Imprint (a novel) Book One- The Jade Dragon

Ice & Snow

Rachel awoke alone in the middle of an open snow capped field. A thousand shimmering ice crystals drifted over the adjacent hills catching on the memory of sunlight. Thick dark clouds smeared an ominous gray swung low to skirt the treetops and loose an icy wind. A crow cawed in the distance filling the empty hillside with a deepening sense of dread. For a moment she just sat there, confused, taking in her surroundings.

This can't be real, she thought to herself.

She dug her hands into the snow and bit back on her lip at the icy sting, at a sensation that was very much real. Her breath caught in the frigid air as she flexed her fingers through the misty vapor.

I hit my head on the truck- this can't be real, she concluded.

Memories of the city, of the Jade Dragon Antique Shop, Auntie Chen, and the delivery truck still fresh in her mind. She remembered falling into a stack of boxes- the crash- and Paul, the delivery boy pulling her out of the mess, but there was something else. With a deep sigh she pushed away from the snow, falling onto her knees, the curve of her elbows pressed deep into the white powder, in search of the katana recalling its mystery. A strange obsession surfaced, not unlike a drowning man desperate for air, a force from within demanding the location of the weapon, but it was nowhere to be found.

The thunder of hooves pounded nearby on a dirt road in the distance. Rachel looked up. Hoping to catch a glimpse of horse and rider, but whoever they were, their identities were obscured by the surrounding forest and blankets of snow. Determined to get help she set off in the direction of the road when the shock of a woman's scream stopped her cold.

The eerie cry bounced off the surrounding forest like waves in a still pond. The vibrations pushed back at her and settled in the pit of her stomach. A wave of nausea rushed in. In an instant, she doubled over and emptied the contents of her stomach, until all that remained was a dry heave. She wiped at her mouth, disgusted by the sudden urge and continued on toward the harrowing scream. The velvety pulse of her heartbeat pressed against the curve of her ears, as she moved uphill, drawn to the mystery, and unable to quell the curiosity that would ordinarily send her running in the opposite direction.

A small valley lay nestled on the opposite side of the field. In the midst of the snowy basin stood a large manor of Japanese origin, fashioned like some great museum piece. The manor was engulfed in flickering waves of red-gold flame. A jigsaw puzzle wall of pebbled stone surrounded the home acting as a buffer from the dripping flame to the surrounding tree line. A tall square gate sat toward the center, its mammoth doors thrust open. A group of hooded figures huddled close in the shadow of the gate on horseback.

Rachel moved down the hill, batting away stray tree limbs, her hands spread wide against the low hanging branches that reached out into the coming night like clawed hands. A strange urgency settled in. Drawing her closer, and closer to the burning home. The stench of burning wood intensified as she drew close. An inner voice warned of danger, and silently she obeyed, keeping her movements quiet along the edge of the surrounding tree line and observed the scene.

At close range, there were five distinct hooded figures outside the burning home, three on horseback, and two on foot, cloaked in thick red fur-lined robes. Their features kept hidden. Two of the hooded figures stood guard over a man wearing a gray kimono, crushed underfoot in the snow, his features slightly obscured by his tussled black hair. A sword lay sideways in the snow just out of reach. A winding trail of blood veered away from it toward a young woman with tears in her eyes. Rachel focused on the young woman, not much older than she was, with smooth creamy white skin and soft brown eyes. She was swaying back and forth on her knees in a torn white kimono- splattered with blood. A child lay in her arms, swaddled in a light blue blanket, eerily silent and unmoving. The trail of blood was darkest there and Rachel cupped a hand over her mouth, the nausea returning, and pieced together the tragedy.