Lucas - A Faction Series Prequel Book 1

by Lindsey Jayne

  I dressed with haste and left for the fields.

  Sun began to break when I heard footsteps behind me. Placing the sickle on the floor, I put a smile on my face and turned to what I thought would be Mary’s smiling face, come to chastise me for working so early.

  My smile fell when I saw John before me, with two other men stood slightly behind him.

  “Thy rent is past due, Goodman Drake.” He said nothing more as he stepped back, allowing his two companions to move forward.

  The first punched me in my mouth. I tasted blood, before the second threw his meaty fist into the side of my head. When I landed in a crumpled heat on the dirty ground, I lost track of who threw kicks and punches. They rained down on me even after my face began to swell and my ribs throbbed.

  “Stop.” John told them, in a calm, composed manner. “Ye have one more day, Drake, or I will not call them off next time.”

  Their footsteps died away, and I lost time just as the first drops of rain hit my face.

  ∽∽∽

  “Lucas? Lucas, wake up, I beg of thee.” Mary’s distraught voice echoed through my ears.

  I struggled to open my eyes through the swelling; unable to see properly when I did manage to prise them apart just a little. Mary’s tear-streaked face stared at me, her hair wet and clinging to her pallid cheeks.

  “Oh, Lucas,” she cried, “what happened?”

  Opening my mouth to speak, I grimaced when a sharp, shooting pain lanced through my jaw. I lifted my arm to clutch the ache, only to cry out when that, too, caused me further suffering.

  Nothing seemed broken, that I could tell thus far, but the pain pulsed through my entire body, leaving me feeling as though I had been battered by a herd of stampeding cattle.

  “Help me stand,” I finally managed to croak.

  Mary, being only a slight woman, struggled so, but between us, I clambered to my feet.

  Back in the house, Mary sat me at the table, hurrying to fetch a cold cloth with which to ease my swelling.

  “Lucas,” she started, sitting in front of me and gently dabbing my face. “What happened?” she asked again.

  I closed my eyes. “It doth not matter, Mary, I will take care of it.” She need not worry any more than I could already see. “It will not happen again.”

  “Oh, Lucas, thou cannot keep secrets from me. I am your wife. Please, tell me what happened.” Fresh tears left a glistening pathway down her cheeks and my heart ached more than my body for seeing it.

  Still, I remained quiet. She did not need to live in fear of losing our home. But the less I said, the more she begged, until her face reddened and she could barely breathe through her sobbing.

  “Please, Mary,” I pleaded, “please, do not cry. ‘Twas a misunderstanding and I will fix it. My promise to thee, my love. I will fix it.”

  She nodded, but whether she believed me or not, I could not yet tell.

  “Where be the children?” I asked.

  “I sent them out to play. When the rain eased, they wanted to go out, so I allowed it.” She stood, tidying away the implements of her nursing. “They will be back for lunch.”

  “I must return to the fields and finish my days work.”

  Standing, I grabbed the edge of the table, wavering.

  Mary looked at me, her eyes wide, but she said nothing. She knew that I could not just abandon my work. One missed day would mean one missed meal, and neither of us could afford for that to happen.

  Limping, I dragged myself out of the house, my usual pace of walking severely hindered by my battered body. I did not stop, though, until I reached my sickle. But even lowering myself to retrieve it caused fresh bouts of agony to cripple me, and I dropped to my knees, taking deep, painful breaths.

  How would I possibly be able to work like this? I could barely stand. Lifting my tattered tunic, I examined the bruises and welts beginning to form on my flesh. Even touching them caused me discomfort, as tender as they were.

  From my position, I lifted the sickle as high as I dared, before bringing it down. I stifled the scream rumbling in my chest, dropping the tool and clutching my ribs, hot tears escaping my eyes unhindered.

  Despair twisted its way around my stomach. I could not work, my body battered to the point of feebleness. I could not provide for my family which, in turn, meant I would have no goods to trade, and no coins for rent owed.

  John would have me killed, of that I had no doubt. And then what of Mary and the children? They would be thrown onto the streets, left to rummage through scraps and waste for anything that would keep them alive.

  The thought brought with it fresh tears. I ignored the pain as my body shuddered from them.

  There would be only one thing I could do. I would save my family the humiliation of begging in the streets illegally. I would do it myself. If I could make even enough to cover this day, then I would worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.

  I staggered to my feet, drying my swollen face with the sleeve of my tunic, before I made my way into town.

  Chapter 7

  My torn clothes and dirty, hunchback appearance, thankfully, concealed my identity. Of the few faces I recognized in town, none seemed to realize my person when I sat under a dimly lit shelter, put out a small pot, and began begging passers-by for their money or for what food they could spare.

  Very few threw coins my way, several chucked leftover scraps of food they could not finish on the dirty floor beside me, but most spat in my face and laughed.

  By the time dusk gathered in the sky, the chill settled in my bones groaned its reluctance as I stood and gathered what meagre generosity I managed to get for a day on the streets.

  “You there,” an authoritative voice froze me to the spot. “Thy face is unfamiliar in this town; produce thy license.” The thickset man held out a gloved hand.

  Alarm rattled through me while I fumbled through my pockets for papers that did not exist.

  “Doth ye waste my time, vagrant?” The man grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, hauling me through the dusty ground to the centre of town where he tied me to the flogging post.

  “No, please, ye doth not understand.”

  He tore off my tattered tunic. “Oh, I understand plenty, beggarman. And ye shall understand me when I am finished.”

  The first of the lashes stung; it laid open my bruised skin, magnifying the pain of the afflictions already littering my body. The second and third made me cry out. I wanted to drop to my knees, yet the restraints attached to the post forbade me that small mercy. I hung from them, my arms stretching to the point of agony, hot tears staining my face.

  By the time the seventh and eighth strokes sliced into my skin, my body could feel no more. Numbness settled in, and I wanted nothing more than to collapse to the ground. A small crowd gathered round me, whispering among themselves.

  After ten, the man loosened my bonds. With no life left in me, I dropped; the side of my face hitting the dirt, arms splayed out, my knees tucked beneath me. No one offered me aid.

  The man walked away laughing,

  Long moments went by, before a kindly older lady took pity on me. She struggled to help me to my feet, sat me by the well, then washed my face and body before offering me a clean, yet old, well-worn tunic. She did not say anything to me, only smiled with kind eyes as she tended to my wounds.

  I could not recall having ever seen her face before, but assured myself I would never forget it.

  Long after the lady left did I wait by the well, gathering strength enough to stand and make my way back home.

  Mary looked stricken when I entered the house. “By the holy heavens, Lucas, where hath thou been?”

  She looked frailer than I remembered this morning, the skin on her cheeks sallow and sunken, highlighting the bones beneath. Dark smudges circled her red, watery eyes and I realized, after this morning’s incident, my leaving unannounced had not been wise.

  “I am so sorry, my love. I went into town to sell the wares from yesterday.” The lie f
ell, ready and easy from my lips, but I could not bear to see her in such a way. “I did not think. I am vexed, will thou forgive me?”

  “What is going on?” A single tear fell from her eye. “Pray, sit ye down and tell me what is happening; I beg of thee, Lucas, do not keep me in the dark, I cannot bear it.” Sobs wracked her.

  I dropped to my knees, painfully so, and held her close, agony be damned – for the agony in my heart over the pain I caused this beautiful woman, hurt so much more.

  “Pray, my love, trust me,” I urged her. “Trust me that your husband, the man who promised to take care of thee, will fix this.”

  “Fix what?” The exasperation in her voice stung.

  “Mummy?”

  I turned my head toward the direction of the voice, my heart breaking all over again to see eleven year old Margery stood in the doorway, rubbing her tired eyes, fresh from waking.

  Struggling to my feet, I walked toward her. “Go back to bed, sweetheart, ‘tis nothing for ye to worry about. Return to your dreams.”

  “Daddy, where hath you been?” She stopped rubbing her eyes and stared at me. “And what happened to thy face?” She began to cry, tearing my heart in two.

  I cried with her, unable to stop at seeing her torment. “Please, my child, go back to bed and be sure not to wake your brother. We will talk in the morning, I promise.” I turned her around, giving her a gentle push back toward her bed, desperately wanting to hold her close, but not wanting her to worry further – if at all possible.

  Heading back to my wife, I could not miss the look in her eyes of her own desperation.

  “Mary, my darling,” I soothed, “please go to bed; we will all talk in the morning. There is one more thing I must do tonight… .” I hesitated, not wanting to stress her anymore. “I need to pay John a visit and pay the rent.” His name sounded like poison on my lips, I refrained from gritting my teeth together as I said it.

  I couldn’t say for sure whether she believed me, but she went to bed all the same, kissing me before she did so. I held on to her for a few moments more, savouring the salty taste of her tear-drenched lips.

  “I love you,” I whispered, leaning my forehead against hers.

  “And I, you.”

  ∽∽∽

  I had lied to my wife.

  Standing outside George Langley’s farm, the guilt ate at me. Being an unreasonable man, a visit to John would have been futile. My hopes lay with George.

  Perhaps mine eyes hath deceived me that night. With absolutely no idea what went on behind his doors, George could have very different ways of entertaining than I could imagine. Being nought but a poor farmer, money did not stretch too far. Lord only knew the workings of the minds of the company he kept – far be it from me to judge, or even to guess.

  Two options stood before me.

  I could apologize to George for interrupting one of his parties, beg for my job back and hope he accepted.

  Or I could blackmail him for money in exchange for my silence. Differences or not, if I found my discovery disturbing, then so would others, and George would want to protect his reputation.

  Far from being a vindictive man, my choices were limited, so my first option would be to beg for my job back. I would consult my moral compass then, if that did not go to plan.

  Heading for the steps that would lead me to his door, surprise took me as, once again, the door stood ajar. Coincidence? Or carelessness? I had never before seen his door left open, and if what went on that night happened to be a regular occurrence, then it would be wise of George to ensure his privacy at all times.

  Nevertheless, I pushed the door open and called George’s name.

  Stony silence met me. The atmosphere in the house did not bode well, either. A wind whipped through the halls from an open window somewhere in the building. Though I expected it to be cold for this reason, the chill circling me seeped right into my bones, causing me to shiver, the bite of it more intense than I would have imagined.

  “Master Langley,” I called out again, worried now that someone might have stumbled upon his activities and beaten me to the punch… or worse. “Master Langley, where be thee?” The quiver in my voice did not go unnoticed.

  Walking into the parlour, my eyes immediately fell to the provocatively dressed, red-haired woman sat on the chaise. Blood oozed from two puncture wounds in her neck, and when she turned to look at me, I noted the glassy appearance of her eyes, shining like two dusty, obscured amethysts.

  She tilted her head, smiling at me, dazed as though under the influence of some form of narcotic.

  George walked through a door behind her. He, too, smiled at me as he sipped from a glass of wine.

  “Would you like some?” He offered the glass to me. “’Tis quite exquisite.” Moving closer, still holding out his hand, his smile widened.

  The aroma that overpowered my senses did not come from fermented fruits, and the closer George came with the glass, the more the metallic odour made my senses swim.

  “N-no, thank you,” I stammered, taking a step back for every two he took forward.

  He tossed the drink aside, where it smashed against a wall, leaving a thick, ruby stain as it slowly slid down.

  Within the blink of mine eye, George stood right before me, his hands clasped around my shoulders, bony fingers digging into my flesh.

  Cold shivers swam the length of me, I shuddered, I trembled. My every breath hitched when the cold release of his danced across my skin.

  With such speed, he tilted my head and sunk his teeth into my skin, piercing me like ripened fruit.

  My eyelids flickered, eyeballs rolling in my head as a cold sweat broke out across my body. I found my own hands gripping George’s shoulders when my legs gave out. We slumped to the floor, his mouth still latched around the pumping vein in my neck, drawing my very life from me. I felt it leaving me, felt the light diminish with every gulp he took.

  “P-please,” I stammered, through parched lips, my hands losing their hold on him, falling limply by my sides as I used his body to hold my weight. Tears slipped down my face.

  The room clouded from the outside in, like a drop of ink dirtying the purest of water with its blackness. Lost. I felt… lost…

  To the girl, I whispered, “Save me,” with my last breath; the words dying with the light.

  Chapter 8

  I opened my eyes – at least, I think I did. No light filtered through; I could see nothing but a black existence.

  An excruciating force blasted my body, crippling me from the inside out. My blood burned a scorching fever through my veins, erupting across every inch like a volcano, hot as hell itself.

  Unaided, my entire being jolted, writhing from the disease I could feel coursing under my skin, making the flesh binding me together melt into a smouldering mass of a being I used to be. My very essence slipped away behind a blanket of white-hot fire, burning my retinas until my head might explode from the severity of the pressure thumping through it.

  My limbs did not feel my own. Leaden weights held me down, would not allow me up and away, away to find some sanctuary from the hell torturing my soul.

  Through the pain, a face emerged; familiar, yet not entirely so. A voice soothed me with words I could not translate, before a welcoming cool liquid touched my burning lips. With a swollen tongue, I licked at my salvation, recoiling at the coppery taste, but not stopping until I consumed all that I had been granted.

  Even despite the fresh agony tearing through me, my conscious mind slipped into a gratefully received oblivion, my polluted soul sated… for now.

  ∽∽∽

  George’s face materialized above me, smiling,

  The same iron tang from before swam in my mouth and down the back of my throat, a comfortable burning following.

  An ache throbbed through my limbs, the pain gradually intensifying the more I became aware of my surroundings.

  A bare room took hold – white walls, aged in places with darker stains. I lay on a bed
, fairly high up from the floor.

  Before the darkness closed in once more, I realized my wrists and ankles were bound.

  ∽∽∽

  Pain still pelted my body, pressure still crushed my organs with unexplainable strength. But the energy in me disappeared, replaced, instead, by an undeniable thirst. Never could I remember such a strong desire to quench the dryness scratching at my throat like sand.

  “W-water,” I wheezed with difficulty.

  “Water will no longer satisfy thy needs, Goodman Drake.”

  A woman swam into focus – the woman from the couch, with the puncture marks in her neck. I recognized her scent. Only now, it smelled of the most divine aromas I could ever hope to come by from years spent travelling an exotic world.

  “I hath what ye crave, at least for now.” She brushed her wrist against my lips, something wet and warm coated them and I accepted it blindly.

  The harder I sucked at her soft flesh, the quicker her blood gushed down my throat. I could not cease; I wanted it all – every sweet drop of nectar she could give me, willingly or otherwise.

  Pulling away, she chuckled at me while dabbing at her wrist with a white cloth. “Ye will soon learn to be less sloppy, Goodman Drake.”

  Incensed, I rose from the bed, only to fall back down when my restraints hindered me from sitting upright. “Unchain me, wench.”

  “I will do nothing of the sort; your change is not yet complete.” She stood and walked out of the room.

  Fury surged. “What are ye talking about, ye cantankerous witch? What sorcery is this that I am still parched?”

  “You will see.” Her voice floated from another room before the silence deafened me once again.

  ∽∽∽

  The distant ticking of a mechanical clock thrummed through my ears. It sounded so close, and yet I knew it to be further away. I had seen it in the parlour the first time I watched George feast on a woman’s blood.

  As I have done.

  Closing my eyes, I swallowed hard, half loathing myself for what I had done, half yearning for more of that saccharine taste to appease my needs.