[We’re proud to present the fourth chapter of our next release, “Walking Between Worlds; Book II: Rise of the Walker King” by J. K. Norry. If you missed the first chapter, click here – Chapter One. Enjoy!]
Book II: Chapter Four – “Some Chapters Are Just Hard To Write”
In the first book of this series, I had a little difficulty writing some of the scenes. I am not the fan of violence that I may seem if you’ve read it, but I recognize that it is a feature in a lot of stories worth being told. When it comes, it can be helpful to have a description that brings a telling image to mind; violence should shock us all, even when it is something we feel is called for.
When I write, I’m mostly quiet. Sometimes tears stream down my face, and some of those times I am wearing a triumphant smile rather than a troubled frown. I’m still quiet in those moments, though. It’s only every once in a while that I’ll laugh or proclaim “Yeah! Hell yeah!” aloud, and I seldom think about what the neighbors might think when I do (I usually write outside, notebook on my knees on the porch). The chapters that make me a noisy writer are the ones like the one to follow. Every character in this series has a special place in my heart, and when they feel pain it strikes a chord within me that often finds me voicing it aloud.
“Oh no!”, “That’s awful!”, “Aw, c’mon!”, “Oh, gross!” and “I can’t write this!” have all leapt from my lips involuntarily at some time or another, only to be put aside for the sake of the story. It’s when I seem the most crazy that I care the least what folks might think, as seems appropriate. And in that agonized state, I wrote and then edited and then re-edited and then read this chapter. And now I give it to you. I do so hope you enjoy it. Thanks for reading.
“Look at you, such a sweet pretty human.” Her voice was beautiful and mocking, cruel and flinted. She stood with her hands on her hips, the curves of her full breasts and thin waist and rounded hips accentuated by her stance and the scant scrap of material barely covering it all. Flaming red hair and swirling eyes of orange and crimson and black animated the cold smooth breathtaking countenance of scarlet skin.
Looking down, hate burning in her heart and in her eyes, she glared at the head of dark silky hair hanging over the woman’s face. Slender, delicate hands hung limp above her head on either side, a sturdy wooden stock closed around her slim and graceful neck and wrists. The thick grained frame and base of the simple restraining device blocked the view of the rest of her body, and for her lack of responsiveness she might have been a disembodied head and hands.
“Ximena!” the devil hissed.
Still the hands hung limp, the long dark hair unmoving. Lilia crossed her arms across her abdomen, squeezing her ample breasts together in a deep valley of cleavage. She sighed and smiled.
“Brenna,” she said quietly.
The girl looked up, big dark eyes under a slight vertical line creasing the smooth pale skin of her forehead. She met the devil’s eyes, unflinching and unfamiliar. Drawn and tired, her face was all the more beautiful for the dark circles under her eyes and the dark hollows under her high cheekbones. Her thick, full lips were parched and chapped, and she moistened them so they gleamed full and red before she spoke.
“I don’t know where I am,” she said calmly. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know why you’re doing this to me. I don’t know how many times I have to repeat myself for you to hear me.”
Brenna held the devil’s eyes the whole time she spoke. After, she let her gaze wander the small stuffy room that seemed carved from reddish-brown rock. Awful things hung on the walls, sharp daggers and wrought iron pokers filed to a dull point. There were clamps and manacles and vices of all sizes. A long handled single-head battle axe that looked clean and sharp glinted in the guttering light of the torches that punctuated the walls regularly and spewed out black smoke interminably. There was no door, only rock walls and ceiling and floor discolored by the gathering smoke. Her round dark eyes watched the devil take the axe down and heft the weight of it as she turned.
“Please don’t.” They were two simple words, formed carefully by her thick glistening lips. The words held no fear, no anxiety, and no tone of supplication. She may well have been answering someone asking if she’d like them to add pickles to her sandwich.
The devil scowled, the sharp striking features of her face twisted but no less beautiful. “Tell me who I am. Tell me who you are. Tell me why you are here.”
She shook her head as much as the thick wooden crosspiece would allow, long thick silky waves of inky black hair swaying lightly back and forth. “I told you. I don’t know who you are. My name is Brenna Blanco. I don’t know why I am here. I don’t even know where I am. Please let me go.”
Raising the glinting curved blade, the devil’s eyes held hers. Her pupils were slits, and the slits widened as the arc reached its zenith.
“Tell me who you are,” she hissed.
“My name is Brenna Bl-”
The blade swung, a spray of red blood splashed the devil’s dainty scarlet feet, and the pretty little human head struck the floor and rolled. Big dark eyes stared lifeless up at the devil, a strand of hair across Brenna’s face as a bloody puddle formed under her lifeless visage.