His hand dropped to his side as he stared at Samuel’s bloody back. His hand relaxed and the whip slipped from his grasp, but he didn’t notice. He saw only red relief, and nothing standing between it and him. He lunged towards Samuel, but didn’t make it more than two steps before he was grabbed by the back of the neck.
“I believe you’ve had enough,” the man said, but Braughton didn’t hear him. Instead he turned his head, snarled, and snapped his teeth at his captor. The quick response was a slap across the face hard enough to knock him to the ground and blur his vision.
“He has no more control than an animal, Master,” Braughton barely heard the man say over the ringing in his ears.
“Yes,” the Baron replied, “there’s definitely a beast in there.”
Braughton’s vision cleared, as did his thoughts, and the consuming hunger faded. He was left with only the memories of what he had done, his actions clear but unthinkable now. The blood covered whip lay just in front of him, but the only thing he felt for the sticky red fluid now was revulsion.
He forced himself to look up at Samuel, to see the pain he had inflicted. Samuel’s back looked like one large, open wound, weeping blood that now ran all the way down his legs, and dripped from his feet into a small puddle beneath him. Braughton felt as though he were going to be sick.
“Do you have any idea what the count was?” the Baron asked.
“No, Master,” the man answered.
“I’m sure it was more than twenty, but he was on such a roll, I just hated to stop him.”
More than twenty. Braughton hung his head, unable, and unwilling, to remember the number of times either. How would he ever be able to look Samuel in the face again? He had to get them both out of here.
Braughton stood up slowly, and faced the dark corner. “May we leave now, my Lord,” he asked.
“Of course, my boy,” the Baron answered. “You have always been free to leave whenever you wished.”
“And Samuel?”
“Oh, I’m don’t think he’s in any condition to leave right now. Do you?”
Braughton closed his eyes and lowered his head. “No,” he replied quietly. “I suppose he isn’t.”
“Besides,” the Baron continued, “I’m not even sure he wants to leave with you. And could you blame him for feeling that way?” Braughton shook his head, but kept his eyes on the ground. “You’re probably not the safest person for him to be around right now, Braughton. Wouldn’t you agree?” Braughton nodded. “But not to worry,” the Baron soothed, “Malock will take good care of your friend. Won’t you, Malock?”
“Yes, Master,” the man, Malock, replied. He had already released Samuel from the chains and held the boy’s beaten body in his arms. “I know just what to do with him,” he added as he headed towards the door.
Braughton watched Malock leave in silence. He wanted to stop him, to say something to Samuel, but what could he say? What would make everything alright between them? Nothing. There was nothing he could say or do to erase what he had done.
“What do I do now?” he asked the Baron.
“What do you want to do?”
Braughton shrugged. He wanted to forget all of this happened, to go back and do anything other than look for those secret tunnels. But going back was impossible, and he would never forget.
“I want to go home,” he finally decided.
“Then that’s what you should do,” the Baron agreed. “Do be careful, although I guess I don’t need to remind you there are dangers everywhere around us, do I?”
“No, my Lord,” Braughton said, then bowed. “Thank you, my Lord.” He stood straight, and turned to leave.
“The pleasure has genuinely been all mine,” the Baron said. “And try not to think too much about Samuel. I’ve no doubt you will see him again.”
Braughton replied only with a sad smile, and he turned away quickly, feeling tears ready to spill down his cheeks. He managed to fight them off until he reached the chamber door. Once in the empty hall of solitary cells, the tears flowed freely along with several heavy sobs.
He stumbled through the castle halls, vision blurred, with no care of who might see him. He passed no one. Not one servant, nor a single guard observed the blood-covered, crying boy as he made his way out of the castle.
The sunlight in the empty courtyard was blinding. Braughton’s eyes clamped shut, and a fresh round of tears streamed from them, trying to relieve the burning pain he suddenly felt. He stood still, with only the occasional sniff, waiting for his eyes to adjust from the castle gloom.
After several minutes, he was finally able to open his eyes, and he saw his wanderings had deposited him at the back of the castle. In front of him was a small gate in the walls, and beyond were the wilds of the mountains. Home lay in the other direction.
Did he really want to go home? Could he go home? How would he explain any of this to Grandmother, and what would he tell Samuel’s parents? He lifted his hands to run them through his hair, but paused in mid-air. They were covered in blood. He looked down and saw the same was true of his clothes. No longer the brilliant, bright crimson with promises of sweetness, it was now a dirty, dull rust, dried and cracking on his skin.
He didn’t deserve to go home. Malock had called him an animal, and thinking upon his behavior now, Braughton knew the truth of it. He was an animal, and animals belonged in the wild, far from people they could hurt. He stepped through the open gate and didn’t take even one look back as he disappeared into the mountains.
The next ten years passed as nothing more than a series of scenes in solitude. Braughton lived, hunted, and survived alone. No one came looking for him, and he did not trust himself to be around anyone, fearing the hunger might return. He travelled the mountain range and surrounding forests, though never venturing more than a few days distance from the castle. It wasn’t by choice. He was simply unable to go any farther. Something kept pulling him back. No, not something. Samuel. Samuel kept him from leaving.
The thread between them. He could still see it sometimes when he closed his eyes. It tugged against him with every step he took away from the castle, stretching until it would not allow him to take one more step. He and Samuel were bound together, but he couldn’t bring himself to face him.
Each year the thread grew weaker, harder to see, and he was able to stretch it a few more steps. There was no pain the night it finally broke, but it did wake him from a deep sleep. He feared for a moment what it might mean for Samuel. Had he died? He sat up, determined to go to the castle, to enter, and demand to see his friend. Those thoughts were quickly forgotten when he stood and experienced what the broken bond meant for him. It was as if a heavy weight had been removed, one he didn’t even realize he’d been carrying. He felt free. He felt … hungry.
The next century existed as not much more than large blank spaces peppered with visions of extreme violence. There was blood, anguish, and death, but no remorse. No feelings at all in fact, except the hunger.
Then there was light. It was blinding, like when he had exited the castle into the bright sunshine. Tears leaked out from under his closed eyelids, and when they opened he was knee-deep in snow on an unfamiliar mountaintop. In front of him a warm, smiling face. A man dressed in the robe of a simple monk, his hand extended, offering help. And Braughton took it.
Chapter Twenty-three
Liz opened her eyes. Her head was resting on the table, and she was once again staring at the wooden door. The visions were over. She raised her head, and wiped at her eyes. Her fingers came back wet. She felt again and found tears on her cheeks. The feelings: pain, fear, anger, betrayal, they all came rushing back, and she had to close her eyes to steady herself.
In the darkness she saw that face hovering above Braughton again, and now she knew why it was familiar. Now she knew the name dangling just out of reach. Samuel. Even with all of the scars, burns, and malice, she could still see the boy’s face underneath. She shuddered t
o think what plans he and Malock had for Braughton. She had to help him.
Her eyes opened, and there again was the wooden door. She had forgotten. She was not only locked in this room, but presumably somewhere above her the Brotherhood was being attacked. Then again, perhaps it was all over. She had no idea how long she’d lain here. She needed to get out.
She tried the door. Still locked. She put her ear to it, but heard only silence. Looking around the room at the mess she had made, she was certain there was no other way out. She absently rubbed her shoulder as she considered the door again. Breaking it down still didn’t seem a good option. Perhaps she could pick the lock?
Admittedly, lock-picking wasn’t a skill she possessed, but she’d seen it done a few times. How hard could it be? The lock looked to be almost a century old, so the mechanism couldn’t be that complicated. She just needed a bit of something to stick in the keyhole. Something smaller than a book. Then she spotted the smashed tracking device on the floor. Surely among its scattered innards would be something she could use.
A rattle at the door stopped her search. She heard the lock turn, looked up, and saw the handle move. In a blink, she had retrieved her sword from the table, and was standing beside the door, ready to greet whoever came through.
The door opened slightly, and Liz’s sword was under the hooded figure’s chin just as she realized it was Monk. He didn’t look surprised to find a blade at his throat. He did look tired, pale, and beaten. There were smears of blood on his face, which was nothing compared to his hands. Liz withdrew the sword as quickly as she had drawn it, a fleeting look of guilt crossing her face. Monk spoke before she could voice an apology or concern.
“Dawn has arrived,” he said quietly. “The attack is over.”
“Are you wounded?” She saw even more blood now on his robes, and she wondered how much of it was his own.
“My wounds can wait. We must deal with the others first.”
Deal with the others? No. She had to leave. She needed to find Braughton. They could have taken him anywhere by now, could be doing anything to him. Every time she blinked, it was Samuel’s scarred face she saw, with raw hatred behind his eyes. She opened her mouth, ready to tell Monk she had to leave, maybe even offering her help after she found Braughton, but the words wouldn’t come.
Monk’s face told the tragedy of what she had yet to witness above, and she couldn’t meet his eyes. She lowered her head, looking at the floor, and found even more reason why she couldn’t leave. The tracker. It was her fault the vampires had found them here. Maybe if she hadn’t been so worried Braughton was walking in to a trap she would have seen the one laid for her. Why hadn’t she checked the box before they brought it in?
“Of course,” she finally said, raising her head and looking Monk in the eye. “What can I do to help?”
“I need strength, child,” he answered, leaning against the doorframe for a moment. She started to reach out, to comfort him, but he was up and moving down the hall before she got the chance. “Come along,” he called, moving at a pace that still surprised her considering his bulk. “There’s much to do, and the sun won’t wait on us to finish.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. There were no visions, but she was certain Braughton was still alive. If they’d wanted him dead, she reasoned, he’d already be dead. The question was, what did they want from him? She opened her eyes and hurried down the hall, catching up to Monk, while trying not to think of something her father had been fond of saying before he died: there are worse things than death.
“Grab Brother Jacob’s legs, please,” Monk said as he wrapped his arms around the body’s torso.
Brother Jacob’s body was one of three in the kitchen, and Liz had to step over him to enter the room from the stairway. His body was lying in a pool of thickening blood, and was covered in deep gashes. His head was turned to the side and Liz easily spotted the two distinct puncture wounds in his neck. There was one thing immediately obvious to her.
“Monk, he’s dead.”
“I know.” He waited, arms still held around Brother Jacob’s chest, and nodded towards the feet.
“Don’t you think we should help the survivors first?”
“There aren’t any survivors,” he stated grimly, then began dragging the body towards the front entrance.
No survivors? Liz stood frozen for a moment, feeling like she should say something, but having no idea what that could possibly be. She finally stepped forward, picked up Brother Jacob’s feet, and slowly followed Monk out into the morning light.
They carried his body to the field where Braughton and Liz had practiced sword fighting. Monk straightened Brother Jacob’s body, adjusted and smoothed his robe, then placed his hands across his chest. Liz was silent as Monk bended his knee, and mumbled a quick prayer. He made the sign of the cross, then rose, and headed back to the monastery.
Liz followed him to the kitchen, picked up the feet of the next body, and walked back to the clearing in the woods. Monk repeated his ritual as Liz stood back and watched. It was the same with the third body, but this time as he said his prayer, Liz knelt beside him.
Even this close, she couldn’t make out his words, so she simply listened to the low murmur of his voice. It was soothing, quieting the nagging voice in her head insisting they were wasting time. It gave her a moment to think. These men died because of her, most likely protecting her, and she didn’t even know their names. Worse than that, she wasn’t even sure she would recognize their faces in a lineup.
“Who are these two?” she asked after Monk finished.
“Brother Thomas,” he said, nodding to the first, then placed a hand on the body in front of him. “Brother Christopher.”
“Thomas, Christopher, and Jacob. Thank you.” They sat in silence for a few more moments, then Monk looked up at the sun.
“We need to get moving.” Liz noticed the skyward glance and assumed Monk was worried the vampires might come back to finish the job tonight. He was probably right, but she had no intention of being here to find out. She nodded her head in agreement, and they both headed back to the monastery.
With each body they laid out in the field, Monk would tell Liz his name, and Liz would give her thanks. By the time they had reached twenty, Liz had a concern.
“How many brothers lived here?”
“Thirty-seven.”
Liz looked at the line of bodies, and then up at the sun. Just over half the total, and it was already well past midday. “There’s no way we’re going to be able to bury all of these bodies today.”
“We’re not burying them. They’ve been bitten, and after sunset any or all of them could come back as one of those soulless, fanged demons.” He looked up at her, making sure to meet her eye. “I will not stand for that.”
He held her gaze, unwavering, willing her to understand the importance of this. It wasn’t until she nodded her agreement that he continued. “The head must be separated from the body, and then heads and bodies burned in separate piles,” he explained. “It is the only way to be certain.” Liz swallowed hard, but still managed to give him a solid nod. She hadn’t imagined her next beheading would be so soon, or so many at once, but she couldn’t let the responsibility fall solely on Monk.
“Well, we have to be certain,” she said. “Let’s make sure all of your brothers rest in peace.”
The last body was the hardest to find, and it was only because of the setting sun they were able to find Brother Mark. His body was resting against a tree over a hundred meters down the driveway. They didn’t bother trying to discern whether he was trying to escape, or if he was left there. Either way, it was a break in the trees that allowed a single ray of sun to strike the medallion Brother Mark always wore around his neck. Liz caught the flash out of the corner of her eye just as she was headed into the monastery for one last search for his body.
That was all of them. Thirty-six bodies laid out side by side. In each one Liz noticed th
e tell-tale puncture wounds on the neck, and most had blood stains around their mouths. The intent was clear, as was what she must do next.
They’re already dead, she repeated to herself as she held her sword to Brother Jacob’s neck. When she still couldn’t manage to swing the blade, she reminded herself what alternative waited for them. She closed her eyes, bowed her head, and took a few moments to just breathe.
A meaty thwack from in front of her, and Liz’s eyes shot open, her sword raised and ready. It was Monk. He was moving down the line, cleaving head from shoulders on men he not only called brother, but undoubtedly loved as brothers. If he could do it, so could she.
Thwack!
She moved down the line, drawing closer to Monk with each strike, while the sun dipped ever closer to the horizon. Even though it wasn’t technically past sunset yet, the field had been covered in shade for the past half-hour. Liz was almost through her half of the bodies, but was already thinking of the next task. Sorting heads and bodies, which she had decided was going to be even more unpleasant. She did think they would get the fires lit before the sun was completely gone, and she was looking at the sky when she heard the groan.
Brother Evan. Her ‘breakfast buddy’. One of the few monks who hadn’t taken a vow of silence, and had a habit of sleeping a little later than the others. He always greeted her with a sheepish grin as he sat down across from her in the morning. She could see a hint of the smile on his face now as his eyes fluttered open and he looked up at her.
“Elizabeth?” he croaked weakly. “What’s going on?”
Liz dropped down to her knees, placing a hand on his chest. “Try not to move,” she soothed. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. We thought you were dead.” An actual survivor, she couldn’t believe it. They needed to get him to a hospital. Now. “I’ve got to tell Monk,” she said to herself, then started to look up.
“Wait,” Brother Evan pleaded. “I’m so thirsty. Please, can you get me something to drink?”
She smiled down at him. “Of course. I’ll get you some water from the kitchen.”
Shackles of Sunlight Page 19