Lair of Beasts [Book I in the Curse Of Blood Saga]

Prologue

1353AD (Seventeen years ago...)

White and Black. Light and dark. These were now the bleak shades of her colorless life. She swallowed the lump of despair lodged in her throat and released a troubled breath that condensed, and swiftly disappeared into the frigid morning fog that enveloped her garden.

Moving listlessly along the slate cobblestones, she unwittingly recalled that night. In her mind's eye she beheld the frightening image emblazoned into the very fissures of her brain; that same vivid recollection that had violated her mercilessly, whether in wakefulness or slumber, these eight months past. Those hellish, pretercanine eyes were now the steady and ghastly tenant of her memory.

At length she left the estate grounds and continued on, wandering aimlessly into the woods, lost in contemplation. Only the sound of ice and snow, being crushed beneath her boots, dispelled the eerie silence of dawn; well, that and the sound of the devil's silken voice invading the quietude within.

"I have been waiting for you..."

He had followed her that night, the brute. That Prince of Darkness. She tried to think of anything else but his ensnaring words.

"Come. Sit beside me."

She shook her head furiously, but it was of no moment for she could still hear his voice, the echo of a memory. She still felt the sting of his teeth where his canines had pierced her shoulder. The mark had since faded from angry red to dusky pink, but 'twas no less visible, so she had allowed no eye to study it's violent contours.

"You must call me Fen, my lady."

She cast her face heavenward with a desperate sob, but the sun's dull glow afforded her no warmth. Instead, she became troubled by the ominous ring that stretched around its core like a halo — a sign of change perhaps? She laughed, a mirthless sound, thinking bitterly that change was now inevitable.

"Loveliest, Cara," he had murmured, moving aside a strand of her dark hair. "So sad; so beautiful."

The hoary winter trees seemed to reach silently toward the glowing deity in the sky, as if in homage, their stark skeletal forms ghostly against the vast blanket of fresh snow and dense brume.

At last she reached the base of a hillock and steadily climbed its slope. At the tor's summit she scanned the moors that stretched before her. By now the mist had dissipated marginally, yet no sign of life stirred in the morning gloom save for the waterwheel of the old mill in the distance. Descrying its stone foundations and the thatched roof beyond, she berated herself for wandering too far. Cara glanced about herself nervously.

"Who are you? How do you know my name?" She'd asked him.

"Never mind that. Come here." His command had been like a sensual caress.

However, nothing — no creature — stirred the heavy fog that lay about the moors, and yet she knew, all too well in fact, that the absence of propinquity was no assurance at all; the devil's reach was as omnipotent as it was tangible. She shivered slightly, as the icy finger of premonition stroked her spine, and moved the heavy cloak aside to reveal her swollen belly.

She hated this child. This thing! Its child. She splayed her numb fingers across her taught midriff, wishing fervently — as she had done innumerable times since its inception — that this was her husband's babe. Would that it were so. She might have rejoiced at that.

In the five years since Edwyn wed her, her womb had remained barren, much to her husband's disgust and fury. His temper wrought ever larger bruises and greater shame each time her menses flowed. Now she had something greater to fear — the babe that lay nestled beneath her breast. Would it be like its sire?

"Dear God, no!" she whispered fervently, then reminded herself again that she hated it. This thing.

She would rather it die. Would that they'd both die in childbirth, lest she whelp a monster. The husband she'd loved had been nothing but a cruel lie.

For months, despite the copious abortifacients, she had watched her burgeoning abdomen in dawning horror as the child thrived within. At first she had found solace in abnegation, but later ... she could no longer ignore that the seed, his seed, of nightmare had in fact taken root.

Her husband, thinking the child to be of his loins, had rejoiced at the happy news — convinced himself, therewith, that it would be a boy — while she had recoiled, heedlessly evoking every foul detail of the event that had irrevocably changed her life. That fateful night in the gloaming of a moonlit copse. Eight months ago...

Cara shivered again and shook away the lingering horror of the flashback as, pulling her cloak tighter around her, she began making her way down the knoll. He had been a stranger. She was certain she would never see him again, the thought of which occasioned a chill of foreshadowing in her bones. Somehow she knew she would not see him again.

A raven cawed suddenly beside her where it perched atop the ice and she furrowed her brow at seeing such a large bird. Again it gave a raucous squawk and eyed her curiously.

"What is it you wish to tell me, master raven?"

The bird cocked its head at her and then took to the air with another caw. She watched it stretch its wings out gracefully overhead, the crow observing her just as keenly, instead of attending to the placement of her feet upon the ice. With the suddenness of a snapping twig, her ankle buckled beneath her as she slipped over a slick rock. As would be the case with any horrific accident, time seemed to slow down unerringly the moment she threw her arms into the air, desperately grasping at naught. She fell backwards down the hill with a piercing shriek, her cries eerily reminiscent of the last time she screamed — that night.

She gained momentum swiftly as her abdomen slammed continuously into rock and turf while she hurtled downhill, cracking ribs and grazing the skin from her cheeks and palms. Finally, with a sickening thud, she came to rest atop the jagged ice below.

She watched with waning strength as her lifeblood pooled rapidly in the snow around her, as if the ice itself were syphoning the warmth from her veins. It was strangely beautiful: the bright, crimson color of her insides spilling morbidly, like rose petals, over the glistening and pristine snow.

She smiled, though her eyelids became heavy, as the raven swooped in beside her and eyed the scene with ill-content. As her heart began to flutter weakly beneath her crushed ribs, she pictured the child she could feel kicking in terror within. The blood seemed to trickle into a curve that formed a pair of morbid lips, contrasting starkly against the snowy features beside which the raven stretched its sloe-colored wings. The feathers appeared as though black hair framing the ghostly face arranged in the ice. Or was the angel's face merely painted in her dying mind?

Lovely. Her numb fingers curled convulsively around the ice in agony, but she grinned at the illusion as the delirium took hold of her mind. Have you come for me? Then she continued her soliloquy over again, lips moving silently and already turning corpse blue.

The bird squawked sadly beside her as she gasped and gurgled painfully. Its sleek, blueish-black feathers began to move out of focus as darkness seeped into her brain. She thought she heard screaming and shouting, but then only white noise remained.

"Cara..." came the devil's voice once more, his silky whisper like a farewell kiss as she died.

🌟This is dedicated to the lovely Lady Tetras. If you love thought-provoking fiction with exquisite metaphors and profound, underlying messages (involving shape-shifters and true love) then take a look at Destiny And Fate! I designed her cover for her too ;)🌟