His Destined Queen

Prologue:

      Life, death, night, and day. They are all decided by me and me alone. The question has always been, "Why would I have chosen such an undesirable fate for the living?"  

My answer, "I did it for him. I did it because he is mine, and I am eternally his."

Chapter One 

The Call

 Heart-wrenching screams expel from my burning lungs. The flannel sheet is soaking with sweat, and my heart is pounding against my chest. One more breath could make the difference between dying in peace or living another day to suffer through the same nightmare that I have dealt with for the last seven days straight.

Each time the dream is the same. No details are different. The cobblestone streets are oozing with tainted blood from murderers, thieves, and any other vile creatures. Some blood reeks from the soulless beast of this Earth, and some are from other demonic worlds.

There are tall wrought-iron buildings guarded with rusted bars, with half the windows shattered into pieces. Two of the streetlights are flickering on and off, and the road sign on the corner says Roanoke Island 22 Miles. In the middle of the numbers, are the words RUN displayed in black spray paint.

Standing alone in the middle of the abandoned street is a woman with wavy chestnut brown hair, doleful lavender eyes, pale porcelain skin, and rosy red flushed cheeks.

 Each time she turns and stares at me with knowing eyes. I swallow hard, trying my best to look away, but I cannot. The way her white stained wedding dress trails along the streets while she grasps the chalice cup with her pale, petite hands and chewed fingernails. 

The wind whips around us, spreading the train all the way down the abandoned road. Like any nightmare or dream, I know better, but I follow her step by step. 

The road turns into a dark alleyway with the only light showing on an odd statue of a man dressed in a white tailcoat, black shirt cuffs, and matching trousers, holding a sword and staring into the distance. I keep staring at it, but I see her trail disappearing from the corner of my eye. I follow her and leave him behind.

Just in time, I catch up to the young woman as my bare feet tread across the blood puddles on the road. Not once has she looked back. Ever so cautiously, I tiptoe down the dark alleyway. Chills run down my spine, but I don't turn back because if I did, I would run like fucking hell.

From the shadows, a tall man with short spiked black hair dressed in nothing more than a pair of black denim jeans hanging below his waistline and matching leather boots steps out with his back turned towards me. I cannot help but stare at the way the full moon dances against his grey skin. He tilts his nose up to the sky and sniffs the air. When he does, I catch sight of a tattoo trailing from the curve of his shoulder straight down his back. The tattoo seems realistic somehow, how the never-ending vines trail from a black rose and on the tips of the thorns, tiny crimson-red drops of blood trail right above his waistline.

 The hairs on my arms raise in alarm, sensing his power and pride. He does not turn around. He remains facing towards the full moon until I find the balls to approach him and gently place the tips of my fingers across his broad shoulder and tap only once. The moment I touch him, his head whips around, and he stares at me with velvet red eyes in delight at my trembling body. 

 He licks the warm dripping liquid from the tips of his pearly white fangs. I watch in horror, but cannot seem to look away. He steps closer. There is a part of me that wishes I could move, but I cannot. My feet seem molded to the bloody streets. A warm liquid travels down the nape of my neck. Wondering what it is, I check it with the pads of my fingers. 

Each time is like the first. I realize the blood is no other than mine.  

*******

Screaming for help at the top of my lungs, I wake up from the horrid dream with the television blasting covered in sweat. I must have fallen asleep watching it again. The image fades in and out, leaving nothing more than static and white horizontal lines. The picture flutters one last time before it disappears. I stare in disbelief. This time the screen goes black. It is dead. A lifeless electronic that will be nothing more than a living room decoration from here on out.

 I step onto the hardwood floor,, allowing my feed's pads to adjust the coolness while walking across the room. Giving the top of the television one heavy tap, I hope to see some proof of a renewed life expectancy. Fucking nothing.

 I hear the phone buzzing. If I remember correctly, I laid it on my cedar end table. Who in the hell would call me, anyway? Everyone who's anyone is already at Blaire's home enjoying her party.

 I walk to the table and find it below a stand of papers. “Figures, I should have known it was my manager, Mr. Laeson. Great. Just fucking great.” I grump towards the screen.

"Hello?" I answer, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

My boss, Mr. Laeson, begins chirping too cheerfully, "Hey Katrina, I need someone to cover Heather's shift. She had an emergency at home."

I look down at my sweaty wet clothes, knowing all too well there have been no emergencies—one big fat lie. Heather always cancels when there is a party. Yeah, right. She probably wants to go hook up with J.C. tonight,.. or was it, Parker? Whatever. She just wants to go to the damn party.

 "I’m sorry, Mr. Laeson,” I attempt not to lose my temper.

“I'm actually busy right now.” 

Walking back to my bed, I sit back down to relax my feet. “Besides, you know as well as I do, it is my first time off in nine days.”

I rub my arches and pop my neck. The only sounds I hear are the clanking of dishes and a few ranting customers. 

"I understand that you have, Katrina, but you know as well as I do as soon as the party is over, there will be loads of hungry college kids up in here, and I will need all the help I can get." Mr. Laeson argues back.

The predicament is, I am twenty-one years old, and the last thing on my to-do-list is to watch everyone laughing and enjoying themselves while I serve the burgers and fries at two a.m. in the morning. The mere thought of it makes my blood boil. 

“I said that I am tired, Mr. Laeson.” I grump, flopping back on the bed. 

 He mutters a few words under his breath. I know I hear a few that I should be enough to end our conversation, but knowing we feel the same about each other is actually kind of reassuring.

 "Listen to me. Katrina," he says with exasperation, "you and I both know you are at home watching that old t. v. of yours. Come into work in the next hour, and I'll give you a dollar raise for all your hard work in the kitchen and on the floor lately."

 I ask in shock, "What did you just say, Mr. Laeson?"

He warns, "One hour, Katrina. Not a minute more."

He doesn’t wait for me to answer. The phone is silent. As I stare at my screen in bewilderment, I'm aware he has hung up.

 He didn't let me answer. What would I have said?

      I arrive to work with ten minutes to spare. Mr. Laeson is leaning against a stainless-steel counter with his brown hair slicked back in a man-bun. His glasses are hanging on the tip of his pointed nose. His white shirt is tucked perfectly in, and his black polyester pants barely fit his protruding stomach. He nods at me and hands me my notepad. Mr. Laeson plasters a sarcastic smile upon his face and says, "I knew you would come." 

I roll my eyes toward him. I probably would have come, even without the raise. I have no life. It is annoying, and at this rate, I will probably not meet Mr. Right until I am in my late eighties, so I answer back, "Yeah, me too, Mr. Laeson."

He nods at a table at the far end of the restaurant. "Table twenty-one is all yours." 

Sitting in the far corner appears to be a tall man with jet-black hair, broad shoulders, and a navy-blue dress shirt with matching pin-striped business pants. I can tell he definitely doesn't belong in this small town restaurant just from staring at him in the distance. Curiously, I approach him while pulling my blue ink pen out of my grease-stained apron and placing it on my notepad. The moment I raise my head to take his order, my heart stops beating. 

“My God. He is beautiful.”