What is a forked tale?
Well, it’s a tale we write together. I write and give you two options….We all vote. Majority rules and the story takes root…
Welcome to the next installment of Ellie Masters’ Whiskey Wednesday. Haven’t read part one of Cursed to Walk in the Light? Well click here to catch yourself up!
PART Seven BEGINS NOW….
It would be satisfying to kill the wretch, but Irynia had other plans. Besides, he’d already given a powerful gift, if an unwilling one. For the gallant knight who abused the desperation of a female, she would leave him a bittersweet gift in return.
His life. What few moments were left of it.
With a shove, she pushed aside his baggy bones and sagging skin. All vestiges of his youth were gone. In it’s place, she’d left a wrinkled old man.
“What h-have you done?” The knight croaked.
“Are you still here?” She glanced down at the wretch.
Pain spiked between her legs. The dragging of his cock against her dry walls left damage she would need to heal. That would come with time. Standing, she breathed deep, and stretched her arms out wide. The glare of the sun no longer burned her skin. Its steady warmth rained down, invigorating her senses and revitalizing her tattered soul. A kiss of wind fluttered past, and stopped to dance lazily across her skin, skipping down her arms, swirling around her breasts, and soothing that ache between her legs with a featherlight kiss.
Sweet sage, the sharpness of pine, and the richness of the forest loam floated on the wind. She breathed in the sweet bouquet. Songbirds tweeted their songs, flitting branch to branch as they fussed at the antics of the squirrels scampering in the boughs. This world, at once harsh and unyielding, embraced her with light, and devoured her soul.
The knight’s incredulous eyes scanned the ravages of his body, widening with the shock of his transformation. “Y-you did this?” He stared at his palms, turning them over to stare at the papery-white skin tenting the backs of his hands. He struggled to rise, but fell with the weakness of old age and the creaking of weathered joints.
“You sought to take from me,” she preened. “In return, I took from you.” As she would take from all other men.
Ahimouth had given her this power, and cursed her with an insatiable thirst for more. Even now she looked at the man, licking her lips for another taste of his essence. But to take him again would be to grant him death, and he didn’t deserve that. At least, not yet.
“Take? You vile cunt,” he cursed, and pointed. A snarl fixed on his vile face. “You’re a witch. The devil is in you.” He scurried back on trembling limbs, trying to run and flopping back to the ground. He made the sign of the cross over his chest, a useless gesture mortals believed would save them. It had done nothing to save her when she’d been chosen for Hell.
Irynia threw back her head and laughed. “The devil?”
Oh, this man knew nothing of hell. He would be lucky to meet the devil, but Satan didn’t bother himself with the affairs of men. His efforts focused on his eternal war with the heavens. And all of this? Death prowled the Gates of Hell, seeking entrance to the land of the living where he hoped to gorge himself for eternity.
He was the true monster. As was her beloved Ahimouth.
Oh, how she missed his callous caresses, and the scrape of his talons along her flesh. The screams Ahimouth pulled from her throat had been the sweetest ecstasy and most excruciating pain. Death could not pass through the Gates of Hell, but he’d held the power to force her through. He’d consigned her to walk among the world of the living, and she was stuck in this foul place until she found her path home.
“The Devil is not in me,” she said. He never had been and never would. She may have been marked to be his bride, but she would never occupy his bed. Because, she’d done the unthinkable. In falling for tormentor, she’d committed an unforgivable sin, and one which propelled her out of the Gates of Hell.
She tilted her face to the sun, and cried out with despair. Her heart ached for Ahimouth’s touch. She missed the searing heat of his breath. And his brutal punishments, once feared, she desperately craved.
The old man scurried into the forest, seeking refuge from her wild gaze, perhaps terrified she would finish what she’d started. Not that she cared to pursue. He would meet his fate in the woods, and she would leave him to it.
Bending down, she gathered his linen shirt and leather pants.
Evidently, wandering naked wasn’t allowed in this world. Slowly she dressed. His clothes hung loosely, and she made a hole in his belt to keep the pants from slipping off the slender curve of her hips. With a whistle, she called for his horse, leaping astride it and finding the forest path.
Heading down and out of the mountains, the last rays of the evening sun found her at the valley floor. There on the path, an old cripple sprawled across the road. She should pass him by and let him die. Fate closed quickly upon the old man. Or she could visit mercy upon him, and put him out of his misery now.
She paused to consider her choice.
PART Eight BEGINS NOW….
The energy vibrating within her waned, taken from that idiot knight who thought to ravish and discard her after he'd taken his fill. His potency swirled within her and raced along her nerves, making the world come alive. The world of light shimmered before her, becoming more vibrant, perhaps even more tolerable. Sunlight danced on the light breeze and tasted of beauty. The wind caressed her skin and brought the heady aromas of rich loam and freshly cut crops to fill her senses. And the baying of the old man, became an annoyance as she approached, fracturing this one moment of peace.
Poor thing should be put out of his misery. Looking at him crawl, and that expression of torment on his face, soured her disposition and stole her joy. What did he expect her to do? Help his worthless soul? He was a man, and there was no way in Hell she would stop for him. But that caterwauling! His cries for help sullied the pristine day and had her gritting her teeth. She tried pressing her hands against her ears, but his shrieks tunneled straight into her mind.
She gripped hard on the reins of the horse, pulling the bit hard against the creature's soft gums. It reared back, adding its screams to those of the wretched man. He reached out, crying for air, water, and her good will. Didn't he know she had no will to give? And if she did, Ahimoth had done everything in his power to ensure there was nothing good left inside her soul. Gah! His cries only made the stallion shriek even more.
Which made her yank on the reins harder. The stallion screamed. The man shrieked. And now, her yells joined the chorus. All she wanted was for it to end! She kicked the horse's flanks, guiding him not by the reins, but by the pressure of her thighs.
Over. Over. Just a bit more.
The horse danced into place. It would be over soon. The whites of the cripple's eyes widened, fear replacing his brief hope. His pleas for mercy transformed with the startled realization of what she planned.
“No,” he screamed. “I beg of you no.”
The cowering wretch curled in on himself as the horses hooves came down, slicing his skin, trampling his bones, and silencing those horrible cries.
A pounding against the hard-packed ground had her glancing down the road. From out of the thick corn stalks, a man appeared at a sprint. “Father,” he cried. He took in the scene and glanced at her as she struggled to calm the raging horse. “Father!”
He was a vision of beauty. Sunlight had kissed his hair and bronzed his skin. Bare from the waist up, his torso rippled with the strength of ten men. His eyes matched the color of the sky, and dripped with tears. What would such a man taste like? She licked her lips, eager to feast upon the talents of what lie between his legs.
“What have you done,” he cried. The man dropped to his knees and cradled the mutilated body of his father in his arms. He turned to look up at her, his soul exposed and raw. “What have you done?”
Which left Irynia to ponder a question. Should she tell him the truth, or play the damsel in distress? Either way, did it really matter? She would feast upon him before the sun sank below the gentle rise of the valley walls.
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