Writing

I always thought writing on two books at the same time would be really hard but it's not so bad. My two current projects, Summer Rush and Dark Angel Rising, are complete opposites of each other but I can write on them on the same day without batting an eyelash.

Usually when I write I have to really get into it. I'll read back over what I wrote yesterday or look at my brainstorm document so I can get back into the right character mode.

Anyway, I'm about halfway done on both books. Hopefully I'll finish them before the end of the month. I have to write at least ten thousand more words for July Novel Writing Month. I can't lose that. My friend Karlee would never let me hear the end of it :)

Create Space

I've been working on my novel, Sacred Promise, so it'll be all nice and shiny and...well, edited, for when I get a proof copy from CreateSpace. I made my cover today. I was pretty sure it was going to be awful but I ended up loving it so much I'm using it for my computer background (sorry EJ, I'll put your picture back up soon ^^).

Yes, this is very random, but I've decided to see just how random I can make my posts. As if weren't already clear how bored I can get ^^

More Sacred Promise

Here is another scene from Sacred Promise. As a heads up, CAD is chronic amnesia disorder. As far as I know the disorder is a figment of my imagination. What it means is that if Angel hits her head, she gets amnesia. She doesn’t even have to hit her head that hard. Also, Shelly is Angel’s Dad’s work partner. Kevin is a boy she’s known since she was a baby. Sasha is her best friend – Majjannan is a song.

*

I put on some socks and a sweater and was reaching for the doorknob when a scream split the air.

A tingle shot up my spine and I stood there, frozen.

Then, it came again.

It was high-pitched and haunting; resonating in my ears long after the original sound had died away.

“Angel?” Dad called.

Still, I didn’t move. I closed my eyes, listening, and the final scream made me shudder. Triste.

I took the stairs down three at a time. Dad and Shelly were standing at the bottom.

“It’s Triste,” I said. Before they could ask how I knew I’d darted past them to the front door. I think Dad might have told me not to open it but by then it was already open. The second I stepped outside I was soaked to the skin. Dad came out behind me and I could hear Shelly shuffling after us.

“How do you know?” Dad said, shouting to be heard over the rain.

I’d heard horses scream before. I’d heard almost every sound horses made. “I’ve heard it before,” I whispered. He must have heard me because he said nothing.

The air was charged with energy. Lightening split the sky in half and suddenly I wasn’t looking at the Noir Cheval. I saw two stallions, Madeira was one, fighting. The other stallion was small and there was blood on his coat. Madeira was fighting him into a corner of the paddock, his hooves pounding furiously against the smaller horse. The horse was screaming, trying to get away.

Triste screamed again and the picture was gone.

“He’s in trouble,” I said numbly.

“What?” Dad and Shelly, together.

“He’s hurt,” I said again.

At that moment I forgot everything. I forgot he’d hurt my mom, I forgot he’d hurt me. I forgot he’d hurt Sasha.

I tore off the porch and ran towards the woods.

“Angel! Get back here!”

Two steps off the porch and all sound was lost to the rain. Dad probably tried to follow me. Being my dad, that’s what he’d do. But it was too dark and too wet, and in seconds I was under the trees, running.

Once, I’d experienced blind terror. I was only a year old but I remembered it very vividly. Mom, Grandma, and Granddad had gone to the stables to help the foaling mares – three in one night.

They thought I was sleeping but only a few minutes after they left I woke up. The house was dark and it was storming. I’d gone down the stairs, crying, and out the front door. And then I was in the storm. I thought I was going to die. I stood there, screaming at the top of my lungs, until Mom came and got me.

That was what it was like now.

Only the terror wasn’t mine, it was Triste’s. I could feel it as easily as I could feel the rain soaking through my clothes. He was experiencing the same terror I’d felt that night.

The rain was so heavy I could barely see through it. In Écouter there were no raindrops, there were rain sheets. If you tipped your head back and opened your mouth you’d probably drown yourself.

I was already so wet it was several minutes before I realized dark, murky water was swirling around my ankles.

Out of nowhere a tree branch seemed to materialize. I was still running and before I could stop myself, my forehead slammed into the branch.

When I opened my eyes I was on my side.

Now I was wet and my forehead was burning like crazy. I eased myself up and my head swam. The rain-distorted setting now looked like mountains.

What was I doing out in a storm? Where was I? I tried to see through the rain. I’d hit my head. It must be my CAD. I couldn’t remember a thing.

Triste screamed.

Triste. I was supposed to be doing something about him. I tried to clear my thoughts but I was so confused.

Now I could hear another sound: shouts.

I struggled to my feet. Where was he? And what was I supposed to do when I found him? If I even could?

The sound had been so close. I could barely think straight.

And then I saw white.

The rain seemed to abate and I saw everything as clearly as if it were one of Dad’s photographs.

Triste was thrashing wildly, his massive hooves flattening the vegetation around him. There were ropes around his neck, three, tangled in the briars. He was pulling against them with everything he had in him but he was drooping with exhaustion. His mane and tail were flattened against him with rain and there was a wild, terrified look in his eyes. They glowed, even in the dark.

I heard the shouts again and this time I recognized the voice. Kevin.

“Triste,” I whispered.

The stallion went still, as if he’d been struck by lightening.

“I’m going to help you.” I approached to his left, making sure he could clearly see me. He flattened his ears and bared his teeth.

“Don’t be scared…”

He went crazy. He flung himself around, nearly going over backwards. He bucked, twisted, reared. And then he went still, shuddering.

“Majjannan,” I said.

Triste’s ears came forward and some of the fear left his eyes.

“Do you remember the flying horse?” I held out my hand. Kevin was getting closer. I could hear him. I didn’t have much time.

“And Mom? Do you remember her? Majjannan?” I was next to him, his bulk blocking the rain.

He was huge. Twenty hands – I did some quick math. That was six feet, eight inches at the shoulder. There was no telling how tall he was altogether. And if he decided to go crazy again when I touched him, he’d probably kill me.

“Majjannan,” I said again. “Do you remember Majjannan?”

I put my hand on one of the ropes, now hanging limply. They were hopelessly entangled in the bushes and there was no way I could get them off his neck. As I slid my hands up the length of it, towards his neck, I had to smile. Kevin was smarter than he looked. There were safety catches on all of them. I snapped open the first one. Triste’s ears went flat but he didn’t move.

The second one snapped open and fell to the ground.

Triste pulled away, pulling the last rope taut. He was soaked, though not so much from rain as sweat.

“Kevin’s been chasing you for a long time, hasn’t he?” I tried to get the last one open but he was pulling the rope too tight.

“There he is!”

I could see a powerful flashlight beam cutting through the dark. “Please, Triste. Hold still.” I pulled on it. My fingers hurt.

“Who is that?”

Spotted.

Triste was tensing for another pull. I shoved all my weight against his shoulder. He shifted to his left and the catch popped open.

“Run, Triste!” I slapped his rump and the stallion took off running.

I did, too.

I heard Kevin yelling but he didn’t say my name, so I guessed he didn’t know it was me. I ran all the faster.

There was another scream.

It was empty of the terror and pain I had heard earlier. Its cadence was almost like music, spiraling skyward, resounding and resounding like waves on a beach. It was the most beautiful sound I’d heard in my life.

I liked to think Triste was saying thank you.

Sacred Promise

Here is the first chapter of my book. Enjoy!



Prologue

Under the full moon, the sea raged. Black waves beat against the rocks. As far as the eye could see there were towering waves. To the left of Moonstar Bay was a beach. To the right was The Ciel. The cliff towered above the sea.
And then there was a scream.
It split the night in half, rising above the pounding waves. The air seemed to shudder with the force of it.
On the top of The Ciel there was movement.
A horse, as white as the moon brokenly reflected in the sea, stood on the cliff. Rising in a rear, he seemed suspended in midair. The rain increased. A frothy white mane clung to the horse’s neck and his ice white tail touched the ground.
He screamed again.
Somewhere far away, perhaps even the other side of the world, a young girl screamed.
They didn’t know each other – yet. But their fears were inexplicably woven together. And while the girl’s friends comforted her, the white horse stood there. Alone.


Chapter One or Triste


I was running through the woods, trying to breathe, trying to see. But all I could do was hear; hear something tearing through the brush after me. It was panting hard. Every now and then I heard a deep, animal growl that seemed to reverberate through the darkness.
Should I yell to try to frighten it away? Or hide?
Panic threatened to choke me and I stopped running, wiping at my tears. Where could I go? Nothing seemed familiar.
“Hush little baby, don’t you cry…”
“Mom!” I jerked around at the sound of my mother’s voice. “Mom, please help me!” I tried to run to the sound of her voice but I couldn’t pinpoint the direction it was coming from. “Where are you?”
Her haunted voice kept singing.
She’ll never help you, a little voice whispered. She left you, didn’t she? She never said goodbye. She just left.
“She died! She couldn’t help that!”
I broke into a run again, as the Thing grew closer.
“Dad,” I sobbed. There was no reassuring answer from my father. He wasn’t there. He never had been. I ran faster. Tree branches slapped at my face and exposed roots seemed to leap up to trip me.
A gentle neigh suddenly sounded.
I ran towards the sound. The faster I ran, the louder it became. And then I saw two green eyes appear in the darkness, at the top of a hill, looking down at me. Slowly, the ghostly-white body of a horse began to appear around them. I knew if I could just reach him, I would be okay.
My foot caught on a root and I hit the ground.
And then the Thing caught me. I screamed.


Noir Cheval, Écouter Valley, I thought sleepily, finally. The place I’d been born, where I’d spent the first five years of my life, where my mother died; the place where I would be spending the next three months.
“We’ll bring the stuff in the house tomorrow, Angel,” Dad said. “Let’s just get some sleep.”
He fumbled through his bag to find the key for the front door and we both got out of the Jeep. It had been a long drive from New Lake, Washington Florida, and then from there, a long plane ride to the tiny town of Chevalier in Écouter Valley, a little place situated on the sea; the only noticeable feature about it.
Dad got the front door open and we both went inside.
The caretaker had made up beds for both of us a note pinned on the inside of the door said. Dad’s bedroom was down the hall. Mine was upstairs.
I climbed into the soft sheets without even kicking off my shoes. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
When my eyes opened again, Dad was standing in the doorway. “C’mon Angel, we’ve got a lot of stuff to do today.”
Yawning, I sat up. “Are you going to tell me about your project?”
It seemed like years since Dad had first mentioned we were here on business, and that it had something to do with horses. I’d guessed at that, since the Noir Cheval had once been a Friesian breeding farm, back when my grandparents were alive. But that had been years ago, before I inherited it.
“If you get out of bed right now,” Dad countered. He left, and the door slammed shut behind him.
I looked around the room I’d slept in. I hadn’t really looked at it the night before. It was done in fawn and lavender; my favorite colors. All of the furniture was massive because it was practically a hundred years old. A portrait of a smoky-gray Friesian hung on the wall over the dresser.
“Angel!” Dad yelled.
“I’m coming!”
Sliding out of bed, I ran a hand through my hair. My bones were aching after endless hours on a plane and then another two driving from the capitol to Écouter. They cracked a little as I washed my face and rinsed out my mouth.
Dad had brought in all the bags when I got downstairs and he was rummaging through the fridge.
“Oh, it looks like Gram sent over some breakfast for us.” He produced a box of cereal and some milk. “What a thoughtful old lady. Hurry up and eat, Angel. We’re driving into town in twenty minutes.”
“Tell me about your project!” I yelled at his back, as he went out the front door again. He ignored me.
I gulped down my breakfast so fast it gave me hiccups, than ran out the door after him. I started to, anyway. I stopped on the front step. I felt a breeze in my mouth and had to snap shut my jaw, which had fallen open.
It’d been eleven years since I last saw the Noir Cheval and I’d forgotten how amazing it was. From the front step I could see all the way down to the road in front of the house. The front yard was an acre of the greenest grass I’d ever seen in my life. Separating the road from the yard was a huge black iron-gate set in a stone fence.
“What do you think?” Dad was rummaging through a bag on the hood of the car.
“Charmante,” I said, with my best French accent.
“How’s your French, Angel?”
“My – French?” I gave Dad a confused glance. “I can speak it, write it, and understand it, like I always have.”
Dad, the dramatist as always, held up a picture and said one word. “Triste.”
“Sad,” I returned.
“What do you think?” Dad held the picture out to me, almost reverently, and carefully I took it.
I recognized the horse as a Friesian immediately. There was heavy feathering on his legs. His mane was swept back, a few strands hooked over one ear. He had lower tail carriage than normal but judging from the length of his tail – it touched the ground – I wasn’t surprised.
There was a thick, dirty rope around his shoulders. The horse was rearing, and another loop of rope was visible around his fetlock. There was blood on his neck and his legs.
In the corner of the picture you could see the chestnut colored ear of a horse, as if the picture had been taken from horseback.
Even Dad, who knows pretty much nothing about horses, knew that all Friesians are supposed to be black. This one wasn’t. He was pure white.
“They call him Triste,” Dad said in a deep, mysterious voice, “the French word for sad, because all eye-witnesses swear the horse is crying.”
When Dad got into his story-telling mode, he was gone. I went down the steps and sat on the hood of the car.
“According to legend,” Dad began, “Triste was born on one of the breeding farms further upstate, between the mountains and Écouter Wildlife Park. Supposedly he is a purebred Friesian stallion imported from Holland. A lot of things seem to belie that, however. As a colt barely six months old, he stood at an incredible five feet, three inches at the shoulder. And,” Dad nodded to the photograph, “He was as white as a full moon.”
“How’d he end up in Écouter?” I demanded.
Dad went on as if he hadn’t heard. “As a colt, Triste was always a handful. He’d fight with his own mother and he bullied the other foals. His owner, although nobody knows for sure who he was, considered putting the angry, unhappy horse out of his misery. How they know this since they don’t know the owner, I don’t know.
“One particular day, after Triste had nearly killed his owner’s dog, bit his owner, and injured another foal, his owner decided it was time. He blindfolded Triste and led him to where he’d already dug his grave.”
I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t say anything.
“But when he raised his gun to fire,” Dad’s voice deepened, “Triste bolted. The bullet missed him by inches. The man was furious. Triste had injured other horses and tormented the man beyond what he could bear. The man took his whip –”
I closed my eyes.
“– and began to beat Triste. He beat him until blood stained the white coat red. At first, Triste cried out in pain and tried to get away. Then, he fought back.”
Dad went on to describe the horrible fight that ensued. I kept my eyes closed and imagined the big white colt lashing out with his hooves, neighing in pain and fear. The man lashed out with his whip and as in my mind’s eye the whip licked Triste’s flank, I flinched.
“And when Triste could no longer stand the pain,” Dad was saying, “He ran. He charged the fence and ran as fast as his legs could take him.”
For a long moment Dad was silent, as if turning the story over in his head. We knew we had to take the story with more than a grain of salt. After all, how did anyone know that’s what happened if nobody knew who Triste had belonged to? But still, it made me feel sad.
“The man’s daughter had been the only one who loved Triste. And when the colt showed up near the barn the next morning, she tried to look after him in secret. But it was storming, and Triste had always been afraid of storms. Her father heard them and he came out of the house to finish the job he’d started.
“The girl refused to let him. She mounted Triste and galloped off. Her father followed them. They galloped for miles, the girl’s deranged father trying desperately to catch them, and the girl trying desperately to handle Triste’s fear. And then they came to the Ciel, the biggest cliff on the north side of the bay. The man continued to close in, pushing Triste and the girl closer and closer to the edge.
“Terrified of the one who’d put him in so much pain, Triste reared, and threw the girl over the cliff. And then he ran past the man. And nobody ever saw him again.”
I sighed.
Death was awful in itself. Especially for a young person (I imagined the girl was fifteen, like me). But to be thrown over a cliff and drowned? I shuddered. The Ciel jutted straight out over the sea, with a bit of a sandy beach at its base. I remembered Grandma taking me to the beach below the Ciel, and being awed by its majesty.
“And then….” Dad captured my attention again with the second part of the story. “May 16th of last year, Kevin Lowell came home from military school.”
I glanced at Dad to make sure I’d heard him correctly.
“Kevin Lowell?”
Dad started to roll his eyes. “Come on Angel, let me finish the story.”
“What does he have to do with anything?” I demanded. Kevin Lowell had been – still was, as far as I knew – my mortal enemy. He was older than me by eleven months and a lot bigger. A normal toddler isn’t capable of doing what he did; tying my shoelaces to chairs, putting gum in my hair, yanking my hair until I cried.
“Intrigued by the stories of the mysterious Triste, Kevin probed deeper into the story and began to stalk the now seven and a half year old stallion.”
Typical of Kevin Lowell; he had to have everything. They should change that saying from curiosity killed the cat to curiosity killed the boy.
“After months of planning and watching, he finally roped him from horseback. Triste, now at least twenty hands tall dragged Kevin and his horse Jess for almost three hundred yards. The snubbed rope suffocated Jess and gave Kevin a severe concussion.”
“Serves Kevin right,” I said, now that the story was over.
Dad gave a longsuffering sigh. “Really, Angelica.” Calling me by my full name, instead of the usual Angel, told me he was getting tired of going over this.
“So you’re filming Triste?” I said, by way of conclusion.
“Yes.” Dad gave me a warning look. “And since Kevin Lowell knows more about the stallion than anybody else, he’s going to be my guide.” He went on quickly before I could speak. “Since Triste is on our property it’ll be easy for me to keep an eye on you, Angel, while I’m working.”
I didn’t offer my opinion on Dad’s “keeping an eye” on me. Instead, I closed my eyes and thought about a white Friesian stallion. And I imagined he had green eyes.