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Excerpt: To Love the Moon

Arin and September

Excerpt: To Love the Moon
by Faith Luna
All rights reserved, copyright 2014

A group of men on horses lined the the top of the hill. One of them held up a ball of fire in his hand and was dressed in robes with authentic looking red ink tribal tattoos across his face. The horses didn’t look like the nice friendly ones the cops rode on either. These were all black, shiny and sleek, blacker than the sky, and each of them moved with personality and intelligence, not even the slightest bit of boredom about them.  The riders were the same, predator skin-to-bone with the kind of eager smiles that demon cats might wear.

The one in the center dismounted, moving easily, even though the armor he wore caught the light like metal and the horse’s shoulder was higher than his head. He pulled his helmet off, revealing hair redder and shinier than any hair she’d ever seen on a living being. Red markings swirled over his face as well, moving as he glared at her.  For the first moment in a very long time she wondered if she really was sane. Maybe being alone had really eaten away all the reason she’d ever found. Reason or not, he was so fucking pretty.

He spoke, holding his hand out to her, speaking in that same rough language, though in his mouth it wasn’t rough so much as much more like Chaucer, melodic and charming.

Having a nervous breakdown was the obvious answer to this situation. She’d been walking home and seen a baby in the water and gone in after it and then... well... somehow she was just confabulating like crazy.  “I don’t suppose you have a cell phone do you? My phone got wet when I went into the water and I seem to be having a bit of a psychotic break. Not that this is like being the worst outcome and you look fantastic, but uh, do you have a phone I could make a call with?”

He said something that sounded like he was talking to a spooked horse as he made his way down the slippery hill of mud. There wasn’t anyone like him at the call center. Boots to his knees, leather pants on his thighs that were worn to a soft competence, and he wore a belt around his hips, heavy with a blackened sword in its sheath. By the time her eyes had gone up his whole body, over powerful grace under battle scarred leather, he was well into her personal space. Mouth dry again, she looked up at him, gray eyes wide, and if he were an hallucination, she had to admit that her hallucinations had gotten much, much better.

A fine misty flame swirled in his breath, rolled over soft lips, like one’s breath might fog in the chill, but this smelled of cinnamon and held her attention so intensely that she didn’t even see his hand reach behind her head, though she felt those fingers slide into wet brown hair. Her own breath was heavy, misted, though it burned away as his mouth pressed to hers. He held her gently, but without question and his kiss breathed into her like fiery spirits, scotch, but cinnamon, and spread warmth through her, lifting her from the clinging mud, setting the strange night on fire and she didn’t care if he were an hallucination, as long as he never stopped kissing her.


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