Editing / Freaky Friday / Impartials and Immortals / Snippet / The Sharpest Lives / Work in Progress / Writing

Freaky Friday!

In honour of the post’s title, I try to post things on this day that don’t always make sense. Things that might make goosebumps break out on your skin, make your heartbeat speed up a little bit, or things that just plain give you the creeps.

Let’s see if I succeeded. 😉 Happy Freaky Friday, and happy Easter/Passover/whatever holiday you’d like to celebrate. Keep an eye out later–I’ll be posting a celebration snippet in honour of my Twitter account hitting 200 followers. Yeah, I’m one of those.

Cheers,

Murphy

They were walking back along the strand, mostly in silence, when Cillian felt the shift in the air around them, felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

“Something’s not right,” he murmured, and Cass looked to him, frowning as she saw the distraught look in his eyes. “Take out the knife I gave you, Cass. Now.”

When it happened, it was sudden. The sunlight that had been caressing her skin like a soothing balm disappeared as clouds stole over the sky, and abruptly Cass and Cillian found themselves standing alone in the semi-darkness of an artificial twilight, eyes straining to see what lay ahead, as the sea crashed onto the shore like a slap from an angered goddess.

They both felt it at the same time, the inexplicable, abnormal chill that settled over them and made their breath come out in visible puffs of air.

“Cillian,” Cass asked in a voice that wanted to shake, “what’s happening?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, his own voice quiet but steady as a rock. “I’ve an idea. I only hope I’m wrong.”

Then it was in front of them, taking the shape of a human man. But the human skin, the elegant clothes, couldn’t hide what was beneath, what was revealed by the blank, empty eyes of pure white.

Cass’s hand was numb on the hilt of the dagger, as though the bone-chilling cold had fused one to the other. Cillian lowered into a predatory crouch and moved towards the thing, teeth bared in a fierce snarl.

“Get away from here,” he spat, the words coming instinctively in the old tongue. “It isn’t time yet.”

The thing smiled, slow and cruel, and replied in English. “When it is, your little Impartial will feel all the pain we give her tenfold, for the decades missed. Long before Samhain she will beg for death.” It turned to look at her, still wearing that chilling, soulless smile. “You’ll make a wonderful pet, my dear,” it crooned. “You could entertain the King and Queen for centuries.” Then it laughed—a sound that had goosebumps rising on her skin—and vanished.

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