Toril had left the remaining zombie-girls to their own devices. She wasn’t prepared to make a deal with them back then, and was even less enamoured to do so now. All that mattered was the feeling of power her mother’s wand gave her. I also knew that Toril was honest about one thing – she had never wanted the Mirror, she just wanted to be a great witch.
Though Beth and I would have understood her thoughts, we would not have agreed with them. In addition, her mother had warned her about such thoughts.
‘You leave Jacinta be, I am not even kidding about that.’
Toril had given her word, and that was her bond. She placed a hand on the window, and it was so cold to the touch.
“I miss you, Jay-Jay. So much. Life shouldn’t be this hard.” She clasped the wand in her hand more tightly. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be.” Toril turned to look at Beth, who had moved in the bed, rolling onto her side.
“Who were you talking to?” she asked sleepily.
“Nothing,” replied Toril, almost startled by Beth’s question. “No-one. Go back to sleep, Beth.”
“You miss her, like I miss my parents,” stated Beth. “I know you do.”
Toril placed her wand on the windowsill and walked over to Beth, and sat by her bedside.
“I do.” It was an honest, emotive statement from Toril. After all this was over, she planned to continue her studies as a witch, on her own. Being in a coven wasn’t for her. Maybe like Lunabelle, she would continue to study the Book for the remainder of her years. If her mother had been Gorswood’s greatest witch, Toril would have to step up at some point, and take her place.
But now, there was a bigger task at hand, something Toril would not have considered before, and although she didn’t believe in the teachings of the Bible, she agreed with some aspects of it.
“Jesus brought Lazarus back from the dead, didn’t he?”
“Um?” Beth responded, but hadn’t heard the question clearly. “What?”
“Nothing,” said Toril. “Sorry Bon-Bon, you go back to sleep. Rest, okay?”
Toril worked her thoughts out in her head. If Lazarus, a man who had hailed from the town of Bethany – of all places, could be raised from the dead, maybe I could do it too. Bring Beth’s parents back. Even bring Romilly’s parents back, and yes, bring my mum back.
If I had been party to these thoughts, I would have said that Toril had finally gone crazy. She had always been the most level-headed one amongst us. Her Book, and her newly acquired wand was one thing. Her sense of self-belief was even more heightened now.
Her thoughts read like this: I can bring Jacinta back from the dead. She was too young to die, and no matter what anyone else says, I had a part in her death. I can make things better again. I can do it.
That made her an extremely dangerous person.
Tori-Suzanne would have agreed with the first part of Toril’s statement, yet abhorred the second.
Wherever she happened to be, I would have totally agreed with her.
***
Toril knew that Beth would require an extended sleep, and with our mutual friend suffering from demon fallout, that sleep would be a considerable one. Toril took her chance to consult with her book once more. Our missions were now completely different. Toril wanted to raise the dead, but I wanted to keep them where they belonged. It was not up to us mere mortals to decide who lives and who dies. I had done what I needed to do, but Toril was engaged in the kind of mission that served only to feed her ego.
I hoped she would not make me hurt her.
***
I think when I went to sleep, when I was allowed to have some sleep, my deepest thoughts were reserved for my parents. I would wake up, and my pillow would feel slightly damp, as if I had been crying. I wanted to grieve for them in my waking hours, but I seemed unable to do so. Did this make me as cold as Toril? Was Toril even cold? I hated it when people judged me, yet here I was doing it to her.
I would have understood her motivation. If you had the power, the power of raising the dead, wouldn’t you do it? I hear the words, I really do. I would consider it.
Mum, Dad. I miss you so much. It’s all so final. I hate that it is so final.
But it didn’t have to be. I would complete my side of the bargain. The Mirror could not stay intact, and I would see its destruction. Then, I would have a little chat with Toril.
My God. Getting rid of the demon should have cleared my thoughts, not muddled them. What is happening to me?
***
Toril was asking herself the same question. The logical, calm, collected Toril would know what resurrecting the dead would mean. It was forbidden in many Wiccan circles, if not all of them. The only ones who would dare do something so reckless would have to be no stranger to dark craft.
She knew what her mother had told her. To go against her mother’s wishes was something every rebellious teenage daughter did; but Toril was no longer a teen. She was a grown-up and would have to act accordingly.
Still.
The nagging thought wouldn’t go away. With Beth resting, and needing to recover for a few days from her ordeal, the timing couldn’t be better. Toril took her book out and placed it on the table.
She could not recall seeing something about raising the dead, but would have bet the house on it being in the last few pages. The ones that were blank until blood was splashed on them.
Toril had a major problem then. She couldn’t cut herself, but she was desperate to see what was on the pages.
Things had been crazy. She had done things she thought she would never do. But I would concede only this – that we were alive, and still fighting. I did not, and would never approve of her methods.
Whether it was the way of the witch, or the way of Toril, I knew that I would not want to follow that path.
Toril felt the atmosphere in the house was still a little heavy – remnants of the demon’s expulsion, she supposed.
She ran the questions through her head.
‘Why do I want to do this?
Because I miss Jacinta. She didn’t deserve to die so young, and in that way.
Even if I have the power to achieve this, should I be doing this? This is meddling with dark craft. Something I always fought against doing.
But I believe in the book. Everything the book says.
Wait a second. Everything the book says? Everything?
It hasn’t failed me so far.’
***
This was Toril’s whole problem. She used logic and the Wiccan way to justify everything that she did, and woe-be-tide anyone who says something to the contrary. I had nothing against witches as such, but the more I saw Toril evolve as one, I felt someone would have to stop her one day.
She was convinced she was right. Being assertive was one thing; stamping over everyone else to justify her actions was something else entirely.
I wasn’t there, so I couldn’t warn Beth.
Toril wasn’t so much a witch, but becoming a vampire. She couldn’t drain blood from herself, so she glanced upstairs where Beth was sleeping. She would take every last drop from the girl if it meant Jacinta’s return.
***
Toril kicked back in her chair and stood up. The pages that could be read were a mix of Wiccan symbols and history. Nothing much useful there. The last few pages, though blank, were not of the same colour as the earlier pages in the book. They looked to have aged normally, whereas the last few pages seemed to have been nourished by the blood of individuals – humans, animals and so on. Just how many had viewed these pages before her?
If this was Diabhal’s book, she didn’t believe it. Why would a supreme demon need a book anyway? He had his servants, the Zerythra, and though they were diminishing in numbers, only one would be needed to wreak terror on Gorswood.
No. He had people on this Earth to do his dirty work for him, and wasn’t she complying with his game?
She had outgrown many things. Even if she could bring Jacinta back, what then? What would Jacinta be l
ike? There were too many variables. What Toril needed was constants. But she could do nothing without blood.
Toril walked upstairs and saw that Beth was still sleeping. She was uncertain just how she was going to get blood from Beth without the poor girl screaming blue murder.
Hey Beth, mind giving me some of your blood?
Oh sure Toril, take as much as you need.
That wasn’t going to happen. I also knew Beth to be a light sleeper, so if Toril was going to get blood from her without her knowing, she would have to freeze her or cast whatever spell would help her achieve her goal.
Toril sat down next to Beth on the bed, and studied her for a few moments.
I need some of your blood, Beth. Just how are we going to do this?
Beth remained completely still. If Toril wanted to smash her head in, there was little she could do about it.
Then I could take all of her blood.
Frustrated, Toril stood up, closed the bedroom door behind her and walked back downstairs.
It was then that she heard a woman screaming outside her door.
***
“Help! Somebody help! Oh God, somebody!”
Toril ran outside and saw my old neighbours, the Dawsons, in a heap on the ground. That is to say, Mr Dawson was on the ground, sitting half upright, cradling his arm and clutching his chest.
Toril attempted to calm Mrs Dawson down. But the unexpected situation would provide Toril with an opportunity, because the old man was bleeding.
“What happened?”
“Oh, thank God, I thought everyone had left town for the holidays,” breathed Mrs Dawson hoarsely. “We go in the woods a lot, my husband and I. He’s bleeding. Can you call an ambulance?”
Toril surveyed the situation. There was a gash in Mr Dawson’s arm, and he seemed unable to remove his right hand from the area around his heart. The wound was angry, raw, as if he had been attacked by an animal.
“I could call an ambulance, but your husband will lose a lot more blood before they arrive. I could patch him up, put a tourniquet on his arm, he should be alright then.”
“Won’t you just call the ambulance? We don’t have a phone on us. Please.”
“You’re Emily Dawson, aren’t you? Why do you go in the woods when you know they are dangerous?”
“We’ve been going in them long before you were even born. I know the woods just fine.”
“Not well enough,” replied Toril. “I’m a witch, you know. A good witch. I can help him. Tell me what happened, so I can help.”
“I don’t want any witch helping him. Sorry.”
“I can help.”
“Your brand of help is not wanted here. Why don’t you and your kind get out of Gorswood? I know who you are. You’re Toril Withers, the girl who stabbed your friend, the red-haired girl and burned down Rosewinter. Every day we passed by that place, and you destroyed it. I don’t know if I need the ambulance more or the police.”
Emily Dawson spat out her words like someone who had wanted to say this to Toril for a long time, but had not found the courage to do so. Toril looked genuinely taken aback.
Then, there was that heavy feeling again. The feeling that the air surrounding them wasn’t quite right. For someone in her situation, Emily Dawson was particularly defiant. But there was no-one around, with virtually all of the lights in Gorswood switched off.
“Em….stop…stop it, will you?”
Kenneth Dawson was finally managing a few words. He looked up at Toril.
“You’re a witch, are you? Like your mother? You really want to know what attacked me? Well, I’ll tell you.”
“You’re bleeding heavily, Mr Dawson. Your wife is right. You need medical attention.”
“Dearie, I have lived a long time. I don’t intend to let hospital folk mess with me. If you think you can fix me up, then do it.”
“He’s rambling,” stated Emily Dawson. “I won’t have you touch him.”
“Alright,” said Toril. “I’m going.”
Kenneth Dawson took away the hand covering his heart to grab Toril’s leg. “It’s my decision. Do it. Do what you have to do, and I’ll tell you.”
“Jesus! Bloody witches! You’re impossible!” shouted Emily Dawson, who saw a taxi and waved it down. “Hello? Wait!” The taxi pulled up, and Toril could hear Emily saying you have a phone in your cab, don’t you? Please call an ambulance for my husband.
Toril crouched beside Kenneth Dawson. “Your wife doesn’t want me to help.”
“My wife and I don’t agree on many things. You’ll experience that wonderful feeling for yourself when you get married.”
Save me from that domestic death, thought Toril. She took out a tissue and dabbed the blood on his arm. Blood was soaking through, so she took the tissue, ran inside the house, placed the blood soaked tissue inside the book, grabbed a bandage and returned to the man. Emily Dawson was still standing by the taxi, looking absolutely livid.
“We go in the woods every day, as my wife told you,” he said. “Sometimes, we see things. At first I thought we were going a bit senile. But you must know yourself that the woods are haunted.”
“I know better than to go in certain areas,” said Toril, who was making a good fist of it as a nurse. She tightened the tourniquet on his arm, and the firmness seemed good. “Better?”
“Better,” he said. “The problem is that the safe areas of the woods are no longer safe. Big blue eyes, almost as large as dinner plates. Long, mottled black hair. Skin all cracked, and teeth pushed through their lips. They call themselves the Zerythra, a group of zombies from the depths of Hell itself.”
“How many attacked you?” asked Toril.
“Just the one, though she said more are coming.”
Thoughts of her plan around Jacinta surfaced once again. Toril hated how the undead zombies still had an existence. You might not agree with them, you may even hate what they represent, but there was no doubting their vitality. Cold in her icy grave, poor Jacinta had nothing. Was nothing.
“What did your wife do?”
“What?”
“When the attack began,” asked Toril, “what did your wife do?”
Kenneth Dawson looked over at his wife, who was still chatting to the taxi driver. “Er, well, she was screaming, even shaking her fist at the demon. I mean, we’ve both seen scary things in there before, but nothing has ever attacked us.”
Toril would have agreed with me that something had happened to let one of them through. There had been no trading of souls, no tricks with the Mirror – unless Lunabelle had not been true to her word. Could I blame her?
Yes, I could.
The Zeryth that I had first encountered; the first entity I had ever killed told me that I could not stop them all. If they felt under threat, and Diabhal himself could not control them, what would that mean for the rest of us?
Toril looked to the road. Not only were the taxi driver and Emily Dawson deep in conversation, she had leaned so far into the driver’s window, it looked like the two of them were kissing. Kissing? What the hell was going on?
Toril stood up and began to walk across the road when the ambulance turned up.
“Hey! Mrs Dawson. Hey!”
She was ignoring Toril, the taxi driver had one hand clasped around the back of her neck, and he was pulling her towards him.
Meanwhile, Kenneth Dawson was being attended to. “Alright fellah?” asked the ambulance man. “Dressing looks good. We’ll have you looked at in no time.”
They lifted him into the ambulance, with Toril becoming increasingly agitated with the situation.
“Mrs Dawson! Just what do you think you’re doing?”
She never answered, but as the ambulance drove off, Toril continued to storm up to the stationary taxi. She could hear a sucking sound, like they were making out. A woman in her late sixties and a taxi driver in his twenties, doing this in plain view of her husband, who was bleeding from a savage attack? What was going on?
Toril w
ent to grab the woman’s arm, but the taxi driver raised the height of the window, crushing the woman’s windpipe as the window sluggishly attempted to slam shut. Her head twisted around to reveal that her eyeballs had been pulled from her head, her nose bitten clean off, and most of her face had been burrowed through, the very same as if a ravenous rat had attacked her.
The window slid down once more, and the woman fell to the ground. Emily Dawson was dead, but that was better than becoming the thing that had killed her.
Dark Winter: Last Rites Page 28