Woman of Silk and Stone

by

Mattie Dunman

Copyright © 2014 Mattie Dunman

All Rights Reserved

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For Mom—the best editor I could
ask for.

Gung ho on YOU, Mr.
Island!!

Contents

Part
I: Stranger in a Strange Land

Chapter I: Monday, Monday...Can't Trust That
Day

Chapter II: The Lunatic is on the Grass

Chapter III: I always feel like somebody's watching
me

Chapter IV: Streets Are Up Even When You're
Down

Chapter V: Mo' Money, Mo' Problems

Chapter VI: That Kind of Luxe Just Ain't For
Us

Chapter VII: Oh, Who Would Ever Want to Be
King?

Chapter VIII: All I Want Is a Room Somewhere

Chapter IX: Think I Better Knock, Knock, Knock...On
Wood

Chapter X: Hit Me With Your Best Shot

Part II: To Be a Rock and Not to Roll

Chapter XI: Come On Baby, Light My Fire

Chapter XII: Is this burning an eternal flame

Chapter XIII: Look out, helter skelter, she's coming down
fast

Chapter XIV: You say you want a revolution, well, you
know...

Chapter XV: She's Pretty as a daisy, but Look out man, she's
crazy

Chapter XVI: Can't hold a good woman down

Epilogue: Nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant
to be

The
End

Extras

Woman of Silk and Stone Glossary

Map
of Edin

Acknowledgements

Sneak Peek: At First Touch

Blessed be the man whose woman is
of silk—

Sweet the taste of her
lips,

Woman whose breath is
honey.

With skin soft as the
melammu

With eyes of moon and
stars,

The heart she captures,

The soul she ensnares.

Blessed be the man whose woman is
of stone—

Potent the touch of her
embrace,

Woman whose arms are
pillars.

With spirit fierce as
flame

With mind of tenacity and
cunning,

The heart she
strengthens,

The soul she purifies.

—a proverb of the
Darisam

It always starts out the same.

I am sitting in a vast, empty field, barren
and rocky, no touch of softness or life. The muffled echo of hooves
beating the ground vibrates around me, the clash of steel and cry
of battle comes closer and closer, but there is nothing visible on
the horizon but a desolate landscape.

Then the smoke comes.

It is sly at first, trailing along the
ground like a black thread attached to my clothes, but soon it
becomes thicker, opaque, winding around my limbs and expanding,
until at last it is blocking out the view of the wasted land,
silencing the encroaching sounds of danger and all that is left is
the dark, silky smoke that trails along my skin with a lover's
caress.

I should be frightened, knowing that I could
be smothered at any moment, that there is something unnatural about
the black cloud that has become my whole world. But deep inside my
chest, something settles, clicks into place, and I am not afraid,
but filled with a longing so powerful, so terrible that I open my
arms and welcome the dark.

And then all I see and feel is the fire, the
towering wall of flames that hovers over me for a moment before
engulfing me in a wave of indescribable heat.

And then I wake up.

But this time there is something different
in the smoke as it approaches me. A faint glow, as though there is
something alive at its center, something intelligent. For a moment,
just before the smoke flares into the great blaze I know is coming,
a pair of glittering emerald eyes gazes at me with fervent
hunger.

And when the fire takes me, the moment
before I wake, I hear a voice; a faint whisper that I could easily
have missed if I hadn't been listening, if I hadn't known something
was different this time.

"Come to me," it says.

And I want to.

I should have stayed in bed.

There are some mornings when you wake up and
know, just know, down to your bones that the worst thing you can do
is crawl out of bed and face the day. Those moments when you lie
there, fingers stretched toward the snooze button, every atom of
your being urging you to hit it and roll back over, the mornings
you call in sick so that you can watch Disney movies and eat frozen
mac and cheese all day, the plans you back out of by faking
laryngitis or the flu just for the perfect peace that a day alone
at home can bring.

This was one of those mornings. And I
should've stayed in bed.

Still shaking the fog of a barely remembered
dream, I stumbled out of bed to silence the alarm clock blaring
some country song about loving a woman who's faster than a truck. I
keep my alarm across the room on the dresser; otherwise I'd never
make it out of bed in the mornings. It's that first push, the
desperation to end the torment of the annoying radio station I
depend on to yank me out of dreamland. Essentially I'm pretty lazy,
so my entire life is made up of these little incentives to action.
Without my rules and established rewards and consequences, I would
spend my days lounging in my pajamas with a book on my lap and a
bag of chocolates on the arm of my recliner.

So, unaware of the doom stalking my
footsteps, I muddled through my morning routine, coming slightly to
life after a shower and a disgustingly healthy breakfast of granola
and yogurt. It was harder to focus this morning. The dream that had
woken me was slipping away, but something about it gave me pause;
in the back of my mind there was a tug, a pull that had no clear
direction. But it was enough to make my hand linger over the phone,
the compulsion to call in sick almost overwhelming. Shaking my
head, I turned away and forced myself to get moving, dismissing my
flight of fancy.

By the time I was dressed and ready for
work, the sense of dread with which I always awake had downgraded
to a low hum, and I set out in relative cheerfulness.

I was fifteen minutes late to work thanks to
a pile-up on I-495, and unhappily for me, Grant Martin, my
supervisor, was waiting gleefully for me at my desk. He's hated me
ever since I made the mistake of dancing with him at the office
Christmas party last year and slapped him for feeling me up. Sadly,
he's uncharacteristically competent at his job, and I've never been
able to get rid of him.

I'd been working as a speechwriter at Marduk
Communications for over a year, ever since I graduated with a
Bachelor's degree in Mass Comm and Political Science, starry-eyed
visions of being the campaign manager for the next President
dancing in my head. In reality, I was lucky to get hired as an
underling at a Comm company that organizes PR campaigns for a host
of evil corporations bent on the destroying the environment for
profit. My idealism died a quick death when I couldn't afford to
move from my college roommate's couch on my volunteer campaigner
salary of nothing.

So I'm a sell-out, I hate my job; I hate
living in the city despite all the lovely culture and great
restaurants. Mostly, I hate having to deal with people like the
shitheel who was leaning his overly plump backside on my carefully
arranged desk.

"You're late," Grant said, the smug
expression on his face making me want to drop-kick him.

"Accident on I-495. Sorry," I muttered,
making shooing motions with my hands as I neared my desk. Though he
might technically be my boss, Grant knew to pick his battles with
me. I have a nasty temper and a tendency to 'accidentally' spill
boiling hot beverages on people who annoy me.

He snickered and looked altogether too
pleased with himself. "Samuels wants to see you in his office.
Today was not a good day to be late, Honey."

As always, he put extra emphasis on my name,
making it like a sordid pet name, rather than a shortening of the
most embarrassing name parents could ever choose for a child.
Honeydew Morning-Sun Sullivan.

That's what happens when you eat wheatgrass,
granola and tofu exclusively. You name your kid after a melon.

I rolled my eyes at him and changed my
course to the office at the back of the bull-pen where all the
little drones like me huddled in their cubicles, faces glued to
computer screens. Knocking on the department supervisor's door, I
straightened the wild tumble of my amber-colored hair and pulled at
the hem of my suit-jacket, hoping I didn't look too windblown after
running from my parking space at the ends of the earth.

"Come," Samuels boomed through the door, and
I entered, taking a cautious step forward when he didn't raise his
head to look at me.

"Sir, you wanted to see me?" I said,
hovering by the door. After another moment while Samuels studied a
sheet of paper on his desk that was probably the lunch menu for the
Chinese take-away down the block, he finally acknowledged my
presence with a sickly smile.

"Have a seat, Miss Sullivan," he said,
gesturing at the chairs in front of his desk. I dropped down with a
sense of trepidation. I had been called to his office a grand total
of three occasions during my tenure at Marduk, and none of those
had been rollicking good times.

"As I'm sure you're aware, the downturn in
the economy is making it difficult for companies like ours to
remain independent. This morning, we announced a merger with
TekeComm Industries, and consequently we have to make some cuts in
every department." He continued on for a while, yammering about the
importance of the many over the few, how the individual must
sacrifice for the masses, and a number of other textbook platitudes
that did nothing to mask the fact that I was getting canned.

"We'd like you to finish out the week, and
I'm sure you'll be pleased with the generous severance
package."

I glanced down at the check he handed me.
Five hundred dollars.

Fucking awesome.

"Do you have any questions?" he asked,
already turning back to his take-out menu. I stared in stunned
silence at the measly check that was meant to get me through until
I could find another position. My rent alone was more than twice
that amount, and despite my efforts, my savings account wasn't much
better off thanks to my car breaking down the previous month.

For a moment, I considered telling him where
to stuff the check, and the job at which I had worked so hard
despite hating every single second; but my more mercenary side, the
one that encouraged me to take the soul-killing job to begin with,
gave in and I reached for the check.

"Will I be able to use you for a reference?"
I asked calmly, as though I weren't picturing myself evicted from
my tiny, 400 square foot apartment, destitute on the streets and
selling my year-old painkillers for food money.

"Yes, I'm sure Grant will be happy to write
you a reference," Samuels said, a small smirk playing at his
plushy, 1940's movie mobster lips. I gritted my teeth and nodded,
knowing I wasn't getting anything useful out of this man. I left
without saying anything else, the thought of having to continue the
rest of my work day as though nothing were wrong corroding my gut
like battery acid.

I saw Grant waiting at my desk, his pudgy
face alight with anticipation, and knew he was aware of my new
unemployed status. Abruptly, I turned and marched to the elevator,
heading down to the ground floor and out the lobby doors, clutching
the pathetic check in my hand. I walked for a while, not paying
attention to my surroundings, not caring what Samuels or Grant
would say when I finally returned to my desk. I just wandered
unseeing, my mind empty, until I tripped on something and dropped
to my knees, scuffing them on the pavement.