So it was understandable that when he stopped for a moment his small, ragged chest was heaving with the effort to breathe.
Finally safe from the Hunter, Dräng took out the vial of blood hidden in his torn robes. It was the girl’s blood, the one his master pointed out to him. He had bitten her the night before and spit it carefully into the vial. He also took out his master’s diary, which he stole after baiting the Hunter out of the house.
Immediately, he felt the master’s eyes watching him.
Dräng felt a great pang of regret for what he was about to do, but it was the only way he could survive. Otherwise, the Dark Prince would certainly kill him.
The Chief of Assistants opened the vial and poured the blood onto the diary’s cover. Without hesitation, Darcy’s blood soaked into the intricate red lines inked into the cover. Wherever the blood flowed, those lines turned a sickly green color, until the entire cover was changed into an intricate web of emerald.
The monster’s face on the cover seemed to glow brighter, almost alive, ready to complete the Ritual.
Inside his mind, the Chief of Assistants heard his master’s approval.
Well done, my little liar. Now bring me the book. Soon, the Ancients will rule both worlds, and they will reward you for your small play in their release.
The Chief of Assistants felt the Dark Prince withdraw from his mind. He smiled. He would not die after all.
But then Dräng remembered what the Ancients were like. What his master was like. Did he really want to help release them into the world?
Torn, he raised his forlorn head to look through the trees at the town of Hunter’ Grove, trying to decide….
Mr. Witherington was at the bar, having a quick drink and joking along with Tavern before going home to read THE GROVE DAILY. Apparently there had been two issues this week, which was exciting news in and of itself.
As for Tavern, he was happy there was such a good crowd dining in tonight. It seemed everyone wanted a hot cup of cocoa with a nice, warm dinner to fight off the cold air.
They were both quite shocked, then, when a group of five mismatched teenagers, led by his daughter nonetheless, barged noisily into the restaurant.
“Sorry folks,” Darcy called out, picking up a root beer bottle from one table, “Tavern’s is now closed for the night.”
“Darcy, dear?” asked Mr. Witherington, “Whatever is the ma—”
“I said Tavern’s is closed, people! Out, out, out!”
By the time the place had cleared—pretty quickly, as most people were afraid of a mayor’s daughter who had clearly lost a few crayons from her box and was now wielding a root beer bottle—Mr. Witherington and Tavern were both too shocked to be angry, and too angry to speak.
“Let’s play a game, Daddy dear,” Darcy said, completely in her element now. She placed the bottle on the bar counter with a loud CLUNK and turned it, pointing the neck at Mr. Witherington. “Truth or Dare. Oh, look, it’s your turn. I’ll take the truth.”
Chapter 7: Truth or Dare
Mr. Witherington smiled, patting his pockets desperately. “The truth? Darcy, I’m not sure I know what—”
“Don’t! Don’t even start that! You knew didn’t you? About Hunter’s Key.”
Charlie decided to let Darcy do the talking. The others had more or less the same outlook. At this point, they were just here to support her.
Stunned, Mr. Witherington looked hastily from Charlie to the Vadiknov twins, and from the twins to Nash. “Darcy, I really don’t think we should—”
“Stop it! Just say what it is! How much do you know? Really?”
Mr. Witherington spread his hands and forced a chuckle. “I don’t know anything.”
Darcy took a step back. Even the most stubborn spirit feels the pain of a loved-one lying to you.
She had given him the chance. Now she passed the point of no return. She picked up the bottle of root beer.
“Watch, Daddy.” Slowly, with her free hand, Darcy phased her fingers through the bottle. “Look what I can do.”
Tavern stared on in amazement, but Mr. Witherington jumped as if he had been stung by a hornet.
She let the bottle slip through the back of her hand and fall to the floor, where it shattered. Her friends were unsure whether this was purposeful or not.
“And I know what’s causing people to go missing. You let it happen, didn’t you?”
Tavern saw the pained expression of William Witherington—knew the terrible blow his daughter had just dealt. “Darcy, your father—”
“And how much did you know, Tavern?”
Before Tavern could respond, Mr. Witherington said the last thing Darcy had expected.
“You remind me so much of your mother, you know….”
Darcy stared at him as if he had just turned into a purple pumpkin. Tears began to well up in her eyes and her face began to swell as she tried to keep everything inside. Her mother was never someone they talked about. Not after she disappeared—the first missing person of Hunter’s Grove.
It was never considered a kidnapping. It was reported as a car accident. The red Volkswagen was a charred wreckage, but there was no body. Elizabeth Witherington, Darcy’s mother, had simply vanished.
Mr. Witherington dropped his head in his hands.
Tavern took over, asking, “Do you remember when people first began to go missing, Darcy?”
“Two years ago,” she replied automatically.
Everyone marked Mrs. Witherington’s death as the beginning of the last two miserable years, but the first person actually believed to be kidnapped was Mr. Tonson, the local locksmith. The last anybody had seen of him was in his shop.
Darcy stopped in mid-thought. Two years….
“What are you saying?” she said, feeling like her lungs could not expand anymore. “Daddy? What is he saying?”
“She never told me everything,” Mr. Witherington said, blubbering into his hands. “I knew some things, but she always had her secrets…. She always said it was for the good of the town…. She was protecting it, I know, I know!”
Then he rose out of his chair urgently, taking hold of Darcy’s shoulders, as if he were trying to shake sense into her.
“Your mother, my Elizabeth…. You know, Darcy. Think! You know about the Key, and the old man. He came here two years ago. Months after her death. Don’t you remember?”
“The disappearances stopped then,” said Tavern. “Seven people gone—eight, counting your mother. It stopped when that man came. Until these last few weeks, at least.”
But Darcy was no longer listening to Tavern. She was staring at the shriveled up shell that her father had become. A tear escaped the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek as she coughed out some of the grief she had been holding in.
“You’re saying she was a Monster Hunter, aren’t you?”
The others finally understood, having watched the whole scene unfold in a mess of confusion. William Witherington nodded his head pitifully against the bar counter.
Darcy squared her shoulders. “Well so am I.”
Her voice cracked, her throat feeling like a rusty nail was caught sideways in it. Yet it felt good to finally admit it, without any shadow of doubt or denial.
Mr. Witherington’s head snapped to her. His sad expression had become full of fear. “What did you say?”
“I’m a Hunter now. Like Mom. And I’m going fix this.” She stopped and looked at the others. “We’re going to fix this. My friends and I. We found the source, and we’re going to stop it.”
Mr. Witherington shoved both hands into his coat pockets, searching for the necklace box he had left at home. He needed something in this world to hold onto, something solid. But it was not there.
“Darcy,” said Tavern pleadingly, “you’re just kids. What can you do against things like monsters? Just…tell us how, and we’ll handle it.”
“We’re not just kids! And you had
your chance. If you wanted to help, you could have gone up to the Key and seen Loch about it, but you didn’t. Now it’s our turn.”
She stomped off for the door, but paused.
“I’m going home. Tomorrow…I’m going to end this. And if I don’t succeed, I’ll die knowing I did the right thing.”
The front door to Tavern’s Quick-N-Go slammed shut. A few minutes later, it opened, letting in a gust of frigid air, and out four teens, who had all suddenly realized they wanted to go home. Darcy had lit the fuse. Tomorrow they would enter the Otherworld.
Right now they would spend what would possibly be the last night with their families.
Charlie made three cups of hot chocolate, carrying two up the stairs and knocking on the door to his father’s study. He entered and set down one of the mugs on the desk, where his father had been writing his book.
Mr. Sullivan was an author of thrillers. He always let Charlie read chapters of his books as they were finished. This one was still a work in progress. Such literary works took time and effort.
“Thanks,” said Mr. Sullivan, rubbing his bleary eyes and taking a sip. He stood from the creaky chair and stretched his stiff muscles.
“It’s a cold night,” Charlie said, crossing over to the window. Flakes of snow had gone from drifting down earlier to plummeting like fallen angels. “Figured you’d like a cup.”
Mr. Sullivan crossed over to the window and stood next to his son. By the way they both stood with mug in hand, you might have thought they were the same person, but for the obvious difference in height.
“It is a cold night. Seems like we’re in for one of the coldest winters we’ve had in a long time.”
“I don’t know,” said Charlie. He gave a small smile. “I’m hoping it’ll get a little warmer before the end of the year.”
“You are, huh? I guess we’ll see.”
The room was silent, except for the comforting crackling of the fire.
“How’s the novel coming?”
“It’s coming along really well,” said Mr. Sullivan. He rubbed his neck at the thought of writing again. Strange how typing on a keyboard could leave a person’s neck so sore. “I’m almost to the part where…well, you’ll just have to wait to read it.”
He smiled at his son. This was one of the games they would play, where Mr. Sullivan would let Charlie read right to the edge of a cliff hanger, but then tease him about having to wait until the next chapter was written.
Charlie smiled back until his father looked away. Then he hid his face; it had become a mask of pain as Charlie realized he might never read the rest of his father’s story.
Mr. Sullivan stretched again and set his mug down on the desk, then stared at the creaky chair. “You know, I think I’m done for the night. Let’s do something fun.”
Charlie wiped his eyes before turning around, now wearing a genuine smile. “What about a game of Scrabble?”
His father grimaced. “How about something like Yahtzee instead? I need a break from anything to do with words. You go get one of the board games, I’ll go get your mother.”
At the Vadiknov house, on Bayaga Lane, two teenagers were petting their cat, Selena. Mr. Vadiknov was reading one of his old encyclopedias, while Mrs. Vadiknov rocked in her chair and solved a crossword puzzle. The family had a nice dinner, where Liev had been telling old stories that enchanted the whole family…although he would add his own humorous twists and punch lines.
Then he began story about a poor musician named Sadko. In the story, which they all knew and loved, Sadko gathered riches and happiness by his clever acts. But a sea deity—the Tsar of the Sea—attacked Sadko’s fleet of ships. Seeing that the Tsar was relentless and killing all of his men, Sadko sacrificed himself by jumping into the water, sitting down to the Tsar of the Sea’s banquet on the ocean floor. But the Tsar’s children saw their father was in the wrong, and helped Sadko return to his family above the water.
They all smiled at the familiar, happy ending.
After dinner, Lisa helped her mother with laundry, something she always refused to do. Now, she did it without any of her usual complaining. She even put the clothes away when they were done folding.
And when she was done, she didn’t go to her room to read as was her custom, and neither did Liev. The twins sat in the living room with their parents, pampering their cat and talking about past vacations and some of their fondest memories.
And then, at ten o’clock precisely, the twins both got up and, to the surprise of Mr. and Mrs. Vadiknov, hugged their parents, told them how they were such good parents and how much they loved them before turning in for bed.
The revelation at Tavern’s Quick-N-Go had set Nash Stormstepper to thinking about what his own parents knew. He knew they believed old folk legends. Had they known, in some way, about the varcolac, too?
After dinner, Nash offered to do the dishes while his parents sat at the hand-carved, oak table, sharing small glasses of autumn wine. He asked them while he was cleaning up.
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
Chinook Lightholder and Nina Plantspell—as were his parents’ names—looked at each other, a little astonished. Chinook glanced at his son. Nash stood at the sink, his back facing his parents.
“Of course, son. Why do you ask?”
“What if I said I believe it was something…like a ghost…that was abducting the people in Hunter’s Grove? Like Mrs. McBranson.”
Chinook, from whom Nash got his broad-shoulders and tall frame, sat back in his chair with his hands on his knees. “That would be a very serious thing to say.”
Nash stopped scrubbing the plate in anticipation. “But do you think it’s possible?”
“Of course,” Nina replied softly, turning in her chair. “But why do you ask?”
He placed the last plate on the rack to dry and shut off the water, turning to look them both in the eye. “I know what it is. It’s a…monster.” Nash quickly backed up his theory with, “I’m not crazy. I’ve seen evidence. I know I’m always getting into trouble, and I know that disappoints you, and—”
Chinook held up a gentle hand. “We’re not disappointed in you, son. You always do what you think is right, no matter what. It can be hard for a parent to see their son punished for doing something good, but if anything, I’m proud of you. And we do not think you’re crazy,” he added with a gentle smile. “Or at least, I don’t. Your mother, though, you know how she can be—”
Nina kicked Chinook’s shin under the table, and for a moment they all remained there with smiles that warmed the house better than the kitchen hearth could. Nash hoped he would be able to come back to his home.
“Have you ever seen anything in the town? Anything unnatural, I mean?”
Nash’s father, lit by the orange glow of the fireplace, hesitated before nodding. “I believe strange things have happened here. And there is a sense of evil lingering in places. But promise me you won’t let this bog you down, son. Unless you have the way—and the duty—to stop something bad, you should always make the best of what you have.”
Nash smiled in reply. His father was an honest man. He did not think his father, or his mother for that matter, knew anything about the varcolac other than the shadow looming over Hunter’s Grove.
“I promise, dad. I’m going to try and get some sleep. I love you guys.”
“We…we love you too, son.”
Nash walked out of the room, but stopped just short of the hallway. He thought about his people’s legends, about their names—it had certainly come true, in his case. What about his parents?
He poked his head around the corner. “Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever tried to hold light?”
Confused, Chinook’s forehead wrinkled. “What do you mean?”
“Just…imagine that you’re holding a ball of light. You should try it some time.”
/> Then he left the room. His parents heard the close of Nash’s bedroom door a few seconds later. Chinook Lightholder looked at his wife, puzzled.
“Hold light?” Nina asked in bewilderment.
“I have no idea.” But even clueless, he thought of the picture his son had purposefully placed in his mind.
Nina gasped at the sight of her husband’s raised glass of wine. “Chinook! Look at your hand.”
He did look. Held within his great hand, a white ball of light had formed inside of the wine glass, throwing a purple shine all over the room. He nearly dropped the glass.
After a hushed mutter of excited voices and the scraping of two sets of chair legs against the floorboards, they appeared in the hallway, looking to where their son’s door was closed.
Mr. Witherington shakily unlocked his front door and entered the house. It was warm, but to him it felt cold and quiet—distant, like the day Elizabeth had died. He patted his empty pocket and felt as if he was losing her all over again. Only this time it was his daughter he was losing.
He walked miserably up the stairs and into his study, where Darcy sat by the fire, facing away from the door. Still, William Witherington could see that it was Elizabeth’s picture the girl was crying over.
“Darcy,” he pleaded. She whipped around to face him. He approached from the doorway. “Don’t do this. I have already lost one precious person in my life….”
Darcy wiped a rebel tear from her cheek. “You’re not the only person in this house. I lost her, too! And what about the other people in Hunter’s Grove who have gone missing? All of them had friends…family. If you won’t do something about it, I will.”
“But you’re just a child, Darcy. Just a girl! Why would you do this to me? Why would you go and fight it when you might not come back?”
“Stop saying that! I am not just a child, I am not just a girl. How do you know I’m going to fail? Unlike you, I’m not afraid to try!”
Charlie Sullivan and the Monster Hunters: The Varcolac's Diary Page 13
