- Lost and Karmic (Lesbian/Highschool)

- My Girl is My Poison (Lesbian/Highschool)

- Smells Like Sapphic Spirit (Lesbian/Highschool)

- The Misadventures of Anna (Lesbian/Highschool)

- The Misadventures of Kandi (Lesbian/Highschool)

- The Misadventures of Holly-Raine (Lesbian/Highschool)

- Those Who Live Between Reason and Emotion (Lesbian/Adult-Youth)

- Crimson Velvet (Lesbian/Science Fiction or Fantasy)

- Bullet Maiden Rune (Lesbian/Science Fiction or Fantasy)

- Legends of Asgarth (Lesbian/Science Fiction or Fantasy)

- The Legend of Allyn Arceneaux (Lesbian/Science Fiction or Fantasy)

If you end up liking what you read then try one of those when you're done. Okay then! Lets get this show on the road! Presenting...

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Chapter One

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How many days had it been?

She couldn't tell by any stretch of the imagination. There was scarcely a building in sight, let alone a clock. Ruth had had naught but the rise and fall of the sun and moon to know of it. The only conclusion that could bring her was of a mere two days -- two miserable, wretched days that had felt like an eternity. What a vile thing it was -- to be lost like this. But it wasn't of her own making. No. She had never once been the author of her fate.

When tresses of her unkempt brown hair waved before her eyes she pulled them from her sight to see ahead, each strand thickened and darkened with perspiration. She had been no stranger to hard work back at Ellgynberry. Under the stern watchful eye of Mrs. Bakers, her days had consisted of cooking, sewing and washing. She'd not worked the fields but the effort had not been lost on her. In fact those chores had steeled her somewhat. What was all that iron but a salvation to her now?

Ruth gasped, straining, her forehead dotted with beads of sweat, so uncommon to most on such a cool summer's afternoon. Every part of her body ached, from the tips of her little toes to the crown of her little skull. Nevertheless she struggled forward, one foot after the other, the tattered soles of her shoes ambling across the heather-laden grasses of the moors. As if commanded by a will not of her own making Ruth traversed the wind-whipped grassland. All she could think of was that tiny oasis in this epic `desert', the one possible place for repose she'd spotted since leaving the village.

A chapel.

Had she been less hungry, less tired, less forlorn, less heartbroken; she might have asked herself why there was such a thing out here -- a chapel in the middle of the moors, with naught else around it but grass, heather, and a few golden plovers. But Ruth didn't dare look for a question in it -- she saw only a respite, a roof over her head. So she muddled on until her sluggish steps took all the way up the hillock and brought her face to face with her salvation.

It was not an imposing building. It was rather small for a chapel, even smaller than one might see in the most remote of English villages, and quite decrepit. Guarded by two broken, rotting arch-shaped wooden doors hanging from their hinges, its stone walls were cracked and moss-ridden. A rusty old iron cross stood crooked at its peak. Its roof had been taken to by bird droppings, droppings which had long since encrusted, leaving behind a murky constellation of dark and sallow. To identify the chapel there was only a dusty metal plaque fixed into the front wall, bespeaking its name.

That name was `Roehaven'.

However its condition mattered not to Ruth. It was her haven now, a place for rest. So the girl merely winced as she swept the cobwebs from the rotted oaken doors, then pushed inward. With a long, moaning creak it inched inward, allowing her access into the security of its walls. Ruth then stumbled inside. As soon as she was out of the moors she collapsed breathlessly against the door, her entire body aching. She was tired but she felt no urge to sleep. So Ruth gasped in breath only to observe her surroundings.

The innards of the chapel were no better than its outer shell. The rafters weren't sturdy, the pews, two columns of five, were as decayed and splintered as the doors were. The pale light of the early evening filtered into the chapel in fragmented, multi-coloured beams; a result of all the smashed stained glass windows. The alter itself had been overturned. Along the floors were piles and piles of dust, so thick you could scarcely see the floor beneath it. Equally dusty copies of the Bible were scattered across the ground. Cobwebs were hanging everywhere.

Ruth gazed at it all. It was more frightening inside than it was from outside. She had never been frightened by a church before. In fact church was one of the highlights of her life back in Ellgynberry village. It was there, every Wednesday and Friday, that she received schooling with her other apple-cheeked school chums. It was there that Father Huxley and Sister Mary Margaret had taught them how to read and write. At the tender age of fifteen Ruth and her friends already had more schooling than their parents had ever known. Even her mother, whom had been one of the most respected women in their congregation, knew not how to write the word.

She shut her eyes, smiling to herself at the beauty of those memories, those wonderful days of carefree giddiness and cheer. What had it come down to? Vagrancy? This place of squalor? A former house of God, most likely despoiled by heathens and robbers, as her home? The thought was like a tongue of fire, lashing her. Ruth drew her legs into chest and folded her thin arms around them and before she even knew it... she was sobbing. The melancholy of her weeping was penetrating. Its sound echoed, rustling the many cloaked black bats hanging from rafters like watchmen.

But who was she to judge the ones who ruined this place? What of her sins? She had done a terrible thing. Something so terrible that she'd dare not think herself worthy of forgiveness. God ought to punish her for it, she thought, perhaps this was her punishment, this horrible life she now had to live.

Ruth stayed like that, curled up like a baby and sobbing in one's vein, until she eventually cried herself to sleep. Her dreams were idyllic and thus tormenting; Ruth romancing herself with hazy images of her mother, off to work in the morning with the other seamstresses, with their eternal circle of complaints and gossip. She dreamt of others too. She dreamt of her burly father, shovelling down his lamb and potato supper every Sunday, and of her older brother, before his deployment at the Cape. Ruth beamed at the memory of the walks they would take around the village together.

That life had been ripped from her.

In her peculiarly blissful sleep the hours rolled by, unbeknownst to Ruth. She had never slept as long as this out on the fields. She was often too scared to sleep. It was a welcomed change. In fact if she had had her way she might never have woken up. But it was in the early hours of the morning that she did.

Ruth's eyes flashed open with a judder when she heard a howling wind belt into the chapel. It yelled through the broken windows and bellowed around her. Outside she observed the grass tossing in the gale. It made the chapel colder. There was no thunder, no lightning, not even a bit of rain, merely hounding winds beating against the chapel walls. That alone Ruth found all too terrifying. Now she was fully woken from her sleep, the girl crawled away from the doors, on her knees and in whimpers, to scuttle underneath one of the pews. Dust floated around her as she did. It made her sneeze, a sneeze which echoed, an echo that sounded all the more eerie now that the chamber was in pitch black darkness. Moments like this highlighted how alone she was. What if this were the case for miles around? What if she were alone like this forever?

The girl gasped. What had she heard? Had she heard... someone call her name? Ruth pulled her legs into herself and wrapped her arms around them as she had done before, curling into a ball. Her entire body shivered -- and not from the cold. In her fear she shut her bottle green eyes to block out her horrible environment.

There it was again! Ruth whimpered, once more stricken by that chilling voice and its watery, ethereal tone. It was a faint whisper that pierced her louder than the howling winds could have done. Even as the wind caused the chapel doors to shudder and rattle, Ruth's fear of the voice stopped her from noticing it.

A third time. The mill town girl was utterly terrified. She wasn't hearing things. The wind wasn't whispering to her. "I-is someone out there...?" she uttered into the darkness. She waited on a sword's edge to hear the answer. None were forthcoming. With the wind beating down upon the rooftop and pillowing through the broken windows with such forthright strength, she was too afraid to look around. Now Ruth found herself in the most taxing of predicaments; too scared to leave and too scared to go.

Suddenly there was a terrible thunder at the doors, a bang so powerful that it caused the pews themselves to tremble. With tremendous velocity the old wooden arches swung either side of the open doorway and clattered against the walls. A stronger gust of wind surged into the chapel, waving dust about, wildly tossing the scriptures into the air. Ruth clapped both of her hands over her ears to block it all out -- but that proved fruitless. She could still hear the groans and the screams of that chilling Yorkshire wind. It was then that she saw someone. She had not wanted to open her eyes but found compelled to do so for some strange reason. That same compunction caused her to see someone standing in the doorway. Because she was under the rear-most pew she could see naught of this person but his slightly muddy boots.

This person stepped forward, walking down the aisle, until they came to a stop at its centre. A pause followed, a pause broken only when an aged male voice yelled the words;

"Umbra advoco! Phasma Phasmatis, intereo!" The gentleman shouted, beset with vigorous application. "Umbra advoco! Phasma Phasmatis, intereo!"

A clap of light, of bright amethyst light, flashed across the entire chapel. Ruth shut her eyes and whimpered at the illumination, not knowing what to make of it. But that light certainly did not cower as she did. It thrust itself throughout all inches of the chapel to illuminate its entirety. The bats in the rafters flapped away through the gaps in the roofing. The rafters themselves were shaking. The dust and bibles in the air fell flying back down to the stone of the floor.

Then came the silence.

Ruth, still scared, didn't notice it. But as moments became minutes she realized that the bright purple light had gone. The wind had stopped howling and the chilling voice calling her name had now ceased to do so. Dust mingled with the tears in her eyes so thickly that it stung when she fervently rubbed them. It was at that point that the black boots of the man whom had entered the chapel strode up to the very pew she was rested under. From there she now saw that he had a cane. He tapped its ebony shaft against the wood of the bench.

"Show yourself." He beckoned.

Ruth bit her lip with indecision. The wind had stopped. But what was that light? Who was this man? The questions invaded her mind with the most forthright of speeds, irrespective of her situation. She could think of little else until the aging but strident man knocked the pew yet again, barking,

"I said show yourself..."

He sounded less convivial this time. Ruth swallowed the lump in her throat and crawled out from under the pew. As she arose, her skirts smudged by the filth spread over the floor like snow, she saw for the first time the man's face. She was at once, frightened by him. The man was by her own estimations, in his fifties, but he was well over six feet in height. The wrinkled flesh of his thin, angular frame belied a chilling strength that bordered on youthfulness. But he was dressed much the way a gentleman would be; as he wore a black morning coat and suit, a top hat and carried with him that diamond-headed cane. The golden chain of what Ruth could only assume was a pocket watch dangled from his waist to his left hip pocket.

His frown was broad as he eyed Ruth over. "Hmm. How old are you, child?"

This man's gravely voice served only to frighten the girl further. So she silenced herself even though it was clear that she was in no position to appear obstinate. Thus the old man snarled, briefly brandishing his teeth, before roughly tapping her shoulder with his cane. Ruth yelped.

" I can show you pain. Leagues of it. Pain that tarnishes a faint soul like yours for eons. Is that what you wish? To suffer? Or might you perhaps choose a different fate for yourself? Well? Speak!"

Ruth quaked in his presence. "...Please... don't hurt me..."

"Then tell me your age."

A gulp. "...Fifteen years, sir..."

"I see. Are you bleeding with the moon?"

"...Y-yes..."

The silver-haired man tipped his hat. "Very well. You appear suitable..."

As he said that the old man with the cane turned on his heels and stepped coolly back to the doorway of the vestibule. By now the wooden doors had fallen off the hinges completely and were laid out over the floor amongst the dust, splinters, bibles and glass shards. As he came to the way he paused; then glanced over his shoulder to stare grimly at Ruth; who hadn't moved an inch in any direction whatsoever.

"Why do you stand there like an bungling ornament?" He heckled. "Follow me or I shall leave you here to starve to death."

The man walked out thereafter. Ruth wasn't sure what she should do. But she knew one thing. She could not bear to spend another night in such a place as this. When she heard the rafters creak above her again, as though ready to collapse, she hurried along after him. A polished black carriage, complete with a pale brown thoroughbred at its yoke, awaited them. Ruth followed the old gentleman to it. He smoothly climbed atop it into the coachman's seat to take the reigns. Ruth stood still.

"Get inside," he demanded.

She was still too shaken to do anything but accept this man's orders. Ruth pulled open the left carriage door. But at once she saw that that carriage was not empty. On the contrary. There was another sitting softly and silently inside that vehicle. A woman. But from the very first glance Ruth could see that this was no ordinary woman. No. From the way she was dressed it was clear that she was a noblewoman, one of standing, she could tell by the intricate folds and pleats of her dark black dress, and the rimmed hat that she wore, that cast a thin net of fabric before her face, as well as the pendant dangling around her neck -- its chain silver, its stone onyx. Her hands were protected with silky white gloves and both of them she had sat poised in her lap. She was also unfathomably beautiful, possessing a long and delicate face of high cheekbones, thick fluttering eyelashes, thin rouge lips curled into a small and welcoming smile, along with haunting grey eyes and a veritable downpour of lush black hair that stretched all the way down to her shoulder blades. Her skin was pale and smooth, like a gleaming pearl freshly plucked from the ocean. From the looks of her she was approaching her mid-thirties, and yet she was so undoubtedly angelic in both her appearance and her demeanour, you might be forgiven in thinking her younger. Ruth was briefly staggered by how handsome this woman was. In fact she was the only true beauty Ruth had seen in quite a while. An appearance like hers demanded nothing less than adulation.

The woman gave her a small but warm smile. "You may be seated."

That was when Ruth realized that she hadn't climbed inside yet. So she did just that, hiking up her skirts around her thighs and getting inside, closing the door beside her. When she sat down Ruth froze in place. She couldn't think of a single work to say, not even in thanks. Fortunately the woman she currently sat next to seemed to take no offence.

"So," the woman began, her voice slow and sensual. "What is your name, dear child?"

"...Ruth. Ruth Whitley." She said timidly.

"I see. Such a pretty name," The Lady mused. "You may call me Cassandra Dawes. And what, might I ask, is such a young thing as yourself doing out here in the moors, all alone like this?"

"..."

Cassandra's calm smile widened partially, though Ruth seemed unable to notice it. "You know... I can't help you if you opt not to receive me."

But still Ruth could not find the words. This was a woman of elevation, the kind of woman her father had always taught her to show respect to, but how could she even begin to explain why she was huddled away in an abandoned chapel deep in the heart of the Yorkshire moors? She hardly wanted to remember the reason herself let alone inform others of it. How could she explain what she was? Even now she could hear the voices of the villagers reverberating in her head, mocking her, tearing her to pieces with their cruelties.

`Devil child!' they whispered. `Whore of Satan' they slandered. `Witch!' they scorned. Her horrible memory of those words made Ruth wince and tighten. She huddled up against the warm velvet cushion of the carriage, unable to speak or even think clearly -- and it was just then the carriage then started moving. She heard the fearsome old man whip at the reigns of the horse along with the trot of horseshoes and the rutting of the carriage wheels.

Cassandra still sat staring at her, waiting for an answer, but when it was clear that she would receive none, she merely exhaled. "...Very well. I suppose you needn't speak. I can... surmise. After all... you're practically reeking of it."

Ruth cast her a confused glance.

"Aether, dear girl," explained the older woman. "The near limitless life-force that exists deep in the heart of man, the will that propels us to our fate. You're practically drowning in it. And its why you heard those voices."

That had Ruth stunned. "...How did... you know about...?"

"Dear girl, you are not the only one who possesses an abundance of aether..." Cassandra glanced out the window of her door. "While you might not know it... you are one among many, myself included. Also of course, my dutiful man-servant, Mr. Whyte."

For a moment there Ruth wondered who Mr. Whyte was. Then she realized that Cassandra was talking about the tall old man whom had stepped into the chapel and found her, the one driving the carriage now. Somehow the surname `Whyte' seemed quite appropriate for him -- at least in Ruth's view.

Cassandra continued. "There are things in this world that mankind has sought to turn its eye from. What we fear, we demonise. When you exhibit something that transcends someone else's understanding you essentially level yourself at their feet for their judgement. But it is up to you to choose to submit to that judgement. Am I correct in believing someone made such a judgement of you?"

Ruth nodded, unable to say anything.

"Then you are reminiscent of me," Cassandra turned to her. "And I deduce that you have no place to turn; unless you considered journeying to a city to put yourself into a workhouse."

The very word sent shivers down her spine. Ruth had considered it -- but the horror stories she had heard about the workhouses had soured her to the idea immensely. Cassandra was right. Ruth had nowhere to go, no food to eat, and no money to speak of. The only things she had were the clothes on her back and the misery in her heart.

"Well?" Prodded Cassandra.

Ruth lowered her head. "...It's... as you say. I've nothing..."

Then something odd happened.

She quivered slightly when she felt something smooth touch her knee. When she looked down Ruth saw that it was Cassandra's gloved left hand. She glanced at the woman, not really knowing what to make of this, and received only Cassandra's calm smile in reply. Ruth looked back down at that hand, which now stroked back and forth along her leg, the motions slow and luxurious. Ruth recalled seeing lovers back at the village touching each other this way. It had her confused and scared, yet somehow... warm. Cassandra continued her slow caress of Ruth's lithe little leg even as she spoke;

"I might know of a place... where you could be safe," she said leisurely. "A place where you would be well fed, well clothed, where you'd not have to spend a single moment sleeping in cold and fear. You would be most welcome, Ruth."

The girl blinked. "...Miss Dawes, you would... take me there?"

"Certainly... for a price."

"But I've no money..."

Cassandra chuckled dryly, just as her warm hand stopped at Ruth's upper thigh. "Look at me. I don't require money. I've more than enough."

"Then... what is it you want?" Asked Ruth.

There was a silence. Ruth paused just as Cassandra did. Then she was completely thrown off course when Cassandra leaned across and abruptly pressed their lips together. Ruth's eyes shot open with alarm and she gasped in shock, caught completely off guard. Cassandra's sudden kiss pushed her back against the carriage's velvet cushioned wall with its speed, essentially immobilizing her. She could only whimper her disapproval from then on; with the older woman imposing herself, Cassandra's lips bearing down upon her own. The instant she gained her senses, Ruth pushed against Cassandra's shoulder to force her away, to stop this. But Cassandra's was an unshakable grasp to trifle with. Without breaking the kiss for a single instant she clasped Ruth's little wrists and pressed onto the seat either side of her dress.

Ruth was powerless then. She could only sit back and be taken as Cassandra tilted her head to one side and cajoled her mouth open. At once she felt the Lady's thin, dampened tongue slither sleekly into her mouth, flicking against her own, plunging down her throat. The intrusion was uncompromising. Though she couldn't break free Ruth squirmed against Cassandra's weight. She was simply bombarded by this woman and her presence, consumed by her; her hot tongue, her sylvan lips, her vice-like grasp, her faint apple scent. When it sunk in that there was nothing she could do Ruth slackened in the seat and slipped her eyes shut in defeat.

It was funny then that that was the very instant that Cassandra broke the kiss, dragging her tongue out of her mouth, wrenching from her with a smack. Ruth panted for oxygen, suitably ravished, whilst Cassandra sat back more comfortably in the seat. Now the brown-haired child knew what Cassandra had meant when she spoke of a `price'. But she wasn't ignorant of the scriptures either. For one woman to lie with another was a sin!

Ruth, her tear-tracked cheeks now flustered a bright rouge, shook her head. "I... I can't... do such things, I..."

Cassandra's hand took to her jaw then, and held her in place with a grip that was soft yet also very firm. "If I were you I would think very carefully. No matter where you go, the errant power that flows through your veins will shock and alienate everyone around you. You shall make an outcast of yourself before you've even arrived. And there are those out there who would truly kill you for your gifts. Is that what you want? To be hated no matter where you turn, no matter what you have to say to the contrary?"

Ruth slowly shook her head `no'.

"Then you shall be mine," asserted the raven-haired temptress. "You shall give yourself to me and all will be well. I will protect you from those that might threaten you, I shall shelter you. In return you must offer me your flesh and soul unequivocally. Do you understand all I have said?"

Dearest Ruth hadn't a clue about what she'd let herself in for. But what was her recourse? There was no home for her to go to now and with little as much as a farthing to go by it was only a short stop toward death if she turned down this offer. What choice did she have? After a moment of thought... she nodded her head `yes'.

"Excellent," Smiled Cassandra. "Then let us be on our way."

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