Sincerely hoping you can help me on this one. It will eventually get more romantic, which is why I posted it here, but this is the general idea: Eve Warden is working temporarily at a house and begins to make a dubious friendship with the son of the owner. She tells him a series of lies about her past, evading the true story - not quite as illustrious as she wishes it were.
It's a little more complex than that, but that's the general idea.
My question: should I continue?
Thanks so much!
Yours ever,
MademoiselleKool
1. A Beginning... of sorts.
The crisp brown leaves skittered in front of my rake, dancing across the cold, shriveling grass, evading the pile of their companions.
"That's right, you better run," I muttered. I lifted my rake and slammed it down flat in the middle of the airy pile of leaves. A puff of crumbly leaf parts flew up into my face. I waved them away angrily and bent once more to restore order. "You may as well stay still," I grumbled to the skittery pile. "You'll never escape your fate - death by bio-degradable trash bag."
As I finished tying the ends of the bag together, I surveyed the lawn. It was sizeable, and the family owned several sycamore trees and two oaks. I had a ways to go. I tossed the bag of leaves to one side and picked up the rake once more.
"Once upon a time." I tasted the words on my tongue as I swept up some golden oak leaves. "Once upon a time, there was a young princess who kissed a frog." I stopped and pulled some leaves from the plastic tines of my rake. "She didn't kiss it because she wanted it to turn into a prince or any of that nonsense. She was just curious." I hissed as I stubbed my toe on a pebble, hidden in the wet grass. I surveyed my bare foot, frowning at the purple swelling along the top and side. I'd sprained my big toe falling down some stairs - but I'd thought it was improving.
"Just curious," I repeated. "She found a young frog in the prime of his life, with almost no warts, and planted a solid kiss right on his nose." I finished another bag and threw it to the side, then resumed raking. "She didn't realize until it was too late - the frog was really a toad in disguise. The toad began to morph into an evil, cruel man. The princess was frightened, but she seized the moment -" I grabbed the rake from high up on the handle - "she seized the moment and she cut the half-toad, half-man's head right off." I swiped the rake at the pile of leaves and watched as they blew up, then fluttered down all around me, coating my head and shoulders in brown dust.
"Um... what are you doing?"
I whirled around as the masculine voice intruded in my chilled solitude. The son of the family - he looked about thirty. I didn't know why he was still living here, but it wasn't in my place to ask. I leveled a stare at his bemused face, then turned and got back to my task.
"Fine, then, ignore me... girl." He sounded bored and impatient.
I ignored him. What can I say? I always aim to please.
"That was quite the vicious tale you told." The man continued to follow behind me, ignoring me ignoring him. "I must admit, I've never heard the Frog Prince told quite like that before. Is there a story behind it?"
I bent and scooped an armful of leaves into the trash bag.
"You know, you shouldn't ignore your employer." His voice was light, but there was a hint of real warning behind. "It's very rude."
I straightened and placed my bare hands on my hips, staring at him expectantly.
"What's your name?" he asked, satisfied that he'd gotten my attention.
"Eve," I said briefly.
"Eve... what?" he asked impatiently. "Do I have to coax every word out of you? What's your problem?"
"Eve Warden." I turned and started raking again, then limped over to toss the full bag with the others.
"Eve Warden is your problem, or your name?" His attempt at humor was lost in the crisp air. "What's wrong with your foot?"
I turned and gazed at him for a moment again. He was fairly good-looking, in a rich boy way. His precisely torn jeans and casual black button-down shirt obviously cost a lot more than they should, and his carefully windblown hair spoke of hours at a hairdresser. His languid brown gaze were running up and down my body in a way that should have made me shudder in disgust. Instead it made me want to laugh. Poor little rich boy, living with his parents at thirty, bored with his enormous flat-screen TV, gets a whim to seduce the hired girl.
"Are you bored, boy?" I asked with a slow, innocent blink. I didn't mean to be disrespectful, but to tell the truth I'd forgotten the name of the family.
"That's 'Mr. Cage' to you," he said sharply. "And yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Are you offering to entertain me?"
I turned away to hide my laughter. His hand landed heavily on my shoulder. I looked down at it and raised one eyebrow. Apparently I'd pushed him too far. I used to be better at judging people's limits. "I'll make a deal with you, Mr. Cage," I said, gripping one of his long fingers and dropping his hand off my shoulder.
"I don't think you're in a position to be making deals with anyone, girl." Zeus and Orpheus, that haughty tone made me want to punch the man.
"Just listen." I braced my hands on top of my rake and leaned forward. "I'm trying to work, and you're getting in the way. You're bored. I'll tell you my life story if you let me work in peace."
He thought about it for a second, pride, curiosity and humiliation warring in his beautiful eyes. Then he slowly nodded.
"Good. Now move your foot, Mr. Cage." I raked underneath him and he stepped back, watching me expectantly. "I'll finish this bit and then we can sit down."
"First of all, tell me what happened to your foot," he demanded, following me forward as I attacked a new group of golden leaves.
"I fell on some stairs at the train station and sprained my toe," I answered briefly. I finished tying up the bag and dragged it over to join the rest. Then I leaned my rake against the trunk of a sycamore and made my way to the porch. Mr. Cage opened the door for me and we stepped into the blessed warmth of his back porch. I sank down on one of the big armchairs, and he disappeared into the main house. I looked around, shaking my head at the succulence that surrounded me. The back porch alone was furnished with oriental rugs, wall hangings and paintings, warm lamps and a TV. I'd worked at some very fine houses, but nothing like this. I wondered briefly what the Cage family did to become so affluent, and if they'd give me their secret.
Mr. Cage reappeared with two mugs of steaming liquid in his hands. "I made some coffee," he said imperiously. I shrugged and reached forward. His gaze fell to my arms as my sleeves pulled back briefly to expose the old, puckered scars covering my arms and hands. He drew in his breath to ask, but I met his gaze and shook my head firmly.
He shrugged and sat down across from me. He took a sip of his coffee and stared at me. "I must admit to some curiosity. How does someone as young as you have such an interesting story?"
"Tell that to the children martyrs Faith, Hope and Charity." I closed my eyes briefly, recalling the words my father had read to me as a child, solemn gaze piercing me straight through. "The youngest of them was only nine when they were tortured and killed."
His eyes widened. "Really? Why?"
"They refused to worship idols with the pagans," I said.
"Oh." He was silent for a minute. "Well, aren't you going to tell me your story?"
I sighed and sipped my coffee, then looked out the window. The wind had picked up, tossing the leaves back across the area I'd already raked. A slow, steady rain had begun to fall, making the leaves shine like diamonds in the rough. A sudden gust brought a splatter of drops against the window and I blinked, then turned back to the warm brown gaze that surveyed me.
"It was a rainy day," I said softly. "A rainy day when it all began."
***
A small, blood-red leaf blows across the girl's vision. She blinks and blows at it, giggling when it dances up and away, colliding briefly with a floating waft of cotton, then settling back to the grass.
"Eve!"
The girl blinks again and sits up reluctantly. "I'm here mom," she calls over her shoulder. The sun shines through the rain droplets pattering loudly on the treetops, and rainbows are floating and out of existence everywhere. The blackberry bushes are in bloom, the butterfly plants are flowering. Eve doesn't want to leave her haven, her sanctuary.
With a last glance, she turns and makes her way slowly across the sweeping lawn, bare feet squelching loudly in the mud lurking beneath the lush grass.
"Eve, hurry! Run, Eve!" Her mother's voice holds more urgency than it should. Eve frowns and her pace quickens. She scurries inside, shaking water out of her cropped black hair.
"Mom? I'm here. What's wrong?" Eve makes her way through the kitchen and into the dining room. Her mother is sitting at the table, talking to a tall man. The man is wearing a white robe that covers most of his body and the bottom of his face. His eyes glitter cold and dark in the swarthy skin surrounding them, a piercing stare that bores into Eve's very soul.
"Who are you?" she asks rudely.
The man rises and comes over to her, resting a heavy hand on her shoulder. "I'm here to collect my dues, little girl."
"I'm not little," Eve protests indignantly. "I'm fifteen."
A low chuckle escapes the white swath of silk and the hand releases Eve's shoulder. She sighs in relief and moves over to her mother. "Who is he, mom?" she asks quietly.
"He's a man your father used to know," says the woman tiredly. "I'm so sorry, Eve. I don't know what's going to happen now, but it probably won't be pleasant. For any of us."
"I don't understand," Eve says darkly. She hates not knowing what's going on.
"You really have corrupted the child, haven't you?" The man asks. Eve can hear the frown in his voice. "She doesn't even know who I am."
Eve was really puzzled now, but she sat down next to her mother. "Explain it to me, then," she challenged.
"Your parents, many years ago, were very important members of my... cult." The man paused. "Some call it a cult. They are fools. I am the head of the purest form of religion - its roots go back even before the druids called on the souls of the dead to do their bidding, even before Jesus of Nazareth thrust his philosophies on an unwilling populace. We worship the truly powerful gods, those of legend, those of myth. Zeus the mighty, Thor the Thunderer, Orpheus with his gift of music, Aphrodite, goddess of Love."
"You're pagans," Eve says. "Pagans like they tell about in the stories." She looks at her mother, horrified. "You used to be like them?"
"Indeed - but now I am a Christian."
The white silk patch in front of the man's lower face begins to tremble violently, sucked in and out, getting wet with saliva. "You... dare... to mention that abomination in my presence. You will give me back the sacred box, you will renounce your God and you will worship my lord Zeus with me... or you will die."
Eve gasps and draws back behind her mother.
"It's too late for the sacred box. You waited too long. We disposed of it not two years ago." Eve's mother is trembling, but her posture is erect and firm. She shields Eve with her body.
A scream of rage escapes the white silk, and the man reaches to his belt, withdrawing a pair of gloves. The gloves are leather, covered with brilliant silver spikes, three inches long at least, with a wicked barb at each gleaming tip. "Little Christian bitch, you'll wish you'd never been born!"
Eve saw the gloved hand descending to her mother and screamed, dashing forward with both arms raised. The gloves wrapped her arms, piercing them deeply, the barbs embedding into her blood vessels. The man in white silk shook her, trying to dislodge the spikes from her arms. She screamed as she was jerked from side to side, blood streaming to mingle with the tears on her face. Finally the man braces a foot on Eve's chest and pulls both hands free, barbs ripping her arms completely open.
Eve falls to the ground, sobbing and blind to anything. She vaguely hears her mother scream, and drags herself backwards. She goes through the kitchen, blinking back salt and blood. She looks back over her shoulder. Her mother's hair is unbound, dangling over the back of the chair, drenched in blood. The man raises his head, in the act of drawing the gloves back off his hands. A spot of red touches the fluttering white silk and dances in Eve's vision long after she has escaped.
***
"Good lord." Mr. Cage gripped his coffee cup tighter and leaned forward. "I cannot believe such barbarism, such... such..."
"I couldn't believe it myself," I said wryly.
He sat in silence for a moment, and we both listened to the rain against the windowpane. "Wait a minute," he said slowly. "Your hair is brown, not black. And the wounds you described would have completely taken your arms off. They wouldn't have left just scars like you have. And how did this not make the news? I never heard anything about this. And where was your father in all this?" He glared at me. "And why didn't you contact the police?
"Ah." I pondered for a moment. "Are you a doctor?" I asked, trying to change the subject.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am," he said firmly. "Were you lying to me? Did you make the whole thing up?"
I shrugged and stared up at him. "Maybe."
He started to gape in outrage, breath sucking in and out past his open lips.
"I never said I'd tell you my story," I reminded him. I got up and made my way to the door - I had to collect the rake and get it out of the rain. "And I certainly didn't say I'd tell the truth."
Maybe that's what you're aiming for...
