CHARACTER BIO: ERIK MASON

Want to take a moment to thank AnnaKate, my fearless editor.

-Second- Svena’s views do not necessarily reflect the views of her author. If she doesn’t like your charrie, it doesn’t mean I detest your guts. M’kay?

-Before Svena begins, I just have to say: IS IT FREAKING ANYONE ELSE OUT HOW MUCH THIS IS LIKE THE HUNGER GAMES??? Except we can’t kill each other. Hah.-Kay, serious mode now.

He moved like a song, each step a note in a silent sonata. Every movement calculated, monitored and embellished with the grace that only Mornn could carry. Mornn was music. Svena was quiet. That wasn't new. But he had changed. For the better. She could sense a confidence in his musical pace that wasn’t there two years ago.

Two years, has it really been that long?

Svena stared at the back of his neck, where his new tattoo was covered in darkness. Oh yes, she had noticed it. And it couldn’t be a coincidence. As she followed the glowing fingernails (which were also new), she wondered just how much he had changed. Memories shot through her brain like bullets, leaving destruction in their wake. Was he still charming? Did those brown eyes still spark at the mention of adventure? Did he still mock principle? 

She shook her head, earrings hitting the side of her neck.

I've changed too, she thought. But not for the better.

She had been taught, “Your image is power.” And image was half what you said and half what you didn’t. She had so many questions, but she bit the inside of her lip, metallic blood flooding her tongue. Pain distracted her. She had opened up another scar. They lined her mouth now. She fished out her flask, the one that never ran dry, and drank. The rum helped ease physical pain too. She smiled, pleased at the strength of her self-containment. Yes she had questions, but honestly, she was pleased to find him alive.

“You’re tired. We’re stopping,” he said suddenly, graciously jerking her from the danger of her mind.

“Am not,” she grumbled.

She was ignored. Mornn snapped off some branches of a nearby tree. They were in the jungle now. He settled easily into a crouch, glowing fingertips caressing the wood into a neat pile. He pulled a cigarette lighter from his leather vest and lit his creation. Russet red embers, the same colour as his hair, blossomed into a blaze. 

“Yes, let’s make a fire on the creepy island why don’t we? That’s not obvious at all,” she said while throwing up her arms in exasperation.

Mornn looked up from his handiwork, placing a long, slender finger to his lips. Nine of his ten rings glittered in the firelight. One, plain gold band rested on his left ring finger. Svena detested that ring more than anything else in the worlds.

“You’re yelling, darling. Think of the neighbors,” he whispered with a straight face.

She turned from the fire so he wouldn’t see her smile.

“I’m not sleeping on the stupid ground,” she said.

She scanned the orange-tinged jungle for an appropriate tree, finally selecting one with lots of thick branches. She stuck Llawenydd, now a simple dagger, in the back pocket of her blue jeans. As she climbed, the sleeves of her black Coldplay T-shirt dropped to reveal the tattoos curling up her shoulders. She was no stranger to ink. When she reached a suitable height, she laid across the length of a sturdy limb. Remembering a book she read recently, she tore off a vine and wrapped it around her legs and the branch. If she fell, she probably wouldn’t get up. The tree’s swaying in the wind reminded her of home. She watched as the familiar tall figure settled below her, his back against the trunk of her tree.

No matter what had happened, she still trusted him with her life.

She was starting to drift into a pleasant sleep when she heard rumbling and a strange keening sound to her left. A keening sound that only meant one thing. Mornn recognized it before she did, standing up quickly. She slipped out of the vines and scurried down the tree with the ease of someone who grew up in a world of masts and rigging. Mornn gave her a hand down and they ran together towards the origin of the noise. About fifty feet later, Mornn’s arm reached in front of her to hold her back. If he hadn’t, she would’ve tripped. Over the carcasses. About seven dead tigers laid on the blood-soaked ground.

“Okay, so no sleeping…” Svena said as Mornn retracted his arm.

He turned towards her, face dominated by a grin—one half boyish and half sinister. One that could make women fall and enemies run.

Yep. Still charming.

That’s when the rain started. Lightning flashed violently, as crackling glass shards through the grey felt of the sky. Thunder rumbled angrily. Svena knew storms. This one wasn’t normal.

“Mornn, I think you broke something…