I AM SIRIUS by Crystal Collier

My feet touch down on the ground, and I’m grateful for the solid earth. I glance back to the sky, the heavenly beacon I’ve left shining in my absence—a guide to my place in the great black once my month-long sojourn on earth ends. But for now, I’m free.

And there’s only one place I want to go.

I’ve had so many names through the centuries: Yoonir, Sigu Tolo, Tishtrya, An-Nahm, Tianlang, Tenro, and Canicula, but my favorite is Sirius—Sir if I don’t like you. Rius if I do.

Tonight I’m in a Rius mood. And who could blame me? After eleven months in the black heart of nowhere, I’m ready to break out a keg and party like it’s the end of time. Instead I’ll go around making plants wilt, weakening men, and my personal favorite, turning on the ladies. It’s my animal magnetism, which is ironic considering how many people associate my name with a dog.

A dog.

Loyal, fierce, blood-thirsty. Everything I’m not. Everything the goddess Ishtar wanted me to be.

I breathe in the pollen-laden wind, the scent of ripe corn and hay filling me with nostalgia. The satisfaction of a bounteous harvest after months of work. Good, honest work. The kind I miss followed by festivals and partying late into the night. I’m definitely primed for the partying, but there’s one thing I have to do first.

The “stars” holding my place wink down at me: Don’t be gone too long.

I give them the finger. “Go burn yourself. I’m never coming back.” I say that every year, and every year I’m sucked back into that hole of an existence by the invisible leash I feel even now tethered to my immortal heart. There is no such thing as true freedom. But if I could, I would escape.

According to mythology, I am a star, a whole collection of stars, a constellation. I don’t believe in mythology.

My soles scuff across asphalt, a wide black path leading me home. The night is quiet, except for the chirp of insects. The houses I pass are silent. Their windows are giant glassy eyes witnessing my sober ascent before the fun can begin: A man condemned to light the sky for eternity after offending a lesser god by passing her up for his wife. A man who cared about crops more than making eyes at pretty, petty things.

Ishtar, called me a dog. You know what they say about a woman scorned—especially one who presides over war? She thought she had me trapped, stuck out there in the black and all to herself, but I’m a resourceful guy. Nine centuries in, I found myself an ambrosia blade and slit her throat.

One celestial war later, I was back behind bars. But, as it turns out, the big guy up there really didn’t like his bratty little goddess, so he granted me one month off every year.

Source

Wind whistles between the metal bars guarding the cemetery. A gentle shove and the gates swing wide, admitting me into a sea of mausoleums and floral bouquets. Plants shrivel as I pass. It’s why I never bring flowers, though I would if I could. A whole field of them. Petunias and daffodils, forget-me-nots and daisies—all her favorites.

The tombs shrink in grandeur and grow older as I progress, until I’m standing before a little hill, a single white pinnacle beckoning me.

I take a deep breath, exhale, and move.

Nineteen hundred years. So much can change in nineteen hundred years. I’ve rebuilt her grave once every century since winning my freedom, and although the land has altered much in that time, her place is always the same. Wind and wear have smoothed the carved flowers on her stone to indistinct bumps, but the symbol of her name remains—the half crescent with underlining squiggles. My moon over the sea.

My fingers graze the weathered stone.

Rhea took a boy who flirted with anything (including goddesses, much to my detriment,) and turned him into a respected man, a pillar of the community. And then she paid for it with her life.

I kiss my fingers and press them to the faded stone flowers. “Sleep peacefully, my kuvalya.” My waterlily.

The issue with living forever is that I won’t see her again. Not in this life, not in the next. Never have the chance to hold her, to apologize, to promise she lives in my heart always and that I have no regrets. Except I do have one.

That our life together was cut short. Because of me. Which is why I’m going to get drunk out of my gourd and spend the next thirty days not caring about anything but becoming oblivious.

A dog whistle pierces my ears. Its pitch pulsates down my spine, resonating with the marrow in my bones, synchronizing with the vibration of my very atoms. I drop to all fours. My muscles lock. I twitch to break free, but it’s useless.

“Hey dog boy,” a sultry voice grazes the back of my ear.

My fingers dig into the dirt, aching to turn on the voice and demolish its source. She shouldn’t be here. She’s dead, and yet I know that voice from the heart of my cold nightmares. “You’re not real,” I hiss though a locked jaw.

She circles me, translucent skirt revealing the length of her legs. I glare at the ground.

“Oh, I’m very much real, and very much in the mood for vengeance.” Her final word lingers like the jangle of a rattlesnake, pulling my gaze to the source of danger—ultra-white teeth between crimson lips.

I look back at the grave before me. She had her vengeance ages ago, along with my desire to live. “How are you here, Ishtar?”

She sits on my Rhea’s gravestone, crimson nails curling over olive skin as she crosses her arms. A curtain of ebony hair silhouettes her shapely form, emphasizing the smallness of her bustier and width of exposed bosoms. She leans forward to give me a better view. “I thought you believed in reincarnation, dog boy.”

Any man would find this she-demon irresistible. Any man but me. I roll my eyes and focus on a tree in my periphery.

“Every thousand years I am born again in mortal form.” Her voice is like ink, dripping in my ear, drowning my brain.

“How wonderful for you,” I mutter, and then the last two words sink in: mortal form. She’s mortal. She’s vulnerable.

If I could break free from this paralysis…

She laughs. “Soon I will ascend to my place on high.” She points to the heavens. “I wanted you to know before I leave that your efforts to end me were futile. Oh, and your brother’s bloodline, the people you check up on year after year? They are going to die. Very soon. All of them.”

Rage surges through me. It pounds in my head like a drum, calling for strength, tremoring down to my toes. Though my body no longer possess blood, the immortal substance that fills my veins burns like magma, igniting my being.

“And this?” Ishtar pats Rhea’s headstone, “This will be crushed and the entire plot of earth turned into a cesspool.”

My fists are locked. Something cracks inside me, like my veins have broken open and leaked the inferno pulsing through me. Fire throbs from my knuckles into my core, barely contained by my skin. It simmers, liquidifying everything inside me, eating away my organs and replacing them with molten fury. The essence of a star.

“And the best part?” Ishtar lifts a hand to the sky, cupping the light that holds my place. “You will watch me do it, powerless to stop me like the leashed dog you are.”

Ishtar is fixated on my place in the sky, oblivious to the transformation occurring right in front of her. I am burning. My skin crackles and I release the last stands of restraint. I will never, NEVER let her harm another innocent. She will not enslave another person so long as I live. This. Ends. Now.

I growl and blinding light breaks through my skin. The grass beneath me shrivels and blackens, turning to dust. Cold heat rips free and I scream, exploding into a billion pieces. The night is nothing but light, freedom, and consuming wrath.

I am a star.

***

I wake to the dawn, the sun barely free of the horizon. With a gasp, I feel my arms, solid and human. I sigh in relief.

Blackened earth stretches out around me, all except for a star shape circling Rhea’s grave. A sliver of crimson fingernail remains on the stone, singed across the top as if burned free by a blow torch.

Ishtar is dead. For now.

Another thousand years and she’ll be back, as conniving and vicious as ever. And I’ll be here, waiting for her, ready to hunt her down like the dog she claims I am.

I am Sirius.

Crystal Collier is a young adult author who pens dark fantasy, historical, and romance hybrids. She can be found practicing her brother-induced ninja skills while teaching children or madly typing about fantastic and impossible creatures. She has lived from coast to coast and now calls Florida home with her creative husband, four littles, and “friend” (a.k.a. the zombie locked in her closet). Secretly, she dreams of world domination and a bottomless supply of cheese. You can find her on her HERE.

Call of the Wild

A reluctant camper...

“C’mon, Jenna. It’s just for a bloody weekend.”

Trying to dissuade Quentin from doing anything was like trying to change myself into a frog. “Why won’t Alan go with you?”

He harrumphed. “Alan doesn’t like to get his feet wet. He’s fussier than your big ol’ white cat.”

           

“Churchill goes out in the rain—well, not that he likes it, but he does.” I took a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll go, but what do I need to take?”

           

“Bravo!” He nearly danced out my door. “Pack your sleeping bag and a bottle of insect repellant. I’ll fetch the rest.”

“Insect repellant,” I grumbled to myself as I moved back inside the house. What in the world had I gotten myself into? Being Quentin’s BFF had its drawbacks.

Saturday morning rolled around before I had a chance to back out. Quentin pulled up to my driveway and hopped out of his car like a boy on an adventure.

“This is going to be such a lark,” he said as he settled his long, lanky body in my small Honda for the ride to Cumberland Island. “I’ve been reading about this place forever. It’s absolutely natural. A beach with no hotels and tacky restaurants. Can you imagine it? Pristine. Like the beaches in

Photo of Cumberland Island

Cornwall.”

“The beaches in Cornwall are not populated because it’s cold and wet there.”

“They’re promising sunshine here, love.” He’d begun fiddling with his laptop.

“Yeah, it’ll be hot as hell without air conditioning.”

He glared at me. “Don’t be such a sod. You’re gonna love this.”

Yeah like I love freezing on a snowy mountain in ski boots that pinch my feet, another of Quentin’s bright ideas.

“Hey, listen to what the website says. ‘Cumberland Island, Where Nature and History Meet. St Mary’s is the gateway to Georgia's largest and southernmost barrier island.

He exhaled as if allowing his imagination to soak up the place.

“It sounds wonderful,” I acquiesced. I’d heard of this wilderness paradise ever since I’d moved to Georgia. What attracted me was not the wilderness so much as the horses that lived in the wild there. But, what had me a little nervous was what other kinds of wild critters might lurk in the underbrush.

We reached St. Mary’s, a small Georgia coastal town with clapboard houses and fishing boats, a perfect setting for an Agatha Christie mystery. My GPS took us to the dock where we were to meet the ferry to go over to Cumberland Island, the only way to get to that barrier wilderness surrounded by water.

Quentin placed his red Georgia Bulldog cap on his head and leapt from the car. “Hurry up, Jenna. We don’t want to miss the ferry.” He seized the two duffels and the sleeping bags from the backseat. I grabbed my purse full of sunscreen and perfume. Okay, I never wear perfume, but who knew when I’d be able to take a bath in this wasteland.

We joined a group people on the dock.

“They said the snakes are as large as trains over here,” a blond girl told her companion. She wore a low-cut tee and shorts that hugged her rather meaty thighs.

I tossed Quentin a look and mouthed, “Snakes?”

He shrugged.

Oh my God. Wonder what else he forgot to tell me!

“I’d be more fearful of the shooter,” the man, standing next to the girl responded through his snaggletooth. Apparently his parents didn’t believe in orthodontics.

Shooter? Did he say shooter or scooter? Geez.

The girl snuggled close to the snaggletoothed man. “You think he’s here?” Her voice shook.

“C’mon, Stace, he won’t be on the Island. He’s probably done escaped to Cuba by now.”

“Sorry to intrude, but did you say shooter?” I asked.

“Yep. Y’all must be just now getting here?”

“Right-o. Five minutes ago from Athens,” Quentin popped in.

Both stared at Quentin as if he’d dropped from the sky.

“Are you a gen-u-ine Brit?” the girl asked. She moved a bit closer to Quentin and looked him up and down. Apparently snaggletooth wasn’t as interesting.

“That I am, straight off the boat from Manchester. Tell us about this shooter, won’t you?”

The man wrapped his arm around the girl to protect her from Quentin who didn’t have the least interest in the fairer sex. “Some lowlife shot a girl and her kid coupla nights ago. Lest ways that’s what the people in these parts are saying. He up and ran and the po-lice are still looking for ‘im. I was just joshing little Stacy here ‘bout him a being on the Island.”

The ferry pulled up. The people unloading looked as if they’d endured an episode of The Survivor, dirty, droopy-eyed, not a smile among them. They peeled off in twos or threes, dragging their dirty bags behind them.

Quentin moved from foot to foot, clearly anxious to get onboard.

“My name’s Billy Joe,” snaggletooth said. He held out a big hand to Quentin who took it with a quick shake and then wiped it on his jeans. “Quentin Pearson and my friend, Jenna Scali.”

           

“Pleased to meet y’all,” Stacy said. “This y’all’s the first time to Cumberland too?”

“That it is.” Quentin said with a quick glance to make sure I was following along and had not escaped to parts unknown. He handed me one sleeping bag.

We’d made our way starboard, away from Billy Joe and Stacy who climbed to the top. The breeze nearly swiped Quentin’s hat off his head, but he grabbed it in the nick of time.

The island appeared over the horizon looking like something out of South Pacific. The sand almost white with nothing to mar the expansive shoreline. Not a soul in sight.

When the driver docked, he pointed us in the direction of the campgrounds. Most of the people onboard went that way. A few stayed on the boat, apparently going to the small inn somewhere on the other side.

Quentin tugged my arm. “Let’s get our feet wet before we head to the camp.”

I followed him. The sun penetrated my thick hair causing my scalp to tingle. Where was my hat? Probably tucked in the bag with the insect repellent. Pieces of driftwood littered the sand. But, unlike other beaches, there were no signs of civilization—like empty beer cans or even pieces of shells.

A figure moved way down the beach.

“Did you see that?”

Quentin had moved closer to the shore. “What, love?”

I headed in the direction of the shadow. “There, just beyond those dunes. I saw someone.”

Quentin followed. “Hold up!”

I reached the place where I’d seen the movement. Nothing. Birds chirped from the trees and several mosquitoes made a meal out of my bare arms and legs. I slapped them away.

“Did you see a wild horse?” Quentin asked. Hoof marks covered the sand. 

“I saw a man on a horse.” I followed the hoof marks toward the dunes.

Quentin panted behind me. “Probably a ranger, patrolling the area.”

“What ranger? I didn’t hear anything about rangers and anyway why would he disappear like that?” I continued to trace the horse’s path.

“Jen, we don’t want to get too far from the camp.” He pulled on the back of my shirt.

The beach was covered in low-lying trees, thick with green growth. A man on a horse could easily disappear among the underbrush.

“C’mon. We need to get ourselves settled at the site before all the good spots get taken,” Quentin said.

Reluctantly, I followed him back.

That night as I shivered around a ridiculous fire that barely kept a blaze, Billy Joe told Quentin all about his camping exploits. Bored, I wandered toward the latrines. Yes, latrines. Basically they were holes in the ground where we were expected to remove our panties and pee. Yuck. Maybe if I ate and drank nothing, I’d never have to use those facilities.

I walked back behind the trees that blocked off the camp and gazed at the moon on the water.

Someone grabbed me by the arm and knocked me down. “What—“ I yelped.

A deep voice said, “You saw me today, you nosey bitch…” Eyes glared from the darkness out of a hairy face. Had I been caught by Godzilla with an southern accent?

I caught sight of the gleam of a gun when the man grimaced, released my arm, and fell like a tree on my leg.

Billy Joe stood over him with a large club in his hand. “You okay?” he asked, helping me to my feet.

I brushed off my backside. “I think so. What or who was that?”

Billy Joe lifted the gun Godzilla had been holding and handcuffed him. “My guess he’s our shooter.”

“Our?”

He grinned, giving me a good look at his snaggletooth in the moonlight. “Stace and I are here undercover. We suspected this here fella was hiding on the island. So, we came a looking. Surenuf, you found him for us. Good job! Don’t know how you snuffed him out. My guess is he’d been deep in the bush on the island, really hard to snag.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly mean to. But, so glad I could help.”

Quentin came running in our direction. “What the devil…” he said, seeing the shackled man on the ground.

“Your girl helped us nab this fugitive. Good thing I was here otherwise he might’ve blown her head off, too.”

Quentin gasped and scowled at me. “My lord. I can’t take you anywhere without you getting into some muddle.”

Billy Joe moved toward the shore and peered out. “The ferry is on the way back to take our prisoner. Stace and I will be off with him. Good to meet y’all.”

The goon moaned when Billy Joe turned him over.

“I’m not gonna miss that ferry,” I told Quentin on my way back to the site to gather my stuff. “I’ve had enough of this camping thing. I’m heading home to my cats and my warm bed.”

We found a cool little B&B in the town for the night. I settled into a warm bubbly bath and sighed.

Now that’s my idea of camping.

***

This story debuts Jenna and Quentin who will appear in Joan C. Curtis' new mystery series, The e-Murderer, scheduled for release by MuseItUp Publishing in September 2015.