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This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design: Emma Hillman

A Strange Freedom: Blood and Fireworks © May 2011 Kiki Howell

eXcessica publishing

A Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved

A Strange Freedom:

Blood and Fireworks

By Kiki Howell

Chapter One

Warm air blanketed her skin as dusk fell. Gravestones littered the ground at her feet, most no longer stood straight and were worn beyond repair. Two trees who had stood the test of time gathered bits of the receding sunlight on their new leaves. What was left of a wooden fence clung to one of the tree trunks looking frail, broken, but not yet ready to give up the fight just the same.

Her grandfather’s grave stood at her feet as a rock-solid reminder of what some families must give up for freedom. Meranda touched the stone which simply read, Arthur Tulbure, Loving Husband, 1924-1945. It seemed colder than it should be, but she let the chill enhance her perceptions. The cemetery was always more restless on a day like today, or maybe she was just more open to it being so.

As a witch, she had been gifted with certain abilities, she was an empath to the dead. Feeling the broad range of emotions of others could be a very taxing gift. Yet, when you perceive the consciousness of the spirits which haunt the earth, well that can leave you wiped out. If she let it, it could leave her feeling like nothing but a ghost herself, angry, sad, alone…dead.

This was not how she chose to live her life though. So, most often she protected herself against them, tuned them out. However, today, it being Memorial Day and all, she opened herself to them. She felt it was the least they deserved.

Once she opened herself to the mental states of the cemetery’s ghostly inhabitants, tears stung behind her eyes. Today it felt right to blink and let them fall openly. Her grandmother’s spirit was beside her crying. The elderly shadow of a woman was hunched, frail. Her grief was as tangible as the mist rolling along the hillside toward them. Getting closer, the chill pricked at her flesh. Insufferable pain weighted her heart, made her gasp for air.

“Grandma, please move on. Let go. I will be fine here without you. Grandpa let go of this realm a long time ago. He is waiting for you. I am sure of it,” she pleaded kneeling down beside her, wanting to touch her, to feel her embrace as well…but she faded away. Even when she was alive, the woman would never let Meranda witness her tears.

She let her head fall to the stone between where her hands clenched it. Rocking her forehead back and forth as she tried to push out her own energy from her body to block the waves of loss coming at her from all directions. It sapped her energy, made her vulnerable, leaving her standing on wobbly legs.

A rush of warmth, as thick as a blanket, washed over her back like a physical hug. Empathy. For her. But, where had it come from?

Looking up, the fog from the river far below was increasing at a steady rate. No longer could she see the house lights in the valley or even more than three rows of headstones away from her body. It appeared as if she had ended up on an island tonight even though she was far from alone. Looking around, she knew the otherworldly being offering her comfort was behind her, but no matter how she squinted, she could not make out any apparition.

“Thank you, whoever you are,” she said to the mix of colors below her, the grayish mist over the brown tree edged in the fiery orange of last light of the day. Turning back, she began the ritual of remembrance her grandmother used to do with her. Like it was an innate knowledge, she cast a circle, lit her candles, called the directions and drew down the moon.

“Birth and death, over and over, none shall ever die alone,” she whispered to the stone.

He didn’t. The words rang out in her mind, but she knew they were not her thoughts. Again the presence from behind her was stronger than the others. It was a male spirit, she knew that, more restless than she usually encountered. Her pulse kept quickening, and she was having trouble focusing on the rite. While she was used to being often strangled by the negative, more baser emotions of the dead who walked the earth, actual words she had never heard.

Something was different. While frigid air seemed to caress her neck under her long fall of hair, a tingle of warmth also flooded her middle. This spirit had a different essence, one familiar and comforting to her even though she had not known the person in life. She was sure of that fact. This particular spirit though was one so strong, that even when her shields were up, even when she was fighting to be left alone, it had permeated her defenses before.

Never had she felt attacked by it though, so never had she battled it further either. It had been a small, steady presence with her most of her life, especially at night. By evening, her energy wore thin making it harder to shield herself. Yet, tonight the entity was different, more forward, stronger. With a deep breath, she envisioned a white shield of light around her and turned.

A face, pale with deep set eyes dark as night formed from out of the fog. Having expected a ghost, this image was much too concrete. She stepped back with a faint shriek, catching her foot at an awkward angle on a candle. Her movement seemed suspended by the blur of images before her. As the man moved toward her, she fell.

****

He caught her before her body hit the ground, but not in time to stop her head from hitting the gravestone. He let his legs buckle beneath him as he brought her warm, lifeless form to his chest. That was when the smell of her blood filled his nose, and his body reacted to it like an alcoholic to a broken bottle of wine. Pulling up, he saw his fingers on the side of her head coated with the red liquid. It ran thin from the rush of adrenaline she must have had when she saw him.

While the metallic smell of it made his mouth begin to water, it was the unique sweet scent like apples warm and beginning to rot on the ground which drew his fangs out and made his whole body tremble. She was pure of heart, compassionate and giving. The scent of her blood revealed all of these things about her, confirming what he already knew from years of observing her life. He hissed and growled, curling his fingers up against the cut. Pressure to make it stop.