This is another teaser for you guys, something that was written a while back and has more meaning and purpose than you might yet realize. It is not part of the first book, but is part of an event that’s rather crucial for all the characters involved.
Also, I apologize for lack of updates this month. I got a new job and with that new job was an absence of time and creativity to write. It’ll slowly come back, as soon as I get my schedule figured out, but I’ll be starting classes in a month so that’ll certainly add to the tension too. Then again, I always seem to have a muse when I don’t have any time to write. We’ll see how this plays out.
Enjoy! And comments, as always, are welcome!
“It’s not raining in Egypt.”
It was raining there; a torrential down pour that seemed never ending in this part of the world. Mildew was the predominant plant life, coating the bricks, the stones, every crevice of this sinking, derelict shelter, that an unconscious and unmoving Keshayla would find herself in. The black growth thrived even with the lack of light; no windows enabled the moon’s pale glow to reach inside, the sun could never hope to warm the algae-slickened steps. No living soul even knew this hovel still existed, having been abandoned long ago when the forest was still maturing and a sturdy, sound structure had been man’s only desire.
“Cairo is pleasant this time of the year. Tourists are still thick but the weather is bearable again.”
There was no answer.
“I told you so.”
He was the creator of flame; or the wielder of it. Through time and the shifting of literature and history, the truth of the mater seemed to have changed. In the dark, damp of nothing, however, a sudden flare of orange flashed and whipped around, feasting on the algae and burning it away. The stones dried, the muck curled and crusted, the uneven brick floor warmed. Their dark hovel smelled faintly acidic but began to heat up as the god sat besides the torn and broken body of his only grandchild, setting his burning flame on the ground beside her.
Like a rose taking root, the fire slithered higher into the air until it stood a solid foot, writhing and twisting yet remained tamed and under the control of the green-eyed God. “You’re place is in Midgard, Keshayla.” Loki sat, cross-legged, on the ground beside her. In the gleaming of the flame, his eye twinkled, showing just the faintest trace of emotion: sympathy, perhaps, but mostly patient expectation of a father figure waiting for the logic to find the child after their mistake. This was why you didn’t run with scissors. This was why you didn’t stick a knife in the toaster. This was why you didn’t leave Midgard and put yourself in a place surrounded with the one thing you were vulnerable to.
Loki set his hand, palm flat, at the middle of Keshayla’s back, prickling waves of energy stimulating the nerves that ran along the spine and up into the brain. There was a pause only for a minute, before her frame shuddered and breathed for the first time in hours. “But you don’t heed my advice unless it’s too late, do you?”
It was the truth.
“Ah, is that acceptance to your fate then? Did my girl admit defeat?”
“You’re stubborn. You curse me and you curse yourself and all those involved with this new fate. Yet despite it all, you try to take on more than you’re already burdened with, as if to say ‘what’s one thing more’?”
What’s one thing more?
“It’s nice in Cairo this time of the year. Zaki would take you in. He’d take you. No one else will.”
Wouldn’t it be nice if you were wrong? What about him?
“Too little, too late.” There was a pause, before Loki removed his hand and Keshayla went slack again, unmoving on the hard ground.
© 2011, Ezri Grey. All rights reserved. Do not copy or reproduce without the author’s permission, except with the social links in each post.