by Tim O'Rourke
Chapter Eight
Mila Watson
The wind chased dead leaves amongst the gravestones. I made my way between them, stopping to look at the graves of the children I’d been told Clarabelle had killed. Some of the headstones were cracked and covered in clumps of green and black moss. It looked like they had been set in place long before Clarabelle had been born. And the dates on them, too, didn’t ring true somehow. As far as I was aware, Clarabelle was aged 12, and some of the dates on the headstone would have proceeded her birth. But then again, I was unsure of how the werewolves aged. Did twelve werewolf years equate to the same as twelve human years? Was there any comparison to be made?
“So sad isn’t it,” someone suddenly said from behind me.
Gasping, I spun around to find Morten. Unsurprisingly, he no longer looked like the wolf I’d seen the previous night. Once more, he looked like nothing more than a frail and ancient old man, with a painfully pointed face and sunken cataract-ridden eyes. He wore his usual black threadbare suit and tatty bowler hat on his head.
Guessing he had been referring to the children’s graves, I looked back at them, and said, “Yes, it is very sad that so many children have died in Shade.” Then turning to face Morten once more, I added, “How long ago did these children die?”
Morten’s thin, bloodless lips stretched into a smile that looked like a crack running across the lower half of his face. “I’m not sure of the dates,” he shrugged. “Numbers have never been my strong point. I stick to digging graves. That’s my speciality around here, nothing more, nothing less.”
I looked into his milky eyes, and said, “And aren’t you the jailer, too?”
Morten’s smile faltered a little. “If you are referring to the prisoner in the crypt, then yes, I guess you could say I’m the jailer of sorts.”
“I would like to see your prisoner,” I told him.
“Flint you mean?” Morten said, cocking a barely-there eyebrow at me.
I was quick to come back at him. “Who else would I be talking about? Do you have more than one prisoner locked up in the crypt?”
“No, there is just the one prisoner,” Morten said. “Just your friend, Flint. He is your friend, isn’t he?”
I looked in the direction of the church, then back at Morten. “I thought he was but then again I thought lots of things and they have all been proven to be wrong. Friend or not, I would still like to see him.”
Scratching his pointed chin with his emaciated fingers, Morten said, “I think we should wait for Trent and the others, don’t you?”
“Why?” I asked him.
“The prisoner is a vampire – or have you forgotten?” Morten asked me. “He’s very dangerous.”
“I take it you still have Flint in chains?” I pressed.
“Well, of course,” Morten said right back in a tone that suggested he didn’t like being challenged by me. But I was long past tiptoeing around these people who called themselves my friends. I wanted to know the truth and I was determined to get it one way or another, even if it meant I had to be brash or insensitive.
“So if Flint is chained up, I can’t see how he will be a danger to me,” I said, brushing past Morten and heading in the direction of the church.
“I really think we should wait for Trent and Rea,” Morten said as he strode beside me on his long, spindly legs.
“So why don’t you go and fetch them while I go into the crypt and speak with Flint,” I suggested, pulling open the church door and stepping inside.
What little sunlight was left shone through the stained-glass windows, dappling the stone floor in hues of red, blue, green, and gold. The sweet smell of incense wafted under my nose and I fought the urge to sneeze. I made my way along the centre aisle, Morten at my heels. I darted through a row of pews and passed a confessional box until I reached a set of stone stairs that spiralled downwards beneath the church. The heels of my boots made a clip-clop sound against the stone steps as I hurried down them. At the bottom I found myself in a narrow passageway that was lit only by candles attached to the walls in wrought iron holders. Snatching one of the candles free, I headed down the passageway, the candlelight casting eerie and tormented-looking shadows across the walls. I peered from left to right in search of the cell where Flint was being held prisoner.
“Come back, Mila, it isn’t safe,” Morten wheezed from behind me. I wouldn’t stop or slow down. I wanted to speak with Flint. I had so many questions I wanted to ask him and I knew that if I didn’t find the answers to them, I would be tormented forevermore. However hard I peered into the darkness I couldn’t see a door leading to any cell.
Spinning around on the heels of my boots, holding the candle out before me, I faced Morten. He loomed up out of the darkness, his pale face looking jaundiced-like in the candlelight. “Where’s Flint?”
Sensing that I would not back down and that I wouldn’t leave the crypt unless I spoke with Flint, Morten let out a rattling sigh and said, “The cell is at the end of the passageway, follow me.”
Morten led me deeper into the darkness. How long the passageway was I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed that we were walking forever below ground. Eventually, he stopped before a large iron door. Reaching into his suit pocket, he produced a set of keys, which were fastened to a large metal ring. They clanked and jingled together in the gloom. I aimed the candlelight toward his hands so he could find the key that would open the cell door. His bony fingers worked nimbly and quickly as he sorted through the array of keys attached to the ring.
“This is the one,” he said, sliding the long black metal key into the lock that was set into the door. The keys jangled once more as he twisted his wrist to the left then to the right. There was a grinding sound, which reminded me of the engine gears in my uncle’s truck. Then placing his bony shoulder against the door, Morten pushed it open.
Chapter Nine
Mila Watson
Holding the candle above my head, I stepped into the cell, leaving Morten standing in the open doorway. Screwing up my eyes and peering into the gloom, I could just make out a figure standing against the far wall of the cell. Inch by inch, I moved forward, my heart beginning to race. I felt suddenly short of breath as if my lungs were being squeezed. The cell smelt of damp and I could hear the steady plink-plink of dripping water. As I drew ever closer to the lone figure against the wall, I could see that their arms were stretched out and secured firmly to the wall with weighty chains. The figure’s head was drooped forward and covered with a hood. The candle I held began to flicker as my hand began to shake. Reaching out with my free hand, I took hold of the hood and pulled it back.
Flint lifted his head and looked at me. The lower half of his face had been muzzled so I could only see his bright blue eyes in the candlelight. On seeing me standing before him, Flint’s eyes grew brighter and wider still. He began to yank and pull on the chains that fastened him to the wall. He shook his head violently from side to side. He began to shout from behind the muzzle, but whatever he was trying to say sounded nothing more than a series of muffled barks and roars.
Morten appeared out of the darkness and stood beside me. His clothes smelt as musty and as old as the cell. Placing one of his skeletal -like hands on my shoulder, Morten eased me backwards.
“Stand back, Mila,” he said. “Can’t you see that he is crazed? That is why we have muzzled him, so that he cannot bite.”
Seeing Flint muzzled and yanking violently against his restraints broke my heart. The sight of the man I’d once loved – still loved – chained up like a wild animal was devastating. I hated the creature that he had become and now knew him to be. As I stood and stared at him with dread and horror clutching at my heart, I saw through my mother’s eyes again. Once more, I could see the flames, taste the choking black smoke, and smell the sickly sweet scent of her burning flesh. I could hear the sounds of my mother’s screams as she begged for her life. Tears broke in the corner of my eyes and streamed down the length of my face. I sudd
enly became overwhelmed with hate and grief. A well of energy burst from deep inside me and raced into my fingertips. I closed my fists and beat them against Flint. I pounded his head, shoulders, and chest with them.
“I hate you!” I screamed. “You and your people deserve to die for what you did to my mother. You stole me from her, denied me the truth and the chance to know her. I hate you! I hate you! I want you to suffer like my mother did.”
As I stood choking on my own tears before Flint, I felt a hand fall gently upon my shoulder. I turned around to find Trent standing behind me. He opened his arms and I fell into them. I buried my head against his chest as he held me tight.
“You know what you must do, Mila,” he whispered in my ear.
“I want him to die,” I whispered back through my tears. “I want all the vampires to die.”
Through my tears and over Trent’s shoulder, I watched Rea and Rush step into the cell. Without saying a word, both of them, along with Morten, approached Flint and began to unfasten the chains that held him to the wall. He made a muffled wailing sound from beneath the muzzle. Flint began to kick out with his legs and wrestle with his captors. Seeing that his friends were having trouble restraining the prisoner, Trent let go of me and went to help them. Even though Flint’s arms were bound together at the wrists, he continued to fight and struggle against them. Making a fist with one of his hands, Trent rolled back his arm, then drove it into Flint’s face. I heard an audible crack and then Flint fell still. With his head drooped forward and the fight beaten out of him, Flint was dragged from the cell by Trent, Rush, and Morten. The tips of Flint’s boots made a scraping sound over the uneven surface of the cell floor and the passageway beyond it.
Alone in the cell with Rea, she came toward me, taking my free hand in hers. “You’re doing the right thing, Mila,” she whispered, her beauty even more striking in the glow of the candlelight. “I can only imagine how much it must hurt realising that Flint is not your friend and never truly was. He was just using you. He never loved you. He told you he did so they, the vampires, could keep you their prisoner in Maze.” Very gently, she brushed the tears from my cheeks with the back of her hand. “But you don’t have to be the vampires’ prisoner any longer. Avenge your mother’s death and set you and her free.”
Still holding my hand, Rea led me from the cell. She remained silent as we walked hand-in-hand back along the passageway, up the spiral staircase, and into the church. Since arriving in Shade, I’d never felt particularly close to Rea. I’d always distrusted her in some way and I now felt guilty about that. My mother had trusted her so why shouldn’t I? Rea told me that she’d been present at my birth – she had been there from the very beginning. It was Rea and the others who had given my mother a place of safety, somewhere I could be born, have a home. But the vampires have ruined all of that. They had tortured and killed my mother and stole me away from the very people who tried to help her. I had been foolish to put my faith and trust in the vampires. But no more. Tonight I would send a very clear message back to the vampires – to my Uncle Sidney – I was no longer going to be a pawn in their sick game – in their war. I was going to send that message by killing the man who the vampires had sent to kill me. That message would be loud and clear, because if I could kill the man I’d once loved – if I could show him no mercy – I could kill every single one of them. I was Julia Miller’s daughter and that made me a witch, just like her. And with that newfound sense of energy and power seething away inside of me, I knew that one day soon I would be just as powerful as my mother once was. And I would use my power to exact revenge on the vampires. The death of Flint would just be the start.
Chapter Ten
Mila Watson
By the time Rea had led me into the clearing set in the middle of the woods, Trent, Rush, and Morten had secured Flint to the stake. Flint had stopped struggling, and with his arms fastened before him there was little else he could do but accept his fate. Gathered in the clearing were some of the other werewolves who inhabited Shade. The butcher was present, and just as always, he wore that filthy apron and his hands and wrists were smeared red with blood, as was the serrated edge of the meat cleaver he held in his fist. Standing next to him was Clarabelle. As Rea led me into the centre of the clearing, I looked sideways at Clarabelle and our eyes met. She smiled, then looked back toward Flint secured to the stake. Some of the other wolves had gathered armfuls of twigs and branches and in turn they placed these in a pile at Flint’s feet. The night was cold and the moon shone brightly, casting a beam of blue light down into the clearing.
Rea let go of my hand. I looked at her. I was convinced that I was doing the right thing by killing Flint – make him suffer just like my mother had. My heart beat at trip hammer speed in my chest. My mouth felt dry and those tendrils of energy that seemed stronger than ever travelled throughout my body at lightning speed. I turned away from Rea and looked once more at Flint, who was just a few feet away. He looked into my eyes and I could see that they were wide with fear. He shook his head violently from side to side and made those muffled cries from behind his muzzle once more. I wondered if he now had some idea of how my mother had once felt when standing where he stood right now knowing that her imminent death was going to be cruel and agonising. But as we stood facing each other and our eyes locked, I saw a snapshot image of Flint whispering in my ear.
They’re lying to you, Mila…
He was warning me that I had been lied to, but his warning about how my Uncle Sidney and those people who called themselves my parents had deceived me had come far too late. He should have had the courage to tell me to my face, not in my dreams and nightmares.
As if sensing a glimmer of hesitation within me, Rea placed one hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t be scared, Mila. You shouldn’t fear the vampires, it’s they who should fear you.”
With her words ringing in my ears, I placed one foot in front of the other and slowly made my way toward Flint. As I approached, the werewolves who had gathered in the clearing placed the last of the dead wood at Flint’s feet. Without saying a word they slowly moved back to the edges of the clearing. I stopped within inches of Flint, my eyes fixed on his. I wanted to see the fear in them. I wanted him to suffer just like my mother had. He shook his head left and right, made those muffled moans and groans from behind his muzzle once more. He leant forward at the shoulders in one last attempt to try and break himself free.
Rea came slowly toward me, stopping at my side. Reaching into her shirt pocket, she produced a cigar. She stroked the tip of it with a lit match. Streams of thick, blue smoke curled upwards and I hoped the smell of it would mask the scent of Flint’s soon to be burning flesh. I wasn’t sure that I could bear the smell of that again even though it would be his flesh burning this time and not my mother’s. Rea passed me the match and I took it with one trembling hand. I couldn’t be sure whether my hand trembled with fear or because of the energy that was now bubbling deep within me.
Steadying my hand, I held the flame out above the pile of wood stacked at Flint’s feet. “This is for my mother, Julia Miller,” I whispered, staring straight at Flint and him staring straight back at me.
A familiar voice suddenly shouted from the edge of the clearing. “No! Stop! Mila, don’t do it!”
With the match burning between my fingers, I glanced back over my shoulder to see Calix striding across the clearing toward me. Reaching me, he snatched hold of my wrist, brought the burning match up to his lips and blew it out with one quick puff.
“What are you doing?” I hissed, yanking my wrist free of his grip.
“Flint didn’t kill your mother,” Calix said. “No vampire did. It was werewolves, it was us, who killed her.”
Stunned, I looked at him. “What are you talking about?” I turned to look at the others, Trent, Rea, Rush, and Morten who all stood close by. “Is what Calix says true? Was it you who killed my mother?”
But instead of answering my question, Trent drew his gun so qui
ckly that if I’d blinked I would have missed it. He shot Calix. The thunderous roar of Trent’s gun, the bright flash of gunpowder, and Calix flying backwards through the air happened so quickly that I was left breathless – a scream trapped in the back of my throat.
To be continued…
Witches of Twisted Den (Part Two)
Publishing November 2016
More books by Tim O’Rourke
Kiera Hudson Series One
Vampire Shift (Kiera Hudson Series 1) Book 1
Vampire Wake (Kiera Hudson Series 1) Book 2
Vampire Hunt (Kiera Hudson Series 1) Book 3
Vampire Breed (Kiera Hudson Series 1) Book 4
Wolf House (Kiera Hudson Series 1) Book 5
Vampire Hollows (Kiera Hudson Series 1) Book 6
Kiera Hudson Series Two
Dead Flesh (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 1
Dead Night (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 2
Dead Angels (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 3
Dead Statues (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 4
Dead Seth (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 5
Dead Wolf (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 6
Dead Water (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 7
Dead Push (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 8
Dead Lost (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 9
Dead End (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 10
Kiera Hudson Series Three
The Creeping Men (Kiera Hudson Series Three) Book 1
The Lethal Infected (Kiera Hudson Series Three) Book 2
