Awen Rising, E1: Chapters One - Three

Chapters 1 - 3

Photo courtesy Mockup Shots

Hello and welcome, I’m so glad you’re here! Before you start reading Awen Rising, we should probably take care of some housekeeping. With the addition of fantasy chapters, I will now be posting three times a week.

For subscribers, that’s a fairly sizable onslaught of emails to your inbox. If that’s okay with you, awesome. I am honored. But if you’re rather pick and choose, you can do that by subscribing to only the section posts you want to receive. The instructions are here.

1. Monday - Awen Rising - Free upbeat urban fantasy chapters

2. Wednesday - That Rebel with a Blog - Free slice-of-life/self-help articles gleaned from my well-read Blogger blog (along with writing process articles)

3. Friday - Crossed, Cursed, & Nearly Dead - paid serial chapters of my new urban fantasy thriller WIP (work-in-progress). Read free preview here.

4. On occasional Fridays - Free new slice-of-life/self-help articles plus writing tips and process articles

Hmm, I think that does it. Unless you thought of something I forgot. If so, please drop a comment below (or DM me if it would embarrass either of us, hehe).

🎶Now, on with the show, this is it!🎶🎶

---

AWEN RISING, A DRUIDS & DRAGONS URBAN FANTASY

Chapter One, December 21, 2012

The scroll was delivered to the White House in the wee hours of the morning by an old woman demanding secrecy. High-ranking officials and experts in such matters were summoned from bed to inspect the document.

After a flurry of activity, the scroll was declared authentic and “threat-free.” Only then was the message copied and deciphered, the age-delicate original stored in an acid-free environment for preservation.

The president’s polished shoes sank into the rug as he crossed the Oval Office. He had engineered a rare moment alone and used it to remove the file from the hidden alcove in the famous Resolute desk.

Withdrawing its contents, he reread the report and studied the map at the bottom of the reproduction.

Outside Caen, in the north of France, was a town called Falaise. It was here that the message had been discovered under the ancient ruins of a castle that once belonged to William the Conqueror.

The cave was a significant find, containing pictographs and vault-like chambers that held an entire library of scrolls and tablets and a treasury of precious gems and metals.

But in an inner chamber, sealed away from all else, was a priceless sculpture of a woman with long, curly hair flanked by an inordinately large hound and wildcat.

The president studied the accompanying photograph. The woman’s arms were lifted to the heavens in supplication, with the rolled parchment resting in one hand.

The message was written in a lacy hand with meticulously drawn symbols. Carbon dating and writing-style analysis had traced the parchment to the early eleventh century, corresponding to William’s reign.

Translated, the missive warned of a world-ending event. The ancient Mayan calendar ceased its countdown today. Was there any relation? If so, the find was even more significant.

In either case, the White House stood prepared for the worst. But if indeed a prophecy, it also declared the existence of a champion. And therefore, hope.

He polished his glasses with a soft cloth and put them back on to reread the cryptic message.

When Armageddon threatens,

The sleeping one will wake.

Along the same meridian

The fallen steps in place.

One coast will gather light and kind

The other dark, despair,

But each will yield its suffering

To a world laid waste with fear.

The call will soon be answered

Old wounds doth fester e’er,

The battle begun before

Earth was wrought

Must be won in the helm

Of the sufferer’s heart,

And from thence

She leaps forth

Once again.

The president slumped deeper into his regal chair and tapped the sheet of paper against his chin. The words meant nothing to him. He was a politician and understood legalese, not prophetese.

But the nation’s top minds were working on the cipher. With the clues supplied by the mysterious crone, he was certain they would come up with the needed answers.

The intercom squawked, jarring him back to his hectic day. He folded the prophecy and stuck it in an inside pocket, then replaced the file in the hidden drawer.

---

Chapter Two, One Thousand Years Ago

The druid Awen focused on exiting Belafel’s body and returning to her own. With a deep inhalation, she invoked the magical waters and separated from the mare.

The spear from the battle was expelled in the shift and floated nearby, handle up. Blood from the wound in the mare’s haunch stained the waters a bright red.

Leading Belafel to the shallows, Awen examined the injury. In moments, the rapidly-healing gash was gone, replaced by healthy tissue and hair. Patting the mare, Awen murmured thanks and released her to the wild. Then she turned to attend the fallen royal.

Mercifully, he’d remained unconscious for most of the arduous journey. His head rested on a mat of lotus flowers with his youthful face floating above the surface. The rest of the duke’s body lay submerged in the pool.

Awen studied the finely chiseled features and wondered again that he had been sent to her. Had she not intervened, William, Duke of Normandy, would have died with the others.

She had awakened at daybreak and knew the duke was in danger. The tea leaves had given confirmation. Later, as Awen bathed in the pool, his gaunt features appeared in the reflection of the clear water. She’d gazed into eyes the color of steel, and a knowing had come upon her: this man would unite nations and take all she held dear.

Of course, that was predicated on Awen saving him. She did have a choice. But it was a fool’s choice and against Awen’s nature to do otherwise.

She grunted as she drew the creaking mail from the broad chest and muscled arms and shoved it aside. Summoning all her strength, she dragged the duke inch-by-faltering-inch out of the water, then leaned close to probe for injuries. The wounds had closed, save those that kept him from waking.

With an ear to his bloody gambeson, Awen listened for the beat of life. It was faint but steady, a good sign. Placing her cheek above his mouth, she felt his breath, shallow and hurried. Turning her face to examine William’s color, her lips accidentally grazed his.

The eyes flew open, stared without seeing, and closed again. William’s body was waking, but his spirit still wandered the Otherworld.

Worried he might not come back from that dark, treacherous world, Awen touched her lips to his cold, white ones. The eyelids flickered. Encouraged, she placed her hands on either side of the handsome face and kissed the duke in the way of the druid: forehead, nose, chin, eyelids, cheeks, then back to his lips.

This time they were warmer, and breath tumbled from them like the water that sprang from the rocks of Luftshorne. Awen waited, face inches from the fallen warrior’s. But the death sleep was unrelenting.

Uncertain as to what to do next, Awen sat back on her bare heels. The glade would soon go dark. She must set a fire and heat the kettle. But first to wake the almost dead.

Shaking the shoulder that had not been pierced, she urged, “Arise!”

The handsome head lolled away.

Cradling it gently, she eased it toward her to repeat the kiss of life. This time, the princely lips parted on hers, and strong arms snaked out to encage her.

Awen jerked away in protest, but her lips softened of their own accord and yielded to the duke, whose eyes never wavered. No veil could hide the soul of this man; no shroud could cover hers.

Betrayed by her body, Awen melted into the warrior’s embrace. Her heart thumped against his gambeson. His heart answered and beat in sync with hers, slowly, steadily gathering strength.

When the heat between them was too much to bear, Awen squirmed out of the duke’s grip, eager to escape the unfamiliar feelings.

Gloom had settled heavily upon the clearing. Awen must get him inside.

“Come,” she commanded, ignoring the color riding high on her cheeks.

Shakily, William clasped her outstretched hand and let her drag him upright. With a long moan, he wobbled on unsteady legs. Awen crooked an arm around his waist and helped the weakened leader to her simple hut one step at a time.

His heavy-lidded eyes masked the effort Awen knew it must cost him. The healing waters had mended his outer wounds, but the toll on his psyche was another matter.

William ducked through the doorway, swaying when she let go to close the door. Reacting quickly, she grabbed his out-flung arm.

“You’re shivering. Can you strip out of these wet things while I light a fire?”

The duke got the tight inner armor over his head, and his knees buckled. He staggered into Awen and dropped to the floor, arms pinned overhead.

She bent to free them from the sopping gambeson.

“We’ll get you in bed, your grace. But first, we must remove these wet breeches.”

William rolled his eyes but obliged. He pushed them to his knees and slumped back to the plank floor.

Water sloshed from his royal boots as Awen shucked them off. The sodden breeches followed.

“That way, my lord.” She pointed with her chin, eyes averted.

She could feel the blush staining her cheeks as she helped the naked man stand.

William took two stumbling strides across the room and collapsed on the tiny bed in the corner.

Relieved, Awen rushed to bolt the door and close the curtains. She added wood to the fire until it blazed. The chill hinted at an early winter.

She turned to the man draped across her bed and gasped. The young Duke of Normandy had fainted again, leaving the glory of his aroused manhood on display.

Awen shivered and covered her eyes. This morning’s vision had not prepared her for the raw attraction that sparked her breath and made it ragged.

She hurried to the cot and arranged the pelts over the duke’s frame, then leaned closer to feel his feverish brow. William was not out of the woods yet. The night ahead would be critical.

☼☼☼

William woke to a distant roll of thunder. Without opening his eyes, he knew he was somewhere other than the Chateau. Then horror and grief tore at his heart.

Percival. Vesuvius. All were dead. Even Shaen, his page, brilliant beyond his nine years, had fallen to the murderers. Thunder rumbled, louder this time. A storm approached.

How could he have survived, and where was he now?

They’d been traveling north with Vesuvius in the lead on a hunting expedition in the wildlands. A gift from his uncle for his seventeenth birthday, William had been suspicious. But all had gone well for the first two days, and he’d lowered his guard.

Then the heathens fell upon them, attacking his small party from all sides. Ferrach had reared, taking a spear meant for William, then crashed to the verge.

William had managed to roll free and whip his sword from its scabbard. But an arrow knocked him rearward, then a spear struck him in the back.

After that, William had no recollection. Was he dead?

Nay. A flame seared his back where the spear had hewn, but his heart beat strong. His shoulder ached where the arrow found its mark. Yea, William lived.

But how had he managed to cheat Death of its rightful quarry? No man survived such a mortal wound, not even William, Duke of Normandy. Yet here he lay, on a pallet of soft feathers with naught but a fur covering his loins. A glance told William he was in a one-room hut that felt oddly familiar.

And he wasn’t alone. A woman huddled by a lowing fire with the reddest hair he had ever seen. It coiled in riotous masses of curls tipped in pure gold. A great wolfhound lay at her feet, and a wildcat curled in her lap. The cat’s yellow eyes were trained upon William, alert and on guard.

He examined the rest of the room without moving his head. There was a door and two windows. Should the need arise, he could escape.

But why was he here? Why was he not dead? And who was this mysterious woman?

With great effort, William pushed himself upright, then slowly maneuvered his legs over the edge of the bed, dragging the pelt with him. The room swayed, and nausea threatened as the wolfhound, a beast of some heft with bared teeth, scrambled up and planted its body between William and the maiden.

She straightened in consternation, and the fire’s reflection danced in crystalline eyes the color of Oriental jade. He had seen those eyes. In a dream, perchance?

“Who are you?” His voice quavered, as weak as he felt. “And where are we? What magic has kept me alive?” William swung his arm as if brandishing a sword. “My shoulder and back bear no mark. What magic is this that my heart yet beats?”

“Druid magic, my lord. I am Awen.”

William recoiled. “A witch? I have been magicked by a witch?”

The druidess leaned forward and held a candle between them. Her cerise hair tumbled over lithe shoulders, and her green eyes delved into William’s soul. Heat gathered in him. He stared, mesmerized.

She tossed her fiery hair and laughed.

“A witch I am not. I am a daughter of Earth, as you are its son. My powers come from her and can be used only for good. You know this. You have the gift. Search your heart.”

William tried to stand, with the fleeting thought of running away, but his legs betrayed him. He collapsed on the bed and studied the witch through narrowed eyes.

He felt alarmed, but not threatened. Safe even in spite of what he’d been told about witches. He closed his eyes and reached out with his senses. William felt no evil or malice from the witch. No duplicity, either.

Still, he was wary. The church despised pagans and had fought long and hard to wipe them out. How had this one survived?

The witch answered his thoughts.

“I fled. My mother and father were murdered, along with our servants. Other druids happened upon me, a childless couple fleeing England. They brought me with them and raised me here. Strong magic hides this glade. It can be found only by those who know it.”

She paused, and William motioned her to continue, propping on an elbow when he could no longer hold his body upright.

“I foresaw your uncle’s treachery. He betrayed you and sent you riding to certain death. I could not let that happen.”

“My uncle?” he scoffed. “It is no secret that his loyalties lie elsewhere. But why would a druid witch care about my fate?”

She stared at a point just over his head.

“This morning, I dreamt of your ambush. You were killed by the spear that pierced your heart, bleeding out as one of your own turned his back. He betrayed you, Sir. And relished striking the killing blow, this man of fair face and foul heart.”

William’s guts twisted into a knot. He suspected he knew who had done the deed.

“Then Normandy rebelled and neighbor slew neighbor. The madness spread throughout France, England, and the rest of Europe, then on to the Orient and the world. Civilization fell, and anarchy reigned as humans laid waste to our Earth.

“Great cracks appeared all over the land. Fiery pits opened and spewed magma until the sea boiled, and the air filled with fumes too harsh to breathe. Earth died. And took all life with her.”

William stared at the sultry witch. Her story sounded much like the Armageddon prophesied in the Christian bible. But she couldn’t be right. As much as he would like to think so, William wasn’t significant enough to have such a profound effect on the entire world.

“What has this to do with me?” The quaver was back in his voice.

The woman blinked as if waking from a trance.

“Only you can stop it. How, I do not know. But the vision was clear. If you die, Earth and all she mothers will die too. I could not let that happen. So with the help of a brave mare, I rescued you. And brought you here. The waters did the rest.”

“The waters?” William touched the shoulder that had been pierced. “The healing Waters of Luftshorne?”

The witch nodded.

“That’s a legend.” He scoffed, but something had healed his mortal wounds. Something very powerful.

“Aye,” she agreed. “A legend based in fact. When you’re strong enough, I will show you the waters. But tonight, you must rest.”

Something in her dusky tone made William realize how drowsy he felt. In the middle of a yawn, he tried to remember what he’d been about to say, then decided it didn’t matter. He sighed and sank to the feather mattress and burrowed beneath its soft furs.

On the precipice of slumber, a thought invaded his mind. He was in a druid’s lair, under the spell of the druidess. He must escape, or all would be lost.

☼☼☼

William woke with a start. The cabin was empty, save for him. Moonbeams played on the thin curtains and bathed the hut in purple light. The storm had passed, and he felt stronger. A dulcet voice wafted to him from outside.

What had the witch done with his clothes? William rose and wrapped a pelt around his waist. This time, his legs held and carried him to the side window.

Through parted curtains, he spied the maiden. She was in the center of the meadow, clad in nothing but a simple robe. It hugged her body and flowed to the rhythm of a slow, provocative dance. A fire flickered at her bare feet, and she swayed, unaware that William watched from the window.

A need sprang within him, so sweet and so sharp that his heart pounded against his ribs. Leaving the confines of the hut, he approached the witch, averse to interrupting her sensual dance but unable to stop his feet from advancing.

She turned toward William, slender arms twirling overhead, punctuating Celtic words he didn’t understand. But her welcome was unmistakable. He reached for the maiden, and the pelt fell between them.

Awen swayed in the circle of William’s arms, singing of the earth and its countless blessings. An ancient memory stirred his royal feet to move in long-forgotten steps. As he gave himself to the primitive dance, the melody washed over and through his body, entering the wounds the waters couldn’t reach.

One by one, William felt them heal, and gratitude filled his heart to overflowing. He bent to graze Awen’s lips, ending her song mid-verse. For a fleeting instant, he was aware he was at the witch’s mercy.

Oddly, William didn’t care.

He guided her to the fallen fur and settled her gently upon the curls that framed her alabaster shoulders. Awen’s eyes filled with hesitation, and William faltered.

Awen reached up and pulled him closer.

Slowly, he drew her robe from her shoulders and paused to feast on her natural beauty. Her body trembled as his fingertip traced liquid lines from her navel to her chin, then back again.

With ragged breath, William claimed lips as hungry as his own.

The desire grew between them, and the kiss deepened. The world disappeared, and all that existed was their exquisite, mounting need. With a passion transcending any he had known, William rose above the druid priestess and pierced the veil of the kingdom forbidden to him by birth.

☼☼☼

The fire roared, stoked by winds whistling down on godsbreath. Crimson sparks leapt in the night air to dance around Awen, the last druid priestess, and William, the young Duke of Normandy.

It was an unlikely union. Awen was a witness to the obliteration of both her realm and people. William was a product of the ones to blame, the bastard destined to bring the veneer of civilization to an unruly kingdom.

Rain sprang from the mushrooming clouds. Eager grasses ripened on autumn’s sharp tongue welcomed the benediction. The expectant sky exploded in a thunderous display of pyrotechnics, and a bolt of lightning struck the oak beneath which the lovers lay. Ripped asunder, the monarch of the forest shrieked, and thunderclaps shook the vault of the heavens before rolling across the land.

Far away in Falaise, nobles bolted upright in privileged beds, and peasants rose from rick and cot to wonder if judgment day was upon them. How close to the truth their suspicions lay, not one amongst them would guess.

For that night in September 1042, a noble seed was planted in fertile druid soil and blessed by the elemental divine. The blending of ancient energies was wrought.

Humankind’s hope would survive.

---

Chapter Three, A Thousand Years Later

Emily Mayhall stared out the window. The Pacific Ocean sparkled Caribbean green in the early afternoon sun, and a stiff onshore breeze whipped whitecaps on the waves. Hungry pelicans dove for lunch, and the street people of Venice Beach worked what was left of the boardwalk.

Most of them lived in the block-long chasm that loomed in the distance, an area once known as Muscle Beach. Her team had been the first on-scene after that chunk of coastline had vanished. Emily shivered. It was one thing to chase disasters for a living; it was another when it happened in your own backyard.

Despite her intentions, Emily’s gaze drifted to the registered letter that mocked her from its perch amid the clutter on the counter. It had been there all week and at the postal store before that. Sighing, she decided she had suffered long enough. Opening it couldn’t be worse than wondering what misery it might hold.

Rising from the overstuffed armchair, she crossed to the counter and lifted the official-looking envelope in the air. For the umpteenth time, she gazed at it intently, trying to divine the message within.

As usual, Emily divined nothing.

It grated that she’d thrown away precious dollars to develop a sensing ability Shalane had insisted she possessed. That she had listened to the shaman in the first place was part of the rub. Regaining the self-esteem her mother’s tongue had taken from her was difficult enough. Avoiding others with the same agenda was harder still. On the surface, they were like everyone else.

Emily eyed the letter. If it was a debt that hadn’t been listed in her already-discharged bankruptcy, the creditor was up shits creek. That’s what her Canadian friend would say if Emily were to solicit her advice. Of course, she hadn’t. And couldn’t. Not without giving her new identity away.

Dismissing the pang of guilt, Emily ripped open the envelope and searched the solitary sheet of linen for an unpaid balance due. There were no numbers, just a request to contact the office of Mitchell Albom Wainwright III, Esquire, whose address was in Atlanta, Georgia. The letter was dated January 11, 2042, more than a month ago. What did Mitchell Albom Wainwright the Third want?

She folded the letter, stuffed it back in the envelope, and tossed it on the counter. Outside, the surf broke over the jetty, and its spray danced high against the pale blue sky. The wave washed inland and surged back toward the sea, stirring a palpable need in Emily. She needed to run. It was a crystal-clear day, and she could think of no better cure for the fear that plagued her.

Fishing sunglasses and a lone key from the bottom of her purse, she stopped to hug Ralph. He mewed and blinked sleepy amber eyes, pretending to be annoyed. His purring told her otherwise. She planted a kiss on the spot between his cheek and ear.

“Bye, Ralphy. I’ll be back.”

He yawned and stretched on the back of the armchair, then set about licking the fur she had mussed. He was OCD like that, a compulsive washer. The two of them made a fine pair.

Scanning the tiny apartment, Emily dug beneath papers to retrieve a worn headband. Only a few boxes dotted the floor of the three rooms. She’d sold most of her stuff. The furniture was gone except for the bed and armchair. The maintenance guy had promised to take those.

“Back soon, Raf-feller!” Emily called as she turned the two bottom locks and the deadbolt.

A damp wind greeted her, lifting curls the color of crimson and gold, and with them, Emily’s spirits. Inhaling deeply, she savored the briny tang of the ocean air.

An aging gull landed on the railing, mewing as if greeting an old friend. Another swooped down and started a ruckus, no doubt sensing a mark in the making. Disappointed when Emily had nothing for them to eat, they raced to the beach, screaming challenges at one another before continuing the search for a handout.

Smiling at their antics, she braced her hands on the low stucco wall and leaned against it to rise on tippy-toes, stretching her calves. A long, high whistle shrilled from the nearby bottlebrush tree. Amid its fluffy red blooms, a parrot mimicked Emily’s movements, yellow head bobbing up and down.

She placed her foot midway up the wall, leaned into a thigh stretch, and squatted before stretching her abdominal muscles. The entire warm-up took only a minute, just long enough for more parrots to join her audience.

“Hello lovelies,” Emily called to the chattering birds. She zipped her jacket and fixed the headband over ears too sensitive to endure the rolling coastal winds blowing in from the ocean. Fingering the Taser in her jacket pocket, she said a silent prayer she wouldn’t need to use it and dashed down the three flights of stairs to the street.

Turning from the beach, Emily jogged a short block to Pacific Avenue and followed it to the park. She was sweating by the time she entered the gates, but the cursed letter dogged her, attached to her psyche by a thread of her own weaving. Determined to outrun it, she increased her pace, counting to sync her breath to her stride, “One, two, three, four. Five, six, seven, eight—”

Her toe caught a corner of the sidewalk, likely lifted in one of the myriad quakes. Her quick reflexes and cat-like agility kept her on her feet, but she chomped down hard on her bottom lip, drawing blood. Crying out in pain and frustration that had nothing and everything to do with biting her lip, Emily ran even faster.

The neighborhood had survived, though buckled and broken, unrepaired by a government that had run out of money and leadership long ago. Emily spit the blood in the sand beside the trail.

“Budget cuts, my ass.”

It was the bullshit reason they’d given for firing her. But it was really because she had identified a pattern in the chaos. No sooner had she shared her theory with her boss than she’d been out on her ass with barely a severance package to show for her years of service.

But not before Cyclone Charlotte literally ripped her fiancé from her arms. Emily pressed her tongue to the jagged skin of her bleeding lip, not wanting to think about Trey. He had saved her life, but it had cost him his.

“Think of the government. Think about Chester. Be mad, dammit!”

Her ex-boss, ex-friend, and one-time lover had sold Emily out. His betrayal wasn’t limited to her dismissal, either. Chester had made sure Emily wouldn’t work again by getting her blacklisted.

Zigging around a barrier, she caught a flash of movement. Emily yanked the Taser from her pocket and dropped to a crouch, heart thudding. When it turned out to be her favorite street lady, wearing layers of warring colors, Emily relaxed.

A grinning Maude waved and threw her head back to cackle, revealing gums sporting nary a tooth. Pocketing her weapon, Emily hailed the leathery-faced woman and left the erstwhile actress with a crumpled bill.

A fresh gust of wind blew in from the sea, whipping the flags overhead. Today, they were stacked one atop the other and lowered to half-mast. Emily wondered who had died. Keeping up with politics was a pastime she’d never pursued. Or politicians, either.

“Actors, now, are a different story,” she muttered to herself, passing the building Caleb MacLaine had reclaimed. She eyed the Einstein posit emblazoned on the side: “Imagination is More Important than Knowledge.”

As a scientist, Emily had no trouble with Einstein’s theories of motion and relativity or even gravitational waves and wormholes, though much of it had been replaced by the Universal Theory of One. However, seeking knowledge had been her life, and she could not fathom how this maxim could be true.

At the Muscle Beach Chasm, she detoured through an alley between two mansions. Riotous masses of geraniums and hot-pink bougainvillea spilled over every surface of the patio to her right. On her left, coastal oaks trailed Spanish moss. One had been given a whimsical face, complete with lips and nose. She waved to the tree-man, grateful Venice Beach had been spared, at least for the most part.

Many coastal cities had been wiped out completely, leaving gaping sinkholes and putrid pits filled with ash and rubble, and dirty salt water. Chunks of the entire California coastline had succumbed to the advancing sea. Nearby Manhattan and Huntington Beaches were both gone, with a million people lost and presumed dead.

Emily had worked those disasters and consulted on others. Pre-Charlotte. Pre-Trey. She had participated in recoveries around the globe, even led a few. She’d been told she was bossy, but got the job done, working longer and harder than most of her peers. Until six months ago, when she’d been handed her walking papers. She snorted with disgust. She’d had her fill of studying disasters anyway.

Which really only meant Emily had lost her nerve.

She cut across an eerily vacant Bel Air Avenue, fingers gripping the Taser in her pocket. Had more of the locals packed up and left? Many wouldn’t, or couldn’t, in spite of the continued and constant warnings. Either they’d fooled themselves into thinking the worst was over or prayed it wouldn’t happen to them. Emily felt a sting of shame, knowing she could be counted in their number.

At the precarious shortcut, she slowed to pick her way through the debris to the beach and jogged a while in the shifting sand. All but the ocean and its wildlife faded. Gulls cavorted in the crashing waves, and pelicans dove for an afternoon meal. The salty spray soothed Emily’s soul. The sun coaxed a smile to her lips.

Then she stumbled and retched when the stench of old death assaulted her senses. Unable to not look, Emily bit back a sob for the innocent sea lion rotting on the beach, even as her rapidly sorting, cataloguing brain compared the reek of old death to the shambles of her life at the present.

“Shut up, dammit,” she cried in anguish. Keeping an eye out for obstacles, she settled into a blistering pace, anxious to escape both life and death. It was something Emily pondered a lot—escape. Change your name, use cash, stay off the grid. With a new identity and tricks her mother had perfected, even a novice could disappear.

So, reeling from Trey’s death and Shalane’s persistent stalking, Emily had assumed a new identity—one taken from the ledger in her mother’s box. She chose the first name on a long list of aliases they had used over the years, and Ebby Panera became Emily Mayhall.

But she wasn’t her mother, and living this way felt wrong. On New Year’s Eve, alone and lonely, Emily had resolved to find her true self and to be it no matter what. So far, she hadn’t a clue what that was.

Unease stirred in the pit of her stomach. Searching for the source, she glanced over both shoulders, then detoured inland. Unbidden, a puzzle she’d been pondering earlier snicked into place. Her mother’s box, the registered letter, and the recurring dreams were all connected. They had to be.

The day she’d signed for the registered letter, Emily had tossed it on the counter unopened. But a compulsion to retrieve her mother’s wooden box from its hiding place had seized her and wouldn’t let go. She had fallen asleep leafing through a remarkably preserved papyrus tome contained within. Delicate hand-drawings of dragons, birds, and animals, along with maps of places that no longer existed, filled the pages in a flowing, lacy hand. The language was so cryptic that Emily had yet to discover its origins. Not that she had tried very hard.

Upon falling asleep that night, the dreams had come in fits and spurts, so urgent Emily woke in a sweat. Each time she had fallen back asleep, the dreams continued. In every one of them, she was a druid priestess in times gone by, fighting to save the life of one man. A royal who would be both her destiny and downfall. An unknowing diverter of disasters.

Clearing the last line of beach cottages, Emily faltered when sand pelted her in the face. Sputtering, she brushed the grit away, along with the haunting dreams, the box, and the letter.

She pounded the boardwalk, lungs laboring, and avoided the eyes of the few locals who scurried to let her pass. In the distance, her destination bobbed into view. Battered and shorter than its original length, the Venice Pier jutted reassuringly into the agitated sea.

Pumping harder, she ignored the pain that pierced her side and rounded the point. A woman with blond, flyaway hair stood in her path. Unable to stop or even slow down, Emily plowed her over, ears assaulted by a sharp squeal as they tumbled to the ground. Fire shot up Emily’s forearms as her palms bore the brunt of her fall.

Sudden fear liquefied Emily’s innards. Her adrenaline spiked. A female version of the Pillsbury Dough Boy groaned beneath her, eyes clenched tight.

Of all the French-fried luck.

Leaping to her feet, Emily dashed away, pulling her hood over her head. The woman she had bowled over was none other than her stalker, Shalane Carpenter—shaman, sorceress, evangelist, creep.

“Come back, you lunatic!” Shalane screeched behind her. “Come back here, you—” Wind and distance garbled the rest.

Emily sped for the cover of the decrepit pier, praying Shalane hadn’t seen her face. When the path dumped her on the far side of the jetty, Emily bent forward to gulp air, lungs blazing. On legs of rubber, and guts threatening to hurl, she sidled to a bench and doubled over in pain.

“I think I ruptured something,” she gasped.

An unkempt veteran leapt from the bench, accusing eyes frantic beneath black, bushy brows. He backed away quickly, putting several cracked spans of concrete between them.

If Emily could have laughed, she would have. Instead she sucked in air and fought to keep from losing her meager lunch. She collapsed on the seat the man had vacated and tucked chilled hands beneath sweaty armpits. Soon, the fuzziness faded from her sight, and she no longer felt like puking.

When there was still no sign of Shalane Carpenter, Emily told herself the run-in was coincidental. The shaman hadn’t known it was her.

Though far from convinced, a satisfied sigh escaped Emily’s lips. The jog might have brought her close to discovery, but it had eased the unbearable tension building in her chest since the dreams began.

Slouching low, Emily stared at the sea. Waves broke angrily against the reef a hundred yards out, whipped to a frenzy by yet another storm brewing in the Pacific Ocean. Swells upward of ten feet slapped the underside of the pier before rushing to the beach. Onlookers gathered to watch a pair in wetsuits battle the big surf. Emily dug a fist into her side and groaned when the letter popped into her head.

“Go away!” she cried, wishing her brain would obey.

It wasn’t like Emily had any credit left to ruin. Not after losing her job and the resultant bankruptcy. She had a little cash from the sale of her stuff. But come Friday, it was official—she would be out on the street with no job, no home, and nowhere to go. And now, in spite of all her many precautions, Emily’s stalker might know her whereabouts. She swiveled to search both ends of the boardwalk.

No Shalane. But her relief was short-lived. The deeper, primitive ache of destitution twisted in Emily’s gut. She wrapped her arms around knees scuffed in the fall, and buried her face, willing the dam not to break. If it did, the tears might never stop.

“Ahhh-wen.” At the edge of awareness, a musical voice crooned the name from Emily’s dreams.

Her head jerked up, startling a gull that was picking through a metal waste can. On a shriek, it took flight and wheeled toward the sea. Shivers danced along the nape of Emily’s neck. Who else could know about Awen?

The number of surfers and spectators was growing, but no likely culprits there. Had it been a snatch of song on the salt-laced breeze? Or was Emily hearing things on top of everything else?

“Stay in the moment,” she muttered with a calm she didn’t feel. “Now is all that matters. Those people are okay. That gull is okay. That homeless man is okay. Shalane didn’t see you, so you’re okay, too. Now quit the waterworks and stop freaking.”

In defiance, her mind conjured the aqua clunker Emily had purchased after the bank repossessed her sexy little coupe. Tears blurred her vision, and Emily rubbed her face briskly in her hands. The salt-eaten sedan had a large back seat. Which was good, considering her collision put the kibosh on her plan to seek refuge at the Venice Mission.

Replaying the crash in her head, Emily had to grin. It’d felt good to deck that sadistic bitch, even if by accident. Only now she would have to get away from here, money or no money. And as Emily Mayhall, she didn’t know a soul. Not here or anywhere else.

A long-forgotten scent jolted her awareness and was gone before Emily could give it a name.

“Ahhh-wen.” More thought than sound, the druid moniker tickled her inner ear.

Baffled, she stood to search the boardwalk, the beach, and the sea. A new and different foreboding crept upon her, more disturbing than Shalane or homelessness. Like molten metal, it trickled slowly down Emily’s spine and spread through her body, triggering her instinct to run.

~ Continued in Chapter 4, Water Dragon. Read it here. Thanks a million!🤩

Subscribe for free to receive these chapters in your inbox, or upgrade to paid for full access to my work including Crossed, Cursed, & Nearly Dead, my new paid urban fantasy thriller WIP. $5 per month or $50 per year

FYI: Upgrade to a paid subscription to get access to my WIP, an eBook copy of Awen Rising, and continued access to my growing archives of articles and episodes. You can also purchase the eBook at Buy Me a Coffee and the eBook or paperback at Amazon (along with many other online bookstores and libraries).

Thanks a million for reading and supporting Awen’s Porch.

From my heart to yours, Olivia/O. J.

Preview Crossed, Cursed, & Nearly Dead, my new paid urban fantasy thriller: