Those who were taken...
They never came back, dragged beneath the waves never to return.
Their haunting screams were a symbol of their horrific deaths.
Like shadows they lay in wait, the deep blue waters hiding them from view.
With sharp claws they...
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~•~
Atlas has no idea what he is going to do.
He has only hours left--a day if he is lucky.
The Tide is coming, and there is nothing he can do to stop it.
The girl will be in danger, and that is not a complication he can afford. Despite his inability to enact his wrath upon her, the girl is still his responsibility.
Not only that, but it's the kind of danger that has him worried.
He has to get to her soon--before the others. She is defenseless besides her wobbly spear. If only he didn't care! If only he could have gotten rid of her when he had the chance... But now it's too late. Now he...
What is this?
How could he ever accept it, let alone explain it?
Why does the thought of her being in danger bother him so much?
He should leave her for the others. Hell, he should take part of her flesh, himself.
No.
But why not?
What is this feeling that keeps holding him back? Normally, the thought of human flesh makes his fangs tingle with hunger, but the thought of it being her flesh makes him sick to his stomach.
Years past, he would anticipate the Tide, waiting with excitement for the onslaught of females, his nights full of desire and lust, but this year is different. This year, he craves no woman. He only feels the duty to protect.
And then there is the chance of other males sniffing around his human. No doubt they will smell her human scent for miles. No. They will not have her.
She will be his.
~•~
Cally sits with her back to the fire, her shadow stretching out before her. There is no moon tonight, the glowing orb completely obscured by clouds. Rain falls from the sky in heavy torrents, little peaks forming in the sand from the splashing raindrops.
Cally is thankful for her tent.
She holds a reed loosely in her hand, its thin bark smooth against her now calloused palms. She uses it to draw marks in the snow white sand--tally marks to be exact.
Twenty-one marks for twenty-one days.
Three marks for three weeks.
Five hundred and four marks for five hundred and four hours.
They are all the same amount of time, but each are told differently. All are equal but differ greatly. All tell how long she has been gone, how long since she has seen the faces of her family members, how long since she heard her brother's laugh, her mother's chiding or her father's words of counsel.
