Woman of Silk and Stone

  Woman of Silk and Stone

  by

  Mattie Dunman

  Copyright © 2014 Mattie Dunman

  All Rights Reserved

  Distributed by Smashwords

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  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

  Part I

  Stranger in a Strange Land

  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.

  Chapter I

  Monday, Monday...Can't Trust That Day

  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 care
fully 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.

  Jerking out of my daze, I glanced around, surprised to find myself on a desolate cross-street, standing in front of an empty warehouse. Unease trickled through my consciousness as I got to my feet, knowing I had somehow wandered from the well-populated financial district of downtown D.C. to one of those neighborhoods you hear about on the news; the ones that become hives for gangs and underworld drug wars. Although the streets appeared to be deserted at the moment, I had no doubt that would change soon, and I was woefully unprepared to be caught in a dangerous situation.

  Hurriedly I shifted around and started back the way I came, keeping my eyes peeled for a taxi, but nothing and no one disturbed the quiet of the streets. After walking for nearly ten minutes in absolute silence, I tripped on something again and nearly fell. I steadied myself and glanced down, noting a wooden plank in the middle of the sidewalk before turning to see an empty warehouse that looking astonishingly like the one I had fallen in front of before.

  I swallowed, uncertainty a thick lump in my throat, and looked around, registering how unlikely it was that in fifteen or more minutes, I hadn't seen one person, heard a car honking, or felt the rumble of the subway beneath the pavement. In fact, the silence was oppressive, a heavy film over my senses, unnatural and predatory. Unease morphed into true fear as I continued walking, this time paying attention to my surroundings, noting that the buildings followed a distinct loop, only to repeat after each block, starting out every time with the abandoned warehouse.

  I don't know how long I spent there, walking that same city block over and over again until blisters left me limping and miserable, my head aching with confusion and terror. My eyes burned from the countless tears I shed while screaming out for someone, anyone to help me. My knees were torn and bleeding from tripping over that same damn wooden plank time and time again while I ran hopelessly along the cracked sidewalk. Every time I tried going in a different direction, down one of the cross streets, my head would spin and somehow I'd be right back there again, standing over the wooden plank, staring at the empty warehouse.

  Time lost all meaning, even as a purple twilight coated the now all too familiar street with an anemic glow. At last, voice hoarse, no longer able to walk, I sank down onto the wooden plank, pulling my knees up to my chest. No tears fell, and somehow the fear had given way to numbness, a complete indifference to my plight. I stayed there for hours, days, I don't know, just existing in a time of in-between; waiting for something to happen, something to change.

  I must have fallen asleep at some point, because a loud whumping woke me, startling me upright from my prone position on the ground. I opened my eyes, hoping beyond all hope that I would see my own bedroom, the clock on the alarm flashing, telling me that I had hit the snooze button after all, that I had never gotten out of bed this morning, or whenever it was.

  But it was the unremitting sight of the dilapidated warehouse and the vast desert of my abandoned city block that greeted me.

  Belatedly I realized I was hearing something other than my own breathing. I scrambled to my aching feet and looked around, trying to locate the source of the strange whump whump whump, like a huge rotor stopping and starting, muffled by earth or concrete or brick.

  It was coming from the warehouse.

  Stooping over, I picked up the ever-present wooden plank, holding it like a baseball bat as I moved forward, ignoring the screaming pain in my feet, the exhaustion of my limbs. The sound grew louder as I drew closer, and I began to feel it as a vibration in my chest, like a bass-line played too loud in a car.

  I hesitated at the entrance to the warehouse, a wide garage-style door left halfway down. Peering into the darkness, I tried to make out the interior, but only a wall of black waited for me, a yawning mouth of endless hunger
. The noise was indescribable now, pumping through my head and my veins forcefully, as though trying to match the frenetic pace of my pulse.

  "Shit," I muttered, my voice barely more than a whisper. Somehow I knew that walking into that warehouse would lead me to something drastic, something irreversible, but the thought of stumbling along that endless city block for the rest of my life urged me forward. Yearning for an answer, an end to the nightmare I had been trapped in for who knows how long, I stepped forward into the dark.

  And entered the void.

  ***

  When I was ten, while playing Davy Crockett, I fell out of a neighbor's tree and broke my wrist. I remember how I sat there silently, just staring down at the raw, scraped flesh of my arm, feeling completely numb, even as the neighbor came running out to see what had happened. It was only then, when my attention was pulled away from the injury for a second that the initial shock faded and the pain set in. I cried for hours over that broken arm, thinking it was the worst thing that had ever happened to me.

  But that moment, the most agonizing pain I'd ever felt, was nothing. Nothing compared to what was happening to me now.

  The moment I stepped into the void, the bottom dropped out of the world and I plummeted in a free fall, a great black vacuum with no substance, just space.

  Then the pain began.

  It started small at first, just a tingling along my skin, an uncomfortable sensation like accidentally brushing up against a car door and being shocked. Then it escalated, the tingling evolving into a burning; sharp stabs like hot pokers driving into my muscles and bones. I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out, just a faint whistling as my lungs caught fire and blazed within me, devouring my oxygen and pouring into my veins with malicious cruelty. It felt as though the sun had been melted down and injected into my bloodstream, scorching me from the inside out.

  Incoherent with misery, I barely noticed when something seemed to shift in the void, as though all that great empty space had suddenly made a decision to become solid. My very bone marrow still afire, I crashed against smooth, slick walls, still unable to see or hear anything but the sound of my own agony. For an eternity I tumbled there, thrashed against obstacles I couldn't see, like a bead inside a child's rattle. After a while, I didn't really feel the pain anymore, although I was aware that my body was undergoing some monumental change; I think my mind simply shut down, unable to cope with the magnitude of trauma I was experiencing. And so I drifted aimlessly, wondering in a detached way what could befall me next.