Conall knew Shyla always made an effort to be a little extra presentable when going to town. It was as if she suspected the ladies there were continually looking for a sign she needed their help and guidance, that Conall couldn't possibly understand how to raise a growing girl. She hated to let anyone think he hadn't provided for her.
Today, she glanced out toward the graveyard before clearing the table from their lunch, her gaze falling on the path leading down to Maya's circle.
"What are you thinking about?" Conall asked.
"Nothing, Dad," she replied softly. Her eyes shifted subtly away as she collected his plate and deposited it in the washbasin.
Conall furrowed his brow, but he said nothing.
On his way back out to the twins' grave, he made a quick detour to pay a visit to Maya.
Visitors often said the statue clearly exhibited a master's touch. They ran their hands over the smooth lines of her slender arms: one held tight over her chest in prayer, the other extended out to the open sky. They marveled at the painstaking detail in the feathers of her angelic wings, and the folds of cloth swathing her sculpted figure, flowing as though caught in the wind. They lauded the emotiveness of her expression, which Conall had always considered rather sad. Of all the detail he'd envisioned of the statue, her face came to mind first, yet he'd carved it last.
He'd dreamed about her for weeks before he finally channeled the vision into his sculpture. She'd come to him in sleep in the nights following his discovery of the baby, when he'd fretted over the crying, hungry infant, scrambled to create a place for her in his cold old house. Soon thereafter, when tucking her in became a welcome nightly routine, he'd begun dreaming of Maya.
She never formed in his mind as a person. He didn't imagine a flesh-and-blood woman: always cold, white stone, always frozen, and always a sentinel amid the tombstones. He had no idea what possessed him to begin carving away at the boulder where he'd discovered Shyla either, or why he'd been so driven to bring shape to the angel in his dreams.
He'd also never understood why the statue came out so well. When others lauded her as the work of a skilled sculptor, he didn't understand. How could his hands have crafted something aesthetic? They were the hands of a laborer, a groundskeeper, callused from hard work in rough dirt and shapeless rock. He barely managed to chisel fresh inscriptions on the tombstones when they grew too eroded to read. How his angel had taken form and been so much like the alabaster creature in his imagination—exactly like her, exactly as he'd envisioned, down to the elfin ears and delicate, tender fingers—Conall couldn't fathom.
He'd never had the compulsion to sculpt anything else, either. Even if his first attempt had revealed some sort of hidden genius, he didn't believe he'd ever repeat it.
Even though most folks found Maya impressive at first, perhaps cheered by her appearance in the somber old graveyard, they grew unsettled with her in time. The change became a palpable thing to him, an inevitable, creeping distrust from anyone spending a prolonged amount of time in the cemetery with her. Where, if one did ascribe to fanciful imaginings, she might see them.
She'd been sculpted with her eyes closed, but, even so, she always appeared to be watching.
He plodded down the dirt path, taking in the sight of her standing amid the circle of headstones and reaching out to heaven. The trees cast dancing shadows around the area, but none of them fell on her: under a noonday sun, she stood perfectly untouched, at center stage waiting for curtain to rise.
What did Maya wait for? Why did she watch these stones?
Why did he attribute any emotion whatsoever to a figure sculpted out of plain white rock?
Conall scowled. Maya, of course, offered no reply. He did, for a moment, imagine he sensed something more...some unwelcome intelligence.
Dad?
There's a strange woman outside.
In the cemetery...by Maya.
"You keeping my girl up at night, you bloody troublemaker?" he asked the statue.
Maya said nothing.
"I don't need you filling her head with bad dreams or more strange ideas," he continued, as though a statue could actually understand him. As though it had anything to do with Shyla's midnight mumbling at all.
"So...no more nonsense, you hear?"
For the briefest moment, something at the edge of the trees caught his attention. He glanced away from Maya and stepped out, toward the flicker of motion: something like the flutter of a bird's wings, gray or white perhaps. Except...had he heard a footstep?
He stared, trying to make out the shapes and shadows. He'd caught sight of it near the path to the graveyard's oldest section, which stood above the river passing by his property. He moved another step toward the brush.
Then, he stopped himself.
No. He'd seen nothing there. He'd let Shyla's spooky, sleep-addled ramblings last night actually get to him for a moment.
He shot Maya another warning glare and shook a finger at her.
"You," he said, "are getting to be more trouble than you're worth, lass."
Then he returned to the path, following it down toward the twins' graves.
He still had a bramble to conquer.
***
You can find Brantwijn Serrah on Amazon
Other books by Decadent Kane
Trouble with Elves series
Ribbon of Darkness
Tempting Clover
Steele Your Soul
A Hint of Cayenne
A Whisper of Rue
Short Stories
Demon Song
Decadent Kane, author of the trouble with elves series, writes paranormal romance with heat. She lives in Wyoming with a full house: 3 dogs, 1 cat, 1 guinea pig, 1 rat, 2 kids, and 1 fiancé.
An elfess in human form, Decadent enjoys dipping her fingers into the human realm where she took pen to paper. Her obsessions include reading, Dean Winchester, and honey.
She will devour your soul with glimpses of the feral ridden drow elves, with their dark skin and soul consuming. She'll sneak morsels of naughty thoughts to you via goblins, and seduce you into stepping inside the elven realm where females disappear when lust takes over among other elfish troubles.
Beware the sprites.
Follow the wisps.
But never look a drow elf king in the eyes...
Impure Bargains (Impure series Book 1) Page 17
