She came from the embankment in one fluid movement like a ballerina. There was nothing jerky or awkward about her. She was as pliant as liquid.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said. Her voice was deep, resonant and rich with an unsaid promise upon every syllable.
He felt his chest tighten for a second, his loins gird. Her affect was incredible. Then, he remembered what she had said. “Waiting for me, why?” He glanced about, indicating they were in the middle of nowhere. Why would she wait for him way the hell out here?
“I have my reasons,” she replied as if to answer his unvoiced query as well. She walked a few steps toward him, her hips rocking from side to side.
Inviting, he thought for no particular reason. “But -,” he began.
“No ‘but’s’, Ricardo Charone. It merely is what it is.”
His brow furled. “How do you know my name?”
She smirked, leaning upon a single leg, pointing the toe of the other into the soft ground. She did not teeter in the least. Her balance was perfect. “I know a lot about you, young man. More than you could ever imagine.” She breathed a heavy laugh that came from her chest. Her breasts heaved toward him for a moment. It was only a fraction of a second, but it was enough.
He was staring.
Her knowing smile broadened. “You run this route every Saturday. Do you not?”
He nodded, eyes playing about her figure. He could not help himself. He knew it was rude to scrutinize her femininity with such intensity, but he could not help it. She was enthralling, though he would not have been able to tell anyone why he would think of her in that manner. The thought was streaking across his consciousness before he could stop it.
“And after, you have a quick breakfast, go home and take a shower, but not before you lift weights for fifteen minutes. Am I still correct?” She was tapping the tip of her boot into the dirt, the muscles in her legs rippling beneath the sheer material of the garment she wore.
Again, only a nod as his orbs went on betraying him. How could she make him feel like a twelve-year-old looking at Grandpa’s old Playboys in the attic? He did not moon over girls like this, regardless of how fine they looked. It was not his way. He did not approach females in that fashion. It was degrading, uncouth... freakin’ rude!
“There’s more to you now than merely your routine, yes?”
“I’m not sure what you mean?” he managed to glance up into her coal-filled eyes, noticing her irises were huge. He was glad to have something else to look at other than the warm flesh underneath the skin-tight leotard.
She tapped the pointed toe of her book into the dirt a few more times, her head tilting to regard him from an angle. “There’s been a lot on your mind lately, Ricardo Charon. Things you haven’t had the will to explain to anyone else.”
“If that’s the truth, then how would you know about it?” he demanded, petulant, half-turning from her. Why is she making me act so immature? He had to peer away.
She exhaled through a chuckle. “I know, Ricardo Charon. I know.”
He heard her moving and looked back toward her. He was surprised to find her no more than a foot away from him, bent at the waist. Her hand was cupped over one side of her mouth as she came nearer his left ear. “Marianna White-Horse,” she whispered from her throat.
Though he turned toward her, stunned, the sound of her voice was still capable of making his gut twist in his abdomen. “How do you know that name!?!” he said, after a shaking himself free of thoughts he knew were not his. His voiced sounded funny, even in his ears.
“Does it matter?”
He was about to answer, but she stopped him with a raised eyebrow.
“Does it?”
“Well… yeah, it does,” he sputtered.
She straightened, tucking her long hair behind her ears, her face stern. She was staring directly into his eyes.
His brow furled as the details of her began to register. First, she was black and yet her hair was so straight, it could have been drawn with a ruler. It did not look like she used extensions. It did not look like a wig either. He could see the individual follicles sprouting right out of her head. It was her hair, grown extremely long. How long would it take someone of her genetic origin to grow hair to that length? Though her skin was the color of night, her features appeared Caucasian. There was even an Asian-like tightness about the upper part of her face. It was broad, typical of an African-American, yet, it was not the same. He could not explain it.
Rather, if he could, he probably would have said she looked like a mix of all the races!
“I think what she is doing matters more. Don’t you?” She said it as though she was purring, coming about to stand before the teenager, no more than ten inches away.
Ricardo noticed she was taller than him, and it was not because there were heels on her boots. Her shoes were flat and yet he had to gaze up at her slightly to look her in the face. “W-what is she doing?” he asked, terrified of the answer. What if she was having sex with some Hollywood-wanna-be? Oh god, could he bear to hear that? His little Marianna underneath the bulging chest of some… some… some Hipster!
The tall, lithe woman before him bounced with mirth. “It’s nothing like that, Ricardo Charon. Of that, I can assure you.” She reached out to stroke his face. “You’re little dumpling’s virginity is quite intact.”
His vision narrowed of its’ own accord. “Who are you?” Mistrust was bleeding from every pore now. How could she know so much about him? How could she know what Marianna was doing? She was in Los Angeles. There was no way -.
Her laughter stopped as if strangled. Her hand dropped to her side. Her eyes were direct once more. “I am Rasputna.”
Her name meant nothing to him. “Why are you here?”
Her head tilted cutely to one side again. “I thought I’d made myself clear the first time.” She stepped even further into his personal space. “I came here for you.”
“Me? Why me?” he queried, his voice caught in his throat, inadvertently leaning away from her.
She grabbed him so fast; he hadn’t had the time to move. One moment, he wasn’t in her arms, the next he was, held firm about the waist, her pelvis digging suggestively into his. She wrapped a leg around him, bringing them even closer together. She was so strong, Ricardo could barely move, let alone breathe.
“I want you, because you are mine. Do you hear me, little man? You belong to me, the Seeker.”
He did not understand what she was saying. But, the inference of possession was not lost on him. He was about to burst out of his shorts. He was the hardest he had ever been. He imagined his manhood was as hard as stone.
“I’m not… yours… to have…,” he said in rapid bursts, tears streaming from his eyes, and not just from outrage alone. Her clutch was tremendous.
She brought her face toward his, her lips a fraction of an inch away. “Since the day you were born, it was your destiny to be mine.”
“N-no…,” was all he said before his clothes were ripped from his body and his was thrown ruthlessly to the ground.
The last thing he remembered before she began was her standing above him. Her face was devoid of emotion as she silently stepped free of her boots, her feet were bare inside. She shed her garments and was soon naked in the bright beauty of the day.
“Why?” he asked, pleading like a child.
“Because, I say it is so.”
She lowered herself onto him, engulfing him with the warm tightness of her right there in the dirt.
He closed his eyes. He was lost.
He had been with two other girls in his young life. Both times, those encounters were wild, frantic couplings. They finished fast, out of fear of discovery. They’d been nothing like what she had vented upon him than fall morning. For the next few hours, she brought Ricardo to the brink of death with throes of ecstasy unlike anything he could’ve dreamed. His imagination could never have been as vivid, as wicked or as deprived before he had come across her in th
e desert.
She was the master.
He was the slave.
He would never leave her. He would die first.
In the end, she made good on her promise. She took him, in every way he could deem was possible.
Marianna White-Horse was nothing to him now…
*****
Officials from government entities as such the FBI and the Department of Homeland Security had espoused the beginning of the incident now known as The Event at a specific date and time - Wednesday, November 24th at exactly 6:47pm Pacific Standard Time.
In actuality, it had started months earlier and five hundred, fifty-two miles from its epicenter. It began with Ricardo Charon, the first child abducted from Holbrook, Arizona since the end of World War II.
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Part One:
Chaos Unleashed
Be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies.
~Mother Teresa.
Don’t walk behind me; I may not lead.
Don’t walk in front of me; I may not follow.
Just walk beside me and be my friend.
~Albert Camus.
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~ 1 ~
The Tornado Man
Friday, November 26th, the Day after Thanksgiving, 12:58 pm…
Marissa Avalon sat in front of the huge fifty-two inch HD LCD-TV, worry etching her tiny, delicate brow. The "wow" effect of last year's Christmas gift from her father to the family had long worn off. She hardly marveled at the size of the set anymore.
Instead, she cast her visage with an expression she seldom wore. Anyone who knew Marissa would say she possessed a bubbly wit and was always ready with a warm smile - atypical of some nine-year-old girl's.
She sat on the couch with her feet dangling in mid-air, her legs far too short to reach the floor. Her white converse sneakers bounced in front of the images flashing across the screen before her. Despite the fact she was in the third grade, she was small in stature. Her features were little; characteristics that made it appear as though she was in the second or maybe the first grade.
She had always been small for her age. Even at birth, she had only weighed four pounds three ounces, though she was born hale and robust. She was just diminutive. She stood four-foot-three with a slim frame. She had light-brown hair, straight, parted down the middle. It hung down to the end of her shoulder blades. She had dark-brown eyes set within a narrow face, ending in a sharp, v-shaped chin. Her lips were a natural pink and thin, set above a narrow nose right-sized to a face as small as hers. Her skin was the typical golden brown of a little woman of the United States, but with heritage reaching back into the heart of Mexico. It would not be uncommon to see her, during the height of summer, as dark as chocolate itself.
Today though, all those tiny details comprising Marissa were tense, taut. It was as if some invisible giant was pulling her in all directions at the same time, upon hidden strings. Now, she was a marionette. Her face bunched, her brow furled. Her arms and legs would not stay in one position for all that long. Agitated, she was in a constant state of movement, shifts and squirms that were necessary, crucial. She was certain if she sat still, she might go crazy.
“Look, Mari! Look at me! See how fast my new shoes make me run!” screeched her younger brother Sebastian. He streaked across her field of vision, racing as fast as his five-year-old legs could carry him.
It was not like Marissa was ignoring him per se. She just chose to take no notice of the boy.
To many, Sebastian was a spitting male remake of her - only younger and untamed. He had stringy, shoulder-length hair and large, dark-brown eyes were all features mirroring hers.
No, she had not ignored him. She had not even heard him.
Instead, she continued to fidget as she watched the television. Her eyes riveted to the flat screen. Its’ images were ultra-clear and captivating. The high-speed digital feed piping through their cable box made it even moreso. The story conveyed on the screen had her complete attention.
“…to be frank, Al, the events of the past eighteen hours have been extraordinary to say the least...,” said the attractive female field reporter on the TV. She was speaking to the lead anchor back in the studio. “…and still, this is despite the fact the entire Eagle Rock Plaza was scooped out of the ground. This is despite the fact that a local Vons Superstore has vanished into thin air. Nothing - I mean nothing - could be more harrowing than the abductions of twelve. Yes, I said twelve, children from this small neighborhood in northeastern Los Angeles. I cringe every time I think about it. It is hard to believe they were all taken within a five-mile radius of one another. It is agonizing to think that some of them knew each other. Three of them were siblings, and two others are rumored to be best friends.
“When I take the time to try to wrap my head around it, I find that I am unable to…”
The tall, big haired woman kept speaking, but Marissa was not listening anymore. When she heard the word “siblings”, it triggered a flood of thoughts, laced with fear and anger, worry and distrust. She had known them, all three of them. The girls she had considered two of her closest friends. She and the girls were part of a close knit, inner circle of her third grade class.
…And now, someone had taken them. Someone was no doubt hurting them - very bad.
Elena Herrera.
Mikalah Herrera.
The two names seared into her brain. Like twin hot pokers, sticks of iron, glowing bright red with heat, they gouged huge runnels along the gray matter in her head. How could things be any worse? They were her friends. She had known them since kindergarten when they had all been so afraid of being away from their parents. Together, they had been thrust into the greater world beyond.
Elena and Mikalah.
The sisters had been a packaged deal even way back then on that bright fall morning. She remembered when all the new students (and their parents) of Yorkdale Elementary had gathered in the small auditorium for orientation. She had spied them from across the narrow isle between benches just as narrow. She recalled feeling her nerves twist and turn in her belly, wondering what was going to happen next. By the way they looked; she knew the sisters felt the same. Each of them had been sitting upon the laps of one of their parents. The skinny, wide-eyed Elena perched upon her father’s knee. The round-faced Mikalah sat sunk into the body of her mother as if she were trying to melt away.
Marissa had peered around the body of her mother at the two sisters. She had not known they were sisters at the time, because they did not look alike - at all. This was something she had always thought to herself. She had not voiced the notion aloud when she had introduced them to others. It was her opinion and she felt it should remain unsaid.
They were in fact sisters, eleven months apart, but had different personalities and bearing as well as looks. Plus, they were beyond loyal to one another. There had always been no hesitation when it came to one of them fighting the other’s battles.
If you picked on one, you better be ready for the other to be up in your grill. She smiled to herself.
Once the Herrera sisters made friends, they were just as protective of their buddies as they were of themselves. This was why Marissa had grown to like them.
That first day in Kindergarten had been hard on all the children. It had been a nerve-wracking morning. Nothing was worse than the separation from their parents after a short meeting with the officials of the school. Some her classmates had protested with wails and screams as if they’d been in agony when it came time for parents to leave. This had not helped the more stoic children who were trying to put on their bravest faces. She had been one such child. This had been a challenge for her, especially with nearby kids howling at the top of their lungs. She half-expected to see someone chopping off their legs. Who would not feel those first vestiges of anxiety? Who would not begin to feel their resolve begin to crumble? Those kids had been crying for a reason, right? Marissa had felt unbidd
en tears start to well at the corners of her eyes and had glanced around, on the edge of feeling frantic. She had turned, hoping beyond hope to catch that last glimpse of her mother.
She had not.
By then, they had herded into a long, single-file line, trailing behind Mrs. Sato (her very first teacher). At the time, she had already walked them through one of the side doors. She had marched them to what would be their classroom for the rest of the school year.
Marissa never got that last look at her mother and remembered feeling a sense of dread rise from within. She would have cried, right then, if it had not been for a voice, though it was not directed at her.
“You don’t have to cry Mikalah. This is school, remember?” issued forth the tiny, singsong tones of the five-year-old version of Elena. She dressed in a loose fitting, powder-blue, polo shirt and a pair of darker, navy-colored cotton shorts. For some strange reason, she walked upon the balls of her feet.
Marissa smiled anew at the memory. Elena had always walked on her toes like she was negotiating a minefield.
Even back then, Elena was indomitable, confident. The squeals and yelps of the ill-prepared did not bother her in the least. Their cries seemed to tumble passed her like so many leaves upon the wind.
That had been enough for Marissa. That was all it took. She felt her own misgivings melt away just as her eyes caught a hold of the kid to whom Elena had been speaking.
Mikalah!
She looked even younger than the other girl. A shy child, Mikalah had long, course and dark hair about a tanned, if not squarish face. Now, it was set with newfound determination that settled about the corners of her eyes.
Marissa knew Elena’s words had comforted the little girl in the same manner they had comforted her.
“The crying kids bother me,” admitted the four-and-a-half-year-old version of Mikalah. She peered back through her eyelashes.
Winter's Fury - Volume Two of The Saga of the Twelves Page 2