Winter's Fury - Volume Two of The Saga of the Twelves

by Richard M. Heredia

  THE SAGA OF

  THE TWELVES

  BOOK TWO:

  WINTER’S FURY

  Richard M. Heredia

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  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment. This book may not be re-sold. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblances to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 Richard M. Heredia

  ISBN-13: 978-1310175558

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.

  Visit the author online and pen a quick review at:

  @Smashwords

  Cover Art by RMH Designs.

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  Visit the author at:

  https://www.facebook.com/richard.heredia.37

  https://twitter.com/RichardMHeredia

  http://www.linkedin.com/home?trk=nav_responsive_tab_home

  http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/15082395-richard-heredia

  http://www.shelfari.com/talarian

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  Books by Richard M. Heredia

  The Saga of the Twelves:

  (https://www.facebook.com/TheSnowmanSeries?ref=hl)

  The Unwanted Winter

  Winter’s Fury

  Storm’s Revenge (Coming Summer 2016)

  The Shadow Seed Series:

  (https://www.facebook.com/TheShadowSeedSeries?ref=hl)

  The Misbegotten

  The Aberrant (Coming Summer 2015)

  The Bane Series:

  (https://www.facebook.com/BanesBirthTheBook)

  The Birth of Bane

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  For Maira and Emma

  For Johanna

  And, for Kodiak

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  Acknowledgements

  Once more, my most humble thanks to my Creative Team who stood behind me, month after month, as I toiled through the massive project that became the first three volumes of this work. Although, I did struggle through most of the summer months of 2011 (and again in 2014, during the rewrite), the three of you kept at me, encouraging me, prodding me to continue with The Twelves. I am glad you guys convinced me to revisit the story, urged me to tell it correctly. I never would have kept my head to the grindstone, my focus on the straight and narrow if it had not been for you. Michelle, Elissa and Antonio – you are, and always will be, the heart and soul of this tale.

  Thanks to my wife, Maira Ayala, for being in my corner, for being my cheerleader and keeping my excitement level just high enough, so I was able to overlook or ignore all of the negative “stuff” that sometimes life throws at you, whether you deserve it or not. You were always there to listen and to offer clarification whenever I had a breakthrough or when I was going out of my mind trying to find out what the voice inside my brain was saying. You were my smile when I had a headache. You were my hug from behind when I was stuck and needed a break. You were my kiss whenever I wondered if I was mentally tough enough to finish what I started. You were my pot of coffee when I was too tired to work. Thank you, my love!

  Thanks to Johanna Velasquez for always being my Cornerstone of Positivity, for never doubting that this project would prove fruitful. You never let an opportunity slip by, no matter how busy or tired you might have been. You always had an “I am so proud of you” or a “you can do this” for me to read, whether it was a text or an e-mail or a Facebook message. I owe you so much, comadré. More than you know.

  Thanks to my mom, my siblings, my cousins, my extended family members and close friends, who were consistently there to give me a boost or just say simply, “Dude, I cannot believe you are writing a book!”

  Thus, thanks to Petra Heredia, Vanessa Reyes, Enrique Heredia, Christina Heredia, Raquel Rodriguez, Daniel Arriola, Joshua Lopez, Paul Lopez, Debbie VanDyke, Gilbert Arriola, David Arriola, Diana Rose, Sonia Huerta, Fernando Bravo, Thammy Martinez, Lauren Noriega, Anthony Novotne, KC Del Rosario, and Elizabeth Nahumck.

  Lastly, a special thanks to Emma Lorraine Heredia. Though it will be many years before you will be able to read this, I want you to know that way back in time, at the end of 2011 and the beginning of 2012, there was no one on earth who could have given me more of a sense of urgency than you did. You instilled within me a drive unlike anything I have ever experienced. In truth, I could not have finished the first versions of The Twelves, if I had not known that you would soon be in here in the world. Your birth has been a blessing to me on more levels than you could imagine. What you have done for me is simply…God given. Your imminent arrival forced me to take my writing seriously, to approach it in the same fashion I had when I was working for Fortune 500 companies, unhappy, but killing myself all the same. I learned so much because of you. How can I ever repay you? Thank you, my little Chomp-Chomp!

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  THE SAGA OF

  THE TWELVES

  BOOK TWO:

  WINTER’S FURY

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  ~ Prologue ~

  Love’s Taint

  Saturday, October 8th, North of Holbrooke, Arizona, 9:29 am…

  It had been a thing he had done hundreds of times in the past, whether he was training or doing so just to clear his mind. It was comforting. He welcomed the exertion. He enjoyed the pumping of his legs, the rhythmic beating of his heart in concert with the steady labor of his lungs. He could go for almost an hour now, his mind blank as his body went through the repetitive motion required of long distance running. In the past, he would have been content. In the past, he would have been at peace. These days though, he was far removed from any such level-minded mental state.

  Today, the routine of his run failed him on more levels than he cared to recognize. His mind tumbled about, entirely incapable of reaching any sort of equilibrium. Jogging should have filled him with a degree of solace. It always had in the past. But then, things had been different for quite some time now.

  He had passed the Hidden Cove Golf Course some time ago, striding through the dried riverbed adjacent to the property. He was north of I-40, the main transportation artery skirting through the sleepy town of Holbrook, Arizona. He had passed the sharp bend, heading west, and the lazy, angled turn pointing him back to the north. He was heading toward the fork in the shriveled watercourse, his thoughts still dancing with visions of her.

  Why do I have to miss her so much?

  His name was Ricardo Charone. He was a sixteen, a Hispanic teenager of medium height, rail-straight. He had dark brown, shoulder-length hair and eyes to match. His face was broad, but kind, though now it appeared more pained than anything else. He was broad-shouldered and thin-hipped with the lithe form befitting a boy who had run for many years. He might not look it, but he was strong. Years of intense speed-lifting and Cardio workouts would do that to just about anyone. In that sense, Ricardo was special. He was a great runner.

  He wore a loose-fitting, tank-top and shorts ensemble with coordinating Nike Racers on his feet. It was his High School Track Team’s training outfit. The secondary set he had. He was only supposed to wear it when he worked out with the team, but he could have given two shits ab
out all that bull. He had more important things to contemplate than the light admonishment he’d get from Coach Calhoun, if he got caught. He was, after all, the Middle Distance Prodigy out of Holbrook for Christ sake. No one would begrudge what he wore. All they would care about is whether or not he continued to win on the track.

  He harrumphed disdainfully. For the first time in his life, running did not seem all that important. Not now, possibly not ever. Something else had rearranged his priorities, something he could not shake no matter how hard he tried.

  He was heart-broken.

  He was pining after the only girl who had meant more to him than a means for a good make-out session or a quick feel in the dark. Marianna White-Horse. Her name was branded onto his brain. She branded into his heart, stirring more emotion than all the times he’d crossed the finish line in first place combined. Just her name could invoke a slew of feeling, the entire gambit as far as he was concerned. She made him sorrowful, angry, downtrodden, depressed, envious and even grateful – the list went on and on. Yet, he felt them all equally and at the same time. They were deep-seeded now, entrenched in the very fabric comprising the weft and weave of him. He could not remember what things had been like before she’d been in his life. His mind would not let him. Everything else was not as critical. All else was not her.

  There really had not been all that much between us, he tried to convince himself, over and over, time and time again. But, it was of no use. It was a wasted electrical pulse, an automatic reaction, a defense mechanism. Whatever the fuck you want to call it! After a few moments, the falseness of it rang true. It was less than conjecture. It was a simple lie.

  There had been much between them. There had been a lot. Sure, they had only made-out a few times, each session more desperate than the last. The news of her eminent departure had made them kiss frantically, had made them flail at one another recklessly. There had already been too much heartache, too much hurt filling their breasts for it to be any other way. Yet, there had been something growing between the two of them for quite some time. It was not physical, though he had thoroughly enjoyed having her in his arms. It was more. It was…

  He shook his head from side to side, a tactile attempt at banishing his thoughts. It forced him to focus on the landscape about him. He was running at the center of the riverbed - a somewhat broad expanse, shallow and bordered by steep, four-foot embankments on either side. Other than sparse chaparral, sage brush and other like flora common to the high desert, there was little else around. Maybe the odd Joshua tree or Velvet Mesquite grew about, but he could not see any from his position. The wind was steady, coming off the San Francisco Peaks some miles to the west, towering above the environs of Flagstaff. It was cool, refreshing, not the biting iciness it would be in the coming weeks with the onset of winter.

  Although, now that he thought about it, it was cooler now than it had been last year at the same point on the calendar.

  A few stray clouds stretched across the wide vista of the azure heavens above. The sun was bright, warming, much more subdued than it would have been during the height of summer. That was when almost every day temperatures ranged in the triple digits.

  Why had she been so different? How come she had come to mean so much to him in such a limited amount of time? Why? These were all questions he had asked himself a thousand times since she had left back in August. Every time he could not find an adequate answer to any of them. She had not been in his life long, and yet… she had somehow managed to bring out what he had always dreamed of experiencing with a girl. It was something unique, something lasting. Love, maybe? Of that, he was not sure, but it could have been. There, he was grounded in truth. It could have been. With time, with care, with them being close to one another, yes, he could have fallen in love with her.

  There just had not been enough time for it to evolve. School had ended with them as an exclusive item. The summer had begun with so much promise, so much on the horizon. It had been almost a month, a month of bliss, of being together, of talking and laughing, of spending time getting to know the other. They had seen each other just about every day, which Ricardo knew had irked her father to some degree. He tried to keep things under control, tried to make himself less of a burden, tried not to stay too late at her house. It had been difficult at times, because there was nothing he wanted to do more than to be with her. He loved the way she laughed, the way she tilted back her head and shook her hair from her face. Her neck would smooth, tighten, such an exquisite feature, though it as so small. Well, everything about Marianna had been small, compact. She was the tiniest sixteen-year-old he had ever met.

  It wasn’t like she was not “girlie”. She had all the necessary curves – perky breasts, a narrow waist giving way to flaring hips and a rounded butt. She was merely miniature, a teensy young woman, perfectly proportioned. He liked that about her. She made him feel large, which was something he seldom felt, being of average height and weight. Marianna had made him feel big, and not just because of her size. Her wondrous eyes had looked upon him with boundless approval. He could see how much she liked him. He’d known it from the first time he had talked her, on the bleachers, during practice.

  Maybe he should have told her that when he’d messaged her on Facebook. Maybe he should have been more forthcoming once her and her family got settled in Los Angeles. Maybe… but then, what was the use? She was gone now. She was in a gigantic city of light and glamour. What the hell was she ever going to see in him once she got to know one of those “tinsel-town”, whack-jobs living down the street? Their designer clothes, their perfectly coifed hair and their manicured fucking nails would have bedazzled her by now, right? How could he stand a chance against that when he was stuck way out in the middle of butt-hump-Egypt? She would lose interest by Christmas, if she hadn’t already lost it by now.

  Maybe it’s better to just cut my losses now. Marianna White-Horse is lost to me.

  He peered about once more, his thoughts distracting him. Already, he could see the course of the riverbed was altering. It splintered into four or five smaller branches. Each of them indicative of the rapids that would have been raging around him if there had been water in the channel. It would continue like this for forty yards or so until two distinct routes would emerge. One would continue north. The other would meander to the east for about a football field until it too would bend back northward. It would meet the other artery of the river some one hundred and fifty yards beyond that point.

  He chose a middle path, knowing these dried-up avenues would take him toward the eastern fork. He preferred to run that course, because it was flatter, less rocky and easier to traverse. He glanced down at his watch, the odometer application telling him he had been running for a mile and a half now. Another five to go, he thought, calculating his intended route in his head. It was one he had done so many times; each leg of it measured precisely in his mind. He would continue running up the wash for another mile and a quarter. When he reached regional highway 77, he would make a right. It was a two-laned affair that would lead him back toward the Hopi Travel Plaza and I-40. He would then run along the hard-packed dirt of the frontage road until he got to Navajo Blvd. He would continue on until he made a left on Wigwam. Once there, he was only a few blocks from his house. His typical Saturday run would finish with a quick cool-down and some breakfast take-out at Joe & Aggie’s Café. He would walk home from there, eating his meal, as he’d done every Saturday since starting High School two years ago.

  He was thinking of the egg, cheese and bacon breakfast burrito Joe Jr. would make for him when he saw her. She came into view the moment the riverbed turned back in a northerly fashion. She had been leaning casually against the embankment, one booted foot resting against the piled earth. The other was on the ground, arched, poised as if she were anticipating some sort of confrontation.

  She was tall. Her body was athletic, much like his. She had incredibly long hair, reaching to her waist. It was jet-black and as straight as an arrow.
She wore it parted in the middle, equally divided about black eyes and a broad face with a wide nose and pursed, bright pink lips. They were most illuminant he had ever seen, yet what covered her teeth was not the most striking feature about her. It was the color of her skin. It was a sort rarely seen in this remote part of the state. He felt his eyes widened before he could help himself. It was the color of night, flawless obsidian as if she’d been sculpted, and then painted to perfection.

  She…, he mused. His eyes danced over the one-piece leotard she wore, clinging to her body like a second skin. He could not help but stir at the sight of the tight nylon caressing her ample breasts and budding nipples. The way it folded around the crests and valleys of her vagina like a fervent lover. She’s naked underneath. Over the form-fitting garment, she wore a long overcoat made of kidskin. It looked like the ones the local cow-wranglers would have worn on a cold winter morning. Only this one was black - a rare color for a coat of that make. Upon her feet was a pair of boots, black as well, soles made of some sort of suede.

  He slowed to a stop, breathing deep, but not hard. He’d only run a mile and a half. There was plenty in the tank.