Shrouded Sky (The Veils of Lore Book 1) (2 page)

Prior to incarceration she’d been as pale as a vampire, a look that fit her black-on-black wardrobe just fine. For that reason, and because she thought her legs were too fat anyway, she’d rarely worn shorts, even during the hottest of Florida months. Her arms, pencil thin in comparison to her legs, had also usually been hidden beneath layers of dark cotton. But after spending two months at sea under a blazing sun and unbearable humidity, she’d been forced to adjust her way of thinking. Her once anemic limbs were now tan and muscular, and the purple that tipped her short black hair had faded to lavender. She no longer wore eyeliner, saltwater instantly slid it down her cheeks, and her nails were no longer painted, a waste of time in fish scale hell. But there was one fashion accessory she refused to surrender, at least not entirely, and that was her boots.

She’d brought the boots with her, had actually worn them the day she first boarded the boat. But black, thick-
soled
footwear was not a smart choice on a rocking deck, so she had abandoned them in favor of a pair of Top Siders purchased by her father soon after. Her boots now sat like a trophy atop the built-in bureau against the far wall and were usually the first things her eyes gravitated to when she entered the room.

She rose and stepped toward the dresser, then grabbed the boots and returned to her bed. After drawing them onto her feet, she extended her legs, admiring them with synchronized twists of her ankles. They didn’t go with the shorts she was wearing or the barely pink tank top with the tiny embroidered flamingo her father had bought her. But she didn’t care. The boots made her feel like herself, though she was no longer sure who that self was.

Chandra replayed her father’s words. What had
he meant? she wondered. She knew her parents didn’t care for her choice in clothing. Her mom would prefer she dress out of an L. L. Bean catalog, while Ike would love nothing more than to see her trussed up like a tropical bird. Was it her choice in bands? No, that couldn’t be it. They didn’t know enough about Gwar to disapprove of them, though they probably would if they took the time to listen. Was it the tattoo? True, she’d gotten it without permission. But it was so tiny! She shook her head. That couldn’t be it. Ike had plenty of tattoos, his arms were practically covered with them, and they were certainly bigger than the leaping lion she’d had inked to her left shoulder. Had to be the pot. “Yeah, like they never smoked it,” she mumbled.

Her thoughts drifted back to Marc and for a moment her troubles seemed to fade. She closed her eyes, imagining his beautiful face, but a sudden rock of the boat jarred her to her senses. She sighed and grabbed a dog-eared paperback that was wedged between the mattress and the wall, then yanked the chain of the single-bulb light screwed to the paneling above her head. She leaned back and opened the book, grateful she’d been allowed to bring a few, and flipped through the pages. The story was full of fantasy and romance, nothing like the miserable existence she was currently trapped in. She’d read the book so many times she’d practically lost count, but it never failed to take her to a place she wanted to be, with characters she wanted to know. There were no hot vampires in the story, something she usually gravitated to, and it took place in a world void of technology. But still she loved it. It was an ancient world with its own share of problems and some handsome, though wounded, heroes she wanted to both slap and make love to at the same time.

She arranged the pillow behind her head and scanned the pages for her favorite scene, the romantic one she’d read numerous times since she first discovered it in middle school. It wasn’t sexually graphic—she’d certainly read more descriptive scenes since then—but still, it had given her her first taste of literary romance, so it held a special place in her heart. The prince in the scene also held a special place. He was red-haired and violet-eyed, and though she had never gravitated to red hair, she’d fantasized about those eyes ever since. As she grew older she’d come to realize there was no such thing as boys with violet eyes. They were just a figment of a writer’s imagination.

Suddenly the boat jerked, knocking out the light and sending Chandra rolling to the floor. “What the hell?” she grumbled, rubbing her elbow. She clambered to her feet and made her way up the steps, clutching the handrails as the boat heaved back and forth.

Chandra threw open the hatch and poked her head out, prepared to aim a complaint at her father, but as she did she noticed the sky had turned an unsettling shade of green. “Ike!” she hollered through a moan of wind. There was no response. She took another step up and twisted around, scanning the deck behind her, but all she saw were strobe-lit waves on an endless sea, and a sky darkening with spiraling clouds.

Chandra climbed onto the deck and staggered toward the bow. The boat took an unexpected lilt and sent her flying. She grabbed the shroud line and dragged herself toward the mast. “Dad!” she screamed, wrapping her arms around it.

A flash of lightening illuminated the sky, followed by an explosion of thunder and a sudden deluge of rain. Chandra tightened her hold as the boat rolled onto its side then righted as if in slow motion. She blinked, trying to focus through the rain, and realized to her horror a massive wall of water was barreling straight for them. She held on tight, but as the wave hit, her arms were ripped from the mast, sending her thrashing down the deck.

Chandra flipped over the rail and plunged into the icy water. She clawed her way to the surface, battling waves as they knocked her over and under and over again. She flailed and she kicked, but it was no use. They were too strong, and her boots were quickly filling with water. She reached for the laces, but was unable to remain afloat. She sank beneath the waves, then bent her knees and yanked at the knotted shoestrings.

They wouldn’t budge.

Chandra forced her way back up, searching for her dad, for the boat, for anything she could grab on to, but there was nothing visible to her in the turbulence.

Something slammed against her, sending pain to her ribs and shock to her system. She sank, deeper and deeper, too weak to remain afloat, too exhausted to wonder what had hit her.

Another object crashed into her, spinning her in what felt like opposite directions.

Chandra spiraled into darkness, unable to fight, unable to think. The weight of the water crushed against her; her lungs burned for want of air. But in her confusion she did not know how to escape it. Which way was up? Which way was down?

An eerie light materialized through the watery haze. Surely it was her father! Surely it was rescue!

She reached her hand toward it.
Here! I’m here!

The light hovered, then drew near, its brilliance revealing the vast and quiet beauty that lay beneath.

Chandra gasped then gulped, no longer able to control her lungs. Cold water rushed into them, dousing the warmth of her last dying breath. She closed her eyes and willed the light to take her. There was no use fighting it. She was drowning.

And no one would ever know.

Chandra shivered
as cool
air skimmed across her, but the hand exploring her ribs felt warm against her skin. The fingers pressed gently, sending a stab of pain that ricocheted all the way to her spine. “Ge’ off!” she croaked, shoving the hand away.

“Be still,” a man’s voice said. “You’re injured.”

“No shit.” Chandra groaned and attempted to sit, but he pressed her back down.

“I said be still.”

Chandra pried her eyes past the salty sand that crusted them, but all she could see was a blur of gray sky. She drew some saliva into her mouth. “Where . . . are you?”

A shadow leaned over her. Chandra blinked, trying to bring it into focus, but then a hand traveled up her thigh, pushing the leg of her shorts toward her hip. She bolted into the upright position. “What the
hell
do you think you’re doing!” she snapped.

“Exploring your wound,” the man said.

“Well explore your own wound!” She flung his hand away, but as she did she noticed a massive purple bruise canvassing her entire ribcage. Apparently her shirt had been lifted to explore that as well.

Chandra yanked down her top, sending more pain to her ribs. She winced and glanced at her legs. They, as well as her boots, were frosted with sand, but her left outer thigh sported a deep jagged ridge along the full length of it. Her stomach roiled. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said.

The man eased her back down. “You swallowed too much water.”

Chandra looked toward the stranger, but he had stepped away. “Have you seen anyone else, here on the beach?” she asked, twisting her head in an attempt to locate him.

“Only you,” the man replied.

He returned to her side and knelt beside her, and as he did his face came more into view. He was young, his features handsome and perfectly balanced. But it was not the beauty of his face nor the frown that was planted upon it that had Chandra mesmerized. It was his eyes.

Chandra reached a hand to her head, expecting to find a gaping wound from which all her good sense had escaped. “Your eyes,” she said.

“What about them?” he asked.

“They’re violet.”

“And yours are green.” The young man reached for a leather satchel at his side. From within it he pulled out a cloth and a small, topaz-colored bottle. He bit the cloth with his teeth and tore it into several strips, then draped them across his thigh and pulled the cork from the bottle. A scent that reminded Chandra of menthol and eucalyptus wafted into her nostrils.

The young man poured the oily substance onto a strip of cloth. “This will sting,” he said, and pressed it to the wound.

Chandra nearly flew off the sand, but the young man’s hand pressed her back down. “I told you it would sting,” he said. He glanced at her. “Do they bother you?”

“What?”

“My eyes. Do they bother you?”

“Yes,” Chandra said, trying to think past the pain. “I mean no.”

“Which?” he asked.

Chandra grimaced. “Which . . . what?”

The young man shook his head, then lifted her leg and bent it at the knee, propping it in front of him as he began to wrap it with the remaining bandages.

“Who—are—you anyway?” Chandra asked through gritted teeth.

“Orryn,” he responded. He tied off the last of the cloth. “Who are you?”

“Chandra.”

“Chan-dria,” he said. He looked at her thoughtfully. “In honor of the moon goddess?”

Chandra forced a laugh. “I don’t know anything about a moon goddess.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” he said, and turned his attention back to the bandage.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Chandra asked. The condescension in his voice had not gone unnoticed.

“Chandria is a goddess of the ancients,” he said. “Her name means ‘moon-like’. Did your parents not tell you?” He grunted with disapproval.

“I doubt they named me after some goddess,” Chandra said. “Besides, it’s just a name.”

“Every name has meaning and
a purpose in the granting of it. Even yours.” Orryn eased her leg down. “This will do I think, until I get you to the Spirit Keeper.”

“The what?”

Orryn rose slowly, and if Chandra’s eyes had not been in focus before, they certainly were now. She moved her gaze up Orryn’s body, realizing he was tall, or so he seemed from her prone position in the sand, and dressed very strangely. His feet were covered in boots lined with fur that spilled over the tops of them. They reached to the middle of his calves and were crisscrossed by long thick laces. Dark leather trousers hugged his muscular thighs, leading Chandra’s wide-eyed gaze toward the formfitting jacket that reached just past his hips. The jacket was of leather and tooled with curvilinear symbols that vined along a row of polished buttons. Its white, fur lined collar was turned up at the young man’s jaw, outlining his perfect face.

As Chandra examined him, she thought he looked familiar. Perhaps it was the hair. Long and blond, it was pulled back and plaited at each side of his head, the rest of it left to stream past his shoulders.

“Who are you supposed to be?” she asked. “Legolas of the North or something?”

Orryn tilted his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Your outfit,” she said, nodding in his direction. “This
is
the tropics, you know.”

“You’re feverish.”

He pulled off his jacket, revealing an oatmeal-colored tunic and a long-handled knife tucked into the braided waistband of his trousers. Everything about him screamed Renaissance Festival.

He draped the jacket across her.

“If you’d step out of your role-play for a second,” Chandra said, “you’d realize I’m burning up, thank you very much.” She shoved the jacket onto the sand.

“What do you mean, role-play?”

“You’re from a geek fest, right?”

Orryn frowned. “You say that as insult.”

“No. I mean—” Chandra bit her lip. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“It will take more than that to hurt my feelings,” Orryn said. He turned and marched off.

It was then that Chandra realized the heat enveloping her was from the inside, not the out. Another cool breeze swept across her, sending goose bumps to her skin. She stood shakily and brought the jacket up with her. Turning, she scanned the area for Orryn and spotted him. He was walking toward the edge of a tree line and a light gray horse that was tethered there.

Chandra draped the jacket around her shoulders, then moved her eyes along the trees and toward the distant horizon. A vast range of snowy mountains could be seen, and towering above them was a hint of smoke spiraling from the tallest summit. She turned and looked toward the beach. Strangely, there were no palms, not even a hint of the tropics where she and Ike had been sailing that morning. She moved her focus to the sea, praying she would see
The Seeker
sailing across turquoise waters toward her. But what she saw made her knees go weak. The waters were void of ships, and they were dark and gray and swirling around spiraling rocks
“that
rose from the sea like monstrous spines
.” Chandra drew a sharp breath. “Impossible.”