The Darkest Hand Trilogy Box Set

by Tarn Richardson

  Pewter chuckled and felt a shimmer of excitement and anticipation ripple through him. “Did I ever tell you I like a nice hunt?” he called after her, pursing his sweaty lips.

  He watched Sandrine turn right and hurried after her, a desire building in his heart and loins. He imagined the sweat on her chest, the tantalising taste of salt on her skin. He imagined her struggling in his grasp, at least until he finally squeezed her into submission. He swallowed and hardened his eyes on the route ahead.

  Sandrine rushed forward, turning right again and then left almost immediately into a very narrow alleyway which ran behind the street in which she lived. She rested against the wall of the alley and listened, looking back to where she had come.

  There was no longer any sign of him. She wondered if she’d lost him. For several moments she waited, listening for the slightest sound, the crunch of boot on gravel, the hurried snatch of breath. She was aware of her own – slow, measured, cautious. She was aware of a sudden tension gripping her. A tingling anticipation in her mouth.

  A wretched voice croaked from behind her. “Not hiding from me, I hope?” asked Pewter, leaning against the wall and absently flicking at a trail of dust on his tattered lapel.

  “What do you want?” cried Sandrine.

  “What I should have had back in Arras.” He thrust himself forward, grabbing out with his hands. Sandrine battered him to the side and sent him down onto his knees, kicking him over and away with a foot. She ran out of the alleyway, Pewter laughing and watching her as she went. He liked the passionate ones, the ones who fought. He found they were always the most satisfying of buds to pluck.

  He climbed to his feet and shot after her, crouched low like an ape as he ran, his arms and fingers spread wide. Up the street Sandrine was fumbling with the lock of her door. She spun around at the sound of Pewter’s invidious giggling as he drew near.

  “Why have you followed me?” Sandrine asked quietly.

  She swept back her hair and glared. The Major watched her out of the corner of his wicked eyes, a devilish look on his face. He swayed uneasily lightheadedly overtaken by a cocktail of fatigue and desire. And suddenly Pewter’s face hardened. “Boring!” he shouted. “Oh, don’t play games with me, woman! You might be the last chance I have to feel a woman. Lord knows what my fate will be back at HQ? Whole unit wiped out? Only one to survive? Don’t fancy my chances much in front of the panel.”

  In the darkness of the street, the whites of the officer’s eyeballs made his pupils look like coals. “It’s entirely your choice my lovely. You can either indulge me here, or you can allow me inside. I’m not choosy but I’m sure we’ll be more comfortable inside. Either way,” the sandy-haired officer said, forcing Sandrine to look at him again, “you’re going to indulge me.”

  At this, the officer made a grab for her, taking her by the neck and pulling her face closer to his. “You can start by giving me a kiss.”

  Sandrine pulled a little away from him. The officer felt the strength in her and placed a second hand around her head to stop her escaping from his grasp. She looked into his black coal eyes. Dead eyes. There was no warmth in them. They’d seen little joy but had witnessed much cruelty. She wondered how much their owner had inflicted himself.

  “Not here,” Sandrine whispered, easing her fight within his grip.

  “There’s a good girl,” Pewter soothed.

  She reached back and turned the handle of the door. In his passionate state, Pewter never saw the light which had now appeared in Sandrine’s eye. Instead, as if the opening of the front door was taken as an invitation, Pewter bundled Sandrine inside, pushing her into the first room he could find, closing the door fast behind him with a trailing boot.

  He looked at Sandrine hard. “Take off your dress,” he demanded, swallowing back his desire, his hand unconsciously falling to the stiffness at his crotch.

  Sandrine reached to the buttons at the top of her dress and unfastened them. It fell away from her and she stepped out of it, placing it gently to one side. She knew one thing and that was she wouldn’t let her dress become ruined in what was about to unfurl.

  She stood confidently before him in her white brassiere and panties. Pewter cooed. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, his breath short and hesitant with lust. Sandrine could hear the dry swallow in his neck. The sound revolted her.

  “Let me draw the shutters,” she called, stepping across the room. Her hands shook as she did so.

  “Of course, we want a little privacy,” the officer replied, barely able to suppress his excitement with a snigger. “Don’t know from whom, but I want to make sure you’re comfortably relaxed, my love.”

  The shutter clunked shut and, as darkness devoured the room, Sandrine began to change. She hung her head down between her shoulders, heaving heavily like a woman in labour, as the transformation began to take place. She’d endured this a hundred times in her lifetime and the pain of its demands on her body had never eased. She could feel the bones burn within her as they elongated, the skin shriek as it stretched about her body.

  She heard Pewter saying something from behind her but the sound was muffled and faint, as if she were under water. Rage ripped through her. Her face contorted and she wrenched her head upwards, forcing herself forwards onto her hands and knees. She was aware of her head banging into the wall of her room as her muscles hardened and enlarged. She suddenly felt hot and drenched in sweat, as hair sprouted from every inch of her body. Her panties and brassiere split and fell away from her body as a raging and insatiable hunger coursed within her.

  She leapt to her feet with only one urge, to feed and satisfy her desire for blood.

  In front of her, Pewter stumbled backwards, moaning pathetically. He whimpered, holding his hands up in front of his face. She took a step forward and he screamed. She hated it when prey screamed, even though they always screamed when she came upon them.

  Pewter bolted for the door. One swing decapitated him. She grabbed his body and drank greedily at the blood pumping out of the neck. She bit down into the chest with vast cruel jaws, snapping at the tender lungs and heart, and feeding greedily on organs and his warm cruor. The officer’s fluid flowed down into Sandrine’s belly, the smouldering fire in her eyes seeming to burn lower with every gulp she took.

  “Sandrine?” came a shaky, unsteady voice from the door of the house.

  The red of her eyes flared again and she turned, blood drenched and snarling. She cast the remains of Pewter’s body to one side and stalked towards the open door of the room, just as Henry appeared through it, bruised, bloodied but alive. She crouched low and leapt, talons raised, her jaws wide, ready to snap and feed once again.

  EIGHTY-TWO

  1908. NAPLES. ITALY.

  He was still holding the letter in his grasp as he drove his cart up the track to the farm, eight hours since it had been pressed into his hand by the messenger, a young Catholic boy who wouldn’t look him in the eye. Tacit knew the seriousness of the letter by the mark on the envelope. He’d torn it open and read it immediately in the hope that it wasn’t what he knew it to be.

  She came out to meet him on the track, as she always did when he visited, whether heading out or back from an assignment, cleaning her hands on her apron after preparing meals for the farm hands in the kitchen. But this time she knew that something was wrong. He hadn’t waved from the track and he was driving the cart hard.

  Mila stepped aside as he thundered the cart to a halt and tumbled from the cab into her arms, tears in his eyes.

  He howled like child as she held him, right there on the track, like a child who had lost his favourite toy, knowing it would never return to him. Eventually, she spotted the paper clutched tight in his fingers.

  “I am the last one left,” he wept, as Mila read the letter. “Georgi. Georgi has been killed.”

  Mila felt she knew the young man Georgi like her own. Tacit had littered the stories he told her with mention of him, tales of daring and kindness and a love only b
rothers could appreciate. As she read the note from the church, her own eyes filled with tears.

  “Poldek ...” she muttered, but she could find no other words.

  “I’ve had enough,” he replied and he reached out to her. She resisted, at first afraid, but his hold was firm and she allowed her herself to be drawn towards him. He leaned forward and kissed her for the very first time and she swooned in his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him passionately back – the two lost completely in each other. “I’m leaving the Church,” he murmured finally, pulling away from her just a little. “They’ve lost me. I want no more of them. They are dead to me.”

  Mila wept and kissed him again, and Tacit bound her up into his arms, carrying her back to the homestead.

  EIGHTY-THREE

  06:17. FRIDAY, 16 OCTOBER 1914. FAMPOUX, NR. ARRAS. FRANCE.

  It had been the first time she’d watched him sleep. Pale golden rays of morning sun were striking through the holes of a broken shutter and falling upon the Inquisitor’s face in pools of light, giving him a more youthful and softer appearance than she’d seen. It was as if a good night’s sleep and the morning sun had erased all the evidence of the exhaustion which had spoiled Tacit’s handsome features for so long.

  His breathing was very slight, despite the size of him, his chest rising and falling almost silently beneath his cassock. Isabella pulled her knees up beneath her chin and sat watching him, trying to imagine the life he’d lived, the things which had touched him, the people who had meant anything to him. She wondered if anyone had, if he’d ever let anyone close to him, anyone in. She realised at that moment she was imagining her and Tacit together.

  “Silly girl,” she hissed at herself, under her breath. You don’t fall in love with assignments.

  But she had fallen in love; she’d felt something change when he’d rescued her from the wolf. And whilst she teased herself, claiming she didn’t know how, she knew why she’d fallen for the man. He was so complete, Tacit, and yet he was damaged. Broken. If only she was able to mend him. If only she could get close enough to hold the pieces together and let them heal.

  He’d slept where he had thrown himself, directly onto the floor of the derelict house, once he’d checked the windows and doors were secure. There’d been no idle chatter, no discussion as to the plan for the following day, no ‘‘goodnight’’. He’d gone about his business securing the building and then had stretched himself out and fallen into a deep and immediate sleep.

  Outside she could hear the unfolding horror, the stalking of the terrible beasts, their howls and their cries echoing throughout the ruined village, the grotesque slash and splutter of gutted bodies, freshly slaughtered prey. But in here, she felt assured and safe, knowing he would have left nothing to chance. Nevertheless, she looked at him and wondered how the pair of them could hope to defeat so many, armed as they were with just two silver revolvers between them.

  Tacit stirred under the beams of sunlight. He swallowed, his lips moving in slow pursed circles. He scowled and exhaled loudly, blowing the air through his lips, making them tremble. His eyes flickered and drew themselves open. He stared hard up at the ceiling of the place into which they had barricaded themselves, as if taking a moment to reacquaint himself with his surroundings, their predicament. He took in the cracks and the undulations of the room and listened to the sounds of the morning. Then, without hesitation, he levered himself up and onto his feet, striding with purpose and vigour to the table and his case, where it had been set the previous night.

  “Morning,” Isabella called lightly, sitting up on an elbow and stifling a yawn. She had found herself a mattress upon which to lie, which had given her a little more comfort than the Inquisitor appeared to need.

  “Morning,” he grunted and thrust the case open. “Did you sleep well?”

  “I did, thank you. Took me a little while to drop off. You?”

  He nodded. “Like the dead.”

  Isabella climbed gingerly from the mattress and stretched, leaning back to coax her spine into place, her ribs yelping dully from their bruising. She tousled her hair and began opening shutters to the room, the light almost too bright to bear.

  The Inquisitor had begun methodically to unload the case – contraptions of all shapes, sizes and types being removed and carefully placed to one side on the table. Every now and then he would inspect an item closely, work its mechanism, if it had one, and place it into the folds of his long coat. Sometimes these items would go from the case into his coat without a moment’s hesitation: bags, a clutch of bullets, a holy symbol.

  All the while Isabella had been surveying the house for evidence of food. She reappeared as Tacit closed the lid of the case with a thump.

  “Are you hungry? We should eat,” she said. “I’ve not got much. Some nuts. Dried fruit.”

  Tacit dropped his hand to his outer pocket and drew out a bottle, swirling the remains of the amber liquid inside. He turned and sat on the edge of the table, uncorking the bottle.

  “You hungry?” Isabella asked again, leaning against the door frame.

  “I’ll take some nuts and fruit,” Tacit replied, putting the bottle to his lips and drinking deeply. He frowned and offered the bottle to her. She raised an eyebrow and crinkled her nose, before giving him a knowing shake of her head and turning back to the kitchen. “I’ll bring what I can with us,” she called.

  “You’re not coming.” Tacit took another long swig on the bottle, almost draining it. Isabella stepped back to the doorway.

  “What do you mean?” she demanded.

  “It’s too dangerous. I’m going alone.”

  “No, I won’t have that,” Isabella replied adamantly, crossing her arms. She could feel a hammering pain in her chest. “We’ve come this far.”

  “This is far enough. From now on it gets serious.”

  “And it’s not been so far?” she cried.

  “You stay here.” He necked the remainder of the bottle and put it down on the table. A good night’s sleep and a quarter of the bottle of spirits in him. Now he felt ready. “There’s no more booze in the kitchen, is there?” he asked, scratching the side of his heavily whiskered face. The heat of the drink coursed through him, bolstering his limbs, enriching his senses.

  “I’m not staying here. You can’t leave me behind, Tacit! I am coming with you!”

  “You’re not. You’re staying here. I need you to stay safe.”

  “Need, Tacit? You need me to stay safe? What does that mean?”

  “I need someone to tell the Vatican, if I don’t come back. If I don’t, they will need to send a squad of Inquisitors to enter the lair and wipe the clan out.”

  “A squad?” Isabella moaned desperately. “A squad?!” She came forward and caught Tacit by the elbows, turning him to her. He resisted, briefly, but her touch was firm and determined. “Tacit, you don’t have to do this! You’ve already proved yourself. Proved yourself to me. With the assessment. You have nothing more to prove. On that you have my word. Tacit –” She drew him closer to her. She no longer cared what he thought of her, of how she behaved with him. To hell with opinions and religious etiquette. “Tacit, I don’t … I don’t want to lose you.”

  The hope and expectation had tumbled out of her. She couldn’t see how he would survive, going into the lair alone, one against so many. The mission seemed hopeless. She felt crestfallen and forlorn. If he was to die, she wanted to die alongside him. She wanted so dearly to tell him just what … just how she felt.

  Tacit pulled himself away and stood back facing her, a stride apart. If he wished, he could have reached out with his long arms and touched her face. How Isabella longed for him to do so. Her heart burned to feel his fingers on her skin. And from an ember buried deep in his heart, Tacit too felt the heat of emotion urge his hand forward towards her, a desire he’d long fought to contain. How she reminded him of her, of Mila, of her spirit and her independence. But she wasn’t Mila. She couldn’t be. And after all t
hat had happened ...

  He resisted, burying the stupidity of his thoughts and, instead, the Inquisitor stood and watched her with his sad, distant eyes.

  “What I’m about to do,” he said, eventually, “it isn’t about the assessment. This isn’t even about the Church. This is about putting right what was done wrong long ago. I’m an Inquisitor, Isabella. I’m not a man. I don’t feel, I don’t think and I don’t brood. I act and I do. Anything else is dead to me.”

  “Is that what I am to you, Tacit? Dead to you?” He looked away to the windows. “So what am I to do then?” she muttered, her eyes filling with tears. She raised a trembling hand to her mouth. “Sit and wait for you to come back or not to come back?”

  “No,” Tacit growled, checking the cylinder of his gun, “I need you to find Sandrine Prideux.”

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  05:53. FRIDAY, 16 OCTOBER 1914.

  FAMPOUX, NR. ARRAS. FRANCE.

  The beast leaped forward, dripping talons raised, foul jaws wide, any moment about to snap down upon Henry. He cried out and stumbled backwards, his head striking the wall of the house, his mind spinning. An acute pain shot down into the base of his skull and surged across his shoulders. For the second time in twelve hours darkness poured into his vision but this time he fought it off, his consciousness burning, desperate just to stay alive. He raised his arms to his face in a feeble attempt to defend himself from the monstrous wolf.

  He could smell the stench from it, its hot breath on his face and neck. He cried out Sandrine’s name in a pathetic attempt to warn her away from returning home and stumbling into the same fate that was clearly going to be his.