His Cemetery Doll Read Online Free Page B

gusts.
    She had long, soft, straight blonde hair, ashen and pale. Her features appeared smooth, gentle, but strangely...stiff. Expressionless, remote. Like the statue.
    It was the eyes he focused on...because she had none.
    Well, not precisely true. She might have eyes... but swaths of those satiny gray ribbons hid them, like a blindfold or bandages across a terrible injury. Under the wrappings, on the right side of her face, spidery black marks reached down her cheeks.
    Like... cracks. Cracks in...
    A mask?
    She waited at the foot of the path, where he'd just come from. He must have slipped right past her—within a hair of touching her.
    Or perhaps he'd moved through her.
    "Who are you?" he asked in a hush.
    The woman didn't answer. She canted her head—those features still didn't move, didn't so much as tic—and stepped lightly forward.
    She moved like a dancer. Her small, delicate foot pointed with a conscientious grace as she slipped closer through the fading mist. Her hidden gaze had to be focused on him, however: as she started to circle, her face remained fixed in his direction.
    "Who are you?" he demanded again. "What are you doing in my graveyard?"
    Still no answer. As she came near, he noticed something else about her. It tugged at the back of his mind, an instinct from his time as a soldier.
    Her movements proved graceful and careful, yes, like a dancer—but also predatory. Fluid.
    Like a wolf.
    More ribbons ran around her throat, like a choker. Thin lines— seams? —marked each shoulder, each elbow, and each knee and ankle.
    Joints.
    His mind raced, putting the pieces together.
    She...was a doll. A living, porcelain doll.
    He pressed himself hard against the statue, his mind in a stuttering panic. He could feel her studying him, even through her blindfold. As she moved, she remained utterly silent, even her footsteps on this softer ground. Where she walked, more frost marked her passage: he could see the shapes of her delicate bare feet in silhouettes of crystal white trailing behind her.
    "Who are you?" he asked again in a voiceless hush.
    She completed her thoughtful circle and stood directly before him. Her frozen features mimicked the faces of the stoic figurines Shyla sometimes pondered in the windows of the toymaker's shop. To Conall, they always seemed faintly sad...and in this life-sized version, the sense of sorrow became palpable.
    Without knowing exactly what he did, Conall reached out to her. His rough hand found the cracks on her cheek, and his thumb very gently ran across them. He felt the cold, broken texture of lifeless ceramic; but at his touch, the doll tilted her head to welcome it, as if the tiny warmth in his shivering fingers gave her something she desperately needed.
    The movement appeared halted and stiff, though. The pressure of her icy skin in his hand proved so terribly...fragile. Like a baby bird in his fingertips.
    "You're...broken," he whispered. His fingers moved to try and slide the ribbons from her eyes, but this made her turn from him, and her own freezing hand came up to pull his aside. Her drifting ribbons pulled a little closer to her—Conall thought she might have...cringed.
    "Why are you here?" he whispered. She bowed her head, and it finally settled into his mind, the thing which should have been obvious. She had no way to answer.
    Despite his misgivings, Conall found himself relaxing. He stepped out from the safety of his statue and brought up his other hand, to cup her face and tilt it up toward his. He stood taller; her diminutive form merely lent to the impression of fragility and grace. Under the drifting ribbons, though, her figure evoked soft, sensuous curves. He noticed the ribbons drifting about her had begun to drift closer toward him, almost curling around him.
    Mesmerized, Conall bent down to press his warm lips against the cold, frozen shape of her porcelain mouth.
    At first, nothing happened. Her lips felt smooth, perfect under his. She didn't move...but