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Every night since I crouched with Mama beneath that upturned hull, I have dreamt of Alder Mere, of Mama's wet hands and sleeves, of my own blood dripping into the water, of something shifting and moving in the murky depths. Something growing, something wrapped in mud and shadow. Something hungry. Something that has learned to lurk and wait. The same as me.
The Whisper of That Blood by Maria Haskins. Only Kings and Doves by M.S. Dean. BCS 313: The Whisper of That Blood by Maria Haskins.
One day, I paused in the middle of my scrubbing to stare into the sky. The sun had gone behind the Turrets, throwing a long thin shadow that seemed to stretch forever. Thick clouds wreathed the tip of the spire, and every now and then I caught a flash of lightning, and then the low rumble of distant thunder. “What’s up there?” I asked my mother.
Lungfish clambers across the beams, working his fingers like centipede legs. Descent is more of a problem of logic than it is physical, finding the right angle to seek out the grip points in the stone. This hidden room is his alone, the door locked and unopened for years—his space, away from Priest and bibles and hauntings. On first discovery, the walls had been bare except for the curious scrawling "here I dwell with Onan" above one of the cracks, but Lungfish has improved the space—birds of North Africa fly in coloured chalk around each slant of light black storks trailing thei...
Rugg was ready to turn back and try to make Ganvill when a bright dot of light appeared through the churning murk of the storm: a campfire. Never trust a light too bright in a dark hole, the speaking goes, but then he smelled roasting meat. And then he heard the flute. A sweet, sad little song, a flutter of music. Bone flutes had a tone distinct from those carved of wood or reed; lonelier, somehow. A sweet breath of music sighing out to the wild.