Red Rider Redemption (The Red Rider Saga Book 3)

by D. A. Randall

  I could no longer lift it.

  I tugged hard and lost my footing, dropping painfully to my knees. Crimson whinnied quietly with concern.

  A wolf howled, closer now.

  Much closer.

  My temples pounded. The beast would find us any second.

  I struggled to my feet and clung to Crimson, gathering my strength. I led him by the reins, resting against him and walking sideways toward the front door.

  I clomped onto the wooden porch, taking one shaky step after another. I pressed against the door and knocked, listening for movement inside. My strength drained like water and I sank to my knees. I knocked again, pawing at the door like a dog. “Father Vestille,” I whispered, breathless. “Father – Vestille …”

  I began to pound steadily with the side of my fist.

  I fell onto my face as the door gave way.

  “Helena! Helena, what happened?”

  I shut my eyes. The porch’s wooden planks creaked as he squatted beside my head. His hands rolled me over, then cradled me.

  “Helena! Helena!”

  I forced myself to look up at him. Into his horrified eyes. “Father Vestille – I’m dying …”

  “No,” he said in a small voice. “No. You’re going to be all right, Helena.”

  I shook my head, weak. “… can’t – can’t stop them …”

  Something growled at the edge of the forest. Crimson snorted and whirled at the mud-brown wolf studying us from the black trees.

  We were dead.

  I looked about for my crossbow. It had fallen from my shoulder onto the porch. I seized it and tried to aim. The wolf padded closer, saliva dripping from its fangs.

  I could barely lift my arm.

  The wolf snarled, bristling with rage.

  I gasped, one hand on the lever, the other beneath my crossbow. Too weak to lift it.

  “Helena?”

  My throat went dry. “… can’t …”

  “Helena!”

  The wolf growled again and charged.

  I felt Father Vestille’s palm slide under my elbow, supporting it. The crossbow lifted to the wolf’s eyes and I pulled the lever back. The bolt struck his forehead, making him jerk, his front paws dangling helplessly before he fell in a heap.

  Twenty-seven Lycanthru left.

  My head spun as my breathing grew shallow. “You just – helped me kill.”

  Father Vestille said nothing. “Come inside, Helena.”

  I tried to sit up.

  He braced his knee behind my back for support. Putting his arms beneath my legs and shoulders, he gathered his breath and lifted me, pushing the door open with his foot. He carried me through the front room, maneuvering past black silhouettes of his table and chairs. The room smelled of ashes from his fireplace. He must have cooked something recently, to feed me whenever I returned. Since the Lycanthru had captured me, I never made it back here last night. Father Vestille must have been worried out of his mind.

  He laid me gently down on his bed, with the crossbow still cradled in my lap. Then he ran out and shut the front door behind him. Crimson whinnied once, not used to Father Vestille taking his reins. He sounded still and obedient after that, though all outside noise was muffled. I listened intently, each new sound bringing a disorienting pain that set my nerves on fire. I thought I heard the secret doors creak open. Then I heard Crimson clomp down the ramp of the underground shelter. When Father Vestille pulled the secret doors shut, the sound seemed to echo through the floorboards.

  A door smashed open, followed by heavy footsteps. I started up in bed, staring into the black void, expecting another wolf.

  Then I realized it was only Father Vestille, coming up the ladder. He closed the trap door and I winced at its harsh snap.

  He entered the bedroom with a candle that threw menacing shadows on the oak walls. “I’ve got your horse inside,” he said. “I’ll feed him in a moment and settle him for the night. You’re safe now.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not. Not anymore – no one’s safe …”

  “Helena, calm down. It will be all right.”

  I shut my eyes, tired and nauseous, as he took the crossbow and set it aside somewhere. He lifted my head and peeled back the hood, then propped a cushion beneath my neck and laid me down gently. I felt the back of his hand press against my forehead.

  He kept it there for some time. I opened my eyes.

  He squinted, perplexed. “Strange. You don’t have a fever.”

  I blinked slowly.

  “Lie still. I’ll get you some water. Then you can tell me what happened.”

  He set the candle on his nightstand and marched out. I shuddered with a fresh sense of shame. Lying in his bed, immobilized, smelling the remnants of the last meal he had cooked for me. If he knew what I had done to those men tonight, would he be so eager to nurse me back to health? Or would he eject me from his peaceful hovel, freeing himself of the demented girl who dressed like a boy and had slain nearly three dozen men in a single night?

  I turned toward the candle, studying its hypnotic flame. Imagining those thirty-three men, struggling to escape the barn’s inferno. Then I considered the atrocities that the Lycanthru meant to inflict on me tonight, at this very moment, had I remained captive there. Which made me wonder what torments their other victims suffered. Papa, Mama, my heroic woodcutter, Francois – and my precious little sister, Suzette. What had those monsters done to her in her final moments?

  My pulse quickened. I shoved my horrific thoughts aside. I needed to rest and calm myself, like Father Vestille said. To recover from this sickness, or whatever Duke Laurent had done to me. I had to regain my strength, to prepare for another night of battle for the survival of La Rue Sauvage. Another night of fighting them all alone.

  The candle’s flame dimmed. I blinked at it, confused. The fire didn’t shrink, but simply dimmed as if fading away. The room grew darker and darker until it became pitch black.

  I blinked again but saw nothing. I reached out to find the candle. To squint at the knuckles of my gloved hand. I still saw nothing, but I felt the candle’s intense heat just before I touched its wax base.

  Before knocking its saucer off the table to hear it clatter to the floor.

  I sat up in bed, the queasiness wrenching my stomach, and gaped at the hot flame. A flame that I couldn’t see!

  “Father Vestille!”

  I blinked again and again, spreading my open palms out in front of me. I could feel the heat beneath them, rising closer to my legs. I stamped blindly with my boots, ignoring the sickening twist of my stomach. I found some of the fire and squelched it, but I couldn’t see how much of it remained. I couldn’t see anything!

  I heard Father Vestille rush into the room, clomping to a halt. “Helena!” Something sloshed against the floor, probably the cup of water he promised to pour me. I heard him whip something at the flames, some blanket or thick cloth perhaps, its rushing sound seeming to slap at the blaze. Something scraped back and forth against the floorboards. I imagined his heel swiveling against the cloth to smother any lingering sparks. But I had no way of knowing.

  He stood somewhere above me, gasping. “Helena. What happened?” He took a half-step closer and leaned down to my face. I could smell the ham he had eaten for dinner. “What’s wrong with your eyes?” he asked.

  I stared straight ahead. Straight ahead into pure blackness. Like I was living out another one of my childhood nightmares. “I don’t know. I was just watching the candle. And then it faded.” I quivered and swallowed. “I can’t see. Father, I’m blind.”

  The room fell silent. I saw nothing but darkness, heard nothing but the sounds of crickets outside.

  “How? Did – Did you fall? Or hit your head? Did they – Did they do something to you?”

  I wanted to tell him everything. Though I knew what he would think of me. But I needed his help. I needed him to lead me by the hand. “Father. – I killed them.”

  Silence.

  �
��What do you mean, Helena?”

  “Thirty-three men. I killed thirty-three men. I locked them in their barn, where they held their ceremonies. And I set the barn on fire.”

  “Helena …”

  “They tried to kill me, Father. They were going to eat me! And Crimson, too. We escaped. And I burned them.”

  “All of them?”

  “No. Laurent and twenty-six others remain.” A hollow chill swept up through me. “And they want revenge.”

  I remembered Duke Laurent’s warning.

  Wherever you go, wherever you try to hide, I’ll find you and I’ll hurt you. As much as I want, as badly as I want, and as long as I want. And there’s nothing you can do about it.

  “Laurent,” I gasped. “He did this. He made me blind.”

  9.

  A fresh wave of nausea churned my stomach as I reached out for Father Vestille. Seeing nothing but blackness, I tried to steady myself by leaning on him. Intending to grab hold of his shoulder, I barely managed to find his elbow.

  He took my hand and moved to support me. “Helena, come out front and sit, and tell me everything that happened. I’ll make some stew and we can figure this out.”

  I could hear the catch in his voice. He didn’t believe we could solve this any more than I did. If Laurent could do this, attack me from anywhere, at any time, then perhaps Father Vestille was right. I should never have challenged the Lycanthru in the first place. But if they could do this, why did they wait until now? Did they only now consider me a genuine threat?

  I stood and let him guide me toward the door. The door I could no longer see. “Don’t warm – any food,” I said. “Can’t risk – sending up chimney smoke – especially now.”

  I shuffled a few steps – and my legs collapsed beneath me.

  “Helena!”

  I fell against Father Vestille so suddenly he couldn’t keep me from hitting the floorboards. I grunted, feeling foolish and helpless.

  I tried to rise – but couldn’t. I twisted at the waist, feeling the wood and dust beneath my elbows, but my legs refused to move. I gripped my thigh hard, feeling its soft flesh in my gloved hand, but my leg itself felt nothing. I pinched my thigh. Struck it hard with my fist, only bringing pain to my knuckles. Every part of my legs remained numb. “Father – I can’t walk. I can’t see and I can’t walk.”

  “What happened?” he demanded, seizing my shoulders. He scooped me up in his arms again and laid me back on his bed. He scraped a chair across the floor toward me and settled into it. “Helena, tell me everything that happened last night.” He had never sounded so aggressive. I couldn’t tell whether he was angry or frightened or both.

  I swallowed. “They – They tied me to two poles.” The memory of it shook me more now than it had at the time. As I thought of what could have happened. What they had meant to happen. “They gagged me. Beat me. They left me strung up there all day. They were going to eat me, Father. They could barely wait until nightfall, to come back and devour me. One piece at a time.”

  He paused, perhaps wondering if this justified my destruction of them. “Did they take anything from you?”

  I blinked at the question, feeling nauseous again. “What?”

  “Did they take anything important? Like a necklace or one of your weapons,” he pressed. “Anything personal.”

  I recalled the way Laurent had patted his waistcoat pocket in front of his chateau earlier, after I started feeling ill, while the other Lycanthru grinned at me. He had done the same thing at daybreak, before leaving me tied in the barn.

  You know, I still have something of yours, he had said at the gate. Something very personal and precious. And I’ll treasure it always.

  The blood drained from my body. I stared into black nothingness, as I lay immobilized on the bed. “He took my hair …”

  “Duke Laurent?”

  I nodded, numb.

  Father Vestille blew out an angry breath. “He’s established a connection with you. He’s using his magic to strike at you, wherever you are. He doesn’t even need to search for you.”

  Wherever you go, wherever you try to hide … as much as I want, as badly as I want, and as long as I want …

  Tears began to stream down my cheeks. I didn’t bother wiping them away. How long before I lost all feeling throughout my body? Before I lost the ability to hear or touch? “Father, help me. I don’t know how to fight this.”

  His anger radiated like heat. “But I do.”

  The chair scraped the wood floor as he pushed away and stood. “I’m going to pray over you. Just lie still.”

  The floor creaked as he knelt at my bedside and started to pray in Latin. Praying with an intensity I had never heard from him. Never heard from anyone. My heart beat with panic, but the mere sound of his prayers felt strangely comforting. He didn’t judge or accuse me. He only questioned me enough to know how to act. How to rescue me.

  My body relaxed. I still couldn’t see or feel my legs. But I felt a peace growing inside me, a sense of safety I had not felt since Papa taught me to hunt. Since Mama taught me how to care for Suzette. Since Francois let me ride Crimson and urged me to fight for others. This was the same feeling, but stronger. A feeling of safety and belonging. A feeling that I was home.

  I rested – actually rested for the first time in months, perhaps years – and let him pray over me, while I did nothing. My fears drifted away as he continued, and I saw something take shape before my eyes. Large round objects that seemed familiar as they approached me.

  Each shape grew long hair and wild eyes, taking the forms of the wolves. Coming straight for me, out of the blackness. My body tensed as they opened their fanged jaws and lunged at me.

  “Father Vestille! Father Vestille, help me!”

  They bit at me, clawed me, leered at me. Then they reared their heads back to attack again.

  As much as I want, as badly as I want, and as long as I want …

  “Help me!”

  I felt Father Vestille’s hand settle onto my forehead. Resting there, steadying me, reassuring me, as he continued to pray.

  As the beasts continued to lunge at me, feeding on my flesh. I felt their fangs sink into my arms, my shoulders, my stomach. Again and again.

  “Father!”

  I heard his voice, angry now, shouting in Latin at the monsters. They drew back, like dogs being scolded by their masters. A few moments later, the blackness returned. I lay there trembling, and saw nothing more.

  “Th-They were here,” I stammered.

  “I know. I saw them. Are you all right?”

  “You saw them? But how –?”

  “This is a spiritual attack, Helena. The Lord allows me to see what they are doing as I pray against it. Are you all right?”

  In truth, I was terrified. My shoulder stung and I reached under my tunic to press my palm against it. I pulled it away quickly from something that felt sticky.

  Father Vestille took my hand, then wiped it with a cloth. Probably the white cloth that had sat beneath the candle.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  He said nothing at first, but continued to clean my hand. “It’s blood. Hold still.”

  He reached beneath my tunic to press the cloth against my shoulder. I winced at the pain. As though I had been shot with an arrow.

  He removed the cloth and felt the area. I felt his fingers settle into a few puncture marks in my shoulder.

  He sighed slowly. “They bit you, Helena. I will do all I can to make sure they cannot bite you again.”

  “They can bite me? When they’re not even here?”

  “They’ve cursed you and they are trying to apply their curse.” He laid his hand back on my forehead, as if tending a feverish child. “Now lie still. I will pray over you for as long as it takes to break their hold. I will do whatever the Lord directs me to do, to set you free. Do you trust me to do that?”

  I nodded. “Thank you, Father.”

  He continued to pray while I stared into comp
lete darkness, lying helpless in my comfortable prison. My exhaustion soon overtook me as I listened to his relentless prayers, and I fell fast asleep.

  I woke several times, falling in and out of nightmares. I saw vivid images of the wolves attacking me, of myself fighting back. Sometimes winning against them. Sometimes being devoured. Most of the images were dreams, I knew, because of how clearly I could see things. Other times when they attacked, their images were hazy and fleeting, but their bites felt all too real.

  Father Vestille continued to pray in Latin, sometimes kneeling at my bedside, sometimes pacing on the creaking floor, sometimes shouting, sometimes near tears. Speaking foreign words that were strange and beautiful, but with an unmistakable sense of passion and protectiveness. Like a warrior charging into battle with a drawn sword. Like Francois with his silver ax. Or Mama, watching over me whenever I fell ill. My family was gone, but Father Vestille had become father and mother and protector to me.

  I could no longer see or walk or distinguish what was real. But somehow, I was home.

  10.

  I remained blind, shrouded in absolute darkness and silence.

  Then came a strange murmuring sound. Low at first, but rising steadily in volume. Until I recognized the strange chanting sounds I had heard the first night I discovered the Lycanthru, gathering for their rituals. At Brocard’s barn, in which I had burned thirty-three of them last night.

  Helena.

  It was Laurent, calling from afar, almost with affection. I shuddered.

  Helena. We’re coming for you.

  My breathing turned shallow. My temples began to throb in the stillness. I seemed to be standing upright but I couldn’t tell. I looked down at my hand, at my feet.

  I couldn’t see a thing.

  We see you, Helena.

  I turned around, feeling foolish for it. They were trying to frighten me, and it was working. They were preparing to attack and I couldn’t see them coming. Even if I could, my limbs still refused to move. I had no way to defend myself.