C. S. Friedman by The Madness Season

C. S. Friedman by The Madness Season

Author:The Madness Season
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2012-02-09T14:51:35+00:00


Which was too bad for it. Because now I was playing—for keeps.

Dreaming. That I was lying on a bed of broken rock, my body shattered by that terrible fall. Overhead loomed the cliff wall that I had marked with my blood, each splash of crimson a monument to one more bone broken, one more fraction of life driven out of my all-too-fragile body … but I lived. For a single moment more, I lived.

Overhead a black bird circled. Scavenger. It regarded me lazily, as it assessing my ability to fight it off.

I had none. Only a whisper of life left, bleeding out onto the chasm’s rough floor. No will at all. It circled slowly, lower and lower, broad wings outlined against the light of the dying sun. For an instant its shadow passed over me, the briefest hint of darkness, and I found myself crying. Not afraid, so much as grateful.

For that little.

And then it was beside me, its huge wings folded, and I felt more than saw its form shimmer and change, stiff black feathers melting into liquid darkness, which flowed as if into some unseen mold and then hardened anew, its texture now that of silk. Flowing black robes which adorned and contained a human form—a woman—who leaned forward to me and took my face in her hands, turning me away from the light. Beautiful to look upon, but frightening also; not all parts of her were human, in form or in purpose. A rich crown of chestnut curls framed a familiar, welcome face—but the cinnamon eyes had a cat’s pupils, narrow slits which glowed greenly in the rapidly gathering darkness. Her fingers, long and delicate, were tipped with strong nails, and as she flexed them before my eyes it seemed that they grew into true talons, long and curved and razor-sharp. About her aura, too, there was something of the animal, that made me shiver as she stroked my face—those long, deadly talons now fully unsheathed—and catch my breath as she drew in close to me, her voice murmuring reassurances that were anything but.

“I am Marra,” she whispered. An explanation—a promise—a threat. Despite the heat of my fever, I found myself suddenly cold. All over. As a taloned claw stroked my throat, from jaw to shoulder … and then suddenly thrust deep into my flesh. I cried out in surprise and pain as my blood broke free from its natural confines, and ran out over her hand.

“Marra,” she whispered, and the cat-eyes sparkled. The talon continued its course, a clean slice from clav-icle to jawline. Then with a smile—half affectionate, half mocking—she lowered her face until her lips touched the wound, and …

Up on the cliff. Where I had once stood. A man whose very stance radiated power, whose vegetable robe sputtered out the last of its life in sparks of or-ange flame.

… and the life was draining out of me, not slowly, not naturally, but drawn out by the hunger in her, the hunger in him… .



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