Relish: A Vicious Feast Book 2

www.crescentmoonpress.com

Relish
Kate Evangelista

ISBN: 978-0-9908827-6-3
E-ISBN: 978-0-9908827-7-0

© Copyright Kate Evangelista 2014. All rights reserved

Editor: Joceline Farrah
Cover Art: Liliana Sanches
Layout/Typesetting: jimandzetta.com

Crescent Moon Press

1385 Highway 35

Box 269

Middletown, NJ 07748

Ebooks/Books are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Crescent Moon Press electronic publication/print publication: December 2014
www.crescentmoonpress.com

For all who loved Luka.

Sweet princess,

if through this wicked witch’s trick,

a spindle should your finger prick...

a ray of hope there still may be in this,

the gift I give to thee.

Not in death, but just in sleep,

the fateful prophecy you’ll keep.

And from this slumber you shall wake,

when true love’s kiss, the spell shall break.

—
Merryweather, Disney’s
Sleeping Beauty

C
HAPTER
O
NE
T
OURNIQUET

Distant drumbeats reverberate inside my chest. I’m lying on the earth in a thin white dress and nothing else. The chill of the night coaxes my nipples erect. An electric charge in the air scatters goose bumps all over my skin. Chanting women in flowing dresses dance around me, stomping and clapping. Their jerky movements spill their long hair over their slender shoulders. Their words sound familiar, yet too confusing for me to understand. Rhyming, like they are casting some spell. I concentrate on my breathing. In and out. In and out. In sync with the drumming. Several torches surround us in a circle. Smoke curls toward the darkening sky from their flames. An acrid, almost choking smell rips up my nostrils. Yet, I have to inhale, no matter how vile the odor.

A wrinkle-faced woman with white hair steps forward. Her ruby cloak stands out in the firelight. She says something in a murmuring language that is garbled when the words reach my ears. It’s like a mysterious force is preventing me from comprehending what is being said. Something inside my belly twists and I cry out. My back arches off the ground. The chanting and dancing grow more frantic. The women are screaming their words now, their hands in the air, swaying like drugged-out club whores.

The old woman sprinkles red dust over my belly, forming a cross like X marks the spot with a circle around it. Then she pulls out a dagger from its sheath at her hip. She licks the gleaming blade from base to tip then whispers something to it. Again with the rhyming words. It’s as if she’s singing. A faint shimmer enhances the curlicue carvings on the steel.

My breathing hitches. I open my mouth, but no words come out. Another twist just below my navel forces me into a fetal position, clutching my abdomen. It feels like something wants to crawl out, ripping me from the inside. 

I opened my eye to the predawn darkness and gasped. Holy hell! Chanting? Fuckin’ chanting? Really? I swallowed down the bile rising up my throat. Tremors ravaged my sweat-slicked body beneath the thick comforters smothering me.

Since returning to my apartment, my dreams had taken on a creepy aspect. I must be losing my mind. It was bad enough I woke up to some strange man chasing me, now I had added a weird old woman performing some sort of sick ritual to the mix? Where were these images coming from? I must have a twisted imagination to come up with this stuff. I’d never considered therapy before—dismissing my dreams as nightmares—but now I came really close to giving in. Maybe sleeping pills could knock me out deep enough that I’d find myself in the land of no dreams like the time I’d gotten sick at Lunar Manor. I smoothed away the black hair I kept in a bob from my cheek, shaking my head. Not going there. Thoughts of that place only led to worse memories.

With each breath I inhaled, I did my best to calm my racing heart. My fingers groped for my belly. Beneath my fingertips I felt the sea of scars there, marring the otherwise smooth skin. The largest one ran from my navel down to just above my pubic line. Nothing wanted to crawl out of me like a creature from
Alien
. I was fine. I was fine.

I repeated the mantra several times, wiping away the cold sweat on my brow with still shaking fingers. At least the tremors had subsided some. It sucked balls. Just when I thought I understood my dreams for what they were, new information threw a wrench in my acceptance, sending me back into a spiral of unnecessary panic. What were my dreams trying to tell me?

I stared up at the ceiling for the longest time, pondering the question that seemed to have no answer. I adopted the practice since leaving Lunar Manor. The simple act of counting the cracks on the plaster centered me. Soon the aftereffects of the dream receded. The chanting no longer drowned out other more normal sounds around me, like the soft snores of the man beside me. I shifted my gaze to the window by my side of the bed. The heavy snowfall dulled the city lights. The weatherman expected fifteen inches to cover Crescent City this mid-February morning—one for the record books. But the weather outside couldn’t match the flash freeze inside my body. I barely felt my lungs inflate as I inhaled the chilly air in my tiny apartment. The steady hum of the radiator couldn’t compete with winter’s ferocity. Maybe I should add another heater, but then, what good would it do when I practically counted down the days until graduation?

Setting aside crazy dreams and thoughts of another heater, I focused on the most important thing: My final project. The looming deadline for the Spring Showcase forced me out of my warm bed. The springs creaked as I pushed up. The guy beside me grunted. I paused. He shifted onto his stomach. When his breathing returned to soft snores, I pushed aside the heavy comforter and shrugged into a wool robe. Not the sexiest of looks, but considering my state of nakedness underneath, it would have to do.

Shoving my quickly freezing feet into sheepskin booties, I heaved off the bed and stretched my arms above my head. The vertebrae along my spine popped back into place and I sighed. I rolled my head from side to side, unlocking all the kinks. A dull ache pulsed along my inner thigh. I must have pulled something last night. I rubbed at the tight muscle before shuffling out of my room into the living room for my morning ritual.

I reached up to check my patch. Its velvety hardness a small comfort amidst the numbness. Like I’d predicted the morning I’d gotten on a plane home, I spent the rest of the holidays on my mother’s couch feeling sorry for myself. From time to time she would make her disgusting brown tea and forced me to guzzle the stuff down. I didn’t protest since sleep usually followed. When she asked me what had happened, I told her I signed an NDA that prevented me from talking about it. The resulting creased forehead and concerned gaze almost guilt-tripped me into forgetting about the potential lawsuit and confessing everything. Good thing Mom never felt the need to press when I clearly didn’t want to talk. I loved her so much for that.

Instead, when she wasn’t making tea, she cooked comfort food—mac ‘n cheese with bacon bits. I must have consumed my body weight in processed-cheese-covered noodles and mint chocolate chip ice cream. She asked if my state of pathetic depression had to do with a guy. I nodded and she left it at that. Did I mention how much I loved my mother?

Waiting for my laptop to boot, I frowned at how slow it took. I may have to buy a new one since the processor of the current one couldn’t handle the workload anymore. Sad since the little silver trooper had been with me since freshman year. But, alas, some relationships end.

Gah. My dream put me in a funky mood.

Stepping away from my desk, I shuffled to the kitchen and hit the button on the coffeemaker. The money I’d made for the promo shots for Vicious burned a hole in my bank account. Some opportunity working for one of the most popular indie bands out there turned out to be. I might as well put what I’d earned to good use. I hadn’t even touched the shopping spree debit card the band’s manager and their lead vocalist had given me for Christmas. If I could avoid shopping, I generally did, like a trip to the dentist. I gave in to missing Yana and Phoenix. Along with Deidra, the maid assigned to take care of me, they came close to what I’d consider best friends during my time at Lunar Manor.

I studied the red light on the coffeemaker until it turned green and the robustness of the Sumatran blend the guy in my bed preferred woke me up further. I forced myself not to think about the special brew they served at Lunar Manor. That coffee tasted like money. The best beans, the best roast. My mouth watered, along with my eye. I blinked repeatedly. I had promised myself before I left Mom’s that I wouldn’t bring my depression back to Crescent City.

What good the promise did me.

Steaming cup in hand, I sat in front of my computer, one leg up, and clicked on the YouTube link that brought me directly to the Poison music video. Since its release in January, the video had been viewed thirty million times. Nothing new for Vicious. Their first single is well over ninety million now. The only difference? About half a million of those Poison views came from my incessant need to torture my heart. By now I had the entire sequence memorized.

The video began with a shot of the band in front of a snow-covered fountain. Vicious in all their leather-kilt wearing glory; except for Phoenix—she wore the tightest leather pants known to mankind. My heart melted at the sight of Dray pounding away on the drums, his eyes closed. Demitri stood to the left of the screen, plucking at the all-white bass in his hands—shirtless and showing off his tattoos. A pinch in my chest stole my breath when my gaze landed on Phoenix again. She’d taken the place of lead guitarist while the guy who’d broken my heart sang one of the saddest songs in existence.

As the video switched to scenes of me in a gorgeous dress made of leather and black feathers traipsing around in the snow-covered woods, I freely admitted to myself that I carried around a broken heart. I didn’t realize I had feelings for the blond-haired, blue-eyed, multi-pierced bassist of Vicious until he crushed it under his boot during the New Year’s Eve party.

That annoyed me the most. To let myself actually fall for him ate at my pride. How stupid could I have been? I knew I had thirty days, yet I allowed myself the delusion of maybe staying with the band longer. I’d lost a part of myself during my stay at Lunar Manor, and it scared me to think I may never get it back. Yana had been right when she’d warned me about the experience breaking people. It certainly broke me. I trembled with hate when I thought of
him
being responsible.