The Last Trace (The Chosen Novellas Book 1) Page 7

  “Not yet, mon chéri. First you must do this.”

  He frowned as she crouched beside him and yanked the deer closer. The flow of blood had dwindled to a trickle, but he made no move toward it.

  Angelique hissed, then shoved herself to her feet. She stepped around him to the deer’s belly, lifted a foreleg, and plunged her hand into the soft skin just below the ribcage. Her arm disappeared farther inside the carcass, and a few seconds later she withdrew it, bloody to the elbow and holding the dripping heart.

  She dropped it in his lap.

  “Eat it. Eat it or you will die, just like all the others.”

  He stared woodenly at the glistening heart.

  The others.

  He picked it up, feeling his life as he’d known it slipping further away. Reluctantly, he bit into the oozing flesh. But after swallowing several small mouthfuls, he found himself tearing eagerly at it. When it was gone, his gaze strayed to the torn throat and the red-stained snow, and he felt a twinge of regret that he’d rejected her earlier offer.

  “Too late, mon chéri. It’s all bled out, unless you want to eat the snow.”

  Trace swallowed and blocked out the horror swirling in the back of his mind.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “This is not what I want.”

  “Then perhaps I’ve misjudged you.” Her mouth twisted into a cruel sneer. “You’re not the man I thought you were. You’re weak, no better than that deer.”

  Anger ripped through him and he leapt to his feet. His fists clenched, he glared at her.

  “Fine, woman. I’m tired of your games. I don’t need your blood or you.”

  He spun around and stalked across the meadow. He’d only made it halfway when she slammed into him. His breath exploded from his chest and he smashed face first into the cold, snowy ground.

  “How dare you turn your back on me again! Your boyish behavior is wearisome, and I grow tired of it.” Her cold lips pressed against his ear as she whispered, and her words sent an icy chill down his spine. “It’s time to end this.”

  Trace screamed as she savagely tore into his throat, his lover once again nothing more than a vicious, mindless beast.

  The cold embrace of the snow did little to numb the sensation of his life draining from his body. Her teeth burrowed deeper into his throat, and the arms now fastened around him gripped tighter, and he could feel his skin and muscle shredding beneath her claws.

  This time, he thought in whirling blackness, I am going to die.

  ~ ~ ~

  Trace woke a little before dawn. He pushed himself to his hands and knees and stared at the bloodstained snow beneath him. The crustiness of the skin around his mouth told him it wasn’t all his.

  He rested there a moment, too weak to attempt standing.

  But then the lethargy that had been haunting him the last few sunrises began to wind its way through his body, and he collapsed back into his frozen bed. He rolled over and his gaze found the sky, and his new fear of the sun sent a quiver through him as he searched for it through heavy grey clouds. They hung low, threatening to deliver a fresh load of icy powder.

  Please, God, please let it snow . . . and don’t let it stop.

  It was his last thought as the darkness swallowed him.

  ~ ~ ~

  She curled around herself in the abandoned bear’s den in which she’d been spending her days, shaken by what she’d almost done.

  The madness had nearly ruined everything. He should be dead after the way she’d ripped open his throat and gorged on his blood.

  But apparently his change was further along than she’d realized, and his body was beginning to build a shield around his lifespark.

  It was a close call, though. He hadn’t even regained consciousness when she’d forced as much of her blood down his throat as she could safely spare. She’d left him lying face down in the snow, scarcely breathing, and could only wait until tomorrow evening to see if he survived.

  Sadness tugged at her as she considered their nights together might have come to an end. She realized the moon had gone a full cycle since she first spotted him in the village, and no one upon whom she’d fixated had ever lasted this long.

  Counting the nights since she’d begun feeding him her blood, she suddenly felt a renewal of hope—that if he did survive, her eternal loneliness could perhaps be a thing of the past. Since coming to this land, her attempts at finding companionship had failed. She’d ended up killing all her prospects before they attained this stage, and had reluctantly concluded that she lacked the ability to make another like herself.

  This one was strong, though, much stronger than any of the others, and as the darkness brought by the dawn claimed her, she smiled at her memory of him with the deer’s blood dripping from his mouth.

  ~ Day 7 ~

  A cold mask shrouded his face and cloaked his body, heavy and wet. Trace wiped the snow from his eyes and mouth, then shrugged off the icy blanket covering his robe. He sat up and groaned as he opened his eyes to near darkness, and tried to recall where he was and how he got there.

  He groaned again as he remembered.

  Damned whore.

  He staggered to his feet, his belly cramping with hunger. He looked across the meadow toward the deer carcass and had no trouble picking out the snow-covered mound in the gathering darkness. Trace stumbled toward it, sinking to his calves with each step. When he reached the buried carcass, he stood staring at it a moment, then pulled his knife from its sheath and knelt. He brushed off the snow, carved away the frozen hide on a haunch, and sawed through the icy meat. He stopped, remembering he didn’t have his firestarter bag with him.

  A sick laugh tumbled from his lips.

  Like I could stand the smell of it cooking.

  He looked at the chunk of frozen venison in his hands.

  God damn her.

  He whittled off a bite with his knife and stuck it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, his teeth and the warmth in his mouth releasing the metallic taste of the blood in the raw meat. He swallowed and waited. His stomach protested, but he ignored the nausea and kept eating.

  Feeling somewhat satisfied, Trace turned to see what he could salvage of the carcass. Since it hadn’t been gutted and cleaned, he didn’t trust any meat from the midsection. But the hindquarters and forequarters were still good.

  He was sweating by the time he finished butchering the frozen deer. He bound the feet with a strip of hide, then slung it over his shoulder and hiked back across the meadow toward the creek and home.

  Stars glittered in the black, moonless sky by the time Trace arrived at the cabin. He stopped on the step and stared at the door a moment, jaw clenched, then opened it and walked inside.

  His mother was in her chair eating, and his father in his, a tin cup in his hand and a dirty supper plate on the floor next to him. He looked up at Trace and grunted.

  Trace set the venison on the table and walked over to his corner to pick up his bow and quiver, then turned toward his father.

  “Storm’s eased off. I’m taking you and Mother to Flathead day after tomorrow, so you’d better start packing up in the morning.”

  His father’s face turned an angry red. He took a deep breath, but his response died on his lips as Trace stepped toward him and spoke first, his voice low.

  “That’s the way of it, you stubborn ol’ mule. You need to see a doctor, and they got a decent one at Flathead. You ain’t gonna be back on that leg for a while yet, so for this year, trapping season’s over.” He glanced over at his mother. Gratitude shone from her face, and he gave her a tight smile. “I’ll be back tomorrow evening to help load the wagon.”

  Trace looked over at his father as he stepped to the door and felt a flicker of surprise at his father’s expression. It held the indignation he expected, but something more, too. Something like respect.

  Trace grunted, suddenly reluctant to leave the cozy, candlelit warmth and the company of the only two people he ever truly cared for. He opene
d the door and walked out into the cold night.

  ~ ~ ~

  Trace slogged across the snowy meadow and headed up the trail into the tree-darkened woods. His breath clouded the crisp air in front of him as he climbed. Though his hunter’s step was light, the crunch of snow, dirt, and frozen leaves beneath his feet seemed to be the only sounds in the desolate night.

  When he reached the rock cave, he tossed in the robe, not really needing it, then turned and listened to the forest. It was still, quiet, its residents safely tucked into warm burrows and nests.

  Restlessness prickled his skin. With his bow and quiver slung over his shoulder, Trace headed toward the creek. He followed it up the mountain, its muted trickle his only companion. He could easily see where he was going, though the night was pitch black. Trace frowned, refusing to consider why his eyesight was better in the dark than it used to be, but the answer came anyway.

  It’s ’cuz of her.

  And the need for his Machaya roared to life once again.

  He left the stream and followed a trail across the slope, the desire for her aching deep within him. He’d been alone most of his life but, until the last few nights, had never felt particularly lonely.

  Now, since he’d met Angelique, he was acutely aware of a growing emptiness that seemed to clutch at his very soul.

  Damn her.

  His pride kept him from screaming her name into the night. The ache within him pulsed along his veins, as though his blood itself was calling out for her.

  And as his anxiety mounted, the fiery beast within his belly woke, and the punishing gnaw of hunger slowly overtook his thoughts.

  He wandered the rest of the night, the burning thirst and hunger overshadowed only by the need for his demon. It was nearly dawn when he crawled into the rock cave and his buffalo robe bed, weak and exhausted and feeling more hopeless than ever before. As the black oblivion crept over him, his misery faded beneath its crushing weight, and he welcomed the nothingness into which he sank.

  ~ ~ ~

  She’d returned to the meadow in which she’d left him the previous night and watched him from deep within the forest as he butchered the deer. She was greatly relieved to find him still alive.

  Something in him had changed. He was beginning to give off the aura and scent that marked him as a Chosen, and she realized her claim to him that he “no longer sustained her” had become a reality. His blood, now too much like her own for it to nourish her, would provide an exquisite pleasure of a different sort—the exchange of blood with another Chosen—and she looked forward to him joining her in the games she’d learned from the others in the dark Parisian castle.

  Elated that he might survive the remaining stages of his Change, she giggled and set out to find the necessary tools to help him do so.

  ~ Day 8 ~

  Tight-fisted cramps greeted Trace as he regained awareness. He curled up, knees pressed to his chest, and took several breaths before opening his eyes. The purplish grey of evening hovered outside the shelter of his rock. He lay there, panting, and watched the grey slowly succumb to a creeping darkness as deep as that within the cave.

  He finally broke through the spell the hunger pangs had cast on him and unfolded his body to crawl from his bed and into the open. Trace pushed himself to his feet and stood next to the boulder that had guarded him from the sun. He surveyed the night around him, listening to the sounds of small creatures scurrying to their own homes in the earth, his muscles twitching. The whisper of an owl’s flight through the trees ended in a small shriek for an unlucky rabbit and Trace flared his nostrils as the rich scent of blood filled the air. The answering cramp in his stomach nearly doubled him over with the force of its violence.

  Sweet Jesus, he thought, wincing. My belly feels like it’s eating itself.

  He bent down and reached into the cave for his robe and his bow and quiver, then set off down the trail.

  ~ ~ ~

  Trace stared down at the fallen doe, the arrow in her side trembling along with her body. He clenched his jaw and knelt beside her.

  His prayer as he slit her throat was not his usual one of thanks, but a different one—one begging forgiveness. The hunger in his belly had long ago become its own creature, and that thing now controlled him. It raged at the coppery smell of the blood, and despair clutched at him as he realized he would give into its incessant demands.

  I’ve become like her. Machaya. Demon.

  But Trace’s thoughts faded as he lifted the deer’s gaping throat to his lips and its hot blood pumped into his mouth. His world coalesced to the heat and the metallic taste and the thick life pouring into him, and he swallowed and swallowed. He drank until the fiery beast quieted, the tension draining from him like the blood from the deer.

  He shoved the carcass away from him in disgust and wiped his mouth. His revulsion deepened as he stared at the gore smearing his hand.

  Trace yanked his arrow free from the bloody hide and started walking to the creek he’d crossed earlier. When he reached it, he washed his face and hands, then wiped them dry on his breeches.

  His self-loathing couldn’t hide the sense of satisfaction and warm peacefulness filling him, and he shook his head as he contemplated his future once again.

  Machaya. A bloodthirsty demon of the dark.

  He felt his dreams of traveling the world crumble within him.

  Why me? Why’d she have to choose me?

  Trace shoved away the longing he felt at the thought of her and started walking toward the cabin. He’d made a promise to his mother, and if it was the last thing he did, he would see her and his father safely on their way to Flathead.

  But I can’t take them. Not now. Not since the sun became my enemy.

  He shook his head and broke into a jog, seeking to outpace the wretched fate that had been stalking him since he met the demon.

  The wagon was in front of the cabin, and Trace felt relief pour through him at the sight of the bundles stacked in its bed. He paused before opening the door to smooth his features into a mask of something resembling normalcy.

  Bracing himself against the dreaded stink of cooking food, he entered. But it was later than he’d realized, long past supper, and his body’s reaction to the lingering smells was minimal. He glanced sideways at his father’s chair and was surprised to see it empty. A snore from the bed in the far corner provided Trace the explanation, and he turned toward his mother as she rose from her chair and walked to the cookfire.

  “Are you hungry, my son?”

  He ignored her hopeful tone and shook his head. He was beyond pretending to eat.

  “See ya got the wagon loaded,” Trace said. Avoiding her gaze, he surveyed the cabin, taking stock of what might be left to pack.

  “I don’t know about us leaving tomorrow,” she said, her voice low.

  Trace frowned and looked at her, noticing how pretty she was in the pale blue dress he’d brought from her sister.

  She studied him, her brow furrowing, and Trace tightened his jaw and shifted his gaze to stare across the room toward his father’s sleeping form.

  “Why not?”

  “Your father. I don’t know if he’ll be well enough to travel in the morning.” She hesitated. “He had a bad day today.”

  Trace snorted.

  “You mean he got stinking drunk and will probably be too hungover in the morning to get up.”

  He glanced at her and she shrugged.

  “Figures.”

  That worthless sonuvabitch, thought Trace, fighting back a surge of rage. And I can’t be here to get him into the wagon. God damn him.

  “What else needs to be loaded?” He tried to keep the anger out of his voice.

  “Just the bedding and the food. And the traps . . .” His mother’s voice faded. “That’s what . . . that’s what set him off today. He became very upset when I started to take them down.”

  Trace studied the line of traps hanging on the walls. His father had always been proud of his collection, t
elling the history behind each one as he oiled them. He had his common, everyday traps that he used, and then there were some that were unique, either one of a kind or rarely found for sale.

  Shaking his head, Trace shrugged off his robe and laid it on the table, then crossed the room to the wall behind his father’s chair. He reached out to pull a trap from its wooden peg.

  “No. Leave them. Your father needs to be the one to take them down and pack them.”

  “Why?” Trace turned to her, unable to hide his scorn.

  “Because he hates having things done for him that he feels he should do. And they’re his traps.”

  “Then maybe he shoulda taken them down instead of getting drunk.” Trace was tempted to yank them from their pegs and throw them in the wagon. He reached out again, fingering the cold steel.

  Aw, to hell with it.

  He dropped his hand, shaking his head, and stepped back.

  “It’s late, Mother. You should go to bed.”

  He walked over to the table and picked up his robe.

  “You’ll be here in the morning?” The hopeful concern in her voice tugged at him.

  “Not likely. Got some work to do tomorrow. I’ll be back toward nightfall.”

  “Are you sure I can’t make you some supper? I’ve never seen you so thin.”

  “I’m fine, Mother. See you tomorrow evening.” Trace walked to the door and paused, then looked back at her, giving her a crooked smile. “Thanks.”

  The smile she returned was strained by the worry creasing her face.

  “Please be safe, my son.”

  His face froze.

  It’s too late, Mother.

  He quickly turned and headed out the door.

  ~ ~ ~

  Trace stood on the porch, scarcely breathing as he fought back guilt and regret. After a long moment staring across the meadow into the woods, he sighed and stepped off. He walked past the corral and glanced at his horse and the mules crowded into the far corner of the pen, their snorts of alarm at his passing framed in bursts of white mist in the cold night air.