Midnight (The Dreadhunt Trilogy Book 3)

by Ross Turner

  “Midnight…” He began, though seemingly only able to repeat Marcii’s words. “Please, do you know what’s going on?”

  Still the old man refused to yield, but it wasn’t long before a third figure stepped from the shadows. Malorie had somehow concealed herself from even Midnight’s perfect, penetrating gaze. When she appeared his eyes were filled instantly with terrible sorrow and regret.

  She made not a sound, and neither did he.

  But that was of no matter.

  His expression said it all.

  In mere moments he was defeated.

  His slumped shoulders raised and his stooping posture was immediately corrected. He took the weight from his cane and held it loosely at his side, looking the murdered witch directly in the eye.

  “Malorie…” His aged voice crackled, gravelly and hoarse, unused for so long.

  Marcii and Kaylm’s eyes grew wide and their jaws dropped agape slightly, unable to believe what they were seeing and hearing.

  Unseen by them all however, a single, lonely figure slipped by in the darkness, not so much creeping between shadows as becoming them, for he had every reason not to be noticed.

  Malcolm, Kaylm’s older brother, came just within earshot of the four of them, all too preoccupied to notice his presence.

  He heard every word that they spoke, listening intently, eavesdropping in the night.

  As he did so, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing, his soul began to fill right from the depths with something that blackened and tarnished it, even more so than it already was.

  Chapter Four

  The old man Midnight sighed deeply, exhaling the great burdens he had been carrying with him for so many years passed, decades even. Although, he would never be able to abandon them completely.

  As he spoke his voice loosened and croaked a little less, though it was still clear he hadn’t used it for such a long time, for it remained gruff and husky.

  “I watched you die…” Midnight breathed in his ancient tone. “I watched Tyran have you killed…”

  Malorie’s reply was instant, and not so much filled with spite as it was dripping in truth.

  “That’s not the first time you’ve stood by idle…” She replied.

  Venomous silence filled the darkened house.

  Strangely though, if it were even possible, there was no malice or hatred in that venom: simply poisonous fact.

  “I wasn’t in control…” Midnight attempted to defend himself. Their voices might not have been raised or angry, but they still parried to and fro in the dark of the night.

  “And you think I was?” Malorie questioned.

  “None of us are.” The old man stated, admitting all at once where he believed the ultimate fault to lie.

  “That’s not true.” The aged witch with vibrant eyes countered, the violet of her irises flashing. “She is not to blame.”

  Midnight fell silent for a moment and their eyes drilled holes into each other.

  “I suppose not…” He eventually conceded.

  “Do not suppose…” Malorie growled. “Know. He is to blame.”

  “He doesn’t have any more control than you or I…” The old man tried desperately to explain, though whom they were talking about, neither Marcii nor Kaylm had any idea.

  Regardless, Malorie would not be swayed by his words.

  “No. He does not.” She agreed. “But he is to blame.”

  And to that statement, Midnight could find no reply. He dipped his head slightly in defeat, recognising the terrible truth when he heard it.

  “Enough of this.” Malorie suddenly declared, glancing around the darkened room as if she had sensed something that they could not. Akin to her movements however, Midnight too looked up, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

  “Yes.” He agreed. “This is not the time.”

  Suddenly Marcii’s voice cut through the air, filling the room with confusion anew.

  “Your name isn’t really Midnight, is it?” She asked unexpectedly.

  The old man looked taken aback for a moment. But then, on second thought, he supposed he shouldn’t really have been all that surprised, considering.

  “No.” He admitted hoarsely. “It isn’t.”

  “What’s your name? Your real name I mean? If Midnight is just a name someone invented for you?”

  The old man sighed heavily and wearily.

  It was the first time the young Dougherty had seen him look so lost. She regretfully conceded that the emotion actually quite suited him, for it was all too clear the years of burden that dragged behind him, shackled to his aged body and mind.

  “If I’m honest, Marcii…” Midnight began. “I really don’t remember…”

  He pursed his lips for a moment, as if he was only just now accepting the words himself.

  “Even if I could…” He went on. “It wouldn’t make any difference…”

  “What do you mean?” Marcii questioned, furrowing her brow in the night. She had never known what it meant to lose your own identity.

  “I’m not that person anymore.” The old man explained. “A name is exactly that: just a name. But over the years, my whole identity has changed. I’m Midnight now. It’s who I’ve become…”

  Marcii’s eyes narrowed shrewdly for a moment and the witch Malorie could sense the question that was to follow.

  She smiled imperceptibly.

  Yes, she thought to herself.

  Marcii was living up to her expectations.

  The young girl was becoming all Malorie had ever hoped she would be.

  So far, at least.

  “Who were you before?” Marcii asked. “Before you became Midnight…?”

  “I told you I don’t remember my name…” The old man began to repeat himself, but Marcii interrupted him.

  “No, that’s not what I mean…” The young Dougherty corrected him. “A name is just a name, like you said…” She clarified. “I mean you. Who were you?”

  The old man Midnight thought for a moment, realising all at once that he had misunderstood her question.

  He delved deep into his memories, both ancient and recent, recalling things he had wished for most of his life that he could somehow forget.

  “I was a very different man back then…” He admitted, sighing again. “In fact, I was barely a man…I was only a mere boy…”

  “Tell me.” Marcii urged quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper, though somehow instilled with more insistence than even seemed possible.

  Midnight looked briefly between the young girl Marcii and his old acquaintance the witch Malorie, though, unbelievably, they had never before met.

  His eyes searched for permission of some sort from her.

  But when they found none he simply swallowed the emotions surging inside of him and delved into the explanation that the young Dougherty so dearly desired.

  “Back then I had a family.” The old man began. “A mother and father. A younger brother, and two younger sisters.”

  Marcii and Kaylm looked shocked to hear that.

  Malorie did not.

  She already knew this tale, though it wasn’t from the old man Midnight’s tongue she’d heard it.

  “We lived in a village far to the west. Many, many months ride beyond Ravenhead, high up in the mountains. The sun crept up over the ridges every morning in orange fits and bursts. More often than not we lived our lives higher than the clouds themselves…”

  Marcii could see quite clearly that Midnight reminisced his words with both fondness and sorrow.

  “Every night the slopes and the skies turned purple and the moon filled the air with glowing arcs of glory…” The old man went on, swinging his cane lightly in one hand as he spoke. “Often great mountain cats passed by like enormous, beautiful ghosts. It was like we were no longer human, but as if we were akin with Mother Nature herself…”

  Marcii had never heard Midnight speak like this.

  In fact, she had never heard anybody speak like t
his.

  “The night sky was always so clear and so full of stars…” He continued even still. “And the moon seemed so close…I remember as just a young pup creeping out in the middle of the night and staring up at the endless universe above for hours on end…”

  “Is that why you still stare at the moon?” Marcii asked curiously.

  It seemed the only thing she really knew about this old man was the fact that he stared at the sky at night.

  Everything else she’d thought she’d known, it seemed, was false.

  “It reminds me of home.” He admitted. “Of a time when I had less regret. When my family was alive. When my brother didn’t hate me so…”

  “I thought you said your family were all gone?” Kaylm suddenly piped up, confused, for indeed the old man had eluded to exactly that, several times.

  But Midnight shook his head almost imperceptibly.

  “No.” He replied. “My mother and father are. And my two sisters. But not my brother…”

  His words hung upon a knife’s edge, teetering on the brink of a cliff, threatening to plummet down into the cavernous abyss below.

  Chapter Five

  It was not just the old man Midnight who reminisced of family lost that night.

  In the gloom and the darkness that surrounded Newmarket an army of shadows swarmed like locusts. And there was one amongst the looming, shadowy masses that was indeed human, though at the same time he was not, for he was infinitely more animalistic than the rest.

  Loping through the trees, his eyes piercing the blackness perfectly, the old man amongst the wolves stalked menacingly.

  His hair was silvery white and lay slicked back unkemptly against his scalp. By the moonlight he looked more animal than man and his deep, black eyes like coal were fierce and focused.

  As he ran his lean, aged body rippled with hardened muscle, clinging precariously to his tough, old bones.

  His fingers like claws scraped against tree trunks and peeled up bark in rough shards. Shaking visibly, the old man’s hands quivered as his breath billowed out before his pitch black eyes in thick clouds.

  Beneath his fierce gaze his face was weathered and rugged, worn and haggard by decades of exposure to the elements and to the ceaseless desire for revenge. Deep lines ran across his cheeks and forehead in great streaks, but it made little difference to the ravages of time. He ignored such things and moved endlessly through the world with only one intention and purpose.

  The old man, so similar and at the same time so different to Midnight, ghosted through the trees on bare, silent feet. He was used to feeling the grass and the dirt beneath his toes and, just as it did for the wolves, the very world itself pulsated a rhythmic heartbeat up through his body.

  Thick wolf furs draped over his lean shoulders and were drawn up about his waist, giving the impression that the pelt was actually his.

  His wolves swarmed loyally all about him.

  With his furs wrapped around himself the old man blended and merged amidst the pack flawlessly.

  But just as he was almost more animal than he was man, adopting those traits over the many years, the exact opposite could have been said of a select few of his pack. Just as he had drawn upon their wild, animalistic strengths, becoming more and more a beast over time, those that were more adept amongst his underlings had in turn developed some of the hallmarks of man.

  It was a most unnatural occurrence and undoubtedly needed to be brought to an end. Nonetheless, with no one to oppose him, it had happened anyway.

  Their limbs had adapted and deformed to allow a select few of them to walk upon two legs instead of four, freeing their restricted front paws and allowing them to develop into terrible, clawed hands.

  This had happened only recently, as the old man’s desire and will and cruelty had reached their peak, for such changes are not only unnatural, but usually take many, many millennia to occur.

  Such a thing had never before been seen.

  Without even the need for words his pack bent their enormous, muzzled wills to his every command. Each the size of a fully grown bear, either on two legs or on four, they obeyed their Alpha without question.

  Soon Newmarket came into darkened view and the loping shadows of the wolves encircled the town with practiced efficiency.

  They had done this many, many times over the years.

  Whether it was in the mountains, the forests, or amongst the homes of man, their goal was always the same, and their target never altered.

  Most frustratingly though, throughout all these years, the old man whom their Alpha sought so desperately had always managed to evade them.

  But it mattered not.

  The wolf is a most patient creature.

  And besides, this time, things felt different: they had never been so close.

  Most of them daren’t face him alone. Not without their Alpha. He had warned them that this man was too much for any one of them to take on singlehandedly.

  Naturally, though generally wolves are intelligent creatures, some would not listen to their Master’s warning words, and would inevitably pay the price sooner or later.

  The bright, flickering lights of Newmarket were repulsive to the wolves as they stalked through the night.

  Fire was the sign of man.

  And man was the sign of suffering.

  Their Alpha himself was living proof of that.

  But not only that; Tyran had been born out of all of this.

  Truly, he would undoubtedly have squirmed from the woodwork somewhere along the line.

  But the old man Midnight believed that the cruel Lord’s doings were his fault.

  Whether that proved to be true or not, such a man’s cruelty will never be quelled without a fight.

  Nonetheless, the wolves’ Alpha didn’t care for such men.

  In fact, he had no care for any man.

  For any man besides one, at least.

  And it was not care that he held for Midnight, but rather loathing.

  They had unfinished business that was doused in incomparable hatred and fury and lust for revenge.

  Every now and then he even felt a flicker of remorse for his older brother: the suffering he would put him through when he laid hands upon him would be cruel beyond measure.

  That sorrow always lasted for but a mere moment however, before he quelled it back to its rightful place, buried deep within him.

  Midnight would suffer.

  Blood or not.

  He had betrayed his entire family.

  He had killed them with his cowardice, and now he had to pay.

  Chapter Six

  Malcolm Evans wasn’t so much cowering in the darkness as he was shivering, for the temperature seemed to have plummeted. An icy wind cut him to pieces and seeped frost through to his very bones.

  Straining his ears as best he could, Kaylm’s older brother unwillingly held his breath amidst the shadows, hanging on the old man Midnight’s every word.

  Not everything he heard made complete sense, if he was honest.

  Though, the simple fact alone that Malorie was alive was proof enough to him that they were all in league with the witches.

  Tyran would hear of this, certainly.

  It was fuel for the fire if Malcolm had ever seen it.

  He was furious with his brother.

  In fact, he hated him.

  He loathed him.

  Had he been able he would have launched himself forward and gladly throttled the little traitor with his own bare hands, right there and then.

  Sadly, amidst the company of Marcii and Malorie, Kaylm was safe from his brother’s vengeful grasp.

  For now, at least.

  Malcolm knew better than to face the witches alone.

  The more he listened, the wider his eyes grew.

  He could not believe the extent of the old man’s deception.

  Midnight had been maintaining this illusion of deceit, fooling the entirety of Newmarket, for decades.

  And all
the while, Malcolm imagined, though Midnight did not speak of it, the foul old man had undoubtedly been recruiting witches to his domain, wreaking havoc and death down upon innocent townsfolk.

  He could only listen as the evil man regaled Marcii and Malorie and his young brother Kaylm with memories of how he had used to live in the mountains. He told them of his family and how he’d always stared up at the stars.

  Speaking of a thousand and more fruitless expeditions, scattered here and there with only a meagre handful of profitable tales, Midnight wove the tale of how the village he lived in so happily was made up almost entirely of gold hunters.

  He recalled how travellers came though sometimes, but rarely did they stay. Usually they were just passing by, venturing out on quests all of their own.

  Elaborating, he told them how the people lived in shacks made entirely from corrugated iron, barely a dozen square feet in size, nailed hastily together to provide at least some protection from the elements.

  Fires burned constantly in pits in the centres of these shanty huts, providing heat and light for the families housed so horrendously.

  It mattered not however, for they did not live there for luxury.

  And then, when the witch Marcii asked why they stayed there, if they were so uncomfortable and the success in hunting for gold came so infrequently, the old man Midnight only laughed.

  He explained how some people were born into it, like he had been, and simply knew no other way of living.

  Some wanted to escape the lives they had been born with and had decided to settle for something simpler.

  And then others just liked the mountains.

  Silence followed for a minute.

  The sound of the old man’s flooding memories could almost be heard through the darkness.

  Malcolm strained his ears further.

  Eventually Midnight sighed and admitted that, now he’d seen how the rest of the world lived, he wished nothing more than to go back.

  Of course the question that came next was only logical. Malcolm’s lip curled up slightly as he heard the words pass his younger brother’s lips.