing here,” it was
rather discriminating that I lived in a church, and he couldn’t have come here
and asked that without knowing that was what I did. Lucky for me, and him, Scrouge was invisible
unless you were something other than human.
“The website said you did,” he looked puzzled. Not as puzzled as I felt. Website?
What website? We like to keep our
world hidden from random mortals.
“Well, they lied.
Obviously. No one can talk to the
dead.”
He looked crestfallen.
“There’s a psychic a couple of blocks away. Maybe they can, I don’t, console you or
something,” it couldn’t hurt to send business Silas’ way.
“Yeah, maybe,” he said.
“What website, by the way?”
“Nether ‘Nonymous.
It’s a blog and a guy, he claims to be a necromancer himself, is pretty
much releasing all this information to the world because he says it’s time for
a change. Anyway, I guess you’re right,
it must be a hoax. I don’t know what got
into me. My mom, though, she’s been dead
for six months, from breast cancer, and I just wanted to apologize for
everything.”
My heart went out to the kid, but more importantly, there
was someone out there posting about us.
The council needed to hear about this or something worse could
happen. I would send them a message
through Selene, Silas’ wife. Her father
was a high-warlock and had a seat on the Council. I had met him a couple of times at Silas’ and
Selene’s annual Samhain parties. He was
a nice enough guy and would listen to what I had to say.
Until then I had to deal with Abe. Nia had brought an even stronger message then
she had probably intended to- Abe was looking for something that I had. Whatever that was I had to figure it out
before he figured out how to get it.
C H A P T E R T W O
Sara
February 7th
The school bus is
filled with the scent of sweat and lead.
All the after school sports had been cancelled early, not that I
participated in any of them, and the boys who normally played floor hockey were
all crowded on the already full bus.
Their giant bags, with hockey blades sticking out, took up twice as much
room as I did. Because of this, Brook
and I had been exiled to the front row seat, right behind our bus driver, a
brown-skinned and short man who only spoke polish. His hair, which was thick, black, and wiry,
was damp with the snowflakes that were falling through his window, which I had
never seen closed. In the short, my
friend and I were freezing and surrounded by freshmen.
“I wish I had a car,” Brook moaned.
We were both juniors and neither of us owned a car, or
even borrowed our parents. I, however,
was a seventeen, almost eighteen, year-old who didn’t even have her
license. Father had forbidden it, not
because he was smart enough to realize I would drive away if I had a car, but
because he didn’t want to foot the bill.
And I couldn’t get a job because he wouldn’t drive me to wherever I
might work. We lived in a suburban town
just outside of Chicago, and while there were jobs available at places like the
local theater or the bookstore, none of them were within walking distance.
“Do you think this snow will clear up soon?” Brook asked
as she rifled through her backpack which actually served her more as a purse.
“Probably not,” I was looking out the window, drifting
off in my mind. I had the worst problem
with completely losing myself. Wherever
I was I could just daydream away my life, even when Father was hurting mother
or hurting me. He wanted a reaction and
I was able to keep that from him; a victory on my part.
“Good, maybe we’ll have a snow day tomorrow,” she applied
lip gloss as she peered into a handheld mirror.
Brook didn’t know how Father beat us whenever he had too
much to drink, which was often, because I was very good at hiding the
marks. As I thought about it I
unconsciously rubbed my wrist under the long-sleeve sweater I had worn. It wasn’t broken or sprained, but was very
sore after last night. The bruise was
already terrible looking. Father was
lucky that I didn’t have gym this semester because I don’t think I could have
come up with a convincing lie for this one.
No one besides Mother and I knew about Father and his
habits, and neither of us wanted to spill the beans. Me because I didn’t have anywhere to go, and
Mother because she was weak, and afraid.
When I was alone in my room, not yet tired enough to even attempt sleep
and the reprieve of dreams, I would lapse into those moments when I blamed
myself. When I saw myself as the
perpetrator, not the victim. This was
wrong, so wrong, and I knew it, but I couldn’t change my thoughts. They came unbidden and unwelcome and I
couldn’t hide from them. I would stare
out my window thinking Is it my
fault? Of course, what can I do
different? How can I be a better
daughter? How can I fix this? Why do I have to be bad? I deserve this, but I wish I didn’t.
If a counselor ever got ahold of me they would have a
field day.
“Sara?” I looked
at Brook.
“Sorry, have you been calling my name?”
She shook her head but I saw the smile that was drawn
over her lips. One of her eyebrows was
raised in good humor. “Do you want to
come over for dinner?”
Did I ever. It was
a wonderful question. Procrastinate from
going home as long as I could.
“Yes!” I said.
“Don’t get too excited, tiger, my mom isn’t that good of
a cook.”
Mother was an excellent cook, she could probably own her
own restaurant if she wanted and people would come from everywhere to eat at
it.
The bus stopped and I got off with Brook. Instead of turning right and going to my
house I turned left and went to her house.
The inside was warm and I could smell the pork roast cooking. Brooks father, Mr. Rile, smiled at me warmly
over his newspaper. Her twin brothers,
both only eight, ran around playing with toy cars and making the noises for
them. Her step brother, Mikel, was 15
and I could hear rock music coming from behind the door to his room.
Home away from hell.
* * * * * * * * * *
The snow had stopped
falling in soft, white clumps and had become a cold, slushy rain. I should have taken it as a warning that
tonight would be unlike every other I had ever lived. How could I have known before I walked in the
door that everything was about to go downhill fast, though? Common sense didn’t work when you didn’t know
the rules.
The front steps were slick and icy and I almost
slipped. I managed to open the front
door without any more trouble, and closed it behind me quietly. From the front hall you can see all the way
into the kitchen where we have our table.
And sitting at our table I could see Father’s back and Mother’s face,
which boasted a new bruise under her eye.
The table was still set up and the spaghetti was on a platter in the
middle. There were three places for
people to eat. I gulped.
I didn’t have a cell phone but I still should have
called. I was afraid he would have told
me to come home, and I didn’t want to leave Brook and her family. They were a normal, functioning family.
Father turned in his seat and his blue eyes- which were
nothing like mine and Mother’s dark brown ones- pierced into me.
“Come here,” he said evenly. It’s always quietest before the storm.
I went to him, hanging my coat up on a hook and my
backpack on the railing to the stairs.
Out house is impeccably neat, Father won’t let it be any other way.
“Where were you?” he asks when I am close enough to
hit. I notice that he is holding a
butter knife gripped tightly in his hand.
That scared me less than it should have.
“I was at Brooks.
I had dinner there,” I brace myself, keeping my face still.
The back of his hand slapped me across the side of my
face. I guess he wasn’t trying to hide
it today. Hopefully Brook’s prediction
would pay off and there would be no school tomorrow. Father never wore his wedding ring, or any
other ring for that matter, which was good for me. I didn’t want to deal with any mark it might
leave, which would be obvious.
“Are you saying that you let your mother, who works so
hard every day, make you dinner, and let it go to waste?” his voice was icy.
I didn’t answer.
Nothing I said now could fix this.
Oh, why was a such an idiot. Such
a mistake. It was my fault that I would
be left with these bruises tomorrow; my fault Mother had wasted her time on me,
an ungrateful child. No, it’s not, I tried to remind
myself. It’s his fault. His. But it wasn’t. It was my fault for goading him, getting him
all worked up. My fault.
Those two words were a scar all their own, they were my
cross to carry. If I had a religion I
would have prayed long ago for someone to take them off my back.
“Answer me.”
I still didn’t. It wasn’t my fault. My fault.
It wasn’t. Wasn’t. Wasn’t it?
My fault? Fault? No.
Not mine. Not mine. Not mine.
Mine? My fault. Fault.
Fault. No one’s fault but
mine. My fault. My fault.
He echoed my twisted thoughts, “It’s all your fault, you
stupid, stupid girl.”
Maybe it was the words coming from his slimy lips that
snapped me out of it. Later I would only
find this one thing to thank him for- that because of him I was able to see
sense at last, to realize the lie that I had told myself for so long. If he hadn’t pushed me over this edge I
wouldn’t have flown away.
I took one step
back. Then another.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he stood, not putting
the knife down yet. It wasn’t blunt, but
it wasn’t as sharp as the steak knife’s Mother kept polished and in their
wooden stand.
During this whole confrontation Mother had just sat
there, her eyes darting back and forth, unsure of whom to land on. I almost looked at her and pleaded that she
call the police, but that was never going to happen. She loved him and I loved her, even when she
was weak, and not being a good mother.
I took another step back.
And then I twisted on my heel and ran at the front door. I must have surprised him because with his
longer legs he should have caught up to me sooner. Instead, I was almost out the door when his
knife raked through the back of my shirt and into my shoulder. Blood came out, but I hoped the cut was
shallow.
Outside the air was chilly and cut into my skin as sharp
as any knife. The slushy rain had become
little slivers of ice. Father stopped at
the end of the steps as I slipped down the driveway. When I realized he wasn’t chasing me I slowed
down and looked over my shoulder. Then
is stopped because he had gone back inside.
My breath came out heavily and I was unsure of my next move. Now that I had run away, what was I supposed
to do? What was my next move? In this early evening I could see my breath
in the air.
“You still here?”
Father had come back out. This
time he had taken his gun with him. He
pointed it at me. “Get out of here, you
little rat! How I ever sired you, I have
absolutely no idea! You piece of shit,
get out of my sight!” The safety clicked
off but I was frozen. Would he actually
shoot me?
Father fired a warning shot that probably alerted half
the neighborhood to my peril. I didn’t
move still. I tried to scream but it was
caught in my throat. He raised the gun
again, sighted down the barrel, and then fired at me. It missed by a hairs breadth and hadn’t meant
to. I was running again.
I don’t know how far I ran, or how long I had been
running, when I couldn’t do it anymore.
I was in the downtown area and no one had come after me. There were no more gunshots and I believed
myself to be safe. I was seeing spots,
both from the temperature, the fact that I was exhausted, and the fact that I
was lost, nowhere to go, and no place to call home. I had just about given up. But then I decided I hadn’t done all that
running for nothing. I was going to keep
on walking until I saw something that resembled safety or the white light at
the end of the tunnel.
As I trudged through the street, which was empty now that
the moon had risen, I was careful where I put my feet. Falling down wouldn’t help me now because I
didn’t think I would ever get back up.
Down the street I limped. My
crappy gym shoes had been soaked through and my feet were blocks of ice. I probably had hypothermia and frostbite in
numerous places.
The world was silent.
Not even the sound of cars were able to disturb it. The old abandoned church, St. Mark, was to my
left. My numb ears did pick up a sound
from there. I lifted my head from the
ground and saw a boy shoveling. The scrape, scrape against the sidewalk was
rhythmic. I couldn’t really make out any
real characteristics except his outline.
His silhouette. I gasped.
He looked up. He
was the boy from my dream.
My world stopped turning.
Time froze. I didn’t hear the
sound of the large truck as it came racing at me. I didn’t hear the sound of the horn as it
blared. I didn’t see the light envelop
me completely. I did finally see the
color of his eyes, though, they were a gorgeous blue-green and they lit up in
the light of my approaching death. His
mouth opened as if to warn me. I turned
slowly and saw the silver metal rushing at me, the overworked man at the wheel,
as it grew closer and—
