Winter's Fury - Volume Two of The Saga of the Twelves (2 page)

A few stray clouds
stretched across the wide vista of the azure heavens above. The sun
was bright, warming, much more subdued than it would have been
during the height of summer. That was when almost every day
temperatures ranged in the triple digits.

Why had she been so
different? How come she had come to mean so much to him in such a
limited amount of time? Why? These were all questions he had asked
himself a thousand times since she had left back in August. Every
time he could not find an adequate answer to any of them. She had
not been in his life long, and yet… she had somehow managed to
bring out what he had always dreamed of experiencing with a girl.
It was something unique, something lasting.
Love, maybe?
Of that, he was not
sure, but it could have been. There, he was grounded in truth. It
could have been. With time, with care, with them being close to one
another, yes, he could have fallen in love with her.

There just had not been
enough time for it to evolve. School had ended with them as an
exclusive item. The summer had begun with so much promise, so much
on the horizon. It had been almost a month, a month of bliss, of
being together, of talking and laughing, of spending time getting
to know the other. They had seen each other just about every day,
which Ricardo knew had irked her father to some degree. He tried to
keep things under control, tried to make himself less of a burden,
tried not to stay too late at her house. It had been difficult at
times, because there was nothing he wanted to do more than to be
with her. He loved the way she laughed, the way she tilted back her
head and shook her hair from her face. Her neck would smooth,
tighten, such an exquisite feature, though it as so small. Well,
everything about Marianna had been small, compact. She was the
tiniest sixteen-year-old he had ever met.

It wasn’t like she was not
“girlie”. She had all the necessary curves – perky breasts, a
narrow waist giving way to flaring hips and a rounded butt. She was
merely miniature, a teensy young woman, perfectly proportioned. He
liked that about her. She made him feel large, which was something
he seldom felt, being of average height and weight. Marianna had
made him feel big, and not just because of her size. Her wondrous
eyes had looked upon him with boundless approval. He could see how
much she liked him. He’d known it from the first time he had talked
her, on the bleachers, during practice.

Maybe he should have told
her that when he’d messaged her on Facebook. Maybe he should have
been more forthcoming once her and her family got settled in Los
Angeles. Maybe… but then, what was the use? She was gone now. She
was in a gigantic city of light and glamour. What the hell was she
ever going to see in him once she got to know one of those
“tinsel-town”, whack-jobs living down the street? Their designer
clothes, their perfectly coifed hair and their manicured fucking
nails would have bedazzled her by now, right? How could he stand a
chance against that when he was stuck way out in the middle of
butt-hump-Egypt? She would lose interest by Christmas, if she
hadn’t already lost it by now.

Maybe it’s better to just
cut my losses now. Marianna White-Horse is lost to me.

He peered about once more,
his thoughts distracting him. Already, he could see the course of
the riverbed was altering. It splintered into four or five smaller
branches. Each of them indicative of the rapids that would have
been raging around him if there had been water in the channel. It
would continue like this for forty yards or so until two distinct
routes would emerge. One would continue north. The other would
meander to the east for about a football field until it too would
bend back northward. It would meet the other artery of the river
some one hundred and fifty yards beyond that point.

He chose a middle path,
knowing these dried-up avenues would take him toward the eastern
fork. He preferred to run that course, because it was flatter, less
rocky and easier to traverse. He glanced down at his watch, the
odometer application telling him he had been running for a mile and
a half now.
Another five to
go
, he thought, calculating his intended
route in his head. It was one he had done so many times; each leg
of it measured precisely in his mind. He would continue running up
the wash for another mile and a quarter. When he reached regional
highway 77, he would make a right. It was a two-laned affair that
would lead him back toward the Hopi Travel Plaza and I-40. He would
then run along the hard-packed dirt of the frontage road until he
got to Navajo Blvd. He would continue on until he made a left on
Wigwam. Once there, he was only a few blocks from his house. His
typical Saturday run would finish with a quick cool-down and some
breakfast take-out at Joe & Aggie’s Café. He would walk home
from there, eating his meal, as he’d done every Saturday since
starting High School two years ago.

He was thinking of the
egg, cheese and bacon breakfast burrito Joe Jr. would make for him
when he saw her. She came into view the moment the riverbed turned
back in a northerly fashion. She had been leaning casually against
the embankment, one booted foot resting against the piled earth.
The other was on the ground, arched, poised as if she were
anticipating some sort of confrontation.

She was tall. Her body was
athletic, much like his. She had incredibly long hair, reaching to
her waist. It was jet-black and as straight as an arrow. She wore
it parted in the middle, equally divided about black eyes and a
broad face with a wide nose and pursed, bright pink lips. They were
most illuminant he had ever seen, yet what covered her teeth was
not the most striking feature about her. It was the color of her
skin. It was a sort rarely seen in this remote part of the state.
He felt his eyes widened before he could help himself. It was the
color of night, flawless obsidian as if she’d been sculpted, and
then painted to perfection.

She…
, he mused. His eyes danced over the one-piece leotard she
wore, clinging to her body like a second skin. He could not help
but stir at the sight of the tight nylon caressing her ample
breasts and budding nipples. The way it folded around the crests
and valleys of her vagina like a fervent lover.
She’s naked underneath.
Over the
form-fitting garment, she wore a long overcoat made of kidskin. It
looked like the ones the local cow-wranglers would have worn on a
cold winter morning. Only this one was black - a rare color for a
coat of that make. Upon her feet was a pair of boots, black as
well, soles made of some sort of suede.

He slowed to a stop,
breathing deep, but not hard. He’d only run a mile and a half.
There was plenty in the tank.

She came from the
embankment in one fluid movement like a ballerina. There was
nothing jerky or awkward about her. She was as pliant as
liquid.

“
I’ve been waiting for
you,” she said. Her voice was deep, resonant and rich with an
unsaid promise upon every syllable.

He felt his chest tighten
for a second, his loins gird. Her affect was incredible. Then, he
remembered what she had said. “Waiting for me, why?” He glanced
about, indicating they were in the middle of nowhere. Why would she
wait for him way the hell out here?

“
I have my reasons,” she
replied as if to answer his unvoiced query as well. She walked a
few steps toward him, her hips rocking from side to
side.

Inviting
, he thought for no
particular reason. “But -,” he began.

“
No ‘but’s’, Ricardo
Charone. It merely is what it is.”

His brow furled. “How do
you know my name?”

She smirked, leaning upon
a single leg, pointing the toe of the other into the soft ground.
She did not teeter in the least. Her balance was perfect. “I know a
lot about you, young man. More than you could ever imagine.” She
breathed a heavy laugh that came from her chest. Her breasts heaved
toward him for a moment. It was only a fraction of a second, but it
was enough.

He was staring.

Her knowing smile
broadened. “You run this route every Saturday. Do you
not?”

He nodded, eyes playing
about her figure. He could not help himself. He knew it was rude to
scrutinize her femininity with such intensity, but he could not
help it. She was enthralling, though he would not have been able to
tell anyone why he would think of her in that manner. The thought
was streaking across his consciousness before he could stop
it.

“
And after, you have a
quick breakfast, go home and take a shower, but not before you lift
weights for fifteen minutes. Am I still correct?” She was tapping
the tip of her boot into the dirt, the muscles in her legs rippling
beneath the sheer material of the garment she wore.

Again, only a nod as his
orbs went on betraying him. How could she make him feel like a
twelve-year-old looking at Grandpa’s old Playboys in the attic? He
did not moon over girls like this, regardless of how fine they
looked. It was not his way. He did not approach females in that
fashion. It was degrading, uncouth...
freakin’
rude!

“
There’s more to you now
than merely your routine, yes?”

“
I’m not sure what you
mean?” he managed to glance up into her coal-filled eyes, noticing
her irises were huge. He was glad to have something else to look at
other than the warm flesh underneath the skin-tight
leotard.

She tapped the pointed toe
of her book into the dirt a few more times, her head tilting to
regard him from an angle. “There’s been a lot on your mind lately,
Ricardo Charon. Things you haven’t had the will to explain to
anyone else.”

“
If
that’s the truth, then how would you know about it?” he demanded,
petulant, half-turning from her.
Why is
she making me act so immature?
He had to
peer away.

She exhaled through a
chuckle. “I know, Ricardo Charon. I know.”

He heard her moving and
looked back toward her. He was surprised to find her no more than a
foot away from him, bent at the waist. Her hand was cupped over one
side of her mouth as she came nearer his left ear. “Marianna
White-Horse,” she whispered from her throat.

Though he turned toward
her, stunned, the sound of her voice was still capable of making
his gut twist in his abdomen. “How do you know that name!?!” he
said, after a shaking himself free of thoughts he knew were not
his. His voiced sounded funny, even in his ears.

“
Does it
matter?”

He was about to answer,
but she stopped him with a raised eyebrow.

“
Does it?”

“
Well… yeah, it does,” he
sputtered.

She straightened, tucking
her long hair behind her ears, her face stern. She was staring
directly into his eyes.

His brow furled as the
details of her began to register. First, she was black and yet her
hair was so straight, it could have been drawn with a ruler. It did
not look like she used extensions. It did not look like a wig
either. He could see the individual follicles sprouting right out
of her head. It was her hair, grown extremely long. How long would
it take someone of her genetic origin to grow hair to that length?
Though her skin was the color of night, her features appeared
Caucasian. There was even an Asian-like tightness about the upper
part of her face. It was broad, typical of an African-American,
yet, it was not the same. He could not explain it.

Rather, if he could, he
probably would have said she looked like a mix
of all the races!

“
I think what she is doing
matters more. Don’t you?” She said it as though she was purring,
coming about to stand before the teenager, no more than ten inches
away.

Ricardo noticed she was
taller than him, and it was not because there were heels on her
boots. Her shoes were flat and yet he had to gaze up at her
slightly to look her in the face. “W-what is she doing?” he asked,
terrified of the answer. What if she was having sex with some
Hollywood-wanna-be? Oh god, could he bear to hear that? His little
Marianna underneath the bulging chest of some… some… some
Hipster!

The tall, lithe woman
before him bounced with mirth. “It’s nothing like that, Ricardo
Charon. Of that, I can assure you.” She reached out to stroke his
face. “You’re little dumpling’s virginity is quite
intact.”

His vision narrowed of
its’ own accord. “Who are you?” Mistrust was bleeding from every
pore now. How could she know so much about him? How could she know
what Marianna was doing? She was in Los Angeles. There was no way
-.

Her laughter stopped as if
strangled. Her hand dropped to her side. Her eyes were direct once
more. “I am Rasputna.”

Her name meant nothing to
him. “Why are you here?”

Her head tilted cutely to
one side again. “I thought I’d made myself clear the first time.”
She stepped even further into his personal space. “I came here for
you.”

“
Me? Why me?” he queried,
his voice caught in his throat, inadvertently leaning away from
her.

She grabbed him so fast;
he hadn’t had the time to move. One moment, he wasn’t in her arms,
the next he was, held firm about the waist, her pelvis digging
suggestively into his. She wrapped a leg around him, bringing them
even closer together. She was so strong, Ricardo could barely move,
let alone breathe.