Sanguine Mountain Read online

  Sanguine

  Mountain

  Camazotz Trilogy Book One

  By Jennifer Foxcroft

  Copyright

  Sanguine Mountain

  Jennifer Foxcroft

  Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Foxcroft

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and events that occur are the product of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, business establishments or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, distributed or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of several wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction and means no infringement on such trademarked material.

  First Edition II. February 2015.

  Published in United States of America

  Written and published by Jennifer Foxcroft

  Cover design by Cate Pepper 2014

  Digital ISBN: 978-0-9909895-1-6

  Available in paperback.

  Print ISBN: 978-0-9909895-0-9

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, this book would never have seen the light of day without the love, support, and unfaltering belief from my incredible husband. Ben, you are my rock. Words cannot truly explain how grateful I am to you for helping turn my dream into a reality. Like a pie…

  To my beta readers: Jen, Lynda, Betsy and Sandii. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. You made handing over my manuscript to be seen by the outside world for the first time so easy. Thank you for your honest opinions, asking questions that made me think, and holding my hand when I needed it. Not to mention spotting the million typos my brain just refused to see.

  To Betsy, the best line editor a girl could wish for. I cannot thank you enough for the support, help and friendship you gave me through this entire process. You have the most amazing eagle eyes that spot the wrong word time and time again. I don’t know how you do it, but thanks to you my manuscript looks like a bought one.

  To Mel, Lynda, Corrie, Stacey, Misty, Jen, and the LAMBB crew. Thank you for being the best cheerleaders a girl could have when I started my writing journey. I will never forget the time you gave up happily for me, or your ceaseless patience in my experimental writing days. I know for a fact that I wouldn’t have even attempted to follow my dream if it wasn’t for your encouragement and friendship.

  To my critique group at The Writers’ Collective: Kathy, Jennifer and Megan. Thank you for helping turn my manuscript into a better story. I appreciate your raw, open honesty more than I can tell you.

  To my family and friends. Thank you for not laughing at me when I first told you I had written a book. That alone will forever mean the world to me. Stepping out of my comfort zone was scary, but knowing you were all there to catch me made it easier. Thank you for your faith, courage, belief, and excitement. I love you all dearly.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Glossary

  About The Author

  1.

  Vanish

  Every time I watch a horror movie, there is that moment when the young, sweet girl is faced with imminent doom and bloodshed. Every time, I find myself screaming at her to run and hide or at least arm herself to the brink, but she never listens.

  Right now, I could be Horror Movie Girl’s twin. I'm not listening to every ounce of logic telling me to stay in the car and lock the doors. Telling me not to get out on the dark and definitely creepy road to nowhere and go walking through the forest away from my car and the safety of being locked inside of it.

  But it’s my best option considering my circumstances.

  My old, faithful Honda has steam hissing and spurting in great wafts from under the hood. I don’t have the faintest clue where I am because my dad's satellite navigation system—which he doesn’t know I’m using because he thinks I'm at Tiffany's house—told me to turn left fifty feet ago when there was nothing but giant oak trees lining the road.

  Rolling down the window, I hear the faintest whisper of music in the distance. For a second, the breeze carries a brief murmur of voices that makes me believe there’s a party nearby. That is, if I wasn't sitting in the middle of a forest where such a thing would be utterly absurd.

  Who in their right mind would hold a celebration out here? Hippies celebrating the end of summer? Or axe murderers luring stupid, lost girls to the slaughter?

  Locking the car seems redundant, but I do it anyway. The night is peaceful, but the absence of the moon makes my skin crawl. The twinkling stars blink down at me through the sliver of open sky the road cuts through the thick forest. They give me a hint of courage until I focus on dozens of winged shapes flying low.

  Bats.

  Dozens of bats are headed in the same direction as me. The animal lover in me is curious about what kind they are, but being alone out here in the forest their numbers are freaking me out.

  Again, if I were watching Horror Movie Girl, I'd say she was a definite goner to follow a colony of bats. Surely it’s just a coincidence that they’re headed toward the music too.

  Two steps off the asphalt and I'm ankle deep in cold, shoe-swallowing mud. Guess the sandals weren't the best idea, but then again, I thought I’d be in the middle of suburbia, laying eyes on my real mother for the very first time. Instead, I'm following the devil’s minions to what I hope will be my savior who can fix my car, reboot the GPS and point me back to civilization.

  Dead bracken crunches under my feet. The darkness swallows my path with every step. If I had breadcrumbs, I’d leave a trail. I should have stayed in my car. Pine needle fingers caress my body as I push through the dense branches. I can’t help but glance over my shoulder to make sure it’s just the trees touching me and not some beast lurking in my wake. My white Capri pants, baby-blue tank and striped summer scarf don't exactly scream forest hues. I feel as obvious as Cinderella's phosphorescent fairy godmother gliding through the air—well, except for the gliding. I'm stumbling, tripping and fumbling my way along and feel as though every nocturnal creature for miles around knows my exact location. Shame I don’t know my exact location! I flick the end of my blonde, high ponytail over my shoulder and pray I can find my car again.

  “Ouch.”

  Something sharp has pierced the side of my foot. Collapsing to the ground, I gingerly find the source of the pain. Dropping my phone into the engine when I opened the hood wasn’t my finest moment. I’m blind without my flashlight app. Prickles—I think. I begin pulling them out one by one. I shouldn’t be here. This is all wrong. Tonight, I told my parents the biggest lie of my entire life. Tears well up just thinking about them—the people that I used to trust. My perfect—generous to a fault, bake queen extraordinaire—mother who lets me paint the most outrageous designs on her fingernails regardless of whether she is working the next day or not. And my father—the man I admire for his wicked rappelling
skills rather than his current affairs and news obsession—who always comes to my rescue. Except for now.

  I think about my three-legged chinchilla, Feathers, and how Dad supported me regardless of the cost. Pet stores and me are like magnets to metal. Last year while perusing the chinchillas for sale, I saw one get it’s leg caught in her exercise wheel. After alerting the store clerk, I was appalled they were going to break its neck when they confirmed the leg was broken. To save its life, I purchased the poor creature, and instead of my parents grounding me for the subsequent astronomical vet bill, they understood my passion for animals and were proud I’d rescued another one. I doubt they’d be proud of me now.

  Wiping my tears, I focus on my surroundings. The music is clearer now. I get up and follow it. The underbrush lessens. A banjo, fiddle and bass beat—along with the undertone of mingling voices—sound close, and there’s a warm reddish glow winking through the trees ahead. Somewhere along the way, I've lost the bats or I simply can't see them amongst the canopy of tree branches hiding the starry sky.

  The twisting tree roots beneath my feet become lush grass. Emerging from a clump of pine trees, I find myself on the edge of a clearing that holds a carnival. The red paper lanterns, hanging from the outer branches of enormous trees, barely light the scene. Carved skeletons are nailed to gnarled tree trunks. Red streamers and paper bat cutouts flutter and sway in the breeze. Ahead, people mingle in groups around sideshow stalls that could have been transported out of the 1920s—miniature fishing poles dangle to catch garish floating fish, darts with red feathered ends are aimed at origami balls containing a prize, large golden hoops are thrown over handmade treasures sitting on antique octagonal boxes. It screams turn of the century and doesn’t in any way remind me of my local county fair.

  In fact, nothing about this carnival nestled in the treelined boulevard is normal. Maybe I’m overreacting because I’m not supposed to be here, but something isn’t right. I close my eyes and sniff the air, hoping the familiar smell of fried carnival treats will calm me. The air is crisp and clean. It chills my nostrils and the forest fills my senses. The kitchens must be downwind. No carnival is complete without food stalls to tempt the revelers.

  The absence of loud neon rides that the Georgia State fair takes great pride in draws my attention, but an occasional chilling scream fills the air nonetheless. I can’t quite describe the feeling inching up my spine as I leave the safety of the trees. The warm family atmosphere isn’t present. I want to leave, but can’t say exactly why. It’s as though a thousand eyes are watching me. I look over my shoulder, but nothing is there except the blanket of darkness I just escaped.

  Crunching twigs and movement to my left leaves my heart trying to beat right out of my rib cage. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m about to be mugged or something worse. Squinting, I spy a couple amongst the trees—young lovers kissing in the darkness. I find romance when all my senses are telling me to run. I need to get a handle on my nerves, but they’re buzzing with adrenalin. I shake my shoulders out and fill my lungs.

  Then I notice what’s different about the carnival goers milling around the attractions. I'm the only one present not clad from head to toe in dark denim, black lace, leather, satin or velvet. The occasional splash of blood-red fabric catches my eye. I think I’ve stumbled across a Goth Kids Central Casting secret meeting. Glancing around, jet-black, straight hair is the norm. Why do all these people look the same? I run my hand down the length of my golden ponytail and hold it to my neck. The feeling I’m glowing in the dark fills me once more as eyes start to track my progress. Even the little kids running around are mini Goths in the making in their medieval dress. Halloween has arrived early. Down near the band, several lit braziers seem totally unnecessary on the first Saturday in August. I head to the adults warming themselves and away from the overly amorous, staring teens. I sense a crowd gathering in my wake from the whispers catching up with me. Where did these people suddenly come from?

  "You lost?" A gruff male voice asks out of the darkness.

  Turning around, I discover a crowd has gathered and they don't look pleased. "Yes. My car broke down—"

  "So you just wandered in here?" Mr. Dark and Grumpy interrupts. It’s hard to make out clear features in the half-light from the lamps, but I don’t miss the creepiest face tattoo I’ve ever seen. Two black, pointy fangs dominate his lower lip and chin. I force my eyes up to his, but they’re drawn back to his ink.

  The group edges closer, and my body stiffens. Horror Movie Girl is shouting at me to run for my life. I bounce on the balls of my feet but looking around the circle I'm surrounded by leather, inked skin and dark, dead eyes.

  "Naughts aren't allowed," someone murmurs behind me.

  "You shouldn't be here."

  "I'm sorry. Listen—" I don't know who to face and feel like I'm being corralled away from the adults I was aiming for. Suddenly, sleeping in my car doesn't seem like the worst idea.

  I make eye contact with a girl who has to be close in age. She's probably a senior too. "Please," I say, extending my hand.

  She pulls out of reach and sneers. Her teeth look menacing, but I tell myself it’s just my eyes adjusting to the dark. There’s a thick feeling in the back of my throat that I can't swallow.

  My fists curl at my sides, but before I can do or say anything, the angry mob parts and the whispers and jeers aimed at me are now aimed at the tallest boy I've ever seen. He's wearing a scarlet waistcoat—complete with a silver chain that disappears into his pocket—over a black, button up shirt, and he’s actually smiling. Not a creepy I'm-going-to-cut-you-up grin but a true, friendly smile. And it's for me. I know because I look over my shoulder and the kids are speaking in hushed whispers amongst themselves.

  "Good Evening. May I help you, Miss?"

  Now that he's stopped in front of me, I'm aware of our ridiculous height difference. I admit I'm on the short side, but I barely come up to his chest. He has to be over a foot taller than me at least. His straight, ink-black hair is so long at the front that when he looks down at me it falls over his eyes. He flicks it to the left—in a gesture I get the sense he does a million times a day—and smiles again.

  "Do you need assistance?"

  “Um, my car." I point over my shoulder.

  He looks at the crowd. The smile has vanished. "Go. I've got this," he commands.

  "Trust him to show," a voice behind me sneers. My skin prickles once more. I can almost taste their disgust. “Just like his sister. You should be ashamed.”

  "Rocks, don't waste tonight of all nights on a naught," a guy to his right says, dressed from head to toe in leather.

  "I said GO!"

  I jump at his command, and his eyes look gentle and apologetic when he smiles at me again. It's a cute, almost shy, smile that guys who don't know many girls wear. The thing is he is cute—super cute—in a Goth way. I'm sure in the light of day he's rather good-looking.

  A guy who’s barely taller than me comes up and grabs his arm, pulling him closer. "You don't have the time." Their eyes meet for a moment and hold, but the animosity from the earlier exchanges is gone.

  "Decker, I'll be fine," he states, shaking him off.

  The crowd slinks back into the shadows, and he steps in to offer me his elbow. At first, I don't understand until he takes my hand and places it in the crook of his arm. It’s a gesture my grandfather would have done back in his day. The boy’s fingers are warm and rest over the top of mine.

  "May I escort you to your vehicle?"

  My brain is short-circuiting, and my tongue has forgotten how to form words. He chuckles quietly and leads the way back into the looming forest, but this time I don’t trip once.

  “Everyone calls me Rocks,” he says in my ear. I want to look up at him, but I focus on the trees he’s guiding me around. The engulfing darkness has awoken my sense of hearing, and it makes his voice sound so alluring. I hope my car is this way.

  “Contessa Phillips. But everyone calls me Conni
e.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Connie Phillips.” His tone suggests he’s smiling.

  I’m sure it’s just adrenaline that’s making my heart beat out a drum rhythm I can feel in my toes. My muscles gradually relax with every step away from the creepy sideshow and leering tattooed faces. I’m sure it doesn’t have anything to do with the guy I’m clinging to in the dark.

  Walking at his side, I’m suddenly aware of my appearance. He seems to be so comfortable in his own skin as he guides me through the dark woods with ease. I’m pretty according to my dad, but now I know he’s a liar. Those girls in the forest had a dark, mysterious, gypsy kind of presence. Under other circumstances, I know I would have been mesmerized by their haunting looks. I’m not sure a guy like Rocks would think of me as pretty when velvet corsets and leather surround him. My growth spurt missed my legs and unfortunately hit my chest instead. My boobs are too big. They make the boys stare and the girls glare. It's not my fault, and I certainly didn't wish for them. Gym is just plain humiliating because I need NASA to design my sports bra to keep those suckers comfortably bound and holstered.

  When we reach the side of the road, Rocks places both hands around my waist and lifts me with ease back onto the asphalt. My spine tingles and my ears burn. Thank God, it’s too dark for him to notice.

  “It’s muddy. I didn’t want you to ruin your—”

  “Yeah, too late. But, thanks.” My ankle-length mud boots are sure to impress him. “How did you even see that? I can barely see my own feet.”

  “So what’s the problem?” he says, walking to my car.

  The steam eruption has ceased, and I’m not sure why, but I’m suddenly embarrassed. I can’t imagine the guy standing before me ever getting flustered. He’s the personification of cool, and I’m the damsel in distress. My stomach churns. I hate being helpless. Standing on a deserted road with no clue as to what’s wrong with my car or where I am makes me feel as helpless as a girl can get. I focus and explain what the car was doing when I left. Lifting the hood, he looks around, poking a few things. His long arm reaches my phone with ease, and he smiles handing it over. I study his lean frame. His body is covered in muscle, but with not an ounce of fat. I can’t stop the smile that forms. Walking next to him arm in arm made me feel like a lady from one of the plantation houses around here. His waistcoat takes me back to another time and era. But I shouldn’t be daydreaming about older guys. He could easily pass for twenty-one or two. My smile fades when I remember the hate filled sneers from the other carnival goers. Just because he’s being nice doesn’t mean I should trust him.