Silverstar

Prologue

Night can be sleek and soft, warm like the touch of an old friend. It can also be cold and calculating like a starved tiger prowling in the bushes, hungering for prey.

For Ellen, this particular night was of the latter.

The cops were all home around the Christmas tree, and she could almost hear their carols wafting along the slightly chilly breeze that made goosebumps travel up and down her arms.

But the cops wouldn’t help anyway, Ellen knew.

Not when the delegation of masked strangers was already closing in around her, all six pairs of eyes trained hungrily on the glowing ball she held delicately in her hands. And though she knew all too well how this encounter was going to end, she couldn’t help but feel kind of insulted that there were only six.

It was more habit than mere bravado that allowed her to smile coolly at them and twirl the ball carelessly on her ring finger.

And it was more shock than a mere mistake that made her fumble for and almost drop it onto the silky sand beneath her feet.

“Vanessa.”

Ellen felt the echoes of her own voice tickle her skin and weave through the silence around her. She stared at the exotically beautiful young woman that stepped slowly into the ring of attackers and tried not to let her breath suspend in her throat.

“Hello, Ellen.”

"Bitch."

The word burst out of her, filled to the brimming point with shock, fury, and betrayal. It tasted bitter on her tongue and she bit her lip.

“Come on, Elli. Let’s stay friends. You know why I’m here. Just hand over the Orb.”

The Orb of Nefliyr burned Ellen’s skin where it made contact. Stalling for time even though there was none to stall for, Ellen narrowed her eyes at the woman’s tanned complexion, the condescending smile, the cold azure irises. She pushed away the familiarity of it all, stomach churning.

It took all her strength to say the next four words.

“In your dreams, vixen.”

And that was when all hell broke loose.

The next morning, all the police would find was the Nokia cellphone that had placed the call on Christmas evening lying abandoned in a patch of dried up seaweed, still beeping wearily with incoming text messages. Their eggnog-dulled minds dismissed the patches of rusty red that had just escaped the tide as spilled grape wine. Then, they went back to the station to enjoy the holiday pie one wife had baked the night before.

They would never know Ellen Whitemoon’s last word, the whisper that died away with her as she disappeared into the ocean waves.

Silverstar.