BLOODY MARYTOWN
Sins of the Father
Text copyright © 2016 Lucie J. Mansell
All Rights Reserved
For my Nan, who always hated her name
I think it was perfect
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 1
Marytown, 13 Years Earlier
Marytown Park was a happy place, sunlit with scenery. The groundskeeper obviously had to earn his pay but he appeared to do a good job, plentiful beds of wildflowers beautifully plotted and meticulously maintained. A modest boating lake sat in the middle of a long stretch of lawn, the low stone wall a perch for those who wished to cool off by dipping their feet into the deep, clear water. In the heart of the lake, mounted upon the back of a fearsome quartet of wolfish beasts, stood the flawlessly carved figure of a beautiful woman. The romanticised lady of the manor. From her pale, marbleised left hand, dangled a single rose. In her right, she clutched an ornate chalice close to her chest. Hair that yearned to dance upon the summer’s breeze flowed out in long, wavy tresses, revealing a face that was demure in spite of the smirk that played upon her lips. Prominent and perfect, she had become an apt monument to the tragedy that had once befallen her quaint Cheshire town. A poignant memorial. A beacon of hope.
It was a nice sentiment. But, like the carefree air of security that surrounded the folk who casually soaked up the sun or chatted amongst fellow parents as their children charged spiritedly around the vibrantly colourful playground, it was a clever façade.
Below the surface, the true nature of the land resonated subtly, echoes of a history that was as dark as it was dangerous. To those who did not know better, Marytown had once been overwhelmed by wildfire, the town and many of its inhabitants tragically falling victim to the flames. Starting somewhere within the forested hills that surrounded the small, mostly residential town, it burned unfettered, fanned by inexplicably strong winds, until it raged out of control, leaving Marytown devastated in its wake. The death toll had reached the hundreds, the dead later buried in mass graves. A natural disaster. The senseless act of a God who felt no mercy.
Stefan North knew better.
Whilst the ferocious purge had indeed been a reckoning, the only part played by God was in His creation of the entities involved. Warriors as big as giants. Monsters in the guise of men. It was an antipathy that had twisted silently around itself for centuries before finally erupting in a torrent of violence so brutal and bloody that it had not paused to discriminate between the good and the guilty, innocent and the immoral. Most of the dead had been blameless, caught in the crossfire. Wrong place, wrong time. All people. Far too many dead. He had not known them but still, centuries later, he couldn’t help but feel the loss, mourn as their surviving kin had mourned. The past could be relentless when it had something it wanted to reveal. The ethereal remnants of life lingered, seeking out an ear that could hear them, an eye that could see. He could still feel the terrible heat, taste thick, acrid smoke in the back of his throat.
In the centuries following The Purge, Marytown had been off limits to his kind. A formal covenant had been forged in the ashen ruins following the battle, an enduring assurance that the surviving mortals would be left in peace to recover, rebuild and prosper, free from the debasing influence that had corrupted them before. He should never have returned and in truth would have been content to never set foot upon these lands again but his father had imparted upon him a request that he could not refuse. A covert rescue and retrieval mission. Of one of their own.
‘Who?’ he had asked his father, a male who was far greater in stature than even he.
Azazel had paused, contemplating how much information to give. A tactic that he often used when briefing his sons for battle. ‘…I cannot say.’
‘Cannot or will not?’
Azazel had sighed deeply. ‘My son, you know that I would not ask this of you if it were not vital to our mission. If our enemies discover this individual, then it will give them an advantage that we may never recover from.’
He had frowned, perplexed. ‘How am I supposed to know when I find them?’
‘You will know.’
After a long moment, he had nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘I have faith in you, Stefan. I know that you will not disappoint me.’
‘Yes, father.’
And that was why he was there, pacing up and down a gravelled, pedestrianised pathway like an anxious lion when he should have been in and gone before his enemies could become wise to his actions. They were here too. Not in the small town itself, as that was in violation of the treaty, but on the outskirts, close enough to prickle the hair on his arms. The sensation would usually have pleased him, only he was not there to hunt. In and out. At least, that is how it should have been. Only, he had quickly found himself in a position he had not foreseen.
The whole task had been easier imagined than done. Getting into Marytown itself had not been a problem. While his enemies watched the surrounding hills, they did not dare venture too close. A flaw in their defences which he was only too happy to exploit, blanketed in an aura of energy that would make him invisible to the naked eye. Once within the boundaries, however, he had expected to be able to sense his target – after all, kin often recognised kin – but there was nothing except the harrowing memories of what went before.
As he continued to pace, his mind raced through his options. He could continue to wander around aimlessly, silently hoping that his presence remained undetected, until he uncovered what he had been sent for. Or he could simply leave, tell his father that there was not any person of note within Marytown and be done with it all…
I have faith in you, Stefan. I know that you will not disappoint me.
He grunted as he kicked out at the gravel beneath his heavily booted foot. As frustrating as the situation was, he knew that orders were orders and he would see them carried out. Failure was not in his vocabulary. He would never give his father cause to question his dedication. Then, after his task was complete, he would secure permission to return to the surrounding hills and kill every single enemy that scouted the area. Parasites. They had as little right to be there as he did.
Resigned to his objective, he methodically scanned the park. Sunbathers. Couples. Kids and their parents. Not one of them stood out. For a dangerously long time, he stayed rooted to the spot, the internal tug between flight and action suddenly stronger, almost overwhelming. Logic dictated that he should try somewhere else but there was something keeping him in the park, a feeling that he was right where he needed to be even though he could not fathom why.
His eyes found and locked onto a set of ivy-entwined gates at the southern end. There. He was certain of it. As he started to
move in that direction, his patience was finally gratified.
The moment that the target entered the park, Stefan knew that he had found the right person. All of his senses tingled in recognition, not only from the bond of potential kinship but an aura that signalled them out from the milling crowd, a different beat to the pulsing natural rhythms that the other townsfolk emitted. It was exactly as his father had said. You will know.
The thing that caught him off guard was not the identity of his target – they had surely never met before – but their gender. There was no mistaking that she was one of their own but she was clearly female, hiding a short, girlish frame beneath a dark, hooded jacket that was not at all suited to the summer weather. Her face was partially hidden, an act that could only have been deliberate but he spotted tendrils of dark, almost raven black, hair peeking out from under the edges of the hood. A small rucksack was slung over her shoulder and she strode forwards, into the park, her head down. So uncomfortable in her surroundings. So uncertain in her own being.
She did not belong here. That much was clear. Fortunately for her, it was his mission to rectify that but he again found himself hesitating. The need to protect tugged from somewhere deep within him. He had a compelling desire to tap into their potential bond and reach out to her, to establish contact if only to gauge that she were as aware of his presence as he suddenly was of hers. As unimposing as she was, he could not understand what made her so vital, did not have an inkling why his father wanted her retrieved. But none of that mattered.
He had been given his orders and she would be coming with him. Right. Now.
Still cloaked in a veil of mystical energy, he inconspicuously made a beeline for the girl. Almost undoubtedly of his ilk and much more perceptive than the mortals surrounding them, she sensed his approach, pausing mid-step. While her face remained hidden by her dark hood, a new tension formed in her shoulders, a hint of awareness which made him feel strangely proud. As he tore up the yards between them, she remained passive as if waiting, willing to surrender herself to his custody. Physically, she was much smaller than him though that itself was not a revelation. He had been created for battle, trained for war. She was merely a girl. It should be straightforward to subdue and extract her. No eyewitnesses, no fuss. They would simply be there one moment and then gone the next. Poof. Magic.
However, he very quickly realised that he had underestimated the potential danger of the situation.
Before he could make actual contact, he was alerted to another presence, over to the right of his target and closing in fast. One male. An enemy. Huffing and puffing and ready to blow his house down. He was out of time and needed to leave. His presence being detected was not as big of an issue as it might have been if there was no proof that he had violated the treaty. A physical confrontation, however, would be problematic to say the least. He could not engage his enemies within the boundaries of the town without their being consequences but he could not allow one to live if they saw his face. And then there was the girl, allegedly vital to the mission. He could not put her in harm’s way. They needed to go.
‘We have to leave this place,’ he commanded, sternly. ‘Come with me.’
She finally turned her head in his direction. He got the feeling that she was about to tell him he could go to hell but before the words could pass her lips, the air behind her undulated, distorted by the entity that Stefan had been hoping to avoid. There was no time to yell a warning as the fiend broke through into the same physical plane that he and their mutual target occupied. An impressively muscular arm locked across the girl’s chest, a gloved hand yanked the hood back off her head, revealing a pale but very pretty, young face that was besieged by a mass of unruly black waves. Her almond shaped eyes widened in shock. She attempted to cry out but the hand that had exposed her face clamped around her jaw, smothering her mouth, big enough to muffle her scream. A low, menacing growl rumbled through the air and she stopped trying to struggle before she had even thought to begin, as was the potency of the threat.
Stefan unsheathed a hefty hunting knife from the small of his back, falling into a warrior’s stance without much prompting to it. His senses flipped to high alert, reaching out for additional danger as he focused upon the agitator stood before him, holding his quarry to ransom. The fiend was not known to him but that was not peculiar. His enemy were legion and it was not like he left them alive to come back and haunt him whenever they met in battle. It was somewhat of a relief to note that this particular male, whilst imposing in physique, was merely a grunt. He could and would handle the brute but was acutely aware how crucial the safety of the young girl that was being held between them was. He had to be cautious. Very cautious.
Engaging the fiend directly, he calmly stipulated, ‘Unhand the girl and I might give some thought to making your demise painless.’
The baritone chuckle that was dealt in response did not surprise him. Foot soldiers often thought themselves less expendable than they actually were. Fine. He had been itching for a fight the moment that he stepped foot back in Marytown. If this menace wanted to volunteer for the task then far be it for him to deny it.
Decision made.
‘Final chance, villain,’ he reiterated, simply so that he could say that he had tried to be diplomatic. ‘Release her. Or I will destroy you.’
‘You shall have to find me first,’ the male taunted, before swiftly enveloping itself and the girl back in whatever vile conjuration transported him back out of the mortal plane. The air warped violently around them. Stefan let out a bellow and launched himself forwards but as agile as he was, he would never have been fast enough, stumbling into empty space that reeked of the corruption that had just occupied it.
Without hesitation, he gave chase, out of Marytown and into the surrounding hills. One by one he located the remaining vanguards. One by one they fell to his blade. Briefly, he considered keeping one alive so that he could return it to his father in reparation. While it was not standard procedure to capture the fiends, he suspected that one of them knew where his most recent adversary had vanished to. Interrogations took time but they worked and he had to admit that he would enjoy pulling one of the corrupt little sycophants apart to see how they squealed but time was of the essence and the last one that he encountered spat in his face.
Angry and thwarted, he fell to his knees upon the sandstone apex of a nearby hill. There was no correcting his mistake. No fixing what had just occurred.
The girl had been taken. His mission had failed.
Chapter 2
Marytown, Present Day
Home. What a sentimental concept.
The building that had once held that name had definitely seen better days. Three storeys high, the grey stone walls were overrun by clematis and trailing ivy. The roof was missing some of its tiles, slate laying smashed upon the weed-laced path. The lawn was overdue a mow. One of the upper balconied, bay windows appeared to have been smashed, boarded up by thick wooden boards that seemed to be battling the elements. The side panels had splintered but seemed to have not been repaired, webbing cracks set deep into the fragile panes. The painted frames appeared rotten.
Anything warm and inviting was seemingly long forgotten and for a moment Martha Valentine thought that the looming house had been abandoned. Patters of rain persistently kissed her cheeks but she sealed her eyes and concentrated, reaching out with finely attuned senses to decipher two distinct energy signatures. One was strong, vital. The other was painfully thready. Feeling it brought a lump to her throat but it was, after all, why she was there. After years of meticulously fabricated avoidance, her past had sent out a melancholy plea, whispered in the only voice that could ever have lured her back to this dilapidated shell, her childhood home.
Stepping through the gate, she wrapped her light military-style jacket tightly around her body, holding it protectively closed. It didn’t really help. The elements, like her trepidation, were not going to be tempered by thin fabric. The path had slickened from
the rain, pooling in random places. She vaguely recalled a time when such puddles would have been perceived as a challenge that needed to be swiftly dashed under her gleefully stomping feet. Now, she kept her eyes down and barely cared that they sploshed dirty water over her boots in a long-plotted retaliatory strike, save to spare the brief, almost bittersweet recollection of a tenacious, raven-haired tomboy who scaled, and she was loathe to admit, fell from many a chestnut tree. Not even a broken collarbone had succeeding in keeping her from those branches. If she slipped a hand within the collar of her shirt, she would find a bony lump where it had failed to fully heal, an eternal reminder of a time when ‘carefree’ was a game that she excelled at, not an ideal to which she might aim to aspire.
The front door was set inside a coved porch, offering some much appreciated shelter but exhibiting an equally dishevelled state. Several of the square flooring tiles were broken, exposing grey cement underneath. Several pairs of mud-encrusted hiking boots sat, tucked away into one of the recesses. Martha felt absolutely no fondness at the sight of them, irrationally tempted to pick them up and toss them out into the bleak, mid-winter rain. Just about managing to resist the petty urge, she shook herself off and reached for the doorbell, a circle of white porcelain with a button at its nucleus, set to the side of the still sturdy-looking entrance. It made a reassuringly familiar bing-bong noise when pressed but the nervousness that bubbled in her stomach spat out like heating oil. She did not want to see the person that was surely about to open the door. She feared how she might react to the expected expression of disappointment that would greet her.
Sins of the Father (Bloody Marytown Book 1) Page 1
