The horse lunged forward at her behest – the wind solidly beating against her face They passed a waterfall that spilled upon rocks below it. It made a deafening sound – not peaceful as would be expected. She stared straight ahead catching the flash of the whites of her horse’s eyes as he looked back at her, registering a state of agitation and stress. The horse was frightened and begging for her to relent in her forward advancement. She did not heed the warning and only urged him with the press of her thighs to not break stride. Flecks of lather had begun to surface, and the horse’s mouth was frothing with saliva dripping into the air. It blew backwards streaking his neck with pearly lines of foam. These were obvious signs that the horse was beginning to tire. The dark skies threatened rain as the clouds gathered and a thunderous clap of thunder begged all to run and hide, but Miranda pressed on at a blistering, fever-pitched pace.
With every step, the horse exhaled in a noisy wheeze telling of the effort he made for her. She heard his teeth biting the metal bit trying to wrest control and take it fully. She reciprocated the challenge to her authority by firmly thrashing his buttocks with the leather crop that she held in her gloved hands. She would not be deterred from her destination. She saw the cemetery up ahead and reined the horse to enter the black iron gates swinging open under the gathering storm’s sharp winds.
As they passed through the threshold to the accompanying creak of rusted hinges squeaking from age, she realized that the horse’s uneasiness and sweat came from his discomfort about being in the place they’d just entered. It was the cemetery that the horse feared. This desolate, crypted cemetery was the source of its anxiety and faltering breath. The horse balefully whinnied and tried to shy away from venturing further into such a forbidding, sinister place. She skillfully maneuvered the horse to keep it on the path through the use of tight rein and deadly silver spurs delivered into its sides as a knife through meat.
As the horse carried her over hallowed ground and through lingering spirits not willing to give up their earthly attachments, she looked out over the rows and rows of gruesome gravestones. They marked the final resting places of wearied bones who no longer felt the soft caress of human flesh. The horse raised its head and cried piteously for release from the course she had set, but was steered forward into the midst of the eerie silence of deadened souls. Lightning shot across the sky revealing itself as a bullet. Another deafening toll of thunder startled the horse who responded by increasing his speed. Miranda ignored everything – even the scant drops of rain pelting her face that foretold the fearsome storm that was fast developing. She looked out over the cemetery’s grounds looking for something … scanning the gravestones marking each solitary death and then dismissing them as her trusted steed swallowed up ground at an alarming speed. She even disregarded an old oak tree in the distance where hung a nondescript man. The lifeless body was being tossed by the storm’s vicious breath and resembled nothing more than a garish pendulum.
She begged her horse to go faster. In mid-stride, she pulled her horse’s head to the right with a firm rein, forcing him to veer from the traveled path. The horse reared up and kicked out its back legs in objection to the plan. She didn’t budge from her seat or desire, and merely waited out the resistance by letting him prance in a semi-circle. Midway around she had him under control and spurred him so deeply as to reopen the woundings on his side that were still trickling blood. He shot forward underneath her, her thighs pressing into the mount’s ribs keeping her in place and guiding the direction they took. The horse glided between the graves with an ease that told of its athletic grace and astonishing agility. This horse was a jumper. Its powerful haunches and blistering pace gave away its pedigree. It’s why Miranda had selected this steed as she was to test the horse’s prowess by jumping over graves.
The horse luxuriated in sailing over the first few markers. Its hooves cleared the marble and granite headstones with feet to spare. The horse was well-trained and adept at the art of the jump. He neatly tucked under its back hooves at the ankles to prevent ticking the cold stone tablets. Miranda felt exhilarated, becoming part of the horse as it dug into the ground and launched itself higher and higher into the air. The horse took the graves in stride, its neck white with lather and thickening yellow foam.
They had finally arrived at their destination. The first few markers had been practice, but the next was the one she wanted conquer. It was there – a few feet ahead in the distance. The storm continued pounding out its warnings as the sky lit up as a marquee. Like a neon sign, the light branched outward, drawing the outlines of a glowing outstretched hand. Its finger was pointed at her, but Miranda didn’t care. She didn’t care that it was portending death; she only cared about clearing the grave directly ahead.
She leaned forward and touched her hands against the horse’s neck fully drenched in sweat. Its thick, long mane that had started out combed and cared for was now a knotted tangled mess. Knitted clumps of it flew up into her face as she crouched and steadied herself during the advance. Miranda felt the horse’s muscles tense, not from harnessing power, but from a slight hesitation. She instinctively knew he would never clear the massive black marbled grave for they were to jump the length and not the width. The trajectory and speed would have to be just right to accomplish the task. If not, they would crash and go down. She used the crop to strike the horse’s flank and get his attention. The stallion’s ears pinned back as white appeared around its eyes. A backward glance and then his muscles tightened in response to her forceful and brutal direction. He was going to do it – he was going to take the jump. They neared the grave at a breakneck speed. They were fast approaching – she felt him gather himself for the leap. They were now at the very lip of the grave. She tucked her head against his neck and looked down. She saw the inscription on the grave’s marker – right under the etched drawing of a heart with a single droplet of blood.
Here lies Arthur Perry, Beloved husband, father, friend.
It was her father’s grave. A chill of recognition ran through her as her horse stopped short. She felt the odd sensation of being thrown forward by the horse digging in its forefeet. She hadn’t anticipated that the steed would refuse. He hadn’t with the others. The momentum gained from the horse’s velocity propelled her over the head of the horse and into the air. She tumbled forward trying desperately to keep from falling onto her father’s grave.
She somersaulted in a graceful, balletic manner over the top of the plot. She saw in horror and alarm that it was open. The grave had been dug, but never filled. Even worse was the prospect that it had been unearthed for the most pernicious of intents. Miranda was confused and alive with reasons all the while aware of the huge soulless wound directly beneath her. She didn’t want to fall into it; she was too young to be buried alive.
She raised her head in time to see the horse galloping away into the distance. It was seeking shelter from the quickening storm. She screamed for it to come back, but it was far too relieved to give up its precious freedom for what was her certain fate. It crossed underneath the gallowed man that tick-tocked like a clock being wound by the gale force winds. Backwards she plunged, the ends of her bow streaming upwards in a trailing upward scream. Steadily descending into the pit’s rotted heart, all the while hearing the horse’s easy gait carrying it swiftly and surely away. She looked up to the blackened sky ringing out thunderous applause at her predicament; the lightning unrelenting in its brilliance. The way to heaven was clear, but she silently wondered when the first shovel of dirt would hit her smooth, white skin. The sides of the grave slid past her rapidly. Her arms were spread out – her fingers collecting dirt as she desperately tried to prevent the fall. Her nails scratched and dragged along the dull, listless dirt – her efforts proving fruitless in delaying her certain destiny of hitting bottom. She landed heavily onto her back … right into her father’s open arms. She saw the arms that had been encased in a soiled shroud reach around her. They tightly restrained her in an unearthly embrace. The
sound of the shovel from above reached her ears as a spadeful of loose soil fell unencumbered onto her terrified face and into her mouth, opened wide in a scream.
“Noooo!” she yelled as she opened her eyes. She found herself looking into the concerned face of the stranger sitting next to her.
“Are you alright?” he asked pensively – obviously unaccustomed to interrupting someone’s dream.
She ran her hand through her hair embarrassed to have been caught looking like a fool. She looked out onto the ocean and then into his eyes wondering what she should say.
“Yes, I think so. I am so sorry.”
It wasn’t the answer she wanted to say, but she didn’t know this man. He wasn’t a friend nor was he a confidante. She wanted to admit the truth and say no. She wanted to say that although it was a dream, she was still deeply troubled and upset by it, but she could never do that. She had too much pride and had been raised too well to confide her problems to complete strangers.
She wondered where on earth that dream had come from. It must be the culmination of the horrible events and the recent talk with Reginald. She would have to make sure to pay him back for all the shadowy hyperbole about coffins and suicides that were really homicides doled out by a vengeful killer. She half-closed her eyes, sheepishly looking around in obsequious shame, “Was I making very much noise?”
“No,” he replied giving a soft, but firm shake of his head. He relaxed back into his seat keeping his grey eyes trained on Miranda. “Not so anyone would notice, anyway. Your secret is safe with me, Mademoiselle.”
“Thank goodness for that. I think I owe it to be proactive. You see, I always request an honorable traveling companion when I make my flight reservation.”
The stranger smiled showing his smooth white teeth. Miranda found his smile quite pleasant. In fact, he himself was quite pleasant. He had even features and a slightly majestic quality. That plus a strong face accentuated by high-slanted cheekbones and slightly wide flattened nose gave him a somewhat leonian look. All he needed was a black mane around his thick neck and above his broad shoulders to make the look complete.
He was in remarkably good condition. She couldn’t help but notice the washboard, flattened stomach and sinewy thighs that showed strong and true through his tan cotton pants. He was an attractive man, but Miranda wasn’t attracted. In her quick assessment, she pegged him for being the responsible and reliable type. A strong, silent type that was much too steady and true blue for her tastes. She always had a penchant for dangerous, undependable types like Jake. There was something about amoral, bad boys that she always found exciting. Maybe it was the challenge or maybe she just didn’t want to get too involved. She held out her hand.
“I’m Miranda. Miranda Perry. And you are?”
“Stroker.”
“Stroker? Is that it?”
He laughed out loud. He had a bellowing, explosive-type of laugh, diametrically opposed to his low-key manner. He looked as if he enjoyed laughing as much as the joke itself. Miranda relaxed – rapidly regaining her composure. She was on the plane sitting next to someone reliable, and no longer locked into that dream.
She was beginning to warm up to the man who apparently had only one name. She noted the appealing expression lines around his eyes. Miranda wondered how old he was. She guessed that he must be in his mid-thirties, but it was hard to tell. With his strong bone structure, he’d probably looked older when young, but would undoubtedly reverse that when mature. His bone structure would allow him to look youthful well into his advanced years. While he didn’t interest her sexually, he had more than captured her imagination. There was an oddly mysterious quality about him that made Miranda intent on wanting to know more about him. She detected a slight accent, but it wasn’t definitive in identifying his heritage. It was just one more card in the deck – and one step closer to getting to know this man Stroker.
Miranda mulled over his general demeanor and mannerisms. He seemed more American than European, but there was that trace of something else in his pronunciation of some words and his manner of speech. That clue pointed her in a different direction. It was possible that he acquired the affectation through being an inveterate traveler – nationality or birth need not be involved nor responsible. She’d found that happened with people living in other countries for a while. They’d subconsciously pick up inflections, adding them to their vocabulary and thereby helping themselves to a slight accent. She’d even done it herself. Her English accent sometimes flattened out to the point that people mistook her for American.
He let his head roll back her way.
“That’s it. For now, anyway. I hope your dream wasn’t prompted by this, although I could see why. Looks pretty terrifying if read alone.”
He was pointing to the pink cover of her newest romance novel. It was still safely perched on her lap. It being in place reassured her and meant that she couldn’t have been physically active during the nightmare – no writhing and churning around in her seat. Miranda was happy about that at least. She knew she didn’t need to apologize for her eccentric reading habits, but she did feel that she needed to explain. The fact that he had a sense of humor did not go unnoticed nor unappreciated. She liked men that possessed it.
“If the truth be known, I make my selection on the tawdriness of the cover,” she said, tapping her finger on the glossy card stock of the cover. The illustration showed a woman in a bodice that was unlaced and undone. Her face was in a state of ecstasy possibly because one bosom was being cupped by a tall, dark hulk of man simmering behind her.
“That is some pose, Mademoiselle,” he quipped. He sat looking amused and Miranda wondered if it was because of the drawing or because of her. She tucked the book away to the side of her closest to the window.
“Yes, it was quite painful holding that position and my right breast was hurting me from being squeezed like a melon all day,” she wryly responded.
At first, Stroker’s face was blank, but slowly he got Miranda’s humor. His face dissolved into another smile, but did not elicit another trumpeting burst of laughter. Everything was kept understated and withheld, like a cool lake that you had to jump in to find out the depth.
“Anyway,” Miranda said unsure about how to approach the subject of her sordid dream. “It was silly really. I was …”
Miranda pulled up short of revealing more. She hadn’t thought things through and didn’t know what she wanted him to know. She was feeling much better, but still troubled by it. The more she thought it through, the more she realized she was being foolish. What harm would it do to tell him? He was a stranger and who better than a stranger to tell private things to? It wasn’t as if he was in her circle of friends. He wouldn’t be able to repeat it to anybody she knew, so what difference did it make? And she did need to talk … a little, anyway.
“… I had a dream, nightmare actually, about my father.”
“Your father?”
“Yes, he died … in a car accident. It happened a little over four months ago. I guess I’m still getting over it.”
Stroker exhaled loudly. He faced straight ahead, uncomfortable with what he’d done.
“I am very sorry about your loss. I shouldn’t have pried.”
“No, it’s fine. Really it is.”
He rolled his head to the side, scrutinizing her face. He seemed to be trying to assess if she were being polite or sincere. Miranda held his eye and nodded. It was enough for him to trust it was the latter.
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I know what you’re going through. I lost my father … mother also … a very long time ago.”
“How dreadful!” Miranda said, giving his arm a sympathetic touch.
“Yes, it was. I was raised in an orphanage,” he explained in a muffled voice.
“That must have been hard.”
“Very, but then life is hard, Mademoiselle.”
Miranda felt a pang of pathos for him. She was starting to bond with this Stroker person. She wasn’t q
uite sure why she felt close to him after knowing him such a short amount of time, but she did. It could be because of his honestly and forthrightness about his circumstances. He had stated his history without regrets or pandering for sympathy. It showed he was accepting of what he was rather than hiding from it. His confidence and well-being about who he was as a person carried through to his appearance – including the way he dressed. No frills – just utilitarian, stylish clothing that suited him. Everything was just enough. He cared about himself, but not too much. It was another very appealing characteristic. And his open face spoke of having no secrets and always being there to lend a hand. Had he learned to be responsible the hard way? It was like that sometimes, but in the end he had. Some people never did and those were the ones to watch out for.
Adduné (The Vampire's Game) Page 24