Little Saint Bride [Death and the Maiden, #1]

Chapter One: the Bride

I've been saving my virginity for a certain special someone since I was thirteen. To anybody not from our island, that sounds far too early for a young teen to think of such things. Thirteen should be the age of schooling and kissing.

In Minoa, our crowded port of fishing and poverty, there is no law that states when a young person may legally have sex. We're a small island, steeped in tradition— and there's a tradition that means being a virgin can mean certain death.

For legends say Minoa is the Island of the Gods, and one God watches us above all others: Death.

In the last century, belief in the gods and goddesses of the courts has waned. Children now cuss using their names, whilst their grandparents blanch, but do not disagree. For if the gods of the Spring, Summer and Autumn courts exist, they have long forgotten us. In Minoa, it's only ever winter and cold. So, Death became our God, our most revered God— because Death is the only thing that's still rife here.

Nowadays, in between drinking and fishing and whoring, there's only one thing that weighs on everybody's minds when it comes to their female population, and that's the fact if they're still a virgin and older than sixteen, then once every ten years they may be "chosen". "Chosen" is a nice, gentle way of saying "up the shitting creek without a paddle". Because every ten years, one of the few religious festivals remain: Death takes a Bride.

They say that when Death finds the One, the never-ceasing winter in Minoa will end. The fields will harvest again. Game and fauna will return to the woods for the hunters to feed families. It's a charming notion, but one that hasn't borne any fruit for the past five hundred years. That's nearly fifty girls married off to Death, and not a daffodil grown in thanks.

I would know. I've done my research. The most I can gather is that Death is enjoying a harem, and has forgotten entirely about spring.

There's not usually a monetary award for marrying off a daughter to Death. No honour. No food to make it through the continuous frost. Nothing that might persuade anybody to give up a spare girl. Instead, most do their darned best to not be chosen.

The rich go as far as to employ professionals, who have undergone medical analysis to ensure their credibility, to save their daughters when the ten years are drawing close. The poor have no such security, but just as effective methods. Nobody in their right mind would willingly be chosen. But every ten years, there's always one plucked out, reluctantly, to be the next.

As I pull on a delicate garter made of lace, I smile to myself. I am many things, but being in my right mind is probably not one of them.

I am not thirteen any more, but five years has changed me beyond even my own estimation. I do not flinch as the garter sits tightly on my thigh, nor do I shrink away as one of the priestesses holds out a stocking for me to step into, all dipped in expensive ivory material.

I sit patiently whilst they lace up my bodice, and it seems to take forever; each pin and ribbon in every one of the hundred fasteners up my back. My breath comes in slow, deep, meditative breaths.

My name is Nerissa Cora Soteira. I am eighteen years old, and I am getting married, I tell myself.

The priestesses say nothing as they pull long, white gloves to hide my scarred forearms. They have said nothing all day as they bathed and primped each part of my battered body, and it's nearly sunset. Thankfully, the silence is welcome.

It's nearly time for my wedding.

I have never attended any weddings; in my family, we've had a lot of funerals. My father's wedding to my stepmother was non-existent; a drunken signature and a kiss in a shady registry office, somewhere. A signature and kiss that had extended from the time I was ten and this strange woman took to living with us.