Where Vines Don't Grow

To Keep, or Not to Keep

He was the kind of attractive that felt sharp and cruel, like a knife twisting in your gut. Not just because of his lean, beautiful features, but because he was so graceful it was impossible not to feel ugly and bumbling simply by being in his vicinity. Looking at him was to recognize that God could make something that looked like that, but had chosen to make you look entirely, horribly plain.

Normally, looks such as his had little impact on Marin. She wasn't immune to searing eyes and handsome features, but she prided herself on refraining from comparison or needless flirtations—after all, she was a working girl, and so long as she had her aunt, her farm, and the prospect of college in her life, she was content. However, there was something absolutely overpowering about the man before her. Something blinding.

Taking a quick inhale, she dug her nails into her palms, forcing herself to focus. The pain broke through the near trance-like state she had been falling into, and a flicker of fear washed over her—what was happening to her? Her head was pounding and her feet felt unsteady beneath her, but worst of all was that she had no notion of how she had wound up here. Here, standing dumbly in front of a bizarre stranger who was clutching a wayward hen in his hands. My wayward hen, she thought with a frown. Despite her state of bemusement, Marin knew she ought to say something, assert herself.

"Th-that's my hen." The words broke loose with effort, and her voice came out strained and nervous. Marin cringed. That wasn't a particularly authoritative tone, now was it? But it was something, and something was better than standing there, mouth agape like a fool.

The stranger simply gazed back at her, his lips curving into a delicious smile.

A dangerous smile.

Marin shivered. What was this man doing in the middle of the woods, holding her hen? What value could one chicken have for him? He didn't seem like he was in desperate need of food, nor did he seem particularly concerned with being caught. Something is wrong here. Very terribly wrong.

"Marin."

Her stream of thoughts scattered into nothingness as the stranger spoke her name, his silky voice echoing among the faint rustle of leaves around them.

Marin felt her eyes widen and her hand immediately shot toward her waistband, to the wire-cutters she kept on her belt. They weren't quite a gun or a knife, but they were something. "How do you know my name? Who are you? And why are you on my aunt's property?"

All she got in response was a queer smile as the strange man tilted his head to the side, deep golden eyes flaring with an indescribable emotion. Without saying a word, he stroked the chicken in his arms, his ebony locks falling over his brow as he looked down at it with affection. The silence was even more unnerving than when he had spoken her name, and Marin felt a cold sweat break over her. She tugged the wire cutters free from her belt, and it was the sound of the metal sliding against leather that seemed to regain his interest.

He looked up at her now, and more quickly than she could follow, he set the hen down and took a great stride closer to her. A squeak of alarm escaped her, and Marin brandished the wire cutters like a sword, holding them out so that their sharp points were hovering only a foot away from his chest. "Stay back!"

Her exclamation startled the now released chicken, and Marin was momentarily distracted as the hen squawked in alarm and dashed for the bushes. At the same time as her attention drifted, the stranger made a weird gesture that she didn't quite make out, and moved in.

"Marin." With feral grace he stepped so close that she felt the pressure of his chest—which she now realized was clad in a strange, chain-mail like material—against the wirecutters. When she tried to step back, fear coursing through her veins, she found her feet stuck to the ground.

This time she really screamed, frozen in place as the stranger effortlessly plucked the wire cutters from her numbing hands, grabbed her forearms and tucked them against her sides as though she was a poseable doll, and drew so close her voice failed her mid-shriek. His amber eyes were piercing as he now slowly, almost lovingly, raised his ivory hands to her face, caressing her cheeks and leaning down so his lips lingered only a few inches above her own. "Marin, come to me."

In a swift motion he tilted her face up toward his and closed the gap between them, eliciting electrical tingles throughout Marin's entire body as his lips firmly pressed against hers. Though she tried to protest, desperately fighting the heat and desire coursing through her body, her resolve crumbled. She began to lose herself in the delicious, swirling sensation spreading its way through her body as she welcomed the embrace of her captor. Her predicament, her name, her very being felt as though it was floating out of her grasp, and she could not have been less bothered . . . what did any of it matter when she was here, with him?

Only . . . who was he? The thought shot through her like an arrow, and her eyes flew open with alarm. Inexplicably, she seemed to have suddenly regained her bodily autonomy and without a second thought she lurched backward, away from her assaulter, a sharp scream rising as—

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Marin shot awake, mouth open wide, heart pounding. Her dark brown eyes flew around the room, which was only dimly illuminated by the gray morning light, seeking an unknown intruder as she struggled to shake free of her dream. Something was wrong, she knew it. Something was . . . different. Clutching her blanket closer to her chest, she squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

No, it was a dream. This is reality now. Everything is fine, Marin. Don't be childish.

Taking a few deep, calming breaths, she slowly reopened her eyes. As Marin willed her mind to slow in tandem with her breathing, she felt clarity trickle in, and she remembered herself. Just another nightmare, nothing more, nothing less. Harmless. For as long as Marin could remember she had been having strange, vivid dreams, and this was just one more to add to her collection. While she could never figure out what drove her nighttime adventures, they weren't anything to be afraid of. Not anymore at least; they had certainly alarmed her and her aunt—who she had often disturbed with her screaming and sleep walking—when she had been a far younger.

Ignoring her residual misgivings, Marin released her blanket and scooted until she was more upright in bed. She glanced over to the clock on her old wooden nightstand: 5:43am. Time to get up anyway. With a weary sigh she slid her legs over the edge of the bed, feet landing on the warm wooden planks of the floor.

Doing her best not to think about her dream—which seemed unwilling to release its hold on her mind—Marin made her way around her bed and toward the window, which she had left open. While it had felt refreshingly cold the evening before, the air seemed to have cooled considerably overnight. There was no way she was going to be changing with such a chill in the air.

Her fingers clutched the lift, but as she was in the process of sliding the window shut, something caught her eye. Without hesitation she released the lift and reached down, grabbing it, a black feather, in her right hand. A raven feather? She lifted it closer for inspection, twisting it around in her fingers. It was not uncommon to see crows or ravens in this part of the country, even less so to find their feathers, but as her fingers wandered around the obsidian feather, tracing its fine contours, something very, very peculiar happened—

For a moment, just a moment, brilliant amber eyes flashed before her.