《Insatiable: Chronicles of Craving》


 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 1: Bones

    Chapter 1: Bones


    (Imagine Dragons)


    The two men step out of the darkness like a dancing couple. The one closest to Blaire Nathara is short, with wide chest and thick arms. His physic and the way and moves reminds her of someone from home that worked in construction. The other is taller, slim in the waist, but has a cobra upper torso. Gym strong, obviously. They move as people who has done this many times before.


    She smiles at them, hoping they think her clueless about the fact that they were waiting. She knows this because of the heap of cigarette butts where they were standing. Whether they were waiting for a soft target, or for her specifically is still unclear. She sweeps her hair out of her face, tucking it behind her left ear in a flirty way.


    ¡°Hey there,¡± she says with a breathy voice. ¡°I¡¯m so glad to see you. I¡¯m new to the city and got myself lost.¡±


    She giggles, fakes a stumble, and reaches out to the closest wall for support. In this position she can see the alley behind her too. There is nobody there.


    Yet.


    The bones in her head sings their song, reminding her of who she is. Blaire Nathara, grandchild of the King of the Snake Clan. She has abilities that these men know nothing about. That is, if they are just two men looking for a fun time with a drunk girl, or muggers wanting to be economically uplifted by some stranger¡¯s purse. However, if they know who she is, they won¡¯t be here alone, and will be prepared for her Dark Magic gifts.


    They move closer, not answering. This is all she needs to understand that they know who she is, and waited for her specifically. They don¡¯t look familiar, which means they are mercenaries hired by the Bull Tribe to find and kill her. Kill her in the most horrible way possible, too.


    It is then that the others step into the alley. Four more men, all ready to claim the bounty on her. Even if they split it between them, a sixth of the price will keep a family alive for at least two years.


    ¡°Welcome to the party, boys,¡± she says to the newcomers, extending her arm and curling her finger into her palm. ¡°Come closer. Play with a stick of dynamite.¡±


    The bulky guy snorts at the words. The other men, closing in from the street where she came from, are ready for a fight. The one on the left is bald. He has a pocket knife in the right hand, which he flicks open and close as a threat. The one next to him is missing his right ear. He has a gun in a holster on his left hip. Left-handed, then. The third has dreadlocks. They swing into his face as he moves, blinding and side-tracking him. He is the least prepared for what is to come. The last one is the smallest and youngest. He also has a knife ready, pointing straight at her. His hand is shaking and his eyes move to the man next to him, expecting for some sign. Probably his first time out with the boys. She can smell his fear.


    Bulky moves first, stepping closer with his hands up in boxer stance. She grasps that he likes to dispense pain with his own hands, not weapons. He prefers strangling people, not shooting them. He moves faster, almost running to her, and sweeps a right hook at her shoulder. She moves out of the way quickly, hearing his fist making contact with the brick wall.


    From the street side, Dreadlocks move in, cutting off escape. She pivots on her left leg, hitting him with a roundhouse kick to the chest. He exhales loudly, eyes bulging out with shock at the power behind the hit. He stumbles backward, grabbing onto the wet-behind-the-ears kid.


    Bulky reaches out and grabs her by the hair. She moves closer to him, leaning into him with her back and lifting both legs off the pavement to kick at Baldy, who is advancing. He leans back, but her left foot hits his wrist and the knife falls to the floor with the sound of bells. Blaire twists her hips as Bulky pushes her away. This time both feet hit Baldy squarely to the chest. Bulky let go of her hair and shoves her forward. She uses the forward momentum to drive Baldy off of his feet. He falls with her standing on his chest.


    An arm enters her peripheral view and she ducks down, stepping away from Baldy before he can grab at her legs. The kid is right in front of her now, eyes large as plates and chest pumping air in and out with the rhythm of a V8 engine. Blaire smiles at him and then pushes him hard with a shoulder to his chest. He gasps, trotting backward and falls against the brick wall, sinking to the floor.


    She points at him. ¡°Stay down,¡± she says with as harsh a voice as she can muster.


    Something hits her in the kidneys. She exhales with the pain, feeling all strength in her knees dissolve. Falling forward, she hits the poor kid full force in the torso. He doesn¡¯t belong here. Whoever brought him along deserves to pay in the cruellest way. Her patience is waning. It¡¯s time to burn this place to the ground, with these people in it.


    ¡°Run,¡± she tells the kid as she rises. ¡°And don¡¯t look back.¡±


    She slips the knife out of her boot with the right hand. She pushes a little glass flask with poison out of one of the many loops on her belt, flipping off the cork with her left thumb. The kid scrambles away, still gasping for breath and clutching his chest. Inside her the blood burns like venom through veins. Snake Clan power courses through her body. Soon she¡¯ll loose complete control of herself. These men don¡¯t know who they are fucking with.


    ¡°I¡¯m Blaire Nathara, and I have magic in my bones,¡± she sings as she flings the powder into Bulky¡¯s face.


    He is the most dangerous fighter here and needs to be eliminated before he causes serious damage. The yellow powder hit him full in the face, stinging eyes and throat as he draws a breath, sucking it into lungs. He bends over, rubbing at his face. This is the worst action he could possibly take, as his hands now also are covered with the poison. The skin shows blisters immediately. Dreadlocks moves forward, chanting karate words. With a loud yell he chops down from above with a hand. The intention must be to hit her in the soft spot of her neck, which will switch off her lights in ten seconds. Obviously, his fighting skills are learned from movies, as his arm lacks the proper velocity and the aim is way off target. The side of his hand hits her collarbone, and he screams in pain.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    She kicks him in the family jewels, enjoying the way he sinks to the floor. He lays there, gasping for breath, unable to decide if he should hold onto his hand or his jewels. She kicks him right on the temple, and his eyes turn up and up until he passes out.


    Click.


    A gun being cocked. She turns towards One Ear. He holds the gun with two hands, the killing hole pointed straight in her face. She lifts both hands into the air, faking fear. He smiles with the victory. She allows him to enjoy the moment because Tallman is directly behind her, ready to grab a hold.


    Maybe they want to take me in alive?


    ¡°You are never going to take me out of here alive,¡± she whispers, spitting into One Ear¡¯s face.


    Tallman grabs her, pulling her arms back and twisting them up. She yelps, rising onto her toes to prevent the pain. One Ear wipes spit out of his face, and leans closer.


    ¡°Dead or alive,¡± he says, ¡°I don¡¯t fucking care which, you bitch. Either is fine with me.¡±


    Blaire feels Tallman¡¯s breathe on her neck, and head buds his face. The sound of bone breaking. Warm liquid splashes onto the back of her head and runs down her neck and back. The grip on her arms slacken and she pulls out of it with a twist. A gunshot rings in the narrow alley, hurting her ears. She moves to the left, away from the two men, and reaches for flasks from her belt with both hands. She manages to fling the powder into Tallman¡¯s face, but One Ear has already moved from the spot he was before.


    Another shot, this time she feels the bullet rush past her cheek with a red hot kiss before it slams into the wall next to her, spraying mortar and dust. Her eyes searches for the knife she dropped earlier. She moves quickly, leaning down to grab it as she rushes towards the street. Dreadlocks try to grab her legs, but she drops the other flask of yellow poison onto him and he screams, clutching at his neck and chest as burns rose on his skin.


    She turns into the street and something hard hits her right eye. A fist. The man wielding it is huge, like a mountain bear, and ready for a fight. He grabs a hold of her skirt and her skirt and lifts her off the ground into the air. Then he flings her back into the alley. She hits the wall face first. It fucking hurts like hell.


    Falling onto the floor like a bag of bones, she is disorientated for a few seconds. From the alley One Ear¡¯s footsteps approaches. She has no time to think now. No time to even rise to run or fight. Her hand still has the knife, and she sweeps it forward, slashing his ankles. He screams, steps away from her. She rolls toward him, driving the knife deep into his thigh. The gun drops with a loud clutter and she reaches for it quickly. The man from the street is advancing fast, so Blaire shoots him just right of the center of his chest, where his heart is. He gasps, but drive forward, still waving fists and slurs at her.


    ¡°My patience is fucking waning, slut,¡± he screams.


    ¡°There¡¯s magic in my bones,¡± she sings as she runs towards him. ¡°Throw your fucking stones and taste the magic in my bones.¡±


    She pulls the trigger again, but it jams. Flinging it to the floor, she runs into him with all the force she can muster, lifting him off his feet and slamming his body into the wall. He exhales with large eyes. She slips the knife into his belly, slicing down. Warm liquid spills over her hand. Blood. Dreadlocks rises to his feet, holding hands up into the air before he stumbles to the street.


    Bear laughs in her face, spitting blood.


    ¡°Is this entertaining?¡± she asks.


    He coughs more blood into her face.


    ¡°I¡¯m done with this dance,¡± she says, pulling the knife out of his flesh and stepping away.


    He topples forward, hitting the floor face first. She steps around him, wiping at her face with the sleeve of her shirt before picking up the gun and stepping into the street, holding the knife ready. There is no-one waiting. She turns left, away from the busier part of the street and runs, keeping close to the buildings.


    She fights the urge to hail a taxi because she¡¯s covered in blood and they won¡¯t allow her into the vehicle, and it will attract attention she doesn¡¯t need right now. The Bull Tribe reached out and tapped her on the shoulder tonight. No, they slapped her across the face with a glove, as if they were living in the medieval age. She is lucky to walk away alive.


    Half an hour later she slips into her hotel room after circling the building twice, ensuring there are no unwanted eyes or lurking danger. She locks the door, pushing a chest of drawers against it before entering the bathroom. Stripping the bloody clothes off her painful body, she steps into the shower stall and opens the water. It runs off her in rivers of red. She waits until it runs clean before reaching for the soap.


    After the shower, she inspects her face in the bathroom mirror. She hardly recognise herself. Her right eye is already a nice blue hue and swollen shut. There is a burn wound on one cheek where the bullet nicked her. Her jaw aches. On her shoulder, where Dreadlock¡¯s karate chop failed to drop her, a bruise throbs. Her other shoulder and upper arm aches from where she hit the wall. She turns, noting several scrapes and cuts all over her body.


    Fucking Bull Tribe shit.


    This was a close call. She was negligent. A year ago she won¡¯t have walked into trouble like this. She used to be careful, diligently so. Religiously careful. Tonight was a fucking dumpster fire. And it¡¯s on her.


    ¡°Fuckety-fuck-fuck. I¡¯m so tired.¡±


    She looks into her face, her own eyes. Recognize the lie there. She¡¯s not tired, she is hopeless. For ten years she¡¯s waited for the Reaper to take her, but she¡¯s still here. She doesn¡¯t want to be here. She wants to die. She is ready to go.


    ¡°Then why did you just fight six men who wanted to kill you?¡± asks her inner voice that belongs to Red King, her grandfather.


    She balls her right hand into a fist, slamming it into the wall next to the mirror.


    ¡°I deserve to die, but not like that,¡± she answers her inner voice.


    ¡°You think you deserve a good death, then?¡±


    ¡°What is good? What is bad? What is black or white? Even in Eden there was no right until there was wrong. Good or bad, white or black, its different sides of the same coin. Bad things happen to good folk in the same way that good things happen to bad people.¡±


    The night is hot, so she drops her aching body on the bed naked, feeling the AC kissing her skin. She closes her eyes, finding herself in that alley again, seeing the vultures circling in. The fire is still burning in her veins. The indignity of it upsets her. If she is going to die for what she did, at least it should be by the hand of someone directly from the Bull Tribe, not a mercenary with no skin in the game. She wants to die at the hands of those she offended, period. She wants to die respectfully, not for fucking profit to a stranger she doesn¡¯t know.


    ¡°That¡¯s why I fought them,¡± she whispers.


    She turns on her side, facing the wall. All around her mind, darkness closes in. Not the comfortable darkness of sleep and rest, but the darkness in which she falls into memories of the past. She knows that all night long, she¡¯ll be turning the pages of her life, walking on those old paths like a million times before.


    There will be no rest for her tonight. Her bed will burn until she rises with the morning light. In this familiar darkness, the voices of the past calls to her. Loved ones she cared for. Some she didn¡¯t. She needs to kill them, these voices in her head. That¡¯s what a therapist told her many years ago. Kill them and build a new city from their bones.


    The voices fade. Their words become a meaningless hum. The bones of her people topple and fall with whispers and sighs.


    Inside her mind, the bones sing.

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 2: Chasing Shadows

    Chapter 2: Chasing Shadows


    (Deep Purple)


    Weeks ago, Blaire Naphara selected another small hotel in another small town. This time somewhere in the Midwest. It was a seedy place that hasn¡¯t seen a good year in ages. Half the street lights were out. Paint peeled off the buildings like nail polish chipped off a broken-down actress¡¯ neglected nails. Pavements and streets were littered and scarred by years of misuse. She walked slowly, noting everything. She didn¡¯t recognize any of the faces staring at her as she passed. They didn¡¯t recognize her either, which bumped up the place on her list of places to be.


    As she approached the hotel building on foot, she carefully marked any nooks or crannies where someone might hide. The main reason she decided on this particular place was that there was no building directly across from it, only a gas station. She wouldn¡¯t have to worry about someone casing the place through a window in an opposite building. The other benefit was the one camera covering the entire street. Most towns these days, even small ones like this, had more camera coverage. This single camera was in front of one of the three bars, and she made a mental note to never visit or pass the establishment without a proper hat or headscarf and sunglasses.


    The hotel is brown brick, with small beige trimmed windows. The name is right above the door in red and yellow, which doesn¡¯t go with the aesthetic of the building itself, but fits perfectly with the signage of the bars, take-away diners and sex shop lining the rest of the street. She has visited all the establishments since she arrived, making her presence known to the employees and the clientele.


    The town, although small, has been lucrative to her profession. This isn¡¯t the reason she is still here, though. An important anniversary is looming closely, and its darkness hangs above her like an enormous avalanche ready to destroy her world. In her mind, she named the upcoming event Darkness Returns.


    Ten fucking years. Tiredness extends to the depths of her soul. She eats sporadically, hardly tasting anything, no matter how delicious. Sometimes breathing seems too much effort, but her brain continues to signal chest muscles to move her lungs and heart. Her body betrays her constantly. Thus, they are in a love-hate relationship. She doesn¡¯t feed it well; it denies her sleep. She longs for death; it keeps on living.


    From the corner of her eye she sees a shadow moving. She turns to look at the place, but there is nothing. Nothing at all. Just a wall and a floor and an unmade bed stinking of sweat and mental torture.


    Within the hotel room, the air is humid, despite the AC that has been grumbling steadily all day and night. Once, weeks ago -she can hardly remember how long she¡¯s been here- she opened the window, hoping for a cool waft of air. All she got was diesel and gas fumes from the station, and the laughter and catcalling from whores and passers-by in the street.


    The fumes she isn¡¯t too mad about. A freak love for the smell is a quirk left over from childhood. The noise she can¡¯t tolerate. If the sounds were music, it would be totally acceptable, but human voices irk her. Especially when the volume of conversation was too low for her to discern words and context. They might be plotting her death. Sure, she longs for death, but we all want it to be quick and painless, don¡¯t we?


    Furthermore, whispers or conversations that don¡¯t include her is just another reminder of how isolated she became since she left home. Her only contact with humans now is work related or a quickie in a bar¡¯s back alley or bathroom stall. Customers are looking for a quick and easy fix to the problems of their lives. Her potions and charms do the trick. They don¡¯t stay long, five to ten minutes, if that. She snickers at the irony of being able to fix other people¡¯s lives, but not her own. Everything got fucked up ten years ago, and life¡¯s been a steady downhill whirlpool ever since.


    Her room is right above the entrance, so when the night personnel arrive, red lights flicker on. The lights above the hotel¡¯s sign board is loud and red. A rhythmic zing sound radiates all night long, reminding her of the blue light in Red King¡¯s kitchen that zapped flies and mosquitos. That was blue light. Calm. Collected. Cool. This light is red. Red for blood. Blood for battle. Blaire¡¯s mother picked this name because she wanted a tough daughter. A warrior. A fighter. Blaire the battlefield.


    The first night she walked down the narrow stairs to complain at the reception desk. Insisted that she wanted another room. Right away. There weren¡¯t any available with a window to the front of the building, as she requested when she arrived. By the third night, she assumed the light was just another punishment from the gods, and made a kind of peace. In some weirds way it fits her mood and name. Red, the colour of blood. The colour of fire. The colour of madness.


    The room is cheap and without luxuries, as one would expect from a one star establishment. Walls covered in faded green wallpaper. The bedcovers, like the wallpaper, have a fern design in multi-layers stamped in a configuration she is yet to comprehend. To keep to the theme, some not-so-bright spark had placed a huge plastic fern in the corner left of the window. Its only purpose, as far as Blaire can discern, is to house two daddy-longlegs spiders and their toxic webs of victims. A small writing desk stood beneath the window, with a rickety chair she uses only while truly brave, or seriously drunk. Tonight is such an occasion, and to celebrate, she takes a deep swig from the seventh bottle of red wine for the day.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    Blaire Naphara is trying, unsuccessfully, to drown a ruthless case of heebie-jeebies. She has been expecting them for days, since she¡¯s not slept four hours in three days. Heebie-jeebies is a sure sign of the return of her old friend, insomnia. Together, the two walk hand-in-hand, like a couple who no longer care what other people think of their public displays of affection. Insomnia, her old lover, comes and goes, and usually makes his pending return known in subtle ways. Jittery hands. Night sweats. A super highway running peak traffic of messages in her brain; a jumbled mess of thoughts and feelings criss-crossing each other.


    And memories. They haunt her. A million memories flashing through her mind. If she closes her eyes, trying to shut them out, they appear on the inside of her lids. Family pictures and movies of people she hasn¡¯t seen or talked to in ten long, lonely years. They are with her still, caught in her mind, inscribed on her brain. She hasn¡¯t been able to outrun them yet. Maybe she never will.


    This is what she deserves, anyway. She doesn¡¯t deserve peace or joy. Not her. Not after what she did.


    In the corner of her left eye, a shadow appears in front of the fern. It¡¯s a fleeting darkness. The shape of it was vaguely familiar. Her head whips left immediately, but it dissipates before both eyes reach the specter. Her heart beats heavily in her tight chest. She leans back on the unstable chair, and up-ends the bottle into her gaping mouth. The wine splurges into her face, down her neck and t-shirt.


    On the shirt, Alice Cooper clung to a mic stand, his head tossed back while unheard lyrics shot out of his wide open mouth. Or maybe he is drinking the wine she spills. She giggles at the notion that she¡¯s sharing something with another human being. The idea is ludicrous, of course. She has no friends and hasn¡¯t seen or talked to her family since¡­ well, what feels like forever.


    She is lonely, but not completely cut off from people. Some nights she drinks at bars with people. Old people and young people. Business people and sweaty laborers. Rich folk and poor. She listens to people¡¯s stories. Some with happy endings, but most without. She dances to a band or her favorite song, but is always alone in the crowd. She never invites anyone home, or goes home with anyone, even if invited. Everything about her life is superficial.


    Blaire never stays in one place for too long. It is dangerous. People want to know your story. Where you come from. What you¡¯ve done. Where you¡¯re going. And her story is not something shareable. It is nasty, dirty, and perilous. Telling it can get her killed. She¡¯s done that, in the beginning, when she was new to living on the run. She thought if she was careful with what she revealed, nothing would happen.


    Something happened, and she barely made it out alive. If she had not been from the Snake Clan, if her grandfather wasn¡¯t Red King, she would have died in that back alley. For sure, that knife would have struck her heart. But her name is Blaire, and instinct moved in swiftly. All her years of training under Red King¡¯s direction kicked in and she slithered past the two men with only a shallow cut on the upper arm. Her life was intact, but her ego was forever scarred. True rest has forsaken her since. It wasn¡¯t the only attack. She still wears the scars from the last encounter on her cheek.


    Blaire drops the empty bottle on the threadbare carpet. It makes a soft thud noise and then rolls towards the right, where the bathroom door awaits her next visit. Maybe she¡¯ll go there later. Not yet, though. She doesn¡¯t have the courage to see herself in the mirror under the sharp light. She reaches for the hotel¡¯s phone, lifts the receiver and dials one for reception. A woman answers immediately.


    ¡°Can you send me a bottle of hard liquor?¡± she says, trying not to sound like death warmed up. ¡°With a clean class and a bucket of ice.¡±


    ¡°Sure we can,¡± the bright voice chimes down the line. ¡°What would you like?¡±


    ¡°Hmmm,¡± she hums, pondering. ¡°Something yellow. Or gold. Or amber. I¡¯m mourning. Yellow goes with mourning moods.¡±


    ¡°Yellow?¡± The brightness has left the receptionist¡¯s voice.


    ¡°Yes, yellow,¡± Blaire repeats, this time not even trying to hide the dark mood that has been with her for days. ¡°Not gin. Whiskey.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡± The speaker sounded unsure about the command.


    ¡°Send the best you have. Something that goes down smooth. The cheap shit burns all the way down and out.¡±


    A soft giggle at this, but it¡¯s clearly forced. ¡°I¡¯ll tell the barman, ma¡¯am. Don¡¯t you want something to eat with that?¡±


    A memory from the past slips in. Long tables loaded with food in a hall. Somber faces. Men in dark suits, whispering. Women in black dresses moving between the kitchen, the tables, and the men. Soft voices speaking, retelling familiar stories. It could have been any of the funerals she¡¯d been at, but she knows it is Red King¡¯s. He insisted that a live band play to drown out the sorrow. Of course, the music didn¡¯t cover their weeping. In fact, it only exaggerated the sobs, accentuated it.


    ¡°Momma always insisted on egg salad sandwiches at funerals. Can I have that?¡±


    On the other side of the line, a sound of paper moving as the woman flips through the menu. Blaire imagines her lips drawn in a thin line of annoyance. ¡°It¡¯s not on our menu, but I¡¯m sure the kitchen can make it.¡±


    ¡°That would be just great,¡± Blaire answers, this time forcing some kindness into the lie. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    She moves towards the window with a sudden uneasiness. This time of the afternoon, the sun shone directly at the front of the hotel, making the panes reflective as mirrors. No-one will see her watching the street below. The alcohol fog dissipates swiftly. With acute senses, she scrutinizes the scene below, eyes darting towards the shadows first, the light later.


    She should have left sooner. This is the longest she¡¯s been in one place for years. Sloppy. Negligent. Playing with sure death. Or maybe she is just tired of running. Ready to face the consequences of her actions. Ready to drink deep from the well of sorrow. Step into Hades. Ready for worms to eat her flesh, and fire to burn her soul. Forever and ever, amen.


    If the Bull Tribe found her right now, she won¡¯t even fight back. These ten years sure as fuck stripped her of any reason to live.

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 3: Poison Ivy

    Chapter 3: Poison Ivy


    (The Rolling Stones)


    The bar is a prime example of sleazy. It¡¯s the furthest from the hotel and the only one Blaire hasn¡¯t been in yet. Stevie Wonder¡¯s You don¡¯t bring me flowers anymore, plays loud enough to make talking a chore, and robs the song of any romantic ambience. This isn¡¯t a problem though, because it seems most people come here for the drinking, or the slow dancing. Both are a way to connect to a one-night stand, or a quickie in the parking lot. Neither of these is the main reason for Blaire¡¯s visit. The hotel room felt too tight for her tonight. Or for her memories, at least.


    And too red. The light from the sign outside her window felt like sandpaper scraping on her soul. No, not sandpaper, more like a glove covered in needles and pins. She closed the curtains, turning her back to the window, but the throbbing zing sound remained. And slithers of red light shone through the thin opening between wall and curtain. She fought the urge to leave until around ten, and then showered, dressed and grabbed her purse.


    The clientele inside the bar are local, and the moment she steps through the door, all attention focuses on her for at least a minute. She pulls her shoulders back, lifts her chin, and carefully scans the room from one side to the other, looking for familiar faces, or troublesome situations. One brave soul, whom she can¡¯t identify behind the gray smoke curtain, whistles. A few catcalls follow. She is not amused. Not at all. In all of her life, she¡¯s never met a woman who was actually turned on by either whistles or catcalls.


    ¡°Why the fuck have men not figured this shit out yet?¡± she whispers to herself. ¡°My gawd, how many generations has it been?¡±


    The unwanted attention rubs her the wrong way, almost spoiling the entire night. For a moment Blaire hovers on the brink of turning around and leaving, or staying. In the end, the idea of another night alone in her red hotel room pushes her forward. She needs a serious distraction from her own mental state, or she won¡¯t make it through to morning. She¡¯ll either go mad and attack the room, or kill herself.


    Blaire finds an empty chair at the bar counter. Most people are in booths or at one of the six round tables. She keeps her head low until the barman makes his way towards her. There are only two other people at the counter, and they are all sitting far apart.


    ¡°Whiskey,¡± she orders. ¡°On the rocks.¡±


    He nods, grabbing a glass and filling it halfway with large ice cubes. The bartender moves towards the wall behind him, where liquor bottles lined glass shelves. He reaches for a bottle on the bottom shelf. The song ends, and the first notes of You¡¯re still the one pierces her mind before Shania¡¯s voice fills the room.


    ¡°Not that shit,¡± she tells the barman.


    ¡°The song or the bottle?¡± he asks.


    She shakes her head, fighting back a smile. ¡°Both.¡±


    He flashes her a quick smile. He is tall, slender, but the leg muscles in his tight black leather pants declared he worked out. He has blue eyes and long eyelashes that sweep his cheeks each time he blinks. He has a lacy white shirt that ends halfway down his thighs. Added to this is a light dusting of foundation, eyeliner, pinkish lip balm and purple nail-polish. There is something about him that makes her feel at ease, despite the fact that he obviously was only visiting town. Or maybe because of it. Neither of them belonged here.


    ¡°I love the ring,¡± he says when he returns to place the glass in front of her.


    She looks down at her hands, trying to figure out which of the three rings he was talking about. He reaches over to touch the ring on her left middle finger. It is a family heirloom and the only piece of jewellery she took from home that she didn¡¯t sell. She recalls at least three times removing it with the intention to do just that, but always turned away with it tightly clutched in the palm of her hand.


    It is a special piece, designed by Red King for his thirtieth wedding anniversary. Grandma Sophia gave it to her when her son was born. She couldn¡¯t let it go. The ring is a snake, curled around her finger twice, with two small rubies for eyes. These are Grandma Sophia¡¯s, and her son Gavin¡¯s, birth month gemstones. It has an Emerald tongue, celebrating her grandparent¡¯s anniversary month.


    ¡°My grandfather designed it for my grandmother,¡± she says, caressing the silver snake. ¡°It was for their anniversary.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not something I¡¯ve seen before,¡± he says. ¡°And I see a lot of rings in my profession.¡±


    She sneers, making a show of looking through the half empty bar.


    ¡°Sure,¡± he says. ¡°But I¡¯ll have you know I¡¯ve worked in large cities and in bars that entertained three to four thousand patrons per hour in a single night. This,¡± he sweeps his manicured hand across the room, ¡°this is like a vacation to me.¡±


    ¡°Vacation, cover or asylum?¡± she asks abruptly.


    A chill runs down her spine. She lifts the glass to take a sip. He lifts an eyebrow at her, completely unfazed by her demanding interrogation. He¡¯s obviously been around the block more than once too. The hunted recognises each other, she¡¯s learned on her journey.


    ¡°Ditto,¡± he answers.


    Blaire tilts her head sideways with a smile. ¡°Touch¨¦.¡±Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    A rowdy bunch of construction workers enters, and the barman, Dominique according to his name badge, nods at her. Without waiting for their order, he places seven beer mugs on the counter and fills them one after the other. Blaire watches as he tilts the glass mugs at a perfect angle, and then sweeps off the head with a piece of wood that looks older than time itself. He is old-school trained. Red King would have loved him. He loved the old ways.


    She swings around on the high barstool, allowing the watchers full view of a perfectly formed leg as the skirt¡¯s split falls open. She glances at the unruly bunch of men and then moves her eyes to the rest of the room. Finally, she faces the group again, taking her own sweet time in looking directly at each one sitting at their table. Maybe having a conversation with them will take her mind off of the darkness of the past. Or at least quiet her memories for a few hours. Maybe one of them can relieve the darkness that has been ebbing from her core since she got to this lazy town. She shakes her head. No, it¡¯s not since she got to this town, it¡¯s since she realized the anniversary of the most terrible day of her life is coming soon. And it¡¯s been ten years.


    Although she can¡¯t see anyone directly watching her, she can feel their eyes on her, measuring her proportions. Wondering how she¡¯ll fit in their arms, in their beds, or the backseat of their cars. Wondering if she¡¯ll be willing, or if she needs to be soaked in alcohol to be made malleable. Suddenly, the entire idea seems just too much work for a little reward. She doesn¡¯t have the emotional capacity for any of it, really.


    She turns back to face the barman, straightening her back to deflect the heat of their hungry eyes. It is the wrong kind of heat. That is what she misses the most about her marriage: the way Luka looked at her. He had the magic. Could make her squirm in a seat and drip in the panties. The touch of his eyes ignited fires that burnt down all resistance.


    By the time his fingers caressed her skin, goose-bumps rose, nipples pulled tight, knees grew weak, and every cell of her being cried out in need. Even now, here in this strange bar, her body reacts just at the memory of his touch.  She clutches the glass between her palms, swirling the ice. It isn¡¯t enough to distract her from the waves of lust coursing through her.


    Blaire closes her eyes, casting her senses out like a net, searching for something to drag her back from the past. She leans back, lifts the glass and drains all the amber liquid in one gulp.


    ¡°Fuck, look at that,¡± someone whispers. A male. Sounds youngish. ¡°She may be a MILF, but I¡¯ll hit that, for sure.¡±


    Blaire stiffens, feeling herself plonking back into the moment. The speaker tries to disguise it as a whisper, but obviously says it loud enough for her to hear. Hoping she¡¯ll hear and take him up on the idea. Afterwards, he¡¯ll tell everyone that she was the one initiating sex. That he just went along because who wouldn¡¯t want to bang a hot chick.


    Someone snickers.


    ¡°What?¡± the young voice asks. ¡°Any man here who says he doesn¡¯t want her is a fucking liar.¡±


    ¡°Just don¡¯t, boy,¡± someone answers.


    Blaire clings to the glass, her eyes stuck on the bottle of whisky on the third shelf.


    ¡°What? Are you too scared to shoot your shot?¡± The young man continues calling out his colleagues.


    ¡°A woman like that,¡± someone else says, ¡°she doesn¡¯t come cheap. All the good things in the world come at a price, lad. The better it looks, the higher the price¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s not¡­¡±


    Nobody finishes the boy¡¯s partial thought.


    ¡°Well, she¡¯s not ¡­ you know¡­ a lady of the night,¡± he says, sounding unsure for the first time.


    ¡°No, she¡¯s not,¡± several of the men respond.


    ¡°Listen,¡± this voice sounds like boulders rumbling down a mountainside. ¡°You can look at her, sure. Appreciate her, go right ahead. But don¡¯t even think about touching. She¡¯ll eat you alive. Trust me.¡±


    Blaire thumps the glass on the counter. Once, twice, thrice. Dominique appears as if he¡¯s a ghost being summoned by the devil himself. He is already holding up the bottle, waiting for her permission. She nods, feeling her body turn from hot to ice at the words of the man behind her.


    A few giggles rise above the song and she sighs softly.


    ¡°Don¡¯t give any credence to them,¡± the barman says. ¡°They are small town trash.¡±


    She smiles at him. ¡°I¡¯ve heard worse. Faced worse, too.¡±


    Blaire pulls at her jacket, slipping a shoulder out of the material to show the scar of a knife attack.


    ¡°That might be true,¡± he says as she covers herself again. ¡°But by the look of it, you are not at your best right now.¡±


    It seems that he too can read between the lines. His eyes can read her for who she is: a broken woman clinging to a glass of whiskey as if it will somehow restore the courage she lost somewhere between the last full moon and this dark night.


    ¡°Just so you know,¡± the conversation behind her continues. ¡°Even if you don¡¯t take her home, she¡¯ll follow you anyway. Tonight, as we lay in bed, she¡¯ll be in our thoughts and dreams, doing something hellish and delicious that will haunt us for weeks.¡±


    Blaire takes a slow sip from the glass, making up her mind to leave as soon as she finishes. The men did in fact manage to clear her mind of the past. Maybe she¡¯ll even be able to sleep tonight.


    ¡°Months,¡± the deep voice says. ¡°She¡¯ll creep up like poison ivy, taking control of your mind, poisoning your fantasies with impossible scenarios. No woman will ever be able to dethrone her.¡±


    ¡°She looks as pretty as a daisy,¡± the young man says. ¡°Just look at her, man.¡±


    ¡°A rose,¡± someone says. ¡°With thorns. She¡¯ll hurt you. She¡¯ll make you bleed. She¡¯ll get under your skin and taint your flesh and bones.¡±


    ¡°Want me to talk to them?¡± Dominique asks.


    Blaire shakes her head. ¡°That will just make it worse, but thank you for offering.¡±


    Lionel Richie coons to Diana Ross about endless love. Meanwhile, here in this Midwest town, Blaire is still stuck. Stuck in this room. Stuck in her head. Stuck in her memories. And it feels as if she¡¯ll never get out.


    ¡°That woman is trouble on two legs,¡± one of the construction workers says.


    Blaire locks eyes with Dominique. There is no sign of pity there, though she expects it. This wipes away all the words of the men talking behind her back. Suddenly she feels stronger, more capable.


    ¡°There you are,¡± he says, smiling at her while jutting out his chin. ¡°Let me welcome your backbone to this bar.¡±


    She chuckles at his words. ¡°Well, thank you for recognising the shape my courage.¡±

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 4: Poison Was the Cure

    Chapter 4: Poison Was the Cure


    <h2>(Megadeth)</h2>


    Blaire knows she has a terrible weakness. She doesn¡¯t know when to stay or run. Any woman, or man, with a bit of self-respect, would have walked out of the bar after hearing those words. Yet, here she is, still swirling the whiskey and ice in her glass. Round and round the ice blocks go, where the whiskey will end up, she already knows.


    She lifts her face and flashes a wry smile to the nameless faces on the dance floor. She tosses head back, and lets the good times roll into her mouth, and down her throat. It used to be that the alcohol would warm her, but no more. But then again, she¡¯s not felt warmth since Gavin died. Or maybe, due to overuse, she¡¯s become accustomed to the effects of drugs and alcohol. It¡¯s a human trait, learning to adapt to your habitat in order to survive.


    The weak die young, but she¡¯s still here, even if it is reeling on the brink of sanity.


    Suddenly, she misses Luka, her husband. Misses most of all the intimacy they had in the beginning, before everything became toxic. He was like a drug to her. Knew how to make her body beg for more. Knew the words that would reach her heart and open her like a flower, exposing her sacred territories. He was the first man that saw her. Really saw her, the person, not Red King¡¯s prot¨¦g¨¦. He saw the real Blaire, the woman, the wife, the entity she was when none of the glamour of her titles and heritage were present.


    Only later she¡¯ll learn that he also knew how to attack using these exact tools. He slipped the knife into her most tender places, wiggled it around until she bled, and then stepped away to look at the wound. She wished, with all her heart, that he had never seen her. Because he poisoned their well and then withheld the intimacy which she craved to heal.


    In the war, Luka played a long game. He didn¡¯t come to her openly, but used guerrilla tactics. A thousand hit-and-run skirmishes over the course of months to slow her down. These she could have handled if it hadn¡¯t been for the loss of her most trusted medicine: the safety of his arms, the healing of their sexual connection. His touch quenched her thirst for battle. Calmed her right the fuck down. Addictive, it was, too. Sex between them was a holy rite that purged her demons.


    Luka won her over early, bit her like a snake. The venom still resided within her heart and mind more than a decade later. Oh, the man was a monster dressed innocently as a bird. She should have looked for the signs of deceit earlier. If they were there before they got married, she didn¡¯t notice.


    ¡°You noticed,¡± grandfather¡¯s voice whispers in her mind. ¡°But chose to ignore the red lights.¡±


    She opens her mouth to answer, but the barman¡¯s fist thumping the counter in front of her, drags her back to reality. Blaire pushes the glass of ice back towards him.


    ¡°Hit me again,¡± she says loudly over Chicago singing If you leave me now.


    A stiff nod as he steps to the left to refill her glass. Triple shot of amber on ice. Liquid gold to brighten her dark mood. She needs to see a therapist, but this town has none and she¡¯s been too stuck in her own mind to move on to a larger city. The bigger the place, the more people. More people mean more eyes to notice strangers. Also, there are more people in cities that can be paid to be her in-law¡¯s spies. Maybe some of their people are already there, waiting for her arrival.


    The barman slips the glass over the counter as if it was a toy train on a play rail. She catches it in the palm of her hand and takes a large sip. She is on the fence between present and past, being flung from one to the other.


    ¡°Not flung,¡± granddad interrupts the thought. ¡°You are no victim here. You decide where your mind goes.¡±


    Every word of every sentence Luka told her in those months of attack stung deeply. At first, she held back, but as surely as his touch could calm her, the attacks ignited a spark that she could not resist. Dragons that were sleeping in her veins for years awoke with vehemence. She matched Luka¡¯s energy with her own. Their life became a game of tit-for-tat. Whatever he said, Blaire returned two-fold. Their bed went from lava hot to arctic ice. The rest of the house was a battlefield of two volcanoes spewing at each other.


    ¡°You are a fucking cancer in my brain,¡± Luka said on her twenty-eight birthday after the guests left.


    ¡°What brain?¡± she retorted with a sneer.


    He threw the tray of left-over sandwiches at her. She ducked like the warrior she was born to be and it flew over her back, hitting the ugly painting he clung to because some lunatic once told him the artist will become famous. At that time, the piece had already hung in the dining room for four years and she still gagged when it came into view.


    ¡°No!¡± Luka screamed, storming to wipe wilted lettuce and egg salad sandwiches off of his pride and joy. This art, he insisted, was the elixir that would boost his pension fund so that he could retire as a rich man at forty.


    He died before the artist reached fame. She wasn¡¯t sure if he ever got famous, or what happened to the bloody painting after she fled The Farm. Maybe someone kept it, knowing how much it meant to Luka. Maybe they sold it. Maybe some kind soul sent it, with his other possessions, to his ancestral home.


    She didn¡¯t really care about the things she left behind. Not then. Not now. She can barely remember what their home looked like. Only the memories of their shared life stayed. Some were good, because there were wonderful days. Of late, the bad ones have been popping up, though. Mostly at night.


    The last two years of their marriage were horrible. The last year sprung directly from the pits of hell itself. It felt, at times, as if a million little ants were running over her skin while some dirty insect laid eggs in her brain. In the end, the hatched babies ate her from the inside out until only a shell remained. It spoke with a sharp mouth and no conscience. It spat words as piercing as swords, fast as ninja stars, devastating as nuclear bombs.


    Together, they marched their marriage to the gallows. Afterward, when she glanced back at this miserable time in their history, she could see where her brain stepped aside and allowed her injured heart to take over operations of all faculties. She sleepwalked onwards, day in and day out, until she came home from town one day and saw her husband¡¯s car in a place it wasn¡¯t supposed to be. Out in the desert, parked behind a line of trees on the way to town.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    The area had scattered corpses of trees, which Red King planted. This was a project they started when she was just a child, not even in school yet. Every month, he¡¯d grab a handful of mixed tree seeds and plant it together in a newly dug row in the backyard. It was her responsibility to water the patch of future trees until they were strong enough to be planted somewhere on the desert road leading to town. Red King wanted to see which trees would survive the scarce water supply and the sweltering heat. This batch did well enough to hide one car, but not enough to hide Luka¡¯s and the red Porsche her sister, Catriona, drove.


    She slowed down for a moment, but then decided not to stop. Then accelerated to top speed, hoping they didn¡¯t notice her passing by. Once she reached The Farm, she parked in front of an acquaintance¡¯s home. She didn¡¯t go to the front door, but power walked herself down the block, turning right at the intersection. Two houses down, she crossed the neat lawn and knocked on a nephew¡¯s door. Arthur looked surprised to see her, but hid it quickly. He had a reputation as someone that could find shit out, and be discreet enough to never reveal it to the wrong ears. As an ex-police officer, people trusted him completely.


    ¡°What can I do for you?¡± he asked, gesturing to the couch. She fell down onto the leather with a heavy sigh.


    ¡°That sigh can sink ships,¡± he said, eyes carefully searching her face. ¡°Are you okay, B?¡±


    The younger nephews and nieces all called her B. She never asked why, but deep down she knew it stood for another word that fit her about as well as the name her momma blessed her with.


    ¡°I just saw Luka¡¯s car not so discreetly parked where it doesn¡¯t belong this time of day. And Catriona¡¯s was right next to it.¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°And? Maybe they ran into each other?¡±


    ¡°Behind a copse of trees?¡±


    ¡°Well, maybe not. You got any bees buzzing under the bonnet?¡± he asked, tapping an index finger against his temple.


    ¡°Plenty of them.¡±


    ¡°Want me to look into it for you?¡±


    She sighed again, pondering. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s nothing,¡± she answered with a shrug. ¡°You know how hormones can just get into a woman¡¯s brain and shake everything up.¡±


    ¡°Are you having your period?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Is it coming up soon?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Then it¡¯s not hormones. I¡¯ll pop my head in for you. Come around over the weekend. I¡¯ll buzz you on the phone if I have something sooner.¡±


    At home she soaked in a tub of water with bathing salts, but nothing could wash away the layer of guilt she picked up inside Arthur¡¯s house. Maybe she really was the worst wife in the world, as Luka often declared during warfare. A good wife would trust her husband completely, not assume the worst just because of one minor mistake.


    The darkness stayed with her for the rest of the week. No matter how many times she bathed, or told herself it was nothing, whenever she saw Luka, the first thing that jumped to mind was the image of his car next to Catriona¡¯s. An immediate chastening of self and more guilt followed this, piling up on the growing mountain between them.


    Late Saturday afternoon, she clung to a bottle of beer at Arthur¡¯s place and cried at the sight of Luka and Catriona¡¯s infidelity displayed in a succession of photos on the dining table. The evidence cured whatever the fuck she believed about his innocence.


    Blaire¡¯s eyes get watery at the memory. Maybe it¡¯s the smoke inside the bar. Maybe it¡¯s this overwhelming sadness that wants to grab her by the throat and strangle her. And maybe it¡¯s time for her to get going. To become unstuck. Because this is fucking toxic.


    ¡°Anything I can do to make your day even brighter?¡± Dominique asks, fluttering his eyelashes at her in a way that looks funny, not sexy.


    ¡°Well, if you have some 80s metal,¡± she says, nodding to a table behind her. ¡°That would just about drown out the trash talk spilling my way.¡±


    The smile that spreads across his face tells her that indeed Dominique has what she needs. That is a surprise to her. He doesn¡¯t seem like someone with a dark heart, like herself. Sure, she knows he is running like her. And yes, there is a sadness hidden behind the crisp fashionable clothes and beautiful face. Yet, there is a light inside him that is clearly visible through the cracks. He fiddles with his phone, and Janet Jackson stops singing about the way love goes, while Black Sabbath¡¯s intro to Master of Puppets begins.


    ¡°It¡¯s the only good thing I inherited from my father,¡± he explains to her unasked question. ¡°80¡¯s metal is how we connected when I was a child, but it wasn¡¯t enough for him to forgive¡­ how did he put it¡­ wasting a good sperm to create a useless homo like me.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± she says with no pity or regret. ¡°He is missing out on something awesome.¡±


    ¡°How do you know? Maybe I¡¯m a horrible person.¡±


    She snickers. ¡°Sure, that¡¯s why you have been so kind to a stranger all night.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a paying customer,¡± he says with an eye roll. ¡°Plus, there is this vibe between us. Feels as if I¡¯ve known you for years.¡±


    She nods in agreement to his words. He offers to fill her glass again, but she moves it away from the neck of the bottle.


    ¡°I¡¯ll switch to sparkling water,¡± she says. ¡°Still have to walk back to the hotel room. I need to be aware of shit while I do that. You know how vulnerable a woman walking alone is.¡±


    He snorts. ¡°More like a girl walking home alone at night. A dangerous beauty not to be meddled with.¡±


    She closes her eyes, allowing the familiar music to crush into her head, erasing the darkness of a few moments before. Fuck love and romance. Fuck quickies with complete strangers. Music moves her. Always has. Why did she isolate herself from this luxury, this cure, this liberation of the mind?


    Because you think you don¡¯t deserve comfort or pleasure.


    An icy shiver runs up her spine, and she bobs her head to the drum¡¯s rhythm. For the first time in weeks, the death rattle of dry bones is quiet. She draws a deep breath of smoky air into her lungs, feeling the tightness in her chest dissolve into nothing.


    ¡°You know, this is the best metal album in the world, ever?¡± There is a lightness in her tone as she speaks.


    Blaire opens her eyes slowly. Dominique has set up another round of beer mugs for the construction workers. In front of her stands a class with ice containing a slice of fresh lime and a bottle of unflavoured sparkling water. She opens it and pours the contents into the glass while he swipes the foam off the first beer.


    ¡°Why do you think I¡¯m starting with it?¡± he says. ¡°If you step off the beaten path, do it with all the pizzazz you have. Go out with a big bang.¡±


    ¡°Are you going out?¡±


    He looks at her and nods. ¡°I figure it¡¯s time to go. Thanks to you, my feet are itching to leave.¡±


    ¡°Are you driving out of town?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± he answers. ¡°You want to hitch a ride?¡±


    ¡°I have been stuck here too long,¡± she says. ¡°It¡¯s time to go.¡±


    ¡°Go where, exactly?¡±


    ¡°Not sure yet, but I¡¯ll ride along with you until I feel the call to a specific destination. If you don¡¯t mind?¡±


    ¡°Not at all. I usually travel alone. It¡¯ll be nice to have some company.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll fill the tank and pay for rooms when we sleep somewhere.¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°I¡¯ll pay my way.¡±


    ¡°If you want to, but I really have enough to cover it. And you are doing me a favour already.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s talk it out in the car tomorrow. I was thinking of heading to the nearest shore. My soul longs for the ocean and salt air.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll let you know when my soul pings me,¡± she says with a smile. ¡°But if I cramp your style, just tell me and I¡¯m gone like a ghost in the night.¡±


    ¡°Where are you staying?¡±


    ¡°The hotel down the road,¡± she says. ¡°What time are we leaving?¡±


    ¡°As soon as the sun is out. I want to get at least three good hours of sleep before we hit the road.¡±


    ¡°Sounds good. Join me for breakfast when you pick me up.¡±


    ¡°You know, I don¡¯t even know your name.¡±


    She holds out her right hand to him. ¡°Bianca,¡± she lies.


    ¡°Well, Bianca, I¡¯m so glad that you walked into this bar tonight.¡±


    ¡°Ditto,¡± she says.

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 5: Poison & Wine

    Chapter 5: Poison & Wine


    <h2>(The Civil Wars)</h2>


    Later that night, in the hotel¡¯s bed, Blaire tosses and turns, tangled in memories. The smell of burning wood hangs in the air. There is no fire here, or close by. It¡¯s a phantom smell, a ghost from the past.


    Out of frustration she rises, opening the shower to full blast of cold water, hoping it would wash the past from this present. She longs for sleep, but knows it won¡¯t come while her mind is diving into the toxic dumpster of the past.


    ¡°It¡¯s because the anniversary is coming soon,¡± she whispers. ¡°That¡¯s all it is. A big one too. Ten years. Darkness Returns is looming.¡±


    Twelve years ago, she left Arthur¡¯s place with the evidence in her bag, not sure what to do. She continued being the wife Luka knew, or the broken version she had become during those preceding troubled months. She cooked and cleaned. Sat at the table across from him, thinking that she knew everything, and he had no idea that she did. Her sister used to be the one she¡¯d talked to before, but now she was a part of the problem, not the solution.


    She wondered what he¡¯d say if he knew that she knew. Would he find some excuse? Would he deny it all? Blame it on her? Try to talk his way out of it?


    She knew she should tell him, but couldn¡¯t. How do you tell your husband that you know he is having an affair with your sister, of all people? Where do you start? How do you explain that you deliberately asked someone to go behind his back to find evidence? If he asks why she didn¡¯t come to him with her doubts, what will she answer?


    She had no answer.


    So many unanswered questions flying around in her brain. She didn¡¯t want to walk into the confrontation unprepared, but how does one prepare for such a conversation? The only thing she knew for sure at the time was this: she wasn¡¯t nearly emotionally ready for what was going to happen. And while she had the knowledge of the sordid affair on her sleeve, she felt in control. Once the facts are out, there will be all kinds of repercussions she couldn¡¯t predict or manage.


    In the meantime, she listened to his voice, talking his way in and out of her heart. Sometimes spilling sweet words like wine over her abused heart. It was a salve, a healing. Other times, spitting poisonous words that pushed them even further and further apart. Blaire didn¡¯t know which to believe. His mouth was a pendulum swinging over her, from darkness to light and back again. She never knew what would come next. Could not prepare for either attack or loving embrace.


    The only sure thing she had to cling onto was that she loved him once. Loved him still. Despite everything that happened. Despite everything that might still happen, she loved him.


    But everything changed. Even those pillars of their marriage fell away slowly. He suddenly wanted children. A new dream he constantly beat her down with. She wasn¡¯t sure where it came from, because they had agreed to be childfree. For ever. Was it because he was looking for a sure way out of the marriage that will place the blame squarely on her shoulders, leaving him squeaky clean? He always hated carrying blame for anything. If she continued to refuse him a child, he could point at her and say confidently that he wanted more than she was willing to give. That she was the poison. That she was breaking an obvious expectation of marriage.


    Only Red King understood her insistence to never procreate with Luka. He is the one who made her aware of how high-risk pregnancy between her and Luka would be. People from the Bird Clan didn¡¯t fare well when they had children with others. His own grandparents and parents were a perfect example. Father from the Bull Tribe, mother from the weak Bird Clan. Seven pregnancies. Only Luka made it past puberty. After his mother¡¯s death, his father married again to a woman from a prominent Bull Tribe family. Together, they had six healthy children. Luka was not Bull, even though his father was. He inherited his weak Bird mother¡¯s genes. Small and weak. And beautiful. So beautiful.


    That is why Red King gave her the first bottle of potion to prevent pregnancy, and the recipe to make her own in the future. She discussed this with Luka at length during their engagement, and he agreed. He didn¡¯t feel the need to give his father grandchildren, since there were plenty of siblings to do so.


    Plus, she wanted to travel, see the world before she took up leadership of the Snake Clan. Children would tie them down to a house and schools and medical services. She had the kind of work that she could take anywhere, earning a living while actually living. This, too, was something they both wanted. Or at least, what she wanted, and Luka said he wanted. Once she had gained recognition in her field, they¡¯d start traveling. For years, they lived in this bubble of agreement, sharing a future that looked the same. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Then it changed. He changed. Their dreams were no longer the same. She wanted to hate him, then. Longed for her heart to turn away from the pain that festered between them, the abyss that opened deeper every day. Her heart was a traitor. It kept dragging her back to him and what they used to have. Their good times chained her to him in a way that made no sense. Her heart held tight to the idea that one day, if she held on, everything will return to the way it was before.


    Blaire closes the shower¡¯s tap, grabbing the thick hotel towel from the rail. Slowly, with deliberate movements, she dries herself. She should stop drinking. It¡¯s making everything worse. She can¡¯t escape the darkness closing in while her mind dallies in the past.


    Like recalling how she wished Luka would run after her. Those romantic novels and movies from her teenage years promised that the love of her life will always run after her when she walks away. That somehow they will always reconcile. That a broken relationship can be unbroken with a mere kiss, a flower, and the right song playing in the background.


    Lies. All lies.


    Luka didn¡¯t run to make up every time. Didn¡¯t run to fix them when he was the one that caused the pain. Didn¡¯t respond to her trying to reconcile. Their make-ups became less and less. Forgiveness came slower, at a higher cost. Their fights got longer, more vicious. He moved his clothes to the spare bedroom and slept there most nights.


    One, two, one, two, one, two, march.


    She went out of her way to not fight. She craved his attention like a child longs for parental acknowledgement. Sometimes, when she could, she chose to walk away. Stayed away for hours, sometimes days. She slept in the office, or on warm nights under the open sky. Sometimes he¡¯d be the one leaving. Their coming back together was less spectacular as the months dragged on. Their emotional connection diminished until it was about as thin as a summer sheet.


    She stayed. When she should have left, she stayed. Hoping. Longing. Praying. A stupid teenager clinging to an empty promise of true love. The woman inside her remembers how Luka¡¯s hands could awaken her, heal her, and calm her. How softly he touched her. How warmly. How he always wanted her within arm¡¯s length.


    In those last years she learned that those same hands, like his words, could hurt. Her arms, where he gripped her, pulling her close to scream right in her face, carried bruises that turned from blue to purple to yellow.


    And she loved him, even then. She sat across the dinner table, in the shadow of his sin, unable to swallow the food she spent hours preparing. If he noticed, he didn¡¯t discuss it. Days went by in this dark limbo. Until she could no longer keep it inside. Why should she be the one to carry the burden alone? It wasn¡¯t her burden to carry in the first place. It was his. His and Catriona¡¯s.


    She rose from the meal, speed walked to her bag, took the photos out with a determination that carried her shaking legs back to the dining room. She stopped in the doorway, looking at him. For a moment, she almost turned away, but her feet wouldn¡¯t move. Not forward or back. She stood there, stuck in the moment.


    Something had to be done. Every time he left the house she wondered if it was to meet her sister. Every time she left the house, she wondered if Catriona would come to fuck her husband. The idea that they did it in her house, in the home they build together drove her crazy. Somewhere someone was burning wood. The smoke drifted in through the window. It accosted her nose and sense. She waved a hand in front of her face, but it was useless.


    Luka must have noticed her absence from the table because his eyes searched for her then. He found her in the doorway, looked at her with a frown on his forehead and a fake smile on his lips. She shrugged at the thought that he wanted to trick her with a disguise. Her, who knew him better then he knew himself.


    ¡°What?¡± he asked.


    She took one step toward him. Then another. She clutched the photos tightly, as if they would grow wings and fly away. Even then, she didn¡¯t know what she was going to do once she got to the table. What she was going to say.


    In the end, she placed the heap of photos next to his plate and spread them out with one finger like a deck of cards. Then she sat down in her usual place. She lifted a forkful of peas to her mouth before looking at him. He had the decency to look shocked, there was no shame in his eyes at all. He coughed behind a fist, stared at the wall behind her where that awful painting hung. He didn¡¯t say a word. Didn¡¯t make excuses. Didn¡¯t blame anyone.


    ¡°I still love you,¡± she said, trying to sound strong. ¡°I assume you know what to do?¡±


    He coughed again, placing the serviette in front of his mouth. Without a word, he nodded at her. She cut her meat neatly, speared a piece with her fork and ate. It tasted perfect. Butter and garlic with rosemary and a little tough of honey. She reached for the wine, drank a little sip.


    This was the first meal she enjoyed since Arthur gave her those photos. No, since she saw the two cars on the way home that day. She ate slowly, savouring every mouthful. He left the table moments later. He took the photos with him, but left her carefully prepared meal untouched. She didn¡¯t care about that at all. The heavy load that dragged her down for weeks lifted off her shoulders. She felt like a bird, flying free.


    They never spoke of it again, but it was like a shadow between them. No matter where they were, what they did, and whom they were with, they both knew this ugly truth. They lived with the knowledge of his sin. His and Catriona¡¯s sin. It tainted every moment. It poisoned their love.


    Nothing was ever the same again. She knew it. He knew it. People around them could see the holes in their relationship, but nobody knew what it was, or tried to fix it. The darkness grew. The wound festered. Their home became a toxic swamp filled with filth.


    In her mind one though of hope sprung up. It grew from a seed to a fully-fledged tree. Strong and straight. Reaching from the dark soil to the clear blue sky like a bridge. One diamond that shone in the darkness. The solution to their trouble. The one thing she knew he wanted.


    A child.

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 6: Dry Bone Valley

    Chapter 6: Dry Bone Valley


    (Mastodon)


    When Blaire finally falls asleep, dreams drag her away to the desert again. No matter how far or fast she runs, Blaire Naphara always ends up ankle deep in scorching sand and sweltering memories. Desert bareness mirrors her life. Thirty-six years old and no place to lay her exhausted body and comatose soul. Nobody to wipe tears from the face, pain from the heart, or fears from the harassed mind.


    No oasis. No green, green grass of home. No peace, or soft place to land. All she has is nightmares. Haunted by voices from the past, and visions of an abrupt vicious end in the near future. It looms above her head like a tornado waiting to erupt. She cannot escape it. Sometimes she turns down the volume, but it¡¯s always there.


    In a boiling bed her legs pump madly and feet fly over a million dunes at breakneck speed. Sun bites down on skin and heat rises from the soil to meet her naked feet. Urgent promises of blisters and boils. Once, after such a dream, she woke with aching soles, and in the morning found sand in the bed. And that familiar sound.


    The rattle of dry bones stirring her soul.


    The desert isn¡¯t what drove her forward with arms flailing like limp noodles beside her. It is something altogether else. Some dark evil birthed in the obscurest recesses of her nightmares. It is coming. A monstrous mountain of flesh hiding an iceberg heart. She fights the urge to turn around. The desire to put a face, a body, a name to the terror burns inside her mind, but her body rules now. Adrenaline pulses in the red rivers of veins, spurring muscles and tendons into ferocious action. Keep running. Carefully place feet. Ignore the spasms in calves, the tight chest fighting painfully for each breath, and a heart thundering to the rhythm of fear.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to die,¡± she whispers. ¡°Please, Red King, don¡¯t let me die here. I want to see home one last time.¡±


    Hot breath caresses her neck, sending cold shivers down her spine. Blaire stumbles. Falls. Rolls down the dune; head over heels. Down and down she goes deeper into the valley. Blaire gasps, swallowing a mouthful of dusty air. She coughs, tosses her head back and elbows out, trying to stop the mad downward spiral. Her skin burns. A million grains of sand acts like sandpaper, scraping skin off flash.


    At last she comes to a stop, face down in the hot sand. She rolls onto her left side, spitting and coughing. With a shaky hand, she wipes at her eyes and mouth, longing for a clean dust-free breath of air, and the ability to see what is coming.


    Is this how she¡¯ll die? Will this be her valley of death?


    Sand in her mouth. Sand in her eyes. Her head spins. Arms spread wide, hands grabbing sand in fists, looking for a weapon, or an anchor. A rattle of moving bones ringing in her ears, erasing all other sounds. A warning of death. A familiar funeral song.


    It has been her song since the terrible day when her child died. His bones weren¡¯t dry, like those of her ancestors. Neither like the bird skeletons, which she gathered with Granddad as a child. In life, the boy¡¯s bones were thin as paper, and light as whispers. In death, they were heavy and cold. They sang to her with sharp tones, like ice clinking in a glass. Short, shrill sounds. His song was something fragile and precious, falling to a stone floor. He shattered like an expensive crystal vase.


    She crawls backward, eyes searching the empty dark sky above. There is no help, no hope, and no more time to think about the past or the future. She might not make it to the future, and the past is lost already. Nothing can stop this.


    Softly she whispers a spell for rain. Rain to wash away her pain, her fear, her nightmarish pursuer. Her soul longs for the comfort of refreshing water. For that blessing of rejuvenation. For forgiveness from some unknown entity. Something somewhere to give her absolution.


    ¡°Please,¡± she pleads, but still there is no answer.


    Blaire tries to rise, but her legs are too weak, too tired. Then it is there. This monstrous thing she feared for ages; this devil from the past. Four feet, black with soot. Fresh scars on the legs. Scrapes running down the length of the forelegs. Blood dripping in fat red splatters onto the hot desert sand. Red on gold. The hot sand soaks the blood as eagerly as any other liquid, be it rain or piss.


    She knew the pursuer. Knew his grievance was worthy of her death. Vasiliev Bykov. King of the Bull Tribe. Grandfather to Luka, her departed husband. Great grandfather to her dead son.


    He roars above her with the sound of a thousand thunderstorms. Clouds of gray smoke roll from his nostrils. Saliva foam drips from his mouth. Wet blobs fall onto her hot skin, melting with a soft sizzle sound into small puddles. She scrambles backward, the urge to move away springs from a fountain deep within.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Despite her effort, her feet tangles in snakes. They coil around her legs, anchoring her in front of the angry, snorting Bull like a virgin sacrifice tied to a pole on the edge of a spluttering volcano. But she isn¡¯t a virgin, and too old to be a worthy sacrifice. Her flesh, like her dark, old soul, will be tough to chew and bitter to taste. It won¡¯t satisfy the hunger of this monster.


    A terrible pain seizes her useless womb, and she gasps for breath, clutching her torso. Waves of fatigue ride aching bones. Mentally and physically, she has nothing more to give. Blaire Naphara is as empty as heaven, as quiet as a closed church on a weekday. For a moment, the thought of surrender flashes brightly into her mind. Surrender to him. To life¡¯s circumstances. She has nothing to live for, anyway. No one who loves her. No one who will cry when she dies, or even notice her absence from the world.


    Except the Bykov Tribe. They will surely celebrate Blaire¡¯s passing. Hell, they might even institute a yearly festival in her honor.


    The Bull¡¯s hooves dig into the soil, kicking up dirt behind him. The movement opens deep, long scars in the desert floor at her captured feet. Again, the jangle of bones in her head. A rattlesnake¡¯s lullaby. A macabre child¡¯s pacifier. She glances at the earth beneath him. A shallow grave looms beneath his hooves. Bones peek out at her. So many bones. White and dry. Long dead reminder of loved ones that used to live, breathe, laugh, and love.


    The voices of the slain calls to her. Their cries penetrate her heart with the force of a dagger driven by the strongest Bull Tribe warrior. She feels pain for the first time in ages. For too long she closed herself off from emotions. The mental energy required to not feel is beyond her ability. Has been for weeks. Now, she releases all control over the tears that come.


    Blaire grabs at the precious bones, fingers closing around two. With shaking hands, she pulls it loose, holds it close to her breast. They vibrate against her, murmuring something she doesn¡¯t understand. Or maybe something she refuses to hear? She doesn¡¯t speak the language of bone, if there is one. If she could, the constant rattling in her head would have stopped years ago. The white bones are warm against her cold flesh. Is she dead and they alive?


    The bull snorts fire and smoke, filling the surrounding air with the smell of sulphur. This, then, is what wrath tastes like. She reaches down again, caressing the snakes around her legs with soft fingers. They release her, falling for the charms of her care. Or maybe they finally recognize her as one of their own.


    She lays back on the burning bed of sand beneath her, closing eyes against the sun¡¯s rays and the monster¡¯s face. She is ready for death. All she wants for her last rite is to return home once more. After that he can come for his long awaited revenge. Hell, she¡¯ll go to him and he can do whatever he wants to this body. There is only so much turmoil one person can stand.


    His breath touches her face. She opens her eyes to find the bull¡¯s head obscuring the entire world from her vision. She sneers, reaches out to pat the wet nose.


    ¡°I know,¡± she whispers. ¡°And you are owed a death. Eye for an Eye, as the Scriptures promise.¡±


    He retreats, but doesn¡¯t leave. Blaire moves slowly toward the place the bull had disturbed with his fierce feet. She drops the two bones into the gaping grave and covers it with the sand he cleaved away earlier. Even as she works, the bones sing to her. She still doesn¡¯t understand the message, but the tone is clear.


    Danger. Death. Run.


    The large bull doesn¡¯t intervene, just watches her every move. Once the bones are quietly resting again, she stands, wiping her hands on her leather jacket. Around them, the air quivers.


    ¡°Death row convicts get a last meal,¡± she says, looking at him again.


    He scoffs at the words, swinging his head away, but still doesn¡¯t speak.


    ¡°I want to go home one last time,¡± she says, trying to sound confident. ¡°One last goodbye to those I love. After that, I¡¯ll come to you.¡±


    ¡°How do I know you¡¯ll do this?¡± His voice rumbles loudly.


    ¡°I¡¯ll make a Blood Oath,¡± she says.


    ¡°As if I can trust you.¡±


    ¡°I am Red King¡¯s granddaughter. You have no reason to not believe me.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve been looking for you for years,¡± he says. ¡°Why would you give up now?¡±


    ¡°Because I¡¯m tired to the bone. This life is too bitter to continue living it. I fear reaching out to speak to my family. I can¡¯t get close to anyone else, since that would place them in danger, too. Constant fear that the police or your spies will recognize me. Even in sleep, I find no comfort. I am ready for whatever happens. I had my vengeance. I won¡¯t deny you yours.¡±


    ¡°You know this is a dream, right?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± she says. ¡°And if it is nothing more than a dream, just humor me. If it is, both of us get what we want.¡±


    ¡°Fine, if you insist.¡±


    ¡°This is my dream, as you say. I can ask whatever I want.¡±


    Blaire retrieves the pocket knife from its hiding place in her boot and flicks it open. She makes a diagonal cut across the fleshy part of her thumb. Blood trickles out. Without another thought, she bends down before the impressive form of the Bull King, and sweeps her thumb across the bleeding wounds on his legs.


    ¡°I promise that I¡¯ll come to your compound soon,¡± she says, ¡°and then you can do whatever you want to me when I arrive.¡±


    ¡°Your death,¡± he says without remorse. ¡°That is what I want.¡±


    She rolls her eyes, exhales through her nose. ¡°I expected nothing less.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t make me wait too long, Blaire,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯m running out of patience and nobody can blame me. You should have come to me when it happened, but you ran.¡±


    ¡°Can you at least contemplate that everything I did that night was a response to something that broke me? I truly didn¡¯t take time to think about what I should do at all.¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± he says. ¡°But it¡¯s been ten years. You could have made a better choice later. How long do I have to wait for you to come see me?''¡°


    ¡°Ten days at most. Maybe twelve.¡±


    ¡°Ten days. One day for every year I¡¯ve been waiting. Sounds like a ritual. I¡¯ll grant you ten days of grace, nothing more. Please don¡¯t make the wrong decision again. The only reason I¡¯m even agreeing is because of Red King¡¯s memory.¡±


    ¡°Ten days, it is.¡±


    She curtsies to him, and then, without looking back once, walks off into the dusk. A lone ranger. A dead woman walking.

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 7: Bones of birds

    Chapter 7: Bones of birds


    (Soundgarden)


    Eleven years ago


    Blaire¡¯s child was born in the morning. His cries fluttered in the air like a thousand little butterflies. His birth was hard. Everything went wrong. He was born too early, too small and severely fragile. It took only an hour for her to realize that he was completely unprepared for life and she was completely unprepared for him. On top of that, he wasn¡¯t ready for the burden she planned to place upon his bony shoulders. He was beautiful and melodious, a stealer of hearts, for sure, but he was not a rock on which you could build a future.


    Their boy was more like his father, Luka, than her. How foolish to think he could be their savior. He couldn¡¯t even save himself. He could hardly breathe, for fuck¡¯s sake. She cuddled him in her arms, singing the lullabies that her mother and grandmother used. She fed him from her breast, caressing his soft cheek with careful fingers. She rocked him on the carpet in front of the fire in their living room. She bathed him as gently as she could. He hated being naked, and hated water most of all.


    She coddled the boy. Her boy. The child she didn¡¯t want crawled into her heart and made a home there. She welcomed him with a love greater than any she ever bestowed on another living thing, including his father. She pour heart and soul and body into the task of caring for him, of keeping him alive. Sometimes, in the darkest moments of the night, she stood next to his basinet with her palm in front of his face just to be sure he was still breathing.


    She cherished every moment with him. From his first breath, she knew that time wasn¡¯t their friend. It¡¯s never been on her side, to tell you the truth. But while the child lived, she was going to build a home on him, despite the foreboding coldness in his flesh. The sight of his feeble little body brought back memories of long walks with Red King, her grandfather. On these walks he would teach her about nature. The names of plants and what they were good for. The power of animals. He¡¯d tell her about potions that could cure common colds, broken hearts, or nightmares. Sometimes they¡¯d pick plants to replenish his pharmacy, as he called it. But mostly he taught her about the reality of life and death.


    ¡°Nothing lives forever, Bear,¡± he¡¯d say. ¡°Even continents are eroded by the waves. Life is about the cycle of birth and death. And in between these two events, there are a million changes taking place in a day. A million little deaths.¡±


    She learned about fauna and flora quickly. About cycles of the seasons. About how each season impacted the world. He showed her that each season contained both strong points and weaknesses. Spring for joyful new growth. Summer for luxurious abundance. Fall for conserving resources, banking the feast of Summer. Winter to rest and heal.


    Impressed by her progress, he said Blaire would excel in the art of Dark Magic, if she put her mind towards it. Others in the family learned the basics, but never really showed more interest. She was his prot¨¦g¨¦, the one who would take over the family business once he was ready to retire. Everyone knew it, and nobody contested his decision.


    When they found bird cadavers, he¡¯d ask Blaire to pick up the carcasses cautiously and place it in his handkerchief. Her small fingers always shook, lifting the delicate, hollow bones. They are precious in potions concerning dreams, or sleep, or hope. Wild bird¡¯s bone were more potent than caged birds; natural death made them more powerful than killed birds.


    At home they¡¯d pluck the feathers, and she¡¯d wash those, laying them carefully on a dry towel, then combing them with the pads of her fingers until every little thread was neatly in place. He would boil the bodies in a small steel pot over the fire in his workroom until the flesh and bone separated. Sometimes he¡¯ll let her fish out the bones with a fork, placing them in an old steel wire strainer that he begged off of Grandma Sophie.


    ¡°Careful, Bear,¡± he¡¯d warn. ¡°This isn¡¯t a battle. Use a delicate touch.¡±


    He knew better. She never had a delicate touch; nothing about Blaire was soft or careful. That is why mother named her for war. Blaire means battlefield. She lived up to the name, always fighting or burning. Sometimes both at once. From first breath to last. The Red King warned this fighting spirit would forever stand between her and other people, especially those she loves.


    ¡°If you don¡¯t want to be alone, learn to temper your steel. Know when to fight and when to flee. Maybe even surrender from time-to-time. We are the Snake Clan, Blaire, but even the strongest and most poisonous of snakes sometimes slither away from a fight.¡±


    Even though Luka was from the Bull Tribe, he was mostly Bird because his mother was from the Bird Clan. If only he took more after the Russian Bull side of his father¡¯s family, it would have been better. Bulls are strong. Birds are weak. Birds didn¡¯t stay to fight; they flew away. The Red King knew that between them, it would never work. She needed someone with equal strength, a man that could take a stand with or against her, whichever she needed in the moment. Luka, despite being from the Bull Tribe, was not strong enough to match her.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡°The dove will not survive,¡± Red King said the night she introduced them. They were the two people Blaire loved most in the world, and yet so completely different.


    He was right, of course. The dove didn¡¯t fit the snake. He shrunk beneath her intensity. In the beginning they were bright-eyed fools. He insisted he loved her passion. Her desire to meet life head-on intrigued him. But three years later, passion became poison and desire for life was a destructive fire. Their marriage was sick and ablaze. Everything about her was dangerous and chaotic. He was the poster person of peaceful control. They were a match made in hell. Damned to fail.


    Slowly Luka picked up new habits. Toxic habits. He stayed out late at night, and often came home drunk. Sometimes one of her nephews or uncles dragged him inside. Gossip circulated about the trouble in their marriage, but Red King addressed this early. He always hated gossip and never allowed it to continue within the family. It was the worst kind of corruption, especially within a close-knit clan like theirs.


    ¡°Gossip is the worst poison in the world,¡± he¡¯d tell her. ¡°It defiles all that is healthy and wholesome in a neighborhood. As a leader, you need to kill that as soon as it surfaces.¡±


    Then, despite the Red King¡¯s warning, Blaire opened her womb. Stopped taking the potion Red King taught her to prevent babies from forming because she believed a child would resurrect her to Luka¡¯s relationship. Or at least tether them to each other forever. She told herself a woman should do whatever it takes to hold onto her man. And of course, she never walked away from a fight. She wasn¡¯t about to give up on her marriage. She wasn¡¯t going to let him walk away from their marriage without a fight. She would give him what he wanted, even if it was a betrayal of everything she wanted. Or not wanted. He wanted children and dropped accusations about them not leaving a living legacy, as he called it.


    ¡°You can¡¯t just change your mind on something this important,¡± she told him one night during yet another argument.


    ¡°I thought you¡¯d grow into it,¡± he answered.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t something a person grows into, Luka,¡± she spat back at him. ¡°And you agreed before that you don¡¯t want one either. Insisting that I have one now is unreasonable.¡±


    She was furious at his change of mind. They agreed to never have children. Ever. They swore it on their mother¡¯s graves, for fuck¡¯s sake. Was nothing sacred to him? Not even the promises he made? Not even his mother¡¯s grave? In the end, when there was no solid ground to stand on, she fought back the only way she could think of.


    What a bloody fool she was. In the beginning, she thought it would have worked if only the child wasn¡¯t a bird too. If he wasn¡¯t as thin and hollow as a bird¡¯s bones. Delicately weak. Heart-breakingly beautiful. The pressure of his mother¡¯s dream of a perfect family crushed onto him. He broke like fine china, like an expensive Waterford crystal vase hitting a marble floor. A million sharp pieces bursting everywhere. There was nothing she could do to save her precious Gavin, her dear child. And there was nothing she could do to keep Luka at her side.


    No child can bear the burden of their parent¡¯s failing marriage. She learned this too late. A baby isn¡¯t strong enough for such a heavy task. Four long months her little Gavin fought. There was a bit of snake in him, after all, but not enough. Not nearly enough. Every time Blaire touched him, she knew. He was cold. Always so cold. Cold as the mountain air. Cold as the deceased, which she helped the Red King wash and prepare for burial rituals.


    Funerals were one of their more lucrative business avenues. Red King¡¯s pharmacy was the highest earning portion of the Snake Clan businesses. There was also the fruit orchards, and vegetable farm, livestock pens producing eggs and milk, as well as meat. The place which Red King built in the middle of the desert, hidden safely in a valley, was an oasis. It was the Snake Clan¡¯s stronghold, a true homestead that sustained life and provided work and resources for the family.


    She named her son Gavin. A family name to be proud of. A Scottish name from her own people. It meant White Hawk, to honor his bird heritage. Luka was extremely happy with the name, agreeing that it fit their son perfectly. She never believed that he was proud of what they created. He didn¡¯t inform his own family of the pregnancy or birth. Their delicate, sickly son would not impress his Bull family. Neither would the Bird name, which was in honor of Luka¡¯s mother¡¯s people. Blaire didn¡¯t care about this because Luka¡¯s guilt kept him close to home.


    The baby drowned, the doctors explained when her boy¡¯s soul finally flew away to be with his Bird ancestors. The boy¡¯s lungs filled with blood and he simply drowned. She lost his song. Then everything became cold. Her hands. Her heart. Her husband. Her home. Her entire world. Blaire became numb. Dead.


    She didn¡¯t cry. Not even once. Sure, she wanted to. Needed to. Oh, how she longed to cry for him, but his cold infected her, freezing all the tears, locking them deep inside of her soul. No, she couldn¡¯t cry for him, ever. Neither for herself. Less so for Luka.


    She sat next to his grave, screaming for hours while longing for the sweet release of tears. Longing for Luka¡¯s touch. Longing for his comfort. She called his name out to the sky, but he didn¡¯t come. Not once. Never spoke a soft word about their child. On the rare occasions when they were in the same room, he stared at her with such hate it made her womb ache. Every word she said fell to the floor like dead moths before it could reach his heart.


    Luka didn¡¯t touch her anymore. He said she was a cold-hearted bitch. It was just another nail in the coffin of their marriage. Another brick in the rising wall between them. At night, when she turned her face homeward, hoping to see a glimmer of the old warmth, her dead boy¡¯s face smiled from those walls, an accusing grin of shame and guilt.


    Sometimes it sang a lullaby; more often a lament.

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 8: Dust and bones

    Chapter 8: Dust and bones


    <h2>(Guns ¡¯N Roses)</h2>


    Her heart is a cold stone. Dry bones rattle inside Blaire¡¯s head. A sudden flurry of the past wants to be heard. She sighs, relenting to the call with a heavy heart. Sometimes things are so easy. All you need to do is just to let go. Let it happen naturally.


    It was a sweltering hot day, ten years ago. One of those where everything stuck to everything else. Sticky days. Draining days. Blaire was at her son¡¯s grave in the midday heat, swatting at the flies around her face. She longed to release her tears. It felt as if an ocean of tears were trapped inside her body, ready to burst forth. She longed to cry. There was a kind of comfort in such an act. She learned this during the mourning process for Red King. From the depths of her soul, she wished to cry over her boy¡¯s grave, but none came. Tears belonged to the dead. Blaire spent all of her days there, morning, noon and night. Kneeling by the child¡¯s small mount, screaming into the sky above, she begged for the tears to come.


    Nothing happened. The sun rose from behind the horizon. The wind cried through narrow passages between trees, sweeping her hair into her face. She wiped them away with a sigh. Drops of rain fell as the sky mourned for her boy, her Gavin, her little bird. These heavenly tears dried on her skin, but her own tears never entered the world where her son no longer breathed, or cried, or sang. The sun dove away, leaving her in a sea of darkness, unable to breathe.


    ¡°Please,¡± she begged, ¡°let me cry for him.¡±


    Not a single tear emerged. She beat her fists on the rocks that covered her son¡¯s tiny body like a blanket until the knuckles bled. She smeared the blood all around his grave as a kind of protection, hoping he would forgive her dry eyes, even when she couldn¡¯t forgive herself. She laid next to him on the grass, placing one arm over the grave and talked to him as if he was still alive, laying in his crib, able to hear every word. Sometimes she sang to him. Lullabies. Nursery rhymes that used to calm him down. The first song that she and Luka danced to on their wedding day.


    She didn¡¯t eat, and hardly slept. Red King came to the grave in specter form to give her some sweet, sticky syrup to drink. She didn¡¯t ask what it was, and he didn¡¯t offer an explanation. Only later did she learn it was to cleanse her from destructive energy. To restore her health and heart. Then he told her she stank and should go home to bathe and change clothes. Suggested that she burn the clothes she was wearing, because they would never come clean. Not once did he say she shouldn¡¯t be at the grave, or shouldn¡¯t be grieving.


    When she was at home for a bath or a forced meal, Luka told her she didn¡¯t want the child, anyway. He couldn¡¯t understand why she pretended now that the boy had died. Why did she stay at the grave? Why was she pretending to care?


    ¡°You can¡¯t even cry for the boy,¡± he accused her one late night in the dark kitchen. ¡°Your mourning is as fake as our marriage is.¡±


    On the day when Blaire Nathara went ballistic, Red King¡¯s specter visited her again, insisting she went home for food and a bath. She rose with creaking knees, tottering down the path leading home. She rounded the corner of their house and heard whispering. Two voices talking. The thump-thump of wood on wood, like a door banging in a frame. It took her a moment to identify the origin of the sound. It was their bed¡¯s headboard slamming into the wall. Thump-thump-thump. Nothing out of the ordinary. Luka and she had made that sound on the wall a million times before. Maybe even more than a million. It took her at least a minute before the realization hit her tired mind.


    Someone was fucking in her bed. She stopped to listen closely to the whispers.


    ¡°It feels like I¡¯m losing my mind,¡± Luka said. ¡°I don¡¯t think she even loves me anymore. I don¡¯t think she loved me in a long time.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you still love her?¡± Catriona¡¯s voice drifted outside for her to hear.


    Blaire froze, bit down hard on her bottom lip, and moved to stand with her back against the wall. She closed her eyes, inhaling slowly. She wanted to run into the house, into the room, but held herself back. Her Snake blood boiled within the veins, spreading hot, angry fire throughout her body. She fought her nature, and the curse of the name her mother blessed her with.


    Thump-thump-thump.


    Blaire¡¯s hands felt numb, cold, and dead. Even more so than before. The feeling spread up her arms, past her elbows, into shoulders, neck, and took over her brain. She wanted to shout that she still loved him, but the cold paralyzed her throat.


    Thump-thump-thump.


    The fire overtook the cold. It blazed within her like a horde of bulls on a rampage. She burned with righteous indignity as the bed thumped against the wall. Her husband. In her bed. In their house. Freaking fucking her sister. The double betrayal seared through her heart like flaming poison, infecting everything in its wake.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± her husband answered.


    ¡°May I suggest you don¡¯t?¡± her sister suggested. ¡°If you did, you¡¯d be weeping with her at the grave, not here banging me in your marital bed.¡±


    ¡°I want a son,¡± he said, voice harsh and cold.


    ¡°You have a son.¡±


    The banging stopped, but only for a few moments. Blaire held her breath, overcome with the insane thought that in the silence, they would detect her presence on the other side of the wall. That they would come out running to her before she was ready to face them. She didn¡¯t know what to do at all. Should she walk away and pretend she didn¡¯t hear and doesn¡¯t know? Maybe go to someone she trusted for help? The shame of it all washed over her like a wave. She lost a child. Now she has to go tell people that¡­ Well, that this happened. They¡¯d say she¡¯s cursed and never come to buy her potions again. Who¡¯d trust a woman that lost a son, a husband, and a sister in one week?


    No one. That¡¯s who.


    ¡°You will give me another son,¡± Luka said in their bedroom. ¡°A better son.¡±


    Catriona snorted. ¡°I¡¯m not here to breed with you.¡±


    ¡°Why are you here, then?¡± Blaire heard the indignity in his tone. She could imagine the expression of pain on his face without even having to look at him.


    ¡°You are just a great fuck, Luca. That¡¯s all.¡±


    ¡°Sometimes you are just as cold as her.,¡± Luca whined.


    ¡°It runs in our blood. Snakes are cold-blooded. I don¡¯t know why you always complain about something that is in our nature. It¡¯s not as if you didn¡¯t know what you were getting married to. Red King made Blaire his preferred successor.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you,¡± he said, anger tainting his voice. ¡°I want a son. You owe me a son.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t owe you shit,¡± Catriona shouted. ¡°I¡¯m not your wife.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the reason I¡¯m fucking you. Because you aren¡¯t Blaire. You aren¡¯t fire and brimstone, like her. You are more tempered. Calmer. More like what a woman is supposed to be. You aren¡¯t fighting me day and night, twenty-four-seven, like she is.¡±


    Blaire¡¯s fingers curled into palms, cutting deep half-moon shapes into the flesh.


    ¡°You know what? You sound like a spoiled little brat,¡± Catriona says. ¡°Always wanting your own way and thinking the world owes you everything.¡±


    ¡°You make it easy for me. Blaire is so cold now. Like stone. Like a mountain of ice. But you¡­ you are warm like a heath in winter. A mountain on fire. I swear you don¡¯t have reptile blood in your veins at all. You make me want to fuck you. Fuck you all the time. Until I planted a million seeds inside your womb. I want you, and I want a healthy son.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t belong to you, Luka,¡± Catriona answered. ¡°You are not mine either. You belong to Blaire.¡±


    ¡°If that bothers you, I¡¯ll leave her,¡± Luka said. ¡°Just give me the word and I¡¯ll do it today.¡±


    Catriona laughed aloud. ¡°She¡¯ll kill you, dumb fuck. You¡¯ll meet your ancestors before you even have time to mourn Gavin properly.¡±


    He snorted. ¡°Well, maybe I¡¯ll kill her first. It¡¯s not as if she¡¯s the only one who can be murderous just because of a name her mother picked before she was even born. I¡¯ll kill her, and then we¡¯ll be free from each other, and she can be with the child forever.¡±


    ¡°Dream on, idiot.¡±


    ¡°We can leave,¡± Luka suggests. ¡°My family will welcome us.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not running away,¡± Catriona said. ¡°And if I ever do, it won¡¯t be with my sister¡¯s husband. Get that thought out of your head right away.¡±


    ¡°Then why are you in her bed?¡± Luka asked the question that was on Blaire¡¯s mind, too. ¡°If you don¡¯t want to be with me as a couple, why are you having sex with me in your sister¡¯s home?¡±


    ¡°I told you already. You are a great lover. I¡¯m here for sex. Nothing else. When we started this two years ago, great sex was also the only interest you had. We were good friends-with-benefits before Gavin died. Now you want to change our agreement. I don¡¯t want more, Luka. If you can¡¯t handle only sex, then I think we should stop meeting up.¡±


    Thump-thump-thump. Two years of thumping in her bed. Two years. The words echo through Blaire¡¯s brain, ricocheting off her skull. She inhaled through her nose, exhaling through her mouth. She closed her eyes, hoping to wipe away the image of the two most important people in her life fucking in her bed.


    Then the old sound of rattling bones returned. The bones only she can hear. Constantly moving, banging against each other. Rubbing her the wrong way. She shook her head, disturbing the bones even more. She opened her eyes and closed them again. Said a prayer, but the thought that her life was beyond anything that a prayer could heal slipped into her mind soon after. She opened her eyes quickly, ready to face the reality.


    Thump-thump. The sound of her feet on the porch, matching the rhythm of her husband¡¯s thrusts.


    Thump-thump. Her bed¡¯s headboard hitting against the wall.


    Thump-thump. The banging of the door against the wall when she flung it open.


    Thump-thump. Her heart beat wildly as she lifted the gun from the kitchen drawer.


    Thump-thump. The bullets slammed into Catriona¡¯s brain, throwing her head against the offending headboard. Blood on the walls. Blood on the bed. Blood on Luka¡¯s surprised face. He rose, turned to face her with hands held high in surrender. Blaire blinked once, twice, thrice.


    Thump-thump. A bloody flower bloomed on his chest.


    Thump-thump. A wild dance around the room. Grabbing her purse, her jewellery box, clean underwear, a coat. Then the thump-thump of her running feet, carrying her away from everything she loved. Thump-thump her feet slapped on the floor. Thump-thump down the porch steps. Thump-thump as the gun dropped to the last step. The gate slammed closed. The car door closed with a noise that sounded like another gunshot in the quiet late afternoon.


    Thump-thump beat her sinful heart as she started the car.


    Thump-thump.


    Thump.


    Thump.


    Sometimes things are so easy. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. So easy that you don¡¯t even have to think about it. Thump-thump. Sometimes you just have to switch off your brain and let things go the way it¡¯s supposed to go. Let instinct take over. Thump-thump-thump.


    The sound of her memories, long buried, knocking to be released. Thump-thump.


    And above it all the sound, as always, the rattling of bones.

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 9: Blackest Hour

    Chapter 9: Blackest Hour


    <h2>(Tombstone Three)</h2>


    ¡°Listen,¡± Dominique says the next morning at breakfast. ¡°I need to tell you something before we leave.¡±


    Blaire stares at the eggs and bacon on her plate, wondering how she¡¯s going to get them down her throat without vomiting. The food looks glorious, but the nightmare still lingers in her mind. She hardly slept at all. By the time he arrived, she was already up for hours, having packed everything she wanted to take. She even took a long soak in the bath, hoping that between the warm water, sandalwood candle, and jasmine soap, she¡¯d feel cleansed in mind, body, and soul. She left the bathroom refreshed, but it didn¡¯t last long.


    It¡¯s true that you take yourself with you, even while trying to escape.


    ¡°What is it?¡± she asks without looking up from the food.


    ¡°You don¡¯t look well at all,¡± he says.


    Blaire lifts her eyes to his face and tries to smile cutely. She knows it is a failure because he lifts an eyebrow at her.


    ¡°You can¡¯t fool me.¡±


    She rolls her eyes at him. ¡°It¡¯s been a long, dark night,¡± she says. ¡°Sorry for spoiling your bubbly mood with all my melodrama.¡±


    He snickers. The sound is loud in the quiet room. They are the only people up this early. Or maybe they are late, and everyone else already ate.


    ¡°Do you want to talk about it?¡±


    Blaire sighs, poking the egg yolk with a fork. The thin white layer bursts open, allowing the yellow to run out freely. It¡¯s exactly the way she loves it, but there is no appetite enticing her to eat.


    ¡°You will need the nourishment while on the road,¡± he says, gesturing to her food. ¡°I know you know this, because we are both people who travel a lot and have learned the lessons that the road teaches those who use it often.¡±


    Blaire pokes a slice of toast on a side plate with the fork and moves it to her plate. She lifts her knife, letting it hover above the bowl with butter for a moment. Deciding against it, she cuts into the toast, and uses a piece to soak the yolk before popping it into her mouth. It tastes as glorious as it looked. She slices another piece off, repeating the process until the egg and bacon are gone.


    ¡°Do you know where you¡¯re going?¡± he asks. ¡°I haven¡¯t really decided exactly where I¡¯m going yet, as long as it has a beach. Might as well swing the nose of my car in the direction you¡¯re heading and see how it goes.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going home,¡± she says.


    Saying the words out loud somehow makes them more real. She is going home. She¡¯ll see The Farm again. Walk where she used to play as a child. Visit the graveyard to speak to ancestors. Hug the people she loves. Hear the voices of her childhood. Smell the soil. Walk through the orchards. Touch the trees. Eat food that grew in gardens she planned and dug irrigation ditches for.


    ¡°You don¡¯t seem as happy as you should be.¡±


    ¡°Truthfully, I¡¯m not sure about how to feel about it. It¡¯s been a long time, and I left without goodbyes. Plus, it feels kind of unreal. I think it¡¯s going to take some time before it sinks into my bones.¡±


    ¡°Let me guess, you left under the worst circumstances.¡±


    ¡°I asked them to pack us a picnic basket for lunch,¡± she says, ignoring his subtle opening for her to share more. ¡°Let¡¯s talk about this in the car where nobody can hear. I also need a moment to center myself. I haven¡¯t spoken about it in a long time.¡±


    She pays the bill for the hotel in full, telling them to get rid of whatever is still in the room. Dominique drags her suitcase out to the car. She follows with the picnic basket and a bag with her most precious belongings. A photo of her, Luka and Gavin. Another with her grandparents and sisters. One with her parents on their wedding day. Also, some of the cash she has on hand, and three sets of identity documents hidden in different pockets of the lining. Each set comes with one credit card to be used only during emergencies. A jacket, if the weather changes, business cards, a few potions and two bottles of water.


    ¡°So, explain how exactly does a barman get to drive a black Mercedes S-class,¡± Blaire says as they load her luggage into the enormous trunk.


    He didn¡¯t have a lot of luggage either. Three suitcases that have seen better days, and an apple box with frames. She can¡¯t see if the frames contain art or photos. She doesn¡¯t want to intrude, so refrains from asking.


    ¡°It is a birthday gift from one of my boyfriends,¡± he says while opening her door and motioning to the seat. ¡°It is also the reason I broke up with my last boyfriend and ran here to rest and heal.¡±


    ¡°He didn¡¯t want you to drive this nice car?¡± she asks when he slips into the driver¡¯s seat.


    ¡°He didn¡¯t want me to have souvenirs from previous lovers. He believed the car was a hook to keep me tethered to the ex. It wasn¡¯t. We parted as friends, but there is no way that we¡¯ll ever get together again. He married the woman his wealthy parents forced on him and moved abroad. Plus, we were really spectacular together in the first two years, but grew in different directions. We won¡¯t fit together anymore.¡±


    ¡°Funny that we both ran from exes,¡± she says.


    ¡°You too?¡± he asks. ¡°I find it hard to believe that a woman like you would have trouble keeping a man at her side or in line.¡±


    ¡°It didn¡¯t end well,¡± she says, feeling reckless with her expiry date coming up in ten days. ¡°He cheated. I shot him.¡±


    Dominique lifts his left hand into the air, index finger pointing upward. ¡°Now, honey, that part I believe. There is a darkness around you I¡¯ve only seen once before. It was with my uncle, and he killed people too. It haunted him forever, despite it happening during war.¡±


    ¡°He cheated with my sister. Aren¡¯t you scared of riding in a car with a murderer?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t wrong you, did I?¡±


    Blaire chortles, shaking her head from side to side. ¡°Not that I¡¯m aware of.¡±


    ¡°Then I¡¯m not worried,¡± he says. ¡°I promise not to instigate your murderous traits while we are together.¡±


    She puts her palms together in a prayer gesture. ¡°I thank thee.¡±


    The road stretches out in front of them like a black ribbon. She leans back in the seat, feeling comfortable in his presence, and with his driving. It¡¯s difficult for her to trust others with her safety. For some reason or another, she can relax with Dominique. Maybe it is because of the vibe between them. Or maybe it¡¯s because she knows her life isn¡¯t worth much right now. Not after the dream and the Blood Oath, anyway.


    ¡°You seem different this morning,¡± he says.


    ¡°I am different,¡± she answers. ¡°A lot has happened during the night.¡±Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t even a full night. Just a few hours.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± she says. ¡°I had a dream.¡±


    He snorts. ¡°We all did, honey.¡±


    ¡°I had a specific dream with a specific person,¡± she says. ¡°And we made a deal. Now I can go home for the first time in ten years.¡±


    He whistles. ¡°Fuck, that¡¯s a long time to not go home.¡±


    She nods. ¡°It feels like a lifetime. I never thought I¡¯d go back. It was too dangerous.¡±


    ¡°For you?¡±


    ¡°For me and for them,¡± she says, looking at him for a reaction to her next words. ¡°My husband was from the Bull Tribe.¡±


    His eyes grow large, and for a moment, his knuckles turn white as he grips the steering wheel harder. She waits patiently for him to speak first. The car moves forward in a straight line. Outside, the sun continues to shine. Green leaves wave at them as they go past. Little flurries of dust rise and fall in a soft wind. People breathe in and out. Somewhere in the world, someone stops inhaling. Maybe several people do. But here, in Dominique¡¯s car, for the first time in ages, Blaire feels content. Accepted.


    ¡°Well, that explains why the police never got involved. They¡¯d want to settle the score themselves.¡±


    ¡°Not only was he from the tribe, he was King Vasiliev¡¯s grandson.¡±


    The car swerves out of the lane. The road isn¡¯t busy at all, and he pulls it back quickly. Blaire doesn¡¯t even blink. His reaction is expected and not at all over the top for hearing the words.


    ¡°Still want to be in the car with me?¡± she asks.


    ¡°Depends,¡± he says. ¡°What deal did you make, and with whom?¡±


    She smiles at him. ¡°You don¡¯t question the validity of a deal made in a dream?¡±


    ¡°Do you place value in it?¡±


    ¡°I do, or else I won¡¯t be going home.¡±


    ¡°Then I do too,¡± he says. ¡°Because we both know this world isn¡¯t always the way we see. There are unspoken words that you need to read between those that people say aloud. There are little expressions and actions that reveal the truth a person wants to hide. There are things in this world that the eyes can¡¯t see and the ears can¡¯t hear.¡±


    ¡°In other words,¡± she says. ¡°Things are not always what they seem.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he says.


    ¡°What do you read between my lines?¡±


    ¡°Hmmm,¡± he says. ¡°I see someone that has been out in the cold for too long. Someone who has been alone for too long. Someone who was closed last night, but open today. Right now, you act like someone who has nothing more to lose.¡±


    ¡°All true. In all the years I¡¯ve been running, I haven¡¯t found,¡± she says, making quotation marks in the air before saying ¡°home.¡±


    ¡°How dark did it get for you?¡± he asks. ¡°Did you ever buy a razor blade, or stock up on pills? Or a gun, maybe?¡±


    She snickers, rolling her eyes. ¡°None of the above, but that doesn¡¯t mean I didn¡¯t think about it. I definitely got close a few times. It¡¯s just that I have a gift for potions and if I¡¯m going to kill myself, it would be poison, for sure.¡±


    ¡°How close did you get?¡± he insists.


    She turns to look at the landscape through her window, gathering courage to answer his question. He reminded her of granddad. The vibe. The energy. Maybe his and granddad¡¯s souls were siblings or something weird.


    ¡°I always thought that people committing suicide had no spine,¡± she says. ¡°You know, it¡¯s the cop-out for when you don¡¯t want to face the fact that you fucked your life up completely. But that¡¯s shit. It takes a lot of courage. You have to be brave and determined to do it. I chickened out every time. A few nights ago I vaguely thought about it, but I didn¡¯t even bother with getting ingredients together. I knew I couldn¡¯t do it.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t making a promise with your arch enemy just another way of suicide? Because I assume you¡¯re not getting together for a nice cup of Japanese tea,¡± he says with a sneer. ¡°Bull King is the method you chose this time. More reliable than you chickening out of drinking the poison.¡±


    Blaire opens her mouth to refute the statement, but finds that she can¡¯t. He isn¡¯t wrong. Not at all. She has been in such a dark place since she noticed the upcoming anniversary. Obviously, she catered to King Vasiliev only because dying is what she wants to do. Period.


    ¡°Nobody puts Bear in a corner,¡± grandpa whispers in her ear. ¡°You didn¡¯t have to agree with him. You never gave up this easily.¡±


    ¡°Shit,¡± she says.


    ¡°Now, what are you going to do about that?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know yet,¡± she answers. ¡°All I know for sure is that I can¡¯t break the promise.¡±


    ¡°If I were in your shoes, I wouldn''t either,¡± he says. ¡°But what exactly did you promise him?¡±


    ¡°I promise to go see him after one last visit home,¡± she says.


    ¡°Well, that doesn¡¯t sound like you agreed to die.¡±


    Blaire laughs, shaking her head from side to side.


    ¡°Sure thing. All he¡¯s going to do is tell me not to do that shit again, maybe spank my butt, and then allow me to walk away?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not what I said.¡± Dominique sounds annoyed.


    ¡°So, tell me what you are thinking?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± he says. ¡°All I know is that you aren¡¯t the kind of woman to just¡­ well die. You¡¯re not a loser. Sure, you are dealing with some shit and you may have been depro for a long time, but if you survived ten years, you can survive another ten.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure I¡¯ll call it surviving. More like merely existing.¡±


    ¡°Then you need to re-examine your perception of surviving.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Well, you are here. You are alive. You survived.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure that¡¯s true. I¡¯m a mess.¡±


    ¡°Being a mess has nothing to do with the fact that you survived. You are scarred, you are bruised, even broken in some places. You don¡¯t feel whimsical. You¡¯re in no mood to go dancing in a field of daisies, but you are alive.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯ll give you this one. But surviving until now doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m a good person. This didn¡¯t happen on merit. I¡¯m not a saint. But I¡¯m not a loser. And I don¡¯t consider myself a sinner either.¡±


    ¡°So, why did you agree so readily to go to a place where you know the chances of death is one thousand percent?¡±


    ¡°Because it¡¯s always the darkest before dawn?¡±


    ¡°Tell me about dawn.¡±


    ¡°Dawn?¡±


    ¡°Well, the fact that you are seeing the ten-year anniversary is not only sad. There is also something empowering about it. You walked this dark road alone and you are still here. You made it. Lots of people would have either not started the walk or given up along the way. Yet, you are still here. This anniversary is your dawn. The light at the end of your tunnel. Your Road to Paradise will end at home.¡±


    ¡°Road to Paradise,¡± she snorts. ¡°I call it Darkness Returns, because unless I¡¯ve made amends with his people, my ex will come back to haunt me.¡±


    ¡°Shit,¡± he says, rolling his eyes. ¡°Anyway, where is home for you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll get off at the next large city,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯ll jump onto a train. I don¡¯t know if the Bull Tribe will try to grab me on the way. It¡¯ll be easy enough, since now they know where I¡¯m going. I don¡¯t want you to get in trouble on my behalf.¡±


    ¡°The train?¡±


    ¡°Perfect way to travel. Train or bus. Doesn¡¯t require you to show identification or use a credit card. You don¡¯t need to stop for gas either. When you¡¯re on the run, you don¡¯t want to be noticed along the way.¡±


    ¡°You mean you suddenly don¡¯t trust the deal you made?¡±


    ¡°Maybe I don¡¯t,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯ll see once I¡¯m home and can discuss it with some of my clan. Usually we all keep to our unspoken rules, but transgressions happen. The Chinese Cartel killed my parents by mistake. They paid retribution with blood and land afterwards, but that means nothing to orphans growing up without parents.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sad to hear that, but glad to know you are reconsidering the promise. Don¡¯t go quietly into that dark night,¡± he answers.


    ¡°You reciting Thomas to me, young man?¡±


    ¡°You know Thomas?¡± he asks, smiling at her. ¡°Oh, wait. Obviously you¡¯re so old, you might have been in the same class as him in school.¡±


    ¡°Are you kidding me?¡± she says with a scowl. ¡°I¡¯m old enough to be Thomas¡¯ mother.¡±


    ¡°Then why are you worried about the Bull King? It looks like you¡¯ll live forever.¡±


    ¡°Listen,¡± she says. ¡°Once I¡¯m home, I¡¯ll send you a link. If ever you are in trouble, or even if you just need to run somewhere to heal, go there. Tell them you know me. They¡¯ll ask you some questions about me, and if you answer it truthfully, they¡¯ll treat you like family.¡±


    ¡°I seriously don¡¯t have anywhere to go. I can drive you there and then I¡¯ll know where it is.¡±


    Blaire sighs. ¡°That sounds so nice. If it weren¡¯t for the Bull Tribe actively searching for me¡­¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± he interrupts. ¡°I¡¯ll stop asking and respect your boundaries.¡±


    ¡°Are you an undercover feminist?¡±


    He slaps her knee while laughing loudly. ¡°What do you mean by undercover?¡±


    ¡°Oh, yeah, you¡¯re not undercover at all.¡±


    ¡°Queens are never undercover, no matter where they go.¡±


    ¡°Thanks for not pushing,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯ve not been in contact with anyone at home since I left. I¡¯m basically walking in blind.¡±


    ¡°Which is why I volunteered to drive you. You need some emotional support.¡±


    ¡°The only support I need right now is to not be emotionally wrecked by losing a new friend.¡±


    They pass a roadside sign. The next large town is forty minutes away.


    ¡°Let¡¯s stop for lunch now,¡± Blaire says.


    An hour later, she watches him drive away. She grabs her suitcase and starts walking towards the ticket counter. Carefully, she looks at the schedule, trying to find something that¡¯ll take her home as soon as possible. All available buses will take three days. Usually this won¡¯t be a problem, but now she wants to spend as much time with family as she can.


    ¡°Before you die?¡± Grandpa''s voice bursts into her brain.


    Blaire grits her teeth and buys a car for a few hundred bucks from the sidewalk of a house she passes. It¡¯s not a steal at all. It¡¯s a rust bucket with an engine. Inside, it¡¯s covered in yellow stains from someone¡¯s cigarette addiction and Labrador hair. It smells of smoke, stale fast food, and wet dog. She stops at a carwash to have it cleaned and buys a can of room refresher to keep next to her seat. From previous experience, the upholstery will continue to smell bad.


    She flips her schedule from day to night. This is something she often does when traveling to escape a close call. Travel by night; sleep by day. The roads are less busy during the night. This has two benefits. You can cover more ground because there is less traffic to negotiate, and it¡¯s easier to notice if you¡¯re being followed.

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 10: Pick up the Bones I

    <h2>Chapter 10: Pick up the Bones I</h2>


    <h2>(Alice Cooper)</h2>


    She reaches her hometown by late afternoon of the fourth day. It¡¯s a small town, with that matching mentality. Everyone knows everyone else and their business. People notice the strange car immediately. It takes no time for old timers to identify her face. Even her absence of ten years didn¡¯t wipe their memories. They gawk at her, but no-one waves or nods a greeting. This suits her perfectly. The last thing she needs right now is for someone to wave or stop her for a chat. She doesn¡¯t want to answer questions right now. And there will be questions, of course. Plus, the urgency since she left Dominique has only increased. It is a constant pressure bearing down on her chest, making breathing difficult. Because of this, she chooses to not stop in town, but heads straight to The Farm.


    The car has another smell. A weird aroma of burning. She isn¡¯t worried or surprised in the least. It has brought her this far. Further than she hoped, anyway. Blair applies the brakes as soon as she turns into the brick driveway. She sighs, gets out of the hot vehicle and slams the door shut. She wrinkles her nose at the burning smell, which is denser now that she is outside. Leaving the car unlocked, she walks to the huge cast-iron gate. Maybe someone will come by and steal it. They probably won¡¯t get far. Even if they do, the car brought her home, thus fulfilling its purpose. After ten years of waiting, Blaire Naphara is home.


    The entrance to The Farm is as impressive as she remembers. To each side are walls, six feet high. As they cleared the fields, the largest rocks were kept aside for these walls. Steel and wood combined in intricate patterns of trees and snakes for the gate. They were designed by Red King himself. Above the gate is a wide wooden name board, branded with NAPHARA HOMESTEAD in snake-like letters. Although this is the official name of the place, everyone referred to it as The Farm. Farming and ranching are the Snake Clan¡¯s business. Gardens and orchards with fruits, vegetables and herbs. Cattle for meat, milk and cheese. Chickens for meat and eggs.


    At the gate, she inhales deeply before lifting her eyes to scan the landscape, expecting to see the fields of summer crops. Blackened earth, scourged beyond recognition. An icy shiver runs up her spine, into her shoulders and neck. Then it hits her heart like a fist. She grips the gate with shaking hands, in dire need of an anchor. Knees turn to jelly below her and her body slams into the steel gate. Her fingers slip and she spills onto the familial soil like a balloon filled with water.


    ¡°It¡¯s not only the car¡­¡± she whispers as the realization reaches her mind.


    The air is all wrong. It smells of sulfur with strong undertones of blood. Fire and brimstone and blood. This is familiar to her. The aroma of violence. Clear indications of a battle. Battle is her business, as farming is her family¡¯s business.


    She closes her eyes, pressing fingers over the lids to keep them from jumping open. Her heart whispers oh, gawd, no repeatedly. Blaire reaches out with her mind, in search of birds for the spell to see through their eyes. And she finds them. Hundreds. A shiver runs down her spine as she moves from one bird to another, seeking a sparrow, a skylark, even a nightingale. She finds none of these. Only carrion birds remain on the farm. Ravens. Crows. Hawks. Vultures. Owls stirring in their slumber as her mind passes them. Birds of death. She hated them from childhood. Bearers of bad news. They follow doom like a shadow.


    Inhaling a shuddering breath, she drops her hands to her sides. There is no time for a breakdown. And it might be only the fields that burned, anyway. She¡¯ll need to investigate before giving in to despair. She rises slowly, wiping her hands on her hips, before carefully tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears.


    ¡°It¡¯s just the fields,¡± she tells herself. ¡°The rest will be intact, I know.¡±


    Walking down the lane, she keeps her eyes on her feet, counting her steps until she reaches a hundred. Lifting her eyes from her dust and ash-covered shoes, she looks to the left and then to the right. Everything, as far as her eyesight reaches, is burned. She swallows the lump rising in her throat, pushing the panic down.


    A sense of danger creeps into her heart with icy fingers. Nothing seems familiar about the place. There are no sounds of laughter or people in the fields singing as they work. No smoke rising from kitchen chimneys into the clear sky. No smell of dinners being prepared. No sight of children at play.


    She casts a quick spell to see the history. It¡¯s not a clear vision at all. For that, she¡¯ll need more time and the right ingredients. Right now, though, she only needs to see a vague picture to confirm a fresh fear rising from within the dark abyss inside. There will be time for deeper investigation later tonight, or tomorrow. The vision is blurred. Barely visible dark shapes moving in slow motion, but it¡¯s all she needs. The shapes streaming across The Farm are strong and muscled. Four legged and fur covered.


    Bykov. The Bull Mafia Tribe. Luka¡¯s family had run out of patience. Or King Vasiliev broke their Blood Oath. Ten years she stayed away from her home to protect them from precisely this, but apparently it was all in vain. She might as well have stayed home, enjoying her family¡¯s love and care. She has missed out on so much in those years. Engagements. Weddings. Births. Graduations. Deaths. Shit, ten years of dinners, working side by side in the fields, hugs, jokes, wiping away tears, hearing voices rise and fall. Ten years of highs and lows that she completely missed.


    Now she runs down the slope into the valley where the charred remains of homes scream out to her. Her feet find their way to her family home, where Skye, her youngest sister, would be living now. She rushes through the front yard towards the back door. She finds the first bones beneath a cloud of smoke in the backyard, where she played with her sisters in the shade of the large trees. Hop scotch. Cops and robbers. Skipping rope. Tea parties. She falls down on her knees in front of a bloody thigh bone, stripped bare by meat eating rodents and birds. Tears roll down her cheeks. She reaches up to touch the wetness, bringing her wet fingers to her mouth. As if in a trance, she licks her fingers. Salty bitterness.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Blaire Nathara is crying. Actual tears.


    In this place, where they ate thousands of meals in the shade of ancient trees. Family weddings with tables dressed in white tablecloths and red and yellow wildflowers. Funerals in somber black and purple. Now the old trees, which were here when Red King arrived, are still burning, sending smoke plumes up into the sky. Ashes dance in the air, covering the scene, and her, in gray and white dust.


    She doesn¡¯t even try to fight tears. They roll from her eyes and over her cheeks, dripping on her dusty shoes. Turning back to the path, Blaire finds her father standing in the middle of the road. He looks exactly like he did the last time she saw him, which only reminds her that he is a specter. He no longer belongs to this earthly domain. She wipes at the tears blurring her vision. Her father is gone, died years before she left. Never before did he appear to her like this. But here he is, standing in front of her now. She knows in that moment, without him having to say anything. She doesn¡¯t need to see the rest of their homestead. His presence is all the evidence she needs. There is no-one left alive on The Farm. Nobody escaped to safety. If there were, they would have been here to greet Blaire Naphara, Red King¡¯s prodigal daughter.


    Slowly she walks to meet him, each step she takes brings a deeper sadness to her. She is glad to see him after such a long time. Never in her life did she think they¡¯d ever meet again. Not while she was still alive, anyway. But here they both were, and she wished the circumstances were better.


    ¡°Hello, daddy.¡±


    ¡°I knew you¡¯d come,¡± he says when she reaches him.


    His smile is warm and inviting, just as she remembers. There are a few gray hairs in the dark hair, and wrinkles on his sun-tanned face. She remembers his skin felt like leather beneath her fingers. He is clean-shaven and smells like oranges and his favorite cherry tobacco.


    ¡°Who sent the dream message?¡± she asks, remembering the vivid nightmare that brought her home.


    ¡°Red King himself.¡±


    She smiles, shaking her head from side to side. ¡°He always knew how to punch me right in the gut.¡±


    He lifts his arms, tries to take her hands, but the hands reaching out have no substance. He is a mirage, a hot summer shimmer on her cold, lonely road. There is nothing more she needs right now than a warm hug from the man who taught her how to love.


    She locks eyes with him, her heart aching with the pain of loss. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, daddy.¡±


    He shakes his enormous head from side-to side. ¡°This is not your fault, bear.¡±


    The nickname drags her back to childhood days, sitting on his lap with her favorite brown teddy bear. He¡¯ll be singing while mother cleans the kitchen. A slow love song. Something that Frank Sanatra or Nat King Cole would sing. And mother would look at him with those puppy eyes, shaking her head from side to side, but with a smile. The night always ended with my mother''s favorite. She can still hear it now, his deep voice drifting in the surrounding air.


    I¡¯ve got you deep in the heart of me


    So deep in my heart that you¡¯re really a part of me


    I¡¯ve got you under my skin


    As if he can see her thoughts, he smiles. But everything changed. Nothing is the same. First, he and mother died. Then Gavin, Luka and Catriona. Now everyone is gone.


    ¡°Of course it¡¯s my fault,¡± she says, continuing the conversation as if the past didn¡¯t hover between them. ¡°I¡¯ve made so many mistakes. This would never have happened if I didn¡¯t kill Luka. I should never have married him. Red King warned me. You did too.¡±


    ¡°We all made mistakes,¡± he whispers, tears running down his cheeks. ¡°Stop trying to carry all of it alone. There were people who knew about Luka and Catriona, but kept it secret. They were not really discreet after Gavin died, but you were too deep in the process of mourning to notice.¡±


    ¡°But my mistakes¡­¡± she gestures at him and then the blackened scene around them.


    ¡°Luka¡¯s mistake,¡± he insists. ¡°Catriona¡¯s mistake. You only reacted to what they did.¡±


    She turns away from him to look at the burned fields where vegetables used to grow. She hasn¡¯t even been to the warehouses or the cattle folds and chicken coops. If the Bull Tribe didn¡¯t show mercy to any human of the homestead, she assumes they didn¡¯t show any to the livestock either. Why would they?


    ¡°Semantics,¡± she tells her father.


    ¡°And King Valliev should have called a meeting first. That is the tradition between tribes. If he knew the circumstances of Luka¡¯s death, I¡¯m sure the end result would have been nothing like this.¡±


    She turns back towards him, swallowing the anger rising within her. There are important things to do now. She can¡¯t allow anger to take control. It will wreck everything, like it did ten years ago. Revenge is best served cold and with a clear mind and a well thought out plan. All of this started because she rushed into a bedroom with a gun. Spurred on by pure anger.


    ¡°Don¡¯t even try to explain their actions,¡± she says. ¡°It won¡¯t satisfy my wrath.¡±


    He holds out a hand to her. Something sparkles on the middle finger, drawing her eyes. Grandma¡¯s ring. Or rather, Red King¡¯s ring. At his death, it went to Grandma Sophie, who ruled the clan until her Aunt Ailsa took over. The ring went from grandma to her aunt. It was meant to go to Blaire, but she wasn¡¯t here at Grandma Sophie¡¯s passing. The ring always goes to the leader of the Snake Clan. With it comes the responsibility of carrying the legacy forward.


    ¡°You are next in line,¡± he says. ¡°No, you are the only one in line, Blaire. You can¡¯t turn away from this anymore. Since you were a child, Red King crowned you as his successor. You have always been the one he wanted to lead.¡±


    Anger rises in her like a forest fire. He must notice the change in her attitude, because he shakes his head with a sad expression.


    ¡°You need to lead now. There is no time for revenge.¡±


    She snorts, looking away to the burned fields. ¡°Lead what exactly? Lead who?¡±


    ¡°Not everyone living on this farm was born from Red King¡¯s line,¡± he answers. ¡°Some were friends who made a Blood Oath. We were a family tied by blood. Either born to it, or oathed to it. In Red King¡¯s eyes, those were the same. Once you start rebuilding, the people will come. New family. This place will be everything it used to be. A nourishing home.¡±


    ¡°I can do both,¡± she insists. ¡°I can rebuild after I have my vengeance.¡±


    He gives her a stern look, but there is nothing he can do to stop her. They both know this. He has no power in this earthly domain. Only words.


    ¡°Blaire,¡± he says with a voice as hard and sharp as freshly crushed gravel. ¡°You are all that is left of us.¡±


    ¡°Precisely. I am all that is left. And the Bulls will pay for what they did here. I was the one who killed Luka. I made a Blood Oath with King Vasiliev. Ten days of grace. He promised me. Those ten days are still in play and then I come to find this. I won¡¯t forgive this atrocity.¡±


    She turns away from him before he can say another word, running towards the gate where the car still stands. Leaving the gate open behind her, she rushes away from the memories of the past and the nightmares of the future. She dives into the car, slamming the door close behind her. Yet, despite wanting to get away from her father¡¯s words, there is a tether keeping her tied to the place. She can¡¯t leave now. There is still work to do.


    Her family needs a funeral.

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 11: Pick up the Bones II

    Chapter 11: Pick up the Bones II


    <h2>(Alice Cooper)</h2>


    She doesn¡¯t sleep, exactly. She sits in the car, eyes closed. In her mind, she plans out what she¡¯ll do once the sun rises on a new day. A proper funeral will be hard to achieve when she works alone. There is no way that she can make coffins for everyone that died. She doesn¡¯t want to ask anyone from the nearby town to help, either. That will lead to more gossip and someone might leak the disaster into a newspaper. She can¡¯t have this out in the open right now.


    She made a Blood Oath with the Bull King, and she plans to keep it. She¡¯ll be in the Bull¡¯s Compound eventually, but first she has to put her people to rest. After that she will meet up with an old friend of Red King. Every one of her ten days of grace will be used well.


    When the sun tints the sky in orange, she forces herself to eat the last of the snacks from her road trip stash. She drinks an entire bottle of spring water. Bodies need food to function, and she has set goals for herself. Finally, she gets out of the car to open the gate. Slowly she drives into the homestead, hardening herself against the pain. There will be time for more weeping later, when everything is done.


    She parks her car in front of the home she shared with Luka. This is the only home still standing. They didn¡¯t burn it. Were they hoping she¡¯d return to find it standing, like the last survivor of a war? She sits in the car, gathering her courage. Three days from now it will be the tenth anniversary of that day. The day when everything fell apart.


    Shaking her head to dispel the memories, she opens the car door. She¡¯ll start here and see what she can do for the rest of The Farm if there is time. It will be gruesome and emotionally draining, but she¡¯s the only one left to do the work, and it has to be done. She rushes to the front door. It is locked. Moving off the porch, she topples a potted fern at the side of the stairs. The spare key is still there. She lifts it, wiping ten years of grime off on her shirt.


    Unlocking the door is the straightforward part of the work ahead of her. Yet, she stands at the open door, looking in, and waiting. Waiting for what, exactly? For Luka to come rushing out, smiling sweetly and happy to see her? Waiting for Gavin¡¯s baby cries to call her towards his room? Or Catriona¡¯s voice, calling them to the table for dinner. She did that often in those last months. Helping Blaire and Luka to cope with the sickly baby and then the bereavement.


    Catriona, always the caring older sister. Visiting almost daily. Doing the washing. Cooking meals. Cleaning the kitchen. Dusting. Vacuuming. Doing all the wifely duties that she just couldn¡¯t manage after Gavin¡¯s birth. Catriona, always taking care of everything and everyone.


    Fucking hell. She was so stupid. So blind. Completely clueless. The anger rising inside her is the final push she needs to step across the threshold. This is just a house. That¡¯s all. It¡¯s not a home. Not to her. Not anymore.


    Inside everything is almost as it was the day she left. Someone came to clean it, obviously. White sheets turn furniture into caricature ghosts. The decorations, pictures and paintings are all packed in crates marked clearly. She walks through the rooms, allowing the memories to come. In Gavin¡¯s room, she falls to her knees next to the cot he slept in. She bites back tears. There is no time to cry. Or to fall apart.


    She rises, hoping that the bedding will still be in the cupboard where she left it. It was, but in large plastic bags. Opening them, she takes out the pillowcases, stacking them neatly on the floor. After this, she enters the kitchen, looking for heavy duty cleaning gloves and hand soap. She carries all this outside, to the shed where Luka kept the garden tools. As always, the door is padlocked, but the lock isn¡¯t closed. She knows everything will still be inside. It is dark, with no window. The light doesn¡¯t come on when she pushes the switch. Using her mobile, she searches for the wheelbarrow.


    Once outside, she loads all the items into this, and makes her way towards her grandfather¡¯s house. Nobody needs to tell her this is where her youngest sister, Skye, and her family lived after Grandmother¡¯s passing. This wasn¡¯t the leader¡¯s home, but the first home Red King built. It would have gone to her parents and then to Catriona, her and finally Skye. She knew how terribly sad Skye must have been when the place opened up, and she realized that an entire line of her family was gone. Skye, whose name meant adventurous. Skye, who has never in her life acted boldly.


    ¡°Well, mom,¡± Blaire says loudly, ¡°at least you got it right with me. Catriona, who¡¯s ¡®pure¡¯ was a fuckup, and Skye wasn¡¯t bold. But me, I¡¯m a warrior and I¡¯ve been on a battlefield or heading that way most of my life.¡±


    She leaves the wheelbarrow in the driveway. Then she pulls on the gloves and picks up a single pillow case. For a moment, the tears threaten to come, but she swallows quickly, turning her head slightly to the left.


    ¡°This is not the time for crying,¡± she tells herself. ¡°First, you gather the bones. You, Blaire Nathara, have to wait for the funeral before you weep. No, not even then. Cry after the taste of vengeance. Earn the right to mourn them.¡±


    She steps into the backyard with a sigh. She allows the bones to call her. For years, the rattling of bones has been her constant companion. Now, she will follow the calls of bones to gather the remains of her family and loved ones.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Blood for blood. That is the clan way. She assumes it¡¯s also the Bull Tribe¡¯s way. The Chinese Cartel already proved that it was their way. No police. No politicians. They never needed outsiders to solve their problems. They punished perpetrators the way they saw fit. They lived by rules that governed them since the first time Red King put his feet on the land that would become The Farm. The mafias were pirates on land, Red King once explained to her.


    ¡°We are like ships passing each other on the open ocean, bear,¡± he said, sweeping his arm across the horizon. ¡°We keep out of each other¡¯s way, as best we can. And when our paths cross, we keep to our own rules. The rules of the sea. The rules of pirates. Because the ocean is vast, and law enforcement can¡¯t reach us.¡±


    Blaire turns to look at a tree. At the roots of the still smoldering heap, something calls to her. She moves forward, clutching the pillow case. There is a skull. No flesh. No hair. A faceless skull grinning up at her with perfect teeth. She only has to touch it with her bare hands to know who it is. Not even a hand, just a fingertip. That is all. But with that would come the memories of the skull. She doesn¡¯t want to see how violent the death was. That¡¯ll be too much for her, for anyone.


    She rubs her one gloved hand with the other, as if they are two friends in need of support. In her head, she can imagine them talking to each other. Come on, righty-tighty, you can do it. She lifts the skull carefully. Her heart beats with fists inside her breast, wanting to climb out. She opens the pillowcase and places the remains there.


    ¡°Time to rest,¡± she says, her voice sounding far away to her own ears. ¡°Sweet dreams.¡±


    Bile rises from her stomach. It is a bitter, toxic taste on her tongue. She rises, stepping away from the tree with the pillowcase in her shaking hands. Swallows deeply. Rolls her shoulders back. Lifts her chin. Then she listens carefully. Next to the stairs leading into the kitchen is a hand. Although it¡¯s burned and severed at the wrist, she recognizes the ring. It belongs to an oath brother. Alastair. He was a short, bulky man, but strong. A boxer. Light on his feet. Fast with his fists.


    She added the piece to the pillowcase carefully. She left the ring where it belonged. There will be plenty of money in The Farm¡¯s accounts to rebuild. She doesn¡¯t need to steal from the dead to pay her way. She climbs the stairs slowly, running her fingers over the red bricks of her family home. A row of bullet holes scars the stone. She counts them as she passes to the door. Twenty-three.


    She steps into the kitchen. The roof is gone, as well as most of the wall separating this room from the dining room next door. But the outside brick walls are still standing, black with root and bullet scarred. Also the hearth, where wood fires used to cook their food. Soups and stews for winter. BBQ for summer. Lasagna and mac and cheese. On the coldest winter evening, they all gathered here, enjoying the warmth of the fire and each other¡¯s company. Red King and father would sing. Red King¡¯s baritone and father moving to tenor. Sometimes they would beg Blaire¡¯s mother with her soprano to join them.


    Now there are bloodstains on the floor of the kitchen. From the heath the bones call to her, like a child calls its mother from a crib. She walks there briskly, wanting this to end. The wood is stacked in the cavity, just the way Red King taught them. But this wood is recently cut and unburned. In fact, it¡¯s the only thing in the kitchen that isn¡¯t burned at all. She searches for the bones. The sound is louder now, bleating like an injured lamb. Anger rises in her again. The red-hot fire burns in her veins. She pushes the stack of wood, shouting a curse.


    In her mind¡¯s eye she can see Rad King¡¯s palm coming closer, aiming for the back of her head. He hated when they used bad words in his house. The chopped wood falls, and she has to jump aside to spare her feet. Three rib bones tumble to the floor. They have with a thin layer of meat. The sight of it makes her shiver. She adds it to the pillowcase with shaking hands.


    An icy wind blows in through the door, disturbing the ashes on the floor. She finds a leg in the corner. A clump of hair and blood against a wall. She clears the place as fast as she can, filling two of the pillowcases. She counts fifty one bullet holes.


    The day passes slowly as she walks through the homestead. She loads the pillowcases onto the wheelbarrow. Eleven loads of remains. She pushes it to the town square, where the fountain is nothing but a dry pit. In the early evening light, she drags branches and firewood into the pit. When she¡¯s satisfied that it will be enough, she stacks the pillowcases upon the pyre, sprinkling them with gasoline from a can she keeps in the car.


    Once everything is stacked, she lights it. By the time the moon rises from behind the skeleton of her family home, the flames are licking at wood and remains. She sits down on the decorative bricks of the courtyard, lighting a cigarette. She closes her eyes, but the tears burst out of her like a river that has been restrained too long. This time, she doesn¡¯t fight to keep it inside. There is no way for her to keep it in, anyway. Her grief is too powerful to ignore. Her pain is too enormous to push down the dark abyss that is her heart.


    She watches the smoke. At first it is only wisps, thin tendrils sneaking upward. An hour later, with the wind lightly blowing on the flames, it is a thick wide column of smoke. It whirls upward, a silent scream of agony. The voices of the dead crying to the heavens for justice.


    She rises then, sprinkling herbs and speaking an incantation. This time the past is clear, as if she is looking at a movie. The Bull Tribe, guns ablaze, whips cracking, swords slicing. They move through the homestead. She memorizes each of the eleven faces. Watch them slaughter her people like cattle, as if they are nothing but meat, as if they weren¡¯t people at all.


    ¡°But it¡¯s you,¡± she spits the words at the shapes of the Bull Tribe. ¡°You are an inhumane race of motherfuckers. And I¡¯ll have my vengeance. I swear on the blood of my ancestors, nothing will grow on this land until the day I have extracted justice. An eye for an eye, the law says. Blood for blood, I say.¡±


    Someone sighs next to her. She doesn¡¯t turn to see who it is. She knows her father hates this pledge. But he isn¡¯t the one standing next to the pyre in the real world. He doesn¡¯t feel the physical ashes fall on his face and hands. He can¡¯t even smell their burning flesh.


    Blaire¡¯s stomach cramps. She hasn¡¯t eaten all day. Not since this morning. Despite this, she bends over to vomit. The yellow putrid puss barely misses her feet. She vomits until there is nothing left in her stomach, and still her body shakes. Still, she vomits, even when nothing more than dry gagging sounds escapes her throat.

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 12: Skin And Bones

    Chapter 12: Skin And Bones


    <h2>(Foo Fighters)</h2>


    Pitch black silence surrounds her when she wakes. Grits grating in her eyes every time she opens and closes the lids. Lead weighing down muscles, pressing down on bones. She is in the car, sleeping. Last night she stood in her old bedroom, contemplating sleeping there, but the memories were too loud. Also, the bone song was too loud inside her head.


    Blaire pushes the old Mustang¡¯s door open. Leaving the car in her own driveway, she returns to the house to use the facilities. There is an unfamiliar pressure in her lower abdomen. She touches it carefully, mentally recalling her recent bowel movements. Everything seems normal. Nothing out of the ordinary.


    ¡°Probably just stress,¡± she whispers to the stranger looking back at her from the bathroom mirror. ¡°Just stress. This has been a week from hell.¡±


    Returning to the vehicle on unsure legs, she crawls onto the backseat, covering her shaking body with the only thing she took from the house: grandmother¡¯s crochet blanket. It was a wedding gift. Granny squares with patterns of flowers. Shades of purple, pink, gold and green. She falls back into a dark abyss of sleep, her body too tired to allow her mind to fight back. Pure physical exhaustion pushes memories and concerns aside.


    Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tock.


    An enormous clock looms overhead in the night sky. One of those old ones, with the arms that spin around and around. Time trapped in a loop. Forever going, but never leaving or arriving. Stuck.


    She feels thin; a shadow of herself. Half in the real world, half in the dream world. Her eyes fixate on the arms of the gigantic clock in the sky. They turn faster and faster until they are nothing but a blur. Her heart beats in tune to the mad rhythm. Ears ringing. Sweat on her brow. An urgency. A warning, perhaps.


    It is another type of warning, but the message was the same as that of the bone song.


    Blaire feels out of sync with herself. This can¡¯t be her life, can it? This can¡¯t be how it all ends. This is not what is supposed to happen. This isn¡¯t her mind. These aren¡¯t her bones. This isn¡¯t her flesh. Everything she is seems borrowed, as if she¡¯s living in someone else¡¯s body, and forcing the unyielding flesh to obey.


    Out of nowhere, a chilly wind blows over her, rising gooseflesh on her arms and sending an icy cold shiver up her spine. She crosses her arms over her chest, longing for some comfort. Even standing on her ancestral land, she feels untethered, a fallen autumn leaf drifting on the wind. In the dream, she turns away from her car, towards the funeral pyre.


    ¡°You look like a skeleton,¡± a voice says suddenly.


    Blaire stumbles to a halt and turns, searching to find Catriona¡¯s dark brown pupils. The familiar eyes pin her down to the ground as if she¡¯s stuck in a tar pit. She has to fight the urge to rush forward to¡­ what? Hug her? Slap her? Both?


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Blaire says, trying to pin down how she feels about her sister.


    The pendulum hangs in the air above them, swinging from love to hate. She wonders if Catriona can see the struggle. She turns away, breaking eye contact.


    ¡°No, you¡¯re not,¡± her sister insists. ¡°You are about as far from fine as a person can be. You are running on alcohol and cigarettes.¡±


    I missed her, Blaire thinks to herself, hoping her sister can¡¯t read the thought. Even after what she did, she is still my oldest sister. Always will be. She protected me, sheltered me, defended me, and taught me the lessons only sisters can teach each other. How to know when you like a boy? How to know if he likes you? How to kiss. How to use a tampon. Sex. Condoms. Not getting pregnant.


    ¡°Alcohol, cigarettes and hatred,¡± Blaire mumbles, turning to give her sister a stern look. ¡°Don¡¯t forget the hatred.¡±


    Catriona¡¯s mirage shimmers in waves. Her skin is gray and dry like an empty riverbed. Like a drought affected riverbed begging for rain from the sky, her sister¡¯s soul begs for forgiveness. Catriona is wearing the sheer gold evening dress with the ruby red shawl which she had on the last time Blaire saw her truly happy. It was at a family celebration. Someone¡¯s engagement. They danced together, twirling across the dancefloor. The laughing faces of family and friends passed them by in a colorful blur. They ended up with arms around each other, screaming with laughter. In Blaire¡¯s current dream, soft visions of the memory flashes between them, a reminder of something precious which they lost.


    ¡°That is a wonderful memory,¡± Catriona says. ¡°We were happy, carefree. You still loved me.¡±


    ¡°And you didn¡¯t love me.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not true. I always loved you. Still do.¡±


    ¡°Did you love me while fucking my husband for years? In my marital bed? If that is how you love, I don¡¯t want it. Keep it to yourself.¡±This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°Why should I?¡± Catriona sneers. ¡°It¡¯s not as if you have a significant other right now that I can fuck, is it?¡±


    Anger rises from Blaire¡¯s painful abdomen. She lifts herself on her toes, leaning closer to Catriona¡¯s face.


    ¡°Fuck you!¡± Blaire screams. ¡°Fuck you and your entire¡­¡± she stops the moment she realizes what she was about to say. Her mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. ¡°¡­.and fuck the horse you rose in on.¡±


    Blaire turns around, stumbling and falling to the ground with a loud thud. Sobs tear out of her. She doesn¡¯t try to fight it. She cries loudly, tears and snot mixing on her face when she wipes across it with the back of her hand. A soft touch on her head makes her jump. It is Catriona, comforting her like she did so often before, but her touch is cold now.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Catriona says. ¡°I am the worst sister in the world. I won¡¯t lie or make excuses. I shouldn¡¯t have slept with your husband. I shouldn¡¯t have let him talk me into it. Sisters don¡¯t do those things to each other.¡±


    Again, the soft caress. Blaire¡¯s sobbing ebbs out slowly. She lifts her shirt to clean her face.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry too,¡± Blaire says. ¡°I know Luka had a silver tongue. Fuck, he talked me into marriage and having a child. I wanted neither.¡±


    ¡°I blame the sex¡­¡± Catriona says.


    Blaire laughs. ¡°Yeah. The sex was excellent.¡±


    They stay like this, Blaire sitting cross-legged on the ground, Catriona softly caressing her head from time to time. Slowly, home crawls back into Blaire¡¯s heart. This is home. Her home. Her family isn¡¯t alive anymore, but they are still here. They still care for her. They don¡¯t blame her. Have they ever?


    ¡°You are too thin,¡± Catriona whispers. ¡°Weak too. I didn¡¯t notice how bad it was before.¡±


    Catriona watching over her is a foreign concept. She wonders if other members of her family did the same. A blush tints her neck and cheeks at the thought of her parents or grandparents seeing the way she lived the last few years.


    ¡°It¡¯s because this is a dream. Everything looks different in your dreams.¡±


    Catriona snorts unladylike, lips contorting in an upside down smile. ¡°Don¡¯t lie, sister. Do you believe I don¡¯t see the truth? I know what you are doing out there in the world. And what you are thinking of doing in the future. Do you think nobody knows you want vengeance?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s my new frame of mind, don¡¯t you know? My system runs on revenge. You, of all people, should know this is part of my nature. Hate moves me. Hate is keeping me alive right now. And sane too. Without it, I would have been with you already. I¡¯ll avenge what happened here, believe me.¡±


    Catriona shakes her head, those dark eyes never leaving her sister¡¯s face. ¡°Liar. It is love that moves you. Love that makes you hate. Love which requires your vengeance. If you didn¡¯t love, you wouldn¡¯t want revenge.¡±


    Blaire snorts, looking away from Catriona¡¯s piercing eyes. Her sister could always read her like an open book. She feels emotionally fragile, even in this dream.


    ¡°Believe whatever you want,¡± Blaire says. ¡°You always do. But don¡¯t worry about me. I am just fine.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t worry about you,¡± Catriona whispers, the lie thundering through the wilderness between them. ¡°Mother does, though. Red King too.¡±


    Blaire snorts. She can hear the lie from Catriona. It is clear from the tone of her voice. How was she able to hide the affair for almost two years?


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m doing fine,¡± Blaire whispers. ¡°Tell mother, from my heart to hers, that I¡¯m all set and living the good life here without you all to bother me.¡±


    Catriona appears next to Blaire in an instant, poking her ribs with a gnarled finger. Blaire yelps, moving away quickly from the icy touch.


    ¡°Skin and bones,¡± Catriona says. ¡°Don¡¯t you know it? You are nothing but skin and bones. A skeleton.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t measure me like this,¡± Blaire shouts, stepping away from the truth-seeking eyes, the provoking finger. ¡°Not by what you perceive right now. I¡¯m stripped to the core, down to the fucking bone. Been that way for years. Of course I¡¯m only skin and bones. I have lost everything I care about. Drifting through the world alone has a toll that not everyone can pay. Never coming home. Not even calling. Constantly fearing that the Bull Tribe will find me. And now everyone is gone, and my soul left with them. I swear, in here,¡± she beat a fist on her heart, ¡°in here, everything is gone. I have nothing, you hear me, nothing.¡±


    Catriona turns her head aside, as if listening. She nods, closes her eyes, swallows, and opens them again. Those dark eyes bore into Blaire¡¯s soul.


    ¡°Red King says if you can¡¯t move forward without finding revenge, you must recall where all this started,¡± Catriona says, waving a hand across The Farm. ¡°Now is the time to remember, he says. Recall your history.¡±


    She sighs, rolling her eyes. ¡°Remember what exactly?¡±


    The gossamer gray face comes to within an inch of Blaire¡¯s. The horrible mouth opens wide. For a moment she wants to lunge backward, away from the gaping opening. There is a hunger in Catriona. A fierce dark desire. Insatiable lust.


    But for what?


    Blaire watches Catriona¡¯s dead tongue travel in her mouth like a bat in a cave of dust. It moves slowly, with the clicking sounds of dry pebbles in your pocket when you run. It doesn¡¯t speak, the tongue inside the hungry cavity. It sings.


    ¡°The devil¡¯s going to make me a free man,


    The devil¡¯s going to set me free.¡±


    Blaire wakes with a start, the song lingering in her head. She leaves the car, but takes the blanket with her, wearing it like a cape. The air is cold for this time of year. Or maybe she just feels cold because of the utter loneliness that has settled in her heart. Her feet find their way to the funeral pyre.


    The fire is still burning. She sits down on the paving stones to watch the smoke swirling up into the air. Already the sky is tinting with the light of the new day.


    ¡°It is time to remember,¡± Catriona said in her dream.


    Blaire sighs. Remember where all of this started? How it all started.


    The dream experience follows into her reality as Catriona¡¯s song ringing in her ears. No, not Catriona¡¯s song. It is Red King¡¯s song. He sang it all the time. This was the story of his crossroads. The song connects to their Genesis. Snake Clan¡¯s origin. The cradle of their power.


    Therefore, he ensured they heard the tale at least once a week. This is their heritage and birthright. Each new generation learns the story. Everyone heard him sing the song a hundred times. No, a thousand times. In the house, waiting for Grandma Sophie to serve the meal. Walking in the fields. Smoking on the porch. Driving to town or back. It was his victory song. The foundation on which he built a new life and this family.


    Every one that is¡­ was part of the clan by blood, inherited the gifts from Red King. It was a blood gift transferred directly to his descendants and Blood Oath family. The gift comes at an enormous price. It cost Red King his soul.

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 13: Broken bones

    Chapter 13: Broken bones


    <h2>(Kaleo)</h2>


    Red King, or Alfred, as he was called in those days, was born poor. Not poor, as in a swollen stomach black child standing in a slum in some African news story. Poverty-stricken child born to dirt poor parents in America. By ten he was working in the fields all day, as were his parents and older siblings. By working in the fields, please understand they were basically slaves to the landowner.


    Living in a shack that was sweltering hot in summer and wet and cold in winter. His older siblings stopped attending school to work a full day by the age of fourteen. But even with six members in the family working, Red King told us, his most prevalent memory of childhood was the constant hunger burning in his stomach.


    She recalls a long walk with him through the commune. ¡°I knew poverty intimately. I felt it on my skin. Sunburns from working in the fields all day. Insect bites and wounds that fester because we have nothing to treat it with. Dehydration that makes your skin wrinkle like a shirt that is too large for your body.


    He resisted his parent¡¯s request that he leave school as his older siblings did. However, once he turned sixteen, the landowner told him unless he works full-time, seven days a week, he needed to leave. He had no choice, but decided to not go quietly into that dark night. He fought constantly. Soon the overseers marked him as problematic, and beat him on the slightest provocation, or deducted large penalties off his pay for causing damage or costing the landowner money.


    After one bad ¡®discipline¡¯ session, which ended with him in bed with a broken leg and a shattered hand, he had twenty-four hours to leave. Or he could agree to working for two weeks without pay. He had no money, no place to go. He couldn¡¯t even walk. He was stuck. Chained to a shack and land that didn¡¯t belong to him. Working twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week, to enrich a landowner he hated, who also hated him.


    Blaire sighs as she hears Red King¡¯s voice speaking in her memories. ¡°Chained,¡± he says. ¡°They chained me. And whatever money I earned, someone was waiting to grab it. After six months of working, I didn¡¯t even have enough for a doctor, or a train ticket out of town.¡±


    And so the day came that three overseers and the landowner arrived at the shack to ensure Red King left. He was still there, of course. He had no means to leave, and no place to go. As they dragged him outside, he grabbed the gun from the leather holster of one overseer and shot at the landowner.


    A red flower of blood bloomed on his chest, tainting his white shirt. He touched it, looking at Red King with raised eyebrows. Someone grabbed the gun from him as the owner fell to his knees. They beat him into a coma, but he didn¡¯t die.


    ¡°I woke up in jail that night,¡± Red King tells them. ¡°Laying there, barely able to breathe, bleeding from several wounds, I remembered all the times mamma stood on her knees, praying to God. How she called to him with tears running down her face. For hours and hours. Begging him to save her, to save us. To set us free. For years, she prayed. Sometimes she used verses directly from the pastor¡¯s Sunday sermon. But her god never came. And as I laid on the cold cement floor in jail, shivering from pain and anger and cold and hunger, I called out not for mother¡¯s god, but his enemy.¡±


    ¡°You know why?¡± he¡¯d ask at this stage. ¡°Because even though I left the farm, I was still in chains. That no matter where I went, there would be chains. I was born into chains, and I was going to die in chains. Period. And I knew from bitter experience that mamma¡¯s God made promises he didn¡¯t keep.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure when exactly I gave up on her God, but I knew he could not right the wrongs of the world. So I called out to the Devil. I asked him to come to me. And he came. On the third night, just before sunrise. We sat across from each other on the floor, talking about what kind of help I wanted.¡±


    Red King said that the Devil gestured towards the cell¡¯s gate. ¡°I can open this gate right now. And all the others, too. And then you can walk out.¡±


    ¡°But I was no fool,¡± Red King continues with a chuckle. ¡°That will be useless,¡± I tell him. ¡°They will come looking for me, and since I¡¯m hurt and broke, I won¡¯t get far.¡±Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    ¡°I can heal you, the Devil suggested. Nah, I told the Devil. Then he said he can give me money. More money than I would ever earn. So much money that I could never spend it all. But by this time, I already understood that money won¡¯t satisfy me. Money means nothing. People can steal or spend or lose money. And in the end, you will be in chains again. The freedom money promised was a temporary solution.¡±


    ¡°The Devil asked me what I wanted. I had three days and nights to think about this while I waited for him to come. Even longer. I started thinking about this the first time my hands bled from picking cotton in another man¡¯s fields. So I told him what I wanted was power. With power, you can achieve anything you want.¡±


    According to Red King, the Devil didn¡¯t even blink. He just asked what kind of power granddad wanted.


    ¡°So I told him I wanted Dark Magic. And I wanted it to run through my blood to every descendant ever born, and to anyone who made a blood oath with me. Forever and ever amen. Never diminishing.¡±


    And that is the story of our genesis. That is how Red King sold his soul to the Devil. He healed his wounds with his own Dark Magic. A day later, he walked out of jail by simply stepping through the wall as if it wasn¡¯t there. Once outside, he used the gift of Dark Magic to earn money and a reputation. He got things done. He set wrong right.


    He met my Grandma Sophie, and they had three children. In the community, they were a power couple. Their home was a place of safety. When you had no place to go and nobody on your side, you went to Red King. Red King adopted down-and-out people and invested in them. He watched them grow out of chains. Poverty chains. Abusive chains. Addictive chains.


    Red King set the captives free. They called on him, and he answered. He was more, much more, than a man. Even more than a king. He was the God that broke chains.


    He bought the ranch where he used to be nothing but a slave, burned everything on it down to the ground, and salted it like the Old Testament in his mamma¡¯s book talked about. Finally, he built it from scratch. Proper homes for people to live in. Roads. Fruit orchards. Vegetable gardens. Cattle folds. Chicken coops. Warehouses. A commune of free people living and working together.


    And Red King ruled them all.


    Blaire sighs, getting up from the cold ground because her stomach aches for food. The last proper meal she had was yesterday, before sunrise. There isn¡¯t anything left to eat in the car, so she¡¯ll need to go into town. But first a shower to wash away all the grime from the atrocious work of the day before. She wiped her hands and face clean before she fell asleep, but her body was too tired for anything else.


    It¡¯s almost noon before Blaire reaches town. She parks in front of a diner. Every eye in the street watches her. She shrugs, grabs her wallet, and leaves the car. This time, she locks the doors. She figures she¡¯ll need it for a few more days at least. What happens to it after that is none of her concern.


    She steps into the diner with what she hopes others perceive as confidence. The brisk walk makes her aware of every sore muscle in her body. All eyes inside turn toward her, and heads move closer together. Whispers hang in the air as the gossip machine works its way through the place.


    ¡°Table or take-away?¡±


    Blaire turns her face towards the speaker. It is a young girl, golden hair and blue eyes. Slim figure. Black slacks and a white shirt. On the left side, just above the swell of her tiny breast, in embroidered fancy letters, is the name Nancy.


    For a moment she considers the take-away option, but then the sound of whispers entices her into more. She gives the young girl one of her brightest smiles.


    ¡°A table, please, Nancy. I¡¯m too hungry to drive all the way back to The Farm before I eat. And I still want to pop into the general store for supplies, too.¡±


    The girl¡¯s eyes widened. She obviously heard about Blaire from others who saw her driving through, but has never seen her. Nancy assumed Blaire was a passer-by, just driving through town to somewhere else.


    Well, she¡¯s not wrong.


    She follows Nancy through the tables, refusing to look at anyone already seated, but can feel their eyes on her, hear their whispers as she passes. She¡¯s beyond caring what anyone else thinks of her, anyway. And despite what she might have heard, Nancy is keeping it professional. Blaire makes a mental note to leave a large tip for this reason alone.


    ¡°Do you need a moment to look over the menu?¡± Nancy asks as soon as she sits down. ¡°Or do you know what you want?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Blaire answers, looking up at the server¡¯s smile. ¡°It¡¯s my first time here. I¡¯m just in town to take care of business. I¡¯ll be gone as soon as it¡¯s done. What would you recommend to someone that hasn''t eaten since breakfast yesterday?¡±


    The girl¡¯s eyes widened, her mouth forming a nice round ¡°O¡± shape. In her mind, Blaire adds another ten dollars to the tip. Nancy wasn¡¯t very professional at that moment, but her reaction was sweet. The concern on her face is real.


    ¡°Mother made some hearty stew,¡± she answers. ¡°It¡¯s packed with meat and vegetables.¡±


    ¡°Sounds perfect. Bring me a portion of that and do you have any baked pasta dishes?¡±


    ¡°Lasagna?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Bring me one of those too. Is there anything that will keep well until dinner, if I take it home?¡±


    ¡°Hmmm¡­¡± Nancy opens the menu, flipping through it quickly. ¡°What about kebabs served with either a baked potato, chips, or mash? There are oven baked vegetables on the side, if you want some.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but not chicken kebabs.¡±


    ¡°Beef, then?¡± she asks, writing furiously on her little pad.


    ¡°Yes, that sounds outstanding. Not chips though, they never taste good after they get cold. Mash is better.¡±


    ¡°Let me repeat this then,¡± Nancy says, and reads the order back.


    ¡°Perfect,¡± Blaire answers.


    ¡°Nothing sweet to end the meal with?¡±


    ¡°Oh, gawd no,¡± Blaire answers. ¡°But I¡¯ll have a cup of the strongest coffee you have. Black with no sugar. And keep refilling that until I¡¯m done.¡±


    Nancy turns to walk away, but Blaire grabs her by the wrist. The girl turns back quickly, but there is no fear or disgust in her eyes at all. The smile Nancy gives her is unforced.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Blaire says softly, but she knows the peaked ears at the neighboring tables will still hear her words. ¡°Thank you for treating me with kindness. I really appreciate that you don¡¯t¡­¡± she waves her hand to indicate the rest of the room. ¡°¡­well, all of this.¡±


    Nancy nods, looking shy suddenly. Blaire lets go of her wrist and she walks away with the determination of someone with an important mission.

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 14: In My Darkest Hour

    Chapter 14: In My Darkest Hour


    <h2>(Megadeth)</h2>


    ¡°Blaire?¡± a voice asks.


    She turns her head to the left, searching for the person who called her name. The voice sounded familiar, as if she had heard it long ago. Her eyes find a face that, as the voice, seems somehow familiar. It was an old man, gray hair and beard. Dark sun-kissed skin with deep wrinkles around the eyes and at the corners of his mouth. He is thin, but obviously large in frame. This feature seems strange to her until recognition hits her.


    ¡°Uncle B?¡± she says with a frown.


    A grin spreads over his face. She smiles back at him, glad to see a familiar friendly face at last. She walks over to the table where he sits by himself. He rises, holding out a hand to shake, but she pushes it aside, embracing the old man. He doesn¡¯t fight back, accepting the tight hug with a soft chuckle.


    ¡°Gawd, it¡¯s good to see you back,¡± he whispers into her ear.


    ¡°It¡¯s good to see you too, old man. Why are you here in town?¡±


    He pulls from her embrace and sags down into the chair, motioning to the chair across the table. She sits down without a word.


    ¡°Oh, yes,¡± he says. ¡°You probably don¡¯t know. I was out of town. My nephew came to fetch me about a year ago. He wanted me to live with him and his wife on the other side of the country.¡±


    ¡°And you went?¡± she asks with an incredulous giggle.


    He shakes his head from side to side. ¡°I know, right? Stupid. I wanted to come back within a week. He kept me close, though. But I escaped over the weekend and only made it here an hour ago. How are things at The Farm?¡±


    She waves a hand at him. ¡°Let¡¯s talk about that later. How have you been? What have you been up to?¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°Let¡¯s see¡­ I fell in love, did you know?¡±


    He looks at her face and then shakes his head. ¡°No,¡± he says with a sadness that she can feel in her soul. ¡°Of course you don¡¯t. I met her about two years after you left. And we got married a year later.¡±


    ¡°You got married?¡± she chuckles. ¡°Who would have thought? You always said you¡¯d die a bachelor.¡±


    ¡°I did, but she was totally worth breaking that promise. Soulmates. That¡¯s what we were.¡±


    ¡°Were? Past tense?¡±


    Tears form in the corners of his eyes. They glitter in the light until he wipes them away quickly.


    ¡°She got the Big C and passed away about eighteen months ago. I went kind of mental for a while. That¡¯s why my nephew came to fetch me. At first, I really needed to get away. However, once therapy and meds sorted out my head and heart, I wanted to come back. He refused. We fought like Spartan warriors about it. His wife told him either me or her and the kids leaves because she needs her space. That¡¯s when he decided to put me in an old age home. And the moment I knew that, I made my plans. I slipped out as soon as I could and ran.¡±


    Blaire stretches across the table to take a bony hand in hers. The hand is too cold. She remembers him as large as a bear, fit as a fiddle. He won¡¯t last two weeks in an old age home. Some people just don''t have the soul to live there. Uncle B is one of them.


    ¡°I had a dream call from the Bull King. I made a Blood Oath that I¡¯ll hand myself over to him within ten days if he allows me to come home to say a proper goodbye and to hand over leadership to Skye officially.¡±


    He doesn¡¯t look at all happy with her declaration. ¡°Why would you do such a stupid thing?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m tired. Beyond tired, actually. Living on the run is hell on earth. Never to even call home. No visits. I miss my family. I miss you all. And I miss the comfort of being home, of belonging to a place and people.¡±


    He nods. ¡°Now, that part about home I understand completely. I didn¡¯t know anyone out there where my nephew lives. No friends. Not even acquaintances.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been just as lonely,¡± Blaire says. ¡°We all need to be loved, even someone like me.¡±


    ¡°Someone like you? You say that as if you¡¯re bad.¡±


    ¡°I am. What I did was a sin.¡±


    ¡°A sin? To whom? To a God in the sky that we can¡¯t see and never hear? There is no-one up there, believe me. I prayed for my wife. Hours and hours. I gave money to the church. I asked others to pray. All I got for this was heartbreak. I spent an entire night screaming at the sky. I begged to die. One flash of lightning. A heart attack. Anything. Nothing happened. Throughout all those dark hours, God did not answer.¡±


    ¡°Well, I get that. I can¡¯t tell you how many times I prayed for forgiveness. Or for a miracle. At the darkest hours of my life, I sat in the bath, knife to my veins, waiting for a voice to tell me to stop. For some grace to shine on me. For ¡­ I don¡¯t know what. Maybe a hand to reach down from heaven to intervene.¡±


    ¡°And that didn¡¯t happen. I know it didn¡¯t, but you are still here. I¡¯m so happy that you are.¡±


    Nancy arrives with her coffee, finding the table empty. Blaire waves at her and whistles softly. Everyone looks at her sharply. Only Nancy smiles, walking briskly towards them.


    ¡°You found a friend?¡¯ she asks Uncle B.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    He beams at Nancy and winks at Blaire. ¡°I told her I was away for a while and hoped my friends were still where I left them.¡±


    ¡°And then you meet one here, of all places. Although she¡¯s just passing through.¡±


    He nods. ¡°Yes, but maybe I can change her mind about that before the meal is done. She always listened to me when she was younger.¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes, I did. So did everyone else. You were as big as a mountain then. A real scary guy. And the temper¡­ fast and furious.¡±


    ¡°Well, sir,¡± Nancy says, ¡°I can see why she did then, but now¡­¡± Nancy takes a step back and lets her eyes run up and down the old man slowly, shaking her head in the negative.


    ¡°Call him Uncle B,¡± Blaire says. ¡°That¡¯s what his friends call him.¡±


    ¡®Well, Uncle B, I¡¯m going to check if your food is ready.¡±


    ¡°Can you bring it out together with Blaire¡¯s? I¡¯d hate to eat in front of her.¡±


    Blaire snorts. ¡°If she brings out your food before mine, I¡¯m eating it. I¡¯m famished.¡±


    Nancy walks away, or rather skips away. She has an energy that Blaire admires. Despite the whispers and stares from other customers, she just keeps going on as if she didn¡¯t notice. Or maybe she did, but just doesn¡¯t care. It might just be the fact that she¡¯s so young.


    ¡°I can¡¯t remember having that level of energy when I was young,¡± Blaire says.


    ¡°I can remember you having that kind of energy when you defended the weak, or got into fights,¡± Uncle B says. ¡°It used to drive your mother up the walls, but Red King would tell her it was in your blood and that she should just get used to it.¡±


    She clings to his hand. ¡°Uncle B.¡±


    He looks up at her, probably hearing the sadness that crept into her voice. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I have to tell you something. It¡¯s the worst news ever.¡±


    His shoulders slump, and for a moment he looks like a child. She squeezed his hand, hating the feeling of loss that washes over her.


    ¡°I promise not to make a public spectacle. Hit me with it.¡±


    ¡°Bull King didn¡¯t keep his promise,¡± she whispers. ¡°They came to The Farm before I even got back. Everyone¡­ well, they killed them all.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he drawls.


    She nods at him. ¡°I arrived late in the afternoon two days ago. Spent all day yesterday gathering the pieces together for a funeral. The only thing left standing is Luka and my house. I haven¡¯t even been to the warehouses and the livestock yards yet. The fields, the orchards, everything else, burned down to the ground. Some of the large trees are still on fire.¡±


    ¡°Oh no, Bear.¡±


    The childhood name grabs her by the heart and shakes her. This time she is the one crying, and he takes her hands, caressing her knuckles with large flat thumbs.


    ¡°I¡¯ve tried so hard to keep everyone safe,¡± she says. ¡°Ten years is a long time to not come home. And then, while I was on the way, they rushed in and¡­¡±


    Her hands shake, and he lifts them to his mouth for a warm kiss. ¡°It¡¯s not your fault. Don¡¯t take the blame on you. Vasiliev shouldn¡¯t have made that promise to you if he didn¡¯t intend to keep it. That is not our way. If I were you, I¡¯d bring it to the gang court. Don¡¯t even go to see him. If he can break a promise, so can you.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not me. Not us either. The Snake Clan always keeps their word. Also, I¡¯ve basically given up on the guy upstairs completely. So I¡¯m contemplating a summoning.¡±


    ¡°Following in Red King¡¯s footsteps,¡± he says. ¡°We all knew you were the one that will one day take over from him. You were so alike. Fighting on behalf of others. Now you are taking this path, too.¡±


    ¡°Well, despite all the good I tried to do in ten years, the other one never responded to my calls. After that day, I lived as good a life as anyone I know. Yet I never felt his grace shine on me. No forgiveness was forthcoming. I carried that though, thinking that at least my family was safe. That was my anchor in the strange and storm-tossed sea I floated on. To come home and find¡­¡±


    ¡°Shh,¡± Uncle B says. ¡°What are you selling your soul for, if you insist on going to see King Vasiliev, anyway?¡±


    ¡°Vengeance,¡± she answers. ¡°I¡¯m selling my soul to bring death to the entire Bull Tribe.¡±


    ¡°And who is going to rebuild The Farm if you¡¯re gone? Who will look after an old man like me? Because I¡¯m not going back to live with my nephew, I can tell you that right now. I¡¯m going home. That¡¯s it. I don¡¯t care what it looks like. I don¡¯t care if it¡¯s burned to the ground. I don¡¯t care at all. It¡¯s my home and I want to live there.¡±


    ¡°You can live in my house,¡± Blaire says.


    ¡°But I¡¯m no farmer. I¡¯ll die there without food. Someone needs to take control and get it all going again. And you,¡± he leans in to poke at her chest with a bony index finger, ¡°you¡¯re it. There is no-one else.¡±


    ¡°I know the livestock side well,¡± Blaire says as Nancy approaches the table. ¡°But the orchards and vegetable gardens are beyond me. We¡¯ll need to find someone to run those, because I¡¯m not a farmer, either.¡±


    ¡°Wait, you are looking for someone to run your farm?¡± Nancy says.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Blaire answers quickly. ¡°It¡¯ll be the orchards and fields, mainly. Do you know someone?¡±


    ¡°Hmm, let me think. Would someone with a brand new degree in agriculture qualify?¡±


    ¡°He sure would.¡±


    ¡°What about if that someone was a she and not a he?¡±


    ¡°The Farm is an equal opportunity place,¡± Uncle B says. ¡°We¡¯ve never cared about who or what you are, as long as you treated people with respect and worked hard.¡±


    ¡°So, where do I hand in my resume?¡± Nancy asks. ¡°I graduated two years ago, but it¡¯s rather troublesome for a female to get into the field. I expected some problems, but it¡¯s more difficult than I anticipated. And I swear, I didn¡¯t spend thousands of dollars and four years of my life on education just to server at my family¡¯s diner, no matter how nice the place is.¡±


    Blaire sits back in her chair with a smile. Uncle B waves at Nancy, and then at her. He lifts an eyebrow and smiles.


    ¡°It is meant to be,¡± he says. ¡°Nancy, this is Blaire and she owns The Farm. I¡¯m Uncle B, and I¡¯m the temporary manager. The Farm just had the worst crisis ever, and we are trying to get it back on its feet. It¡¯ll be hard work, but we pay well. Above industry standards. You¡¯ll be able to flip off any of those fuckers that didn¡¯t want you.¡±


    ¡°Oh, this sounds delicious,¡± Nancy answers. ¡°Almost as delicious as the food here. I¡¯m ready to start immediately.¡±


    ¡°Tomorrow is fine,¡± Blaire says, holding up a business card. ¡°Forward your resume for our files. This was your interview. You are hired.¡±


    ¡°Where is The Farm?¡± Nancy asks.


    ¡°It¡¯s not too far. Get on the road leaving town towards the desert, and on the third road you turn left. Go straight for about twenty minutes. You¡¯ll find the gate on your left. The official name is Nathara¡¯s Farm. Ask anyone in town. They all know where it is.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be there bright and early.¡±


    Blaire claps her hands together, satisfied with the way things are moving along. ¡°I have important business to attend to, so I¡¯ll be leaving by tomorrow night or the next day at the latest. I should be back within a week, if all goes well. But Uncle B is there, so you¡¯ll not be alone. There is only one house right now. It has three bedrooms, and if you don¡¯t mind having me and the old fart as housemates, you¡¯re welcome to move in.¡±


    ¡°When you say crisis, what do you mean exactly?¡±


    ¡°I mean, everything is burned to the ground. All the houses, fields and orchards. One warehouse is looking undamaged from afar. I didn¡¯t have the courage to go look at anything on the livestock side. I suggest you two,¡± Blaire says, waving her hand between them, ¡°start by doing a proper walk-thru and stock taking. What equipment is left? What can be fixed and what should be scrapped. Look at the seeds, fertilizer, and all that shit. For all we know, it might be fine, still. And then order what we need. Uncle B knows the suppliers and they know him. I¡¯ll have the credit cards replaced, so you can each have one to use when needed.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll need more people once we start from scratch,¡± Nancy says.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure some will come once they hear we are operating again,¡± Uncle B says. ¡°The Farm has an awesome reputation. And I''m sure you have some classmates still looking too. Feel free to hit them up. But they work under your leadership, or not at all.¡±


    Nancy smiles, giving them a curtsy. ¡°I don¡¯t know how to thank you.¡±


    ¡°Just work hard, and stay kind,¡± Uncle B says. ¡°That¡¯s all we need.¡±

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 15: My wicked bones

    Chapter 15: My wicked bones


    <h2>(Nick Nolan)</h2>


    Blaire kneels in the middle of the crossroad, glancing down all the roads quickly. It¡¯s already dark, so headlights will be visible from afar, giving her enough time to react to oncoming traffic. She opens the small tin can to inspect the contents for the hundredth time since this morning. It contains a small photo of her, a chicken bone from her last meal, a bit of soil in the bottom. This she collected about an hour ago from a graveyard after a visit to a health store for dried yarrow flowers.


    She snaps the box close, feeling a chill run down her spine. This feels familiar because she has heard about it so often from Rad King, but this is also her first time, so completely new to her.


    In Red King¡¯s day, you buried the box in the middle of a crossroads to summon the devil, but with most roads being tarred now, a handful of soil on the tin is sufficient coverage. Red King did the ritual a few nights before they dragged him off to jail, but the Fallen Angel that responded never only laughed at his request for an audience with the Devil.


    Blaire places the tin as close to the middle as seems fit to her, and empties the plastic bag of soil onto it. Then she walks away, settling to wait cross-legged next to the car¡¯s front wheel. She hopes a decent Fallen Angel answers the call, or else she¡¯ll need to repeat the summoning on the next night. You never know what you get with a crossroad ritual. The risk is high, but it is the fastest way to communicate with the Devil that is available when you are in a hurry.


    Two hours later, a loud thud from the left shakes her from a light slumber. Her neck is stiff from the uncomfortable position, and she feels cold. She looks to the left, squinting her eyes against a flurry of dust hanging in the air. The familiar smell of burning in the air reminds her of home.


    The angel is larger than she expected. It wears only a white Roman Empire skirt and leather sandals. Its skin is dark brown, and scaled like a snake¡¯s. The eyes are two shiny black orbs. Behind it, two enormous wings scraped the ground. The feathers were white, but scorched.


    Blaire slowly stands, unsure if she should greet it by hand. It walks towards her, shaking the colossal head from side-to-side.


    ¡°It¡¯s unnecessary,¡± he says. ¡°You don¡¯t even need to greet me. Nobody ever does.¡±


    ¡°May I at least start by thanking you for responding so quickly?¡±


    ¡°That isn¡¯t necessary either, but thank you anyway. Are you sure about what you want?¡±


    Blaire nods. ¡°If you can read my mind, you know why I want it too,¡± she says.


    He scrutinizes her with those dark orbs until she can¡¯t stand it, and turns away.


    ¡°Look, this is a serious request,¡± she says. ¡°I know what I¡¯m doing.¡±


    He laughs aloud. The sound is rich, warming the cold inside her. ¡°I have heard that before,¡± he says.


    She turns back to look at him. He reaches out one hand to her head, but doesn¡¯t touch her.


    ¡°May I touch you?¡± he asks. ¡°I¡¯ll be careful. It¡¯s easier to read your memory that way.¡±


    She nods. ¡°Will it hurt?¡±


    ¡°Not if I¡¯m careful, and if you consent.¡±


    She smiles. ¡°Well, thanks for asking, then. Go ahead.¡±


    His fingers are icy cold, despite the fact that his feathers are still smoldering. The contact lasts barely a minute and is so soft she hardly feels it.


    ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll set it up. There is a town about twenty miles that way,¡± he says, pointing to the east. ¡°Find the only bar and wait in the last booth. I¡¯m not sure when it will be, or even if he will come. Fallen Angels can only place a request, but it¡¯s up to the Devil if he wants to respond. If he didn¡¯t show up by midnight on the third day, just go home.¡±


    She smiles up into his face. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not promising anything.¡±


    ¡°I know. But I appreciate that you at least listened to me, and will ask him.¡±


    ¡°Well, sinner, you got my undivided attention,¡± the Devil whispers. ¡°Now, keep it.¡±


    To Blair the words sound raw, as if someone dragged his voice over four miles of dirt road to get to her ears. They are at a booth in a smoke filled pub early on a Wednesday morning. The Devil looks like he just came from a fashion shoot. Purple velvet suit. Gold silk shirt. Top hat. All ten fingers adorned with rings. Nails painted black. Long dreadlocks and a Southern drawl. He snaps his fingers, and a pipe appears out of nowhere. He hooks it over his bottom lip, never taking his dark eyes off of her.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    She watches him smoke without a word. He winks at her.


    Blair snickers. ¡°Sinner? Sure, I¡¯ll take that. I¡¯ve done plenty to earn the title. I¡¯m wicked down to the bone.¡±


    The Devil sneers at her with an eye roll. ¡°So why did you summon me?¡±


    ¡°Because I need your help.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not the entity you are looking for,¡± he says, rolling yellow eyes upward. ¡°The other side usually takes requests. You should try them.¡±


    Blair snuffs the air, sweeping the room with her eyes to find those who guard him. ¡°First of all, I¡¯m not looking for forgiveness or mercy. Secondly, you will definitely help me.¡±


    He lifts an eyebrow and exhales a cloud of gray smoke that engulfs them both in a cherry smelling embrace. It vaguely reminds her of grandfather sitting in the rocking chair on the front porch, staring off into the distance, reminiscing. Those were the only times when he smoked.


    ¡°Enlighten me on why this is?¡± His voice rumbles like an avalanche rolling down a mountain.


    Blair lifts her hand, pricking the fleshy part of her thumb. Catching his now liquid yellow eyes, she offers the blooded member to him. He leans in with a seductive smile, curling the corners of his mouth. His serpentine tongue flicks out, swirling around the thumb, lifting the red drops. He has some snake in him too, apparently. Red King never mentioned this.


    A slow seductive smile spreads across his mouth. He looks good enough to eat. ¡°I see. You are a child of an old, dear friend of mine.¡±


    She flashes him her best smile and leans forward. ¡°He said if I ever needed help¡­¡±


    He waves a hand at her, inhaling deeply from the pipe. ¡°Like I already said, I¡¯m not interested in restoring you or anyone else to a good standing with your conscience. If you want to be righteous, better apply elsewhere.¡±


    ¡°Fuck that and fuck you,¡± Blair snorts. ¡°I don¡¯t want redemption. I don¡¯t want to be guilt free. I don¡¯t need you to tame me, or forgive me, or even to restore my soul to innocence.¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°Good to hear. I¡¯m not into the business of mercy.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not here for myself.¡±


    ¡°Ahhhh,¡± he sings the word. ¡°You want vengeance.¡±


    ¡°For my people. What happened to them is atrocious.¡±


    He swirls a wine glass with deep red liquid. It might be red wine. It might be fresh blood. It might be some potion. Or elixir from the gods.


    ¡°Some might say that what happened to your people is your fault.¡±


    Blair downs the amber rum in one gulp, wincing at the burn. ¡°No. It isn¡¯t. Bykov¡¯s vengeance should have been against me, not the Natharas as a group. I¡¯m sure they want to hang me, or burn me at the stake, or flail me slowly over a fire. Whichever method they choose, I know they want me dead. They lost a son. I don¡¯t blame them for that at all.¡±


    He twirls his hand in the air. ¡°From here, where I¡¯m sitting, you will soon be with me, anyway. Why should I get involved at all?¡±


    ¡°Because no matter what the outcome is, in the end you win whether I live or die.¡±


    Silence grows between them. With a snap of his fingers, their glasses refill. Blair leans forward to reach hers. This time she swirls the glass, inhaling the aroma of the rum. It is the good shit, so she takes a small sip, enjoying the taste.


    ¡°And let¡¯s not ignore the probability of my death is much higher than me living a long and prosperous life.¡±


    ¡°Eventually you¡¯ll die,¡± he says. ¡°But not too soon. Red King was a good friend. I respected him. Liked him too. Not a lot of humans about whom I can say those words. That is why I invested so much into him and his legacy. The Farm flourished and his people with him. I visited him there often. Now you are all that is left of him. You will rebuild his work. And you will continue the lineage.¡±


    Blair rolls her eyes with a snicker. ¡°That is, if I can find a man that will put up with me. Remember, I killed the last one.¡±


    ¡°There is one among the bulls,¡± he says softly, peering into the red liquid in his glass. ¡°That will be the one I suggest for you. But it¡¯s not a command, though, only a suggestion. You can take anyone you want.¡±


    ¡°What makes you think I¡¯ll leave a bull standing? Why should I show them mercy? They didn¡¯t have mercy on my people. And I had an agreement with Vasiliev. I had ten days of grace. A last meal with my family.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know what really happened,¡± he says.


    Blaire snorts, not feeling guilty about the unladylike gesture. ¡°Then tell me.¡±


    He shakes his head; the dreadlocks swinging from side-to-side. In the smoky dark room they look like snakes. ¡°I don¡¯t have the time or the will to explain, but I will help you. For Red King¡¯s sake. And for the future of the Napharas. I don¡¯t like to see greatness go extinct.¡±


    She smiles, satisfied. ¡°How will you help?¡±


    ¡°A potion,¡± he tells her. ¡°That is your style, isn¡¯t it? We¡¯ll put it in your blood, like I did with Rad King¡¯s favor.¡±


    Placing the empty glass down softly, she plants her elbows on the table, leaning forward. ¡°What do I need?¡±


    He snaps those long fingers. A piece of paper appears out of nowhere. It hangs in the air between them. He nods at it. Carefully she plucks the note, as if it were a flower, folding it without peeking. Then she shoves it into her bra.


    ¡°Once you have everything ready, meet me here again. I¡¯ll leave the guy at the bar counter here. He¡¯ll call me when you arrive.¡±


    She glances over at the bar counter. ¡°Which one is it?¡±


    ¡°The one with the funny cauliflower ears and the bald head.¡±


    The man is sitting sideways on the last barstool, his back to the door. As if he can hear their conversation, he lifts a hand, waves at her, and then turns away.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be back soon,¡± she says. ¡°As soon as I have everything you need. Don¡¯t I need to sign something? People always sign when they trade their souls.¡±


    He shakes his head from side-to-side. ¡°This one is gratis. In memory of a good friend. I want to see his legacy live on, but if you ever come back¡­¡±


    She rises quickly, feeling a sense of urgency growing inside her. The Devil will help her, like he helped her grandfather. She steps away from the table, but then turns back to look at him.


    ¡°What is the man¡¯s name?¡± Blaire asks.


    ¡°Which man?¡±


    ¡°The one in the Bull Tribe that you think I should take for a husband.¡±


    ¡°Not just me,¡± he says. ¡°Red King wanted him too, but he never said anything because you always said you don¡¯t want to marry or have children. And then you married that little twerp.¡±


    She chuckles. Luka was a little twerp, alright.


    ¡°They named him Fighter,¡± the Devil says. ¡°Fighter and Battlefield. Boris and Blaire. I think you¡¯ll be the perfect couple.¡±

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 16: Skin and bones

    Chapter 16: Skin and bones


    <h2>(David J. Roch)</h2>


    Blaire¡¯s eyes roam the silent wasteland. The desert is empty; desolate as her heart. She can¡¯t grasp how anything this dead can still sustain life, but bees are buzzing around them, and ants are crawling in neat lines across the sand and onto their shoes. From time to time she slaps at them, or shakes them off. There are spiders here. Some lizards too. Even micro plant life. All existing in this dead place.


    Maybe there is life inside her too, hiding deep within, awaiting the opportunity to flourish.


    And she still breathes. On and on and on. Inhale following exhale. One. Two. Three. A thousand. Her dead heart still pumps blood through veins. Blood, air, loads of cigarettes and alcohol with an occasional meal sustains her flesh. Vengeance sustains her mind. It is the hope that¡¯s keeping her from slitting her wrists.


    ¡°Boris,¡± the Devil¡¯s voice whispers into her mind. ¡°Boris and Blaire belong together. Red King deserves a living legacy.¡±


    She sighs, shaking her head to get rid of the thought. The midday sun beats down with fiery fists, intensifying the headache she had since morning. She steps closer to the single tree for miles. The man tied to it slumps forward, straining the ropes. Her eyes drop to his chest, waiting anxiously for movement. It comes, and she almost shouts a cry of celebration.


    She didn¡¯t expect it to take this long, but here they are, stuck together. Bruises cover his torso, wrists and ankles. His fingerprints adorn his neck. His skin is cut in several places. In the heat, the blood becomes sticky, then thickens, then crusts.


    ¡°Where are they?¡± she asks. ¡°Don¡¯t they love you at all? Do they want to lose another brother at my hands?¡±


    He mumbles, but the words are too soft to discern. This wasn¡¯t part of the plan. They should have been here sooner. His dying is slow. Which is what she wants. Yet, at this pace, he might die before they even arrive. She¡¯d hate that.


    In the three days before now, she killed eleven men who took part in the killing on The Farm. The others before him were minions, so she killed them with the gift the Devil gave her. It was faster than she anticipated. Crueller too. She watched them writhe on the floor like snakes, gasping for breath as their skin bubbled and boiled. They clawed at their throats, backs arching as they strained to breathe. Someone paid them to tear her home to pieces, her heart asunder. Mercenaries by trade. They did what the man with the money told them to do. But they still needed to pay the prize for what they did.


    This one is Pyotr Bykov. He didn¡¯t die with the others, which caught her off-guard. He is part of the inner realm of The Bull Tribe and if they acted in union, he would have been on the scene. Brother to her husband by birth. Born to the same father, but a different mother. A Bull, like his parents. Strong. Huge. He is a fighter, a warrior. Not her fighter, though.


    Not Boris.


    ¡°I should have married you,¡± she says, waving at the flies buzzing around blood splatter on her face. ¡°Red King would have approved of such a union.¡±


    He snickers. Spits at her. It falls short, a little blob of mostly blood sizzling on the dry desert floor. She rolls her eyes at the childish gesture. He sighs, head slumping forward. She steps closer, pressing fingers into the deep wound in his shoulder and tears at seams of flesh and skin. His eyes fly open, head whip-lashing backward to hit the tree trunk she had tied him too early in the morning.


    ¡°Don¡¯t give up your soul so easily,¡± she whispers through clenched teeth. ¡°Don¡¯t close your eyes either. This isn¡¯t over yet. Not for me.¡±


    His lips move, the words too soft to hear. She laughs. It is a vicious sound, born in her core, her very womb. She slaps him across the face, grandma¡¯s ring tearing a crevice into the fleshy part of his cheek. It doesn¡¯t bleed. Not properly. It won¡¯t be long now. He wasn¡¯t supposed to die. She didn¡¯t want innocent blood on her hands.


    ¡°It¡¯s useless to pray,¡± she tells him. ¡°An utter waste of good breath. There is no god. Not in heaven; neither on earth. And if there is, he obviously doesn¡¯t care about us. Not at all. So, save your breath, keep inhaling and exhaling.¡±


    ¡°I still believe,¡± he mumbles.


    ¡°You do? Even now?¡± she asks, knocking on the wood next to his ear. ¡°Even as you die tied to this wood? You want me to nail you to it, like a modern Jesus?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t fear death, but I understand why you do.¡±


    She laughs forcefully, stepping away from him to look at the horizon. He is right. She should fear death. In two days, she killed eleven men. His death will make it a baker¡¯s dozen. If there is a god, he should forsake her, if he hasn¡¯t already. She wants to finish the quest without divine interference, whether it is to save her or to stop her.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    ¡°If there is a god,¡± she shouts at the wilderness, ¡°stay away from me. Do you hear me?¡±


    Turning back to the grumbling man, she places her forehead against his, looking into his half-closed eyes.


    ¡°We are the same animal,¡± she whispers. ¡°You and I. Lambs to the slaughter. Right now, I¡¯m running on instinct. My soul has flown. What you see is just flesh and bone, covered in skin. An animal driven by hatred, thirsty for vengeance. That is all I have in mind. You Bykovs have reduced me to this¡­ animal¡­ after your kind stripped my humanity away.¡±


    ¡°And you?¡± he forces the words out deliberately. ¡°You have done the same to us when you killed Luka.¡±


    She snickers. ¡°Sure, he died by my hand, but it wasn¡¯t murder. It was suicide. He slept with my sister while I still grieved for our son. The soil on the grave didn¡¯t even settle yet when he sought warmth and sweet nectar from her body. In my house. In my fucking bed. While I was mourning at the grave. Tell me, what would you have done if you were in my place?¡±


    His eyes flare wide for a moment. ¡°We didn¡¯t know there was a child. Or that he wronged you.¡±


    ¡°All you need to do is find me. Ask me. Even kill me, if you couldn¡¯t forgive. But instead, you slaughtered my kin. The Snake Clan wiped off the planet like dust. Went for my friends too. You stripped everything away. Now it¡¯s only me, left with this cold, dead heart.¡±


    She slaps her chest, biting back tears. She has shed too many tears on behalf of the Bull Tribe since the burial. No way did she want him to see her vulnerable, stripped. But she feels exposed in front of him.


    His eyes close again. She bumps her head to his, waking him from slumber, worried that he might go into a coma, or die.


    ¡°Don¡¯t go quietly,¡± she insists, looking into his eyes while inhaling his shallow exhales. ¡°I am here with you, watching. I will be here when you die, that I promise.¡±


    ¡°You are signing your own death warrant,¡± he says, trying to sound brave. ¡°You are dead already.¡±


    ¡°We both are. Like I said, my soul already left me. The Clan cut it off. I have nothing. I am nothing. Everything worth living for is gone. I am as dead and empty as this desert. I have made my will. I have put people in place to rebuild The Farm. I am ready to join my family. Not just am I ready. I have a deep longing inside me to do so.¡±


    ¡°They will come for you,¡± he whispers. ¡°And they won¡¯t make it easy. They will tie you in The Pit and extract a thousand cries from your lips before you die. It¡¯ll take hours, even days.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I count on that,¡± she answers. ¡°Now, there is a dust cloud rising on the horizon. I bet it is them. Try to hold on till they arrive, will you? I want to see their faces when they find you, see hope flood their hearts when they find you still alive. And then, when you inevitably die, I¡¯ll drink in their pain like nectar from the gods. Maybe it will sate my blood lust. Maybe it¡¯ll satisfy my vengeance.¡±


    He gasps for air, eyes fluttering as realization reaches his awareness. She reaches out to caress his dry lips with quivering fingers, quieting the sounds struggling to leave his throat. Everything about this is wrong, and the urge to take him off the tree is overwhelming. He is in a bad way, that is clear as day. What the fuck is wrong with the Bull Tribe? They should have been here ages ago. She has to keep him alive until they arrive.


    ¡°Listen carefully, Pyotr, if I feel vindicated in their pain, no-one else has to die. Only you and me. Between the two of us, we can put an end to this ugly mess.¡±


    His head lolls to the side. She doesn¡¯t reach out to lift it, but keeps one eye on his chest and another on the approaching vehicles.


    ¡°You and me?¡± he asks. ¡°Nobody else has to die?¡±


    ¡°Only if your death pains them to the same degree as the devastation I felt when I arrived on The Farm and found only devastation. I made a Blood Oath with your grandfather to hand myself over after one last meal with my family. You cannot even imagine the betrayal, the anger, the loss I felt. I couldn¡¯t even bury them. I had to gather what I could and burn it on a pyre. I won¡¯t wish that on my worst enemy, Pyotr. Not even on the Bull Tribe, or the Chinese Cartel, who killed my parents. Your tribe left me nothing but hatred.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll make it good,¡± he says, coughing a bloody blob into her face. ¡°Promise.¡±


    Blaire snorts. ¡°Forgive me if I don¡¯t have any faith in Bykov promises right now.¡±


    ¡°What do you want, then? What can I do to satisfy your hunger?¡±


    ¡°I want the guilty to pay. And you, Pyotr, are innocent of this crime. You were not among those who killed my people. I don¡¯t understand why, since you are Luka¡¯s brother and in the leadership circle. In fact, I¡¯m almost sure there was none of the leadership there. And this doesn¡¯t make sense to me at all.¡±


    His head rises until his eyes meet hers. ¡°How do you know I¡¯m innocent?¡±


    ¡°The moment you punched me and I bled, you would have died already if you were guilty. That is how the mercenaries died. This was the plan, you see. I would visit your grandpa. You guys punish me. I bleed. Everybody dies. Everything was in place. I followed the steps perfectly. It¡¯s a good plan too. There is no reason for me to assume that it wouldn¡¯t work.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like a well thought out plan. Why do you think it won¡¯t work now?¡±


    ¡°Because of you, that¡¯s why,¡± she says. ¡°You didn¡¯t die, that¡¯s what went wrong. And now we are here, and three vehicles are approaching. I assume they are here looking for you, hoping that you might still be alive. So, whatever you do, hold on.¡±


    He coughs, blood splattering onto his chin. ¡°Blaire Nathara, will this end if I die?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not going to die, Pyotr. Unlike your tribe, the Snake Clan doesn¡¯t kill innocent people.¡±


    I don¡¯t care about guilt or innocence. I want to save my people. Will you forgive them if I die?¡±


    The cars come to a screeching halt. Pyotr¡¯s eyes closes slowly. Blaire grabs the knife from her belt and sliced the rope holding him to the tree. He fell forward, his body driving her off her feet. They hit the ground hard.


    Angry voices and running feet. Above her, the sun screams loudly. Hands grab Pyotr, lifting him off her. Hands grab her hair, her arms, dragging her away. She keeps looking at Pyotr¡¯s chest, waiting for another inhale.


    A fist enters her view. For a moment, it seems like it comes from the sky, from the harsh sun. The punch is to her left cheek. A soft crack, but it¡¯s almost drowned out by the rattle of bones.


    The bone song takes over, turning her world dark.

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 17: Cross to bier (Cradle of Bones)

    Chapter 17: Cross to bier (Cradle of Bones)


    <h2>(HellYeah)</h2>


    They are in a clearing - some kind of pit - in the desert. As the noonday sun licks at her skin with tongues of fire, she slumps forward, the thick ropes around her torso biting into skin. She is tied to a cross, which stands in the middle of a stage with rows of seating in a crescent around it. On one end, next to the entrance, is a dais, exulted on wooden poles. Upon this stands a large winged-back chair, covered in reddish leather. King Vasiliev, leader of the Bykov Clan, sits there. Luka¡¯s grandfather observes her.


    Slightly behind him, to the right and left, are two royal guards with hands behind their backs. Both of the tall, bulky men glare at Blaire as if she is their mortal enemy. King Vasiliev¡¯s chin juts out at her like an accusation. They all are fighting to keep composure.


    Blaire inhales deeply. Death is not an enemy she fears; it is a friend she longed to meet since Gavin passed. It only intensified over the last ten years, and since the death of her Clan it has been with her every second of the day and night. Not even knowing Uncle B and Nancy were on The Farm, setting things right, can remove this longing for death. They will rebuild Red King¡¯s legacy without her. Nobody needs her here in this realm.


    There is a movement to the left of her. Her eyes jump there. It is Catriona, hovering in the air between her and the Bull Clan members. Blaire smiles, feeling less alone in the world. Sisterly solidarity is something else Luka stole from her.


    ¡°The Bull Tribe took everything,¡± she whispers. ¡°They left me nothing to cherish. So, fuck them, sis. Fuck them all. I want to set their shit on fire, and then bury them. Bury them deep.¡±


    She expected to be tortured and killed. She fears neither. Mentally, she is prepared for any physical suffering. What she didn¡¯t expect was the sun. It is draining her from every ounce of energy. That, and the flies buzzing around her face, settling on bleeding wounds. Between the insects and the sun, she is itching all over. Death is uncomfortable, but should it be annoying too?


    ¡°You killed those men in the most horrible way,¡± a voice says behind her.


    It is familiar. She doesn¡¯t need to see the face to know it is Luka¡¯s brother. She smiles, turning her head to look at him.


    ¡°Hello, Igor,¡± she says.


    He steps forward, coming into view on the left. She knows him as a level-headed man, but the loss of a dear one can shake even a Bull like him, apparently.


    ¡°And Pyotr too,¡± he adds, slowly walking to stand in front of her.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t kill him,¡± she states, trying not to express shock at the news on her face. ¡°You got to me before I could finish. If he dies, it¡¯s on you.¡±


    In the spectator portion of the little amphitheater, people watch restlessly. Whispers abound. Bull Tribe members huddle together in small groups. Some embrace others. Tears and weeping. No children. They think this is going to be too ugly for their kids to see.  Blaire wishes the sun to go down. She drags her tongue across chapped lips. The petty act brings no relief to her tired mind or her bruised mouth.


    ¡°Whenever you are ready to talk,¡± Igor says. ¡°Then we can let you off this cross.¡±


    ¡°No need,¡± she answers with a wretched grin. ¡°I didn¡¯t come here with the intention of ever leave again. I belong on this cross. I¡¯ve been walking with a cross on my back for ten years. I¡¯m ready to die. I¡¯m a little bundle of mania; a suicide waiting to happen. Just set me on fire: make this a pyre. Let me die in fire, like I had to bury my people. You already set my world on fire. Let me ride to my grave in flames.¡±


    Behind him, on the dais, King Vasiliev¡¯s face stays unemotional, but the velocity of puffs on his pipe increases. He recovers quickly, unlike Igor, who shows no emotion at all, his eyes pinning her fiercely to the pole. Under the brutal sun, his color changes at least two shades lighter. Despite that, he has perfect control over the rest of his body, not flinching even once.


    ¡°Why do you want to die?¡±


    ¡°Let me see,¡± she says. ¡°I have no family left. First my child died. Then my husband, my sister, and now my entire clan. I¡¯m all alone in this world with nothing to live for. Why would I want to live? And don¡¯t tell me my death isn¡¯t what you have longed for all these years.¡±The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    He shakes his head from side-to-side, his face not revealing anything.


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand you, Blaire. Surely, being alone in the world isn¡¯t new for you. You haven¡¯t seen or talked to your family since Luka died. Since you killed him, actually.¡±


    She merely nods, deciding not to reply to him. There is no benefit to her refuting the truth. It¡¯s a waste of energy. She needs to hold on for a while longer.


    ¡°People whisper you probably killed your child too,¡± he says through clenched lips. ¡°You never wanted children. Everyone knows this.¡±


    His words slide into her heart like a sharp sword. She was ready for physical pain, but never expected such an accusation. He smiles at her afflicted reaction, happy to see her wounded.


    ¡°He has a name,¡± she says, fighting hard to keep the anger out of her voice. ¡°Gavin, after Luka¡¯s people.¡±


    ¡°White hawk?¡± He spits the name back at her. ¡°Luka was my brother. We are from the Bull Clan. Why did you name him after a bird?¡±


    She turns her head aside, peering at the horizon. Catriona is no longer visible, leaving her all alone to face the world. There will be no hero to ride out to save the day, no god to rescue her, no angel to comfort her. Everyone travels down the road to the grave alone. She¡¯s been on it for ten long years.


    ¡°He had no Bull blood,¡± she says, turning her full attention to Igor. ¡°Only mine and his father¡¯s. Snake and Bird, after his grandmother. Mostly Bird blood, though. If only¡­¡±


    Unable to finish, she looks across Igor¡¯s shoulder at his grandfather on the throne. She wonders if he is sad about the child at all. Or was he disappointed that the boy wasn¡¯t a strong Bull?


    ¡°If only what?¡±


    ¡°If only he had more Snake blood. Or even a bit of Bull. Either way, he would have been stronger.¡±


    ¡°Which brings us back to the fact that you can¡¯t lose what you don¡¯t have. You¡¯re cut off from your family for ten years, Blaire. You lost them when you killed Luka and ran away like a coward.¡±


    ¡°That might be true, but I still had them. As long as they were alive and happy, they belonged to me, even though we were apart. I knew, like they did, that I could, and at some point would, return home.¡±


    He turns to look at King Vasiliev. ¡°So now you want to die?¡±


    ¡°Why not? What else is there for me? In this world, everyone wants to use me. Everyone wants something from me. A little piece of magic. A spell. A charm. A fix for their problem. And then, when they receive it, they treat me like a plague. One day soon, someone will tie me to a pyre and set it on fire while the onlookers chant as I burn. Year in and year out, I live on the edge of darkness, always expecting the worst. The only comfort I had was my family, safe and happy, flourishing on The Farm. Now they are no longer there and I have no anchor. Can you blame me for trying to escape this cruel world?¡±


    The grin on his lips doesn¡¯t change at her words. He continues to look hard and unaffected by their conversation. Time passes by like a frozen river. She feels cold too, even under the sun¡¯s glare. Death is cold too, but she¡¯s been cold since Gavin¡¯s death. Dead in all the ways that matter. Luka could have brought her back to life, but he gave up on their marriage long before Gavin.


    ¡°You believe death would be kinder?¡± Igor asks. ¡°Do you think God will have mercy on your soul? Should we say a prayer over your grave? Ask the Lord your soul to keep?¡±


    She snickers, wondering what he¡¯d say if she told him the last appointment she had was with the Devil himself. Would he feel fear then? Would that shake him in his snake-leather boots?


    As if he can read her mind, he steps forward, leaning into her space. A knife appears in his right hand. He twirls it between his fingers with the expertise of a professional. Under his shoes the sand shifts, sending sounds of bones being crushed to her ears. Blaire closes her eyes for a second longer than needed. When she opens them again, his face is right in front of hers, up close and very personal.


    ¡°Luka always told me you were steady like a rock,¡± he whispers. ¡°That you feared nothing and no-one. You can dance on the edge of death without breaking a sweat.¡±


    ¡°But you don¡¯t understand it yet, do you?¡±


    ¡°Understand what?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m already dead. All you see here is a shell of the real me. A really fucked up version of me. Half in and half out of this world. I long to die, Igor. Please, kill me. And when I¡¯m dead, carve your name on my dead, black heart.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you feel remorse at all for what you¡¯ve done? Don¡¯t you feel sorry for the suffering of the men you killed? Or their families?¡±


    ¡°Frankly, my dear, I don¡¯t give a damn. My sympathy tank is bone dry. I truly feel nothing.¡±


    He slips the knife into her shoulder as expertly as a baker slices bread, or a butcher meat. There is no pain, only a fire burning. Hot, unrelenting fire bursting into her head. Blaire grimaces into his face. She will not cry or shout.


    ¡°Please,¡± she says, looking straight into his eyes. ¡°Go ahead. Cut me. All that will achieve is to end our misery. Take me off this cross, and off the one I placed myself on all those years ago when I ran from home. End this quest for me and then bury me in a cold grave, a shallow hole, in the cradle of the earth, where all dead things belong.¡±


    Something in his eyes changed at her words. He steps away quickly, turning to look at King Vasiliev. He shakes his head. Right before her eyes, all the bravado leaves his frame. Shoulders slumps. Hands hanging low at his side. He puts the knife back in the sheath at his side.


    On the dais, King Vasiliev rises, placing his pipe aside. He motions to the guards behind him, and they step forward to walk with him down the stairs towards the entrance. Blaire hides her smile. Clearly Igor has failed at whatever he was supposed to achieve with her. There will be a change of tactics now.


    ¡°Fuck them all,¡± she whispers. ¡°I¡¯m not a porcelain doll. I¡¯m not a plastic Barbie. I¡¯m a criminal. A pirate. I¡¯m a sturdy tree fighting the wind. I¡¯m not falling apart at the hands of my enemy. I¡¯m a fighter, a warrior. My name means battlefield, for fuck¡¯s sake. I¡¯m here for what I¡¯m owed. Revenge. Vengeance. Retaliation. I hold a grudge.¡±

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 18: Broken bones

    Chapter 18: Broken bones


    <h2>(Love Inc.)</h2>


    The Pit is quiet for a change. Only her, who couldn¡¯t leave, because she was tied to a pole structure with chains and rope. With her is the old man. They have moved his throne closer to her. He sat in it quietly, the two guards standing next to him. From time-to-time she drifts off, head lolling to the side. When she wakes, he smokes his pipe with slow deliberate movements, watching her.


    ¡°You dream a lot,¡± he says with a voice sounding like a bad radio connection.


    Her tongue feels too large for her mouth. ¡°It¡¯s usually about death,¡± she says, the words slurred.


    He shrugs, blows a cloud of gray pipe smoke out through his nose. ¡°My mother always said that our dreams reveal the deepest desires of our hearts.¡±


    ¡°Sounds about right,¡± Blaire says, wishing she could wipe her face.


    Every part of her feels tacky from sweat or blood. Her clothes stick to skin, making the heat even worse.


    ¡°Why does a pretty, young thing like you dream of dying?¡± he asks.


    She snorts at the young, but compared to him, she is. It doesn¡¯t sound condescending at all, though.


    ¡°Because there really isn¡¯t anything left to live for. Not anymore. The Bull Tribe stripped me to the core. My soul is broken, like a bone.¡±


    He inhales deeply, his eyes moving away from her to the horizon, searching for something. Or waiting for her to fill the space with words. She knows this tactic, and won¡¯t fall for it. He coughs, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. There is a trickle of blood on his chin when he looks at her again. He wipes at it quickly, before the guards could notice.


    ¡°After the baby died, and then Luka and your sister,¡± he sounds tired, ¡°was there anything left then? I figured that would strip down any wife and mother.¡±


    She keeps her face blank, as he does his. There is a change in the timbre of his voice that gives him away. He feels pain when speaking the words. Tears threaten to come. She fights them by grinding down on teeth. She cannot speak, but they both know the answer already. Slowly, she sags down to the ground, straining her shoulders and the bonds around her wrists.


    ¡°You can call me anything you want. Sticks and stones and all that jazz. If you kill me, it will be a gift, a kindness.¡±


    She hates how weak she sounds.


    ¡°But that won¡¯t end anything,¡± he says. ¡°Bytovs will still hate Natharas. We will still be short a son. A son you killed.¡±


    She snorts. ¡°Sure,¡± she replies. ¡°And when I die, there won¡¯t be any Natharas left to hate. All you¡¯ll have is a filthy conscience for killing off an entire clan. And I¡¯ve killed two of your grandsons now. If you untie me, maybe I can kill a few more before I die.¡±


    The pain in his face touches her heart. She lost a son too. He hardly lived, but the pain is still fierce, as if it happened yesterday. Time doesn¡¯t diminish the emptiness inside her heart or the tightness in her womb when she recalls his face. The Bull King has lost two grandsons at her hands. Two grandsons who lived deep into their thirties. Thirty years of love, care and commitment.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry for your loss,¡± she whispers.


    He nods in acceptance. ¡°I can hear that you really mean that.¡±


    ¡°Grief for a child is a terrible burden. No-one should carry such a load.¡±


    ¡°You are the reason I¡¯m carrying this burden.¡±


    She struggles against the bonds, rising to her feet again. Every muscle hurts. Her skin is on fire. Thirst and hunger tears at her like an angry polar bear.


    ¡°His name was Gavin,¡± she says. ¡°Our son.¡±


    ¡°White Hawk,¡± he says with a nod. ¡°For his maternal grandmother¡¯s people, I assume.¡±


    ¡°He was a delicate little thing. Like a bird. I hoped that he would have enough Snake blood in him to survive, but he didn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°How old was he when you buried him?¡±


    ¡°Four months.¡±


    ¡°Luka told us nothing about a child.¡±


    ¡°He was ashamed of the boy. He didn¡¯t look Bykov at all. He was no Bull. He wanted a son you would be proud of, not a sickly weakling.¡±


    ¡°We would have loved him all the same.¡±


    She snickers. ¡°Like you loved his Bird father?¡±


    He shakes his head, spits in the dust. ¡°Do not speak about things if you only heard half the story. Luka was my grandson. I loved him the same way as I loved everyone else. Maybe more. He reminded me so much of his mother. She was the daughter of an old friend of mine. He died when she was fourteen, and she had nowhere else to go, so we took her in. I loved her like she was one of my own children. I spoiled her. When Luka came, I spoiled him, too.¡±


    The glob of spit in the sand is red. He doesn¡¯t seem concerned about it. Which tells her it¡¯s nothing new, and he has made peace with it. King Vasiliev is dying. She wonders if the rest of his people know.


    ¡°All I know is what he told me. He wanted a child. He begged me for one. We fought about it night and day. He was so happy when I got pregnant. Elated that it was a boy. Once it was born, he changed his mind. Didn¡¯t want anyone to see the child. As if he was ashamed to have created such a¡­ well, such a weakling. Then, when he saw the boy getting weaker, he turned away. Away from the child. Away from me. Away from our home. Maybe if I didn¡¯t wait so long to have children...¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°It is what it is. There is no way to revert the sands of time.¡±Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°There was an urgency in him, the last years before his death. He wanted to be a father. Pushed it on me. But I wasn¡¯t ready.¡±


    ¡°You always said you didn¡¯t want children. He should have listened. I did. I even warned him that if a Snake and a Bird reproduced, their children will suffer. Sky and Earth species don¡¯t mix well.¡±


    ¡°His mother was from the Sky Society.¡±


    ¡°And only one of her ten children survived to adulthood. When my son remarried a bull wife, they produced numerous sons and daughters. All of them are healthy. So when I warned Luka, he said you didn¡¯t plan on having children. Promised me you were both happy with only the two of you. He was looking forward to a home with only two people. You know what his parent¡¯s place was like. Always filled with people. Children running around. Everyone is talking over everyone else.¡±


    ¡°I was too much for him,¡± she says. ¡°Red King told me he was too soft, and I burned too bright.¡±


    ¡°We could all see that, too. But we loved Luka. And we spoiled him, allowed him to get away with what he wanted, even if it wasn¡¯t good for you.¡±


    Of course he is right. Luka never heard the word no. It wasn¡¯t in his vocabulary. Nobody denied him anything.


    ¡°It would have been different if it wasn¡¯t your own sister,¡± he says. ¡°And if he chose to not do it while you still grieved. No woman, wife, or mother deserves such a punch in the heart. A triple hit; losing a son, a husband, and a sister within a year. It must have been an immense loss for you.¡±


    It isn¡¯t a question but a statement, so she waits silently, trying not to recall the painful memories of those days, or what happened after she found them together in her marital bed.


    ¡°What did you do after you left The Farm?¡± he asks. ¡°Even your family didn¡¯t know where you went or what you were doing. And they never send you money. The richest family in the world, but you got no emotional or financial support.¡±


    ¡°I have skills. Making money with my craft is easy. I figured if they gave me money, it would lead you right to me. I traveled a lot. Tried never to stay in the same place too long.¡±


    ¡°Drugs?¡±


    ¡°I sold some, sure. Especially in the beginning. You make good money really quick.¡±


    ¡°And it is easier for you. You can produce the product yourself.¡±


    She shrugs. ¡°I can make a lot of things.¡±


    He stares at her, waiting. For what? A confession?


    ¡°After that?¡±


    ¡°The Snake Clan¡¯s usual business,¡± she answers. ¡°Potions. Spells. Charms.¡±


    He watches her face carefully, and she understands that the next question is important to him. ¡°What is the last potion you created?¡±


    She doesn¡¯t answer immediately. Her last client had been the Devil himself, and he took her potion, added another element to it, and then returned it to her. It is potent; the perfect killing potion. She already saw it in action on the mercenaries.


    ¡°Purple Airplane,¡± she says.


    ¡°What is that?¡± he asks, wiping his mouth with his bloodstained back hand.


    ¡°It is a poison that is released into the air. Once airborne, it travels for at least five kilometers. It is a great success. Proven in the field two days ago. Hundred percent success rate¡±


    He tried not to gasp, or to move a muscle in his expression of calm collectedness. But she has only survived this long because she can read between the lines, hear the unspoken in the silences between words, and feel with more than only her hands.


    ¡°Tested on the mercenaries?¡±


    His eyes are not directly on her, but he watches her, nevertheless. The guards observe her. She smiles at them and winks.


    ¡°Correct.¡±


    ¡°I think this poison is beyond your ability.¡±


    ¡°I had some help from an old friend of Red King.¡±


    Again, the mask slips, but only barely. ¡°That special friend of his?¡±


    She keeps her mask in place too. Shrug her shoulders. ¡°Maybe.¡±


    He rose from the throne. He slowly walks towards her, making a great show of how weak he is with age. Look at me, he declares with a gait; I am not dangerous. You have nothing to fear of me. I am innocent, like a dove. But he didn¡¯t fool her. She is from the Snake Clan. She can sniff out deceit riding on the waves of the wind. He is playing a game to fool her; she is fooling in the game to play him.


    ¡°Pyotr wasn¡¯t supposed to die,¡± he declares. ¡°The plan was that you to capture him,¡± she lifts an eyebrow in disdain, ¡°and torture him. We would then follow to rescue him in time and capture you.¡±


    ¡°But he died. You were not there, but you received the reports.¡±


    He stops his slow journey in front of her. He has lost a lot of weight since the last time she saw him. There are dark circles under his eyes. His skin looks dry, flakey in places. The grip he has on the walking stick turns his knuckles white.


    ¡°Pyotr was the strongest of all my grandsons, even of all the men here in my compound. He once survived four full days of torture by a Chinese Cartel. There was a healing spell on him. The best money could buy. You didn¡¯t kill him, Blaire. He died. He died because it was important to him. Because he understood that your vengeance was a worthy cause. Or he saw something the rest of the fools in this compound hadn¡¯t grasped yet.¡±


    She smiles broadly, her eyes bright with wonder and delight. Even a little joy. ¡°He saw the Purple Airplane.¡±


    ¡°He saw the Purple Airplane. He died to warn us. My people, filled with bloodlust, isn¡¯t listening. They don¡¯t grasp it yet. But I have lived so long that years run into each other, and I can count my history in centuries. I see where they are blind.¡±


    ¡°And let me guess,¡± she snickers. ¡°You want me to take satisfaction from his sacrifice?¡±


    ¡°I am asking, yes. More than that. I am pleading with you not to kill everyone I love.¡±


    ¡°Like you did to me? Is that what you mean? Because your tribe broke a Blood Oath we had. I don¡¯t think I owe you forgiveness or mercy. I don¡¯t think I even owe you kindness.¡±


    ¡°They were fools. If I, or Pyotr, were with them, it would never have happened.¡±


    ¡°Why weren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Because in our caucus, we agreed that your blood pays the vengeance. Only yours. But after years, we couldn¡¯t find you, and a group of hot-headed young ones sneaked off to the farm to force them to give up your location. They didn¡¯t believe you would just wander away from home without telling at least a few people of your whereabouts. ¡°


    ¡°They knew nothing.¡±


    ¡°Those youngsters were fools looking for an opportunity to make a name for themselves.¡±


    ¡°They killed almost fifty people. Kin to me. Friends too.¡±


    He motions with his hand, and two people step forward from behind her line of sight. Young ones. Well, younger than the king. Nephews of Luka.


    She nods to the one she knows. ¡°Grigory.¡±


    He visited the farm often. She likes him. He is quiet. A watcher. Listener. Take his time before he speaks. Careful decision maker. Seldom uses alcohol. Stay off the drugs. Solid as a rock. In hindsight, he would have been a better husband.


    ¡°Blaire,¡± he answers with a bow in her direction. ¡°I am sorry for your loss. What happened was an atrocity.¡±


    She tries not to let emotions show, but his kind words touch her heart. The other man steps forward.


    ¡°I am Boris,¡± he says. ¡°Please also accept my condolences.¡±


    ¡°Are words supposed to wipe out everything?¡± she asks with a shaking voice. ¡°Because I can tell you it doesn¡¯t.¡±


    Boris is larger than Grigory or Igor. He has a well-groomed beard and long hair, braided in a popular Viking style. The black Metallica t-shirt looks at least two sizes too small, but it¡¯s probably the largest size you can buy. She fights the urge to smile or gawk at him.


    ¡°We know,¡± King Vasiliev says. ¡°We don¡¯t expect it either. Words mean nothing when your heart is overrun by grief. You already know this, or Luka would still be alive.¡±


    ¡°And Catriona too.¡±


    Boris and Grigory unchain her. Grigory lifts her in his arms. He is strong. Or maybe she is weaker than she thought. They move out of The Pit quickly. From time to time he looks down at her, concerned. She relaxes her body in his arms, milking his feelings of guilt. His grip tightens around her. With a sigh, and an inner curse, she lays her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes.


    The sound of crying reaches her ears. Lots of crying. Frowning, she opens her eyes to look into his face. Above, in the open blue sky, a single vulture circles. The death bird. A shiver runs up her spine. Her muscles tighten involuntarily.


    ¡°Why is the sky filled with carrion birds?¡± she asks.


    ¡°They went against the family council,¡± he explains. ¡°What would Red King do if this happened in the Narthara clan?¡±


    ¡°He would punish them accordingly.¡±


    The crying is louder now. She turns her head to see people standing around, holding hands, or embracing. They step aside, allowing their king passage. Cries change to sobs. At last, King Vasiliev stops, and Boris steps forward, placing a chair down for her. Grigory carefully lowers her to the chair.


    ¡°An eye for an eye; a death for a death,¡± King Vasiliev says loudly.

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 19: Cruel, Cruel World

    Chapter 19: Cruel, Cruel World


    <h2>(Danny Farrant and Paul Rawson)</h2>


    In front of them is a desert field filled with sand, flesh, blood, and bones. More vultures circle above, some sit on the ground, tugging meat off bones. Other birds of prey join them.


    ¡°Twenty-four left on that killing mission,¡± the king proclaims. ¡°Two in the compound knew and chose not to warn us. By the time we realized they were gone and dispatched a rescue party, it was too late. They came from the compound, Blaire, but we didn¡¯t send them. They are rogues. Nothing but a band of mutineers.¡±


    Blaire turns to the others. They were mourning, obviously. Fathers. Brothers. Mothers. Sisters. Children.


    ¡°Do they blame me?¡± she asks, looking directly at Grigory.


    ¡°They¡­¡± King Vasiliev starts, but she lifts a hand to quiet him, because he is fighting for his people.


    ¡°Most do, yes.¡± Boris¡¯ words are neither soft nor harsh.


    Grigory swallows, his Adam¡¯s apple jumping nervously. ¡°If you hold back the Purple Airplane, I will wed you, return to the farm. I¡¯ll help you rebuild your home and family. And marriage will bring peace between our families.¡±


    Gasps rise from the crowd, but Blaire holds her own reaction inside. Does his words surprise her? Certainly. But this is a war, and she is standing on enemy territory. Trapped behind enemy lines. Plus, unlike the movies, there is no team or lone hero that will come to rescue her in the last moments before death.


    She is alone with only Purple Airplane to assist.


    ¡°Red King hated chains,¡± she says, softly rubbing her hands together. ¡°I won¡¯t take slaves with me to The Farm. We set people free; we don¡¯t enslave them.¡±


    He snorts. ¡°I won¡¯t be a slave. If you were not so easily fooled by Luka¡¯s charm, poetry and handsome looks, you would have seen me standing there, in the shadows, loving you.¡±


    She shrugs. He obviously thinks she never noticed, but she did. He wasn¡¯t hiding it, even though he was shy in love.


    ¡°I will go with you,¡± Boris says. ¡°You don¡¯t have to wed me if you don¡¯t want to.¡±


    King Vasiliev nods in agreement. ¡°Grigory is a kind, wise and strong man. He will be a much better husband to you than Luka was.¡±


    ¡°And, like I mentioned,¡± Grigory says, ¡°a marriage will put an end to the enmity between our people. If you can find it in your heart to move forward without killing. Even though vengeance is due to you. We ask that the unnecessary killing stops here, in this field.¡±


    She snorts. ¡°There is already an empty chamber in my gun, Grigory. There¡¯s no way to undo the deeds already done. Not mine or yours.¡± She nods to the field of blood and bones. ¡°It¡¯s a fucking cruel world.¡±


    Blaire looks at the bloody scene around her through squinted eyes. Her head buzzes with possibilities. They are going all out to persuade her. They are moving from a place of fear. Upon her capture, they stripped her of anything that could be a weapon. Only there was none. No guns. No knives, except the one that she used on Pyotr, which she disregarded at the scene. But she would not come here without a weapon. Not when she has vengeance on her mind. The only logical conclusion to make is that she has poison. There are no bottles or vials in her bags. No liquid drops or stones. No powders. They are like headless chicken, running around blind. Blaire almost feels sorry for them.


    ¡°I need time to think,¡± she says. ¡°And solitude to do it in.¡±


    King Vasiliev motions with his hand, and the people turn toward their houses on the hill. Once they are gone, they can share a meal and wine. She nods, already knowing she won¡¯t eat it. What she wants, most of all, is a bath.


    ¡°I¡¯d like to stay,¡± Grigory says. ¡°But if you need me to go, I will.¡±


    ¡°I want to walk,¡± she whispers, pointing at the field of flesh and blood. ¡°If you¡¯ll help me, I¡¯d appreciate that.¡±


    Boris takes King Vasiliev¡¯s arm, and they trudge up the hill. She waits until everyone is gone, then reaches for Grigory¡¯s arm. He doesn¡¯t pick her up, like before. Taking her by the upper arm, he lifts her to her feet. She hooks her arm into the crook of his, and they stroll a few steps across the blood-splattered soil. Once they reach the middle of the field, she realizes its impossible to read the blood like this. She needs to touch it, feel it on her skin. She stops abruptly, feeling him tugging at her to move along. This must be horrible for him.


    ¡°Will you take off my boots?¡± she asks.


    He goes down on one knee, patting the other knee for her to sit on.


    She smiles, slowly sitting down. ¡°For a moment, I thought you were going to propose properly.¡±


    Everything aches. Her flesh, bones, heart, and soul.


    ¡°I want to,¡± he says and unzips one boot. ¡°But not here. Not surrounded by all this blood and guts.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure how I feel about all this,¡± she says as he slips the first boot off.


    His hand freezes at the next boot¡¯s zipper. ¡°About my proposal?¡±


    She shakes her head from side to side. ¡°About another field of bones,¡± she whispers. ¡°When we finish, and all is over, let them bury their dead. I have enough bones rattling in my closet already.¡±


    ¡°Their families will forever be indebted to you for this kindness,¡± he answers.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    She can hear the gratitude in the tone. It is important to bury the dead. To put them to rest. Else, they will haunt you and your descendants forever.


    ¡°Indebted enough to forgive me?¡± she asks, already knowing the answer. ¡°To let me leave alive? To allow me to live a long, prosperous life? To allow me to have a new family?¡±


    ¡°You are an astute woman,¡± he answers. ¡°What do you think?¡±


    She stands on the warm soil, feeling the blood beneath her feet. Closing her eyes, she whispers the spell to read the blood soaking into her pores. Feel the dirty, sinful nature of it flow through her system, hitting her heart like a boxer¡¯s glove. She walks the field from one side to the other, and crisscross. The blood was from only guilty men. For a while, she pondered the idea that they picked up random vagrants to fool her.


    Finally, satisfied, she gestures for Grigory to bring the chair. She feels drained of energy.


    ¡°Is that why you offered the marriage?¡± she asks.


    A nervous tick in his cheek betrays him. ¡°You know me, Blaire. Don¡¯t ask stupid questions.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Of course it isn¡¯t. Did you keep the ring? The one with the stone as green as my eyes?¡±


    He looks at her with raised eyebrows. ¡°You knew about the ring?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± she answers. ¡°But you never came forward. A week went by. Then a month. And another month. A year. Two. Three. And all the time I was waiting for you, Luka was sweet talking himself into my life. What was I supposed to do? Wait forever?¡±


    ¡°And you let him, knowing that I wanted you too.¡±


    ¡°He asked and asked. I always said no.¡±


    ¡°Until the day you didn¡¯t say no.¡±


    ¡°Until the day you no longer carried my ring on the chain around your neck. On that day, I lost all hope that you¡¯d ever have courage enough to ask.¡±


    ¡°I was a fool then,¡± he says, gazing at the horizon.


    He looks so much like his grandfather at the moment. He will make an outstanding leader one day. There is no way she can take him away with her. He is the legacy of King Vasiliev. She can¡¯t turn back the clock to undo the mistakes she made, but she can move forward with more wisdom.


    ¡°You have never been a fool, Grigory. A coward, maybe, but a fool, never.¡±


    ¡°I still consider letting you get away as the worst decision of my life.¡±


    She takes his hand in hers, squeezing it. He returns the gesture.


    ¡°I am satisfied that these are the men who did the deed,¡± she whispers.


    He chuckles. ¡°Forever the unbeliever.¡±


    ¡°Not an unbeliever,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯m just not wet behind the ears anymore. Neither are you. We all made choices and crossed lines.¡±


    ¡°You have an icy heart,¡± he says, pulling his hand from hers.


    ¡°Take my ring out of your pocket,¡± she says. ¡°I want to see it.¡±


    ¡°How did you know?¡±


    ¡°Just assume that I know everything,¡± she answers as he holds the silver ring out to her.


    ¡°Promise not to take Boris as a second husband. I don¡¯t want to share you with another man again.¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t agreed yet.¡±


    He smiles and winks at her. ¡°You asked for the ring,¡± he says. ¡°So, yeah, that is a yes.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m tired of all the blood,¡± she says. ¡°But you need to know that I won¡¯t forgive and won¡¯t forget.¡±


    ¡°Enough people have died,¡± he agrees.


    ¡°I can see how you feel that way,¡± she says. ¡°But you understand I don¡¯t feel that way, don¡¯t you? Fifty people to, what ten, eleven?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t forget about the ones you killed on the way here,¡± he says.


    ¡°Mercenaries? They don¡¯t count.¡±


    She touches his face with her fingertips. ¡°I want the ring. And a child. A robust child with Snake and Bull ancestry. One that will survive. One to build an empire on.¡±


    ¡°I will give you such a child. And I will build that empire with you.¡±


    He held out the ring to her. She had never held it, of course. Only seen it from afar. It wasn¡¯t a delicate thing. It is sturdy, ready to get to work. Broad silver band with a large round emerald stone. Her family jewelry is gone. No earrings. Gone are the strings of chains and pearls, the wooden beads that usually adorn her neck. Her fingers feel vulnerable and naked. Unprotected.


    They stripped her completely. Took everything of value. Left her to standalone in this cruel world. She also knew they¡¯d confiscated her weapons. That is why she carries the Purple Airplane inside her body. Hidden in her veins. Each time they make her bleed, the poison spreads. Those close to her breath it in, and when they return home, they exhale it there, infecting the others. Within twenty-four hours, all of them can be dead. If she wishes, everyone except her and the child that Grigory will plant within her womb will die. She undresses, carelessly flinging her garments off. He watches her, still holding the ring.


    ¡°Now?¡± he asks, flabbergasted.


    ¡°This is my new vengeance,¡± she says, motioning to the surrounding field. ¡°In the middle of this carnage, you will fill my womb with your seed. Right here, on the soil blessed with your sacrifice. This way, when I leave, I won¡¯t relive or regret what happened here.¡±


    Shock washes over his face as his eyes run up and down her naked frame. She looks down at herself, noticing the bruises, the minor cuts and larger bleeding wounds. Her wrists and ankles are purple from pulling at the constraints. She looks about as sexy as a plugged, frozen chicken. But then, this isn¡¯t a love story. Vengeance walks too close to the edge of death to be elegant or beautiful.


    ¡°Sacrifice?¡± his voice trembles.


    ¡°Look around you,¡± she says, waving her hand in a large gesture to incorporate the cruel scenery. ¡°You sacrificed these men to me. As if I am your god, and you need to pacify me.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not what this is about,¡± he says.


    ¡°Or it can be a way to steal my vengeance. The guilty paid, haven¡¯t they? So I should just turn away and go home. Forgive and forget.¡±


    He frowns, the hand with the ring slightly dipping, but only slightly.


    ¡°It¡¯s not that either,¡± he whispers.


    She lays down on the ground, motioning to him with a hand. ¡°Then we will create a new life in the carnage of this sacrifice.¡±


    ¡°People will¡­¡± he can¡¯t find the words to make his protest sound acceptable to her.


    ¡°They will hate me? Surely not more than they do right now. Or do you believe that one with my power can¡¯t feel their hatred radiate all the way from the hill?¡±


    He had nothing to answer her words. ¡°This, then, is my counter offer. We have sex right now, right here. My womb is ready for a baby.¡±


    ¡°And my people? What will happen to them?¡±


    She snickers, rising slowly. He doesn¡¯t reach down to help her. She dresses carefully. Movements are slow. Her muscles feel numb, her brain fizzy. Everything hurts.


    ¡°You see, Grigory, this is the problem with your offer. You make it under duress. I don¡¯t want a slave. I don¡¯t even want a husband. I only want a child. One robust child. Your family has swallowed up my family. You are trying to trick me. You are so twisted. You have an ice cold heart. I never knew that about you.¡±


    He swallows audibly, eyes large and round and white in his dark-skinned face. She leans closer, taking the ring from his shaking fingers.


    ¡°What the fuck are you talking about?¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t my ring,¡± Blaire says, holding the ring out to him. ¡°It has the right shape, and it''s silver with an emerald, but the one you wore around your neck, wanting to give it to me, belonged to your grandmother. I could feel its energy reaching out to me. Enchanted with years and years of love flowing from one generation into the next, it called to me. This one is beautiful, but it has no voice. It is as empty as the marriage proposal you make. When I look into your eyes now, I don¡¯t see love. There are only secrets and lies etched there.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°The jig is up, babe,¡± she says. ¡°The only reason you made the offer is because you were unsure that this massacre,¡± she gestures to the surrounding scene, ¡°is enough to temper my bloodlust.¡±


    ¡°Is it?¡±


    ¡°You are astute, Grigory. What do you think?¡±


    He twists his hands repeatedly. ¡°Granddad said it was a fool¡¯s errand. He knew you would see right through the gesture, but we had to take the chance.¡±


    She reaches down to pick up her boots, wiggling her tired feet into the blood stained leather. ¡°Call your people back so we can end this.¡±


    By the time they arrive, quiet and with worried faces, she is ready to face them.

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 20: Inject the Venom

    Chapter 20: Inject the Venom


    <h2>(AC/DC)</h2>


    King Vasilief hands her a tin. ¡°Your jewels, my lady,¡± he says with a deep bow.


    ¡°Thank you, King Vasiliev.¡±


    He stares at the surrounding carnage, sadness etched on his face and clear in the slump of his shoulders and tightly clenched fists. He sighs, shaking his head before looking directly in her eyes. ¡°I told them they¡¯d be wasting their time with all this.¡±


    ¡°I hated the proposal almost as much as I hate all this blood.¡±


    He gestures to the field of death. ¡°You should have seen their faces when they could find no weapons or poison on you. They underestimated you. So they did this, hoping that it would satisfy you. I knew it wouldn¡¯t. You deserve vengeance. They should have left these men for you to kill or save, but now they robbed you.¡±


    ¡°Did you warn them?¡± she asks, already knowing the answer.


    ¡°I did when they came up with the killing idea,¡± he says with a sigh. ¡°But when Grigory started up with the back-up plan of marriage and a ring I just walked out. I can¡¯t believe I raised such fools.¡±


    ¡°You want to come to The Farm with me?¡± she asks with a smile.


    ¡°Don¡¯t even tempt me,¡± he says, winking at her.


    ¡°Well, you are always welcome. Come visit whenever you want.¡±


    He holds out his arm to her, and she takes it. Together they walk to where the chair is standing. Boris helps her stand onto it, as if it is the stage in Carnegie Hall. She smiles at him. He is kind, and strong in a way completely different from Luka¡¯s silver mouth or Grigory¡¯s bulky muscles. His strength is in quiet wisdom. She understands now why Red King and the Devil both like him. He is growing on her too.


    ¡°Just so you know,¡± she says loudly, addressing the crowd. ¡°I hate this mess. I hate all the blood. You should have left it to me. I do a cleaner job of killing. Please, don¡¯t leave them here. Bury them with their families. I need no more specters following me around, and neither do you.¡±


    A few heads nod at her words in appreciation. Whispers and tears.


    ¡°I came here with the purpose to kill you all,¡± she continues. A hush falls over them. ¡°I wanted to claw at you like a wildcat. I wanted to inject you with venom, poison you like one does with rodents and rats. But it¡¯s time that we stop. It¡¯s time for someone to show mercy. If we continue to seek vengeance, this cycle will wipe both our people from the planet. It¡¯s time to put the past behind us. I will start, even though I have lost the most.¡±


    King Vasiliev kisses the fingertips of his right hand and blows the kiss to her. She playfully grabs it from the air, placing the empty fist to her heart.


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean there won¡¯t be any killing,¡± she says to the crowd. ¡°In my blood is a poison designed to kill those who murdered my people. When my blood got exposed to the air, it released. My intention was to kill you all, but the partner who helped me design this weapon said I have another option. I choose this day to use the merciful version of Purple Airplane. Guilty people die. The innocent lives. If you¡¯re still alive when the sun rises on the third day after you captured me, you are forgiven. Don¡¯t follow me when I leave, because this poison will always be a part of me and it will be in the blood of all my descendants and those who take a Blood Oath with my people. If ever a Bykov comes near a Narthara with evil intent, it activates the poison.¡±


    ¡°This is what you call mercy?¡± Grigory asks, spitting at the ground in front of her.


    She turns her eyes to him, a crooked smile on his lips. ¡°There is no mercy for the wicked, even if they want it. No god will come down from heaven to touch us with forgiveness. No angels will carry us to the Pool of Bethesda for healing and cleansing. No matter how much we beg, or how much we need it, mercy will not come to those who are living in darkness. There is no mercy for me, nor you. The only mercy we have is the mercy we show each other. This is the truth I learned in the last two weeks. It was an expensive lesson. The cost was my clan¡¯s lives. I don¡¯t want you to pay that price before you grasp it too.¡±


    ¡°So, inject your venom,¡± he shouts, waving a fist into the sky. ¡°C¡¯mon, kill me. I don¡¯t care. You think I¡¯m scared of you and you poison? Well. Let me tell you, Blaire Nathara, I¡¯m not. I won¡¯t show you mercy just because you are the last of your people.¡±


    ¡°There has been enough death,¡± King Vasiliev says, placing a hand on Grigory¡¯s shoulder.


    She nods agreement. ¡°On my side, at least. I am the only one of Snake Clan left. I want to live in peace. I want to rebuild in peace. I want to leave you here to do the same here. My vengeance is unsatisfied, but I will show mercy to the innocent.¡±


    Grigory is angry. He comes to stand in front of her, eyes ablaze. ¡°This entire thing was a set-up,¡± he shouts. ¡°You planned it all along, didn¡¯t you?¡±Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    ¡°This entire thing was a set-up,¡± she mimics. ¡°You planned it all along.¡±


    Boris snickers, shaking his head. He takes Grigory by the arm, pulling him away.


    ¡°I think it is fair,¡± King Vasiliev says. ¡°And we thank you for your kindness. We all made mistakes in handling this situation. You shouldn¡¯t have killed Luka, but when it happened, you should have come here. Once we heard about it, we should have asked for a meeting with the Snake Clan to discuss the issue.¡±


    Boris nods. ¡°We didn¡¯t know about your son, or of his death. We didn¡¯t know Luka was betraying you in the worst way a husband can, when you needed him the most. Any woman here, if they were in your shoes, would have done the same.¡±


    Grigory looks at his granddad and then at Boris. ¡°You can¡¯t be serious. She¡¯s just going to walk away free? As if nothing happened?¡±


    ¡°Tell no truth and tell no lies,¡± King Vasiliev says. ¡°You don¡¯t even know half of what happened between Luka and Blaire. Their truth is in their hearts and heads. No words can express what lies between them. There is not enough paper in the world to record all that happens between a man and a wife. I know this much. Others here do too. But you, Grigory, you is a clueless fool. Now you want to shout and raise your fists and fight. You scream words of war and revenge. You want to see her blood spilled. I warn you, here and now, never give what you can¡¯t take back. Not in word or in deed. She offers peace and mercy. We deserve neither for what our people did to her. I, as the leader of Bull Tribe, accept her offer of peace.¡±


    Grigory nods at her. ¡°You are free to go,¡± he spits the words at her, pointing at the road. ¡°Take you sick soul and leave no more stain on our land. I¡¯ll spill no more blood on your behalf.¡±


    Blaire smiles. ¡°I have always been free, Grigory. The Snake Clan are free people. I could have walked away any time I chose. You just didn¡¯t know it.¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± he mumbles. ¡°That explains why you are still here.¡±


    ¡°Go back to your homes and your families,¡± Blaire says to the crowd. ¡°Prepare dinner. Eat, Sleep. Rise in the morning. Be happy. Be healthy. Flourish.¡±


    She reaches out a hand towards Boris. He assists her off of the chair. They wait in solitude as the Bull Tribe members trickle away. Boris doesn¡¯t hold on to her, but he stands slightly to her left, hands folded across his chest. He guards her, like he did for King Vasiliev earlier in the day. Without a word between them, they all knew that his allegiance had shifted.


    Twenty minutes later, four people stand in the clearing. Blaire and Boris. King Vasiliev and Grigory, who stare at her with the utmost hatred. This needs to be addressed before she leaves, or it will fester. When he becomes the leader, he might forget her mercy and her warning. She turns to Boris, smiling at him with a tiredness that taints even the soul. His eyes flicker toward Grigory and then back to her. She nods at the message. Yes, she needs to put out that fire, but her tank is running on empty.


    He steps forward, leaning closer. She rests her forehead on his left shoulder, fighting back tears. Around them, the world falls away. He doesn¡¯t embrace her, but she can feel his muscles tense as he holds back the urge. They both know that a hug will cut her off at the knees, strip her of all the power she has.


    ¡°You are a strong woman,¡± he whispers. ¡°It¡¯s almost over. Just this one last thing to take care of. I am confident that you can handle it by yourself, but if you need me to step forward, just say the word.¡±


    She shakes her head slightly. No. This is her battle to fight. She is the last of the Snake Clan. She is the leader Red King appointed. Did he know then that this is how it would come to pass? The thought never crossed her mind, but now that it did, she feels assured that he knew her future. She inhales deeply, filling her body with the smell of Boris. Sandalwood and pine. Cherry tobacco. Meat grilled over open flames. Borrowing his calm, quiet strength, she turns around to face the last hurdle before returning home.


    ¡°What are you angry about, Grigory?¡± Blaire asks. ¡°Is it because I¡¯m going home alive, that I rejected your proposal of marriage?¡±


    He glares at her. ¡°You have no heart. You feel no pain. Everything inside you is dead. Stop beating a dead horse. Whatever was between us died when you married Luka. This proposal was only a ploy, nothing more.¡±


    ¡°Just because it was part of a crooked plan, doesn¡¯t mean that your heart longed for it to happen. I never wanted a child. Hated the idea. But when the pregnancy was confirmed, something inside of me changed. Suddenly, this thing I hated before became my joy and happiness.¡±


    He snickers.


    She walks towards him, laying a hand on his arm. ¡°I¡¯m sorry that we never talked about marriage before. I have blamed you for being a coward in love, but I could have reached out too. I knew you had the ring. I could have¡­ I should have started the conversation.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not that you rejected me,¡± he says, nodding towards Boris. ¡°It¡¯s the fact that you have picked another man instead of me again.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t just reject the proposal because the intention behind it was to placate me,¡± she says. ¡°Or because you never had the courage to ask before your clan¡¯s lives depended on it. It¡¯s more than that. King Vasiliev is an old man. Soon he will step down and Bull Tribe will need a new leader.¡±


    ¡°So?¡±


    ¡°You are that leader,¡± she says, tapping an index finger on his chest. ¡°I can¡¯t take you home with me, and I can¡¯t give up my home to live here with you. I¡¯m the last of my people. You are the next king of the Bull Tribe. That is why I said no.¡±


    ¡°Who has the silver tongue now?¡± he asks, winking at her.


    ¡°We good?¡± she asks.


    He shrugs, but with a lop-sided smile. ¡°Sure. But I won¡¯t lead the people. Once Pyotr heals, he will. I¡¯ll be his second. I think it¡¯s clear that my temper is awakened too easily to be responsible for the entire tribe. He has always been the better leader.¡±


    ¡°He lives?¡± she asks, looking for the answer to King Vasiliev¡¯s face.


    The old man smiles softly, nodding. ¡°It was a powerful spell. H It¡¯ll take a long while before his strength returns, but he is alive and healing.¡±


    She exhales slowly, feeling a little tightness in her chest release. Not all of it, though.


    She turns to look at Boris. ¡°Red King and the Devil said you are the man for me. I didn¡¯t want another man. I thought I¡¯d just pick up a stray dude on the way home and get pregnant with a one-night stand. But now you are here and it¡¯s obvious there is this energy between us. Some may even call us soulmates. Are you up for it?¡±


    ¡°Boris is a fighter by name,¡± King Vasiliev says. ¡°But he is a builder by trade. Half of the houses in this compound exist because he made them. There really is no better man to help you rebuild your home.¡±


    ¡°Boris?¡± she asks.


    ¡°You¡¯re an astute woman, Blaire. What do you think?¡± he asks, smiling.


    ¡°I think I¡¯m tired,¡± she answers. ¡°And I think I need a bath. A long one. And food. And a warm soft bed to sleep in.¡±


    ¡°I can do that,¡± he says, walking towards her. ¡°Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.¡±


    King Vasiliev holds out his hands to her. She takes them and kisses first his left, then his right cheek.


    ¡°Go in peace, Battle Queen.¡±


    ¡°Stay in peace, Father of Fools."

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 21: Streets of Philadelphia

    Chapter 21: Streets of Philadelphia


    <h2>(Bruce Springsteen)</h2>


    The moon hangs pregnant in the sky above The Farm, illuminating the destruction with an eerie blanket. Blaire walks the silent streets alone, as she has walked other roads for ten long years. These streets now seem as alien to her as those of foreign cities and towns she sought temporary shelter in before. She recognises nothing about this place anymore. It has changed too much to feel familiar or beloved. They pass each other like strangers in the night, her and the landscape.


    In the darkness, she feels her physical pain acutely. Each bruise pulses. Every wound throbs. Sadness aches in the marrow of her bones like a deadly untreatable disease. Her heart clenches and unclenches like an angry fist. Memories surround her in a dark cage. Unable to escape, she stumbles alone on the once familiar roads. The whirlpool of pain pulls her deeper into the pit of despair.


    She walks toward the park where she used to play. Skeleton steel structures poke at the horizon with gnarled fingers. The swing¡¯s ropes and wooden seats are gone. Grass is black ash that rises and falls under her feet¡¯s caress. Bright paint bubbled under the heat, making pockets of air trapped against the steel structures. In places it is peeling away in large sheets, either hanging on by a thread or already dislodged to rest on the blackened soil. She finds the paved lane leading to the center, where a formal rose garden used to bleed fragrant scents into the summer air.


    Red King and Grandma loved to rest here on summer evenings, watching the neighborhood¡¯s children running and playing. On weekends, everyone would picnic on the open grass area, red and blue check tablecloths decorating the cement tables. Sandwiches, meatballs, cold chicken drumsticks and thighs, and potato salad. Mini burgers. Greek salad. Speciality items are unique to certain people. Aunt Martha¡¯s sauerkraut. Uncle Phil¡¯s homemade ginger beer. Aunt Fatima¡¯s curry potato samosas. Uncle Brian¡¯s spring rolls, made with freshly chopped vegetables, served with either soy sauce or wasabi sauce. Grandma¡¯s skewers with bacon wrapped around cherries flamed grilled with her special honey glaze.


    Blaire forces herself to stand still. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself back in those happy days. She is about to finish the school semester, and looking forward to sleeping in and staying up late into the night. The sun is warm on her skin. A cheeky wind is tugging at her dress and flirting with her hair. She slips off her sandals, longing to feel the grass beneath her feet. The words of her family and friends rush around her. She turns this way and that, trying to catch everything that is happening. Someone brought balloons, tying it with ribbons to the children¡¯s wrists. In the warm memory, sixteen-year-old Blaire twirls around, catching phrases of conversations from the air.


    ¡°¡­never in my life¡­¡±


    ¡°¡­green, I mean, who¡¯d have thought¡­¡±


    ¡°¡­makes a mean chili con¡­¡±


    ¡°¡­and I said to her¡­¡±


    ¡°¡­do that at your age and¡­¡±


    ¡°¡­and then it hit me¡­¡±


    ¡°¡­invitation already?¡±


    Blaire steps forward, out of the memory. This dark present presses down from all sides, filling her nose with the still lingering aroma of burning wood. She walks across the picnic space with legs that feel heavy and slow to commands. The cold returns to her flesh. Soon she¡¯ll be nothing but stone, nothing but a statue standing in the middle of what used to be a place of happiness.


    She turns towards the orchards, forcing her feet to run. She slows down soon, though. Out of breath, she puts her hands on her knees, head down, gasping like a fish out of water. With one hand, she pulls up the pants she wore. Everything is too large for her now. Nothing fits properly. Not her clothes. Not Boris next to her. Not this empty black place. This isn¡¯t home. Not to her. Not anymore.


    The bone song plays inside her mind. It is a reminder that there is no angel that will come to greet her. There have never been angels because there is no god. It¡¯s just her and the memories. She and the ghosts of those she loved and continue to love. They are the only ones walking these streets with her, but she finds no comfort in the thought. There is no mercy here.


    Tears blur her vision at the state of the orchards. The destruction is devastating. Years of her and Red King¡¯s hard labor to find the variants that thrived in this harsh land. All of it is gone now. The pressure in her head increases as the bone song plays its familiar melody. Suddenly she turns away from the orchards, feet now slapping the road.


    Thump. Thump. Thump.


    She runs towards the warehouse, holding on to the band of her pants this time. The doors are closed, but she knows the combination to the security panel. She punches it in quickly, needing to get away from the empty nothingness around her. The doors slide open with a mechanical scream. She pushes inside as soon as the gap is wide enough.


    The place has changed since last she saw it. Before that night, when she heard her bed thumping against the wall. She walks closer, noticing the recent scrape marks on the cement floor. Nancy and Uncle B¡¯s work, then. She didn¡¯t meet them when they arrived. Just went down to the big house that will be hers now and slept in the car until the sound of a persistent owl woke her. She sneaked out, leaving Boris to sleep. He did most of the driving, insisting she needed the rest more. Said she looked like a walking corpse and the sight of her will scare people. She might cause an accident.


    The warehouse looks in tip-top shape. If there was damage from the fire before, no evidence remains here. She makes her way to the back, where the office is. The business paperwork was in this office. During the day, a secretary sat at the desk closest to the door, leaving the larger desk for the orchard manager. This used to be Red King. Once he retired, Blaire took over, having learned everything from him. Even though she was only nineteen, nobody even questioned her transition into the position. Neither did they question her decision to ask Grandma Sophie to take over Red King¡¯s throne when he died six years later.


    She finds herself in front of the glass sliding door to the office. The face looking back shocks her. The skin looks too large for her, as if she was an alien occupying a human body. The sun had done its damage while she suffered on the post in the Bull¡¯s Compound, too. Plus, not eating or drinking enough. On the trip, Boris tried to get her to eat, but nausea overtook her at the mere smell of food.


    When did she get this old? Old and thin? Boris had not been wrong. She looks like a skeleton. Skin and bones, as Catriona said. She opens the door, and her skeleton dispels like mist before the morning sun. The office is different too. New furniture. New carpet. New equipment. She closes the door behind her, letting her eyes travel over the shelves and cupboards, the desks, the ornaments, the pot plants. The smell of burning is completely absent here, overpowered by the smell of new things radiating from everything.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    She walks towards the larger desk and sits in the new leather chair. On the desk is a computer, a ceramic pot with a fern, and a photo frame with Red King and Grandma Sophie. Tears rise past her defenses, spilling onto her parched cheeks. She doesn¡¯t wipe them away, nor tries to put up a wall to prevent the dam of tears that have been waiting for release. Without taking her eyes off the photo, she reaches down to open the top drawer of the desk. Her fingers touch the box of tissue in the old familiar place, and she lifts it to the desktop. Uncle B knew where they always were, and that she¡¯d need them when she came.


    He didn¡¯t even contemplate that she might never return. He knew she¡¯d need some stability when she came back. That is why the workshop and office are ready for her. It was his way of saying that The Farm is ready for her to continue the work Red King started. The work he taught her to do. The work she should have been doing instead of roaming the world like a foreigner with no place to lay her head. She isn¡¯t an alien. Right now she might not feel as if she belongs on this farm, in this office, in these clothes, or in her own skin, but this is still her home.


    She isn¡¯t the girl who took over this office from her grandfather. She isn¡¯t the woman who married Luka, or the mother who birthed a Bird. She isn¡¯t the broken husk who couldn¡¯t cry at the grave of her son, nor the vengeful angel pulling the trigger to paint her world red. She wasn¡¯t the ghost fleeing from one room to another, always looking over her shoulder for danger. Neither was she the angel of wrath that poisoned men and stood by, watching them die the most horrible of death.


    She was something else completely. A new version of herself. Blaire 10.5. Upgraded, like this office was. Despite the vision of herself in the window earlier, and the tears still flowing from her tired body, she healed in a way she didn¡¯t understand. Her mind knew this, but her heart still clung to the last strains of the old Blaire, the broken, bleeding woman tied to a pole in enemy territory. The woman filled with anger and pain and a lust for vengeance.


    She has slipped into this new skin. This foreign skin. But it is the skin she will occupy now as she steps forward into the new beginning.


    Thump. Thump. Thump.


    The sound rises from inside her.


    Thump. Thump. Thump.


    It is strong.


    Thump. Thump. Thump.


    It rises above the bone song, overpowering the haunting sound.


    Thump. Thump. Thump.


    She lays her fingers to her wrist, feeling the thumping there. A thunderous waterfall of life. Strong. Healthy. Alive in a way, it hasn¡¯t been for years. Sobs tear from her, and she slips from the chair limply, falling on the new carpet like a bag of bones, staring up at the ceiling. She is skin and bones. Nothing more, nothing less.


    Weak like a baby slipping into the world, unable to care for itself. She doesn¡¯t fight, allowing this rebirth. Blaire reborn. Blaire rejuvenated. The Snake slips its old skin. Emerging into the world with a new skin. A skin too large for her. A skin she¡¯ll grow into until it too becomes too small. And she¡¯ll slip that one too. An endless death and rebirth.


    She calls out to her power, raising her hands towards the sky as she watches the clouds through the window. She calls out with her spirit for rain, grabbing with her fists in the air above her. Within her something releases, and the clouds burst forth rain. She watches it with surprise. Her tears stop flowing. She wipes at her face. Snot and tears mix in a wet mess. Slowly she rises, reaching for the tissues to clean herself. Then she walks outside, closing the doors behind her.


    Outside, she stands in the pouring rain. White streaks against the black sky. She lifts her face to the wet shower, allowing it to wash over her. Without even thinking, she undresses. First the boots that were still splattered with blood from the Valley of Death. Boris tried to clean it away, but she can still feel the remnants of it in the seams, clinging to the threads and the leather. Then she drops the pants that don''t fit her. She only needs to wiggle her shoulders for the shirt to slide off her like a cape. She hooks her socks off with toes, her panties with shaking fingers. Then she unties her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders like a veil.


    Naked, she stands under the pouring rain. Then she feels the thump-thump-thump of her heart, feels the blood pumping in her veins. She dances to this rhythm, this new song. She dances with the rain washing over her. She dances in the black rivers of ash and water. Her feet move swift and sure over the broken land, through the skeleton park, into the field where the orchard used to flourish. Here she stops, looking down at the black ashes swirling around her feet.


    Far in the distance, thunder slaps the earth. She jumps at the sound and then looks up at the sky, waiting for the light. When it arrives, it¡¯s a golden slash of beauty in the darkness. It cuts through the pain, opens the festering wound that is The Farm. And the land bleeds black.


    She turns around, dancing in the cleansing rain. Twirling like that child at the picnic, she sees her family in a blur. They are smiling at her now. Smiling at her crazy dance. Smiling at her happiness. Then she stops, swaying with the momentum. She falls backward onto the ground, arms flung outward. She makes an angel in the rain and ash. Beat the pattern into the soil.


    Night has fallen, and she is awake. Unlike her nights of insomnia, this is different. Being awake here, under the dark sky with rain pelting her tender flesh, is rejuvenating. The darkness that has been part of her life fades away. The old Blaire, that broken winged being, washes away with the ash, running down the field towards the river.


    A face appears before her. Boris. He looks concerned. She smiles at him.


    ¡°Where have you been?¡± he asks. ¡°I¡¯ve been running around these streets looking for you.¡±


    He is still a stranger to her, but somehow also familiar. As if they were born to be here. Fated soulmates. Even their names fit together.


    ¡°I¡¯ll never run away from you,¡± she says. ¡°We belong together.¡±


    He sits down next to her with a lopsided smile. ¡°Are you okay, Blaire?¡±


    She reaches out to take his hand, squeezing. ¡°I¡¯m slipping my skin. It¡¯s a Snake Clan ability. Rebirth for me and rejuvenation for the land.¡±


    ¡°When I woke up and saw you left¡­¡±


    He turns his face to look at her. She can see the uncertainty swirling in his eyes.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry if that caused you to worry,¡± she says. ¡°I had some catharsis. But I need it. I¡¯m feeling so much better already.¡±


    ¡°You look the same, but also not.¡±


    She sits up, scooting closer to him. He is a stranger to her still, but the connection between them throbbed like the blood song in her veins. They don¡¯t have a strong bond now. They haven¡¯t faced the world¡¯s troubles together yet. There is no deep love, no foundation of faith, nothing to trust in. But she knows it will grow over time. This rebirth is a new beginning for her, and him, and this place.


    She is scarred, like the land. Yet, wounds heal. Blood can wash away. Pain forgotten in the light of new joy. No angels will come down to her. No gods will show mercy. But she can forgive herself in the same way she showed mercy to the Bull Tribe. She can build a new home here. It won¡¯t be the same as the old one, but that doesn¡¯t mean it won¡¯t be good.


    She leans closer, kissing his cheek.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she says. ¡°Thank you for coming with me. I promise to be a more considerate partner from now on.¡±


    He shrugs and then rises, holding his hand out to her with a curtsey. ¡°May I have this dance?¡±


    Blaire Nathara smiles at the man who accepts her as she is. She takes the offered hand and dances with him across the soggy soil. They dance on and on until the morning breaks above them. They dance until Uncle B¡¯s chuckles call them back to the present. He is standing next to Nancy and a row of smiling strangers, watching them. Boris swings her naked body away from their eyes. Removing his shirt, he helps her dress into the wet mess. They giggle like children caught red-handed.


    ¡°I¡¯m tired now,¡± she whimpers, embracing him.


    He lifts her with muscular arms and starts the journey home. The others follow them, whispering and giggling. In front of them, Red King walks hand in hand with Grandma Sophie. Her father and mother walk arm in arm. Catriona is cradling a baby, crooning. The words are unclear, but the melody is familiar. One by one, the rest of the family, friends and neighbors join the strange march.


    Blaire lays her head against Boris¡¯s chest, humming Catriona¡¯s lullaby.

 Chronicle 1: Bone Song. Chapter 22: Nothing Else Matters

    Chapter 22: Nothing Else Matters


    (Metallica)


    The night slips into the world with long shadows. Blaire watches it come from the porch of the family home. It is still a shell of what it used to be, but it won¡¯t be for long. The other people have all gone home. Nancy and Uncle B to her and Luka¡¯s old place, the rest to new RVs that Uncle B ordered.


    They have been busy while she is gone. Warehouses repaired and restructured. The usable equipment is ready. The mechanics is coming tomorrow. Scrap metal dealers is picking up the damaged machinery. Whatever they needed, be it replacement equipment, seed, feed, fertilizer, pesticides, and medicines, is either already here, or on the way.


    A professional clean-up crew cleared the animal corpses. A veterinarian gathered and saw the surviving livestock. Healthy livestock thrives in the clean pins. A team will attend the next auction to stock up. Nancy is looking at reputable places to get the best bull sperm and breeding cows. The young woman¡¯s tenacity impresses Blaire.


    Boris joins her on the porch. He is wearing an apron and carries two plates of food. He is an excellent cook. Better than her. She¡¯s lost the art of creating a decent meal since it¡¯s been ages since she actually had a kitchen to cook in. She sits down on the first step and then takes her plate. He wiggles his hips, and the cutlery clinks together in the apron¡¯s pocket. She leans closer, grabbing a fork.


    They eat in silence, watching the landscape change in the fading light. The food is great. Roasted chicken with baby potatoes, green beans covered in loads of garlic butter, carrots with honey and lemon, and a garden salad.


    She knows they need to talk. A serious talk about expectations. About the way they want to move forward. About the past and their future. From the night they arrived, everyone just assumed they were a couple. How could they not, considering they were dancing in the rain, and she was naked as the day she was born?


    Since then, they have been working hard. She is catching up with Uncle B and Nancy¡¯s reports and the lists of things still needing to happen. They employed Frank to manage the vegetable and herb gardens with Nancy, but left the orchards for her, because Uncle B knew it was her most beloved part of the farm. Nancy herself is overseeing the animals.


    Meanwhile, Boris has inspected all the homes and the small shops around the market square. He listed those that can be repaired and ordered a demolition team to deal with the rest, as well as all the play structures in the park. Their home will be the first he¡¯ll repair, starting with the roof. While he is busy with that, she¡¯ll be spending early mornings landscaping and replanting the garden, and the rest of the day clearing and replanting the fruit trees.


    They discussed all these business related topics, but not once did they talk about them, or their relationship. It is as if they both are waiting for the other to open the conversation.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think I want to get married again,¡± she says.


    He takes a bite of food, chews it slowly. She knows he is probably thinking of what to say, and how to say it in a way that won¡¯t upset her.


    ¡°Do I make you feel like a visitor?¡± she asks. ¡°Do you feel like a stranger in this home?¡±


    He lifts his eyes to her face. A fleeting shadow passing between them. He turns to look at the large tent that they pitched in front of the house. They share the tent, but not a bed. He even put up a patrician inside to create two rooms for them.


    ¡°Sometimes, yes.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    He shakes his head with a soft smile. ¡°Don¡¯t be. We are still new at this¡­ whatever this is.¡±


    ¡°Do we need to define it?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t we?¡±


    ¡°The thing is, I¡¯m not sure what to define it as? It¡¯s not going to be a marriage, but I don¡¯t think it¡¯s just a friendship either.¡±


    ¡°Friends with benefits?¡±


    ¡°Can we say that? I think that won¡¯t work for us. It¡¯s too superficial. I feel as if whatever we have is already beyond that description. Don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± he says, nodding


    ¡°See, it¡¯s difficult to define it. I don¡¯t think I can.¡±


    ¡°Anyway, I¡¯m glad it¡¯s not a marriage,¡± he says with a lopsided smile. ¡°I don¡¯t have a ring.¡±


    She snorts. ¡°You are joining my family. I figured I¡¯d be the one giving you a ring.¡±


    He lifts one eyebrow. ¡°Well now, that is news to me.¡±


    She places the plate on the floor next to her. ¡°Okay, can we agree that wherever this goes, we will do it our way? We will make a new path to walk on. One that fits us and the life we want to create together?¡±Stolen story; please report.


    He moves her plate aside to sit down next to her. ¡°I agree to this, but on the condition that we have open communication between us. You can¡¯t construct a road together unless all the parties involved know what is happening.¡±


    ¡°Agree.¡±


    ¡°However, since you don¡¯t want to marry me, I want to be more to you than just another worker rebuilding The Farm.¡±


    ¡°What do you want to be, then?¡±


    ¡°I want to be family,¡± he says. ¡°If not by marriage, can it be by Blood Oath, like Uncle B? I have watched you over the last few days. He is like a father to you, and you are the daughter he never had.¡±


    She smiles, leans closer to his warm body. ¡°We are a family by Blood Oath. I have more faith in that than a piece of paper from the government and a church. I am thankful for the offer to join in this way.¡±


    ¡°Thank you for considering it,¡± he whispers.


    She slips a ring off her thumb. It is a man¡¯s ring. Thick and rough. Silver, with a large black stone. She doesn¡¯t know what stone it is, but it reminds her of the night sky when the moon is nothing but a thin sliver of golden light and the stars are at their brightest. She places it in her palm and stares at it for a moment in silence.


    ¡°Red King gave me this ring when he retired and I took over the orchards,¡± she says, lifting it towards his face for inspection. ¡°It is a family heirloom and has deep significance to me and our people. If you accept that we¡¯ll never marry, and promise to walk beside me as we carve out a life together, I¡¯d love to give this to you as a sign that we are a committed couple. The Blood Oath is something that grows out of love and trust, and when we are both ready, I¡¯m totally willing to do it with you.¡±


    ¡°Well, I didn¡¯t expect you to really give me a ring,¡± he says, reaching to take it. He weighs it in his palm, then lifts it to examine the stone.


    ¡°Don¡¯t ask me what stone it is,¡± she says. ¡°The Devil gave him this ring right off his hand when he sold his soul.¡±


    He looks up into her eyes with a gasp. ¡°So it is true. This has been a well-discussed topic in the compound. Wherever people gather, at some point or another, someone will start talking about it.¡±


    She chuckles. ¡°Well, don¡¯t tell them. Their lives will become terribly boring if you answer this question.¡±


    He nods. ¡°This is true.¡±


    ¡°Or tell them and then drop the question of me. Just casually and loudly wonder if I sold my soul too. I mean, where else will I get a sophisticated poison like Purple Airplane from?¡±


    He hands her the ring. ¡°Where did you get it from?¡±


    ¡°I sold my soul to the Devil,¡± she says.


    He looks at her with a shocked expression. She smiles back reassuringly.


    ¡°No joking. You need to know this before I put the ring on you. I don¡¯t think he¡¯ll ever collect it, because Red King was one of the few humans he considered a friend.¡±


    ¡°But he still made a deal for his soul¡­¡±


    She waves her hand at his words, sweeping them away even before he can finish the sentence.


    ¡°Which the Devil hasn¡¯t collected yet. I don¡¯t think he ever will. The Snake Tribe is his adoptive people. He loves us more than the rest of you. All because of Grandpa.¡±


    ¡°I am not running away yet,¡± he says. ¡°It¡¯s just something new for me to get used to.¡±


    ¡°Once you make the Blood Oath, you will become part of all the blessings Red King and I received from the Devil.¡±


    ¡°What was Red King¡¯s blessing?¡±


    ¡°Dark Magic. Potions, charms and incantations. Nobody can take this away. Purple Airplane was mine, for protection.¡±


    ¡°Surely people can learn magic, potions, and spells?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s like saying if a Pruis puts enough miles on the clock, it will someday become a Porsche.¡±


    He moves to embrace her, placing his chin on her head. ¡°Listen, I trust that we belong together. I don¡¯t know about you, but I¡¯ve never had this deep connection with anyone before, not even with a long-term relationship. To me, nothing else matters except you and me and whatever offspring we may produce.¡±


    ¡°Offspring? Is that what you¡¯re going to call our kids?¡±


    ¡°Not to their faces,¡± he chuckles.


    ¡°But before we produce offspring, can we take our time growing into this relationship?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯ve never opened myself up to someone like this before. To me, nothing else matters but us and the home we are creating. Oh, and dancing in the rain with you naked. I want to do more of that.¡±


    She enjoys the sly smile on his face. It doesn¡¯t collaborate with the reddish tint of his ears. This, she has learned, is his shyness indicator. She finds it enduring that at his age, he still gets shy.


    ¡°Hmmm¡­,¡± she whispers. ¡°I wonder if I can believe those words.¡±


    He lifts her chin, looking into her eyes. Then his eyes drop to her mouth in a way that makes her feel warm and fuzzy.


    ¡°You can believe it. I wouldn''t be here if I didn¡¯t mean it.¡±


    She leans closer, placing her lips on his. For a moment they stay like this, lips lightly touching. Then he moves his hand to the back of her head and pulls her closer. His mouth moves against hers, and she opens her lips to entice him inside. He moans into her mouth and then thrusts his tongue into her mouth. She accepts it gladly, allowing him to drive the kiss. The kiss is hot and hungry, but he keeps his hands on her neck and shoulder, not allowing them to travel to any other part of her body.


    He pulls away with a sigh, embracing her. She snuggles her face into the safety of his neck, allowing his scent to overwhelm her completely. If she turns her head a little, her ear can pick up his heartbeat. She loves to be this close to him without pressure from him to give more. Moments like this, him respecting her boundaries, adds to the trust growing between them. Every day a little more. Soon she¡¯ll trust him enough to allow him in her bed and body. Probably not on the same night, though.


    ¡°How does this new skin feel for you?¡± he asks.


    ¡°It¡¯s still sensitive,¡± she answers. ¡°I¡¯ve been in this cloud of insomnia and depression for so long that I almost feel guilty to smile.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s clear that you have fewer dark moments now. You should show yourself some kindness. It¡¯s been a while since you had reason to feel happy, and I¡¯m glad to see you smile now. I know you lost everyone you loved, and you should mourn them properly.¡±


    ¡°I am,¡± she says. ¡°At least this time I can weep, unlike with Gavin¡¯s loss.¡±


    They sit in silence, allowing the closeness to bring comfort. The sky turns darker and darker. In the village, lights turn on. From the corner of her eye, she notices movement. Turning her head, she sees Nancy and two of the new employees walking down to the river with towels. The sound of laughter drifts up to her, and she smiles. It is good to see people doing the things they used to do. Swimming. Laughing.


    ¡°What do you think they are saying about us?¡± she asks.


    ¡°Do you care?¡± he asks.


    ¡°No, not at all. I never did, but I want to know if their whispers might be a problem for you. I don¡¯t want you to be uncomfortable in our home.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never cared about what people know or think they know. If it ever bothers me, I¡¯ll tell you.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± she whispers. ¡°Now, let¡¯s get some rest. We both have important work tomorrow.¡±


    While he showers, she washes the dishes and cleans the kitchen. Then she uses the bathroom while he makes a call to Grigory. He waits for her at the door of the tent, kissing her forehead softly.


    ¡°Good night,¡± he whispers.


    ¡°Ditto.¡±