I always viewed this story having a three-story arc, and so having read Crescent Moon, I hope you will stay for the third and final book. I’m extremely proud of this book, and very fond of my characters. In many ways, Romilly reflects a lot of my own growing pains as a teenager. I wish I had had Toril’s self-assuredness, or Beth’s tenacity. Even Dana, who has a will to survive, is very appealing to me. Perhaps we look for these things in our life too.
I have read books pretty much all my life, and whilst I welcome the e-book revolution, I will always prefer the physical book to read. I will continue to read and use both formats.
Finally, if you enjoyed the book, please leave a review on the site you purchased the book and also GoodReads, I would really appreciate it.
I do enjoy writing, and hopefully that comes across as you read the book. Dark Winter is ultimately a tale of survival, self-belief and hope. And in our lives, we need such things in abundance. Let’s go forward with our lives and enjoy every moment.
Warmest regards, John Hennessy
Dark Winter: Last Rites
Table of Contents
Books by the same author
FICTION
Dark Winter (I): The Wicca Circle (2013)
Stormling (Book One of the Mordana Chronicles) (2014)
Dark Winter (II): Crescent Moon (2014)
Murderous Little Darlings: A Tale of Vampires: I (2014)
The Blood and the Raven: A Tale of Vampires: II (2015)
Innocent While She Sleeps: A Tale of Vampires: III (2015)
Dream the Crow’s Black Dream: A Tale of Vampires: IV (2015)
The Ghost of Normandy Road: Haunted Minds: I (2015)
Clara’s Song: Haunted Minds: II (2015)
The Girl Who Collected Butterflies: Haunted Minds: III (2015)
Dark Winter (III): Last Rites (2016)
Reunion of the Blood: A Tale of Vampires: V (2016)
NON-FICTION
The Essence of Martial Arts (2011)
The Essence of Martial Arts: Revised Edition (2012)
The Essence of Martial Arts: Special Edition (2013)
How to Write, Keep Writing & Keep Motivated to Write:
Writing Tips for Aspiring Authors (2015)
Table of Contents
Contents
Table of Contents
Copyright
Prologue
The Last Resting Place of Bethany O’Neill
Black Pennies
The First Banshee
Demon Amongst Us
The Haunting of Annelise
The Last Will and Testament of Jacinta Eleanor Crow
Looking for Trust in all the Wrong Places
The Fall of Rosewinter
The Blood Runs Deep
The Scourging
Lies Between the Lines
Settling Old Scores
An Uncomfortable Truth
The Bell Tolls
The Vengeance of Toril
A Fateful Blow
Resurgence
A Voice that Dare not Speak Its Name
You Can’t Trust a Witch
There is Blood to be Spilled
Reforming the Circle
Orphans of the Forest
Old Forest, New Tricks
Demon One
Demon Two
A Dark Secret Unearthed
The Forsaken
Secrets Down Below
The Dead Have Risen
Mr Jackson, I Presume
Dark Witch
The Suicide Swing
Last Rites
Destiny
Epilogue
Copyright
Acknowledgments
About the author
By the same author
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Dedication
Dedicated to Francis Gerry McArdle. Friend to my family for over thirty years, selfless to a fault, his kindness and generosity of spirit touched so many people in his life. The character in Dark Winter of the same name is loosely based on him. I’m sure if he had known anyone in trouble like Beth O’Neill; he would have shifted heaven and earth to help them.
A great man has rejoined the angels in heaven.
Copyright
First published in the United Kingdom in 2016.
Text copyright John Hennessy 2016
The right of John Hennessy to be identified as the author of this work is asserted by him.
Cover artwork by Claudia McKinney of www.phatpuppyart.com.
Typography by Catriona Crehan of www.thefontdiva.com
A CIP Catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade of otherwise, be lent, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author, John Hennessy.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincedental.
Introduction
Perhaps the greatest regret we’ll ever have in our life is a fear of failure, and realising that our own failure affected not just ourselves, but those around us too.
When any of us face challenges, it’s easy to run; it seems the safer thing to do, is hide, and hide well, until the danger has passed.
For the protagonist in Dark Winter, Romilly, there is no hiding. Things must be faced up to. In the first book in the series, at her youngest point, she is just thirteen. When she is bequeathed the Mirror of Souls, she has turned fourteen. When those dangers come in earnest, she is but sixteen years old.
I cannot imagine to have to deal with the things she reluctantly faced. Romilly is not a super heroine. She’s the kind of girl who is happy for others to take the limelight. She just wants her cut, and yes, she wants things to be fair. Not always working out, not always getting the rub of the green, just fair.
For some readers, the end of Crescent Moon seemed to be particularly harsh on Romilly, and not fair at all. Her old adversary Curie appeared to be able to taunt her with ease from beyond the grave, her friendships became more fractured and just when she thinks something happy is finally coming her way, it is snatched away from her. As the character’s creator, why do I make her suffer so much?
Let me say something you already know. Life is not fair. We face an uphill battle most days, and on the ones where we don’t, we hide in our cocoon, trying not to make a nuisance of ourselves. So why do we do it? Some of us think we cannot face any more, that it would be easier to end it all.
But Romilly is a fighter, she has a never-say-die attitude which is to be admired. If it all goes well for her, I think readers would call me out on it, and say Hey, you cheated us! She’s not a fighter in the truest sense of what it is to be a martial artist. Her fights don’t end cleanly; it’s often messy and takes far too long. But she gets the job done.
At some point, we’ve got to look at ourselves and ask the question – why do we fight so much? Why do we have a distinct lack of trust in one another? Why don’t we put our distrust aside and try to get along with each other? I keep hoping the world will turn out like that. Some of us do extend the hand of friendship even when there’s a high chance of being burned. I’d still like to be the person to do that. It makes the world a lot less ugly.
- John Hennessy, September 2014 - December 2015.
“Come away, O human child:
To the waters and the wild, with a fairy, hand in hand.
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.”
- William Butler Yeats.
<
br /> Psalms 31:15
My times are in your hands.
I Kings 16:18
Rather than being taken prisoner, Zimri set the king's palace on fire and died in the flames.
Romans 10:13
Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.
Prologue
When death is all around you, all you can feel is the strangest kind of silence. There’s a scent, the unmistakable sense of death. You’d know it if you ever came across it. I promise you that you would find it hard to forget. In my head, it’s not exactly silent. It’s like a score of scorpions banging on the inside of my skull. When the last wisp of sunlight fades, the night comes quickly, swiftly, and I cannot sleep. I am afraid to close my eyes but also afraid of what I will see when I open them.
I want this to end.
Since I was bequeathed the Mirror of Souls, death has followed me around. First, my Nan, who I dearly love and miss. Then, my parents, who were hounded to their deaths by Dana Cullen. My grieving period is over, though the sense of loss will never truly go away. Death may well be an essential component of life, but I would give my very soul to change that. I was robbed of those final moments with my loved ones, and did not spend enough moments cherishing them. Never enough. Now I want Dana to pay for the misery she has caused me and countless others over the years.
Then, there’s another kind of death. The one that hurts you in a different way, because those involved, are still alive. I was close to Bethany, and to some extent, Toril as well. But Beth is not with me. I am sure she would not have left me to this fate. I realised my error. Leaving Gorswood was the worst thing I could have ever done. Beth told me so at the time, but I ignored her.
She had told me that Toril was unhappy with everyone, and everything. Could Toril take the Mirror? Of course she could. But I never truly believed she would do it to me, and rip the Mirror from my bloodied hands.
No. I don’t blame Beth for not being here at this, my hour of need, and how I need her, now that the hour is at hand.
I am still receiving premonitions, and the visions of the future unsettle me even more than I am already, if that were possible. One of them shows a scorched skull underneath my pillow, scuttling around on spider legs. There’s something shiny attached to one of its legs and it has a little difficulty in dragging it - my crescent moon pendant, and it is smeared with blood from the spider’s leg.
In another, I can see myself, my head torn off, turned to face the opposite direction, and then it is stitched back onto my neck. The demon inside me, Belial, is telling me what my future will be like if Diabhal wins. He enjoys sending me his own hateful message. That said, it’s more of a personal statement than a mere message.
You will see out eternity in Hell, Romilly.
The Last Resting Place of Bethany O’Neill
10 years into the future.
For the peace of our today, I fear too much has been lost.
In Gorswood Cemetery, five miles from the centre of our quaint little town, I sit in front of Beth’s grave. Her young body will stir no more, and I have to accept that I didn’t do enough to change what events took place.
Don Curie once told me that I was a coward, and I denied it. Of course I did. But the truth is, I am a coward. I could have stopped harm coming to her, and yet I did not.
For the best part of ten years, my days have been pretty much the same. I hid a small chair in one of the big ash trees close to the plot where Beth is buried. I jump up, set it up on the ground, and I try make sense of things.
Nearly ten years on, and I still cannot make sense of things. But I know that whatever people tell me, I don’t have to accept their version of how it’s going to be. What do they know? If anyone ever reads this diary entry, whatever happens to me or becomes of the Mirror, I hold to these words.
Don't let anybody tell you that they know how things will end. If I trust in myself and believe, if I can just imagine myself in a better place, I can make it my reality.
I didn’t have to turn my head to sense someone was coming. Someone who, from even the time I knew her at school, and admittedly, kept my distance from her, could be relied upon to make sense of things.
Though I have to say, the raven hair that adorned her beautiful head is greying in places.
***
“Hello Toril,” I say, without turning around. I can’t. I am still holding a single red rose, waiting to place it on Beth’s grave. It’s a ritual I have – on every first Tuesday in the month, I buy ten peonies, and a single red rose. The peony was Beth’s favourite flower. I added the rose because I felt it symbolised our friendship, our bond.
I had made sure it was not a white rose. Somehow, I don’t think Beth would have appreciated that.
Toril wrapped her arm around my shoulders, and kissed me on the cheek. She was always nice, but now, she’s so warm and friendly. Back when I knew her at school, such affection would have been beyond her. Ever the diplomat, she chooses her words carefully.
“Troy said you would be here. I just wanted to check you were all right. It’s been ten years and – well, I was hoping time would have healed things for you a little.”
She crouched next to me, her huge chocolate button eyes were still fiery. Small lines were appearing on her skin. Getting old was such a cruel unwelcome trick our bodies play on us. I wondered why a woman with Toril’s powers wouldn’t fix the imperfections in her skin.
At least one of us still had some power. The pentacle hung from Toril’s neck, reliable as ever. I too had a pendant, but it had been made from one of the shards of glass from the broken Mirror.
The Mirror of Souls. The bane of my life.
I keep the shard around my neck as a reminder, but in truth, I don’t need it. People know it too. They know I did my best. They can see it in my face.
My best was not good enough.
I didn’t mention Troy, and I hoped that Toril would not use her telepathic powers to detect that I still thought about him on occasion. But for ten years, Beth has consumed my thoughts, and how I failed her.
I could not move on with my life until I had rectified things.
Toril was not here by accident. She was here to stop me.
***
I turned slightly in the chair to look at her. She moved her hand around my back, but kept her eyes trained on me.
“You’re over your fear of cemeteries, at long last,” I remarked.
“Fear?” exclaimed Toril. “Yes. Dislike? No. I still don’t like these places.”
“You’re scanning me,” I say, a half-smile on my face. “You need the sensory touch to work me out, don’t you?”
“Busted,” confirms Toril. “Though I am not using telepathy. Mum used to say it was impolite to do so. Mum was right.”
I wanted to say Well that’s never stopped you before, but I refrained, showing considerable restraint. You know something else? I don’t even bite my lip anymore. Beth used to say it was a dead give-away; that she knew I wanted to say something, but bit my lip to stop it from escaping my mouth. By then, it would be too late to take it back.
She stood up, took her hand from my back, ran it down my arm, and lightly brushed my hand.
“I just wanted to check you were okay.”
Toril had no give-away quirks. She possesses what would be called an honest face. She was not being wholly truthful with me.
“Toril, we both know the Prophecy. There was an addendum to the Book. You’re here because you know it is time.”
“You’re right, Romilly. As always.” Toril glanced at Beth’s gravestone, then turned her eyes back towards me. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
I knew what she was going to say. She would tell me that no matter how difficult it was, she had learned to live without Jacinta, and in respect of Beth, that I would too.
Maybe she was right. But her life was pretty good. She was Mrs Toril Jackson. She had walked down the aisle and married Troy. Soon after, Toril had b
ecame pregnant, then suffered a miscarriage. That wasn’t altogether a surprise. It was in the prophecy. About five months ago, I had learned through town gossip that Toril was pregnant again.
One look at her told me that this was no longer the case. My eyes must have betrayed me, because she smoothed a hand over her stomach.
“My second miscarriage,” she said. “Troy is not sure if he wants to try again. Sometimes we force things in life, trying so hard to make it all happen. Sometimes we just have to accept things as they are.”
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