Thank you so much for the helpful reviews. Due to the fact that I do not own a copy of Rebel Angels, the scenes below will have a lot of errors in terms of dialogue (I had to go by what I could remember.) This is also the reason why I couldn't continue scenes and had to cut them. Feel free to post the actual lines, it would prove very helpful. Again I own nothing you recognize. Note that the last part of this chapter is a nightmare of Kartik's and does not actually occur. I just wanted to clarify this, since I know I tend to be confusing. Sorry!
When I am fully awake, my nose caught yet again amongst the pages of the Odyssey, a clothed, thankfully breathing, Gemma Doyle greets me at the door of Ginger's stable. There is a faint echo of a smile ringing hard along the delicate lines of her mouth, and her green eyes fall to the stable floor for a moment before she speaks.
"Thank you, for last night,"
I regard her with what I hope are soulful brown eyes.
"Everyone needs help sometimes."
She takes my response with a weird glint in her eye.
"Except you," She points out tenderly, and I am rendered silent by the complete weight of her words, her respect…for me.
In a vague attempt to hide my rising discomfort, I fish eagerly through my rucksack for a small, ornate blade.
When I hand it to her, fingers outsretched nervously, she appears stunned at my gesture, and I cannot exacly blame her.
"For me?" she croaks, regarding the blade as though it were a delicate little thing.
"Megh Sambra," I reply softly, "The Hindus believe it would protect one from the harmful influence of negative spirits,"
She looks at the blade carefully, and then back at me with those startlingly piercing green eyes.
"I thought you didn't believe in anything but the Rakshanna,"
Her statement somehow makes me flush, and I avert my glance instantly, embarassed, gazing at the stable floor instead as though it were a particularly gorgeous impressionist painting.
"It was Amar's," I explain, swallowing back a hard lump before continuing, "I thought you would need it."
"Thank you," She says again, her tone decidedly pensive.
A question suddenly slithers its way up my throat. "So, I hear you will be attending Miss Worthington's ball tomorrow?"
I want to kill myself, but sadly there are no acorns to be found on the ground.
Gemma seems unfazed. "Yes,"
"What do people exactly do in these balls?"
Dancing seemed simple enough.
This is not the case when one dances with Miss Doyle.
The mere invitation to dance seems to silence her instantly, and for a moment she looks around, appearing slightly afraid...
And then her fingers meet mine in the Christmas morning chill.
I ask her without reservation what I am to do next.
"You are to put your hand on my waist," She says shakily in what strongly resembles a strangled caw, and I gently grip the region above her thigh.
She stiffens almost immediately against my clutch, and with great effort she interjects, "Higher."
I obey, and slide my hand upwards.
"Here?" "Yes."
We shyly begin to mirror eachother's slow footsteps like two wary five-year-olds in a wedding. There is a sense of fear that shines faintly in the green of her eyes.
"It would be much easier if you weren't pulling away," I mean more than what I truly say, and Gemma adopts a slight blush in the pale of her cheeks.
Feeling a little frustrated at our distance, I suddenly yank her closer to me, and she lets out a part-stifled gasp in my chest.
I can feel the tickle of her gold-red hair on my neck, and the thrill of her warm breath, dancing, by the lobe of my ear.
I am intoxicated easily by the scent of her head on my nose. It's as if we're dancing into the air, higher and higher with every spin, there is no sky above, or dirtroad below, and I fear that we may fall back down to earth.
We do.
Gemma is now a foot away from me, breathing ragged, and I am abruptly aware of where her hands had pushed me.
"I should go," She mutters almost repetantly, and I cannot look at her.
"Don't forget your present," I hear myself saying in a voice ridden with hurt. I want to kick myself at my show of emotion.
Somewhere between the dancing and the talking, rain has descended down upon us. It is thick and heavy with grey.
Gemma and I are still locked to the stable, bound to eachother, and for one beautiful moment, we kiss.
"I do not even think of you as Indian."
"Kartik, don't go...I don't want you to go."
"Aren't you going to take my father's cricket?"
I wake up to bands of moonlight. They shoot past vessels of purple-blue clouds, and serve as bridges of white for the twinkling stars above.
Emerald blades brush up against my knees, their tips ripe with dew.
White trees loom and pop up in the distance like upturned hands, and the wind whistles a soft tune against the warm flesh of my ears.
Behind me there is a temple.
Its entrance is marked by a crude embellishment of skulls and crossbones.
The Rakshanna.
I look around again at the beauty that surrounds me.
This must be the Realms. And the Rakshanna are now in possession of the magic. Before I can breathe a sigh of relief, there is a curious titter over my shoulder. I turn around.
The silhoutte of two girls greets the growing shock in my eyes.
They are seated by the exposed roots of a particularly large white tree, one braiding the hair of the other.
A band of moonlight shines over them as if by command, and I stifle a cry.
It is Miss Cross, and Gemma. But in some horrible form I do not know.
It is Gemma that stands and ambles closer. Miss Cross merely laughs. A high cold laugh that snakes its way down the column of my spine.
"Gemma?" I utter, sounding braver than I feel.
It is then that I register the true extent, the true horror of Gemma's corruption.
There is no green in her eyes, only a terrible mass of grey-white, with a frightening, rovingpinprick of black.
Her red mane of hair hangs lank against her bony shoulders, and blue veins adorn her body like a tattoo of meandering vines.
Her nails appear pointed as she stretches her arms out to me in what seems like a murderous hug.
I take a frightened step back, and fall.
"Look at what you have done to me Kartik... do I appear beautiful?" She hisses, and I feel her approaching quickly.
I try to move, but I am too overcome.
Her face appears above me, and the hard beauty is gone.
"How could you Kartik? Do you feel proud now?" Gemma asks of me harshly through sharp, tiny teeth,
"I will never rest until I kill you with the same brutality."