An Excerpt
Here is an excerpt from a story I'm working on, working title Fait Accompli. Be kind, rewind. (Do people even remember this phrase?)
Night in the desert, Esperanza had found, was as cruel as the midday heat. She shivered under her blanket, a woven calico, soft and stained, and listened to Jack snore as he slept off the welcome brew of fermented cacti. The dull glow of the fire in the rusted barrel the town’s mayor had offered them did little to beat back the cold or illuminate the dark night. She had looked for the moon, as she always did, but he was on the wane tonight, a bare crescent slivering across the firmament amidst the scattered sparkle of stars that Ed had once told her were just other suns according to some book he’d read. She wondered how he was, a warm fondness curling through her thoughts.
The hushed susurration of metal carried through the quiet of the town square. It was the man, she knew. Curiosity drove her as she rose to her feet and laid the rifle next to Jack. His drunken fingers curled around the barrel as she drew his blanket back over him. Moving by touch, as much by sight, she fumbled a newly acquired tallow from their day’s take, and lit it in the embers of their fire. It gave a sullen, smoky light that reeked of the animal fat from which it was made. Her fingers touched the hilt of one of the knives sheathed at her back and, squaring her shoulders, she made her way into the darkness guided only by the glow of her candle and the shivering of metal.
“Hello?” she called softly as she rounded the well and approached the bell where she had seen the man earlier.
Black against inky night, she saw a silhouette freeze and then curl in on itself.
“Hola?”
She drew closer, within a few paces now. Reached out a hand to touch. Crept closer. The shadow shivered, chains trembling.
“Are you ok?” she asked. Her fingers hovered. Would he welcome her touch?
With a jerk, the figure turned toward her, his hand, shackled, caught her wrist and pulled her forward. She resisted, pulling back against his hard grip. She shook the candle at him, hot tallow falling on his fingers and with a hiss of pain, he released her. She backed away, out of reach, her breath coming hard and fast.
“Who are you?” she insisted. She raised the flickering light high to catch him. The man hesitated, then gingerly reached up to draw back the cowl of his long robes. They weren’t black, she realized, mistaken in the darkness by the night, in daylight by the filth. They were the color of blood. Her forearms erupted in gooseflesh.
He turned his face toward the light.
He was haggard and lean, a scar gnarling across his jaw beneath lank graying hair. But that wasn’t what caught her breath in her throat.
Across his left cheek, the devil’s side, a black cross was tattooed beneath his eye.
Dios mio.
A Reckoner.
She fled.
Night in the desert, Esperanza had found, was as cruel as the midday heat. She shivered under her blanket, a woven calico, soft and stained, and listened to Jack snore as he slept off the welcome brew of fermented cacti. The dull glow of the fire in the rusted barrel the town’s mayor had offered them did little to beat back the cold or illuminate the dark night. She had looked for the moon, as she always did, but he was on the wane tonight, a bare crescent slivering across the firmament amidst the scattered sparkle of stars that Ed had once told her were just other suns according to some book he’d read. She wondered how he was, a warm fondness curling through her thoughts.
The hushed susurration of metal carried through the quiet of the town square. It was the man, she knew. Curiosity drove her as she rose to her feet and laid the rifle next to Jack. His drunken fingers curled around the barrel as she drew his blanket back over him. Moving by touch, as much by sight, she fumbled a newly acquired tallow from their day’s take, and lit it in the embers of their fire. It gave a sullen, smoky light that reeked of the animal fat from which it was made. Her fingers touched the hilt of one of the knives sheathed at her back and, squaring her shoulders, she made her way into the darkness guided only by the glow of her candle and the shivering of metal.
“Hello?” she called softly as she rounded the well and approached the bell where she had seen the man earlier.
Black against inky night, she saw a silhouette freeze and then curl in on itself.
“Hola?”
She drew closer, within a few paces now. Reached out a hand to touch. Crept closer. The shadow shivered, chains trembling.
“Are you ok?” she asked. Her fingers hovered. Would he welcome her touch?
With a jerk, the figure turned toward her, his hand, shackled, caught her wrist and pulled her forward. She resisted, pulling back against his hard grip. She shook the candle at him, hot tallow falling on his fingers and with a hiss of pain, he released her. She backed away, out of reach, her breath coming hard and fast.
“Who are you?” she insisted. She raised the flickering light high to catch him. The man hesitated, then gingerly reached up to draw back the cowl of his long robes. They weren’t black, she realized, mistaken in the darkness by the night, in daylight by the filth. They were the color of blood. Her forearms erupted in gooseflesh.
He turned his face toward the light.
He was haggard and lean, a scar gnarling across his jaw beneath lank graying hair. But that wasn’t what caught her breath in her throat.
Across his left cheek, the devil’s side, a black cross was tattooed beneath his eye.
Dios mio.
A Reckoner.
She fled.