Sample Sunday – Opening lines of Rex Rising

Happy Sunday to all. I decided to take part in Sample Sunday – posting a sample from one of my stories. I am giving you the opening of my dystopian YA novel Rex Rising, and hope in the next weeks to give you more samples from this and perhaps from other stories of mine, either published or in progress.

Opening lines of Rex Rising:

Blood seeped between Elei's fingers.

The small wound was above his left hipbone. He pressed down harder to staunch the bleeding and gritted his teeth. His pulse leaped under his palm as he sat shivering on a hard, cold bench. He rested his other hand on the grip of his holstered gun. In his blurry eyes, everything had a shimmering edge, suspended between reality and dream.

Then the world tilted.

Danger.

Elei jerked and sharp pain erupted in his side. Hissing, he drew his gun and waited. His possessed eye throbbed; cronion, the strongest of his resident parasites, hated surprises. The world lit up in bright colors. Be ready. His heart pounded in his chest, sent bruising beats against his ribs. He swallowed past a dry throat and gripped his gun until his knuckles creaked.

Nothing moved. Oblong objects around him pulsed in cool hues of green and blue. Safe. Nothing living. He relaxed a little. For a while he simply sat, left hand pressing against the wound, the cold metal barrel of the gun held against his right thigh.

"Hey, you," a man's voice said from behind.

Clamping his jaw, Elei lifted the gun and turned to point in the general direction of the voice. Cold wind blew his jacket hood back, allowing him a wider view. The man appeared at the right periphery of Elei's tainted vision — a splash of red. He went still when Elei cocked the hammer. The click rang too loud in the quiet.

"Calm down, will you," the man said, raising his hands. "Just checking on you. You're bleeding all over my boat."

The boatman. Elei let out a breath and lowered the gun, but didn't click the safety back on, just in case. The cold breeze ruffled his short hair and water splashed and murmured. The low hum of an engine set his teeth on edge. What was he doing in a boat out at sea? He prodded his memories, but came up blank.

Cronion beat at the back of his eyeball like a hammer. He forced his tense muscles to relax and rubbed his eye with his thumb until the dull ache eased. This time, when he blinked, he saw the surface of things, his unfamiliar surroundings — the wet prow, moonlight glinting on metal benches like the one he sat on, yellow lifesavers underneath them. The boatman stood by the rail, dressed in shabby trousers and a pale yellow shirt, watching him from under his dark cap. The light from a lamp set on a bench pooled around him. The sky stretched naked above, night-black and starry.

The boat rocked and listed. His legs slid. He was falling.

He threw his hands to the sides, to find a handhold, the gun screeching against metal. His fingers caught the edge of the bench. He clutched it, the deep, sharp pain in his side squeezing the air from his lungs, and he bent over, panting.

Broken pieces of memories rushed back with a deafening roar. Shots fired. Running through the streets. The docks of Ost.

He was crossing the straits between the great islands.

Shivers crawled up his spine. He lifted his hand and stared at the blood on his fingers. He'd been shot, but couldn't remember who'd done it.