Read Online Five: A Maor Novel (Maor series) by Caroline Greyling - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Caroline Greyling
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eyes come to rest on me.
‘Some of our ancestral monarchs realized
the effect that inter-breeding was having on our kind, and in turn, on our
planet. They managed to keep the blood lines relatively pure in recent
centuries through the blood promise ritual.’
Nan’s eyes flicker to the opposite end
of the horse-shoe but before I can follow her line of sight, she looks back at
me and explains:
‘The blood promise is a sacred ritual
whereby two children are bound together as a promise by their parents that they
will one day marry and procreate.’
‘Sorry,’ I interrupt, ‘do you mean an arranged marriage ?’
Nan frowns at the obvious abhorrence
in my tone.
‘There’s more to it than that. The
dilution of our genes has weakened our talents and is having disastrous
consequences on our planet. Without us, the earth will die. It is the
responsibility of our monarchs to ensure our survival. This brings us to you,
Shaylee.’
Nan stands, takes both my hands in
hers and tugs me up beside her.
‘For centuries, our kind has been
waiting for you. You are the
fulfillment of the prophecy. You are
the chosen monarch!’
Chapter
9
Overwhelmed
Tastes like: Chocolate
sauce over peppermint crisp tart.
Smells like: Too much
aftershave.
Sounds like: The cacophony
of voices on the stock exchange floor.
Feels like: A cashmere
polo-neck too tight around your neck.
Looks like: A rock-star
amid paparazzi.
The room has begun to tilt. I need to sit down, breathe
and give my body and mind a moment to catch up with what’s happening – with everything
that has happened the past few days
since my birthday. I take a step back and feel my chair against the back of my
knees but before I can sink down onto it, I hear another chair scrape against
the floor on the opposite side of the horse-shoe and look up.
My eyes meet his and for a moment, time seems to stand still and I forget to breathe. There is
something so familiar about the golden-haired young man, who stares at me as he
glides panther-like across the floor. He stops on the other side of the table
that separates us and leans forward slightly, his eyes locked on mine.
‘Can I see it?’ he whispers. His voice is like a touch,
silky and smooth, cultured with a hint of Irish accent. He doesn’t specify what it is, but I know. Of its own accord,
my hand moves to lift my crochet shirt and cami, just high enough to expose the
grey butterfly. In the distance, I hear a gasp and soft murmurs, but all I see
is the beautiful man before me.
‘Beautiful’ is perhaps an understatement. He is a
billboard for the Levi jeans that
cling to his narrow hips and the Calvin
Klein t-shirt that hugs his sculpted chest. He has the same small frame
that everyone here possesses, but somehow, on him, it is charming instead of
weak. I lean toward him, so close that I can see every long, black eyelash that
frames his aqua green eyes and every hazel speckle dotting his irises. He
smells strongly of expensive men’s cologne and everything about him makes me
think of old money and university fraternities.
He holds my gaze a moment longer, drops it to my stomach
and stretches his left hand over the desk between us. His fingers hover for an
agonizing second above the butterfly marking, and then his skin touches mine. His
fingertips are like sunshine on my skin, soaking into every pore, sending tiny
ripples through my body, from the point of contact, to my right hand wrist and
back again. My mind is telling me to step back, to put some space between
myself and this stranger but my body strains toward him, attracted by some
unseen force.
Then he drops his hand and I want to cry out at the
emptiness that settles in the pit of my stomach. His eyes darken as he lifts a
reverent gaze to mine.
‘ Mo cheannsa ,’
he whispers.
With effort, I drag my eyes from his and give Nan a
questioning look. She stares between the young man and me, and I am suddenly
aware that everyone is watching
‘Some of our ancestral monarchs realized
the effect that inter-breeding was having on our kind, and in turn, on our
planet. They managed to keep the blood lines relatively pure in recent
centuries through the blood promise ritual.’
Nan’s eyes flicker to the opposite end
of the horse-shoe but before I can follow her line of sight, she looks back at
me and explains:
‘The blood promise is a sacred ritual
whereby two children are bound together as a promise by their parents that they
will one day marry and procreate.’
‘Sorry,’ I interrupt, ‘do you mean an arranged marriage ?’
Nan frowns at the obvious abhorrence
in my tone.
‘There’s more to it than that. The
dilution of our genes has weakened our talents and is having disastrous
consequences on our planet. Without us, the earth will die. It is the
responsibility of our monarchs to ensure our survival. This brings us to you,
Shaylee.’
Nan stands, takes both my hands in
hers and tugs me up beside her.
‘For centuries, our kind has been
waiting for you. You are the
fulfillment of the prophecy. You are
the chosen monarch!’
Chapter
9
Overwhelmed
Tastes like: Chocolate
sauce over peppermint crisp tart.
Smells like: Too much
aftershave.
Sounds like: The cacophony
of voices on the stock exchange floor.
Feels like: A cashmere
polo-neck too tight around your neck.
Looks like: A rock-star
amid paparazzi.
The room has begun to tilt. I need to sit down, breathe
and give my body and mind a moment to catch up with what’s happening – with everything
that has happened the past few days
since my birthday. I take a step back and feel my chair against the back of my
knees but before I can sink down onto it, I hear another chair scrape against
the floor on the opposite side of the horse-shoe and look up.
My eyes meet his and for a moment, time seems to stand still and I forget to breathe. There is
something so familiar about the golden-haired young man, who stares at me as he
glides panther-like across the floor. He stops on the other side of the table
that separates us and leans forward slightly, his eyes locked on mine.
‘Can I see it?’ he whispers. His voice is like a touch,
silky and smooth, cultured with a hint of Irish accent. He doesn’t specify what it is, but I know. Of its own accord,
my hand moves to lift my crochet shirt and cami, just high enough to expose the
grey butterfly. In the distance, I hear a gasp and soft murmurs, but all I see
is the beautiful man before me.
‘Beautiful’ is perhaps an understatement. He is a
billboard for the Levi jeans that
cling to his narrow hips and the Calvin
Klein t-shirt that hugs his sculpted chest. He has the same small frame
that everyone here possesses, but somehow, on him, it is charming instead of
weak. I lean toward him, so close that I can see every long, black eyelash that
frames his aqua green eyes and every hazel speckle dotting his irises. He
smells strongly of expensive men’s cologne and everything about him makes me
think of old money and university fraternities.
He holds my gaze a moment longer, drops it to my stomach
and stretches his left hand over the desk between us. His fingers hover for an
agonizing second above the butterfly marking, and then his skin touches mine. His
fingertips are like sunshine on my skin, soaking into every pore, sending tiny
ripples through my body, from the point of contact, to my right hand wrist and
back again. My mind is telling me to step back, to put some space between
myself and this stranger but my body strains toward him, attracted by some
unseen force.
Then he drops his hand and I want to cry out at the
emptiness that settles in the pit of my stomach. His eyes darken as he lifts a
reverent gaze to mine.
‘ Mo cheannsa ,’
he whispers.
With effort, I drag my eyes from his and give Nan a
questioning look. She stares between the young man and me, and I am suddenly
aware that everyone is watching
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