Joely Sue Burkhart

This section comes shortly after the one from last week when Shannari cut the Shadowed Blood up pretty well.  If you’ve read The Rose of Shanhasson, you know that Shannari has a deeply ingrained fear when she’s grabbed or threatened from behind (another reason those little touches last week were so significant).  Gregar is determined to make sure she’s well able to defend herself if he’s not at her back.

First draft, edited for content to reduce spoilers to the first book in the series. 

From the eager look on Dharman’s face as she faced him with a rahke, Gregar had certainly been correct. The boy looked more than happy to receive the same kind of punishment that she’d given the Blood yesterday.

“It was not punishment, Khul’lanna. You honored me greatly.” Gregar laughed, shaking his head ruefully. “You honored me so much that now Khul demands to drill with you as well as these lads. Soon even Varne will demand the chance.”

“She shall refuse.” Dharman bit off each word, his jaws straining.

Gregar gave him a considering gaze and nodded. “Aye. I should not like to see Khul’lanna drill with Varne any time soon.”

How dare they dictate whom she drilled with? As though either of them had any say in what she intended to do. “I believe I’ll march back to Camp, find Varne, and demand he drill with me immediately.”

Dharman blanched, his hand fisted on his rahke, but Gregar bent over laughing. Shaking his head, he straightened and slapped the boy on the back. “You have my sympathies, Dharman. Watching you attempt to order her about will prove quite amusing.”

Irritated, she turned away and started walking back toward Camp. She didn’t much appreciate Gregar’s sense of humor, not when he backwards encouraged the boy to try and give her orders. A boy! She–

A footfall behind her was the only warning. Arms locked about her, one hand about her throat, another pinning her arms to her sides. Fear curdled her stomach, until she recognized the boy’s sweet scent of buttered honey.

Because he’d made her afraid, she quaked with rage. She fought him, slamming her head back, kicking his shins, raking at his face with her left hand.

Her left hand. He’d only pinned her right. She reached across her body and dragged the rahke from the sheath. It felt awkward, even more so than when she’d first taken the small six-inch knife into a hand well-used to a sword.

“Good.” Gregar glided around in front of them. His eyes glittered in the sunlight, faceted obsidian and shadows, his voice cold and hard. “Most men are right handed and so typically eliminate that threat first. Since you’re a woman, a man will likely want your throat in his hand, too. He won’t consider your left hand a threat at all.”

Dharman kept his hand firm on her throat, but he didn’t close off her wind. He actually held her very carefully indeed, which only pissed her off more. Her best effort had done nothing but make the boy sweat more of that sweet innocent cookie scent. “The rahke feels strange in my left hand. I don’t know how to hold it so I can stab him.”

A small tremor flickered through the boy at her back. Not fear. Anticipation. His fingers tightened minutely, his body shifting slightly as though in…welcome. Her stomach clenched with dread.

“It shall be easier once you carry my ivory rahke,” Gregar said. “You should wear it on your left. You’ll know when to use it rather than the black.”

“I’m not going to carry your rahke,” she retorted. “This is pointless! I’m not going to stab anyone.”

Gregar lifted her left hand and turned the rahke in her grip so the blade pointed down and back along her wrist. “This is the position for rear defense. You can hide the blade relatively well by keeping your hand down and holding the rahke flat along your forearm. When you strike, let the blade drop into your grip at right angles, like this.” He demonstrated, wrapping his fingers around her hand firmly.

Stepping closer, he moved her arm back slowly until she felt the blade point dig into the boy behind her. Her palms were so sweaty she likely would have dropped the blade without Gregar’s fingers on hers. Dharman held himself very still. As tall as he was for his age, she could only imagine exactly what body part she threatened with the vicious rahke.

“Don’t think. Don’t hesitate. If someone grabs you, unsheathe a rahke and smoothly stab backward, like this. Then drag the rahke up with all your strength. Slash side to side if you have time.”

The thought of maiming the boy like that made her light headed. Breathing shallowly, she closed her eyes and concentrated on deeper, slower breaths so she didn’t thoroughly embarrass herself and faint.

“Although it hurts like the Three Hells, this is not necessarily a killing blow,” Gregar continued. “The more you scramble his intestines, the better your chance at escape and his death.”

Her eyes flew open, locking on his face. “If I did this to you, you’d die.”

He smiled slowly, flames flickering to life in the dark shadows of his eyes. “Do you think so? As a Death Rider, I’m already half dead. Some argue more than half dead. To win this ivory rahke, I climbed the jagged slopes of Vulkar’s Mountain and sliced my body to ribbons. Thankfully, Vulkar accepted my sacrifice, else I would have died on those black slopes. I saw the fiery lake at the center of His Mountain, but the cost was part of my life. I’m very, very difficult to kill, Khul’lanna. All Death Riders are. If one were to grab you thusly–”

His jaw worked, his teeth grinding together. Dharman gathered her closer to his body, his grip comforting, now.

“Gut him like this, but don’t assume he’s disabled. The best way to kill a Death Rider is to slit his throat and offer his own blood sacrifice to Vulkar as quickly as possible. Aim for the large veins in the neck and groin. If you don’t finish him quickly, he’ll slaughter you with his own intestines tangled about his legs. We do not stop. Not for anything.”

“You did,” she whispered, tears burning her eyes.

“Nay.” He stepped back. “I have not stopped, Khul’lanna. That is why we shall do the drill again and again and again, until you would stab even Khul if he dared seize you from behind unawares.”

“I can’t do this.”

“Aye, you can, and you will.” The look in his eyes made her skin crawl. It was as though he looked into the future, reading the weft and weight of some tapestry she was only vaguely aware of. “Your life depends on it. If Dharman doesn’t bleed from a dozen wounds within the hour, I shall be severely disappointed.”

 

I’m working on the first draft of Road with a goal of hitting “The End” by the end of May.  Since this is the second in a trilogy, I’m not going to be able to share a lot without giving away huge spoilers.  So I will edit these for content to hide certain facts that I don’t want you to know until you read Rose.  I know, I’m wicked.

Dharman and Sal are two young men (Dharman’s the oldest at age 15) and they’re making a bit of a nuisance of themselves.  Shannari doesn’t quite know how to handle them, but right now, they’re the least of her worries.

Of course, it wouldn’t be a Blood and Shadows world snippet without some Gregar action…

Dharman and Sal had been joined by a third boy with golden hair that glinted in the sun. Grazing nearby, Wind nickered softly, pressing her soft muzzle into Shannari’s back. The gesture was typically comforting, but she couldn’t help but worry. What did they want?

They said nothing and made no move to intercept or speak to her, but they watched. Every day, they lingered, making an appearance right as she left Camp to drill with the Blood. She highly suspected they followed to spy on her.

“Do not worry, Khul’lanna,” Gregar said, his voice carefully light and unconcerned. He touched her back lightly, a small soothing caress, his hand instead of the mare’s nose. “I’m glad they remain near. If I slip while we drill, shout Dharman’s name. He’ll hear you and reach you before Khul may.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she retorted. “I’m certainly not going to call for the boy, and I’m not afraid of you, either.”

Gregar could have called her on the small lie, but he let it slip. Standing across from him with knives in their hands was the hardest thing she’d ever done, and he’d promised to do it every single day. After nearly two weeks, it was a little easier, but her heart still pounded frantically. Sweat trickled down her back, her palm so damp the hilt felt oily in her hand as she drew the rahke from the brilliantly colored belt.

Wind didn’t like their drilling sessions, either. The mare hovered, bumping into her, snorting at the Blood and striking out at him with her hooves. She never kicked him, but her warning was clear. “Wind, enough. Go graze.”

The mare threw her head up, shaking silver mane in denial.

“Go on,” Shannari insisted, giving the horse a friendly swat. “I can’t practice if you interrupt. Go!”

Gregar inclined his head to the horse and touched his right fist to his heart. With a final fierce snort, Wind trotted off into the distance. Not too far, Shannari guessed, the same as those boys. Bloody hell. She might as well have Rhaekhar standing around playing nursemaid too.

Carved roses dug into her palm. Staring at Gregar, she struggled not to flinch back into a defensive crouch.

The Shadowed Blood stood with the sun at his back, his face lost in the brightness. He simply stood there, without the rahke in his hand, and she knew the cold suffocating terror of nightmares. When he spoke, his voice had dropped an octave, low and rumbly bass. “Attack me.”

She took a deep breath, focusing her will, gathering her courage. Fighting him tested every last one of her skills, and she still wasn’t entirely comfortable with the much shorter blade. The mirrored lake glimmered in her mind, and she methodically pushed her fears and thoughts into the water, letting them flow from her. Rather, the waters welled within her, filling her, bubbling up like a pure, sweet spring.

A vision flashed in her mind: a strange tree, a trunk gleaming like bone, and drops of blood on shadows for leaves.

“The kae’sangral,” he whispered, his voice so low, so dark. “I am your Shadow, and I will bleed for you this day. Attack!”

She darted forward, swinging the rahke in a quick arc, and he leaped back, his eyes glittering, taunting.

“Faster, Khul’lanna. Do not hesitate. This day, I want you to feel the cut of rahke through flesh, to measure your strike for exactly the right amount of blood. Remember, shallow, thin cuts will honor me. No injury, no stitches, just blood. Can you honor me? Can you bleed me?”

Blessed Lady, he knew exactly the best way to challenge her. She settled the rahke better in her palm and went after him. Even though he held no weapon and couldn’t block her strikes even if he’d wanted, he was incredibly fast. He let her have nothing easily.

Dripping sweat, she finally felt the rahke catch him in the abdomen in a long flash of red. Her stomach pitched queasily and she faltered, her hand shaking.

“Good,” he said, his low voice thrumming her spine. “But you can do better. This is a bit deep. Try again. Honor me, Khul’lanna.”

The scent of his blood ripened on the air, dark syrupy caffe and baking bread, heated by the sun. It was easier to place the next cut on his arm, the next on his opposite shoulder.

When she would have called a break, he urged her onward. “Excellent. Feel how shallowly you cut? Control the blade. It is merely an extension of your hand. You can fight closer, whether with surprise or challenge, and my longer reach and greater strength is not as great a factor as when you wield the sword.”

“Your longer reach means nothing if you don’t even draw a weapon yourself,” she panted. Sweat burned her eyes, but she dared not pause until he told her. He was a fierce task master and could put her Rashan swordmaster to shame for barking orders. “No assassin will let me attack without fighting back.”

“I am not any assassin.” He laughed, and the sound slithered through her like dark chocolate. “Keep bleeding me, Khul’lanna.”

Fear clutched her stomach. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I bleed for you.”

Week 1
Week 2
Week 3

This is it, gang. I thought I might get one more section of this little story, but Gregar is tired of remembering the past and he dreads the future even more. He much prefers where…and what he’s doing…in Road. So this is the final snippet of The Shadowed Blood.

I would have her live at any cost.

How arrogant and grand a promise when he did not yet know the cost. Sitting on the sandy shore, Gregar stared out over the silvered waters and fought. He fought his pride, his honor, his gift of Death, even his love.

If his control slipped a single moment, he would kill her. Yet he could not bear to let her go. Rocking slightly, he rolled the rahke back and forth across his palm, watching the moonlight gleam on the ivory.

Such a terrible cost. He had thought seeing her alive and well would be enough, but he had not expected her to go to another warrior, let alone his friend, while he was forced to watch from afar, silent and unapproachable.

She may never know your love.

The waters rippled but no breeze stirred his hair. Crystal water clouded to a shadowy murk, sinking within itself to reveal a window. One glimpse of the woman’s face within made his heart gallop, his fingers curling tight about the rahke.

Yet his stomach lurched. He didn’t want to re-live her death again. He didn’t want to smell the scent of her blood, to feel the thick, wet heat on his hands. Not her. Never her.

This vision was different than the Shadowed dream. She wore Sha’Kae al’Dan clothing, and her hair swung short at her shoulders. In his dreams, a thick heavy braid had hung down to the back of her thighs. No Shining Walls met his gaze but the rolling hills of grass and the wide open sky of the Plains. By the emerald green of the memshai about her hips, he knew to whom she belonged. Even now, his pride raged at him to fight and drag her from the warrior who would be Khul of the Nine Camps of the Sha’Kae al’Dan.

However, dozens of outlanders surrounded her, swords threatening her. On foot and armed only with a black rahke, she was hopelessly outnumbered. Where was Khul now to protect her?

Although oceans of time and space separated them, Gregar felt as though he stood a dozen paces away. His muscles strained with effort. He would protect her. He would gut every last outlander that stood between them. Midnight blue eyes met his, glinting with pride, shining with emotion. He dared not call it love, not when she belonged to another.

Her mouth moved, her lips forming his name.

Suddenly, he knew. If he started across that great divide to put his body before hers, to shield her from those who threatened her, he would die this very day. Even a fist of pitiful outlanders would be able to eliminate one Death Rider, unless he used his gift of Shadow to reach her.

And then he would kill her himself.

Rage, regret, and crippling grief billowed through him like clouds racing across a stormy sky. Thunder rolled through his head, the frantic beat of his heart. Winds rushed through his ears, a distant trumpet of the Great Wind Stallion calling him home.

Nothing else mattered but touching her. He would lay his palm against her cheek, and perhaps breathe her scent of roses one last time while the outlanders buried steel in his body. She held something, leaning over him, her face wet with tears. His ivory rahke gleamed in her hand like a captured star, rejoicing it had come home to her at last.

He stretched out his hand, reaching for her through the window.

“Gregar.”

His fingers touched water, wet and cold. Startled, he blinked, searching for the vision. Crystal clear water sparkled in the moonlight.

His Rose was gone.

Throat aching, he slowly turned his attention to the other warrior. The two Calls returned with a vengeance, grating on his bones, splitting his head wide open. Would he be Death Rider or Blood?

Rhaekhar’s face was lined with grief. “My father now gallops across the skies with Vulkar.”

Shakily, Gregar pushed to his feet. He couldn’t resist searching the waters once more. Even a glimpse of her would ease his mind and help him make the decision.

Rhaekhar didn’t wait for his condolences. “Will you join me as Blood?”

She would be so close…and yet so terribly far away. If he swore himself to Khul, he would be a Death Rider no more. Perhaps she would be safe even from him. Certainly, he would never touch her in love. A Blood rarely slept or ate, let alone felt the natural physical needs of any warrior. He must never give voice to the emotion he carried in his heart.

Yet he would die for her.

He would go gladly if only she would press her lips to his on his last breath.

Gregar laughed to keep from falling to his knees in the water and drowning himself in an attempt to reach the vision again. Closing his eyes, he pictured her in his mind once more: pale face, huge dark eyes, chin high and shoulders squared, even when facing a brutal death surrounded by her own countrymen.

He could kill this proud, invincible warrior standing before him and take her for his own.

Which would he prefer: tears of terror in her eyes as he murdered her, or tears of grief at his death?

Her gaze met his, her luscious mouth forming his name.

Na’lanna. My beloved.

Gregar took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Faintly, he caught the scent of his Rose, dripping sweet, sweet blood. He swallowed hard and sheathed the ivory rahke. “Are you sure you want a Shadowed Blood at your back?”

“Aye,” Rhaekhar replied. “I would fight Shadow with Shadow.”

Perhaps he’d had some vision of the woman, too, for she battled Shadow each and every night, as surely as Gregar fought to keep his sanity and his soul intact. Rhaekhar offered his arm, and Gregar clasped him firmly, feeling the other warrior’s strength, weighing the kae’valda in his hair. He would not only be a renowned Khul, but also a fitting warrior for his…the…Rose.

Shannari is my Rose no more.

“It’s an honor to serve, Khul.”

 

Week 1
Week2
Hot off the press again, but it took all evening to get through this.  I couldn’t decide where to stop, and ended up doubling the length.  It needs some work, but here’s the next installment.

Wrapped in the Shadow of Death, Gregar crouched in the waist-high grass, invisible to the two warriors standing not ten paces from him. In the distance, thousands of tents dotted the foothills with the thrice-crowned Mountain rearing up in the distance. This night, Vulkar’s Mountain rumbled constantly, further cloaking the evening sky with ash to match the mourning in the tents.

A most beloved Khul of the Nine Camps of the Sha’Kae al’Dan for over twenty years was drawing his last breath, and his favored son stood on a hill above the Silver Lake searching for guidance.

Both grim-faced warriors were known to Gregar. In fact, they were his closest friends, if a Death Rider who roamed the Plains killing in Vulkar’s name could be said to have friends. Rhaekhar stood a hand taller than the other warrior, his shoulders broad, his hair already heavily laden with his kae’valda. Warriors spent their lives earning tokens of honor to braid into their hair. By honor alone, Rhaekhar stood to make as excellent a Khul as his father before him.

If he wasn’t terminated first.

Aye, the second Call thundered in Gregar’s head, dueling with the shadowed Call that whispered how sweet the woman’s blood would taste. Truly, the Calls tore him in two different directions. One urged him to peel back the Shadows, stand, and join the other warrior who stood close to the would-be Khul. Over the coming days, seven other warriors would likely feel the undeniable urge to approach Rhaekhar.

Nine total, one from each Camp, the Blood would protect the new Khul with their lives from assassins like him. As a Death Rider, his greatest honor would be found in spilling Khul’s blood, the greatest mark on the Plains, not in protecting Khul with his very life. So why had Vulkar planted this second Call in his heart and mind?

Shadow tugged on his will, urging him to terminate this would-be Khul and then ride for the Shining Walls and the woman set apart for his sacrifice alone.

“You should prepare for the Kae’Khul now,” the other warrior said, his voice flat and hard. Varne had never been known to show much emotion, but surely a son should have time to grieve for his father before his friend pushed him to begin plotting to take Khul’s place. “Drendon will be your closest challenger.”

“Aye,” Rhaekhar replied, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “We have days yet, Varne. I don’t think–”

“His skill with the rahke is better than yours.”

“Aye,” Rhaekhar repeated, his voice tightening, although outwardly he gave no sign of his displeasure. “He may very well best me, but he’ll pay in blood. Unquestionably, the kae’don will be mine. My warriors are the finest on the Plains and he knows it.”

“He has a mate. You do not. He’ll gain much advantage over you initially with her to increase his honor. Perhaps you should–”

Rhaekhar strode toward Gregar’s hiding place, standing so closely he could have gutted the warrior without moving.

“I shall have a mate soon enough.”

Gregar’s heart thudded, his ears roaring with rushing winds. He barely heard Varne’s query.

“Nay, you do not know her. I don’t know her myself, not yet, but when I meet her, I’ll know. I’ll recognize her.”

The last fervent whisper rocked Gregar to his heels.

“The Rose will be mine, a love like no other.”

Kill him, kill him, kill him.

This warrior would take his Rose. This warrior would be Khul, any Death Rider’s greatest mark. Nay, the woman, his woman, his greatest mark, his most secret heart’s desire, and Rhaekhar would take her as his own and name her Khul’lanna.

Gregar held himself very still, but inside, his heart raged, his stomach rebelled, and his very blood boiled in his veins in adamant denial. The ivory rahke came into his hand eagerly, hungry for blood, for this warrior’s blood.

I love you, she whispered, and he buried the ivory rahke in her heart.

A love like no other.

Rhaekhar whirled, smoothly unsheathing his rahke as he scanned the tall Plains grass. “I know you’re there. I hear your breathing.”

With a rueful sigh, Gregar revealed himself, slowly standing from the cloaking shadows. To his credit, Rhaekhar didn’t blanch or even take a wary step back. Face dark with shame, Varne charged forward and put his body between them, but he was too late and he knew it. If Gregar had decided to kill, the warrior would already be on the ground gasping as his life’s blood fountained on the grass.

“Vulkar sorrows with you, Rhaekhar.”

“My thanks,” he replied. He sheathed the rahke, but he watched Gregar carefully, his eyes hard. He knew very well how close to death he’d been. Since he kept his hand on his rahke, he must also realize the threat had not completely diminished. “My father will ride to Vulkar soon. Stand aside, Varne. I’m not Khul yet.”

“But you will be,” Varne retorted. “I feel the Call.”

Gregar snorted. “If you feel the Call so well, why didn’t you know I laid in wait? I could have slit his throat before you blinked your eyes.”

Stone faced, Varne let his right hand flit toward the rahke on his hip, but he hesitated.  He was mentally counting the red kae’als that had once hung in Gregar’s hair, and in the end, Varne turned stiffly and followed Rhaekhar down the hill.

The three warriors walked down to the pebbled shore of the Silver Lake. Above the waters, the full moon hung so low and full that Gregar thought he could reach up and snag it from the sky. Silvered light glimmered across the still, silent waters, shining like her eyes, the Dark Mare’s daughter, the woman he would kill.

Evidently, the woman Rhaekhar would make Khul’lanna if given half a chance.

The sudden silence in Gregar’s mind made him stagger, his fingers involuntarily relaxing enough that the ivory rahke slipped from his grip. Startled, he grabbed the blade before it hit the ground, slicing his fingers open to the bone. Why had both Calls disappeared?

“That was rather clumsy,” Varne said, his voice smug. “Even outlanders usually wield their swords without cutting themselves.”

Rhaekhar gave his back confidently to the most honored Death Rider who had stalked him. “Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?”

Staring at the blood dripping down his fingers, staining the white blade, Gregar swayed. His head felt as light as a feather, his heart sluggish and reluctant to beat. Pain banded his chest, radiating from his heart. “I don’t know.”

Week 1

This is hot off the press; literally, I wrote it tonight while watching Survivor.

Bone-white bark cut into his face, but Gregar didn’t push away from the tree. Leaves both blood red and black murmured in the breeze, the tree swaying him gently like a mother’s embrace. No one but Death Riders and shamans ever saw the green, green valley of the secret Tenth Camp, let alone the kae’sangral at its heart.

Many a time, he’d lain on his back in the sweet grass and stared up at the tapestry of red and black limbs, listening to the faint melody tinkling from within the glistening trunk. If he listened hard enough, he could almost make out the words. He liked to think the tree sang of love, the greatest gift of all, and the greatest sacrifice.

Yet his sacrifice had been refused.

In the shade of the kae’sangral, the relentless Call thundering in his blood usually dimmed to a muted rumble in the darkest corner of his mind. Over the years, he’d come here often to find peace, if only for awhile. Now, his skull thudded with every beat of his heart, and his fingers cramped on the ivory rahke.

Eventually, he would stumble. He would hesitate one moment too long and suddenly find himself galloping hard for the Shining Walls of her homeland. Wrapped in Shadow, invisible with Vulkar’s Gift of Death, he would lie in wait for the woman.

And he would kill her.

“Why didn’t you let me die?”

He didn’t expect an answer, not from Vulkar, who had doomed him to dishonor and Shadow. A response from His Dark Mare was even more unexpected.

:WE HAVE A PURPOSE FOR YOU YET, KAE’HAD-MANGUS.:

Most honored Death Rider, the Right Hand of Vulkar, the Hand that Wields the Rahke of Sacrifice. How he’d come to despise his honored title.

Biting back a snarled curse, he whirled from the holy tree and fell to his knees.

The Dark Mare’s coat glimmered like the full moon on the Silver Lake, a glistening rainbow of pearls. Her black mane and tail dragged the ground, and Her eyes gleamed like an endless midnight sky overflowing with falling stars.

He laid the ivory rahke in the grass before him and bowed over it, pressing his face to the ground. “What would You have me do?”

She nibbled on his hair, tugging until he raised his head. :WE WOULD HAVE YOU LIVE.:

Jaw clenched, he fought back the rage boiling within him. “I shall not kill her!”

:GOOD.: The Dark Mare butted him in the chest, knocking him back on his heels. :WE WANT YOU TO PROTECT HER, NOT KILL HER.:

“It’s too late.” Drowning failure crumbled the last of his control and he leaped to his feet. Hands fisted, he fought not to pick up the rahke and slit his throat.  As a Death Rider, he was already half dead; not even the lake of fire had been able to kill him.  “The Endless Night has corrupted my gift of Death. I feel the Call for her termination every moment of every day and night. My blood pounds with the need to terminate her, my rahke hungers for her flesh, and I burn to taste her blood. She is my greatest mark, and I would rather die than succumb to Shadow!”

:TWO CALLS AWAIT YOU, BUT YOU CANNOT ANSWER BOTH. DOWN ONE PATH YOU ARE SURE TO EMBRACE HER IN DEATH, BUT SHE WOULD BE WHOLLY YOURS; THE OTHER GIVES HER A CHANCE TO LIVE BUT SHE MAY NEVER KNOW YOUR LOVE.:

Hope made his hands tremble. “I would have her live at any cost.”

:LISTEN FOR THE SECOND CALL AND MAKE YOUR CHOICE.:

“There is no choice,” he swore, picking up the ivory rahke and slamming it into its sheath on his hip. “If she lives, I’ll pay the cost.”

:EVEN IF THE COST OF HER LIFE IS YOUR DEATH?:

“Aye. Let me die if she might live.”

The Dark Mare brushed Her silken muzzle against his cheek, and Her scent filled his nose.

The smell of musky flowers tightened his throat and sent his heart slamming against his ribcage. “You smell like her.”

:SHE IS THE ROSE OF SHANHASSON, MY LAST DAUGHTER IN WHOM ALL HOPE REMAINS. IF SHE FALLS INTO SHADOW, THE SUN WILL NEVER SHINE AGAIN.:

He didn’t realize he wept until She licked his tears from his cheeks. “I will die to keep her safe, if only…” Shame gnawed the pit of his stomach and he couldn’t ask. He didn’t deserve a boon from the Dark Mare, not with Shadow eating his heart.

Yet She knew his most secret heart’s desire and gave him the answer he sought. :HER NAME IS SHANNARI.:

My super brilliant editor, Deena, called Gregar lethally sexy. I totally agree. 

I hinted last week that I had some ideas for Gregar’s prequel.  This little story will be most meaningful to those who’ve read The Rose of Shanhasson and need some Gregar action to tie them over until book 2… but I’ll do my best not to give away too many spoilers or depend too heavily on the overall series arc in the main series.  Of course, if you love Gregar’s story, he’s a very important character in the series and you will definitely want to read more.  *wink wink* 

If you want to read more about how Death Riders are first Called to sacrifice, check out the free read Touch the Sky.

I don’t know how many scenes I’ll get out of this, nor if I’ll hit every single week or not, but I’m jumping into the Well and will trust Gregar to guide me.  When I finish the whole story, I’ll put it into a pdf and load it in the freebie section.  This is the opening section I wrote Dark and Early this morning to:

The Shadowed Blood

The most honored Death Rider stood on a smoldering black ledge above a lake of fire in the heart of the Mountain and wept.

“Great Wind Stallion, hear my prayer. Lift Your Shadow of Death from me. I can’t bear it. I can’t bear to hurt her…”

Shuddering, Gregar fell to his knees. The hem of his memsha began to smoke, his flesh blistering, but he did not rise. In his dreams, the woman’s eyes were the same brilliant blue as the cloth wrapped about his hips, as blue as his kae’valda. His throat constricted, his heart thudding painfully in his chest.

He carried more kae’als than any Death Rider before him, each red bead in his hair representing a sacrifice in Vulkar’s name, and he defiled his kae’valda every night. Shadow walked in his dreams, corrupting his gift and tainting his soul. Each nightmare dragged him closer to her, and thus closer to her death.

Last night’s dream had driven him in desperation back to Vulkar’s Mountain, the beginning of his doom.

Midnight eyes pooled with tears, she lay beneath him, trembling as his life’s blood poured out on her skin. She had not come easily to his embrace. She never did. Fighting for her life, she’d enjoyed wounding him as much as he’d relished her pain.

She fed his darkness like no other.

“I love you.”

“Aye,” he whispered, smoothing his thumb over the pulse thumping frantically in her throat. “My heart is yours, na’lanna.”

My beloved.

And he buried the ivory rahke in her heart.

“Not her!” Gregar roared, throwing his head back and shaking his fists. “I have killed in Your name countless times! I have heeded Your Call and sacrificed blood as You demanded, but I shall not sacrifice hers! Deliver me from this Shadow, Vulkar, or let me die. ”

Hands trembling, he unsheathed the ivory rahke on his hip and laid it on the ledge. He untied the braids at his temples, pulled each kae’al from his hair, and tossed the beads one by one into the burning lake. He ripped off his memsha and tossed it into the fires as well.

In vain, he searched for a vision, some sign of forgiveness. Smoke and steam wheeled above the heartfires of the earth, but no magnificent Stallion reared up out of the molten lake as before. No bone-crushing voice thundered in his skull.

Hoarse and raw, his throat burned from the fumes of charred minerals and melted rock. “I’ve killed her a thousand times in my dreams, and I don’t even know her name.”

Shoulders slumped, he glared at the ivory rahke, his gift from Vulkar when he’d become a Death Rider. The blade glinted as pure as snow, untouched by the smoldering rock and the numerous marks he’d terminated. How many had he killed? A fist, two fists, dozens? Why wasn’t the ivory darkened by the Shadow he carried in his heart? Why wasn’t the pristine blade stained with blood?

At the thought of her blood dripping from the rahke, his mouth watered.

His prayers had not been heard.

Picking up the knife, he stood and faced the lake of fire. “So be it.”

Gregar gripped the ivory rahke in his teeth and leaped into the flames.

I’ll do one last snippet from Rose.  Unfortunately, I can’t share snippets from what I’m writing now (book 2, The Road to Shanhasson) without giving spoilers to the first book in the series.  I do have an idea for a prequel starring Gregar that I might work on and share as I write it.  Are you sick of me talking about him yet?

Seriously, he is my Muse.  He haunts me.  To be perfectly honest, he often scares me.  He has no limits, and he’s a bit of a masochist as you’ll see in this snippet about 1/3 of the way into Rose.

Setup:  On the ride to the Plains, Shannari’s thrashing wakes Rhaekhar up in the middle of the night.  No longer breathing and unable to awaken, she’s trapped in a nightmare of Shadow.

“How can I help her?”

Gregar tucked his ivory rahke into her hand. “She needs a weapon. And she needs to bleed.”

“Nay,” Rhaekhar whispered, his entire body shaking.

“It is best if you do it, Khul.” Gregar met his gaze. His mouth twisted in that trademark smirk, but agony glittered in his dark eyes. “I would draw too much.”

She went rigid, her body vibrating from head to toe.

“Hurry, Khul.” Gregar’s voice softened and a dreamy peace smoothed the pain from his face. He cradled her hand gripping the rahke in both of his palms and lifted the blade to his chest. “A little blood will be sufficient.”

Silently, Varne offered his rahke. Rhaekhar shook his head. “Mine.”

Another Blood appeared beside them, Khul’s rahke in his hand. Rhaekhar took his rahke and lifted the wickedly sharp edge to her fragile skin. He chose the scar over her heart, the scar he wished to obliterate. Closing his eyes, he whispered a quick prayer, and then made a small incision.

Light blinded him. For a moment, he couldn’t tell where it came from. The ivory rahke in her hand glowed like a captured star, shining in the night like a beacon. In the many years he had called Gregar friend, Rhaekhar had never seen such a marvel.

Shannari took a long, shuddering breath. Her eyes flew open. And with a low, vicious cry, she buried the rahke in Gregar’s chest.

#

The dark-haired Blood with the wicked smile fell forward slowly, the knife in his chest still in her hand. Horrified, Shannari tried to pull back, but his hands gripped hers in a vise, pressing the blade deeper.

He fell on her, staring into her eyes. No surprise, no reprisals, no pain. His gaze was heavy lidded, smoldering with desire, pleasure, raw hunger, death. Blood gushed from the wound, searing her skin.

“Thank you,” Gregar whispered, his voice thick. “You honor me.”

One of the other Blood she didn’t know gently lifted his weight from her and lay him on the ground beside her. Gregar never took his gaze from hers, even as the blade slid out of his flesh. No pain flashed in his dark gleaming eyes.

His chest glowed like the knife in her hand. Light pulsed in the wound, a liquid rainbow flashing in the night. Before her eyes, the wound closed until only a scar remained. A scar over his heart to match hers.

“Oh, Lady, I didn’t mean to—” Her teeth chattered so badly she could hardly speak. The knife dropped from her nerveless fingers and the light faded. “What happened? What did I do?”

Rhaekhar bowed his head against her chest, his arms squeezing her so tightly she made a small sound of pain. Immediately, he loosened his grip, but he didn’t raise his head. “You were dreaming. You stopped breathing, na’lanna. I couldn’t wake you.”

Shivering, she fought back the overwhelming horror of the dream. The nightmare tormented her often, but she’d never hurt anybody before. Then again, she’d never been so desperate before. Her stomach heaved. Rolling away, she barely avoided vomiting on the barbarian.

So sick, so scared. She could still feel thick, foul shadows writhing like snakes inside her. She could still taste rotting death. Shaking, she swiped a hand across her mouth, smearing her lips with Gregar’s blood.

His blood was still warm. The spicy taste on her lips washed away the foulness. So good, heating her stomach, chasing away some of the bone-chilling shadows deep inside. Before she could think, she slipped a finger in her mouth. Another. It shamed her how good his blood tasted. She truly was tainted, corrupted, ruined, just as the Nightmare had told her in the dream.

“Nay.” Gregar touched her back lightly. “As I said, Shannari, you honor me.”

“Too much,” Rhaekhar retorted. “What were you thinking? She could have killed you.”

While the two barbarians argued, Shannari staggered over to the pool and scrubbed the blood off. Her hands trembled. So much blood. Bad enough that she seemed to hunger for Rhaekhar’s blood. At least he professed to love her. But why on earth would Gregar’s blood tempt her?

“Are you well?” Rhaekhar asked, his voice low.

Turning slowly, she studied his face, trying to judge his emotions. The bond between them was quiet. He felt…careful. Hesitant. He didn’t seem angry or jealous, at least not now. Deep down, he seemed more resigned than surprised.

He should be furious. If tasting blood was a great honor to his people, then she’d just accidentally given great precedence to his friend.

Miserably, she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no reason, na’lanna. I’m relieved that you survived the darkness you battled.”

Carefully, she stole a glance at Gregar on his left. He watched her, his manner oddly expectant. He seemed to suffer no ill effects from having had a knife buried in his chest. That didn’t make her feel any better. “How did you know?”

“Gregar felt the Shadow in your dream.”

Varne shifted uneasily on Rhaekhar’s right. His cheek was scored by what looked like her fingernails. When had she done that?

“Do you want to taste Varne’s blood too?” Rhaekhar asked solemnly.

Shaking her head hard, she quickly looked away from the glowering Blood. That’s the last thing she wanted to do. Gregar snickered, drawing her gaze to him again. Why were they acting so careful and strange? She’d stabbed the man, and they walked on eggshells around her. It didn’t make any sense.

After giving her another disapproving glare, Varne left, disappearing into the shadows around the pool.

“Why’s he upset? If anyone should be angry, it’s you two.”

“Varne has no sense of humor.” Gregar hunkered down in front of her and winked suggestively, his teeth flashing white in a wide smile. “I’m not angry.”

“I’m not angry either, na’lanna.” Rhaekhar watched her, then Gregar. He didn’t rant or rage. No fury flowed through the bond. If anything, he seemed to have accepted whatever hesitation he experienced earlier. “Do you want anything else from Gregar at this time?”

Suddenly, she realized she was stark naked. Chilly water or not, she scrambled into the pool and made a great show of washing. With her back to them. “Some clothes would be nice.”

The wicked Blood laughed again. “It’s an honor to serve, Shannari.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Gregar?”

Pausing, he faced her. Heavy and solemn, the night waited silently, shadows draping over his face. Again, she had that haunting sense of familiarity, of recognition. Some dark dream, forbidden, shadowed, blood and temptation.

“How did you know you wouldn’t die?”

His mouth quirked, his dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “I didn’t.”

I haven’t done a snippet of the novella, The Fire Within, for quite a while, so I thought I’d share a little dream sequence.  Dreams aren’t just simple sleepy-time visions in this world, as you will see.  Darius is the High King of Shanhasson, the throne stolen from the legitimate blood line through murder and treachery.  His sister, Eleni, talked him into letting her travel to Keldar to seek allies, where she plans to escape.  War approaches Shanhasson, and Darius is desperate enough for more troops that he allows Eleni to flee.  She’s never far from his influence, not when he can walk in her dreams with his dark power.  She seeks sanctuary with Zahak and/or his brother, the leader of his tribe.

She walked on blood-red sands swept across a blasted land riddled with ravines. A full moon blazed down in the velvet sky, lighting the strange landscape. Ahead, a twisted black Spire pierced the sky. She wanted to run as far away from that Spire as possible, but it sucked her ever closer, her feet heavy and dragging through the sand.

Something in her blood stirred at the sight of that dull-black rock, like worms wriggling in a corpse.

At that thought, Darius appeared, walking across the cracked ground as though he were emperor of the world. She waited for the familiar flood of adrenaline, the rushing of blood in her ears, the vicious clenching of her stomach. Yet all she felt was a spreading warmth in her veins.

Tea. Fire Tea.

Keldar is a hard land.

She remembered Zahak, the feel of his arms sliding around her as she fell. The raw silk scent of his skin, dust and spice and sweat and man. He’d lived hard years of suffering and warfare, of drought and blazing sun, without ever attaining cruelty or malice in his eyes.

A dry, hot wind lifted her hair, swirling strands into her face. She tasted something foul on her tongue, dry and powdery like desiccated corpses. A faint whiff of death tainted the wind, which grew ever stronger, darker, until it crawled through the air like shadowed fog.

Suddenly, she realized the wind and the stench of rotting flesh came from her brother. He was miles away in this dreamscape, yet she saw his face clearly. The cruel gleam in his eyes sliced her mind into ribbons.

“What a strange place you brought me to, dearest. But I like it. I like it a great deal. In some ways…” Standing in the shadow of the Spire, he sighed, a deep rumble vibrating the ground like thunder. “I feel like I’ve come home.”

Closing his eyes, he stretched out his hands. One palm caressed the dull black stone of the Spire. The other reached toward her. Smoke exploded from his palm, thick and blacker than the night.

Fire blazed higher in her stomach. Every instinct clamored that she should run. If that foul smoke found her, she would never be the same again. She would never wake again. The moon disappeared, swallowed by the tar spewing from the spire and Darius.

Death and shadows were everywhere, stretching out across the sands.

Despite her fear, she found herself standing beside him, gagging at the rotten stench filling her nose. Her ears hurt from some silent agonized scream shrilling just beyond hearing. The Spire was evil, Shadow, she knew it, as surely as she knew Darius reveled in the sense of pain and suffering in this place.

“What do you know? Have you won the allies we seek?”

She swallowed, steeling herself to lie—or at least to omit as much as possible. Every fact she kept secret was another weapon to use to protect herself. “A Keldari warrior bought me from the trader.”

“What does he want with you?”

Her heart thudded in her chest, sweat trickling down her back despite the goose bumps crawling down her arms. “I don’t know yet. He—”

Casually, Darius dropped his hand onto her shoulder, and she tensed, waiting for the pain. Pain always came when he touched her. Revulsion slithered through her, her heart slamming against her ribs, trying to escape the cage of her body. The taint in him was stronger than ever, a thick black slime that oozed from his skin.

His eyes were swallowed with Shadow. Smiling, he tightened his grip, his thumb pressing painfully against her collar bone until she feared it would break. She hated this numbing terror that blanketed her mind. She hated the useless sense of duty she still felt for him after all these years. How often would he hurt her before she realized he cared nothing for her?

“You will do exactly as he orders. If he wants to bed you, you will do so as enthusiastically as you went to that Duke’s bed last fall.”

A blazing inferno burned inside her, bubbling up like a volcano. Surely the Spire must be affecting her, too, tainting her, corrupting her emotions. Yet the fire felt good, right, a fierce beacon in the night that blazed in her heart. She had no idea where such courage had come from, such defiance, but she embraced it.

Darius held her close, leaning down to sneer in her face. So she planted her fist square on his nose.

With a roar, he flung her sailing backward through the air. Fire roared higher, wrapping around her, carrying her away into the night sky. Distantly, she heard her brother scream, but flames engulfed her. Hungry, searing fire burned her to a crisp.

I don’t care.

Fire obliterated the world.

You’ve seen parts of Rose before (originally titled BloodRose), but since it comes out this weekend from Drollerie Press, I thought I’d post a snippet that shows why I love Gregar so much. 

Setup:  This is the day after Rhaekhar defeated Shannari’s army.  All is not sunshine and bunnies despite their first night together.  In fact, he stalked out of the room thoroughly insulted and hasn’t seen her for hours.  This discussion with his two best friends who are also Blood, or bodyguards, worsens his turmoil.

Varne is the nearest Blood, the first of the nine Blood and the last line of defense.

Gregar is the shadowed Blood who used to be a Death Rider, an assassin.

[translation notes, or check the Sha’Kae al’Dan dictionary]

Rhaekhar shaded his eyes against the rising sun and surveyed the green fields to the east and then the river to the southwest. “I’ll leave a fist of my warriors here to maintain control. They can camp across the river closer to the desert without disturbing the outlanders.”

Varne nodded. “As you say, Khul. Who do you leave in command?”

“Athgart. He’s used to command and one of the best scouts. I want the blasted lands beyond the river patrolled regularly. No more outlanders will move in the desert without alerting us immediately.”

Turning, Rhaekhar headed back toward the village. The wooden and stone buildings sat side by side along the muddy stone track. That people lived their entire lives here astonished him. What would Shannari think of the Sha’Kae al’Dan lifestyle, roaming the Sea of Grass as the herds demanded, and setting up Camp in a new place nearly each day?

Thinking of her made him clench his jaw with frustration. Desire pulsed through him, which only angered him more. Even now, he wanted her with an intensity that shamed him.

Walking on his left, Varne cleared his throat. “Khul, may I speak with you regarding the woman?”

Despite his inner turmoil, Rhaekhar did not like the note in his nearest Blood’s tone. “You may speak to me of na’lanna [my beloved] Shannari.”

“I know what you feel for this woman, but… The vision you spoke of from Vulkar, you had it when you were just a lad. Could you be mistaken?”

“Nay, I recognize her scent, I know her blood. She’s mine, Varne. I know it.”

“I don’t like her.” His nearest Blood had never been one to mince words. “I don’t like how she insults you. It will only get worse, Khul. She delights in tormenting you.”

“She is na’lanna.”

“So you say. But is she worth risking your position, your Camp, all Nine Camps?”

Rhaekhar tried to casually brush aside his Blood’s words, but his stomach tightened with unease. Before the Great Wind Stallion, he had sworn to lead the Nine Camps and to protect the Plains at all cost. Surely the gift of na’lanna would not compromise his sworn duty. “Vulkar and the Dark Mare promised her to me.”

“Then They have committed you to the Three Hells. Tehark will use her against you to improve his standing with the other Camps. None of the khuls will appreciate an outlander in their midst, let alone one you threaten to make Khul’lanna. If she loved you, it would be different, Khul, but her animosity is obvious. Even more, I See…”

Each Blood gained special gifts from the Great Wind Stallion when they tasted Khul’s blood sacrifice. Varne’s gift was inner sight, a sense of two paths diverging and which should be taken. “What? What have you seen?”

“Shadows.” The formidable Blood whispered, his face pale as though he saw a great horror. “Shadows hang all about her.”

“Like Gregar’s?”

“Nay, not exactly. These are… darker.”

“Aye,” Gregar answered softly from Rhaekhar’s other side. He spoke with a keen edge to his voice. As if in a dream, he unsheathed his ivory rahke [six inch knife, traditional Sha’Kae al’Dan weapon of honor] and rolled it back and forth on his palm, stroking it lovingly. “Darkness is strongly attracted to her. Her blood Calls to Shadow.”

Varne stepped forward, unsheathing his rahke. “Including you?”

Rhaekhar sucked in his breath and carefully kept his place between the two of them. He didn’t care to see which Blood would be victorious if they came to blows. He needed them both too much.

Still rolling the rahke in his hand, Gregar met Varne’s gaze briefly and then looked into Rhaekhar’s eyes. The day darkened. The rising sun slipped behind a bank of clouds and silence hung heavy in the air. “Aye.”

Goose bumps raced down Rhaekhar’s arms and his scalp itched, hair prickling. Adrenaline pumped through his body. His chest rumbled a growl of aggression, male to male. Every muscle in his body bunched, tensing, ready to prove his dominance.

Another warrior sniffed around his woman. A woman who openly professed she would never love, him or any other for that matter.

Warriors killed each other for lesser offenses.

“Khul, do you want me to challenge him?” Varne’s voice echoed with silky menace.

Gregar smiled, his eyes swallowed by shadows.

Gripping his rahke, fighting the urge to carve out the Blood’s heart for admitting interest in Shannari, Rhaekhar deliberately bit his tongue and the inside of his cheek. The coppery taste of blood sharpened his senses and the small pain cleared some of the red haze. “Don’t be a fool, Varne. If I want his blood, I will challenge him myself.”

Gregar said nothing, but met his gaze unflinchingly. Shadows lengthened on the ground and the silence became oppressive.

Ice dripped down Rhaekhar’s spine. Gregar was Death. He carried Vulkar’s gift of Shadow. If he had truly wanted Khul dead, Rhaekhar would be gasping and bleeding on the ground already. “You said earlier you would rather have the Rose. You knew of whom I spoke even then.”

“Aye.”

Shadows thickened in the air until Rhaekhar couldn’t breathe. Agony shredded his heart. Mine, the dream of the Rose is mine! “What vision were you given of her?”

Gregar shook his head. “Forgive me, Khul, but I shall not say, not unless it will save her life or yours.”

“You are Blood!” Varne retorted, his face a mask of fury. “You swore to sacrifice every single drop of your blood for Khul. If he asks, you will answer him, so I say as nearest Blood.”

“No oath I ever swore, on Khul’s blood or any other, demands I share my personal torment and shame.” Gregar’s voice dripped with disdain. “Let alone with you.”

At least the rising challenge between his two Blood kept his own fighting instinct in check. Rhaekhar pushed Varne in the chest, keeping him back. All these years, Gregar had followed Varne’s lead as nearest Blood without question. One night in the Green Lands and they were ready to challenge each other. “Varne, enough! This is my decision.”

“As you will, Khul,” Varne bit off each word as he grudgingly retreated a step. “It is an honor to serve, even if some have forgotten.”

“I forget nothing,” Gregar whispered. He held Rhaekhar’s gaze a moment longer, and then deliberately bowed his head. “You are my honor, Khul, and I serve you still. The only difference is that I would serve Shannari with honor as well.”

Jealousy roared through Rhaekhar’s veins. His neck corded, his shoulders strained, and he ached to pound this threat into a bloody pulp. Gregar was one of his oldest, most trusted friends, but no warrior relished such competition. If the Blood had not said, “with honor” or had continued staring him in the eyes, then Rhaekhar would have challenged him on the spot. His honor would have accepted nothing less than blood.

“See what damage she has wrought?” Varne said, shaking his head. “She will tear the Nine Camps apart, just as she tears you and your Blood apart. The darkness inside her demands it.”

“There is no darkness without light,” Gregar said softly, carefully raising his gaze with lowered shoulders and softer voice to minimize the challenge. “Your love can be the light for her, Khul, and keep her from falling into Shadow. She bleeds in Shadow and none can save her from her own battles. But you can give her love where otherwise she would know only betrayal and death.”

Shaken, Rhaekhar concentrated on letting his body relax, dropping his shoulders and breathing more freely. The promise of a love like no other was still his and his alone, yet the Blood must have seen many of the same things shown to Rhaekhar in whatever vision he had received of Shannari. Why him instead of Gregar? “Would you have given her betrayal?”

“Nay.” Gregar glared down at the ivory rahke in his hand, his lip curling with hatred. “I shall never betray you, Khul, nor her.”

Somehow, Gregar would have brought her death.

Rhaekhar’s blood chilled.

This time, he couldn’t resist unsheathing his rahke. He wouldn’t challenge Gregar out of jealousy, but he would challenge him to ensure Shannari’s safety.

“She is safe from me now, Khul.” Gregar shrugged but kept his gaze averted. “The oath I swore on your blood ensures it.”

“I still say we should leave her here where she belongs and return to the Plains at once,” Varne said. “You accomplished your goal and none can dispute this kae’don [battle]. Bring that woman home, though, and the disputes will worsen.”

“Only a fool would suggest leaving behind na’lanna.” Instead of Gregar’s usual humor, the underlying ache of loss in his voice stirred pity in Rhaekhar’s heart.

He thought of returning to the Plains without Shannari. His heart thundered in his chest and his stomach twisted. “Never. Where I go, she goes. If there are any kae’don to fight or disputes to settle, I shall do so gladly. If I cannot keep her and win her love, then I am no warrior.”

“Keep her safe, Khul.”

The unspoken threat, Or I shall, hung in the silence. This threat, though, Rhaekhar could tolerate, even approve. Shannari came first. He would dismiss the complication of Gregar’s affections, unless… Gritting his teeth, he pushed the thought away. She came first, in everything. He would do what he must. To signal his acceptance, Rhaekhar sheathed his rahke. “If I had decided to leave without her, what would you have done?”

Gregar laughed and re-sheathed the rahke on his hip. At last, the sun broke through the clouds and the air brightened considerably. The intolerable weight of Death withdrew. “You would have had only eight Blood.”

“Because I would have killed you.” Varne tried to match the other Blood’s lighter tone and failed.

Gregar smiled, a fierce baring of teeth. “Then you would have had only seven Blood, Khul.”

I really can’t share much of the zombie love story I started last week since it’s only a little over 4K.  I’ll share one more piece that sets up the “zombie” element but there’s so much more coming…  Warning:  sexual content

Opening Section.

Screaming, I jerked awake. I clawed at the blankets, flailing toward the edge of our king-sized bed.

My husband reached for me, mumbling, “What’s wrong?”

Relieved, I sank back onto the pillows and rolled into his embrace. Even woken from sleep, his voice echoed with command. He was a man used to leadership, wealthy enough to purchase the best doctors and provide exclusive, expensive care for me. He loved me. I remembered that much.

A wave of nausea flooded my stomach, burning up my throat. I really didn’t want to see any more doctors. Perhaps one–the one who… My head hurt. Yes, he’d taken care of my head. After the accident. The bridge. Pain exploded. Why couldn’t I remember his face? His name? He saved me. Images fluttered through my mind like loose papers, blowing leaves, gone in an instant.

Pillowing my face on Robert’s chest, I tried to calm my thoughts. “I was dreaming. Oh, it was horrible. That doll, her broken face…”

Shuddering, I couldn’t tell him the worst of the nightmare. She was me. I was her. What does that mean?

“That same old nightmare again? Go back to sleep, dear.”

His dismissive attitude stung. Rather, it would have hurt if I could feel anything. I was suddenly aware that I was fully awake, yet I was still numb to my surroundings. His bare chest was beneath my cheek, but I felt no heat from him. I smelled nothing from his skin. Hadn’t he always smelled of cologne, even at night? His chest hairs should tickle, yet I felt nothing but the rise and fall of his chest. Panic gnawed in the pit of my stomach, twisting me into knots.

He made a sound of pain and took my hand in his, lifting my fingers away from his skin where I’d gouged my nails into him. “That hurts, Angelina. What’s wrong?”

I couldn’t speak for the dread choking me. I was still the doll, but I was awake. He rolled up onto his forearm and smiled down at me. Didn’t terror flash in my eyes, dark with the screams of nightmares? Or was it the blank stare of the doll? Which was worse?

He kissed me, murmuring against my mouth. I felt the pressure of his lips, but not the heat or wetness, nor the scratch of his mustache. I clutched him harder, pushing him over onto his back and climbing onto him. Nothing. No heat, no sweaty glide of flesh on flesh. Yet he threw his head back and groaned deep in his throat, his hips arching up beneath me.

He was inside me, and I couldn’t feel it. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me into a rocking rhythm that my body knew but didn’t feel. No stirring fire burned in me. Nothing but this spreading blackness of fear. I plunged harder, faster, desperation driving me to feel something, anything. He drew me down and whispered, “Are you ready? I’m coming, oh, my love…”

Nothing. I couldn’t even cry. He shuddered and made a masculine purr of satisfaction as he rolled to his side and tucked me down beside him. “I like these nightmares of yours.”

I lay there, silent, frozen, strangled with betrayal. How could he be so blind, so oblivious? Didn’t he see? Couldn’t he feel the coldness in my unresponsive body?

This reality was worse than the doll’s nightmare.