The Darkest Hand Trilogy Box Set

by Tarn Richardson

“I would have brought more but …”

  Angulsac raised his hand to silence her.

  “I know. And your offering is kind. It will sustain some and hopefully reduce others’ hunger – and their savagery a little.”

  Sandrine was always touched by how they tried to distance themselves and their vulgar feasting from her as they ate. She’d seen them eat a thousand times, had watched the animalistic passion with which they gorged themselves on the flesh of whatever Sandrine was able to bring. It had never revolted her in terms of a spectacle. What did repulse her was that they were forced to live like this, like animals, underground, feeding on the detritus and filth cast away from the butcher’s block, unable to step beneath the sun and fend for themselves.

  They gorged themselves the best they could on the bloodied offerings within the basket, stuffing food into their mouths quicker than they could swallow it; flesh, blood and fur guzzled as if it were the finest of French cuisine. Calath looked up, feasting greedily, her eyes now burning brightly.

  “Calath,” Sandrine called to her in greeting, her eyes moist, her hands locked in prayer to her lips. How it pained Sandrine to see her reduced to such carnality.

  What had been brought by Sandrine in the bag lasted mere moments before it had been consumed, bones, skin, fur and flesh of the few dead creatures gathered from the streets of Fampoux or caught on her journey to their lair. Those who had not already done so now slunk away from the empty stained remains of the bag, like hyenas cheated from a kill.

  Not a single drop of their meagre meal was wasted. They sucked fingers and wiped mouths with backs of hands, which they then licked like starving cats.

  “The British,” someone called from the mass of bodies, “they have come then?”

  “Yes. They are in Fampoux.”

  “And they let you through to the village?” Baldrac asked, his face a vivid crimson from the food he had taken. Bloodied strands hung from the sides of his mouth and fingers which he began to clean meticulously.

  Sandrine sat on a rock and rested her head on a hand. “I came via the tunnels. They were making preparations for defence when I left the village to come to you. They were looking elsewhere. I was able to gather up what I could and step out to you without any bother. We will see how they treat me and these errands once they have settled for a little while in the town.”

  “You weren’t followed, were you?” Baldrac asked. He always asked that question, once his hunger had abated a little.

  “I was not,” replied Sandrine. “I do hope that the British will be kinder visitors in our town than the Germans.” She sank her head into her hands and rubbed her eyes, exhausted. “I have hope,” she said, looking over at them.

  “They are men,” spat Angulac grimly. “We do not hold out much hope.”

  “You were a man once, Angulsac,” Sandrine replied.

  “I was,” he replied, chewing the end off a length of bone and sucking at the marrow within. “And look at me now,” he said sadly. “It was too long ago now. I forget.”

  “I don’t,” Sandrine replied swiftly. “You may yet be a man again.”

  Angulsac laughed thinly. “I admire your optimism, my dear. But I know our curse is as firmly laid as the chalk rock about us.” He crunched at the end of the bone, crushing the fragments within his mouth. He turned them about his tongue before swallowing. “We are beyond saving. All I hope is that we might be granted the final word in this most bitter of tales.”

  “I would not turn back,” Baldrac called, shaking his head and scratching at his skull with his gnarled withered fingers.

  “You would not?”

  “Not if the turning back equalled the pain of the original turning. Such torment. My bones still recoil from the pain,” he said, and to illustrate the bitterness of his memory he massaged his shoulder.

  Calath sneered. “I too remember when they cast me down, so much so that I can remember nothing before that moment, only their wretched words, the bile and hatred uttered by them, the red heat of their curse, a brand for all of eternity.” She shuddered and wept pathetically.

  “At least they have stopped cursing,” said Sandrine, attempting to bring a little light to the conversation.

  “Yes, recognised their folly finally,” spat Baldrac. “Now, instead they hunt us, like vermin. Exterminating us like rats, to ensure our silence.”

  Angulsac smiled darkly. “Too late for that.”

  “Come, tell us, how was Arras?”

  “Fine.”

  “Did you …”

  “I did. It has been done.”

  “All according to plan?”

  Sandrine hesitated.

  “Come, what is it Sandrine?”

  “It’s nothing. I am just a little tired. The deed has been done. We must now wait, and pray.”

  “Pray?” spat Angulsac. “Ha! You forget. We all stopped praying many years ago!”

  “You are so good to us, princess,” Calath said, shuffling forward to the feet of Sandrine, nourished a little by the taste of blood. “Your father would be proud.”

  The mention of her father brought a wrench to Sandrine’s heart. She never knew her father, not properly, not as other families. For so much of her life, Sandrine had been alone, cared for by distant cousins and strangers in her childhood, finding her own way in Fampoux during her adolescence. Her pain was made all the greater knowing that he had been there, just half a mile from the outskirts of the village, inaccessible but for the most restrictive of visits. And those hateful visits, which could only be short during daylight hours, brought their own demons and resentment. Sandrine always felt she was growing up in the shadow of neglect and a father she could see but could never reach. As her mother had proved, there could be no chance of a normal relationship between the father and his offspring.

  The isolation had brought a self-sufficiency and a spirit to Sandrine, but it had also tormented her so much so that she wondered whether she would ever be able to love, or be loved, with truth and sincerity. At times she’d felt the almost unbearable weight of neglect and loneliness, so great she wondered how she could go on. But now, buried within that rancid cave, surrounded by those desperate souls, she felt more wretched and alone than ever.

  “You look sad, little one,” Calath called, a concern clenched about her words.

  Sandrine forced a smile and buried her misery deep inside of her, as she always did eventually. With everything she had in her world above – compared to these lamentable creatures, doomed to remain in the filth and darkness – she refused to reveal her hidden sorrow to them. But inside her emotions churned. She felt stunted, like a seedling starved of light. She knew her heart was like that of a flower waiting to reveal itself and its true beauty, but having had so little love with which to cultivate it, the bud was firmly closed.

  “I mourn for you, Calath,” Sandrine replied, reaching out and drawing her to sit beside her on the rock she had found.

  “You are kind, Sandrine.”

  “Kindness does not come into it, Calath. You are family. I just hope what my father and I have done is enough.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  22:14. WEDNESDAY, 14 OCTOBER 1914. PARIS. FRANCE.

  Cardinal Monteria gently snatched the letter from Silas’ hand without a word and stepped to the window to read it, a lamp standing nearby. He recognised Poré’s firm pronounced letters on the envelope, a man confident in both himself and his thoughts.

  It was only a short letter, written in haste, judging by some of the raggedly penned characters, a scruffiness which rarely blighted Poré’s usually immaculate hand. With minimal fuss he thanked Monteria for his last letter and his excellent news regarding the American Ambassador, of which Poré announced that he had been almost overwhelmed to hear. He also acknowledged the dangers which faced them, writing that he ‘‘would be taking steps to ensure that their plans go unimpeded by those who wish to thwart them.’’

  A wave of cold panic swept over Monteria and he swallowed on hi
s dry throat, his eyes rising to the dark Paris skyline beyond his window as he wondered just what steps Poré might be inferring. He was aware of Silas’s eyes on him and he scolded the servant for remaining in his presence unrequested, ushering him away with a flap of his hand.

  He stared back at the letter, grasping at the final words in the hope that they might give him something to allay his fears.

  ‘‘Cardinal Bishop Monteria. I will be joining you in Paris at the next available opportunity. I look forward to our meeting then.’’

  FIFTY-TWO

  19:24. WEDNESDAY, 14 OCTOBER 1914.

  FAMPOUX. NR. ARRAS. FRANCE.

  The shadows were long and a chill wind had grown from out of the north, by the time Sandrine returned back to her ruined home. She looked at the tumbledown terrace from the street and shivered, not through cold but through apprehension for the night to come. The small amount of food she had taken to the clan would do little to appease their hunger. It was like crumbs to birds. Their appreciation of the gift had been great, but, once the moon rose above the skyline, the hunger and the rage would still be terrible.

  Confusion and fear racked her. She was caught in a maddening place, between trying to save her liberators and trying to stave off her clan’s hunger. She took solace from the fact that soon, perhaps, maybe, she hoped, all would be over. She would pray, but it was prayer which had first delivered her and the clan into such peril and suffering.

  Henry jumped when Sandrine pushed open the door to the house.

  “You are not much of a soldier,” she said, “jumping when a woman enters the house!”

  “Wasn’t expecting you,” Henry smiled, recovering and unconsciously straightening his hair into some semblance of style.

  “Have you made the house safe?” she asked, like an officer to one of his juniors. “It’s soon dark.” Henry couldn’t help but laugh.

  “What is this? I have two Majors ordering me about now, do I?”

  But Sandrine ignored him and repeated the question again, even more seriously.

  “Yes. Well, I’ve patched up the door. Boarded up the window. You look tired.”

  Sandrine was. Exhausted. She rubbed a hand across her face, as if trying to brush the weariness away from her.

  “I can make tea,” Henry said, in a tone which made him sound proud of the fact. “Here, take a seat.” He wiped down the chair, from which he had been writing, with a hand and set it before Sandrine.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  “Please do call me Henry.”

  “Thank you, Henry. Do you have anything stronger? Feel like I could do with a proper drink.”

  “Ah,” replied Henry, bowing his head so that his chin was on his chest. “I don’t think I—”

  “I think the Germans would have taken all of my spirit. Let me look …” Sandrine began, levering herself up from the chair.

  “No, no, let me,” Henry insisted, raising his hands as a sign he could do whatever was asked of him.

  “You are very kind. In the pantry, at the back under the little window, there’s a tile in the wall.” Henry wandered his way through to the room. “Is it untouched? Should be some bottles inside.”

  Henry reappeared moments later at the door.

  “Empty, I’m afraid,” he said, pulling a face. Sandrine looked crestfallen. “Sorry about that.”

  “There you go again,” retorted Sandrine, although there was a lightness in her voice. “Apologising! You English! You are sorry for everything.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right, bit of a national pastime of ours. Can I make you tea?”

  “Tea! The other great British pastime. Is there no coffee?”

  “I don’t think so,” replied Henry, rummaging through his stores. “I might be able to find you some from—”

  “No, don’t worry,” said Sandrine, wearily. “I will take tea.”

  He headed off to the kitchen where he had set up a stove.

  Sandrine listened to the sound of his knocking and tinkering as she leaned forward, resting her head into her hands, her eyes closed, enjoying the swirl of her tired mind slowing to a halt.

  “I’ve tidied up a bit,” Henry called into the room. “Don’t know if you've noticed.”

  Sandrine hadn’t. She sat up and looked about herself.

  “All I care about is whether the doors and windows are safe,” she answered. But then she felt unkind and said, “But it looks much better. Thank you.” It still looked a mess, but she could see the Tommy had made an effort, of sorts, a British and male effort at tidying up, which involved moving everything to the side of the room and hiding the worst of the mess where he thought it was out of sight.

  “I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Henry said, appearing at the door and pulling a face of guilt.

  “What, securing the house?”

  “No, I mean …” He shrugged awkwardly. “Cohabiting.”

  “My dear Henry, you English are so sweet. If you are that uncomfortable about it, you can leave anytime you like.”

  “No,” replied Henry, quicker than someone would have if they thought it a bad idea. His response rather shocked him. “No,” he said, slightly less passionately, “no, it’s fine, it’s just not army protocol to share residences with residents like this, especially a single female resident. Are you single?” he asked again, a little more pointedly than he was expecting.

  “Single? Yes, I have no husband or boyfriend, if that is what you mean,” Sandrine answered flatly, as if replying to a mundane question, but there was a mischievous light in her eyes. She looked up through her dark eyelashes and smirked. “Goodness me, Henry,” she said, allowing the smile to take root on her face, “are you blushing?” She stole forward from the chair and grabbed him from turning to hide his embarrassment. “You are!” she cried, and she laughed and ran her hands through his hair. “You are blushing!”

  “All right!” replied Henry, a little hotly at the teasing. Privately he adored the feel of her on him.

  “You are blushing, Henry!” Sandrine laughed and she stood back and shook her head. “You are a quite remarkable man, Henry.”

  He swiped at his hair to smooth out any ruffles and coughed uneasily. “Stop teasing,” he said.

  “I’m not. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you before.”

  “Don’t say that. I’m sure you have.” He picked up his pencil and played with it absently in his fingers.

  “All the men I’ve known, they had, how do you say in English? A head that is too big?”

  “Arrogant?” he suggested.

  “Arrogant!” Sandrine cried. “But you?” She came forward again and placed her hands on his jawbone, looking hard into his face to see if there was anything to suggest her thoughts where wrong. “You are a beautiful man. Do you know that?”

  “Ah, right. Good,” Henry replied falteringly, easing himself back and thrusting a fist into a palm, as was his way. “Well, anyway, like I was saying,” he continued, and then suddenly rushed back to his stove to take the boiling water from the flame, cursing when he burned his fingers.

  “So,” Sandrine said, sitting on his chair and crossing her legs, watching him closely, this small and correct Englishman, the flicker of emotion catching inside her. She swept her hair over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “You are happy to stay here then? With me?”

  “It’s just, I’m sure my superiors would have something to say about it, but that’s okay.” He noticed a line of dirt on the inside of one of the mugs and smudged it away with his thumb. “Do you like your tea strong?”

  Sandrine ignored the question. “Talking of your superiors, what did they say when you passed on my message?”

  Henry appeared at the door, playing sheepishly with its wooden surround . “I …”

  “You haven’t!” she snapped, leaping at once to her feet.

  Henry stole forward, his hands out to try and pacify her. The way she could flash to scalding hot from cold terrified hi
m. “I told them there was perhaps more behind the attacks than simply the British advance!”

  Sandrine hand was on the door handle. “Bloody English!” she cried. “Who is your officer?”

  “Major Pewter. But—”

  “And where is this Pewter?”

  “At the main hall. But—”

  “Then if you won’t tell him, I will go and tell him myself!” She threw the door open and thrust herself outside.

  “But your tea!” Henry called after her, hurrying back to the kitchen to collect it from the hob. But Sandrine was already down the street and away into the heart of the village.

  FIFTY-THREE

  1900. SHORES OF THE BLACK SEA. ROMANIA.

  The handle of Tacit’s heavy case felt reassuring to him, as he stepped along the shore of the Black Sea. A cold wind came off the water. It was close to dark. Night time seemed to fall earlier and faster in this part of the world. Maybe it would have been better to wait before making the journey but it was too late for second thoughts now. He shivered and drew his long dark coat tighter around him. It was a little loose, but Tacit would grow into it. He’d taken it from his master, just as he had Tocco’s revolver and case. His master would have approved. The old Inquisitor wouldn’t have wanted his belongings to have languished in his Inquisitorial locker. It wasn’t the Inquisitor’s way to sit and gather dust. “Only in death let the dust have a chance to settle on you,” Tocco always said. Tacit thought of his master’s grave and unconsciously his hand fell to the revolver at his side.

  Ahead he could see the outline of rocks, running down from the hills on the right, tumbling into the dark depths of the sea. Everything appeared just as it had been described to him when the assignment had been posted. A witch. On the shores of the Black Sea, Romania. Spreading witchcraft, fear and lies. To be terminated. An urgent assignment. His first on his own.

  He followed the outline of the rocks down towards the sea with his eyes and shuddered as he recognised a dark shape amongst the silhouette of jagged rocks, a hunched figure staring back towards him. He swallowed and considered taking a shot at it from here.