Authors: Astrid Yrigollen
His Black Wings
Copyright 2012 Astrid Yrigollen
First copyright March 2009
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system without permission from the author.
Yrigollen, Astrid
His Black Wings / Astrid Yrigollen
Cover by: Szimonetta Szakál
ISBN
978-1-300-36576-1
1.Teen-Fiction
2.Paranormal-Fiction
3.Fantasy-Victorian,–Fiction
4.Romance-Fiction
Text set in Times New Roman
First Edition 2012
A heartfelt thanks to the many people I have been fortunate enough to meet, Suzy Henderson, Ariel Mickey, and Julie Joyce.
Many
thanks go to Jill Swanson for her feedback and enthusiasm. Lastly, love, kisses and many hugs to my wonderful husband Richard “Is the chocolate okay?” Young, who has been an objective critic and supporter. I could not have done it without you.
Praise for the Author‘s previous works
“
I wish I had the next book in my hands right now!”
By Zodiac Book Reviews
“…a natural, fantastic love story
…”By Rita Khavich
“…I feel very comfortable about recommending it [Astrid’s book]to them[granddaughters
].”
Debra Piletz
“Astrid … has woven an intricate and wonderful world…”Dianne from Whoopeeyo Book Reviews
“Yrigollen does a very good job,…an exciting fantasy with an interesting and non stereotypical setting.”
Beth Sky Rose Reviews
“Sweet fantasy tale for young adults… a great read …Cannot wait to read the sequel.”
Skooshie Reviews
“…story was amazing,…like some old fairytale that was lost to time, now come back to life in the present day. Definitively a love story, the end will leave you wanting more.”
Sandeen Reader
“Astrid does an excellent job of weaving together fantasy with our modern world. The people and creatures that dwell within Mosswood forest are imaginative yet believable.”
Little Hyut’s Book Reviews
Other Works by the author
Childrens
What do Fish do for Fun?
The Mysterious Pootkins
The Doughnut Tree
Young Adult
His Black Wings
The Mosswoods ( #1)
Uprising ( Mosswoods#2 2013 Release)
The Zombie Playground, A Creature Compilation
The Wind Demon
I didn’t know what to say, so I sat there stupidly. He grinned at me from behind white teeth. His ice blue eyes held a coldness and judgment I had not seen before. My heart fluttered and felt like a huge fish was rolling over in my breast.
“Well?” He said as he traced the outline of my knee through my heavy skirt with his slender, white finger.
“What is your wish, Claren?”
My heart, upon hearing him use my real name beat harder. I felt the adrenaline push itself through my veins. He seemed to be aware of it, and licked his lips quickly.
“I don t know what is it you ask Sir.” I stammered, my own voice sounding as a child’s would when confronted with some wrong doing.
He had used my real name. Was it safe to assume he knew who I really was?
He stopped smiling and cocked his head to one side, contemplating me.
“But you do Claren, you know very well what I want, what you want.”
How did it ever come to this?
I thought franticly.
What was I going to do, now that he knew who I was?
He seemed to read my thoughts in my eyes because he answered my question without it ever being posed.
"What will I do indeed? What
can
I do is the question, Claren. Here we are on a train, bound for the quaint countryside. No alarm has been raised, no Porter is valiantly trying to fight for your honor or to even help and cover your embarrassment, your lies. Thus, it shall remain so. At least, until we arrive at our destination."
“Then what?” I questioned quietly.
I am resolved to die, but not without a fight. He knows this. That is why he will not attempt to take me here, on a train full of people.
My question hangs in the air between us, like a solid thing. He still has not answered as the whistle of our train shrieks into the wind, we race into the tunnel, blackness engulfing our private car.
Table of Contents
It seems like years ago, but it's only been a few weeks since I have gotten myself into this mess. Or as my father would say, “
A right pretty mess Claren
.” I answered an ad in the local paper for a secretary. Someone to take correspondence, run errands and occasionally (the ad said) help in hosting parties. Room and board provided. Large estate in the countryside. Privacy.
It sounded wonderful to someone like myself who yearned for the openness of the country. To hear the birds chirping, instead of the congestion of the city. To not have to look over my shoulder in fear of the Constables, the long arm of the law. Most importantly, it offered a new life, a new beginning where no one knew who I was.
But what was this? Why was the address here in the city?
I questioned.
North Alcott was not country, and there was hardly any room for a large estate. My Aunt lived in North Alcott before she died of influenza. The dwellings there were hardly more than huts, barely keeping out the rains. There was a single store that served as the local post office and dentist. I know this because I went to collect my Aunt’s things after she had died. Or shall I say thing? She left me a tea pot. I was however, touched by the gesture that in her passing, she would bequeath her only worldly good to me. Perhaps it was because I took care of her in her final days. So frail and gentle was my aunt but nevertheless suffered from a touch of insanity. It was for this reason I was not allowed to be in her company. My parents forbade it. I felt they were afraid somehow that her mental illness was somehow catching. Or maybe it was the time she had tried to drown me.
No, North Alcott was hardly a place for wealth.
I myself had grown up in St.Marhen, a busy congested hole of a city. I did not like the hustle and bustle of it all. Hordes of people filling the streets from day to day. Horses and carriages nearly running you down if you were not careful. The loud shouts of the paperboys trying to get a coin out of you, honestly or not. The bakers placing their hot bread loaves on racks to both cool and tempt the passerby. The lifts with their squeaking metal wings that would take shoppers up to any outside shopping platform of their wish. A year ago someone invented metal horses to draw your carriage. The steam that came out of their noses was cold so they were good to use during the summer. You could hear the
clang clop clang
of their metal hooves touching down on the cobblestones. Their eyes when viewed at night would light up the road way and sometimes scared me. My father wanted to purchase a pair for our family but my mother forbade it. She forbade a lot of things in reality. She said it was unnatural to keep metal horses, yet real horses took up too much space and could kick out and wound someone. I think she was just afraid of large animals. On more than one occasion she would cast a furtive eye at my dear Naza, my gray shaggy wolfhound, and I knew to take my dog out of the room instantly.