Snippet Saturday: The Making of a Wraith, an excerpt from 'Halfborn'

“So, Wraiths are basically executioners. Is there really much more I need to know about them?” I asked.

“You should learn how to avoid them. And, how you learn that is by learning about them. You're making them out to be all bad because of your situation, but they came about by an act of love.”

I tried to put my personal feelings aside. I picked up and drained my glass of its blood. The viscous liquid, left on the inside walls, slowly slid down, back to the bottom of the glass as I reached for the pitcher, so I could pour a refill. I filled it then turned to Marshall, who had an eyebrow cocked at me. I assumed at the fact that I usually only had one glassful.

“Do you need anymore?”

He grabbed his glass and held it in my direction, eager. “Yeah.”

I filled it and set the pitcher back on the table. I'd managed to collect my thoughts and composure by the time I turned back to Innocence.

“So, love—not revenge or hate or a dispute or jealousy or any other possibly negative thing—made the first Wraith. I don't understand how love could have caused someone to kill their own kind,” I finally said.

“Well, in all honesty, there are all of those things involved, but ultimately, isn't it love that undoes us all.”

“Okay, I don't get it. First, you tell me that it happened because of love, but then you say it didn't.” I heaved a breath of frustration.

“Maybe if you hear the story, you'll understand.”

Marshall sat by quietly. I could feel the interest as it seeped out of every pore of his body.

“What say you, Marshall? Would you like to hear the story?” Innocence asked him.

I looked to him, already knowing his answer, but he still gave me a look as if seeking my approval. I shook my head with a slight chuckle. I completely understood, at that moment, why Innocence called him Fido.

“Let's hear it,” I said, turning back to her.

“Okay,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “It all starts with a couple: Dyon and Ixora. Both Inborn. They had been together many years with Ixora giving birth to three children: two boys and a girl. One day Dyon met another woman, Apholenia, a human. He fell for her immediately, leaving Ixora and their children.

“Ixora became enraged. Jealous of Apholenia, she found where the new couple made their rest. Ixora grabbed the woman from the warm arms of her lover. When Apholenia realized what was happening, she began to scream, and her screams woke Dyon. The moment Ixora knew Dyon was aware of what was happening, she bit Apholenia. It took two weeks for the woman to die from the venom of Ixora's bite.

“Dyon, distraught and unwilling to return to the mother of his children and the murderer of his lover, went to his brother, Xantheus. He told his brother what had happened. How he had wronged Ixora, but that he couldn't have denied what he felt in his heart. He told him that he no longer wanted to go on living. That Apholenia had been the other half of his soul, and he was no longer whole. He wished for death, begged for it. But, Xantheus refused to honor his younger brother's wishes.” Innocence stopped for a minute, taking the time to refill her glass and taking a large swig from it.

“Wait, how does this explain how the first Wraith came about if he didn't kill his brother? Or did Dyon kill Ixora?” I asked, even though I'd learned she liked to build up the tension with her stories and stop abruptly before the dramatic ending, leaving one in anticipation.

“For someone that didn't want to learn any more about Wraiths, you sure are impatient to know how and why they came to be.” She took another sip from her glass.

“Well, if you wouldn't just stop in the middle of a story maybe I wouldn't get impatient,” I said.

Marshall laughed, causing me to look over at him. “I personally enjoy how Innocence tells stories. I like the need to know, and for it to be drawn out,” he said.

“Yep. I knew you enjoyed torture,” I retorted.

“It's not torture; it's excitement.”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Marshall.” I turned back to face Innocence. “So?”

“Jeesh! Okay, okay. Days went by, then weeks, and months. Xantheus could barely stand the pain in his brother's eyes. In his voice. Dyon refused to feed, and he turned into a mere shell of the person he used to be. Xantheus battled with himself on which torment he could live with easier, taking the life of his brother or watching the misery of him day in and out. He finally decided that death would be a gift for Dyon and agreed to do his bidding. It was when Xantheus said the words to Dyon and a spark of happiness lit his eyes that Xantheus realized he'd made the right choice, for he'd not seen that much life in his brother for far too long. That was Dyon's gift to him. That split second of happiness.

“With his small stone blade in his left hand and much larger stone blade in his right, Xantheus pierced Dyon's heart with the small blade and with more strength than he thought he could muster, took his head off with the larger blade. It was only when he'd made it to the lake—blood and tears covering his face—that he realized he had changed. Leaning over the water to wash his face, he saw his reflection in the shimmering surface, and the golden-yellow pattern of his eyes had changed to the silver-blue that the Wraiths have.”

Hearing the details of how Xantheus had killed his brother left a flashback of my mother's death in my mind, which I pushed away with everything I had. I couldn't focus on moving forward if I couldn't get over the past.

“So, what happened to Xantheus?” Marshall asked.

“I'm not really sure. He wasn't really accepted after it was told how his eyes had changed, and he left the community. There aren't any stories of him after that. It took years for the next Wraith to become, and then even longer for Wraiths to be accepted as a Born breed. But, once truly accepted, which was after the Abominates came to be, they became staples in the Born community.”

“So, you don't know if he's still around today?” Marshall piped up again.

I was still trying to process the story, and he wanted to know more.

“If he is, he'd be at least ten-thousand years old. Even I can't imagine still wanting to live after that long. I suppose it's possible he's still out there, somewhere. I'd never really thought about it,” Innocence answered, her voice sounding uninterested.

“Really. You never wanted to know what came of him?” he asked, pushing the subject.

     “No, why would I? I have my own life. I don't need to know about someone who's millennia-old,” she said as if it made perfect sense, and I couldn't help but agree with it.