By
Astrid Yrigollen
Copyright 2012 Astrid Yrigollen
First copyright March 2009
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system without permission from the author.
Yrigollen, Astrid
His Black Wings / Astrid Yrigollen
Cover by: Szimonetta Szakál
ISBN 978-1-300-36576-1
1.Teen-Fiction
2.Paranormal-Fiction
3.Fantasy-Victorian,–Fiction
4.Romance-Fiction
Text set in Times New Roman
www.astridyrigollen.com
First Edition 2012
A heartfelt thanks to the many people I have been fortunate enough to meet, Suzy Henderson, Ariel Mickey, and Julie Joyce. Many thanks go to Jill Swanson for her feedback and enthusiasm. Lastly, love, kisses and many hugs to my wonderful husband Richard “Is the chocolate okay?” Young, who has been an objective critic and supporter. I could not have done it without you.
Praise for the Author‘s previous works
“I wish I had the next book in my hands right now!” By Zodiac Book Reviews
“…a natural, fantastic love story…”By Rita Khavich
“…I feel very comfortable about recommending it [Astrid’s book]to them[granddaughters].” Debra Piletz
“Astrid … has woven an intricate and wonderful world…”Dianne from Whoopeeyo Book Reviews
“Yrigollen does a very good job,…an exciting fantasy with an interesting and non stereotypical setting.” Beth Sky Rose Reviews
“Sweet fantasy tale for young adults… a great read …Cannot wait to read the sequel.” Skooshie Reviews
“…story was amazing,…like some old fairytale that was lost to time, now come back to life in the present day. Definitively a love story, the end will leave you wanting more.” Sandeen Reader
“Astrid does an excellent job of weaving together fantasy with our modern world. The people and creatures that dwell within Mosswood forest are imaginative yet believable.” Little Hyut’s Book Reviews
Other Works by the author
Childrens
What do Fish do for Fun?
The Mysterious Pootkins
The Doughnut Tree
Young Adult
His Black Wings
The Mosswoods ( #1)
Uprising ( Mosswoods#2 2013 Release)
The Zombie Playground, A Creature Compilation
The Wind Demon
Prologue
I didn’t know what to say, so I sat there stupidly. He grinned at me from behind white teeth. His ice blue eyes held a coldness and judgment I had not seen before. My heart fluttered and felt like a huge fish was rolling over in my breast.
“Well?” He said as he traced the outline of my knee through my heavy skirt with his slender, white finger.
“What is your wish, Claren?”
My heart, upon hearing him use my real name beat harder. I felt the adrenaline push itself through my veins. He seemed to be aware of it, and licked his lips quickly.
“I don t know what is it you ask Sir.” I stammered, my own voice sounding as a child’s would when confronted with some wrong doing.
He had used my real name. Was it safe to assume he knew who I really was?
He stopped smiling and cocked his head to one side, contemplating me.
“But you do Claren, you know very well what I want, what you want.”
How did it ever come to this? I thought franticly. What was I going to do, now that he knew who I was? He seemed to read my thoughts in my eyes because he answered my question without it ever being posed.
"What will I do indeed? What can I do is the question, Claren. Here we are on a train, bound for the quaint countryside. No alarm has been raised, no Porter is valiantly trying to fight for your honor or to even help and cover your embarrassment, your lies. Thus, it shall remain so. At least, until we arrive at our destination."
“Then what?” I questioned quietly.
I am resolved to die, but not without a fight. He knows this. That is why he will not attempt to take me here, on a train full of people.
My question hangs in the air between us, like a solid thing. He still has not answered as the whistle of our train shrieks into the wind, we race into the tunnel, blackness engulfing our private car.
Table of Contents
Prologue
The Ad
St.Marhen
Answers
Westwind
She
Westwind, my new home?
Etrigan
The Winter Ball
Beginnings
The Celestial Ball
Telling Uncle
Kurten
Sorting the truth out
Digging in to the past
Fredrick
Desolation
Secrets
Facing the truth
Sailing into the future
The future
About the Author
The Ad
It seems like years ago, but it's only been a few weeks since I have gotten myself into this mess. Or as my father would say, “A right pretty mess Claren.” I answered an ad in the local paper for a secretary. Someone to take correspondence, run errands and occasionally (the ad said) help in hosting parties. Room and board provided. Large estate in the countryside. Privacy.
It sounded wonderful to someone like myself who yearned for the openness of the country. To hear the birds chirping, instead of the congestion of the city. To not have to look over my shoulder in fear of the Constables, the long arm of the law. Most importantly, it offered a new life, a new beginning where no one knew who I was.
But what was this? Why was the address here in the city? I questioned.
North Alcott was not country, and there was hardly any room for a large estate. My Aunt lived in North Alcott before she died of influenza. The dwellings there were hardly more than huts, barely keeping out the rains. There was a single store that served as the local post office and dentist. I know this because I went to collect my Aunt’s things after she had died. Or shall I say thing? She left me a tea pot. I was however, touched by the gesture that in her passing, she would bequeath her only worldly good to me. Perhaps it was because I took care of her in her final days. So frail and gentle was my aunt but nevertheless suffered from a touch of insanity. It was for this reason I was not allowed to be in her company. My parents forbade it. I felt they were afraid somehow that her mental illness was somehow catching. Or maybe it was the time she had tried to drown me.
No, North Alcott was hardly a place for wealth.
I myself had grown up in St.Marhen, a busy congested hole of a city. I did not like the hustle and bustle of it all. Hordes of people filling the streets from day to day. Horses and carriages nearly running you down if you were not careful. The loud shouts of the paperboys trying to get a coin out of you, honestly or not. The bakers placing their hot bread loaves on racks to both cool and tempt the passerby. The lifts with their squeaking metal wings that would take shoppers up to any outside shopping platform of their wish. A year ago someone invented metal horses to draw your carriage. The steam that came out of their noses was cold so they were good to use during the summer. You could hear the clang clop clang of their metal hooves touching down on the cobblestones. Their eyes when viewed at night would light up the road way and sometimes scared me. My father wanted to purchase a pair for our family but my mother forbade it. She forbade a lot of things in reality. She said it was unnatural to keep metal horses, yet real horses took up too much space and could kick out
and wound someone. I think she was just afraid of large animals. On more than one occasion she would cast a furtive eye at my dear Naza, my gray shaggy wolfhound, and I knew to take my dog out of the room instantly.
With being told “no” so much by my mother, or subjected to an inquisition, I learned to suppress my wants. At least externally I would make sure to never vocalize my displeasure. Inside though, I carried on a secret rebellion that would have made my mother faint and my father raise a shaggy eyebrow at me. Inside I was alive, burning with curiosity and a desire for life.
Our city was both very modern and yet old in its values and esthetics. Home cloning kits were all the rage but they were regulated to pets only. No humans, because some said it went against Yahweh, also known as God. After the Great War, the Grand Council was formed. It was made up of wise men and women who had lived a long time and recognized all the different ways we as a society can hurt ourselves. They abolished toxic chemicals, manufacturing processes and harmful drugs that were supposed to help sickness. Many had resisted these changes, wanting to profit at the expense of others. These people were not the majority, since the majorities were neither elite or rich. Eventually those ideas, the ones of making one’s wealth at the expense of another was seen as passé and wicked. The world began to thrive once more as it turned to natural medicines and sympathetic practices. Cities grew and poverty and hunger were a thing of the past. People seemed content if not happy. Of course there was still crime; I don’t think any human on this Earth could change that. As I have read many times in my history books throughout my schooling, the quality of life improved for the vast majority. We children were thoroughly indoctrinated with the Grand Council’s message. They created a beautiful new world, abolished pollution and poverty. All one had to do is look around to see it was true. From my girls schooling to when I graduated from the ladies academy at twenty, we were told of what a great blessing the Grand Council was and still is to us. Of course, one did see pockets here and there of unrest and poor people, but we were told that these people wanted to live that way. There was nothing that no one could do to help them.
My own family’s modest wealth was inherited by my grandfather who was in the mining business. After the Great War he invested his fortune in other things such as the new chemical that was being produced called Prothron. Prothron, as all primary school students are taught, is the natural chemical that when mixed with a city’s refuse, turns it into fuel to power just about everything. Clean, powerful and cheap, Prothron was the answer to many prayers.
My Grandfather, though I never knew him, seemed uncomfortable with his new wealth. He would donate vast sums for schools and homes for people who could not afford their own. In such manner he became known as a great philanthropist and even had a plaque in the World Heritage Museum. I was always embarrassed when we read something about my Grandfather in our school text books.
“Claren Maidstone, please stand and tell us something about your Grandfather that we may not know.”
A teacher would always ask and I would always have to say he died when I was a baby, then sit down and stare stupidly at my book. It got to the point where I considered making up absurd things about my Grandfather, like he wore pink nightgowns and hair rollers to bed. But I didn’t, because that would not be proper.
I graduated from the Pritchard Ladies academy with high marks, but I was not expected to pursue a career. I was expected to be proper and marry well. As heirs to the Maidstone fortune, we actually lived modestly according to my Grandfathers last wishes which were detailed thus;
Maidstones should live in a modest size house. (Builds Humility)
Maidstones should never employ more than two maids. (Builds Character)
Maidstones should not engage in acts of vulgar excess unless it is for the profit of those less fortunate. (Thwarts Vanity)
…and this was not on the list, but we never spoke about money( which was vulgar according to my mother).
Someday I knew I would leave the city and perhaps have a little cottage in the woods. I was too young and willful to marry; at least that is what my father always said. My father always knew me best but it was my mother who ruled the household. So my secret thoughts of waiting to fall in love were kept regulated to quiet conversations with Naza. I did have a loathsome suitor that came regularly to dinner on Sunday nights, but that was before my parents died.
My father hung on for several days after the accident, but that was before the Doctor told him Mother was already gone. It was a boating accident. They and some society friends had gone out sailing against the weather advisory and had perhaps imbibed a little too much. The weather turned foul and so did moods. The men had a quarrel as to whom was the real Captain of The Star Fish. My father being the peacemaker of the group, decided to quietly steer the vessel back to the harbor. Upon seeing my father at the helm, the two men fell upon him in drunken savagery. The boat overturned and all were drowned. Except my father, who oddly enough, was found floating on a large piece of commercial cork.
All my father could ask in his weakened state, was to the whereabouts of my mother as I held his hand in the hospital. The doctor, unwise and ignorant of the physiological effects, told him in grisly detail how my mother had been found drowned. He did not leave out any detail including her pale blue lips. My father, his lungs just cleared of water, clutched his weakened heart and died.
And so I lost two parts of myself in one day, my mother and my father.
I didn’t have enough time to mourn the passing of my parents before the real world closed in on me. I had never known how sheltered I was, how unknowing. I still have not mourned properly and perhaps will not get a chance to, seeing as how my future is unknown to me.
When my parents died, so did my obligation my suitor, Kurten. He is the real reason I am in this pickle. He is the one that made me flee my childhood home and inheritance without the proper good bye or ceremonies. Kurten, all bloated lips and small pumpkin teeth, with his shaggy, brown hair that did nothing to hide his beady little eyes. He had come around after the funeral expecting to give me a little “comfort”. I had other ideas in mind.
“Honestly Kurten, my parent’s funeral was this morning!” I said as I pushed his hulking, muscular, form away from me and got up from the couch. He sat upon our couch, one leg crossed casually over the other. He had just tried to kiss me in a very unchaste fashion. I don’t know what made him think he could take such liberties with me now. I had hardly even let him touch my hand when my parents were alive. He stood, stretched, then came over to me.
“I know Dove, that’s why I came over. I knew you’d be needing me.”
His arms snaked around my waist as he pulled me close. He tried to nuzzle my neck but again I pushed against him.
“No, means no Kurten. I have so much to do, so much to think about.”
Like getting rid of you.
I loved my parents, but the fact was I had always hated Kurten. He was the type of person that would stick a firecracker up an animal’s hind quarters just to see what would happen. He had no remorse, no feeling or compassion. Whenever I looked into his eyes I saw a dead, blank thing. Not human somehow. I knew he had many girlfriends in St. Marhen’s many taverns. I had seen him on occasion, coming out of these very taverns with a woman on each arm. The kind of woman that took money for her favors of the carnal kind. He would always be slovenly and drunk. I would stay hidden in the shadows and never told a soul. My parents did not know this. They only knew three things, three things that to them were important, and nothing else mattered:
Kurten’s father was the mayor.
His family was wealthy.
I had to marry well.
No one married for love anymore, only station. In their eyes Kurten was a suitable match since he had both station and money. Our own family wealth was quite well known, but so was my father’s idea of simple living. He wanted to make sure that I did not marry someone beneath me that would only want me for my money.
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br /> I didn’t blame them though. They only thought they were doing the right thing for their timid daughter who was a dreamer. They were only trying to secure a comfortable place for me. I knew that all the money in this world would not make me comfortable if I had to marry this incredibly ignorant, narrow minded, cruel, womanizing drunk.
I had hopes that someone else would come along, someone nicer, someone I actually liked. Then I could tell my parents that I was in love with someone else. However, when that person failed to show up, Kurten was always there. Sunday after Sunday I raised a polite protest to my mother which she would wave off.
“Mother, I don’t see why Kurten has to be our guest every Sunday.”
“Hush now! He is in the parlor he may hear you.”
“Would it be such a bad thing if he did?”
His Black Wings Page 1