Read Online Warped (Maurissa Guibord) by Maurissa Guibord - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maurissa Guibord
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to say something else but then seemed to change his mind. "I won't be too late."
Now Tessa heaved herself up from the bed and turned on the desk lamp. Her father was happy; it was a good thing. She should just focus on her own life. Or lack thereof.
She remembered what Hunter had said about the volleyball accident, about their having some kind of fate or destiny together. Tessa scowled. No. Hunter Scoville was not her destiny.
Anyway, she didn't believe in fate. If everything in this life were preordained, destined to be, well, that would mean that someone, somewhere, had decided that Hey, on December 12, Wendy Brody will be in a head-on car collision on I-95 South. Make sure it's when she's coming back from a shopping trip. For Christmas .
Tessa recognized the same painful twist of sadness she always felt when she thought of that day four years ago. She pushed it away.
As far as she was concerned, life was one big series of accidents. Some were good, like when you meet your best friend during your most embarrassing moment on the playground in second grade. Some were bad, like when you kill somebody's mom, somebody's wife, by falling asleep behind the wheel of a tractor trailer.
There was no such thing as fate, or destiny. Only what you could make happen. What you could swerve to avoid. What you could fix.
Tessa looked over at the tapestry. In the shadowy light the fierce eyes of the unicorn stared at her. What you can make happen . Tessa stepped closer. She closed her eyes, reached out and touched it.
She was in a shady, wooded place. Here and there, spears of sunlight shot through the leaves to make pools of glowing, dappled color on the ground. She sat, resting on a swath of green moss. She let her eyes roam up over the latticework of branches high overhead. It was beautiful here. Peaceful.
Where was she? She couldn't remember. She knew only what she had been told: she must stay here and be very quiet, very still.
Her hands worked nervously, smoothing the thick folds of fabric in her lap. She looked down. The beautiful gown was not hers. The blue velvet felt heavy and constricting and the lacings of the bodice stole her breath. Or perhaps it was her uneasiness that made her chest so tight. Her breath sounded clamorous in the silence around her. Be quiet , she told herself. Be still .
There was a monster in the woods, a beast that must be caught.
They said it killed William de Chaucy. He had been killed on the very day he had followed her into these woods. Proud, handsome, bookish William de Chaucy was dead. She had hardly known him. They had never even spoken. And yet why, when she thought of him, did she grieve? Knowing he was gone from this world ... it made something inside her feel empty and locked away. It was as if something had been stolen from her.
An old weaver woman had come to the village, telling everyone how she had seen the beast slaughter the young nobleman. Now the earl was set on hunting it, set on vengeance for his son. There had to be a young maid for the hunt, a virgin. She had been chosen for the honor. The village was small and the choices few, she thought wryly. And her aunt had not objected to accepting the heavy purse of coins the earl had thrust forward. It was a handsome payment.
So the girl had put on the fine gown she was given; it had belonged to the earl's wife, who had died. She unbraided her hair and brushed it till it shone in cascading ripples down her back. Dressed in finery as she was, and polished so, it was hard not to feel like bait. Or sacrifice.
You must wait here in the clearing. The unicorn will come to you .
The unicorn. That was the monster. A terrible beast with searing eyes and a single horn that could slash a man to ribbons.
But why should it come to her? Would it try to kill her too? No, they'd told her she was in no danger. She would be surrounded by armed men. They were hiding, even now, in the shadows.
The silence broke. She straightened, suddenly alert.
Now Tessa heaved herself up from the bed and turned on the desk lamp. Her father was happy; it was a good thing. She should just focus on her own life. Or lack thereof.
She remembered what Hunter had said about the volleyball accident, about their having some kind of fate or destiny together. Tessa scowled. No. Hunter Scoville was not her destiny.
Anyway, she didn't believe in fate. If everything in this life were preordained, destined to be, well, that would mean that someone, somewhere, had decided that Hey, on December 12, Wendy Brody will be in a head-on car collision on I-95 South. Make sure it's when she's coming back from a shopping trip. For Christmas .
Tessa recognized the same painful twist of sadness she always felt when she thought of that day four years ago. She pushed it away.
As far as she was concerned, life was one big series of accidents. Some were good, like when you meet your best friend during your most embarrassing moment on the playground in second grade. Some were bad, like when you kill somebody's mom, somebody's wife, by falling asleep behind the wheel of a tractor trailer.
There was no such thing as fate, or destiny. Only what you could make happen. What you could swerve to avoid. What you could fix.
Tessa looked over at the tapestry. In the shadowy light the fierce eyes of the unicorn stared at her. What you can make happen . Tessa stepped closer. She closed her eyes, reached out and touched it.
She was in a shady, wooded place. Here and there, spears of sunlight shot through the leaves to make pools of glowing, dappled color on the ground. She sat, resting on a swath of green moss. She let her eyes roam up over the latticework of branches high overhead. It was beautiful here. Peaceful.
Where was she? She couldn't remember. She knew only what she had been told: she must stay here and be very quiet, very still.
Her hands worked nervously, smoothing the thick folds of fabric in her lap. She looked down. The beautiful gown was not hers. The blue velvet felt heavy and constricting and the lacings of the bodice stole her breath. Or perhaps it was her uneasiness that made her chest so tight. Her breath sounded clamorous in the silence around her. Be quiet , she told herself. Be still .
There was a monster in the woods, a beast that must be caught.
They said it killed William de Chaucy. He had been killed on the very day he had followed her into these woods. Proud, handsome, bookish William de Chaucy was dead. She had hardly known him. They had never even spoken. And yet why, when she thought of him, did she grieve? Knowing he was gone from this world ... it made something inside her feel empty and locked away. It was as if something had been stolen from her.
An old weaver woman had come to the village, telling everyone how she had seen the beast slaughter the young nobleman. Now the earl was set on hunting it, set on vengeance for his son. There had to be a young maid for the hunt, a virgin. She had been chosen for the honor. The village was small and the choices few, she thought wryly. And her aunt had not objected to accepting the heavy purse of coins the earl had thrust forward. It was a handsome payment.
So the girl had put on the fine gown she was given; it had belonged to the earl's wife, who had died. She unbraided her hair and brushed it till it shone in cascading ripples down her back. Dressed in finery as she was, and polished so, it was hard not to feel like bait. Or sacrifice.
You must wait here in the clearing. The unicorn will come to you .
The unicorn. That was the monster. A terrible beast with searing eyes and a single horn that could slash a man to ribbons.
But why should it come to her? Would it try to kill her too? No, they'd told her she was in no danger. She would be surrounded by armed men. They were hiding, even now, in the shadows.
The silence broke. She straightened, suddenly alert.
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