Tuesday, June 28, 2011

The Shadow Princess- Part 15

Crackling tendrils of flame licked along the walls, yet the room grew so cold Genevieve's fingers numbed. There was little doubt what demon Stephen conjured with his challenge. Her pulse roared in her ears, body quivering in fear. Stephen remained outwardly calm, waiting for the inevitable, realizing his life would eventually come to this. The mirror fogged as unseen breath blew against the glass, the shrouded form of a woman materializing. A thunderous boom echoed through the house as the roof collapsed onto the second floor above their heads. Genevieve couldn't prevent the reflex of glancing heavenward, the goose flesh on her arms alerting her to the outcome she was dreading. No more were they alone in the room. Her lungs stopped working, breath catching, as she watched the ghastly woman in grey standing before the fireplace mantle scant feet fro the man who evoked her presence. Bloodshot eyes simmered with pent up rage festering for countless generations like a necrotic wound. All Genevieve wanted to do was run, but Stephen didn't flinch, locked in a battle of wills with his vengeful ancestor. 
"You had all of my family since your sister living in fear. You got what you wanted for so long. Watched so many suffer as you suffered. Your reign of terror is an an end. I am not afraid of you anymore." 
The shadow princess cocked her head to the side, a terrible grin pulling skin on her skull taut as a bow. A maniacal cackle bounced off the walls growing so loud Genevieve had no choice but to clamp her hands over her ears. The shadow princess raised her skeletal hand and waved goodbye to the last of the Westerfell line just as she had to his mother when she was a girl. Waved goodbye as the mirror over the mantle shattered. Razor projectiles flew into the room. The librarian dropped to the floor, covering her head, glass biting into her skin. It wasn't until the musical tinkling ceased she dared glance up. The shadow princess hadn't moved, the same psychotic smile plastered on her face. At her feet surrounded by bloody glass lay Stephen Westerfell, a growing puddle of crimson pooling from the jagged gash across his throat. Genevieve wanted to scream, wanted to cry, but her body refused to follow her commands. Flame licked across the ceiling, as the fire invaded the last bastion of safety. An icy chill swept across the room, the window behind her unexpectedly blown open by invisible hands. The ghost turned her hateful gaze to the sole survivor and pointed at the window. Genevieve needed no further instruction as she blindly raced for freedom, leaving the horrors of the shadow princess's funeral pyre behind.   

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