Scratch The Sky: Blood Wild Chronicles Book 1
Jia has always feared this day would come before she was ready to accept her father’s responsibilities.
She never believed it would arrive on the heels of an unsanctioned anthro hunt that tears her father from her life and leave the Pack in her care, with no indication if the man is alive or dead. His loss hints at a secret worth killing, worth dying for, and it is left to Jia to find the answers her father took with him.
Can she expose the borough’s underbelly, find her father, and keep the pack intact, protect them as her father had done…or will uncertain alliances made, and her quest to uncover the truth, destroy everything and everyone she has ever loved?
The words reverberated in her head, carried by the November rain that drenched her thick dark pelt and tickled her ears, words that pushed her back into action against her better judgment. But when Roland Marrock spoke, the Pack listened, regardless of his daughter’s misgivings about the man’s safety. Her last glimpse of him, crouched over Delilah’s convulsing, bloody body, trying to drag her out of the open street into the safety of the nearest overgrown passage…the crack and snap of a taut bowstring…his yelp and a howl of warning to the now scattered Pack, an ultimatum that left Jia torn between remaining to help, to fight for his life at his side, and the obedience he demanded.
She knew what she had to do. Against her heart’s wishes, duty to the Pack came first. She had to get each of them to safety. She had to warn the others, to lead the hunters away from the den.
She had to lead where her father could not. Her hesitation on the wall, a moment too long, beneath the radiance of the full moon’s silvery fingers, lit a glow in the chartreuse of her irises, a beacon caught in the false beam of a hunter’s light. Momentarily blinded by the flare, she froze, but it was the horror of what lay behind the white glare that temporarily robbed her limbs of motion. A glimpse, a visage lost to time, followed by a snap that caught her unaware and the burning in her shoulder that threw her from the wall into the foliage on the other side.
I just finished Tamara Brigham’s book: ”Suspicion’s Gate” and I am very impressed how well she describes the war time during WW II in France from both the French and the German side. She showed so clearly how people on both sides were drawn into situations during the war that they could not imagine having to deal with during peace times. The choices they faced were mostly no win situations for all involved.
Tamara also showed very clearly the situation at the time within the German military.
Having been raised and grown up in post-World War II Germany, I heard many stories from my father and others who had served in the regular German Military during the war. They all agreed that the regular German Army and the SS were totally different entities and the SS fought for control over the regular army especially towards the end of the war. It was the opinion of many old soldiers that the SS guys were the “elite” thugs and killers who were Hitler’s henchmen. They would maim and kill without conscience as this book so clearly depicts.
Thank you, Tamara, for writing this book.
Dusty dropped to his knees near enough to Jennifer to pat her face and tilt her head to allow her unimpeded breathing. One of the guards took exception to his efforts and struck him, but as he fell back on his ass, he saw that his efforts were helpful. Jennifer gasped, choked, and coughed her way to consciousness. Relieved that Skip had not killed her, but knowing the attempt itself could guarantee his death, Dusty rubbed his aching shoulder and watched the guards wrestle with Skip as they tried to tie his hands behind him.
Though the blow dazed him, Skip continued to struggle to reach the woman, his fury blinding him to the steep price he would pay, despite his failure to kill her. “Whore!” he screamed. Unable to get closer, unable to get free of the guards who held him, or those who gathered around Jennifer, he spat at her in frustration and rage.
Dusty’s head turned when the door opened again and a second set of footsteps, heavier than Jennifer’s, barreled down the wooden steps. von Hausen’s revolver was drawn and cocked and Dusty expected him to use it. Intending to throw himself in harm’s way, to protect Skip, Dusty struggled to his feet. One shot did ring out, and though the gun was pointed in Skip’s direction, the bullet passed harmlessly over his head, hitting no one. A warning shot only. Next time, Skip would not be so lucky.
“No…Hans…please…it is my fault…” croaked Jennifer as she realized through the haze what had happened and why.
Hans reached the foot of the steps and stopped, his pistol still aimed at the Australian. The guards had cleared away and he now had a clear shot if he chose to take it, a shot he could not miss. His finger trembled upon the trigger.
“Please, Hans. If you ever felt anything for me, I beg you. Hansy…please!”
He paused, hesitated, his resolve softened when he heard her use his pet name for the first time in months. He could not remember the last time she had used it. In his heart, however, he knew the usage was a trick, a way to manipulate him into giving her what she wanted, regardless of the effect to their marriage. His jaw clenched and the gun, which had begun to lower, came back up, this time turning ever so slightly in Jennifer’s direction. Then, unexpectedly, he relaxed at the noises behind him, the sound of two other sets of footfalls on the wooden veranda. Clara and Mila.
“Hans!” Clara shouted, not considering at that moment that perhaps she should use his rank or title or something other than his name in front of his wife and the soldiers. Lives were at stake and she had to do her part to save them. All of them. He looked at her. Oblivious to anything then except her hypnotic green eyes, and then lower, to the protective arms she had wrapped around his child.
Hans squeezed the trigger. A cloud of dust hovered in the air above where the bullet was now embedded in the earth. His desire not to subject his child to the gruesome execution of a prisoner, and possibly her mother, stayed him from action more than anything else. There was a collective sigh of relief when he replaced his pistol in its fine leather holster and went to his wife’s side. He bent down to see if she was well. Despite that he had just spared, her life, and for the moment Skip’s, all Jennifer could see was the gun pointed at her by that man in that uniform and she recoiled from his touch. She believed it had been Clara who had prevented the killing, not her own efforts or some personal decision of her husband’s; in truth, it had been Mila’s presence that had stopped him. Her fury at Clara’s interference in her life only fueled her desire to escape Hans’ touch.
Hans saw it all in her eyes. Every fear, every rejection, every touch of blame. Glaring at Jennifer, he hissed in frustration, “This is your doing. Are you happy now?” Snarling with hurt, he resisted striking her and instead struck Skip hard across the face with the back of his hand, a blow that would have knocked Skip to the ground if the soldiers had not been holding him. “Take him to my office. I will deal with him there.”
He looked again at his wife, who still lay upon the ground and was now being hugged by their child, both reassuring one another that everything would be alright. Jennifer was murmuring that she had tripped and fallen, nothing more, a likelihood due to her drinking, though she had not had much to drink yet this morning. Hans wanted to kneel with them, offer his own words of love and comfort as he hugged them both…
…and then he saw Clara.
He growled and turned on to follow Skip and the guards to his office to mete out Skip’s punishment and hopefully still make it to the required luncheon on time. He was full of anger, resentment, and passion. But passion for who, he could not say.
Kavan felt consciousness approaching, realizing as he woke that Madalyn must be home. It must have been her presence he sensed in the room as he had grown familiar with Gaelán’s company over the last several days and he knew it was not Gaelán with him. He felt hot, stiff, and his hands throbbed painfully. Without opening his eyes, he sighed. “You do not need to linger. There is nothing you can do for me.”
“You are sure of that, átaelás mai?”
“Kóráhm!” He jerked up; the pain of the effort made him dizzy and nauseous. Scarred hands steadied him, taking away some of that dizziness and nausea, though it did not affect the pain in his body. Their eyes met briefly but Kavan looked away, humiliated. “Were you expecting someone else?”
“Anyone else. It has been so long since you have…and after what I have done…”
“What have you done?” He shuddered and closed his eyes.
“Perhaps I do not.” The quite real form of Saint Kóráhm the Heretic settled into the chair at his bedside, pushing his hood from his face. “Unless you are reading my thoughts, you do not know what I know or do not know. But if you will not speak freely with me, I shall not pursue it. It is up to you to trust me or not. I do have a question to put to you, however, that you must answer before we proceed with any discussion. Why have you refused Gaelán’s offer to heal your hands?”
“He cannot do it. He is not a trained healer.”
The auburn head of hair bobbed once. “He is not…but he has healed the rest of your injuries…though not completely I admit. I see no reason he could not have tended your hands to offer you mobility. Even so, he could have summoned Ártur to aid you.”
“This,” Kavan held his twisted hands before Kóráhm, choking at the sight, “is my punishment. No healer can undo what k’Ádhá has done…”
“k’Ádhá? Did you see k’Ádhá amongst the men who beat you? Did you specifically see him crush your hands?”
Kavan grunted. “He allowed it.”
Kóráhm narrowed his gaze. “k’Ádhá has given us freedom of choice to do what we will, and then stepped away from his creation to allow it to function alone, to find its way to the path back to him. Some events may be predestined…experience tells us this, and he knows what the outcome will be of a man’s choices, but he does not dictate every moment of our existence. He allows many events, most of which he has no specific hand in. He allowed those men to attack you, but he did not make them do it; it was their choice, not his.”
“It is my punishment,” Kavan said, his conviction intact. “I want to be healed, to play my harp, but it will only come when I have atoned for my sins.”
The saint rose, shaking his head with regret. “You think you are privy to the mind of k’Ádhá, phyl haeles. That is a dangerous path to tread, and one many do not come back from. If you truly wish absolution, you must first know what your sins are before they can be forgiven. Only then, since you have chosen this path of misery and self-destruction, will your hands be restored to their former beauty and skill.”
Not understanding what the saint meant by self-destruction, not believing he had chosen any of this, Kavan cried, “But I have confessed, milord! You know I have! I became needlessly drunk. I tried to bed a whore. I have admitted this…and that I was wrong…”
“Then there must be something more damning to which you have not confessed.”
“More damn…” Tears sprung to his eyes. “I am not a man. Is that a sin?”
“Not a…Kavan…kyag…” Kóráhm knelt by the bedside and touched the bard’s face lovingly. “You are as much a man as I was at your age. You have considerably more willpower and self-control than I did; perhaps you are more of a man. If it had been me,” his hand dropped and he stood, “I would have bedded the whore. And likely the princess too.”
“You…?” Kavan was visibly shocked.
Kóráhm’s expression grew sorrowful at the betrayal he read in Kavan’s eyes. “You have much to learn about life, kyag, but you are, in many ways, a better man than I ever was. In this, there is nothing more I can do for you. I leave you with one final instruction.” He laid his hand over Kavan’s eyes, closing them as he spoke. “When it is time,” he whispered, “go where she leads you; do as she instructs. Trust her as you once trusted me.”
There was a quick discharge of static in that touch, and though the sensation of the hand over his eyes lingered, Kavan knew Kóráhm was gone. The man’s words tore Kavan apart inside. Kóráhm was a saint, after all. How could he have been anything less than the saint he had been dubbed? But Kóráhm had been mortal once, and it was possible, with much information about his life missing, that he had been the same in some ways as any other man. Kavan’s sense of betrayal had caused Kóráhm to depart. Even the Saint had abandoned him. He was certain of it. His sins had taken his hands, his music, and had driven Kóráhm away. Kavan wept again, hoping to convince himself that Kóráhm would return, that surely Kóráhm had been a much greater man in every way than Kavan would ever be.
On the practice field, Bhríd was trying to teach Muir to feel an opponent’s advance when he could not see it. A difficult feat for someone who was not Elyri, but the prince was, as usual, proving to be more proficient than his Elyri teacher expected. Perhaps his constant exposure to Elyri had sharpened the boy’s natural intuition. A small flame of pride flickered within Kavan but he extinguished it quickly. Muir could have been his son for all of the pride he took in the prince’s accomplishments.
Vision blurring, the bard lost sight of the men on the field and the castle walls beyond. Instead of struggling against the vision he knew was coming, he relaxed into it, hoping to avoid the worst of the usual nausea and dizziness that came with them. Two in such rapid succession was rare and thus important.
This time he Saw Muir standing at the foot of a cliff, in a musty cavern, a sword raised above his head as though he was preparing to drive it into an unmoving opponent at his feet. Kavan could hear Prince Wilred crying again, and somewhere far off he could hear Caol arguing with someone. Several paces to Prince Muir’s left, a body lay face down amidst a scatter of jagged boulders and stones. The form was regally dressed, though dirty, but from this distance, it was unrecognizable. Though Kavan strained to push the Sight towards the figure, the vision would not allow itself to be molded. He could see only what it allowed. Within the vision, there came a loud crashing of falling rocks and Kavan’s view went dark.
Groaning, he pushed himself off the ground, knowing better than to ask how he had come to be face down in the grass. The Sight did strange things to him sometimes, and he long ago stopped trying to understand it. Prince Muir and Bhríd ceased their practice and rushed to him; the prince was already there helping him up with concern on his young face.
“What is it, Lord Cliáth?” the prince asked. “Are you well?” He worried more for his tutor since his mother’s death. He could not bear to lose Kavan as he had lost her.
“I am. It is nothing that should concern you, my prince…”
Bhríd squatted beside him and placed a hand upon his kinsman’s shoulder. “llánec?”
It was a term the prince had heard before, and he knew what it meant. Brow knit in worry, he knelt and asked, “What did you see? What has happened?”
“I…” Kavan shook his head. “It is something that will happen…or could happen, but it was not clear enough to say any more about what it means.” He raised a hand to stop the boy’s questions. “The Sight is not always obvious, my prince. Often its images are cryptic. I can know what it wants me to see and no more, and right now, what I have Seen makes very little sense.”
The boy looked up abruptly, staring into the dwindling
fire on the hearth but not truly seeing it. What he did see,
what he sensed, were things he did not quite comprehend.
Sorrow. Chaos. Hope. As surely as he knew his own name, he
was certain that Enesfel’s great King was dead and that
somewhere another had been born. Twins had been born, but he
knew not where, or how he knew this to be true. A word came
to mind, or a name perhaps, Arlan, but it belonged to no one
he knew and held no meaning for him. It was only a word, a
word connected to the images and impressions he had been
shown, but he had no idea what any of it meant. Bewildered,
he rose to his feet and went to the window. Little could be
seen through the swirling snow so he watched the flakes fall
instead. It was the distraction of darkness that he wanted
most to help clear his head.
Pushing his white hair back from his eyes, he pondered the connection between the death and the births, certain there was one. He was equally certain that what he had witnessed were actual events, not flashes of fancy and imagination. Glancing at the staircase behind him, he considered waking his family, but he was still a child, unproven and untrained in Elyri ways, and he doubted that anyone would believe him. Only Ártur would, and thus it would be best, he decided, to await his cousin’s return home. Ártur would have news from Rhidam, if there was any, and he would be able to prove the truth…and perhaps even explain it.
Kavan wanted that proof himself.
With a small shrug of resignation, he settled again upon the plush woven rug and tried unsuccessfully to refocus on his book. Too many unsettling things had happened to him in the last three days; this was only the latest oddity to plague him. Based on what he knew of his people, he presumed that the Elyri gifts were awakening within him, as they did in all of his kind. But he knew how his uncle frowned upon such gifts, and it made him wary of speaking up, of revealing himself to them, or anyone. He was afraid of their rejection. Afraid of the power.
Looking down into the palm of his white hand, he watched with fascination as a small flame sprang to life there, glimmering and flickering as a candle but burning nothing.
From the my
earliest memories of creating picture books designed to bring
stories I read or saw on television to a more satsifactory end,
storytelling has been my primary passion for as long as I can
recall. Whether doing so through theatre, dance, music or words,
expressing the inner self, or the world as perceive it, has been my
Who doesn't watch a good movie, or read a good book, and imagine 'what if' or 'if only'?
After a lifetime of living all over the United States, I've made my home in the Northern California county of Lake with a variety of furbabies who keep me on the run. In addition to writing, I'm a movie and music lover, and a proponent of continued education throughout one's life.
White Penitent is my fourth publication.