teland, clutching her only salvation to her chest, she is battered, torn, and in need of tender loving care. She’s almost ready to give in to the darkness when an angel of mercy with a body made for sin comes to her aid.
But things aren’t always what they appear, and by the end of this Halloween tale, there’ll be hell to pay — even if she does get her way.
Razor’s Edge: A Halloween Tale
http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1928
A Halloween Tale
Stephanie Burke
Crawling across a wasteland, clutching her only salvation to her chest, she is battered, torn, and in need of tender loving care. She’s almost ready to give in to the darkness when an angel of mercy with a body made for sin comes to her aid.
But things aren’t always what they appear, and by the end of this Halloween tale, there’ll be hell to pay — even if she does get her way.
A Halloween Tale
One more step, just one more.
The dark was an oppressive, living thing. It pulled from me everything that I was, forced me to face the demons I thought no longer existed. It chilled my soul.
If it were not for the tattered ends of the book I carried — my salvation — I knew I would have curled up and wasted away in the cold, unforgiving dark. But because I could feel the power, the strength, the innate rightness in the thing I held, I trudged on.
On hands and knees, I crawled. With one arm braced against the rough stones of what I prayed was the right path, the other clutching the book to my mostly bare breasts, I inched along, only my senses leading me.
How long had it been since I last saw daylight? How long had it been since I felt the warmth of the sun on my flesh, or moved without pain or fear? How long had it been since I felt hope?
My muscles burned with the effort to hold me somewhat upright. My hearing strained as I moved, hoping they would not find me again. They wanted what I had. They wanted to possess me, to own me, to rip away my freedom, my soul, and my reason. They wanted me as they had left all the others who dared attempt what I was doing — mad, gibbering, and insane. It was not a fate I would accept. I would not be like the others, the lost and confused, terrified husks of what they used to be. That was not my fate.
So I crawled, holding in my whimpers of agony, praying to whoever was listening that I would make it through this with mind and soul intact.
Something was running down my face — tears, blood, something worse — I didn’t know. But it was there, and the fact that I could feel it told me one thing: it was warming up. I had been numb for so long, so cold, so frozen, and then suddenly I could feel.
Warmth. It enveloped me; it caressed my stinging face, turning away the burn of so many scratches and scrapes. It caressed my arms, flooded my veins and surrounded me with light; the light that is all good and welcoming. I shivering from the force of holding myself upright, straining with the effort of holding the book closer to me.
And then I heard someone speak.
My name rolled off his tongue, his voice a foreign, exotic thing that made my flesh tingle and my spirit yearn for what used to be so many days before.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” he whispered. I felt the words surround me, the brush of his warm flesh like the gentle movement of wings as soft as down as he slid in behind me.
But with his words, a fear so great filled me that I couldn’t move. Suddenly I was so very afraid, and his arms were so very warm and familiar.
How could he feel so safe and warm when all I could feel was a growing horror? Confused tears ran down my cheeks, and I began to tremble in earnest.
“Let me help you,” he insisted, pulling me closer to a well muscled, dependable chest, a chest that offered protection and so many wonderful unspoken things that I found myself leaning into him as much as I could. “I just want to help ease your burden, if only for a time.”
He sounded so sad for me that I wanted to comfort him, to tell him some polite lie, despite my obvious predicament — anything to get the sorrow out of his voice.
Then I realized something. The sudden warmth, him just being there, the feeling of comfort I felt…
“I am dead.” I forced the words out from between my cracked lips. “I am dead, and you are here to lead me into the light. I have failed.” The words rasped my sore throat, sending fresh waves of agony through me while at the same time they confused me.
How could I feel pain if I were dead? Was I now being punished for my arrogance? I managed to tighten my fingers around the book, feeling its leather bindings bite into my skin.
“No, you are not dead.” His breath caressed my ear. It made me shiver and began to awaken my blood in a completely different way. “I will not let you die.”
Then suddenly the hard rocky ground beneath me was as soft as a bed of feathers. I whimpered as I sank into the comfort it offered, easing the agony my knees had become.
“I would never lie to you,” he assured me in his dark, chocolaty voice, and then I could feel his hands running slowly up and down my arms, skirting along the one that held the book. “I could never do that to you. I can’t tell a lie.”
I began to shudder again but not from the cold. I wanted to turn my head to look at him, this man who was fast becoming my salvation, but I still couldn’t move much, and suddenly a fluffy softness covered my eyes.
He loomed over me, his body fitting perfectly against my back, the roundness of my bottom settling perfectly against his groin, his thighs backing mine. And everywhere I touched him there was growing need, heat, and light.
One of his hands caressed my stomach, just below where I clutched my precious book, then slid downward, his pinkie barely brushing my pubic bush, sending fire racing through my blood.
“Let me ease you,” he said. I quivered as my body began to burn in a very good way.
I knew I had to go on, to keep moving and not stray from my given path, but would there be harm in taking a small break, in accepting what he so generously offered? I could allow my bruised body some pleasure before I moved on to what could very well be my doom.
I am not a hero. I am not some great warrior filled with righteous justice and the urge to be just what others expect of me. I could never be that. I was too human, too fragile, too filled with fears and anticipations, and pain and expectations that were all too selfish to allow me to be a hero.
Yet I could be allowed this one break in the agony my life had become. I would be free of my burdens for just one brief moment.
“I-I,” I managed, holding back the pitiful sob lodged in my throat. “I-I…”
“Shh,” he whispered. His free hand wrapped around my shoulders and eased me back upright. “Don’t speak.”