Master of Miasma (The Valhalla Series) (2 page)

And now I am kidnapped into the dense netherworld surrounding our hideout. It's our asylum where we party without being ordered to turn the noise down, where we thrive on the smoking grunge of protesting guitar strings without being told we are worshipping a devil who is a construct made for fear, not redemption.

Freedom is only found when you reject societal consequence and embrace the way you are. Be true to yourself. Nothing else is required to traverse the Elysian hallways and pastures. You are enough just the way you are. In another time we'd have been called hippies but we're not flower children, we are a free culture labeled degenerates. We wear our scars openly and admit vulnerability without shame.

Society spurns what it doesn't understand and I have lived with that stigma since the first bee-stings of boobs erupted on my chest. I'm a heathen in a world of hypocrites. I'm accustomed to judgment and no longer fear any god because no god would be half as petty as the brethren on this Earth.

Even though my heart is sedate and my mind is racing, I know I am about to embark on a journey of discovery. This is my awakening into the secrets of the soul; my mind will be widened, my eyes will be opened, and I'll find peace with a shadow who is so intoxicating he will lead me into realms the close minded cannot comprehend and would be too frightened to contemplate.

I'm not afraid even if I should be. Prudence is not my virtue, the fortitude of my inner inquisitive hunger has led me to this door and I am walking in willing to leave the scorn behind me forever.

Fire crackles nearby, bidding me to open my eyes and wallow in the corrupt gaze of the man who stole me from my despair.

In relaxed reluctance I force my lids apart, staring into the eyes of the secret who watches.

Chapter 3

No menace exudes from him as he sits relaxed against a high wingback chair of worn butterscotch. One black boot is up against it, his other leg is stretched out.

His left hand fiddles with a huge quartz drinking tulip. Glancing quickly at the black driving glove on his hand it finally dawns on me that my abductor is unnaturally enormous. He's lean, clothed in obsidian suede and onyx cotton, still managing to pull shadows close to sheath his form.

I want to look around but am stuck in his obsessive gaze, lost in the grip of pitch eyes ringed with glowing umber. That strange sensation twists through my solar plexus again, wringing my heart in apprehension.

He captures my breath and quickens my pulse, rendering me a stereotype with his mere proximity, with the manacle of his potent allure. His presence reaches into a sacrosanct part of my spirit to fondle it into a froth. The enigma seduces me every time he locks my focus to his own. I wish for the strength to at least converse before surrendering to the titanium will of this insane attraction.

Dark winged eyebrows arch in elegant sweeps, “Thirsty? Can I pour you a drink?”

I nod, sitting up and pushing the hair off my face, absorbing his panther steps when he stands and sveltely moves to a table beyond the chair he occupied; he lifts a clay jug and pours liquid into something I can't see from here.

My ravenous curiosity claws his body in surreptitious surveillance and I'm having a hard time hearing over the gush of blood in my ears. That man has confidence and authority, it is palpable.

He swivels, striding back, reaching me with mach speed, offering me a wine goblet of gold fluid. Frowning, I accept it while internally waging war.

My hand next to his, it's not possible. Glancing up as I take it vertigo clashes with lucidity and the plethora of soulmate doors open, smashing my mitral valve with cymbal crashes, my breath fluctuating, the nearness so magnificent it sucks my soul from my feet to my mouth, to reach out in a desperate attempt to understand him through osmosis.

I want to throw myself at him, touch him, taste his skin, claim him... Jeez, he turns me into a diabolical animal.

Look away Em. Now!

Struggling with the supernatural force flogging my spirit into mindless worship, I look down, gripping my drink like a toddler, with both hands, fighting for logic.

How the hell do you do that to me?

Holding it firmly to look into the alchemy captured in a cup, I swirl it, loving the way it morphs around the chalice like fruity nail polish.

The goblet was espresso sized in his large hand. I swallow down the first lump of anxiety.

“I'm Macala.” Moving back to his chair he flops into it, lifting his own drink and raising it in my direction. His voice is distracting and I pause to process the fact that he just introduced himself. The riddle has a name.

“
Hi,” I say lamely. He knows mine already so introducing myself is moot.

I survey him as he drinks. Shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows expose defined bulk, thick wrists, and neat fingers. Glancing into his ethereal face I lift my glass in salute, taking in the black hair pushed untidily off his brow in chaotic spikes. It's uncontrived, as though he's been worrying his hair while I slumbered.

His complexion is pale as if he seldom sees the sun, starkly contrasting his choice of wardrobe and hair coloring. Frazzled by the intensity in his stare I look into the gold juice, sniffing it experimentally. It smells like apple mingled with pineapple. The bouquet waters my mouth and my stomach rumbles loudly in the tense interlude. Embarrassed, I fold an arm across my midsection and squeeze to mute my hunger.

Sipping, the injection of tasty fluid scalds my tongue. Tropical vapors scorch up my nose when I swallow and I revel the warmth chasing into my body with an afterburn of tantalizing zing.

Looking around I quickly peruse the white gossamer curtains draped over us like a tent, the walls open except for the one behind my chair which is a sheet of polished stone, and the deeply impressive fireplace holding half a tree crumbling to glowing embers. Beyond us lurk eternal shadows which hint at a vast open cavity.

The only other light we have comes from a lamp on the table beside his chair; it's a substantial shell coiling up as a cone, lit from within.

Putting my feet together on the dark floor I watch as my Gothic dress flops to cover my shit kickers. My courage is so small it would get lost in a teaspoon but I grab the fumes left of it and face him, daring to blurt, “Why am I here?”

Finally the expressionless face betrays a hint of humanity with the quirking of sharp corners, veneering his mouth in humor, “I've watched you for months.”

“Excuse me?” I challenge, cocking my head.

What the hell for? I'm so mediocre I am unworthy of a stalker, enormous or otherwise. I've moped for three new moons, lost between the facade of eking a paycheck and living for the weekends to hide in music and the Fraternity, looking for Guy, hoping he hasn't left me alone in this world.

“You are not hard of hearing, Emma. Your soul registers my words before your mind does, otherwise you wouldn't have been affected by me the way you were.”

The timbre of his voice hums my bones, stripping my body of strength again. It's such a unique voice as if he's speaking in tongues, casting absolution and hallucinogens into the room to tickle the vibrations in the air stretching taut between us. It's angelic and mesmerizing.

Soothed by the luxury of his baritone I find it challenging to interrogate his words. Leaning heavily into the depth of the leather chair I gawp at him. What are you? A wizard? A master of satanic script who performs miracles while stripping your quarry of free will? What?

Leaving his drink on the rustic table he leans forward with his elbows on his knees to stare at me, reminding me that he's tall, with shins that look ultra sexy in those ink-black jeans.

I have a closet fetish over towering guys. I don't care if they're muscular or not, I am just a total slut for a neck cricking dude. I love the grace of long legs, they are sumptuous and attention grabbing with the way material curls around slightly bowed bones and muscle. They're even hotter walking. My heart does the two step, palpitating to pound my pulse uncomfortably up my neck.

“
Macala, why the hell did you bring me here?” I insist, knowing I have to do this while I still have a semblance of my wits about me.

Brooding eyes stare into mine while his jaw twitches, his laced fingers tensing in hold, “Eagle is coming. They'll kill you on first sight, no questions asked. You are like me, Raven. Emma, you have much to learn yet, but you have to accept your fate if I'm to intervene in your longevity. You seem like you don't care if you live or die, however I have an investment in the former.”

“Raven?” I latch onto that part because the rest is too heavy to contemplate right now.

“
Clans, sectors of our society. Once this region was shared but we split up, Eagle left with his people and the wind says he's on his way back. Your attitude, your affinity to my aura and temperament, all I've seen of you and your own genetics confirm you have Raven in your blood, you are one of us and we are rounding up our own kind for safekeeping.”

And you forgot your meds. Pity, you don't look like a whackjob, but then I have a guilty history of picking losers out of a large horde.

It's a logic booster because I stand, leaving my exotic drink on the floor next to my chair. Glancing around, I wonder how hard it's going to be to escape a stalker when I'm already in his lair. Am I allowed to have clues? We can make my escape a little game so I at least stand a fighting chance.

He stands too, holding his hands out like a goal keeper, “You are here by my invitation. You get one chance to accept or reject my offer of sanctuary. Whatever you choose, you will be marked by that decision for life. You can't leave without the mark, and the choice is final.”

“I don't understand?” I whisper, my voice hoarse with ratcheting nerves.

He won the gold for fucktardness. He's super insane, not the itty-bitty kind which marks an individual as eccentric, but this here is a full blown case of 'lord of crazy'.

He unclips the studs on the back of his gloves, biting the left one off with a teeth clamp, then slowly removes the other. It's threatening and hard to read. Is he getting ready to deck me? Don't dudes leave their gloves on before they KO you? Not that I'd stay conscious beyond one punch of those solid knuckles. Shit.

Unnerved, my jaw aches with tension as I maintain vigilant focus, ready to bolt.

Turning his hands over, he shows me the palms.

Blinking, trying to understand, I glance up into his handsome face to ascertain intention. His indomitable projection forces my gaze back to those hands held out the way you'd offer your palm to a fortune teller. Except I can't see his lines. I'd say judging by what I'm looking at, that he has no future to foretell.

I need to keep a grip. I want to scream, cower, run. Even I know that reasoning with a lunatic is possible, but if he's truly mad I'm pretty much fucked.

It's okay Em, just listen.

I want to look up to meet his eyes when he speaks directly inside my head but can't no matter how hard I try, and I finally comprehend how I heard him back at the den of the F.F.

His left hand has a raised triangle with thorn shapes flaring off it on the palm, the right has a circle of sharp black spikes raised out of the palm. The human pincushion, and people deign to call me strange.

He shows me the left, “This is the acceptance of friendship. You clasp my hand and are welcome here forever.” Closing the hand into a tight fist he then shoves the right into my face, “This is rejection. We scar all who cross our threshold and by your mark we recognize if you are accepted or rejected by the Raven Clan. It's a sigil to recognize kin and ally.”

Except no one will know when you wear gloves. Isn't that cheating?

Did you get implants? Are you horribly deluded, or... or... jeeez. Is this like a gang initiation?

Taking a weak step back I look up into his rigid face, his jaw ticking overtime, “What are you?”

Is
this a gang? What do you stand for?

“
T'ach'naa.”

“
Say what?” I mumble, bad vibes now jumping so hard on my nerves I think I might need a pee pretty bad.

“
Emma, forget what I am. Friend or foe, pick one. It's time to decide,” he demands with a voice now inflected with aggressive undertones. His urgency is pretty darn clear and he may be a nutcase but he means this heart and soul.

He holds out both hands, watching me like a sniper waiting for me to shake a hand that may possibly mar me for life.

It would be intriguing if it wasn't so damn intimidating. Glancing between them the triangle looks the least painful, but I have a soul deep impression this is more than just a mark of friendship, it's a brand of allegiance, it determines whether I live or die this night.

Yes it's strange, but I've seen weirder things than this.

I refuse to offend him because he has shit sticking out of his hands the way the rest of us wear metal and tattoos.

My hand is trembling when I lift it, clasping the large palm with my own. A scream wrenches out involuntarily when our flesh touches. The execution via electrocution is enough to incinerate my soul, the spiritual-fire meshing into my body buckles my legs and I stagger, tripping on the burgundy hem of my dress, the long sleeves snagging when I stumble to regain balance. My body is rejecting me, flaming my eyes with the flare of reaction, poisoning my bloodstream with an acidic inferno.