--It's kind of short, I know, but forgive me. It's a holiday, be glad I'm doing any writing at all. I own Ashlee and Frank Crawford. Everyone else is the plaything of Stephen King. What a lucky guy!--
Dashing through the snow
In a one horse open sleigh
O'er the fields we go
Laughing all the way
Frank's voice had faded behind her quite a while ago. Ashlee didn't care; her arms were starting to go numb now, and if she stayed out in the snow much longer she was going to turn into a popsicle. Besides, the storm was beginning to be frightening.
"What the hell?" she murmured to herself, her run slowing to a stop. Some time ago, it seemed that the snow had played an oh-so-amusing practical joke on her and moved the once close houses to another location. Now, with a glance around, it was confirmed -- she was back in what used to be a cornfield. Ashlee shuddered, not entirely from the cold. "I'll just turn around," she said softly, her voice drifting away to be lost in the roaring wind. "Frank can't be far behind me -- Frank!" She cupped her mittened hands around her mouth and bellowed into the snowy darkness. "Frank! Frank, I went the wrong way, turn around!" There was a long pause, and nothing answered her. Ashlee stamped the ground in growing anxiety. "Dad!" she shouted into the night. No answer. "Dammit. He must --" She glanced around nervously. "-- he must've gone the wrong way too. We probably got separated. Maybe he even found the houses, and now he's wondering where I am." Ashlee looked around wildly. Her voice hadn't completely assured her, even though it was supposed to. It always seemed to work for the heroines in horror movies. She stood in her spot for a moment, part of her hoping desperately that Frank would emerge from the torrents of blinding snow and rescue her. The other part was snapping that she should get her ass in gear and find those houses that had been so close. Her nose felt so cold she was sure it was going to fall off. "Just like Michael Jackson," Ashlee murmured to no one, and forced a laugh. Now that she thought of it, there weren't that many horror movie heroines that lived anyway. The part that wanted to get to the houses won the duel of common sense; she stomped her feet one more time and started off on her way. And that was when she saw it.
Something huge and massive, towering over the now-dead cornfield. Made of stalks and husks, bound together with rope. A cross.
"What?" Ashlee said under her breath, and swiveled her head to see it better. Most definitely a cross -- but what for? "A scarecrow," she assured herself firmly. "Not much use now, though. I sure don't see any crows." Another forced, stiff laugh. All right, she had shot the shit for long enough; Ashlee pivoted back around to start for the houses. Her father was probably waiting for her -- "Frank?" she called suddenly, startled. There was a figure where there hadn't been one a moment ago. It was tall and sturdily built, clutching something in its right hand. "Frank, is that you?" Ashlee tried again, not so surely this time. "Frank, I -- I got -- lost --" Her words stumbled and finally died in the snow. That figure wasn't her father. It was too well built, too strong-looking, too... what was the word she was looking for? Threatening? "Frank?" Ashlee whispered, squinting to see through the snow. The stranger that wasn't her father took a step closer, and she could hear him humming 'Jingle Bells'. "Who are you?" she shrieked suddenly, voice piercing the cold night air. The figure moved closer. Now she could see what it was holding. A long hunting knife, dark with something other than shadows. Little did Ashlee know that what stained the long, silver blade was the blood of Francis Kevin Crawford. All she knew was that something was desperately wrong. "Stay away from me!" Ashlee screeched at the humming stranger, then turned and ran blindly in the other direction.
"OUTLANDER!" screamed the figure. It was only a matter of time before his feet pounded the snow and he took off after her.
Ashlee's heart was thudding in her chest. The snow stung her cheeks and eyes, making it impossible for her to see where she was going. Her only coherent hope was that the storm would present the same unpleasantries to her opponent. She took a sudden left and nearly fell face-first into the snow. Her arms pinwheeled wildly, but Ashlee managed to keep her balance and only missed half a beat in her pace. She couldn't hear the thudding footsteps behind her anymore, yet she knew better than to slow down because of that. Ashlee had seen enough horror movies to know the moment you let your guard down was when the killer attacked.
"Where the hell is Gatlin?" She paused, then took a right. "Only one mile away, my ass," she whispered fiercely, and abruptly ran face-first into a building. Pain exploded in front of her, followed by a thousand tiny bursts of light. "Jesus!" she shrieked, stumbling back and immediately regretting her loud noise. But Christ, her nose might've been broken, it hurt so badly! Ashlee touched her nose gingerly and whimpered. "Ow," she said tearfully. "Shit."
"Something something... um... all the way..." She straightened immediately. There was the voice again, not humming now, but singing 'Jingle Bells'. It was absent and quiet, almost as if the voice's owner couldn't remember the words and didn't really care. There was something sinister about it. "Oh what fun... it is to... um..."
"Shit!" Ashlee repeated under her breath, taking off in the other direction again. She could tell she was on a road now; the faint silhouettes of buildings lined up on either side of her, and her feet hit solid cement when they pounded past the snow. She was taking extra care to look out for more walls -- Ashlee had no idea that she had just collided full-on with the Gatlin Seed & Feed. It was only apparent that she hadn't reached the houses yet. The stores didn't have the look of houses, but the neighborhoods had to be close. She was considering a short break to catch her breath and regain her bearings when the soft singing drifted back into her ears.
"Da da something something dum... hey!" Instead of stopping, Ashlee attempted a weird stumble-leap -- which in turn tangled her legs together, sending her flying into a huge mound of packed snow. She let out a strangled scream that was quickly muffled by a faceful of white powder. The cold was incredible; Ashlee jerked back sharply and struggled to get to her feet, but it was too late. The person with the knife was standing over her, and it appeared that he'd remembered all of the words.
Bells on bobtail ring
Making spirits bright
What fun it is to ride and sing
A sleighing song tonight
'Jingle Bells', that was what it had been called. Malachai was strangely proud of himself. He'd sliced the old man, caught up with the girl, and remembered the name of the song. Quite a satisfactory day, if he did say so himself.
"Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh," Malachai sang under his breath. He had no idea how a sleigh could be one horse or open, but that didn't matter. The song was fun to sing.
"No--" she gasped through a mouthful of snow, but he seized her by the collar of her coat and yanked her to her feet. Pleads for mercy always pissed him off.
"What are you doing in Gatlin, outlander?" Malachai growled. The girl opened her mouth to answer him and abruptly shut it when he slammed her hard against the brick wall of the hardware store. He could see in the dim light that she looked both startled and hurt. Her nose was bleeding too.
"I'm lost," she began slowly, obviously waiting for another slam against the building. "My dad, his car, it's out of gas... we were just looking for help--" Her eyes flicked to the knife in his hand and immediately brightened with feverish terror. "Please don't kill me," the girl blurted. "Please don't, please don't--"
"Shut up," Malachai said disgustedly, and gave her collar another hard yank. He lifted his knife to her throat, pressing the girl tightly back against the brick wall. Her eyes flicked to the blade at her neck, then squeezed closed.
"I don't have any money, but if you're going to do it," she gasped, her chest hitching with the sudden onrush of frightened breath, "do it quickly, please. Don't make a game out of it." There was a distaste in her voice that made Malachai pause. He didn't think he'd ever heard anyone sound so... dry with a knife at their throat. He looked her over briefly; it was terribly dark, but he could just barely make out her face. Thin and pale -- not surprising, considering her situation -- with a spray of freckles spanning across her nose and lightly dotting her cheeks. Her hair was curly and a red a few shades darker than his, something obvious even in the low light he observed her in. Malachai's hand stayed frozen at her throat, not sure whether to make the move or not. The simple undertone to her voice -- a dry sarcasm that was oddly refreshing -- was conflicting his judgement to Isaac's orders.
"How old are you?" Malachai asked abruptly.
"What?" The girl's eyes popped open, still bright with terror but now confused as well.
"I don't like repeating myself," he said through clenched teeth, inching the blade a little closer to her neck. She pressed herself flat against the wall in an effort to move her throat out of reach. It wasn't working very well.
"No, I heard you," she said quickly. "I was just wondering why--"
"It would be best if you didn't answer me with questions." His wrist tightened slightly. Yes, Malachai had a talent for getting answers from even the most difficult of subjects.
"Sixteen," the girl blurted, feeling the slight tensing of muscle against her neck. "Sixteen, sixteen, I'm sixteen!" He nodded his approval and let his wrist relax. She loosened a little as well.
"That's good," Malachai said easily. "The one with you, he wasn't sixteen." The girl's brow slowly furrowed.
"No," she said slowly. "He wasn't."
"He wasn't seventeen either." Malachai smiled at her, and the girl cringed slightly. "No, I don't think he was any younger than nineteen."
"He was forty-two," she murmured.
"Ahh," he said, as if it explained everything, and lowered the knife from her throat. "But you're not forty-two."
"I'm sixteen," the girl said thinly.
"You said that." Malachai gave her a cold look, reprimanding the sarcasm that had saved her life. "Isaac will want to meet you," he added. That was an outright lie; Isaac wouldn't want to meet her, Isaac would want her dead. Just as Malachai had wanted her dead, up until a few moments ago. But there was always a chance. Besides, the blood of those under the Age of Favor was supposed to be spilled as seldom as possible.
"Isaac?" the girl echoed.
"I don't like being quoted either." Malachai shot her a sharp glance, and she fell silent. That was a good sign -- she might be sarcastic, but she wasn't stupid. Against all his strongest instincts, he released her collar and stepped back. "Follow me." The girl hesitated.
"Why should I?" Malachai frowned a little. Perhaps he'd spoken too soon.
"Would you rather go back to me hunting you down like a deer?" She shook her head hard, sending red curls bouncing around her freckled face.
"No. No. I'll follow you." He nodded, then found himself grinning crookedly.
"This way." He began at a steady trot towards the direction of the houses. It didn't matter how bad the storm was; he knew his way around. Call it an instinct.
"What did you do to my dad?" the girl asked suddenly, rising her voice to talk above the wind. He shot her a sidelong glance.
"It would be best if you kept your mouth shut when we get to the House," Malachai said drily. "Isaac has ways of dealing with those who speak when they're not told to." She stopped abruptly, then hurried to catch up.
"What kind of ways?" she mumbled, and her words were almost lost in the screaming storm. He smiled slightly.
"He has me cut out their tongue," Malachai quipped pleasantly.
The girl snapped her mouth shut and was silent the rest of the way.
Dashing through the snow
In a one horse open sleigh
O'er the fields we go
Laughing all the way
Frank's voice had faded behind her quite a while ago. Ashlee didn't care; her arms were starting to go numb now, and if she stayed out in the snow much longer she was going to turn into a popsicle. Besides, the storm was beginning to be frightening.
"What the hell?" she murmured to herself, her run slowing to a stop. Some time ago, it seemed that the snow had played an oh-so-amusing practical joke on her and moved the once close houses to another location. Now, with a glance around, it was confirmed -- she was back in what used to be a cornfield. Ashlee shuddered, not entirely from the cold. "I'll just turn around," she said softly, her voice drifting away to be lost in the roaring wind. "Frank can't be far behind me -- Frank!" She cupped her mittened hands around her mouth and bellowed into the snowy darkness. "Frank! Frank, I went the wrong way, turn around!" There was a long pause, and nothing answered her. Ashlee stamped the ground in growing anxiety. "Dad!" she shouted into the night. No answer. "Dammit. He must --" She glanced around nervously. "-- he must've gone the wrong way too. We probably got separated. Maybe he even found the houses, and now he's wondering where I am." Ashlee looked around wildly. Her voice hadn't completely assured her, even though it was supposed to. It always seemed to work for the heroines in horror movies. She stood in her spot for a moment, part of her hoping desperately that Frank would emerge from the torrents of blinding snow and rescue her. The other part was snapping that she should get her ass in gear and find those houses that had been so close. Her nose felt so cold she was sure it was going to fall off. "Just like Michael Jackson," Ashlee murmured to no one, and forced a laugh. Now that she thought of it, there weren't that many horror movie heroines that lived anyway. The part that wanted to get to the houses won the duel of common sense; she stomped her feet one more time and started off on her way. And that was when she saw it.
Something huge and massive, towering over the now-dead cornfield. Made of stalks and husks, bound together with rope. A cross.
"What?" Ashlee said under her breath, and swiveled her head to see it better. Most definitely a cross -- but what for? "A scarecrow," she assured herself firmly. "Not much use now, though. I sure don't see any crows." Another forced, stiff laugh. All right, she had shot the shit for long enough; Ashlee pivoted back around to start for the houses. Her father was probably waiting for her -- "Frank?" she called suddenly, startled. There was a figure where there hadn't been one a moment ago. It was tall and sturdily built, clutching something in its right hand. "Frank, is that you?" Ashlee tried again, not so surely this time. "Frank, I -- I got -- lost --" Her words stumbled and finally died in the snow. That figure wasn't her father. It was too well built, too strong-looking, too... what was the word she was looking for? Threatening? "Frank?" Ashlee whispered, squinting to see through the snow. The stranger that wasn't her father took a step closer, and she could hear him humming 'Jingle Bells'. "Who are you?" she shrieked suddenly, voice piercing the cold night air. The figure moved closer. Now she could see what it was holding. A long hunting knife, dark with something other than shadows. Little did Ashlee know that what stained the long, silver blade was the blood of Francis Kevin Crawford. All she knew was that something was desperately wrong. "Stay away from me!" Ashlee screeched at the humming stranger, then turned and ran blindly in the other direction.
"OUTLANDER!" screamed the figure. It was only a matter of time before his feet pounded the snow and he took off after her.
Ashlee's heart was thudding in her chest. The snow stung her cheeks and eyes, making it impossible for her to see where she was going. Her only coherent hope was that the storm would present the same unpleasantries to her opponent. She took a sudden left and nearly fell face-first into the snow. Her arms pinwheeled wildly, but Ashlee managed to keep her balance and only missed half a beat in her pace. She couldn't hear the thudding footsteps behind her anymore, yet she knew better than to slow down because of that. Ashlee had seen enough horror movies to know the moment you let your guard down was when the killer attacked.
"Where the hell is Gatlin?" She paused, then took a right. "Only one mile away, my ass," she whispered fiercely, and abruptly ran face-first into a building. Pain exploded in front of her, followed by a thousand tiny bursts of light. "Jesus!" she shrieked, stumbling back and immediately regretting her loud noise. But Christ, her nose might've been broken, it hurt so badly! Ashlee touched her nose gingerly and whimpered. "Ow," she said tearfully. "Shit."
"Something something... um... all the way..." She straightened immediately. There was the voice again, not humming now, but singing 'Jingle Bells'. It was absent and quiet, almost as if the voice's owner couldn't remember the words and didn't really care. There was something sinister about it. "Oh what fun... it is to... um..."
"Shit!" Ashlee repeated under her breath, taking off in the other direction again. She could tell she was on a road now; the faint silhouettes of buildings lined up on either side of her, and her feet hit solid cement when they pounded past the snow. She was taking extra care to look out for more walls -- Ashlee had no idea that she had just collided full-on with the Gatlin Seed & Feed. It was only apparent that she hadn't reached the houses yet. The stores didn't have the look of houses, but the neighborhoods had to be close. She was considering a short break to catch her breath and regain her bearings when the soft singing drifted back into her ears.
"Da da something something dum... hey!" Instead of stopping, Ashlee attempted a weird stumble-leap -- which in turn tangled her legs together, sending her flying into a huge mound of packed snow. She let out a strangled scream that was quickly muffled by a faceful of white powder. The cold was incredible; Ashlee jerked back sharply and struggled to get to her feet, but it was too late. The person with the knife was standing over her, and it appeared that he'd remembered all of the words.
Bells on bobtail ring
Making spirits bright
What fun it is to ride and sing
A sleighing song tonight
'Jingle Bells', that was what it had been called. Malachai was strangely proud of himself. He'd sliced the old man, caught up with the girl, and remembered the name of the song. Quite a satisfactory day, if he did say so himself.
"Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh," Malachai sang under his breath. He had no idea how a sleigh could be one horse or open, but that didn't matter. The song was fun to sing.
"No--" she gasped through a mouthful of snow, but he seized her by the collar of her coat and yanked her to her feet. Pleads for mercy always pissed him off.
"What are you doing in Gatlin, outlander?" Malachai growled. The girl opened her mouth to answer him and abruptly shut it when he slammed her hard against the brick wall of the hardware store. He could see in the dim light that she looked both startled and hurt. Her nose was bleeding too.
"I'm lost," she began slowly, obviously waiting for another slam against the building. "My dad, his car, it's out of gas... we were just looking for help--" Her eyes flicked to the knife in his hand and immediately brightened with feverish terror. "Please don't kill me," the girl blurted. "Please don't, please don't--"
"Shut up," Malachai said disgustedly, and gave her collar another hard yank. He lifted his knife to her throat, pressing the girl tightly back against the brick wall. Her eyes flicked to the blade at her neck, then squeezed closed.
"I don't have any money, but if you're going to do it," she gasped, her chest hitching with the sudden onrush of frightened breath, "do it quickly, please. Don't make a game out of it." There was a distaste in her voice that made Malachai pause. He didn't think he'd ever heard anyone sound so... dry with a knife at their throat. He looked her over briefly; it was terribly dark, but he could just barely make out her face. Thin and pale -- not surprising, considering her situation -- with a spray of freckles spanning across her nose and lightly dotting her cheeks. Her hair was curly and a red a few shades darker than his, something obvious even in the low light he observed her in. Malachai's hand stayed frozen at her throat, not sure whether to make the move or not. The simple undertone to her voice -- a dry sarcasm that was oddly refreshing -- was conflicting his judgement to Isaac's orders.
"How old are you?" Malachai asked abruptly.
"What?" The girl's eyes popped open, still bright with terror but now confused as well.
"I don't like repeating myself," he said through clenched teeth, inching the blade a little closer to her neck. She pressed herself flat against the wall in an effort to move her throat out of reach. It wasn't working very well.
"No, I heard you," she said quickly. "I was just wondering why--"
"It would be best if you didn't answer me with questions." His wrist tightened slightly. Yes, Malachai had a talent for getting answers from even the most difficult of subjects.
"Sixteen," the girl blurted, feeling the slight tensing of muscle against her neck. "Sixteen, sixteen, I'm sixteen!" He nodded his approval and let his wrist relax. She loosened a little as well.
"That's good," Malachai said easily. "The one with you, he wasn't sixteen." The girl's brow slowly furrowed.
"No," she said slowly. "He wasn't."
"He wasn't seventeen either." Malachai smiled at her, and the girl cringed slightly. "No, I don't think he was any younger than nineteen."
"He was forty-two," she murmured.
"Ahh," he said, as if it explained everything, and lowered the knife from her throat. "But you're not forty-two."
"I'm sixteen," the girl said thinly.
"You said that." Malachai gave her a cold look, reprimanding the sarcasm that had saved her life. "Isaac will want to meet you," he added. That was an outright lie; Isaac wouldn't want to meet her, Isaac would want her dead. Just as Malachai had wanted her dead, up until a few moments ago. But there was always a chance. Besides, the blood of those under the Age of Favor was supposed to be spilled as seldom as possible.
"Isaac?" the girl echoed.
"I don't like being quoted either." Malachai shot her a sharp glance, and she fell silent. That was a good sign -- she might be sarcastic, but she wasn't stupid. Against all his strongest instincts, he released her collar and stepped back. "Follow me." The girl hesitated.
"Why should I?" Malachai frowned a little. Perhaps he'd spoken too soon.
"Would you rather go back to me hunting you down like a deer?" She shook her head hard, sending red curls bouncing around her freckled face.
"No. No. I'll follow you." He nodded, then found himself grinning crookedly.
"This way." He began at a steady trot towards the direction of the houses. It didn't matter how bad the storm was; he knew his way around. Call it an instinct.
"What did you do to my dad?" the girl asked suddenly, rising her voice to talk above the wind. He shot her a sidelong glance.
"It would be best if you kept your mouth shut when we get to the House," Malachai said drily. "Isaac has ways of dealing with those who speak when they're not told to." She stopped abruptly, then hurried to catch up.
"What kind of ways?" she mumbled, and her words were almost lost in the screaming storm. He smiled slightly.
"He has me cut out their tongue," Malachai quipped pleasantly.
The girl snapped her mouth shut and was silent the rest of the way.
