Daughters of Sacrifice

Daughters of Sacrifice by Lizbeth Dusseau A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication Copyright © 2005, All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without prior written permission from the publisher. For information contact: Pink Flamingo Publications www.pinkflamingo.com P.O. Box 632 Richland, MI 49083 USA Cover Art 2007 © Michael Berkowitz www.michaelberkowitz.com Email Comments: comments@pinkflamingo.com Part One Prologue Girls In TheWoods “C’mere,” she whispers as if she’s telling secrets. Her twelve-year-old body shimmies with mischievous wonder, as if something wild calls to her from the far side of the woods. She can’t ignore the urge to follow the voice she hears in her heart. She grabs her friend’s cool hand and drags her in the direction of the glow, which is more like a specter arising from the dead black night. The spiny undergrowth scratches their faces as they drive headlong into a warm wind. Despite the tiny tortures, they can’t stop. A thick, succulent breeze brings the scent of smoke and a strange perfume of warning, enticing them on, while with equal fervor cautioning them to flee. The voice inside the young girl’s body is distinctly female and sensuous, as if beckoning with a crooked finger, obliging her to follow, yet saying: “Go, children, this is not yet your hour…” The pair—dressed smartly in navy scouting shorts and white trimmed blouses—stumble forward with hands still locked as if their lives depend on it. The one girl says to her persistent friend, as she brushes back a tangle of thick red hair, “I think we should go back; we’ll lose our way.” The girl with the soft, brown curls and wide dark eyes, glances at her, annoyed, her brows narrowing, “Hush, Katie,” she whispers ominously. By then, they have arrived on the scene that drew them—or better said, the scene that lured the one girl and required the other to follow. Ensnared now, with their feet caught in the biting trap of curiosity, they stand not twenty feet away under the cover of trees and darkness, flashlights extinguished, and peer dazedly, mouths agape, at the spectacular vision before them. A naked woman, whose bound wrists are tethered high to the branch of a tree, whimpers in despair as she vainly fights to free herself. Her long hair flows behind her in a dark wave, while her red-streaked ass dances erotically on the summer air. She’s petrified, the girls conclude, although they can’t see her face. But the way the shapely beauty struggles signals her distress. And yet, her struggle is strangely seductive, as if, somehow, it pleases her in a way twelve-year-olds could never understand. The bonfire that once blazed high, making the bound woman sweat, dies slowly into smoldering ash. The forest darkens; the shadows grow long. And the woman thrashes back and forth as her terror expands. “I have to see her face,” the little spy in the woods whispers. “No!” the redhead answers, scared, holding her friend back with purpose equal to the force that brought them here. From somewhere distant, the noise of barking dogs startles their ears, while a certain thundering sound accompanies the discord of agitated animals. Emerging from the woods on the other side of the glowing embers, three fierce black dogs move in rapidly, attacking the feet of the hanging woman, lapping her salty skin, tasting of verboten treasures. The woman moans, though her cry sounds like some deep pleasure ravishing her, despite her tired, aching limbs. The rustling in the brush grows louder. A horse whinnies. “Tarin!” the scared redhead tugs at her companion. Even now, as the brown-haired girl glimpses the horse and rider appearing from the woods, and the threat of exposure is real, she wants to stay. She needs to watch. But the fear is hot in her, too, and the fear wins out. “That didn’t happen… that didn’t happen… that didn’t happen.” Far from the appalling scene, the redhead hyperventilates. Eyes clamped shut, she rattles on like a maniac. “Katie! Katie!” Tarin shakes her hard. The redhead opens her eyes and stares at her friend, crazed. “It didn’t happen!” she insists. “Of course it did, you ninny.” “NO! No, nothing happened. None of it! You hear me, Tarin! We’re dreaming! That’s all, we’re dreaming!” “But…” “No, Tarin, we’re dreaming,” the girl responds in a cold voice. She appears to calm, her breathing returning to normal and her eyes less fixed. A firm resolve replaces her panic. “Yes, of course, we were dreaming,” Tarin nods agreeing, but believing otherwise. And this is where the vision always ends.