I tried to speak, only managing a pained whimper.
All around me haunting faces churned, their full, ghastly forms emerging from the stone.
Like hungry sharks in chum filled waters, they swarmed our unsuspecting guest. Brushing her hair from her shoulders. Inhaling her scent as if intoxicated by it.
Oblivious to all of this, the mermaid continued, “After … everything, I didn’t know who else to turn to.”
“She was in the crowd,” the specter of a soldier missing half of his face murmured against the nape of her neck, causing the girl’s body to tremble with an involuntary shudder.
“Laughed as you suffered,” yet another, with blue lips and blackened gums, added.
Clinging to the reed, I prayed it would anchor me in the knowledge that this lass was young and innocent. She was no enemy of mine.
Squaring her narrow shoulders, my brazen guest ventured close enough for me to see the light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. “My fiancé was killed during the battle with the Lemurians,” she admitted, her face crumbling in misery.
“Do you think her tears would taste as salty as the sea?” a corpse in the late stages of rot pondered, dragging his tongue over the rise of her cheek.
Bringing my fist to my lips, I stifled a heave.
“Since I lost him, I can’t sleep. Can’t eat. The pain … feels as though it could consume me.” Her desperate stare beseeched me, pleading for understanding.
Round and round, the phantoms eddied. Each more horrific than the last.
“She knows not of real pain.”
“We could show her.”
“The poor soul.”
“I was hoping,” her request wavered with the tangible sorrow of true mourning, “you might know of a way to heal my heart and grant me a bit of peace … with magic. I’m willing to pay any price.”
Shaking my head, I tried to deny my own licentious longing.
This was the beast. The infection. It wasn’t me.
“She wants us.”
“Needs us.”
“No one will know.”
“Plant a garden of souls that wronged you.”
“Let her be the first seedling.” My mother’s spirit broke from the pack. Her gnarled hand reached for me, beckoning me forth. Her tone made it sound like a special honor I could bestow on the humble maiden.
The shell pulsed red against my breastbone.
My fist tightened around the reed.
“Lady Ursela?” she attempted once more, my silence seeming to give her doubt if I heard her at all. “Can … can you do that?”
The manifestations drifted around her, presenting her to me as if in offering. Silence descended. The living and the dead waited with vested interest, eager to learn of my true nature.
Slow rolls of my tentacles eased me out from hiding. As my head rose, an oily slick smile spread across my face. “My dear, sweet child, that’s what I do. It’s what I live for.”
The Unfortunate soul chroniclescontinue with Entombed in Glass coming in 2018.
Enjoy an Excerpt of Crane
Also written by Stacey Rourke
1
If his wife hadn’t let her ass grow to the size of a sofa, Vic wouldn’t have to cheat. Shrugging his navy blue sport coat over his shoulders, he stepped forward, allowing the hotel room door to shut behind him with a soft thump. A smug smile curled across his face, his chest puffing with pride at his own prowess—thanks in part to those spiffy little blue pills his doctor prescribed. The heels of his wing-tipped loafers clicked against the cement stairs, one impeccably manicured hand running along the handrail as he descended. The rusted metal rail squeaked its protest under the faint touch. Taking its suggestion, he retracted his hand.
Why he humored Karma by letting her drag him to this dive every week, he had no idea.
Her firm little apple bottom isn’t that great, he mused to himself, snorting a quick, dry laugh.
Of course it was. She made good money with it at the Sugar Shack down by the airport. Grinding to R&B’s raunchiest hits, while clad only in a sequin thong. She was a sweet, albeit naïve, girl that believed if she stroked Vic’s … ahem, ego just the way he liked, she would someday find a fat rock on her finger and the title of Van Tassel behind her name. Hence her insistence on the flea bag hotel. She had flipped her bleached blonde waves, batted those ridiculous fake eyelashes, and pouted that she couldn’t be seen as the “other woman” by the same crowd she would soon be rubbing elbows with. As if he would ever let that happen. Karma’s airbrushed nails and hooker heels would never fit into his world. After all, in Tarrytown the Van Tassel name meant something, and not because of the stupid legend the residents of the small glen of Sleepy Hollow mercilessly clung to. No, as one of the founding families they helped build this town. Meaning, here, he might as well be a Rockefeller. A fact he reveled in and would never tarnish with outward displays of his cheap conquests … no matter how well she could wiggle.
Vic crossed the parking lot, lit only by one humming street lamp, with a wide, jovial stride. As he shook his keys from the pocket of his slacks, thumbing the button to unlock the doors, his phone buzzed from the breast pocket of his Armani shirt.
Snatching it from its resting place, he tapped to answer. “Yello?”
“Don’t you sound chipper for someone working late?” Yvonne slurred, the only hint he needed that she’d already cracked open tonight’s bottle of wine.
“Why shouldn’t I be chipper?” he playfully asked, turning to glance back up toward the room Karma had rented. A flash of her blonde locks appeared from behind the stained drapes. He raised his hand in a casual wave, but couldn’t tell from this distance if she returned the gesture. “I just finished showing a multi-million dollar estate that the buyers are very interested in, and now I get to head home to my loving wife.”
“Yeah, right,” Yvonne openly scoffed, her voice muffled by her glass as she took another sip. “We’re the friggin’ Cleavers. Hey, Cassidy is at the mall. I need you pick her up on your—“
Vic jerked his head to the right, in the direction of the neighboring gas station. Between the normal ebb and flow of rushing traffic, he heard the distinct snap of hoof beats pounding over pavement. “What kind of idiot would bring a horse out this close to the highway?”
“The highway? Where the hell are you, Victor?”
A moment ago the drum of the approaching rider had been coming from the south of him, Vic was sure of it. Yet somehow, without so much as a faltered step, it shifted to the north. “Stopped for gas, that’s all.” Vic paid little attention to the lie rolling off his tongue as he rose up on tiptoe and craned his neck to peer into the darkness.
“Oh!” Her momentary flash of accusation was all but forgotten at the exciting prospect of fresh booze. “Are you near Gordon Bleau’s? I need a bottle of Amaretto.”
Vic stifled a cringe at the thought of his wife’s mixed drink induced wandering hands. If he wanted to fend off an overly Botoxed hag that reeked of booze, he’d go visit Nana at the home. Her old biddy friends loved him, and putting in his time there helped secure his spot in her will. “I’d love to, pet, but I’d hate to keep Cass waiting.”
A hot, snorted breath heated the exposed skin of Vic’s neck, tickling down the collar of his shirt. He spun, his heart pounding painfully in his chest, and pressed his back to the car door. Chills raced up and down his spine, electrifying his entire body. Nothing. There was nothing before him but that lone buzzing light and the seedy motel. “Damn it! Punk kids!”
“And they have a horse?” Yvonne’s giggle morphed into a hiccup. “You better watch out, Vic. It could be one of those lesser known equestrian gangs.”
The lightning that flashed on the otherwise calm night was the only omen Vic needed to spur him into action. Throwing himself off the car, his trembling fingers fumbled with the door handle. Behind him, metal hissed free from leather. Slowly—with a cold, hard fist of dread clenching his gut—his
head swiveled.
“Oh,” he said with a nervous lilt of laughter to the ominous symphony of black before him. “That’s … good. You got me. I really believed for a sec—”
Vic’s anxious, cracking plea morphed into a scream as the figure pulled back. The blade of their arched sword gleaming gold under the yellow-hued light.
Victor’s hands raised in the only defense he could offer. “No! Noooo!”
He sucked in one last gasp as metal winged through the air.
“Vic? Victor!” Yvonne screamed, panic clearing her alcohol induced haze. “What’s happening?”
The only response she received came in the form of a ghostly whinny … followed by a soft thump. Her shrieks were muted as the phone tumbled to the ground—right next to Vic’s still rolling head.
About the Author
Stacey Rourke is the author of the award-winning YA Gryphon Series, the chillingly suspenseful Legends Saga, and the romantic comedy Adapted for Film. She lives in Michigan with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and two giant dogs. She loves to travel, has an unhealthy shoe addiction, and considers herself blessed to make a career out of talking to the imaginary people that live in her head.
Connect with her at:
www.staceyrourke.com
Facebook at www.facebook.com/staceyrourkeauthor
Amazon Author Page:
http://amzn.to/2l8FlbH
or on Twitter or instagram @rourkewrites
If you enjoyed Rise of the Sea Witch, pick up these other titles by Stacey Rourke:
The Gryphon Series
The Conduit
Embrace
Sacrifice
Ascension
Descent
Inferno
and The Official Gryphon Series Coloring Book
The Legends Saga
Crane
Raven
Steam
Reel Romance
Adapted for Film
Turn Tables
Rise of the Sea Witch (Unfortunate Soul Chronicles Book 1) Page 23