The Last Trace (The Chosen Novellas Book 1) by Roh Morgon

Author:Roh Morgon [Morgon, Roh]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Dark Fantasy, Vampire, Supernatural, Historical Horror, Historical Fantasy, Fantasy, Romantic Horror, Paranormal, Horror
Publisher: Dark Dreams Publishing
Published: 2013-04-17T23:00:00+00:00

~ Day 6 ~

The eastern sky was just beginning to pale as Trace rode into the clearing behind his parents’ cabin. Though he no longer felt sick, he was worn out and ready for bed.

He led the mule with the dead buck draped across its back to the side of the house. Trace took a deep breath and dismounted, then tied a rope to the hind legs of the carcass, looped the rope through a hook in the eave, and hoisted the deer up for his mother to butcher when she woke.

Leaving his horse to graze, he unsaddled the mule and turned it loose in the pen. He stowed the pack saddle and traps in the lean-to, and with a tired sigh, glanced eastward at the approaching dawn.

A mysterious lethargy began to ooze through him, something far more than simple exhaustion, and he felt a rush of raw fear, accompanied by an unexplainable and desperate need to find shelter.

Trace stumbled as he turned to his horse, his legs heavy and nonresponsive, and he barely had enough strength to pull himself into the saddle. He gripped the saddle horn and urged the palomino into a trot. The rock overhang where he’d thought about spending the day was only a couple of miles up the creek, but he suddenly wasn’t sure he’d make it that far without falling off.

The thought of being caught out in the open, beneath the sun, filled him with a dread he didn’t understand. And that scared him even more.

Trace dug his heels into the horse’s sides.

Low-hanging branches whipped him in the face, and the brush crowding the narrow trail threatened to tear him from the saddle. He crouched low on the galloping horse, feeling the weakness growing in him with each pounding stride.

His awareness condensed to the large body moving beneath him, the sound of hammering hooves, the labored breathing of the horse. He fought with everything he had to hang on.

As they reached a split in the trail by three cottonwoods, Trace tugged a rein and they veered off, taking the smaller trail up the slope. A dozen strides along the path and it split again. This time he took the lower one and the horse slowed, dropping into a trot.

Relief ran through him as they came around a bend and he spotted the overhang he was aiming for. He guided the palomino to a small pine next to the rocks. The horse stopped at the tree, his head low and his sides heaving in and out. Trace slid off and leaned against the sweaty neck, barely able to keep his eyes open. He loosened the cinch, yanked the lead rope free from the saddle, and, clinging to the blond mane, worked his way to the tree and tied the panting horse.

The bark scraped Trace’s cheek and palms as his knees gave out and he tumbled to the ground. He dragged himself into the den beneath the rock, grateful it wasn’t occupied, and collapsed. Facedown in the cool dirt, he gave in and let the darkness take him.

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