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Summary: Meta is an angel: a.k.a. “one of the good guys,” but her ebony hair and calling to haul souls to Hell has made her an outcast among the other Shirley-Temple-blond seraphs. Assigned to work with Sol, who thinks sneezing during prayer is a sin, Meta gags at his prudish, butt-kissing perfection. To her surprise, though, after they get into a territory war over a dead mortal in a hospital room, her vomit reflex turns into an urge to kiss Sol’s pearl-pink lips. The mismatched angels plow halo-first into a quirky, often dysfunctional relationship. Meta is weakened by her new feelings for Sol when Satan tries to seduce her with promises of power and acceptance if she will join him. In a world where forbidden desires are paid for with your soul, young Meta must decide if she will be Satan’s right hand or turn her back on the alluring darkness to follow her heart and the love of an angelic man who was never meant to be hers. Download this e-book novel on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B008J4VTHC Praise for META BLACKWING "Loved it! Meta is so conflicted and complicated. I am very interested to find out what made her the way she is and if this Guide will change her for the better." -Bethany Lee Robinson, Cottonwood Heights, Utah "It pulled me in and made me want to read more." -Kiery Wilson, Battle Creek, Michigan "I am amazed at how Heather can create such imagery and tell a story with so few words. This is such a unique idea/story. I bet there's no other books like it. I can't wait to read more!" -Laura Mortgose, Provo, Utah "Genius" -Jasmine Hansen, Laie, Hawaii "Very imaginative" - Emily Choate, Cheyenne, Wyoming "This is very captivating, and nicely done. I always wanted to know what happened next!" -Anonymous

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The Third Queen- Chapter Two

How neglectful I've been. I've had this chapter for months and never posted it. I'm focusing now on my newest full-length novel and that's sucked up all my writing time (there's isn't much now a days any way with four kids and running our own business). Anyway, I hope you'll forgive me for not having much new. Enjoy.




Chapter Two
“Do you think she has even danced a Qurast? She is so very young.” Queen Jazelda looked down her long nose and spoke to Queen Magda as though I were not even present in the room.
It was just the three of us in the sitting room, all the servants had been sent away to prepare the wedding announcement that was to take place that afternoon before the entire kingdom. How I, Sylvain, just a maid from a remote village was now to become King Rainstaff’s third queen, was beyond me. I had been content to marry Lord Parish, the king’s cousin, but one sentence from King Rainstaff had changed all that. Everything was such a whirl, I hardly knew what to think. I was grateful that words were not something I was required to produce at the moment as the two elder queens assessed me, sitting perfectly still, barely daring to blink, in the far corner of the room.
“She is young,” Magda agreed, a smile ever present on her round cheeks. “I wonder if she has ever even attended a ball?”
“Doubtful,” Jazelda scowled with a sort of pleasure. “To think one can become a queen of Diria and never have danced a ball.”
Magda straightened the dress on the little worn doll that belonged to her daughter and beamed. “But she is indeed beautiful.” When she spoke, there was a sigh in her voice, like a rush of spring breeze.
Jazelda’s scratching-branch voice cut over hers. “Ha. And you are impetuously too-cheerful. If every quality of womanhood was to be taken individually, there would be no end to Rainstaff’s wives.”
So, Jazelda was bitter at me. That was just as well. She was too proud, any other reaction would ill-suit her. But it was easy to see why these women had been chosen to be Rainstaff’s queens. Jazelda had a cold elegance which commanded attention and obedience. Her face was long and fine, like the sculptures in the courtyard and her hair was as a thousand threads of black silk. To soften Jazelda’s severness, it was easy to imagine why Rainstaff had been drawn to little Magda. Her halo of blonde curls and childlike face exuded warmth and happiness. If Jazelda was a statue, then Magda was a cherubim beaming down from the palace’s painted ceiling. I wondered for a moment, how I was to fit into the picture. Rainstaff hadn’t been in my presence more than a moment. What had he seen in me to break my engagement with his cousin and claim me as his own?
“Oh, dear Jaze,” Magda’s pet name for the older woman surprised me. There was a fondness between the queens despite how much Jazelda might try to hide it under her cutting remarks, “you are quiet extraordinary as well. I did not mean to diminish your beauty by acknowledging hers.”
Jazelda turned her face to the window, but I could tell by the crease around her eyes that Magda’s assurances pleased her. After a moment, she snapped her head back. “But what does Rainstaff even know of her? What do we even know of her?” Her gaze upon me was like one appraising a stray hound.
“Well,” Magda gently offered, “why don’t we ask her?” Jazelda humphed but her milder companion took a careful step toward me as though I might fly off.
I however, was not as timid as they might suppose. Though these were the queens of Diria, King Rainstaff had spoken. Whether they, or I, liked the arrangement, I was to join them in the queenhood.
“Sylvain,” Magda started, “may I call you Sylvain?”
Her sudden politeness towards my presence tempted a smile on my lips; I had to force them still.
“Yes, you may call my Sylvain,” I answered her.
“Very well. Tell us about yourself.”
I hesitated just a moment, more accustom to silence than speech. “I was born in the high country. In a small mountain village. I have lived there my entire life.”
“Do doubt training for the royal court,” Jazelda sneered.
But her comment did not offend me as she desired. “Indeed. While the other girls of my age were helping on their families farms and preparing for marriage to a blacksmith or page, I was being taught civility for the time I would join in marriage to the court.”
Jazelda rolled her eyes. “These country folk see one promising face and spend the rest of their resources seeking to thieve the court of its riches.”
It was Magda’s turn to scold, however she did so with much more grace. “Jaze, do you not recall the sea-side town of your birth? Perhaps you are not so different from our Lady Sylvain here.”
Jazelda turned her long nose up. “My parents were of noble lineage. I wasn’t just some country-mouse seeking to weasel my way into the court.”
So it was that Queen Jazelda was to like me too little, and therefore, Queen Magda was to like me too much. She squeezed my hand.
“We are glad to have you,” she said and then giggled like a young girl, “We will be such friends.”
I kept my face smooth to reveal neither approval nor disagreement. As tart as Queen Jazelda was and as temperate as Queen Magda was, these women were powerful, and therefore, dangerous. Jazelda continued to keep her dark eyes slanted upon me. She distrusted me and would probably rather that I drowned in the Eastern Sea. It wasn’t difficult to understand why. Both queens had mothered children for the king. Jazelda had two boys nearing manhood but Magda only had daughters: one of four years and the other still under a year. If I were to conceive a son of the king, that would mean a potential contender for the throne.
Magda went on about what a delight it would be to plan the wedding ball and how my dress would have to be violet to accent my hair and eyes, but my thoughts were on the predicament I found myself in. The more time I spent in the presence of the queens, the more I realized just how difficult court-life would be. Nothing in my training had prepared me for this.
Jazelda was attempting to sour Magda’s enthusiasm, reminding her that surely this was to be a modest and private affair, we were a kingdom at war, after all. But Magda carried on just as chipper as a robin in the spring, oblivious to the frost in the trees.
Just then, a court official entered the room. “Pardon the intrusion, my Queens,” he bowed, “but Lady Sylvain’s presence is required at the throne.”
Magda’s mouth hung open slightly. Jazelda scowled. I curtseyed to each and then followed the official out of the room wondering why I was being called in such an abrupt manner to the throne.
The crowd that filled the long, narrow room I had not expected. Every member of the court seemed to be present and all were talking noisily one to another as though in great excitement, or uproar, it was difficult to tell. Moments behind me, Queen Jazelda and Magda entered, seeming as perplexed as I, and a little put out too to not be privy to the situation.
King Rainstaff was pacing at the head of the room, his violet cape whipping behind him. At his left, his mother, Queen Fayne sat as stolid and gray as ever, her pale eyes fixed straight ahead. Sitting beside the old woman, to my surprise, was Lord Parish. His cheeks were flushed and ruddy, sweat glistened his brow, but there was a glean in his eyes (which never left my face upon my entrance). A smile tempted to curl at my lips, but I held them still, reminding myself that regardless of Lord Parish’s civility and fondness toward me, I was to marry the King now.
My appearance in the court, unlike the first time at the feast where all were stilled, seemed to send the crowd into further flourish. Several weapons were even thrust into the air. For the first time, since coming to the palace I was truly afraid. Something had roused these people into a passion I had not seen in all my ten and seven years.
I ducked slightly behind the official. He gave a small cough, pretending not to notice the indecency in my revealed emotion. Fortunately, no others seemed to notice it either. Except Lord Parish to whom no blink of my eye was lost.
King Rainstaff took quick notice of me approaching down the long room, but the sight of me only deepened the crease in his brow. Had I done something wrong? Undaunted, the official marched me to the front of the room. I bowed before the throne and remained there, not daring to move.
Finally, King Rainstaff hushed the room. “That will be enough,” his baritone voice boomed. The room stilled, though imperfectly. “Rise,” he commanded me and in a violet whirl, sat upon the hard, stone throne.
Rainstaff’s pale blue eyes stared at me for what felt like a fortnight. The lines in his face were hard, rigid and unkind. This wasn’t the kind and gentle king, the lover of beauty and life. This was the commander of war.
The people of the room seemed to sway and ripple around us. Though the room was cold, sweat trickled behind my ear and down my back.
Beside Rainstaff, the elderly Queen remained rigid, beyond her, Lord Parish leaned forward. At long last, the king spoke.
“Lady Sylvain,” the words came out like stones. “It is the desire of our most beloved Queen Fayne,” he gestured to his mother, “that you should be the wife of Lord Parish,” his hand was like a knife as it cut the air, “as was originally intended.”
Again his eyes bore into me, the edges sharp. The room did not stir now. All waited on the words of the king. I did my best to understand as the king hunted me with his eyes.
His words came out like a hiss through his clenched teeth. “I release you from the engagement to myself. You will marry Lord Parish. That is all.” He whooshed his robes and left the room so quickly I had to blink to see that he was really gone. The room alighted again in motion and flurry. All I could do was gaze upon the empty throne. The movement of Queen Fayne’s gown as she arose captured my attention. Her face was unflinching, but for just a moment she looked upon me before she too, left the room.
What was the meaning of this? I longed to ask her, but I felt no ill-will from the old Queen. What was her purpose in ending the engagement with her son? Before I had a moment to think, Lord Parish was before me.
He bowed low to me. Remembering my civility, I returned the gesture.
“Lady Sylvain,” he said. “I hope this pleases you.”
His brow was still glistening from sweat. He, the artisan and poet, had defied the King. Was it any wonder the court was in such a commotion? The true danger Lord Parish had faced in this became known to me at that moment. His very life was at risk. The men in the room were so agitated by the turn of events, a battle was on the edge of ensuing. All because I was to be a queen. But the king was gone. I was not to face those hawkish manners as his bride. The old Queen Fayne had done this for me, I knew not the reason, or the meaning, but she had declared it. And the king had no choice but to acquiesce, for she was his mother. And now, Lord Parish was before me asking if I was pleased? With a smile in my heart, I found that I was.
“Yes, my Lord,” I bowed again to him. Just as he was to take my arm, Queen Jazelda sauntered past us, the twist of a grin on her thin lips. Queen Magda kissed my cheeks and whispered, “Farewell,” into my hair.
I was not be a queen with them any longer. I was to be something much more: the wife of the man I knew in my heart I loved.

The Third Queen

CHAPTER ONE
Be good to your husband, your lord.
Treat the servants well.
Never speak unless asked to.

Since birth, these were the lessons I was taught. But it was the last one I repeated in my head as the carriage bounced along the rocky road. I tried to set my nervousness aside and remember how fortunate I was. From among the slew of peasants and commoners, I had been chosen. Today, I was going to the king’s court to marry into the royal family.
With shaky fingers, I smoothed the front of my gown admiring the intricate beading and recalling my mother’s praise of how the emerald satin complemented my red curls. “Sylvain, you were born for this moment,” she whispered and kissed my head, and so it was true. How my parents rejoiced upon my fourteenth birthday when it was clear that the beauty of my youth would continue into my adulthood. I would be chosen. That fact was as certain as the rising of the sun over the green hills each morning.
“Such beauty cannot be overlooked,” the sentinels of the village often said. So when it became known that a certain nobleman named Lord Perish, cousin of the king, was seeking a bride, my name was quickly submitted. Two officials of the court came to our small village. The women dressed me in the finest of garments and wove red Sylvain flowers into my hair, the very flowers my parents had named me after. I was set upon a wood block as the officials assessed me. Just like a dumb ass, I didn’t speak a word.
“Fine,” the officials assessed. “Very fine indeed. We will send a carriage for her in the later month if she is selected for the court.”
No one in the village doubted the carriage would come, except me. Mother praised my modesty, saying it only added to my beauty. I was quiet, calm and stunning. Exactly what a woman should be.
The carriage did come. Black wood from the Fir Forests carved in the most current fashion with deep gibbets and spikes, pulled by six white horses. After being synched into the emerald gown and crowned with the jewels the court had sent, my parents kissed me and I looked upon my small mountain home for the last time. As the carriage pulled away, the village men cheered, “May the grace of Fion ever be upon you,” and the women waved their handkerchiefs. Exuberant. Joyful. One of their own had become royalty. The town would be blessed and prospered much for producing such a flower.
My own handkerchief was wrung tightly around my fingers. I ought not to have been so nervous, I had always known this day would come, but now that it was here, I found myself more terrified than I could have imagined. I had never met this Lord Perish, but I had heard that he was a gentle if not reserved, sallow man. Taken more with the pen and paint brush than the sword or saber. I suppose this pleased me. A man with an easel was far less intimidating than a man with a spear. This was what I thought. Of course my thoughts would not matter, I would be the only one to know them.
As was expected, I had not said a word the entire trip. Not to the horse tender or the coachman. Not to the court official who snored loudly in the seat across mine. “True beauty lets it speak for itself,” mother had whispered, reminding me yet again of the custom, “do not utter a syllable and no one will be able to keep their eyes off you.”
But eyes on me just made me uncomfortable and shy. As the carriage rounded a bend, the king’s palace came into view. Seeing all the houses, it became very clear just how many eyes I would have to avoid in a place so vast. My heart thundered so loud and fast I was afraid it would awake the official. The last moments passed too quickly and then the horses reigned to a stop.
The official snorted awake and then in a whirl, I was rushed out of the carriage by more attending servants into the bright sunshine of the stone courtyard and then into the cool shade of the palace. As my eyes adjusted, I had to stifle a gasp. The palace was even more grand and terrifying then I imagined. The ceiling was impossibly far above, a great chandelier of silver glinting from it. Tapestries and finely woven rugs adorned the highly polished stone walls and floors. Every inch seemed to glint as though painted with stars.
“Come this way,” a servant instructed. He led me up a winding staircase, down a long hall with windows open to the green fields below, and into a small, circular room.
More attendants entered, all male of course, fluffing out my dress, and dabbing powder onto my nose. One set to straightening the curls on my head.
When they had finished, they stepped back and let out an audible sigh.
“One of the finest, we’ve ever had,” one awed. “Her skin is smoother than the freshly fallen snow.”
“Her lips are like the petals of a rose.”
But it was my hair and eyes that got the most attention. “Such ruby tones. Eyes like gems.”
“Exquisite.”
My glossed lips remained closed. Though they were servants, they were not my servants. I would not speak to them.
The attendants parted as one of the court officials entered the room. He wore a large hat with pluming purple feather protruding from it. He looked me over and clasped his hands.
“Ah, you must be Sylvain.”
I nodded.
“Delightful,” he cheered. “It is such a pleasure to find a country flower such as yourself so well mannered. Your parents have taught you well.” He held his arm out and I took it. Another flare of nervousness coursed through me, but he seemed not to notice. Leading me back down the stairway, he chatted, “I am Dockam. I have been in the service of Lord Parish for eighteen years now. He trusted no one more with the tasking of finding him a suitable bride.” He patted my arm. “I am very pleased to believe that I have succeeded.”
For my sake more than his, I hoped he was right. What a disgrace it would be if Lord Parish deemed me unsuitable. How could I face my parents and the village?
“We will be dinning in the main hall,” Dockam said excitedly as if this were a special thing. “The King himself will be coming. Though I expect he will be late as usual after a long trip to the southern border.” I was surprised he would be attending at all, what with the war being waged between Diria and Glockland over a tiny speck of land that stood between: Southland. “He will probably be in a sour mood too,” Dockam lowered his voice as if speaking to me in confidence, but there was a smile on his lips as if this were somehow humorous, “we will have to avoid him the best we can.”
As shocking as it was to hear this official speaking of avoiding the king, it was more shocking still to hear him speak to me like a— friend.
We walked down the length of the inner courtyard and paused before two thick wooden doors. A great noise was coming from the other side, like that of a hundred people talking, silverware clanging and music playing. My hands were suddenly slick with sweat.
“Well this is it, dear,” Dockam squeezed my arm. “Take a deep breath and don’t look so ill.”
I did as he instructed. Calm, Sylvain. I told myself. Calm as the summer wind blowing through the buckabow trees.
Dockam nodded and sighed as if in relief, “That’s better.” He leaned down so that his face was inches from mine. I tried to stop the reflex to back away from such closeness. “Now brighten your eyes like you’ve just been surprised,” he instructed. I tried to do so without feeling foolish. “Good. Now just a hint of a smile on those pretty lips.” I did so without letting them part.
He leaned back. “Perfect. Now hold that as we enter. You will find Lord Parish sitting at the head table, four seats down from the throne on the left. You will be presented first and if all goes well, he will offer you the place beside him. Alright?”
I merely blinked.
He must have received that as a “yes,” for he nodded to the two guards who then swung open the great doors.
The roar of the room blasted my ears. I left my face frozen in the expression Dockam had sculpted there, doing my best just to breathe. As we entered, a trumpet sounded to still the crowd, but it rang too late, for as soon as my feet passed the doorway, a hush rippled across the room. Men and women’s mouths hung open, goblets suspended in their hands, someone to the right dropped a platter and a loud clang echoed through the hall.
Heat flushed my cheeks and though I felt a strong urge to flee, I found myself being led to the center of the room, surrounded by long tables and gaping faces on all sides.
Dockam gave a small cough and I remembered that he was there. “Lord Parish,” his voice rang loud and clear, “may I present Lady Sylvain.”
Before I could determine which of the faces was the Lord, I bowed my head and dipped my leg back into a low curtsy. For several beats, all I could see was the polished gray stone of the floor. No one spoke a word but I could sense the rustle of fabric as people moved and leaned in for a closer look at me. Then there was the click of boots upon the floor ahead of me. Slow and deliberate steps. They moved to my right and then circled back around to the left, finally stopping right in front of me so that the leather toe was just visible. I did my best to keep my breathing steady and slow as possible, though my heart tripped and skipped.
A hand came into view. A large hand but not one calloused with hard labor. A finger went to my chin. It brought my face up. Haloed by the light of the chandelier, I looked up into the face of Lord Parish. He was young, younger than I would have thought. Handsome enough if not a little plain, with a straight nose, well set brown eyes and a soft jaw line as naked as a young boy’s. His hair was a lighter shade of brown but there were traces of gray already at the edges. This made me realize his round and hairless face gave him the appearance of being younger than he actually was.
His brown eyes moved across my face as well, bringing me back to the situation. For a long moment, his eyes simply stared into mine. Trying to appear both mannered and modest, I debated between holding his gaze or returning mine to the floor. Just when I could take it no more, the corners of his lips pulled up.
“Lady Sylvain,” his quiet words sliced the air, “will you honor me by taking a place by my side?”
The question was more than a invitation to dine. I dipped my head in assent. He smiled, and I thought that his smile made his face more handsome. Taking my arm from Dockam, he led me to the seat beside his at the head table. I was elated. Not only had I been chosen, I was now accepted. Lord Parish would be my husband.
As soon as I sat, the room burst into an uproar. Men laughed and slapped Lord Parish’s back in congratulations. He took this well, uttering polite thanks when appropriate. Indeed, he was reserved among this room of loud, boisterous and bearded men.
“Out of us all, it is Parish who has found himself the most extraordinary beauty,” they laughed. “Who would have thought?”
The women sat still, shooting glances, and occasionally discreet smiles in my direction. I kept my hands folded in my lap, made sure my posture was straight and counted each breath I took. When I had reached two hundred and forty nine, a small bell rang and the doors burst open. Men servants entered with silver platters of meat, potatoes, fish and fresh vegetables. More food than my village ate in a winter. Every golden goblet was filled with dark wine that filled the air with its pungent scent. I barely sipped mine, not wanting my head to get any dizzier than it already was.
With the food, the men had returned to their seats. I became aware of how alone Lord Parish and I suddenly seemed to be. He cut his food and ate it carefully. Though I barely had a stomach in good condition to receive food, I remembered my training and took small bites with the little silver fork.
When Lord Parish turned and spoke to me, I nearly choked on a piece of potato.
“You are from the nether mountains?”
I swallowed quickly, the food burning my throat and nodded.
He bobbed his head and took another bite. “That is the land native to the Sylvain flower is it not?”
Again, I nodded.
He set his fork down, eyes on me while I stared at my plate. “Lady Sylvain,” he said gently, “you may answer me.”
He paused, waiting. My throat felt tight. “Yes, my Lord.”
He smiled, seeming pleased with this.
“I have been discussing— plans with my attendant, Dockam, whom you have meet. The court wishes our engagement to last less than a fortnight due to the war with the Sutherlands.” Less than a fortnight? That was hardly any time at all to get acquainted with this man who was to be my husband. Lord Parish didn’t seem to question this. “After the wedding ceremonies, I have planned for us to return to my estate by the eastern sea.” He glanced at me, his brown eyes narrowing. “You are very young though. How many years are you?”
“Ten and seven this yester-month, my Lord,” I blushed. Though I was certainly old enough to marry, it was still considered young.
He chewed a bit of meat and thought about this. Is he doubting his acceptance of me? I wondered, but instead he said. “Perhaps you would prefer to stay here with the vibrancy and bustle of the palace over the quite of country solitude?”
My fork slipped from my fingers and clinked against my plate. Several court attendants looked our way, but I wasn’t paying them any mind. Is he really considering my preferences in the matter?
“Lady Sylvain?” he asked again when I did not answer.
“Yes, my Lord?” I managed.
He took my hand in his. His face was full of such sincerity I found it difficult to breathe. “Would it make you happier to stay here in the palace?”
“No,” I coughed. “No, I think I would very much prefer the country by the sea.”
Tiny lines creased the skin around his eyes as he smiled. “I am very much pleased to hear it. I hope you will find the estate a happy home for you.”
Unable to resist it, I returned his smile. Yes, I think I will be very happy.
We had just returned to our food, when several loud trumpets sounded. The room fell silent for the second time that night as a tall man wrapped in large furs entered the room. With my nervousness now gone, I looked on him with curiosity. But then I noticed how every man, woman and servant in the room fell to their knees. I too bowed low, for this man was the king.
“All arise,” his voice boomed, deep, and powerful.
A tremor of fear shot down my spine. I had never been in the presence of a king before. King Rainstaff pulled the fur hood back, revealing curled blond hair set under his gleaming crown. His face was broad, tanned and obviously handsome with two deep-set dimples, white teeth and bright blue eyes. “Ah, that’s better,” he sighed as he handed the heavy furs to a servant. Aside from the crown, he appeared more as a normal man now in a light tunic and belted pants. His broad chest gave a big heave as he took a breath. “It is good to be home.”
The muscles of his biceps rippled as he scooped up a little child that had broken free shrieking, “Father!”
The child’s hand-servant was attempting to scold him but the king simply laughed him away, “Can’t a child great his father after war?” Then to the room, “The Glocklands have been beaten so bloody black and blue, their surrender should come any day now!”
The room erupted in cheers. Two women rose from beside us at the head table and made their way to the center of the room where they kissed the King’s cheeks. His queens. I had been so consumed in myself I had not made notice of them before. But their beauty and grace clearly captivated the room.
“Queen Jazelda,” King Rainstaff kissed his first of wives who was tall, slender and whose cascading dark curls was a source of vanity. She bowed to him. “Queen Magda,” he turned to his second wife, whose round dimpled cheeks beamed up at him. He tucked back a strand of her blonde hair. She too bowed and the queens took their seats.
“Now what is to eat?” King Rainstaff asked and the room burst into laughter. Easy chatter filled the air as the king addressed the members of his court, telling some about the affairs of the war, instructing others on various businesses to be conducted in his kingdom. Lutes and fiddles were sounded to a fast melody.
Suddenly, the king turned and his loud voice rumbled, “Now, wasn’t an engagement to my dear cousin Lord Parish to be taking place tonight? Come, let me see the lady that has been selected for my friend of most mellow heart?”
For the first time, his blue eyes focused on Lord Parish sitting at my side, but for only just a moment before they rested upon me. At first they widened large and bewildered as if he had expected to see a doe and instead found a lion. His mouth parted slightly and then shut just as quickly. I felt the urge to hide, to duck behind my red locks so that he might not stare at me so.
“Well now,” King Rainstaff finally huffed. “What a beauty my dear cousin has found himself here.” I wanted that to be the end of it, for the king to return to his merriment and forget I sat there so helpless at the side of Lord Parish. Instead, his black boots stomped across the stone floor as he walked toward me. His gate was broad and focused, like a leopard stalking it’s pray.
My gaze dropped to the side and I turned my head away as if to hide behind Lord Parish.
“Lady, look at me,” the king commanded. “I want to study your face at close distance.”
Slowly, I turned back to him. He had bent down, as I was still sitting, and was not even an arm’s length from me. I could see that his skin was even more lined and darkened by many years spent in the sun at this distance. His eyes were more gray than blue and they were narrowed into two slits as they traveled over me. I fought the instinct to flinch as his hand went to touch my cheek. The skin of his fingers was calloused and rough as he cupped my jaw. He twisted one of my ruby curls around his thumb.
“Never have my eyes beheld such beauty,” he said lowly, so that none but me and perhaps Lord Parish could hear. “Your hair reflects the fire’s flame,” he twisted the lock around his thumb, “your eyes are as bright as emerald gems.” He tugged the hair, pulling my face closer. I could not flinch now, his gaze was so riveted upon me, I could not break it.
“What is your name?” he whispered and it fell upon my skin like a caress.
“Sylvain,” I breathed.
Lord Parish gave a cough, shattering the spell. King Rainstaff straightened, seeming to coming back to himself. He turned to Lord Parish, then slowly— back to me, as if coming to some decision.
When he spoke his voice had all the authority of a king in it. “Lord Parish, it is my understanding that this lady is consented to marrying you, but I must say that I, as your king, will not permit such an arrangement.”
Gasps and whispers rippled across the room. Such a thing had never occurred before. I could hear Lord Parish’s intake of breath beside me.
“What do you mean, my king?”
“Lady Sylvain,” he turned back to me, “will be my queen.”
*****

Jagged- Chapter Five

Chapter Five
I propped myself up on a crate and forced myself to look at nothing but the road ahead. In the hoary light of the closing day, I saw weren’t the only ones to have traveled this way. At first it was just a few, but then there were dozens of them: cars left abandoned right on the road. Some of the owners hadn’t even bothered to move off to the shoulder. Mr. Elsa had to maneuver the mules around the lanes like the cars were boulders scattered in a river.
Where were all the people?
Then, we passed a minivan a little too close and I wish I hadn’t wondered. The young woman in the driver’s seat was young, probably near my age. The back of her blonde head was craned against the headrest, as if she were staring up at the sunroof of her red Volvo. But as we passed, she didn’t blink. She didn’t turn at the sound of the creaking wheels. Her mouth hung open slightly, dried blood streaking down booth edges.
Bile filled my throat and I threw up over the side of the trailer. My hands felt cold and wet.
Margaret was beside me in an instant, clucking her tongue. “And here I thought you were recovering so well.”
I allowed her to clean my mouth with a scrap of cloth. “It’s not that. It’s— the cars.” I couldn’t bring myself to look back at the line of discarded vehicles.
“Oh.” Her voice dropped an octave. Gently, she coaxed me to sit back down so that my only view was the dusty wooden planks and blankets.
The shaking of my spine was from more than the potholes on the road. “What—” my voice jolted, “what happened to all those people?”
Margaret played with a threaded string. “There were more back in the city. You were unconscious— you didn’t see—”
I didn’t even want to imagine. Imagining always led me back. To the condo; with the view of the park. “But. All the way out here? In Kansas?”
Margaret twisted the sting around her thumb. “They were probably trying to drive away.”
Like us.
“The effects seem to be a lot less the further you get away from the cities.”
There was that word again. “Effects from what?” I felt incredibly naïve, everyone else seemed to know what was going on.
Margaret tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear. “I think it is nuclear radiation.”
“Like from a bomb?” That would explain the collapsing buildings, but again, my naivety was at an all-time high.
She nodded.
“But this is the U.S. We can’t get bombed.” The frown that formed on my brow caused the bandages on my forehead to pull. “Who would bomb us? Everyone knows we would attack back ten-times worse.” Right?
Margaret’s thin lips twisted to the left. “We haven’t heard any official reports, or anything, of course. But, we talked to a woman from Washington, an elderly couple driving up from Georgia and even a teenage kid from Massachusetts. They were all hit the same. I think it might be like this all over the east coast. Every major city has been attacked.”
The words scooped a dip pit in my chest. But she wasn’t done. “This isn’t like 9-11. Whoever did this was going for more than terror. More than war. They were going for inhalation.”
I looked over the trailer, not at the road, but out at the flat land stretched tight under the gray haze. Our country. The United States of America. Sentenced to Capital Punishment.
A chilly tear tore down my cheek. “But we’re still here.” The words were just a whisper on my cracked lips.
“That’s right.” Margaret took my hand. “We’re still here.”
And there were others. Mr. Elsa’s face was bright that night as he talked about his niece and her family in Hays. He didn’t have much family around. Fortunately, Hays, Kansas wasn’t a big enough town to draw a direct attack. We wouldn’t have to spend the next night on the ground. There would be beds. Fresh food. Hot showers.
As Margaret and Mr. Elsa pulled their blankets up close to ward off the chill of the September night air that had picked up, I tucked my knees to my chest and stared at the flames. Sleep wasn’t something I did well out in the open, so exposed; the darkness a constant reminder of the darkness of that early morning in the exercise room.
I yearned to sleep. For the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness. Then the muddled mess of my own life, mixed with the fresh horrors of the dying world, couldn’t haunt me.
But in the early morning hours, as sleep did finally take me, my dreams were even worse. I was back on the treadmill. Could feel my ponytail swishing against my shoulder blades as my feet pounded on the belt. Then there was a loud crack. The glass on the walls shattered and the ceiling came tumbling down.
I managed to dodge a large support beam and scramble out of the basement and up into the main level. More dry wall showered down as I passed the place where the lady was speared through by a pole and jumped out into the street.
But once on the street, everything went silent. The buildings continued to crash down around me, obliterating cars and life as they fell, but there was no sound. It was like someone had pushed a mute button during the middle of an action scene. The explosions and trembling of the ground seemed like nothing more than cheep effects.
My hands flew to my ears. Have I gone deaf? I spun around to see a lamppost fall onto the hood of a blue Taurus, smashing it into two.
The city was going to collapse upon me. Run, Catherine. Get out of there. I stepped onto the street, prepared to bolt toward 84th street and away from the silent horror, when a sound stopped me. It wasn’t the moaning of failing buildings, or the cackle of fires out the windows. It was the cry of a baby.
The tiny wale was the only other noise I heard as the city continued to crumble upon itself. I couldn’t stop. I had to get out of there. But still, the baby’s cry held me.
What is it doing here?
My eyes darted to the burning cars and dusty clouds rising up from demolished foundations. Where is it coming from?
The cry got louder. It pierced my ears and rattled my brain like a shock wave.
Get it to stop. Where was its mother?
I turned back toward 84th street, but found that there was a weight on me I hadn’t noticed before. Terrified, I looked down to see that the crying baby was in my arms.
Its little hands stretched up to me, fingers splayed. Toothless mouth wide open.
I was its mother.
“No,” I screamed and threw the baby from my arms. It fell, arms flailing like a fallen chick, inches, then feet into the open air. I tried to grab it back, but it was too late.
The baby hit the grimy pavement, and as it did, its small body knocked a hole into the asphalt. The infant disappeared into the black gap, its wails going down with it, but the fissure continued to spread. Angry arms branched out, ripping up the street, causing more asphalt to tumble into the pit. The ground between my feet split, jarring every bone in my body. Then I too was falling down, down into the blackness. Nothing to grip onto. The hazy smoke-filled sky growing more distant above me. And still the baby’s cries detonated in my ears.
Usually the rise of the sun, weak and gray on the horizon, brought a sense of relief. But after awaking from that dream, there was no relief from the guilt and horror I felt. Soon, Mr. Elsa would be feeding the mules their ration of grain and within minutes, I’d be dosing off again in the back of the bouncy trailer. But that morning was different.
Margaret and I shared a can of concentrated orange juice and a protein bar for breakfast. I didn’t have the stomach for it, but getting low blood sugar wasn’t going to help me any. I forced the food down just as I tried to force the shards of the dream away.
I was more than indebted to these two people, I realized. My entire survival depended upon it. Without them, I’d be just another body rotting on the side of the road. Their foresight and preparation were my salvation. Mr. Elsa had been storing barrels of sealed grain, jugs of purified water for decades. There were cans of peaches, apricots and applesauce he had his late wife had grown on their own land and boxes of protein bars, like the ones we subsisted upon now. It was like someone had tipped him off that something like this would happen one day. His first aid kit, combined with the one Margaret kept in her car were the only reason I hadn’t bled to death. And though his dog was more than annoying, and the rifle that he kept under his seat which was the size of a small tree made me nervous, I was grateful to be with them.
But as I forced myself to swallow the thick bar down that morning, the unease in my stomach didn’t leave. Why did that baby always have to cry? I tried to push the memory of the sound away by humming a Cold Play song. The air was tangy and metallic, and the wind only seeming to make it more rank. The road was as barren as ever, but the hair on my arms stood up. I jumped as a bunch of leaves rustled across the highway.
Fifteen minutes down the road, as we passed more darkened houses, the vibrations of the trailer on the pavement made my eyes start to droop despite myself. But before I could really drift off, Mr. Elsa reined back on the mules and said over his shoulder, “It’d be best if you stay down, ladies.” I’d never heard him use that tone of voice: tight and low. It made my stomach wring itself into a tight wad.
Before we could ask what was going on, there were voices coming up from the right side of the road. Gruff, deep, male voices.
“What ‘ya got in the back there?” one demanded, making me wish Mr. Elsa hadn’t stopped at all. That voice didn’t sound like he had very neighborly intentions. Margaret and I kept ourselves down as instructed. The sound of boots grinding on the pavement got closer. My heart beat frantically in my chest. I focused on the back of Mr. Elsa’s brown hat and his curly black hair.
He kept his voice even. “Just a couple of things I’m bringing to my sister’s family in Uma.”
“Is that right?” the same gruff voice replied. It sent shivers down my back. “Well I think we’ll just take a look for ourselves. What do you say boys?”
Deep snickers echoed. How many of them were out there?
Mr. Elsa straightened. “Now, I don’t want to cause no trouble here. If you please, I’ll just be on my way.” He brought the reins up but stopped at the man’s humorless laugh.
“We won’t cause no trouble neither.” There was a click. Like something metal. Mr. Elsa sucked in a breath. “We’ll just take a look and then you can be on your way.”
Before Mr. Elsa could answer, the clank of boots came around the right side of the trailer. My eyes shot to Margaret. Her body was rigid, unmoving; eyes wide, jaw clenched tight. I pressed my back into the planks of a crate, wishing I could melt into it.
There were five men. The first to appear at the gate was young, not more than eighteen or so. He had un-cut brown hair that fell around his face like a mop, and a shadow around his jaw; clearly an attempt at a beard. His hazel eyes pulled back at the sight of Margaret and I crouched between the crates and hale bales. “Shawn, look at what we got here,” he exclaimed.
The man named Shawn’s thick chest and curly brown beard which reached his collar bone, came into view. All I could focus on was the rifle he held up like a trophy in the air. That must have been the click I heard. “Well, well,” he smacked his tongue, his black eyes passing over Margaret and resting on me, “this is quite the load you got back here.”
The three other men, all as equally unkempt and filthy as the next, joined the first two. Wide smiles creased the dirt on their faces, a hunger in their darting eyes, like they’d just struck gold.
Shawn spoke again. “I think we’ll just take some of this off your hands.” Mr. Elsa was about to protest, but Shawn wagged the barrel of his riffle at him and Mr. Elsa sank back into his seat. “Go on boys,” Shawn snarled, and like trained dogs, his cronies jumped up into the trailer. My whole body was shaking. I scrambled to think. Margaret stood up and started shouting as they grabbed boxes and barrels of supplies and threw them down to the others on the ground. One of them slapped her cheek, causing her to fall into the hay bales, an angry red mark across her face.
“That should shut her up,” they laughed and tossed more canned goods out of the trailer. “We won’t be hungry tonight.”
“What about that one?” the young guy said, pointing at me. My heels kicked me back into the far corner, as far away as I could get. But I was pinned, without escape.
Shawn turned from the box of peaches he had cut open, his small pin-pricks of eyes on me. Just his gaze made me flinch. The men waited the command.
“Bring her here.”
The kid grinned like a puppy about to be given a bone. Two of the bigger ones came at me. Margaret and Mr. Elsa were shouting. Shawn fired a round into the air, silencing them.
“That’s enough,” he said his mouth an ugly hole. “The next shoot goes into your brain. Bring her,” he repeated. The men’s hands reached for me. I kicked the first in the shin, and thrashed my body, but I was a hooked fish. And there was Shawn’s riffle to think about. They wrenched their arms under me and dragged me out of the trailer.
“Stop,” I shouted. “Let me go.” But I was no match for them.
On the pavement, I realized just how much bigger Shawn was than me. He towered over my head by almost two feet. The skin on my arms burned as I squirmed against the men’s rough hold, but I was hopelessly weak. Like a mouse in a cat’s paw.
Shawn’s eyes roamed up and down my body. “This one’s got some spit fire,” he grinned as if he couldn’t be more pleased with my resistance. His filthy fingers touched my jaw, turning my head side to side.
“Get your hands off me,” I spat in his face.
He didn’t even blink, but wiped his nose. “Her face is a mess,” he said to his men but never took his eyes off me. Then, he grabbed the loop holes in my jeans, lurching my hips forward. “But it’s what’s in here, that matters.”
The men hollered.
“Throw her in the pickup.” He tossed me back. “We’re going to have us a good time tonight!” The thick arms pulled me back, away from Margaret and the nearly empty trailer. The men had gotten their fill of supplies and were now loading them into the bed of a rusty red truck.
My screams ripped the air. I writhed with all my might but the men were bent on taking me. I couldn’t flee. Couldn’t even get them to slow. I craned my neck to look back at the trailer. Margaret was yelling profanities, tears cutting down her chin. Mr. Elsa just stood there like a tall dark tree. Shawn kept them at bay with the aim of his riffle.
It was in their eyes as they watched me be dragged off the road and down the ditch: it was over. That truth sank into my heart. There was nothing I could do. Nothing they could do. They knew it. I knew it.
The men piled the crates of supplies into the bed until the tailgate nearly brushed the ground. Then the men got out a chord, the same pale red kind that Mr. Elsa used to bind his hay bales. They spun me around, so that I faced the road again, and tied my wrists together.
Shawn seemed pleased with their progress. He left his post, turned his back on the trailer and walked toward the truck.
A sick, self-satisfied grin spread across his face as he looked past me at his truck of stolen goods.
But an instant later, that self-satisfied smirk was replaced by his eyes pulled back wide, pupils dilated, and mouth hanging open. For a moment I didn’t understand why. His body teetered, like a cut tree, and then fell face-forward onto the pavement. A large whole was blasted into his back, red blood oozing out.
All the men in the truck turned, gaping at the fallen body of their leader. Before any of them could move, Mr. Elsa came around the trailer, his riffle still smoking from the shot, and picked up the gun out of Shawn’s still hand. The men stared, open mouthed. Mr. Elsa, a riffle in each hand now walked slowly toward the truck.
“You boys have had enough fun around here, I think. Why don’t you let the girl go and help put back those crates nice and neat the way you found them.” His words were polite, even conversational but the men took one more look at the weapons and didn’t second guess him.
The rough hands released me. Blood rushed back into my arms. I tripped a bit as I hurried toward the trailer, away from the truck and the man shot dead on the road.

Feedback Please

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Heather

"Easy reading is damned hard writing."
Love this quote.

Need a space and moment to vent: Just found a newly published book titled "Black Wings" by Christina Henry and what is it about? You guessed it: a female angel who brings souls to the afterlife.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

I guess my oh so original novel idea, is not so original after all.

Now my chances for getting that book published are like my chances of waking up on the moon tomorrow.

There goes over 3 years of work! At least I "grew" as a writer (that's my attempt to be positive:)