On All Hallows Eve
Even the moon, full and bright, was ashamed of him and hid her face behind a cloudy veil. He swallowed the lump of ice in his throat, shivering as the wind picked up, and clutched the stolen grimoire tighter to his chest.
“You flout the order of things! It will not be her, my son.”
The leaves gave dire warning in their raspy whispers as they trembled at the end of gnarled branches, but he shook his head at them as he had his mother.
“Unnatural! Unnatural!” they called.
The altar drew him in. Damp earth still blackened his fingernails, and he trembled with exhaustion from the previous night's exertions. Blisters on his palms split and wept as he clutched the precious tome, but he did not care. The fever had left him weak, but he had strength enough for what lay ahead.
The grey clouds opened, heavy with the moon's despairing tears until they could carry no more. Silver tears burned like ice upon his skin, dampening his mud-caked clothing until the chills set in.
That's how it had all begun, with chills. Then fever.
Then hell.
The patter of rain set the leaves whispering once more. “Back! Back! Back!” they cried. Some trembled at the onslaught and struggled not to fall, heavy with the moon's despair, to whisper no more.
Deep in the oldest heart of the wood, in the hidden clearing where he had first kissed her, she waited upon her bed of autumn leaves he had so meticulously laid in the chill fog of morning. His knees threatened to give way at the sight of her.
The evening's frost still glistened upon her eyelashes and sparkled on her marble lips. Spiderwebs streaked her sable hair in silver. Surrounded by the brilliant umber, gold, and vermillion of her leafy bed, arms positioned to cradle the soft swell of her abdomen, she was breathtaking. More stunning now than even she had been in life.
The circle he had set when he laid her bed was now alight with arcane hunger, waiting. The precious vial of seawater from the far coast was in a bowl set to the west. To the north, at his beloved's head, an owl's feather. At her left, to the east, a jar of the damp earth from her grave. And at her feet, in the south, roared the bonfire he'd built with flames reaching as high as his head.
As the rain pelted him with icy needles, it hissed as it met the flames. “Sin! Sin!”
The salt of his tears mixed with the moon's own icy, silver tears. The grimoire beckoned, promising with its ancient spells.
It was begun.
Author Bio:
For as long as she can remember, Delena Silverfox has always loved writing more than anything. When she was three she taught herself how to read with alphabet magnets and her trusty Speak n' Spell, and her first stories were written in crayon.
She pursued an English/Creative Writing degree in college, but changed her major to Psychology and pursued writing on her own. At 21, she moved to Portland, OR where she spent the next eleven years, and considers that the city where she truly "grew up," as it influenced so much of who she is today as a person and an author.
Delena lives in Southern California with her daughter. When she's not writing, Delena likes extreme sports and verbal sparring.
Links:For as long as she can remember, Delena Silverfox has always loved writing more than anything. When she was three she taught herself how to read with alphabet magnets and her trusty Speak n' Spell, and her first stories were written in crayon.
She pursued an English/Creative Writing degree in college, but changed her major to Psychology and pursued writing on her own. At 21, she moved to Portland, OR where she spent the next eleven years, and considers that the city where she truly "grew up," as it influenced so much of who she is today as a person and an author.
Delena lives in Southern California with her daughter. When she's not writing, Delena likes extreme sports and verbal sparring.
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Well done my darling!
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