The Scarlet Thread

by D. S. Murphy

  Then he kicked off the wall, forcing Matt backwards, and swung his sword. It caught Matt in the chest. He fell, trying to hold the bloody gash together with his palms. Priya jumped on Puriel and slashed her knives across his face. He smacked her with the back of his hand. She flew into the wall and crumpled in a heap.

  Puriel walked over to Matt, and put the point of his sword against his chest. It was exactly like the sword I’d seen in my vision.

  “Where is she?” he said. “Tell me or die.”

  “No!” I shouted, tearing off the invisibility cap and stepping into the light. “Don’t kill him!”

  Puriel looked at me, eyes widening, and hesitated. And that hesitation became a pause, which became a look of abject horror. And then he started screaming. His wings, which had been scarcely visible before, burst into fire. The rushing sounds of his screams and the flames filled the hall with an unearthly shriek. I covered my ears against the noise.

  Puriel’s whole upper body was on fire now, and I could see that his arms were burning too—the dark lines of his tattoos were glowing like embers, and I could smell burning flesh. He looked like one of the roman candle fireworks we had once for the Fourth of July, back when I was young. I remember my dad holding our little fingers, me on his right, my brother on his left. I was five, my brother was three. For some reason as I stood there, stunned, watching Puriel burn, I recalled that memory with perfect clarity.

  Through the smoke, I saw Sitri and Heph approaching Puriel warily with their swords. He was smoking and steaming now, but most of the fire had gone out. His arms were covered in nasty burns that obscured the tattoos. He bowed his head as the others restrained him, and I thought I heard him sobbing. I rushed past him to join Priya on the floor with Matt, holding my breath. Joy filled me when I saw his chest rise. He was breathing. He was still alive.

  END OF PART ONE

  Note to the reader

  Thanks for reading Part One of The Scarlet Thread! This is basically, just the set up to the whole story. There are a lot of little things that won’t make sense until you read the complete novel. If you sign up on my newsletter, I’ll not only tell you when it’s ready, I’ll also send you a free copy.

  I understand publishing Part One, rather than the full novel, is really weird and might frustrate you. There are lots of reasons I decided to publish this way, but mainly it’s so I can get feedback and make sure the full novel is as good as it can be. It also helps boost my visibility and connect with more readers. And again, this isn’t just some ploy to earn more money – I’ll give you the full book for free anyway if you sign up on my site.

  I really hope you’ve enjoyed the story so far, but as a new writer I’m insecure about my craft: I would treasure a review, listing the things I’ve done right, and the things I’ve done wrong, so that I can continue to improve. Once the entire book is finished, I’ll revise Part One as necessary to make it amazing, and release the full book.

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  While I was working on The Scarlet Thread, I was also working on another dark fantasy based on Greek mythology. Orpheum is a young adult fantasy romance based on Eastern European history, the myths and literature of Orpheus and Pythagoras’ theory of the music of the spheres. It’s darker and a little gory. I’m including the first four chapters here, hope you enjoy them!

  PROLOGUE

  I’ve died and gone to heaven, Duke thought, watching the girls dance and spin around the campfire, slowly peeling off layers of clothing. He was in Sofia with friends for a gap year—they’d passed through Paris, Barcelona and Rome, but were looking for something a little more exotic, so they pushed into Eastern Europe. He’d heard Bulgaria had hot women who loved Americans… and he hadn’t been disappointed. On his second night he went to a bar and met a gorgeous girl with black hair and light skin. A slamming body, huge knockers. Her fur lined coat revealed a lot of skin. Her dark eyeliner made her light green eyes pop.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “What would you like to call me?” she said coyly, running her fingers up his arm.

  “You look like a dream,” he said. It was the best he could come up with after three beers.

  “I like that. You can call me Dream.”

  He shrugged. Her real name didn’t matter anyway, it’s not like he was sticking around. He tried to get her to come back to his hotel room, but she’d refused playfully, before inviting him on a camping trip over the weekend. He’d gone out every night that week, looking for anything better, but couldn’t keep his mind off her. Something about her got under his skin. On Friday, Dream picked him up in a white Fiat and they drove up into the mountains, on a snake-like road that cut through the thick pine trees. They pulled off down a dirt road and came to a stop in a clearing overlooking the city.

  Two of her friends were already there, both girls, he noted with satisfaction, and as good looking—or better—than his date. Thin arms and waists, jutting busts, long necks, big eyes. Any one of them could have been on the cover of Maxim, but they looked completely comfortable out here in the woods, in tight jeans and T-shirts. One of them chopped wood while the other built a fire. I love Eastern Europe, he thought to himself. Dream pulled off his jacket and pushed him down next to the fire, rubbing his shoulders before passing him a dark brown bottle.

  “Medicinal wine,” she said, her breath hot on his cheek. “An ancient recipe; wine mixed with local herbs and poppy flowers.” He grinned and took a deep sip. It was sweet and bitter at the same time. He could smell sap from the nearby pine trees, and something both musty and floral at once, like a bouquet of dying irises. It was getting dark, and the city lights below were framed by the skeletal outlines of the tall, dark trees. A light mist seemed to reveal, rather than obscure, the panoramic view. The fire was going strongly now, casting a flickering yellow glow over the immediate area. His vision blurred, and he blinked a few times. His skin tingled. His sweat felt like chunks of ice melting in the fire’s heat, and a feeling of euphoria bubbled up from his stomach and flooded his body with laughter. Whatever was in that wine, it was good shit. He watched the fire climb in a semi-stupor. It cast a flickering orange glow over the immediate surrounding. The lights and darks were fighting with each other, swallowing each other up and trading blows.

  Two of the girls started dancing slowly, shooting him wicked looks and teasing smiles. Dream kneeled in front of him and ran her hand up his chest. She put a finger on his lips, before leaning in to kiss him. Her mouth was soft and wet. Then she raised the corner of her lips and stripped off her shirt. He watched her full breasts bounce free and noticed she had a tattoo of a fawn above her heart. The other two girls tugged off their tops and threw them to the side, then stripped off their jeans as well.

  They clasped hands and spun in a circle, their laughter tinkling like bells in the small meadow. Dream tugged his hand playfully, wearing only panties, and pulled him up to dance. She pulled off his shirt and pressed her smooth upper body against his bare chest. With her arms around his neck, she swayed in front of him hypnotically, looking up at him with her mesmerizing green eyes. It was impossible to break her gaze. The other two girls approached on both sides, wrapping their petite hands around his biceps, and leaned in to kiss his neck and shoulders. Best first-date ever, he thought, grinning.

  Then he felt a sharp tug, followed by a searing pain on his left side. He looked over in confusion at the space his arm should have been, but saw only a bloody stump. His eyes widened in shock and horror. He was about to scream, when Dream reached up and placed her hands over his ears. With a sharp twist, she ripped his head off. With his very last second of life, he watched his own body slump to the ground, as Dream brought his head up to her mouth, and kissed him one last time.

  Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus, 1922

  And it was almost a girl, and she came out of

  that single
blessedness of song and lyre,

  and shone clear through her springtime-veil

  and made herself a bed inside my hearing.

  And slept within me. And her sleep was all:

  the trees, each that I admired, those

  perceptible distances, the meadows I felt,

  and every wonder that concerned my self.

  She slept the world. Singing god, how have you

  so perfected her that she made no demand

  to first be awake? See, she emerged and slept.

  Where is her death? O, will you still discover

  this theme, before your song consumes itself?

  1

  I always knew music was powerful. Even though I rebelled against the marathon forced-practice sessions that turned my adolescence into a prison camp, there were moments—even in the mechanical repetition of practice—where I stopped being a robot and felt a kind of transcendence, a connection to something deeper. I wasn’t raised to be religious, but in those fleeting spaces, often between beats in the tempo, my body seemed to go on playing by itself, while my awareness shifted to something greater. Almost like I was outside my body, sitting in the audience, feeling the music wash over me like a pounding surf, telling me to let go.

  But that was before I learned what music really was, and that it was capable of more than just pretty feelings and a mystical connection with a transcendental Other. That it was a weapon, which could cause pain and destruction; that it was deeper and older than humanity; and that there were forces in the world that wanted to reclaim it for themselves. But that stuff comes later. Let me tell you how it started: my senior year of high school, working at a shitty job, and saving money for school so I could finally get the hell out of Mississippi, and start my real life.

  * * *

  “Welcome to BurgerJoint,” I said, mustering as much fake enthusiasm as I could, “how can I help—” My voice caught as I looked up and saw Trent Taylor and his entourage laughing and shoving each other behind the counter.

  Trent was the star of my high school basketball team. I’d gone to school with him since first grade, but he still didn’t know who I was. Hanging off his arm was Tracy Peters, a redhead with too much eye shadow and jean shorts so tiny I could see her ass cheeks.

  “Hey—you go to Meridian, right?” Tracy asked. I blushed, surprised she recognized me. Even though we did just have math class together this morning, I didn’t think she, or anybody in her social caste, had ever noticed me.

  “Yup,” I said. “I think maybe we have a class together.”

  “Sue, right?” she said, looking at the menu and twirling her hair.

  “Sam,” I corrected.

  “Oh right. Did you catch the game tonight? We crushed Lincoln High.” She slapped Trent on the shoulder and my stomach twisted as he smiled. He threw a glance in my direction and for a second it seemed like he was smiling at me. Then he turned back to his friends.

  “Sorry, I missed it. Working.” I tugged at my unflattering brown uniform for emphasis. My black hair was tied up in a tight bun behind the visor I had to wear. Part of the uniform, and also so hair wouldn’t get in the French Fries. At least not as much hair.

  “Are you ready to order?” I prompted, trying to speed this up. I’d been on shift for a few hours already and smelled like sweat and grease. Trent hadn’t paid me any attention in the last decade, not since first grade, when he stole some cookies out of my desk, and I’d cried and the teacher stopped the class to resolve the issue. In my free time, of which I had very little, I would daydream about the day when Trent suddenly noticed me again, and we laughed about that incident, and then he pulled me against him and kissed me, as I ran my fingers through his blond hair.

  “Um, hello?” Tracy said, snapping her manicured fingers in front of my face.

  “Sorry, can you repeat that?” I asked, turning red.

  Tracy frowned and rolled her eyes, before listing off all the things they wanted.

  I got through it on impulse and reflex; typing in the orders, pouring soft drinks, and using the metal funnel to fill little paper bags with fries. Then I went to make the shakes. The nozzle had been falling off for weeks. I kept complaining to the manger, but he hadn’t fixed it yet. You had to hold the nozzle a certain way while you pulled down on the lever. Of course, feeling the eyes of the most popular boys in my school, not to mention Tracy and Trent—the perfect couple who I heard recently were renting a stretch hummer limo for prom—I forgot all about it. As the nozzle started to fall, I grabbed at it reflexively, pushing it up back up against the stream of milkshake pouring out of the machine. The sticky, frozen beverage sprayed up into my face.

  I’d like to say I was secure enough with my identity not to get embarrassed by the laughter and squeals behind me, as my peers realized half my face and most of my shirt was covered in milkshake. I tried to keep my back to the counter and shuffle over to the paper towels so they couldn’t see my cheeks turning red, or my eyes filling with tears. I bet Trent would remember me now.

  “Go get yourself cleaned up,” said my co-worker Jason, handing me a wet rag. “Then grab a mop.”

  When my shift ended three hours later, I biked through the park so I could vent my frustrations in the darkness. I screamed, letting the noise rip out of my throat with feral rage. Then, as I did at the end of most shifts, I listed the reasons I hated my life. For one, I was the only senior without a car. Two, I needed a part-time job. Trent and Tracy would probably get into Ivy-league universities, and have their tuition fully covered by their parents. My mother had been working and saving for the past decade, and it still wasn’t nearly enough for college. Three, for some reason music wasn’t as cool as sports.

  I was the best damn violin player in Mississippi. I knew this, because I’d won every statewide orchestra competition in the last four years. But nobody gave a shit about classical music. If anybody on the basketball team bothered to come to one of my performances, they’d see me all dressed up, looking elegant, playing with the masterful precision that came from over ten thousand hours of practice. Three hours after school every day since I was five years old.

  But nobody came to my performances, except other music geeks like me. Even the marching band, far geekier than us, got to play Eye of the Tiger at sporting events. People knew who they were. We string musicians were invisible. But none of that mattered. I was graduating soon, and I’d finally be free. I needed to go somewhere far away; somewhere musical talent was appreciated.

  “I’m home!” I shouted, tossing my bag on the counter.

  My mom came downstairs, a basket of laundry in her arms.

  “Any mail?” I asked.

  She nodded to the kitchen table, a sparkle in her eye.

  It came.

  I felt my breath catch as I picked up the envelope and read the return address.

  The Juilliard School

  60 Lincoln Center Plaza,

  New York, NY 10023,

  United States

  My mom put a hand on my shoulder. “Should we wait for Tom?”

  I nodded. It was 8pm, Tom usually got home at nine or ten. He wasn’t my real father, but he might as well have been. He and my mom got married when I was seven. He could be annoying, but he never complained about the constant noise emitting from my bedroom, even though I played badly for the first month just to drive him crazy. I figured he’d earned his place. Now that I was older, I liked that my mother wasn’t alone.

  It took an hour every night to wash the smell of grilled meat and fried potatoes out of my hair and skin. That night it took longer. I scrubbed my skin raw, trying to get rid of the sickly sweet stench of sour milk and artificial sweetener. As I let the steaming water wash over my skin, I thought about Schrödinger’s cat, something we’d discussed in math class recently. Even though part of me was desperate to tear open that letter, the one I’d been waiting for since I started middle school, I was also terrified. Maybe I was both accepted and not accepted until I opened
it. By opening it, I would have caused whatever the result was, cementing my future down one unalterable path of certainty. After changing into sweats and a T-shirt, I went into my room and pulled out my violin. Mom had bought me a new one—new to me, second hand on eBay—when I started high school. It was a fairly decent instrument, for the $250 she spent on it.

  I did some warmups and scales, then launched into Mozart’s violin Concerto No 5. I’d been practicing it for two years, and played it a couple weeks ago for a concert, so it came easily. I barely needed the music anymore. It was advanced music; few high school students would have dared committing to it. But I found the notes light and enthusiastic. My fingers flew across the fingerboard, the bow zipping back and forth across the strings. Sometimes I’d hold out the long notes with a subtle vibrato that filled my body with longing.

  My heart raced when I heard the door open downstairs. Tom was home.

  I put the violin back in the case and ran downstairs.

  I waited for Tom to grab a beer and join us. My mom sat next to me at the kitchen table, and squeezed my hand. I opened the envelope.

  “Thank you for your application to the Julliard School, Department of Music,” I read aloud. “Applications were especially competitive this year—”

  I skimmed down the letter until I hit the phrase I was looking for.

  We regret to inform you…

  I felt like an elephant had just stepped on my chest. I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. My hands were trembling so I put down the letter and placed them flat on the table.

  “I didn’t get in,” I said.

  I tried to keep the crushing disappointment off my face, but I saw it reflected in my mom’s eyes.