Edge of the Falls (After the Fall)

Nazarea N. Andrews

After the Fall Book 1

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of any wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction including brands or products.

Copyright © 2013 by Nazarea Andrews.

Edge of the Falls by Nazarea Andrews

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Andrews-Hale Publishing.

Summary: When Sabah, a social outcast finds out her guardian has been keeping secrets from her, she runs away with a ban-wolf who proves to be just as dangerous as the life she left.

1. [TAG R/T ISBN]. 2. [TAG R/T ISBN]. 3. [TAG R/T ISBN].

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For information, address Nazarea Andrews, 14207 Ridge Court, Upatoi, GA 31829.

www.NazareaAndrews.com

Edited by Stephanie Lott

Cover design by Stephanie Mooney

Cover art copyright©: Stephanie Mooney

Ebook Formatting by
Ink in Motion

Dedicated to:

The librarians who gave me every fairy tale

I read as a child. Y’all started a lifelong love affair.

&

Michael

My personal happily ever after…

Love you x infinity the most.

Nazarea N. Andrews

After the Fall Book 1

“Yes," said the Beast, "my heart is good, but still I am a monster."

"Among mankind," said Beauty, "there are many that deserve that name more than you.”

The Manor

I’ve never questioned the Mistress’ need for starrbriars.

In the almost fourteen years I’ve lived under her roof, I’ve accepted it without thought. But as I pick my way across the cliff, searching the ever-present darkness for the small flowers, I wonder what is so important about them.

The wind picks up and I skid a little, the cliff icy from the spray of the waterfall. I step back as I glance into my bag—it’s almost empty. We’ve exhausted the easily gathered supply of flowers.

I feel someone’s gaze, and resist looking behind me. Instead, I crouch down, drawn by a stunted flower growing on the side of the precipice. I tug it free, and stare into the churning water, broken on the rocks far below me. Which child will be lowered into that this time? Who will risk their life at the whim of our Mistress?

A scream, haunting and primal, fills the air, rising above the roar of the waterfall and I jerk, losing my balance for a dizzying moment. My hands slip on the ice, sliding until I find a grip. For a long moment, I stay still, waiting for my heartbeat to steady. Then I crawl backwards, barely breathing as I edge away from the drop-off. I see blood on the rocks, and belatedly, I feel the sting on my palm.

Lilith is trudging through the ice-capped snow, the tip of her red nose poking out of her hood. She bends, inspecting something near the ground and I hold my breath, hoping. If she has found more starrbriars, we might be able to postpone the inevitable for a few more days.

She straightens and her eyes dart to me, questioning. I sigh. We have been harvesting the flowers for three weeks now and the supply on the cliff face is gone. I’ve been dreading this day. Tugging my woolen cloak closer and wishing it were somehow a stronger protection from the spray, I motion Lilith to follow me back to the Manor.

“Who will Mistress send?” she asks, as she falls into step beside me. Her voice is faint, hard to hear over the constant roar of water. I shiver. Last season, Cedric had gone for the flowers, but he has grown over the months since then—and still hasn’t completely recovered from the shattered leg. Gwen won’t let him go now, no matter what the Mistress wishes.

I force a smile for Lilith as we trudge back to the Manor. “We don’t question the Mistress, Lil.”

It isn’t an answer, and I feel her shudder, feel the question that hangs on the air around us, as tangible as the mist that has her shivering.

“Come on, little sister,” I say affectionately. “Let’s get you to the fire and see what Cook made for supper.”

We pick our way back to the Manor and again the screams of the ban-wolves fill the darkness. Beside me, Lilith stiffens, and our pace quickens as we retreat to the house. I glance over my shoulder as Lilith slips into the kitchen, and in the ever-present darkness, I can see the gleam of golden eyes, watching hungrily after us in the dark.

The eyes are familiar somehow. I wonder if it is the same ban-wolf that has been lingering around the Manor for the past week, seeming to watch us.

Ignoring the unfamiliar—and idiotic—urge to seek out the ban-wolf, I shut the door firmly and bolt it behind us.

The Mistress claims the ban-wolves protect us from the tigercats and dragons and the adventurous Keepers. Occasionally, in the dim graylight of morning, when Berg and I wander the grounds looking for nuts or herbs the Mistress has demanded, we will find a body. Sometimes, we can tell what it was by the fur. Other times, there is not enough left even to say if it was animal or human. Neither of us ever speaks of them, and we never tell the others we find them. Some things, you don’t share with young children. You carry the weight of them on your own.

“Sabah?”

I look up at the sound of my name. It is Cook’s sharp voice, reminding me that I am dripping, soaked to the bone from mist and ice. My hands clench on my cloak and pain flares in my hand. I hide my grimace and follow Lilith through the warm kitchen to the room where all of the girls sleep. Despite the fire, it is still cold in our room, and I shiver as I quickly strip out of my cloak, rough breeches and knit sweater. My undershirt clings to me, a thin layer of ice, and I consider the merits of leaving it on. Then I shrug and discard it as well, catching the long, formless dress Lilith throws to me, sighing in relief as I slip into it.

It isn’t much. Compared to the soft weave of the Mistress’ robes, it is rough and scratchy. It is warm and dry, and that matters more.

Lilith looks into her knapsack again while I wrap my hand neatly. “It’s not enough,” she murmurs, despondent.

“Lil,” I snap, my voice sharper than I intend. “You knew this was coming—that it always comes.”

Her gray eyes are hurt when they come up to mine, and I bite back my sigh, force my tone to be calm as I say, “It will be okay, Lil. Mistress will see to it.”

She leans into me as I lead her back to the kitchen, and I let her. The younger girls all look to me for support and guidance—a role I have never been comfortable in, even though it has been mine for as many years as I have been in the Manor.

As we re-enter the kitchen, the smell of venison and nutty bread in the air, my eyes dart around to find him. Berg straightens from where he had half knelt next to Guin. A tightness in my chest eases; the tightness that is always there when he is out hunting.

His sky-dark eyes warm when he sees me, and I see the question in them, the one I have been dreading. Berg knows me well enough to read the answer instantly, in the set of my shoulders and arm around Lilith. A quiet sigh slips from him as the clamor of the children immerses me.

Kaida is sitting by the fire, reading, but I catch her eye as the girls sweep me into their conversation about the kitten they found in the greenhouse. I try not to flinch at the sight of her big gray eyes, mirrors of my own, struggle not to think of what she will have to do soon.

Silence settles slowly, the children going still and tense as we wait for the Mistress. Cook stands by the firestove, muttering over the thick stew.

The Mistress enters the room like the mist over the rocks—creeping, quiet, with no fanfare or announcement. She is absent one moment, and the next, she sits at the head of the table. There is the familiar moment of hushed awe, before she claps once and Cook bustles to the table.

As the oldest, Berg and I sit directly across from each other, on either side of the Mistress. All of us wait as Cook serves her before I begin ladling out the venison stew and handing the bowls down to the younger children.

“How did you fare today, hunting?” the Mistress asks, accepting the nut bread slathered with honey that Berg offers.

He smiles, and I feel some relief that one of us was successful. “Two rabbits, a small goose and the bait lines were full.”

The Mistress smiles—she always enjoys fresh fish. Then her black eyes find mine, and I tremble as she arches a questioning eyebrow.

“The supply has been exhausted, Mistress. We found four briars. Two were stunted too badly to be of use,” I say, staring into my bowl. I flick a cautious look at her.

Her eyes tighten, unnoticeable to anyone who does not know to look. I do, and look down again, at the thick broth, cooling rapidly. Her fingers brush my arm, soft and icy and startling—my gaze jerks back to her and she smiles, tight but there. “It was coming, dear. We shall adjust.”

I nod mutely and begin to eat, not tasting the food as conversation swells around me, the comforting and familiar chatter of stories and lessons and work. The triangle that composes our life.

It isn’t a bad life—and since all of us were Gutterlings, left to the elements outside the Shield, it is more than we could have expected. Most Outsiders live a life far harder. We see them sometimes, Rover tribes who race the winds and acidstorms, and hope to avoid the more vicious predators. The children of those Outsiders are always dirty and feral, something hungry in their eyes as they watch me.

No, I know our life here in the shadow of the City is not a bad one. Sometimes, when the darklight lifts just enough, I can see across the expanse of air that separates us from the City. I can see the pinpricks of light that drive the ever-present night back and I wonder.

What would life be like, as a Citizen? Where no ban-wolves lurk outside the door? Without acidstorms making even the mildest storm a nightmare? I wonder what safety can be found in such a regulated life.

And—quite often—I wonder why the Mistress would choose to live outside that safety, so close and yet Exiled from her own people.

“I don’t understand why we need to know this;” Alba complains, glaring at the holo I’m setting up.

I bite my lip to keep from snapping at her—she complains about everything, but I am not the one who decided that reviewing the mutations riots from Before was a good idea. I glance out the door, where I can hear the Mistress talking quietly to Berg.