Notice: if you are interested in hot spicy books and dark romance i wrote two
:Girl with the countdown syndrome and
: Brown and White: A tale of two difficult love birds.
Very interesting
The bodies lay piled in the dim hut like forgotten offerings, a grim tableau of what family once was. Nine years had passed, but he could still recognise them —their rotting flesh, the hollow sockets where eyes had been, the way bones gleamed white through tattered remnants of cloth. His brothers, twisted ; his father, the man he'd hated with a fire that now twisted into remorse, face frozen in a final plea; his mother and stepmother, arms entangled as if in one last embrace; and the little sister he'd never met, sold away before her first cry could reach him, her tiny form curled small amid the ruin.
Everyone—gone. Life leeched out, decay claiming what violence hadn't. A sour churn rose in Amir's gut, bile burning his throat. The others watched as he staggered to a shadowed corner, away from the stench that clawed at their noses—thick, metallic, like iron left too long in rain. He retched violently, body heaving as whitish foam and yellowish bile sprayed the packed-earth floor, splattering his boots. Gasps echoed behind him, but no one moved; this was his grief to purge.
He straightened slowly, mouth agape in a ragged breath, wiping his lips with a trembling sleeve. The air hung heavy, the hut's thatched roof sagging like a shroud overhead. Eyes still fixed on the pile, he rasped, "I want to bury them."
Nalia stepped forward without a word, her presence a quiet anchor in the gloom. Aurora and Lisa trailed her. The fox demon reached Amir's side, her hand light on his shoulder—warm, steady, a rare gentleness cutting through her usual edge.
"I know a spell for peaceful rest," she murmured, voice like silk over steel.
Amir nodded, stepping aside on instinct, trust blooming unbidden. An unpredictable leap, but her words carried the weight of eons—promises of closure he couldn't forge alone.
Nalia took his place at the threshold, her fan snapping open with a crisp flip, silken strings humming as her nine tails materialized in a shimmer of azure. They swished low, radiating a soft ember glow that chased the shadows back, the bells tinkling like distant wind chimes in a forgotten garden.
"Death is not always the end of all things," she intoned, her voice weaving through the room like incense smoke. "For some, it marks the beginning of greater tides... a current carrying them home." The bells chimed slower now, deliberate, the air stirring in a gentle eddy that lifted dust motes into lazy spirals. Her power settled over the hut like a benediction, the putrid reek fading to something clean—earth after rain.
"Now I call on the Creator," she continued, eyes half-lidded in focus, "and the gods of death across the worlds. Grant peace to these bodies, and peace to their souls." With a final, sweeping arc of her fan, the air rippled. The bodies shimmered, edges blurring as they dissolved—not in flame or rot, but in golden motes that danced upward in a graceful vortex, spiraling toward the cracked ceiling and beyond, into the sky's vast blue. Like fireflies released at dusk, they vanished, leaving only a faint, warm afterglow.
Nalia bowed low, tails retracting with a whisper of magic, the fan folding shut. The others—Amir included—couldn't help a quiet ovation, hands clapping soft and scattered, a murmur of awe rippling through them. She smiled, a subtle curve of her lips, and dipped her head in acknowledgment, the moment's gravity lightening just a fraction.
Amir's smile flickered brief, a crack of gratitude in his grief, but it crumbled fast. His face twisted back to that haunted frown, brows knitting as questions clawed at him. Why this fate? What cruelty had the universe woven to unravel his kin like thread from a loom?
Then the pain struck—sharp as before, the same clairvoyant vise clamping his skull from yesterday's haze. He crumpled to the floor with a gasp, body convulsing in sharp jerks, limbs splaying across the dirt. The girls didn't panic this time; they simply closed in, forming a loose circle around him, faces calm but intent. Visions demanded space, but answers? They needed those too. How had this slaughter unfolded? What shadows had stolen their light?
Amir's form stilled, a purple haze blooming around him like bruised twilight, tendrils of light threading the air. The hut brightened in the vision's grip, walls shifting to a warmer memory: the family gathered on woven mats around a low brass table, a modest feast spread before them. Roti steamed in clay bowls, golden and puffed; rice pudding shimmered creamy under lantern light; fresh milk foamed in earthen cups; and tender chicken curry simmered with cumin and cloves, its aroma rich and inviting. Laughter bubbled low, plates passed hand to hand, the air alive with the simple joy of togetherness.
As in every devout home, they paused, hands raised in prayer, palms open to the heavens. His father's voice led, steady and clear: "We thank you for this food and thank Allah for guidance and protection. We ask for your watch over Amir, that the mistakes of his father shouldn't cost him his future."
"Amen," they echoed, voices blending in harmony—mother, stepmother, brothers, the unseen sister a quiet presence in the circle's warmth.
Amir watched, chest tight with surprise. His father looked... whole. Clean-shaven, eyes clear of the drink's fog, debt's shadow lifted. Not the broken man he'd known, but someone redeemed.
They reached for their plates, forks dipping into the feast, when the door exploded inward—ripping free of its hinges with a splintering crash, slamming against the far wall in a shower of dust and shards. A shadowy figure strode through the breach, a silhouette of writhing black ether, formless and faceless, like smoke given malice. The air chilled, lanterns flickering as if gasping for breath.
"Your dues... they have not been paid," a voice slithered from the void, low and rasping, like gravel underfoot.
Amir's father—Jerome—shrank back, collapsing to his knees with a choked cry. "I told you—he's dead! He is dead!"
The figure loomed closer, tendrils coiling at its edges. "But he lives... I feel it. I see him." A long, inky finger extended, tracing Jerome's cheek in a caress that left frost in its wake, skin paling where it touched.
"Please—spare my family. Take me instead," Jerome begged, tears carving tracks through the dust on his face. The others froze, rooted by the creature's aura—muscles locked, breaths shallow, terror etched in wide eyes.
"You didn't hold your end of the bargain, Jerome," the shadow hissed, voice dripping venom. "Now witness the cost." It raised a hand, finger crooking toward the mother like a hook.
Jerome whipped around, horror dawning. She convulsed once, a wet rip echoing as her stomach burst open in a spray of crimson—gore spilling across the mat, steaming in the sudden cold. No scream, no struggle—just gone, eyes glassy in death's surprise.
The finger turned to the little sister, a silent flick. Her head severed clean, rolling across the floor with a dull thud, dark curls matting in the pooling blood. Jerome's wail tore the air, raw and animal; Amir's echoed it in the vision, fists clenching uselessly.
One by one, it claimed them: a brother's throat slit by invisible claws, gurgling silent; another's chest caved in with a crack like thunder, ribs splintering outward. No fight, no flight—just efficient horror, the feast's joy curdling to slaughter.
Amir's tears streamed hot, blurring the scene. All but his father—Jerome, huddled at the figure's feet, sobs wracking his frame as the hut filled with the copper reek of blood and the iron tang of fear.
"Goodbye, Jerome," the shadow purred, a mockery of farewell. "You made your bed—now lie in it." One swift slash, a blur of darkness, and Jerome slumped—body cleaved neat in half, entrails spilling like unspooled thread, the light fleeing his eyes in a final, betrayed gasp.
Amir stared, face a mask of raw anguish, the vision's haze thickening like grief made manifest. Then—the figure turned, inexorably, toward him. Slow, deliberate, the silhouette expanding to fill the frame. Amir couldn't move, the clairvoyant's grip rooting him as surely as it had them.
"Now you have seen it," the creature rasped, voice coiling around his throat like smoke. "Come find me."
"Where?" Amir demanded, voice bold despite the tremor—a spark of the warrior refusing to break.
"Where the ancient stars meet." The words hung, cryptic and cold, as the haze shattered, plunging him back to the hut's stale air. The purple light faded, leaving only echoes and the weight of unfinished debts.