by Ross Turner
Chapter Eleven
Marcii was running. Her heart was racing. She panicked as she tore through the narrow confines of Newmarket’s streets.
The air was cold in her lungs and against her face and her jacket whipped about her body wildly. By now, after all that she’d seen in such a short space of time, she was absolutely terrified.
She didn’t know where to turn.
Kaylm had been her last hope, and now even he had been torn away from her. She’d been so close: on the verge even of running away with him forever.
And Vixen?
What part was she playing in all of this, for she seemed to know much more than she should.
Or, at least, much more than Marcii would have hoped for a girl so young.
In her haste, her thoughts tumbling somehow even faster than her legs were carrying her, Marcii was barely paying attention as she tore through the streets and alleyways. She careered round corners almost blindly in the black of the night, tears streaming from her eyes.
There were no streetlamps and most of the light by which she could just about see came from the flickering of candles in the windows of houses that lined either side of the streets.
When she hit him, she hit him hard, for she was still running full speed. The collision threw the young Dougherty to the ground with force to be reckoned with.
The man grunted heavily, doubling forward as Marcii crashed straight into his front.
It took them both more than a few moments to recover, equally from the shock as from the pain of the impact.
Marcii looked up fearfully as the man finally straightened himself up above her, looking down by the light from his nearby window.
“Marcii?” He asked, confusion lacing his tone.
It was Alexander.
She sighed with heavy relief.
“I’m so sorry.” She apologised immediately.
“No, no, don’t worry…” He struggled at first, still catching his breath. “What are you doing here?” He asked her. “It’s late. Shouldn’t you be at home?”
As he spoke he held out his hand and helped Marcii to her feet. But even in the poor light she could see that he looked flustered, and that his concern for her was merely a convenient cover.
He glanced around for a moment, as if to confirm her very thoughts, and threw his gaze briefly back towards the house behind him. When he looked back to Marcii, only a second or so later, his eyes looked nervous, guilty even.
What was he hiding?
Had he been one of the priests she’d seen at the church?
Had he slaughtered one of those cats and drawn upon his place of worship in the poor creature’s blood?
She prayed not.
Alexander had sounded so firmly against Tyran’s cruel rule only the other day; Marcii hoped to God that hadn’t changed.
Or, perhaps, was it something worse than that?
If he hadn’t been a part of that group, if he was resisting Tyran, had he made himself a target?
Suddenly, before either of them could speak again, a rushing flurry of movement answered all of Marcii’s questions as once.
The narrow, wooden door to Alexander’s home, the door that he had been so nervously glancing at, flung suddenly wide open. Within but a moment out bustled the figure of a woman who clearly looked as though she had no business being there.
Actually, quite on the contrary, her being there was in fact her only business that night, but that was beside the point.
She was skimpily dressed, wearing nothing but a short red dress and sharp high heeled shoes. It was clear even in the meagre light that her lashings of makeup had been hastily applied beneath her bleached hair. She clutched a few belongings to her almost bare chest, as if someone might at any moment rip them away from her. And her eyes, filled with the certainty of much experience, surveyed the sight of Alexander and Marcii before her with a level, calculating gaze.
Alexander’s face dropped merely at the sight of her.
Though Marcii did not know his wife all that well, Alexander knew that the young Dougherty would recognise for certain that the skimpily dressed woman on his doorstep was most certainly not Mrs Freeman.
Without a word, seeing them and freezing for barely a moment, the blonde haired, underdressed whore barged past Marcii and took off down the street. All but fleeing from her night’s work, discretion was at least half the nature of her business and she feared being caught out by an angry wife more than most things.
Whilst her business was perhaps unsavoury, Marcii decided, it was not with the woman that the blame rested.
Her hard, reproachful eyes turned back to Alexander, her father’s dear friend, whom still had not moved. His gaze dropped to the floor beneath his feet in shame and he wore an expression that is more commonly seen on the faces of guilty children.
Now, it seemed, things were falling into place.
Alexander had had nothing to do with what she and Kaylm had seen at all, Marcii now realised.
He had been somewhat preoccupied with other matters…
Alexander saw the realisation in her eyes and panicked, not knowing what to say or do.
“Marcii…” He attempted, but faltered.
All words were futile.
He wasn’t a target.
He didn’t care about those who were.
He was more concerned about his affair.
Yet again though, Marcii was not granted the opportunity to reply. Another figure appeared from the night, though this time, fortunately for Alexander, from the opposite direction down the street to which the whore had fled.
“Alexander…?” A soft voice sounded from behind him, carrying her tone off through the cold night.
His wife appeared at his side and her expression changed from surprise to shock as she set her eyes upon Marcii, for she suspected, as most did nowadays, that terrible things happened in the dark of the night.
She didn’t know the half of it, clearly, and Alexander looked impossibly racked with guilt.
“Oh! Marcii!” His wife exclaimed slightly. “What are you doing out so late?”
For a moment Marcii didn’t answer, and instead she glanced between Alexander and his wife with eyes hard and piercing. For the life of her Marcii could not remember his wife’s name, but in that particular moment, that wasn’t really what was really troubling her.
Eventually though, sighing deeply, the young Dougherty relented, for just the same as anybody, she was not perfect herself.
It was not her place to condemn others, she decided.
“I’ve been running errands for my mother…I’m very late…I was just on my way home…” She half lied.
Fortunately, Alexander’s wife, whose name even still Marcii could not remember, did not see through her hastily constructed guise. Alexander looked on at her with grateful eyes filled with silent thanks.
Marcii’s returning gaze to him was not forgiving, for it was not her place to do that either, but she did not speak of what she’d seen.
“Well you should be getting home.” Alexander’s blissfully oblivious wife continued. She turned to her dear husband. “Why don’t you walk her home, Alexander?” She suggested.
But before he could reply, Marcii swiftly intervened, for the notion turned her stomach somewhat violently.
“No, no…” She declined hastily, smiling falsely. “Not to worry. I’ll be home in no time…”
“Well run along then dear.” Alexander’s wife ushered her, uncertainty evident in her voice. “This is no time to be walking the streets…”
And though her warning was of course genuine, she couldn’t possibly have known the full extent of the danger that lurked down the dark, dank alleyways.
None of them did.
How could they?
Marcii bade them both goodnight and took off at a dead run through the dark streets. Fear filled her every breath and a hundred and more thoughts tumbled through her mind.
This was all getting very out of ha
nd.
Chapter Twelve
It wasn’t her best idea, Marcii had to admit.
She knew Malorie wasn’t the most liked, or trusted, among those in Newmarket. But, if Marcii was honest with herself, that was part of the reason she wanted to visit the kindly woman again so soon.
What with all the rumours and conspiracies and distrust that Mayor Tyran was stirring amongst the townsfolk, no one was really safe, but especially not those that were already outcast.
She wasn’t entirely sure where her casual composure was coming from, considering all that had happened of late.
The nameless monster that had been slaughtering people in the night.
The hangings.
The bloody symbols.
The fear.
Perhaps she was being foolish, but Marcii pushed any thought of consequences from her mind, pressing on regardless.
Malorie was her friend.
She wanted to make sure that she was alright.
She made the excuse to her mother that she was going to see Malorie to pick up more herbs.
At first Amanda was outraged, for it had been less than a week since she’d sent her daughter last. But, for once daringly fighting her corner, Marcii pointed out that the lingering smell from the decaying cats and smeared blood, scattered all about the town, was vile to say the very least.
They had been burning fresh herbs to cover the foul stench seemingly by the hour.
Vermin and rodents of all shapes and sizes had multiplied in number exponentially over the past week, only adding to the problem.
And, though Tyran had of course assured his people that the smell was a good thing: that it was warding off the evil spirits that all these so called witches were summoning, it was, without a shadow of a doubt, revolting.
Finally, wrinkling her nose more and more every time Marcii so much as mentioned the dreadful stench, Amanda Dougherty at last conceded. She handed her daughter a few coins and sent her on her way to buy more herbs to burn, just grateful to be rid of her for a few hours, for times were taxing enough as it was.
The weather outside was grim and for some reason that put Marcii even more on edge. The terrible smell of death and the fear coursing through everybody’s veins seemed to hang in the very air itself, damp and relentless.
She pulled the hood up on her jacket and hid away from the drizzling rain as best she could manage. As she passed silently through the streets and down the narrow alleyways, though it was nearly the middle of the day, it was almost as dark as it had been the previous night. Above her the ominous clouds were black and thick and overbearing, watching her as she walked.
For some reason the weather seemed to affect Marcii’s mood more substantially than it ever had done before. By the time she eventually reached Malorie’s curious little home, as quaint and inviting as ever, Marcii’s surly disposition was obvious to any onlooker.
However, though she’d hoped for exactly the opposite, upon her arrival, the sight which greeted Marcii did nothing to set her at ease. Her breath was filled with dread and her eyes pooled with dismay as she approached Malorie’s cottage.
Keeping her distance, not wanting to be seen too close to Malorie’s home at first, for the sight was all but horrific, Marcii slipped into an alleyway to gather her wits and her composure.
She peeked round the corner with a lump lodged in her throat.
Three cats were skewered in Malorie’s front garden, undoubtedly hers. Marcii recalled seeing them only a few days ago, the last time she had visited.
Presumably in the poor creatures’ blood, painted across the entirety of the house, covering every inch from the door to the rooftop, were those same symbols Marcii and Kaylm had seen the priests painting on the church only the night before.
Unquestionably, the symbols had been painted by Tyran’s hirelings, meant to ward off evil and warn all who passed that a witch resided within.
Surely, to be seen entering such a place would condemn Marcii as well.
But she was committed now.
She hadn’t come this far just to give up.
Malorie was her friend, and with that in mind the young Dougherty stepped out into the meagre light. Drenched still by the ceaseless rain she stole through the dreadful day and towards her destination.
She slipped inside swiftly, not even knocking at the door between the crumbling stones, for she knew the longer she spent upon the doorstep the more likely it was she would be seen.
As soon as she entered she pushed the door quickly to behind her. It closed with a faintly audible click and Marcii surveyed the mess revealed before her with eyes wide.
Considering Malorie’s home was only tiny inside, with barely enough room for what seemed like two dozen belongings, it appeared that Tyran’s enforcers had been most thorough. The table was overturned, and strewn about everywhere were smashed plates and cups and saucers and pots.
The tiny living room and kitchen were in a horrendous state and Marcii felt dreadful at the mere sight of what lay before her.
So fixated was she on what she saw that when Malorie finally spoke the young Dougherty jumped nearly a foot in the air.
“Marcii.” Malorie breathed, her voice laden with sorrow.
“Oh my God!” Marcii cried, shuddering as her words escaped her in fright.
“My apologies…” Malorie offered as Marcii regained her breath, clutching at her chest amidst the mess strewn all around. “I didn’t mean to startle you…”
“It’s okay…” Marcii managed, half laughing as she spoke, waving it off casually. “Don’t worry…”
“Why have you come child?” Malorie asked then, cutting straight to the point as she often did, concern flooding from her words. “It’s too dangerous for you to be here.”
“My mother needs more herbs…” Marcii started, but she did not finish.
The look Malorie gave her then was perhaps the hardest, most withering gaze Marcii had ever seen from the strange, likeable woman. In response, the young girl silenced immediately and sighed most heavily.
“I was worried about you.” Marcii admitted. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”
Malorie’s eyes softened, but her words were still weighed down by worry.
“You shouldn’t be here.” The strange, distraught woman warned, as if her safety mattered not in the slightest.
She was only concerned for Marcii.
Outside the skies only darkened further and the rain continued its ceaseless descent, hammering against the roof above them until it became almost deafening. Marcii glanced up fearfully, though it was not the weather that frightened her so, but instead a threat altogether less natural and more prominent.
“I wanted to come.” Marcii insisted. “I needed to make sure you were okay.”
Malorie smiled ruefully and her deep violet eyes were laced with sorrow, but she said not another word of it.
She glanced about her home, or what was left of it, in dismay.
“I tried to hide them…” She began then, stooping to retrieve a chair that had been overturned. She righted it and sank wearily into its embrace.
Marcii did the same, taking a seat opposite Malorie and gazing across the overturned table at her deeply lined face.
“My cats…” Malorie clarified. “I hid them for a few days, but eventually they became too upset being cooped up…”
Marcii nodded sorrowfully, but she did not speak.
“They didn’t understand…” Malorie continued. “They didn’t know…”
“It wasn’t your fault…” Marcii attempted. “Tyran’s a monster…”
Hard as she could try, Marcii knew it would be impossible to lessen Malorie’s grief. Nonetheless, she so desperately wanted to help her, for she felt a strange and indescribable connection to this woman whom had, for some reason, become such a central pillar in her life.
“Yes…” Malorie agreed, but then she paused, though there was still unspoken breath in her lungs.
Th
ere was more to that statement, and Marcii knew it.
She waited, her own breath clutched tightly, hardly even daring to move.
Finally, after much deliberation it seemed, Malorie continued.
“But the people don’t see that…” She eventually sighed, the very sound of it weary and burdened. “He has blinded them. He has given them a common enemy. And he has done it so convincingly that I don’t know if they will ever see through it…”
“I see through it.” Marcii replied adamantly. “I won’t ever let his words fool me.”
Her statement was not an opinion, but instead fact, and Malorie knew it.
The mysterious woman, whose age was a secret only she and time itself knew, smiled affectionately.
Hard as she tried though, she could not hide the pain behind those violet eyes, pooling with wisdom and truths unknown.
“I know.” She agreed kindly. “But you are unique, Marcii Dougherty.” Malorie pressed on. “Others do not see the world in the way you do. So long as Tyran rules them, they will always be blinded, and I fear that there is still much worse to come…”
Chapter Thirteen
The following morning, only half an hour or so after sunrise, Marcii stood amongst the heaving crowds in the square, in the very centre of Newmarket.
Although the elements that daybreak were ferocious, her mind was not on the fierce wind that harassed her.
Nor was it upon the freezing, icy rain that refused to relent as it lashed down.
No. Instead, as Marcii’s gaze drilled across the square, her mind was upon Tyran, and how she so deeply mistrusted the self-proclaimed Mayor.
Malorie’s words the previous day had served only to heighten Marcii’s disgust for the terrible man. But, had she known how deeply her loathing for him would run by the end of even just that miserable day, she would have set herself upon him there and then.
“My people!” Tyran boomed across the tightly packed square, beginning his speech in the usual fashion, and every time it set Marcii’s teeth on edge.
