Free Winter's Fury - Volume Two of The Saga of the Twelves by Richard M. Heredia Page A

her forehead, near her
hairline. “I saw a figure, standing at the far end. It was huge.”
She sat up straighter, rubbing her palms against the denim covering
her knees. “He was wearing a hoody or something, because I couldn’t
make out what he looked like. Or maybe the light at the other end
of the hall was brighter than where I was standing. Maybe I only
saw his silhouette.”
    She rocked back and forth
on her butt. “I don’t remember much else. I think I heard a noise
coming from back in my bedroom, but I’m not sure.” Her face melted
into hopelessness. “I can only remember feeling sleepy – very, very
sleepy, faster than I have ever experienced in the past. I think I
took another step… or maybe I meant to take a step. I know I was
going to say something to the tall figure, but it was only a
thought I had in my head. I don’t remember anything after
that.”
    Marissa peered over at her
with eyes as wide as teacups. “You’re lucky.”
    Again, shock struck
through Christina like lightning through an oak. Her jaw hung slack
below the rest of her face. How in God’s
name could I have been lucky?!?
    The younger girl forged
through the awkward lull in the conversation. “You didn’t see his
face.” Her nod was emphatic. “Trust me, you were lucky.”
    Before Christina could
reply, the girl turned away, bursting into tears.
    Overwhelmed by the same
strange sense to protect the girl, the same notion she had felt
earlier. The teenager ignored her own befuddlement. Instead, she
scrambled forth to hold tiny Marissa in her arms.
    Whatever she had seen, it
had been horrible. The girl was shaking so hard, she was
convulsing.
     
    ~~~~~~~<<< ᴥ >>>~~~~~~~
     
    ~ 6 ~
     
    Cruel
Consequences
     
    Saturday, November
27 th ,
4:19 pm…
     
    Clarisse McIntyre was
lying akimbo upon her full-sized bed. Between her contorted limbs,
her comforter had twisted as she wept bitter tears over what might
have been. Her corn-stalk-colored hair was in tangles, her
green-speckled, light-blue eyes shut to the world. The tanned
features of her visage were bunched and wrinkled with anguish. Her
fists were balls of righteous anger, her face the definition of
despair. Her lips drew back, revealing the teeth below as a
desperate keening issued from the core of her heart. For that
beating muscle of emotion, seventy hours ago, had broken beyond
recognition.
    It had been a wonderful
time, though it had lasted for less than a week. Yet, to her, it
had seemed like they had spent years together. They had learned,
shared and held as they gazed into the others’ eyes and knew what
they had, had been was real. He had been everything she had ever
wanted in a boy – tall, muscular and athletic, but kind, caring and
well-mannered all the same. He was smart. He was funny. He was not
into himself though he was in tip-top physical condition and was
handsome in a rugged sort of way. And, above all else, he was a
gentleman. He had always waited for her to respond to him, made
sure she was a willing participant before he made any physical
move. He had held her in his big hands and had asked if she was ok,
if she felt comfortable. Every time he had asked, it had melted her
heart and she wanted nothing more, in that instant, than him. His
lips on her mouth, his hands on her body, she had wanted it all. If
they’d had the chance, in a few months, she might have given him
everything. And she would not have batted an eye. She trusted him,
knew he would take care of her, love her and nurture their
relationship for decades to come.
    They had talked too. They
had not restricted their time together to just wild make-out
sessions alone. No, Joaquin had been content to talk as well.
Whether face-to-face or on their cells, he had listened whenever
she spoke. She had been rapt every time he had opened up to tell
her something about himself.
    He had come from a good
family. His parents were the cornerstone of his young life. He was
not too cool to mention that to