by DA Chaney
Cryptic
Written By DA Chaney
Cover by Shawn Conn
Cryptic
©2011 May December Publications LLC
Second edition
The Split-tree logo is a registered trademark of May December Publications LLC.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living, dead, or otherwise, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author or May December Publications.
Printed in the U.S.A.
Acknowledgments
I have a lot of people to thank. I tried to keep it short, but the names just kept coming and in the end I probably missed some important people that I'll kick myself over forgetting later. For this list I was selective, but it still ended up being a long list. No one truly writes in a bubble. These people have given me so much encouragement and enthusiasm that it has stood out for me through the years. So, it’s my turn to THANK YOU for you… for everything.
Theresa Marzullo, Kristopher Torres, Jonathan Carroll, Tony Schaab, Robin Coleman, Julie Velez, Alina Pasca Decker, Darren Bracey, Marlene Ullman, Renee DeSantis, Josie Toner, Christopher Wooliver, Andrew Brown, Amanda Watson, Shauna McAllister, Joan Devoe-Moors, Denise and Todd Brown, Matthew and Kristina Williamson, Sean and Becca Anderson, Patricia and Doyle Watts, and Alexis and David Keeler.
Of course, I wouldn’t be who I am today without my strong family: Sandie, Ryan, James, Scott, Jeanne, Trisha, Alisha, Jaryd, Alex, Marissa, the Hassan’s, and the Massaro’s..
Dedication
**--**--**--**
This is for me.
I showed myself that I can do this.
You all helped me do this, but I had to write it.
It took more time than I’d intended and hopefully I can improve on that next time but I’ve done something that I’ve
always wanted to do.
And I ask you: How awesome is that?
There’s no magic.
Just work.
And a lot of editing.
I hope that you enjoy my blood, sweat, and tears.
-DAC 2011
Prologue
Outskirts of the Somerset estate, English countryside, 1612
Marcus was kneeling in his own blood.
It wasn’t unlike him to travel at night, but a part of him probably should have known something like this might happen one day, and maybe a part of him deep down inside, did. If he was being honest with himself, perhaps this was the thing that he had been waiting for all along. It was difficult not to think about all those empty nights of searching, when in the end it might have been for an event so simple.
There was something in the way the air smelled; crisp, cold, and unquestionably honest. Then there was the anonymity of the night shadows’ ability to wrap around him like a lover and allow him to disappear entirely, that drew him out like a suicidal moth to an open flame. A kind of calling; darkly uninhibited—primal, even. When the moon shone so bright through the windows, it had an effect that beckoned to him like a seductress to a man too weak to negotiate terms. No willpower to speak of. Just a man filled with an insatiable wanting.
The completion of a brand new crypt built for his deceased relatives on the far end of his estate left him wholly on edge; like the feeling of fire ants walking across his naked shoulders, no matter what he wore and no matter how many times he scrubbed at his skin to erase the feeling. He was familiar with the sensation of uneasiness, but he had expected the feeling to actually lessen. The structure was done. He could finally take a rest now, right? Finally put quality time into the training and upbringing of his children, right? To shake the weight he’d lived with for so long?
Well, that had been the idea five years ago when he’d commissioned it to be built, anyway; that his family honor could then finally be appeased. Also, when the last stone was placed and his family was laid to rest, he could finally forgive himself. He could stop letting how he felt about his father dying because of him, rule his every action...right?
He was clearly asking the wrong man, because he didn’t certainly feel the slightest bit appeased. The remaining invisible ants were a testament to that. Marcus had truly thought that by completing this project that his guilt would evaporate. It had felt like the clearest move that he could make. So why hadn’t it?
It’d been his own fears as an eight-year-old boy that had lead his father out onto their estate grounds the night that he’d been killed. His father had been mauled to death by a wild animal and subsequently bled out alone during the night, found by staff in the early hours of morning. That very day, a hunting party tracked, killed, and brought back the beasts hideous head, but nothing had been the same ever since. It was something Marcus would never let himself truly forget, even if he wanted to feel absolved over it. His profound and lasting grief had been the shattering of his innocence. It was replaced with a choking cloud of guilt and the haunting need for atonement.
Marcus knew as a rational man that a young boy, like he had been, could not be held responsible. His perspective had changed from boy to man, as well it should have. He knew his guilt was irrational. If he had to give up his own life to defend the life of his five-year-old son, Tobias, it would be done in a heartbeat—without a second thought.
It didn’t escape his attention that even though he knew this to be true, he still was unable to forgive himself for the death of his own father. In fact, it could be said that he punished himself because he knew there was no way to take it back. If he had just stayed in his bed that night and not reported the shadows he’d seen from his window, his Father might still be alive today. It was his own fear and quick move to demand action that had caused his father’s death. Why had he been so unyielding? He still did not accept that his age had been a factor.
That night, standing there staring at the moon, the pressure in his chest was too much to bear and he wondered what else he would have to do to feel the weight lifted. What else could he do to make up for a bad decision that ultimately destroyed him? The grief was killing him and ruining his relationship with his wife and children. So, he left the warmth of his bed, saddled his stallion, War, and rode out into the night alone. Sleep had been impossible.
Marcus was traveling at a leisurely pace along the James Bradford road when the trouble that would change his family’s life forever happened. Something had run out from a thicket of shaded trees and broadsided his horse with a brute force that was jarring to both mount and rider. Marcus caught a quick flash of the two-legged figure right itself and then bound away. It wasn’t enough to truly see the man in the bad lighting, but it was enough to make out that he was running on two legs and not four. His mind quickly identified the movement as human and not animal in nature.
Startled, fingers tightening on the reins, Marcus heard War issue a startled high-pitched squeal at the same time, and with the motion of the collision carrying momentum, War managed to buck Marcus from his back. Marcus tried to grab for the reins but managed to miss them as they danced away from his fingertips. He fell backwards, landing hard on the well traveled dirt road watching stars spin above him for a moment as War bolted away like the Devil was chasing him. Marcus sat in a daze as he listened to War’s retreating noise. The whole interaction was an uncharacteristic thing for the stallion to do.
In fact, it was the complete opposite of what War had been taught to do. Marcus ought to know since he’d trained side by side for hours with the foal ta
king his lumps each time War threw him. It hadn’t been an easy lesson for either of them to learn. He wondered what in blazes had scared War so badly that he’d not only buck him but also ride off without him. He couldn’t help feel anger at his trusted stead’s abandonment in the middle of the night like that. It didn’t seem possible that War would disobey the training, but there Marcus was, sitting on his backside watching it happen.
Cheeks burning, he shook his head and went about trying to pick himself up from the ground. It’d be a long walk home. Marcus dusted off the seat of his trousers before coming full height, when someone darted out from the darkness, running low, slashed at him, and ran away giggling. At first he hadn’t known what had happened. An icy thread of cold seared a twin path along his stomach and chest for a moment before the realization set in and agonizing pain lanced through his mid-section. He shouted out, grasping his middle and prodded to see how deep the wound was. The slimy slick feeling of his guts was nothing compared to the feeling of finding that his fingers had found the deep and penetrable vertical line to start with.
Shocked, Marcus dropped to his knees heavily as he felt his warm blood gush and sluice down and over the fabric of his trousers. The smell wafted up his nose as he grunted and groaned trying to hold himself together. Sheer force of will made him stay kneeling instead of falling over, as he wondered if he’d been sliced open with a scythe. The wound across his chest felt shallow but stung against the cool night air as it also bled openly. His eyes grew hazy as he pressed one hand against his middle and retrieved a short flintlock from his side. Determined to make a stand, he shakily held the weapon out in front of him in hopes to catch sight of the man who had signed his death warrant. He pushed thoughts of Tobias and his daughters out of his mind, adamant on not losing focus. There was nothing he could do for his children now.
He couldn’t help the shaking, try as he might. It wasn’t that he was scared to die. He’d grown up under the ideal that a Lord would always die young one way or another and it was unlikely that he would grow a single grey hair before he met his end. No, it was the blood loss that had started a chain reaction in his body and he was losing the strength to hold the weapon up high. He locked his arm into his shoulder, pushing his elbow into the muscle of his chest and waited.
The thought had crossed his mind to press the flintlock against his temple and end it all before his attacker appeared. The idea had so much merit that he could almost feel the barrel against his skin already. Marcus forced himself to focus his attention to his wound as his blood continued to flow between his fingers. He pressed his lids closed momentarily to think.
He thought they might stay closed forever, because the sensation to lay down was so strong. He knew that the maneuver would effectively steal any further pleasure from his attacker away, but he couldn’t quit yet. There was still some time before he bled out or took pity on himself and pulled the trigger to see who was behind it. Family or stranger? He had to know before he met his death.
It did not take long to wait for the culprit to emerge, and if Marcus had been smart he would have shot immediately, but something was wrong with the man and it was confused him. Seemingly not caring that Marcus held a gun, he wore no clothes and where his body wasn’t cast in shadows, he was stark white. He was a man...but wasn’t a man. It didn’t seem possible.
The face of the figure was malformed; one side larger than the other and angled at an odd way but Marcus couldn’t see the features. There was no mistaking that he was male either, as oversized glands bounced easily against his thighs. The rib cage was highly pronounced, sticking out under the light of the moon. The top half of his legs were skinny, from thigh to knee cap, but became muscular along its calves.
Trying to aim well with his one loaded shot, Marcus fired. The resounding force made him falter as he jerked the weapon awkwardly and almost fell over. Struggling to right himself, Marcus saw that the shot missed and startled the badly formed man. Enraged, the figure leapt at Marcus driving him down forcefully, sinking teeth into his shoulder as sharp fingernails dug into his forearms as they landed in a heap upon the dirt. Up close the smell of the man-like thing was horrendous. Smelling half rotten like old broccoli mixed with a decade of body odor, the stench was sickly strong and putrid and made Marcus’ eyes sting.
Gagging, Marcus raised the metal reinforced butt of the thick flintlock and repeatedly struck the back of his attacker’s head, but the figure only tightened his painful grip. Marcus’ strength was fading fast the creature lifted its head from the bite wound and began to beat his head violently against the ground. As if trying to crack open a tough nut. The figure’s heels dug into Marcus’ hip bones but Marcus only half felt it. He was aware of the motion but blissfully the pain had been replaced with a sense of dulled awareness. His tongue lolled in his mouth slapping against his teeth as his head continued to be pounded into the ground. The shocking wounds of the night were taking their toll and he felt himself accept his death. He wasn’t fully aware when he heard the sound of wagon wheels coming down the road toward them but he was too far gone to do much about it.
Marcus fell limp, head crooked above his neck, as the figure let him go with a vicious shove. His body jerked as the figure kicked him but he still felt no physical pain. He heard the attacker move around him towards his feet. Marcus stared up at the stars as he felt himself being jerkily dragged from the road. Drag, stop, drag, stop. His head thumped against dips and rocks in the ground as he was pulled along. As the sounds began to fade from his ears, he finally realized what he had to do to escape the burden of guilt. Die.
Part 1
1
Bordering the Lockland Estate, English countryside, 1716
Lost in troubled thoughts, Guliana stared vacantly from the carriage window at the foliage just beyond reach. Glistening droplets stuck to the lush cluster of leaves and colorful berries like liquid diamonds dispensed from Heaven itself. Her gaze rested on them as they flickered in fleeting rays of sunlight that poked through the overcast clouds above. Stifling a sigh, she admired the beauty in the presentation, but was aware that the drops clung quivering to the edges like frightfully desperate things. As if they feared the long fall to the ground.
Guliana knew that raindrops did not actually ‘feel’ anything and that her thoughts were just a mental projection of her own childish imagination brought on by her fears. Though none of it stopped her mind from playing out those imagined events as she watched a drop fall and splatter against the green blades below. She was acutely aware that there was a heavy feeling inside herself that desired to grab hold of the familiarity of her past before she plummeted headlong into the unknown of her future.
There was no denying that the silent, nagging question begged to be answered. Am I ready to be married? Little else caused her emotions to be so muddied within herself. Was she ready? The simple truth of the matter was…she couldn’t be sure. How could she know if she were ready if she hadn’t tried it yet? But to try it, meant to do it. And to do it meant there was no going back once she did it. It was a plaguing line of thinking that often kept her awake through the night. The finality of it all scared her to bits. What if she was stuck with someone she didn’t fancy over the years? People didn’t talk about it but there was little denying some marriage matches were not well aligned. She’d seen it often growing up because she made it a habit to study the people around her; the people who were to be her examples to live by. The emotions left unsaid that spoke all too well on Father’s face.
There was no one she could talk to about any of this without betraying her feelings. She was expected to be married, the sooner the better. No questions asked. In fact, Mother had all but pushed her into a carriage with this man, adding her chaperone only as a fleeting afterthought. Traveling without one was simply unheard of but it nearly didn’t stop Mother from arranging it.
Mother was big on risky actions that tended to bear the fruit of success birthed from her focused ambitions. She was singlehandedly l
ucky that way. When she was a young girl, she had married off all of her single sisters after Grandmother passed away. She told the story with pride. Mother was known in small circles for catching her sisters in publicly questionable circumstances to get the couple to marry.
Her skill in getting what she wanted met with stubborn resistance in Guliana. Though even a fool could tell Mother’s already limited patience was threadbare. Mother was determined and becoming more insistent. It wouldn’t be long before Guliana could expect to find herself married to an aged bald man with chronic halitosis if she didn’t get with the agenda soon. That all encompassing female agenda. To grow up, find a man, be married, and have children. To her irritation, sly remarks about her age made Guliana suspect that Mother couldn’t wait any longer to see her belly thick with a grandchild or five to lavish affection on.
Shoulders sagging, she breathed in deep. Truly, there was little help for her raging indecisive emotions. It was her duty…her lot in life. Who was she to go against the grain of society? She’d always done what she was told to do and now would be no different. At least he was handsome enough and had money. Things could be worse.
Maybe it was for the best that someone else was pushing her into the decision so that she didn’t have to blame herself if something went wrong. She’d blame Mother.
2
He watched Ms. Guliana Robbinbury closely, inspecting the expression on her face with calm speculation. She was distracted. Edgy, even. It was something in the way her lips turned down slightly at the corners, the hard curve of her chin, and the way her eyelids fluttered as she stared out and decidedly away from the carriage. He took it all in as his gaze swept over her body, angled as it was away from him, and he couldn’t help the niggling feeling that she was displeased with him in some way.
