The Last Trace (The Chosen Novellas Book 1)

by Roh Morgon

  I am truly possessed.

  Trace watched the glowing embers and thought of golden hair, and blue eyes lit with a fire brighter than any flame, and soft curves and sharp kisses and the sweet coppery taste of her blood.

  Several more times he got up and prowled the camp, listening, longing, hoping. It wasn’t until the sky started to lighten in the east that his eyelids grew heavy and sleep overtook him.

  ~ ~ ~

  She’d watched his fretful pacing throughout the night, fading deeper into the surrounding forest whenever he drew near. Part of her took perverse pleasure in his misery, still angry over his rejection and attempted flight the evening before.

  A hint of the madness crept in at the memory of him running. She recalled how good it felt to bring him to the ground and tear at his throat, and wondered what it would be like if she pretended weakness and let him fight her, giving him the false hope that he could escape. His struggle would be exhilarating and almost as delightful as his death that would inevitably follow.

  Yet the thought of him dying made her feel sad, and she wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t just the loss of a plaything—she always felt a twinge of remorse when they died and her game ended. It was more than that, and she wondered if this meant she loved him.

  She did enjoy his passion and his desire for her, and he offered a welcome break from the loneliness that was her usual consort. She had been alone a long time, ever since she’d escaped the one in Paris who’d made her the way she was now.

  Gilles. He was a true monster. Those were dark days, and her mind cringed from the memory of the atrocities he and the others like him inflicted upon her, even after she’d become one of them.

  Then a giggle slipped past her lips as she recalled practicing those same depravities on the men and women foolish enough to accept an invitation to one of Gilles’ secret parties. She’d added her own cruel touches to their suffering, and their agonized screams and groans had been almost as delicious as their blood.

  Her veins tingled with excitement as the memories triggered urges that could no longer be ignored. But her new lover didn’t deserve her attentions after his behavior the night before, and she decided to punish him with the torment of her absence a little longer.

  Besides, she’d found other prey, prey for which she had no feelings, other than the desire to drag out their deaths as painfully as possible.

  ~ Day 5 ~

  Trace woke to a fly tickling his nose. He sputtered and scrubbed his face and sat up, squinting against the bright sun beaming down into the camp. Scooting deeper into the shade beneath the hide shelter, he realized it must be past midday.

  An impatient whinny, along with pawing and stamping, brought him further awake. When he glanced over at his horse and mule, both had their lines stretched taut beneath the trees, trying to get at the grass just outside their reach.

  Trace stumbled to his feet, frowning at the weakness in his limbs. He untied one end of the picket line and moved it to a neighboring tree, then did the same with the other end. The animals tore greedily at the fresh patch of grass, their tails swishing from side to side in response to the buzzing flies that crawled across their legs and bellies.

  Grabbing his near-empty waterskin, Trace made his way down to the creek and tugged off his clothes. Goosebumps dotted his body as he crouched in a small pool next to a boulder and washed, hoping to cleanse himself of the lethargy weighing him down. But the sun felt too hot on his skin, despite the cold water, and he quickly finished. He gathered his clothing from the stream bank and dressed in the shade of several aspens, their bright orange and yellow leaves trembling in the fall breeze.

  Trace tied back his wet hair, not bothering to pick the tangles from it. Less refreshed than he’d hoped, he filled his waterskin and trudged back to camp. He felt hollow, empty. With a deep breath, he choked down a handful of berries and several bites of jerky, only to be rewarded by the food trying to come back up. He broke out in a sweat and stood for several minutes, swallowing until the cramping eased. Worn out by his efforts, he sat on his robe and stared at the dead fire, his breath slowing as the sweat dried.

  He grimaced. His little sister had died when she was nine from influenza, along with many others in the trapper’s camp that year. He’d been sick with it, too, and had lost his best friend to the fever.

  Maybe I won’t run these sets just yet. If I’m fevered, no telling when I might be able to check ’em.

  Exhaustion draining the last of his strength, he pulled the buffalo robe around him and drifted off to sleep.

  ~ ~ ~

  The blazing heat of a desert sun beat down upon him as he stumbled across a flat, barren terrain, his body weighed down with hopeless terror. Trace jolted awake, the taste of sand still thick on his tongue, and threw off the heavy fur. As he sat up, he eyed the early evening sky with relief, then shrugged off his shirt, welcoming the breeze cooling his damp skin. He pushed himself to his feet, still a little unsteady. The palomino nickered and Trace glanced at his animals. They were standing quietly, once again out of reachable grass.

  “You boys thirsty?”

  Trace walked over and patted their necks, then led the horse and mule down to the stream and stood on the bank while they slurped. He allowed them to graze on the nearby grass as he surveyed the trees and surrounding brush, listening to the birds and small game scramble for their last meal of the waning day.

  No sign of her, though it’s still a bit early.

  The thought that he might not see her again, that she might be gone for good, sent a ripple of anxiety across his skin. He yanked on the lead ropes and headed back to camp. After hobbling and tying the animals to a new pair of trees, he snatched up his bow and quiver, along with a coil of horsehair rope, and set off upstream along the game trail at a brisk pace.

  Trace narrowed his eyes at the telltale deer pellets farther up and slowed his angry rush along the path. He stopped at a break in the trees that led down to the creek, noting the deer tracks of differing ages pressed into the patches of sand between the shrubs. Prints of badger and fox were mixed in, along with a set of week-old mountain lion tracks embedded deep into the earth near the base of a large boulder. Trace glanced up the rock, its top sheltered by the overhanging branches and leaves of a cottonwood. He scrambled upward, then unslung his bow from his shoulder and nocked an arrow. Easing into a crouch, he settled into silence.

  After a few long moments, the forest sounds, which had quieted as he’d climbed, resumed their muted clamor. Screeches and fluttering wings and the scurrying of little feet accompanied the birds and rabbits darting about in the underbrush as the last light faded behind the mountain. Trace watched the deepening shadows, listening for something larger.

  He didn’t have to wait long. He heard the brush behind and below him rustle as a large body moved through, and a mule deer stepped onto the path. She stopped and looked over the open area next to the creek, her ears swiveling as she listened, then slowly moved toward the water. A second, smaller doe joined her. As Trace eased back the drawstring, he heard more movement behind him. He paused and a six-point buck walked regally past the rock, his head held high.

  Trace watched them drink, waiting for one of them to turn so he could get a clean shot. The two females finished and turned back toward him. He stayed as still as the boulder on which he perched, scarcely breathing. As they walked past, the buck raised his head, then quickly turned to catch up with them.

  Now or never.

  Trace relaxed his fingers and the arrow zinged home, burying itself deep in the front of the buck’s chest. He coughed, spraying blood, took two steps, then collapsed.

  Trace leapt off the rock, strangely exhilarated. His attention locked onto the blood pooling on the ground and he walked around it, unable to tear his gaze from the red sand. The deer’s sides trembled, his eyes already glazing over. Trace set his bow and quiver aside, then withdrew his knife and knelt beside the animal. The prayer tumbled mechanically from his lips as he sl
it the buck’s throat. His words died at the fresh rush of blood and he watched, mesmerized. His hand drifted out to touch it. The crimson liquid bathed his fingers and he was surprised at its warmth.

  His fascination grew as he examined the blood coating his hand, and without thinking, he raised his fingers to his lips.

  It tasted salty, metallic.

  His stomach cramped with hunger.

  Trace watched the blood drain from the wound he’d made in the deer’s throat, absently sucking on his fingers.

  He remembered the first time he’d brought down a deer on his own. He was just a boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, and had finally developed the strength to pull a man’s bow. When he and the other youths tracked the deer to where it had fallen, the older boys told him that he had to eat the heart, that the heart would make him a powerful hunter and prove him worthy.

  He’d nearly thrown up several times, but the boys’ taunts and encouragement gave him the resolve to finish it. He’d stood, triumphant, his hands and arms covered in blood, while Joseph Little Bear painted red war stripes on his face.

  Trace shook off his memories and set to work cleaning the deer. But when he pulled out the blood-filled heart, he stopped. He brought it closer to his face, then shut his eyes and inhaled its coppery scent. It reminded him of her.

  He pressed it against his nose and lips.

  Oh, sweet Jesus.

  He wanted to scream.

  He opened his jaw and bit down. Warm blood gushed into his mouth, and the aching need for her ripped through him, threatening to crush his own beating heart. He tore into the lump of flesh in his hands, sucking the blood from it, tortured by images of her pale, perfect breasts.

  Woman, where are you?

  He sucked slowly, swallowing bits of meat along with the blood, and his stomach clamored for more. He stopped and opened his eyes, then frowned. He took a bite and chewed, savoring the tangy flavor, so different from hers, yet . . . somehow the same.

  Trace licked his fingers when he was finished, grateful that his stomach was content for the first time in days. He stood to wash off in the creek and froze at the whisper of sound from the rock above him.

  Angelique crouched there, her eyes flaming red, her face lit with a savage smile.

  “Mon chéri, I do believe you are the most delightful man I’ve ever encountered.”

  His heart thudded in his chest, faster and faster, and the ache in his loins returned with a vengeance. She leapt down from the rock, landing lightly on the bloodied sand next to the deer.

  Trace stood, locked in place, his fists clenching and unclenching.

  “My God, mon chéri, you are glorious. I wish you could see yourself, covered in blood that is not your own, blood that you took, blood that you need.” She laughed, that tinkling laugh he found so bewitching. “And now, it’s my turn.”

  She stepped toward him and licked at the dried blood on his bare chest. He didn’t dare move. Even though he knew she was stronger than him, his need for her was overpowering, and he was sure he’d crush her once he took her in his arms.

  His body trembled as she pushed him down onto the bloody ground and unlaced his breeches. Still he kept his hands from her, waiting. She eased herself onto him and he nearly lost control. Smiling, she slashed her throat and leaned down. As his mouth fastened on the gaping wound, her fangs sank into his shoulder.

  Succumbing to the fiery passion within her blood, he embraced her and held her tight. The red ecstasy convulsed through him in wave after crimson wave, and he felt himself sinking into mindless oblivion.

  ~ ~ ~

  Awareness gradually returned to him, and he was surprised to find her beneath him. He shifted his weight off of her and she opened her glacier-colored eyes. Her languid expression brightened as she looked at him, the tips of her fangs pressing against her bottom lip.

  “I don’t know what it is about you, mon chéri, but I find I just cannot get enough of you.”

  Trace mustered a weak smile and tipped his head, exposing his throat.

  “No, mon amour.” She reached out and pressed his chin down. “I’ve overdone it again. I cannot take anymore from you.”

  He lay back, content just to have her by his side. She curled around him and trailed her fingertips along the curve of his jaw. He rested a hand on her thigh, his dark red skin a sharp contrast to her milky white.

  So pale and cold. So different from any woman I’ve ever known.

  He realized now he didn’t want to know any others. That their warmth would be nothing compared to the heat he felt when with his icy demon.

  “What happened to you last night? I—” Trace tightened his jaw, unwilling to admit his need to her.

  She stroked the long scar running from his temple past his mouth to his chin.

  “How did you get this scar?”

  Trace grunted.

  “A knife fight.”

  “You were attacked?”

  “I was young and proud and . . . foolish.”

  Angelique laughed.

  “And no doubt very passionate, mon chéri.”

  He grunted again, then shifted to study her face.

  “You didn’t answer my question. What happened to you last night?” He tried unsuccessfully to keep the irritation out of his voice.

  “You needed rest. I found other sustenance.”

  Jealousy flooded through his veins and he sat upright and stared down at her. The thought of her touching another man, drinking from another man, coupling with another man, enraged him.

  He grabbed her arm.

  “Who—?”

  “Let go of me.” Angelique’s eyes reddened and her lip curled into a snarl.

  His hand tightened. Hers whipped out and raked him across the cheek.

  He let go.

  She stood and glared down at him.

  “I thought you were different. I thought you’d be different,” she hissed. “But you’re just like all the rest. And you do not own me.”

  The air sighed and she was gone.

  Trace leapt to his feet and spun around, peering wildly into the empty night.

  But she was gone.

  He howled, wordless, having no other way to express the turmoil within him. The mountains echoed his rage back at him, and the forest became deathly quiet.

  Trace stood for a long time, waiting. When he finally accepted that she was not coming back, he looked down at the dead buck, then over at his gear scattered across the sand, and released a heavy sigh.

  Spotting his breeches and moccasins, he gathered them and dressed. He glanced around for his buckskin shirt, then remembered he’d left it at camp. Trace picked up the horsehair rope and shook his head.

  This is gonna hurt some.

  He fashioned a harness from the rope, laced it across his chest, and tied the long loose ends to the deer’s antlers. The rope was prickly and Trace gritted his teeth as he leaned into the makeshift harness. It took several focused attempts to get the carcass moving, and by the time he’d dragged it up the short incline leading from the stream to the main trail, his eyes stung from the sweat running down his face.

  Exhausted, Trace sank to his knees. He rubbed the raw skin beneath the rope as he panted, and cursed himself again for leaving his shirt at camp. When he’d caught his breath, he stood and leaned once more into the rope, grateful that the way back was mostly downhill.

  He was relieved when he reached the campsite to find his animals were still there. They snorted and pulled at their picket line, rolling their eyes at him.

  Trace shrugged out of the harness and, touching the rope burns on his chest, looked around camp.

  I should just leave it all. Go somewhere else far away. Away from her.

  He stared at the ashes of the cold fire and shook his head, then started gathering his gear.

  ~ ~ ~

  The fool. She should end him now. How dare he try to tell her who she could and couldn’t love, who she could and couldn’t kill? She should just go bac
k there and tear out his throat and be done with him.

  But even as she turned around, her thoughts jumbled and her rage dissipated.

  The memory of him sucking on the stag’s heart, its blood dripping from his chin and down his chest, spawned an ache for him deep within her body. And his jealousy, though petty and annoying, was only proof of his love for her, and she suddenly found it sweet and endearing.

  No, she wouldn’t kill him.

  In fact, she now had a new plan for him, and its possibility triggered wild laughter to burst from her throat. She took off running across the mountain.

  ~ Day 6 ~

  The eastern sky was just beginning to pale as Trace rode into the clearing behind his parents’ cabin. Though he no longer felt sick, he was worn out and ready for bed.

  He led the mule with the dead buck draped across its back to the side of the house. Trace took a deep breath and dismounted, then tied a rope to the hind legs of the carcass, looped the rope through a hook in the eave, and hoisted the deer up for his mother to butcher when she woke.

  Leaving his horse to graze, he unsaddled the mule and turned it loose in the pen. He stowed the pack saddle and traps in the lean-to, and with a tired sigh, glanced eastward at the approaching dawn.

  A mysterious lethargy began to ooze through him, something far more than simple exhaustion, and he felt a rush of raw fear, accompanied by an unexplainable and desperate need to find shelter.

  Trace stumbled as he turned to his horse, his legs heavy and nonresponsive, and he barely had enough strength to pull himself into the saddle. He gripped the saddle horn and urged the palomino into a trot. The rock overhang where he’d thought about spending the day was only a couple of miles up the creek, but he suddenly wasn’t sure he’d make it that far without falling off.

  The thought of being caught out in the open, beneath the sun, filled him with a dread he didn’t understand. And that scared him even more.

  Trace dug his heels into the horse’s sides.

  Low-hanging branches whipped him in the face, and the brush crowding the narrow trail threatened to tear him from the saddle. He crouched low on the galloping horse, feeling the weakness growing in him with each pounding stride.