Title: A Song of Ravens
Author: Collete
E-mail: frenchcollete_17@hotmail.com
Feedback: Critiques and any comments you might have are always welcome- I love to hear what people think (good, bad, whatever). ;)
Spoilers: NW concepts, nothing more and nothing less.
Disclaimers: The NW and its info structure/hierarchy belong solely to LJS. All other characters you see (Anna, Stasia, Ethan, etc.), however, are the property of me and mine. Ask if you want to use them (although I don't know why you would).
Summary: After the brutal death of her family, Anna is thrust from her inner city life to the soft, gentle countryside of Langley, home to her only living relative, Ingrid Weald. In this world of green forests and open skies, Anna believes she can rebuild her shattered world and make something anew from the ashes of her broken dreams. But something is wrong with Langley, something dark and ancient that hides behind the town's charming façade… And when people begin to die atrocious, bestial deaths in the forest, can Anna once again save herself and the people she holds dear from the dark side of the Night World?
Notes: I began this story a really long time ago under a different pen name (my real name is Collete). It emerged quite unexpectedly a few weeks ago when I was cleaning out my room- the binder in which it was happened to be stuck behind my desk. After a look and a read, I decided to take it up again, because: Why not? I've updated the plot and the descriptions a bit, so isn't completely the same story, but the core's still there. Hope you enjoy…
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Prologue: Transform Me
"Tell me something, my friend. You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?"
There is blood on the grass, red rivers of it that soak into the night earth.
She lies on the ground, her clothes torn beyond recognition, with arms and legs arranged oddly, limply, like a puppet whose strings have just been pulled tight. Eyes, bluer than burning stars, are wide open and fixed blankly on the tall, waving grass that spreads out in the distance and silver moonlight waxes her skin in an eerie, lifeless glow.
She isn't dead yet, but almost, nearly. She still bleeds from huge gashes of torn skin in her neck and her wrists, two places where major veins reside. She can still feel, still think, but her thoughts are becoming faint, barely there, distant. Yet somewhere, deep down inside, she knows she cannot survive this, that it's only a matter of time before the vultures come, brought on by the scent of sweet, sweet surrender.
And nothing, she knows, would please It more.
For she can see It even now, hiding in the long and dark shadows of the earth- It watching her. In her heart, in her mind, she knows that blood on the ground, in the mouth, over the neck is like honey to It, a glorious, beautiful thing, better by far than anything in this hell. She can hear It's thoughts, fantasizing about her freezing body, her matted hair, her long and shivering legs. She hears It's whispered dreams about Change. The Change.
And she is afraid. The girl who feared nothing and no one in life is afraid now, and the moan that comes forth from her is a slow and uneasy sound in the midnight hour. Don't touch me, she thinks to the shadows, blindly and in panic. Please… If at all you cared…
A leg begins to twitch spasmodically, and her body writhes in the soft, country dirt. A voice in her ear whispers about bitter, harsh death, and her moaning grows coarse and jagged with grief.
And from the shadows, It steps out to her, hands outstretched and a thin, sharp smile pasted on It's face. It has decided, she thinks as she watches without movement, to take human form now, to put her in her grave with human hands.
She whimpers at the thought, and the sound echoes on the wind. Her mouth trembles open to form words- form something- but nothing comes out, only whimpering and moaning that sound alien in the clear night.
And, all the while, the figure keeps gliding across the ground, black eyes on blue in the shimmering, silver moonlight. She sees, with widened eyes and sharper cries, the smile on It's face turn to something sweet, sweet and violent.
Death, she knows, will not tread softly here tonight.
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