stood. A rain of eucalyptus leaves scattered across her in the
breeze. Her face fell into the tree’s shadow, unreadable and
unfamiliar. She pulled her dracoultri from the sheath at her belt,
the steel making a singing noise as it exited its sheath. The tip
shone like poison in the low light as she sliced a thin cut across
her palm. A red droplet welled from the wound and splattered onto the
dusty path. “A pact,” she said, and gave Erik the dagger. Erik stood and wordlessly took it from her. After a moment of careful
consideration, he sliced a very thin straight line across his hand.
The length of the wound Erik had inflicted surprised him. His blue
eyes were unreadable as he passed the knife on to Tristan. Tristan
sucked in a deep breath as he rose to his feet. It was strange to
hold another Hunter’s dracoultri, something that somehow seemed more
personal and vulnerable than naked flesh. The charms she’d carved
into it, charms for strength and fortitude, stared up at him. He
pricked the smallest of holes in the meaty portion of his palm,
wincing all the way. He held out his hand to them, palm down.
Jade set her wet palm atop his, and Erik put his above hers. Their
blood ran in twin streams down his skin, slow and thick. It mingled
with his as it dripped onto the stone path, dust scattering from its
wake. They had done this before. A promise in Year Five to
always stay together. A promise in Year Eight to a crying Erik that
even if his family forgot about him that they would never, ever
forget. Now, this promise would bind them together again. Tristan
prayed it would see them through. “I promise not to leave you
two alone in the garden tonight,” Erik said with a little quirk of
his lips. “I promise to steal a lot of food for us to eat
while we’re gone,” said smiling Jade. “I promise not to let
them take us from each other,” Tristan whispered, unsmiling, their
blood warming his cold hand.
This house designed by A.L.X. Architects, faces a stunning cherry blossom tree. Of course, the cherry tree played a major role in the design and orientation of the house. The form of the house is similar to the cherry tree growing out from a vertical trunk in search of light and views.
i want to be a sunday school girl in the ‘60s, red ribbons in my hair, two neatly tied plaits the color of wheatfields, riding my bike down cobblestone streets, sunlight kissing my neck.
i want to be a tattooed punk rock worshipper, electric blue hair and ray-bans, fishnet stockings and the city a blur of entangled lights in the rear-view mirror of my motorcycle.
i want to be a venice girl who reads valentines for a living, rapunzel hair all soft sculptured ringlets, a pet blue bird and summer dresses in floral prints, long eyelashes and sowing glitter.
i want to be a french artist and revolutionist in the ‘90s, nude paintings and led lights, portraits out of beer cans and pencil shavings, a student of the fine arts falling in love again and again with the light and how it falls on the sidewalks & people’s faces & the trees.
i want to be this girl and that girl, a romanian princess in her 20’s, an old witch with a grisly past, a lost traveller on the run, a victorian model, a historian with an appetite for gardening, an archaeologist who nicknames all her finds, a singer who grates her guitar on boulevards in italy and cafes in paris for the spare dime, an english man’s favorite daughter. i want to be a struggling ballet dancer with an emotional dependency on poetry, an astronaut who discovers a parallel universe, a noir film actress who smokes too much and has eyes like diamonds, a fortune teller, a vigilante, a musician. every girl’s soul whispers to me.