The raven-haired beauty’s lean form moved to shield the other witch from view, but not before the team caught a glimpse of the bundle she carried. The phone’s microphone picked up Madison’s stifled cry when the bundle moved and gurgled.
The kitchen disappeared from view—Madison explained she ducked low to avoid detection. Seconds later it came back. Both women headed for the door leading outside. The tall lady went first, leaving an unobstructed view of the witch carrying the child. Everyone stared at the screen with varying expressions, most having no clue who they were looking at.
Sam found his voice first, “Son of a bitch, that’s Darcy.”
Chapter 17
I came to in a large, lavish living room, on an Edwardian chaise longue. A huge stone fireplace stood in front of me, Daniel leaned against it talking to some voluptuous blonde piece and fingering her hair.
Nausea clawed up my throat, but I shook it off and swallowed hard. My head swam, dense, as though someone had sat on it for a couple of hours. I stood on leaden legs and stared at Daniel, my mind willing him to spontaneously combust in front of me in writhing, excruciating agony. He stole his gaze away from the blonde long enough to notice my movements. Strolling toward me, his lips curled into a sneer.
I froze—my brain shut down—I wanted to move out the way of Daniel and whatever vicious punishment his grimacing face told me he wanted to reign down on me. His evil, squinted eyes sent icy chills racing down my spine and a cold sweat broke on my forehead. My heart raced, palms sweated. I balled and unballed my fists, attempting to make my feet edge backwards, but they wouldn’t budge, my legs too heavy.
Stood tall in front of me, he swiped the back of his hand across my face. I turned and landed awkwardly on the chaise.
“Be careful, you damn fool. The baby.” A female voice bellowed behind me.
Through the sting to my face, a surge of energy started at the bottom of my legs—like pins and needles, but stronger, faster—shooting its heated way up my thighs, through my stomach, and down my arms to my hand. Every nerve ending in my body tingled.
I flung my hand out when Daniel reached me. It didn’t make contact with him, but a burst of sparks from my fingertips sent him careening across the room and into the blonde, causing a pained scream to tear through her.
I stared at the unfolding scene. Unbelievable, although, it shouldn’t have been, not really, not anymore.
Daniel teetered on the verge of consciousness, but shook himself off and slumped against the wall. He looked right into my eyes, bemused, but also a little scared, his face pale, eyes searching. I glanced down at my outstretched hand, turning it back and forth.
I still stared at it when pain exploded across my face for the second time, coursing down my neck and spine. It took a moment to register the blonde in front of me—my mind still unravelling what just happened—her arm still raised from the slap she gave me.
Glaring at her, I clutched my face and lifted my other hand, I stopped short of smacking the bitch back when that voice sounded from behind me again. Calmer this time.
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you. Keira has a nasty temper on her, and I can’t afford for you to die just yet.”
Spinning around, I locked eyes with a tall, skinny woman, jet black hair bundled in a messy pile atop her head. She dressed in a thin piece of black cloth, constituting a dress of sorts that reached the floor and pooled at her feet. A slash to the thigh exposed smooth, olive skin, but the plunging neckline did nothing for her flat chest.
Her dark eyes bore into mine, making my skin prickle when her face broke into an unnerving, cruel smile. I tried to swallow, but my throat turned bone dry. She radiated darkness and I wanted to cower under her glare.
Two women entered behind the lean, waif-like thing. One around my height—about five foot four—with short, brown hair and a curvy figure spilling out of the purple laced corset she wore.
The other, another frail looking atrocity with a pale, gaunt face emphasised by baby pink hair—that has to be a wig.
“Cassandra, it’s time,” Pink Wig addressed the exotic woman.
Cassandra! Daniel is involved. And I am a target.
I swayed on my feet, dizziness and nausea battled together, forcing me to sit down on the sofa again. Why? How? I’d been such a fool—trying to please him, to make things work between us. I didn’t want to fail and all this time the son of a bitch played me! Did he know of my past, my lineage? How, when I had no clue? There were so many questions in need of answers before my sanity well and truly left the building.
In my shell-shocked state, I threw Cassandra a passing glance, she nodded to the two women and they left the room, only to reappear moments later dragging a pregnant, light-haired woman with them.
The restrained woman kicked and screamed, cried until she choked. My senses picked up on her fear. It poured from her very core while Little and Large marched her toward the far wall.
Cassandra closed her eyes and chanted, arms half raised. I smelled burning. Wisps of smoke plumed from the floor behind the sofa in front of me. The witch’s eyes snapped open and inky, black pools shone back at me.
In a swift movement, the scared woman’s body catapulted against the wall with a bone-crunching thud, an agonised yelp escaped her lips. The smoke dancing at Cassandra’s feet began to swirl around the stricken woman, curling around her wrists and ankles. She began to thrash about, screaming stomach-turning sounds I’d never forget, but the smoke held her in place.
While Cassandra concentrated, the top heavy witch moved to stand in front of the panicked girl. The imprisoned woman’s screams grew louder when the sadistic bitch pulled out a familiar knife.
Bile raked its way up my throat. The mad witch raised the blade and I lurched forward instinctively, screaming.
Two hands grabbed hold of my arms from behind in a rough, calloused grip. But the moment the knife plunged into the pregnant woman’s chest, my legs gave out and I collapsed.
I tried so hard to tear my gaze away, but the same hands restraining me held my jaw firm, forced me to watch while the lunatic witch gutted her victim. Blood pumped out, spurting over the psycho and coating the surrounding area in thick, crimson splashes. The sound made my stomach turn, the tearing, slicing, squelching. I heaved.
When the witch pulled the dead woman’s child from her stomach I emptied the contents of mine onto the floor.
The hands around my face loosened and I grabbed hold of the sofa to haul myself up. On shaky legs I stood, squaring my shoulders and raising my chin to stare at the horror before me. Chest heaving, I attempted to put one foot in front of the other. I need to get out of here; my baby will not die in this place.
“Where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?” Daniel asked from behind me, his tone sarcastic and condescending. “I told you I’d make you pay, bitch.”
I turned and spat back, “Fuck you.” I didn’t have any other plausible answer to his question, but I felt the need to say something in retaliation.
He put his hands on his hips, a conceited, mocking smile played on his face before he laughed at me again. I hated that sound, I hated him—I hated him with a passion I couldn’t describe—I wanted to see him die a painful, bloody death.
I wanted to be the one to put an end to him, to gut him throat to groin, witness the life ebb from his body and rejoice in it.
He would not get his demonic hands on my child. None of them would.
Rage burned through me, my body heated and prickled. I panted, heavy and rasping. I advanced on him, the smile falling from his face, but from the corner of my eye I saw Cassandra turn to face me. Affording her a glance, I noted her trembling limbs and paling complexion, her eyes still two ebony orbs of nothingness.
She pushed her hands out and the black, misty tendrils holding the dead woman to the wall raced toward me.
I stilled, tilting my head, still consumed and locked by my hate for Daniel and thoughts of how I wanted him to suffer.
&nbs
p; The black fog circled my body, warm, but uncomfortable. My skin heated, burning almost—like sitting out in the blazing sun, coated in oil. My mind clouded over, vision faded in and out, yet oddly my brain kept questioning, before the darkness claimed me, why the woman against the wall remained there unaided.
∾∾∾
Amelia struggled to open her eyes as roaring pain thumped through her head. A drying substance cracked down her face when she grimaced.
Attempting to rub her temples, a clanging sound rang out and a sharp pain lanced through her arm. Prising her eyes open, she turned her head, ignoring the agony shooting down her neck. With groggy recognition, she noticed rusted, metal shackles restraining her wrists, her ankles, too.
Turning her attention forward, she squeezed her eyes together, blinking hard a couple of times to remove the white stars dancing in her vision.
Through the dim light she tried to make sense of her surroundings—alone in a small, bare-bricked cell with no windows, but a large wooden door housing a small, barred outlet near the top. The room smelled like damp and neglect on top of death and decay. The pungent stench clawed at the back of Amelia’s throat like a thick, viscous liquid.
Disembodied voices floated down outside the door. Amelia looked out the window; the dense darkness disturbed by the odd, intermittent flicker of an orange glow… a flame, perhaps?
The whole scene possessed a ‘medieval dungeon’ atmosphere, and Amelia half expected an executioner in a black hooded mask to come for her and cut her head off with a rusted axe. She shuddered at the thought.
Lifting her head, she examined the shackles again—Jesus, they really do belong in some fifteenth century torture chamber—seeing thick, heavy chains connected to the chunky, metal cuffs. Well, they won’t be breaking any time soon; she tugged on them a few times to prove the point.
The clanging reverberated around the tiny room—too loud for the eerily quiet atmosphere—and she cringed at the echo bouncing off the walls outside the cell.
The chatter stopped, replaced by hurried footsteps making their way closer. Through the vague lighting, Amelia saw a pair of eyes peering at her through the bars of her cell door, the expression scrunched into a smile.
“She’s awake,” they called out in a honeyed tone.
The eyes disappeared, replaced by the rattle of keys before the call door opened with a resounding creak and a tall, lean woman stepped into the room—ducking down to accommodate her height.
“Inspector Ellis, I’m glad you could finally join us.”
How does she know my name? Amelia wondered.
“My name is Cassandra.” Her mocking smile made ghastly from the shadows in the cell. “You can call me Sister Hewitt, or Priestess.”
“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same. What do you want with me, and what have you done with Darcy?”
“Oh yes, Darcy. We know her here as Sister Simms.”
Amelia’s brow furrowed at Cassandra’s choice of words when Darcy walked into the room, amusement sparkling in her viridian-green eyes.
“What the hell is going on here?” Amelia shouted, panicked.
“Well, I would’ve thought it was plainly obvious, Inspector. You’ve been duped.” Cassandra’s aristocratic voice grated on her.
Amelia’s bewildered gaze went from the Priestess to her colleague. “Darcy… ?”
“That’s right, Amelia. I’m a witch, and I was right under your nose this whole time.” Darcy laughed a sickening, evil sound.
Amelia clamped her mouth shut, teeth gritted together—words failed her. She felt anger, rage in fact, but couldn’t string together a coherent sentence. Her own constable, someone she thought highly of and demonstrated such passion for the job, practiced the occult, and took part in the ritualistic sacrifice of innocent women and children.
“But… why? The babies—?
Darcy threw her head back and laughed again. Amelia’s anger ramped up several notches.
“I’ve been a witch all of my life, Amelia. The Priestess taught my mother. This is my calling. To raise Lilith and serve her purpose.”
Amelia sneered, “What purpose?”
“The purpose she was always meant to have. To rule the world with men beneath her, where they belong. To raise an army of strong, fierce women to stand beside her.”
Amelia laughed—she couldn’t help it, it sounded ridiculous. “Are you fuckin’ crazy, you psychotic bitch? Have you heard yourself?”
Her laughter rang through the cell, cut short when Darcy marched over to her and slapped her hard, in the face. Amelia tasted blood, but couldn’t hold back her smirk as she spat mucus-y, red fluid onto the floor.
“You really are deranged, aren’t you? You wait until I’m outta here, you sick fuck. I’ll hunt you down and gut you like you did those poor women. I’ll make sure you die in pain.” She clenched her teeth and spat the words in Darcy’s face.
Darcy and Cassandra laughed a disgusting, depraved sound. They walked out of the cell, the door slamming shut behind them. The lock clicked into place. Laughter resonated down the corridor and Amelia hung her head.
Chapter 18
Amid his own fretful strides, Deacon watched Blake pace the Compound’s living area, angst spread across his stricken face. Since learning of Amelia’s trip to Simonstone with Darcy, the team tried countless times to get hold of her on her mobile, but with no luck. Blake complained of a sick, uneasy tension burrowing in the pit of his stomach.
The older vampire’s own body shook, the blood thirsty monster buried deep within bursting at the seams to get out, to cause pain and destruction to anyone who dared get in its way. The colossal effort to keep it at bay weighed on him. His face screwed up in torture, fists balled by his sides, his stride angry and resolute while he pictured Elora’s face in the moments of her capture.
Sam and Chloe kept quiet, a testament to their shock upon learning one of their own played a part in these hideous murders. In particular, Chloe recounted her emotions upon seeing the gruesome devastation—disgust, horror. She questioned over and over how someone they knew, a friend no less, could be involved in such atrocities? Sam looked void of all feeling. He sat, head in hands and stared at nothing, waiting while time ticked by.
Nate and Madison occupied one of the computers. Madison recognised Celeste’s name—her own grandmother, Rhea, had been taught by her many years ago, passing on her teachings to the motherless sisters.
Rhea also taught them about a different kind of witch—a Superior Priestess—a witch of such supreme power, able to control all the elements, in tune with all of nature being able to hone her senses in on anything she wanted. The Superior Priestess could talk to animals, read from wildlife and feel the emotions of the earth.
The level of control required for such power must be taught. Celeste had been a Superior Priestess and with her death, Elora inherited the power. But her death also meant Elora never learned how to use it, never even knew of her gifts. Her magic lay dormant in her until her twenty-first birthday—a witch’s coming of age—where her powers sprouted unaided. With the lack of guidance and knowledge, the magic inside her now presented itself, uncontrolled and possibly dangerous in her struggle to maintain it.
In the meantime, Lucas—glued to another laptop—looked for anything that might give them an advantage. The team shared the notion that the witches would be certain they knew their location since taking Amelia, so using the element of surprise did not seem such a plausible idea.
They needed a way to get into the house undetected, so Lucas searched for the blueprints in the hopes they would show him some other way in. Only when Madison revealed what she knew about the place did Lucas start to divulge his plan.
“There’s an underground tunnel leading into the basement of the house,” she offered.
“How do you know this?” Lucas’ face lit up and he held his breath.
“My sister told me. One of the witches liked to run her mouth when she was drunk or high, and she spi
lled the beans about it. Ivy told me because she always felt uneasy being in that house; she needed an escape route in case things turned… .” She trailed off and choked back tears.
Chloe put her arm around Madison’s shoulders and whispered gentle words of comfort to her.
Once she composed herself, Madison showed Lucas the location of the tunnel and he devised their plan of attack before sending Nate away to get additional help.
∾∾∾
Amelia—past caring who heard her—rattled the chains in the vain hope she might find a reserve of super human strength to yank them from the wall. No such luck.
She refused to die down here, but she began to lose faith until a moment of sudden realisation slapped her like a cold cloth around the face.
She strove to reach her head, the chains were long enough, but the cuffs dug into her wrists. She fumbled with her hair, grunting with the effort, and smiled when she pulled one of the grips free.
A flutter coasted through her stomach followed by a surge of hope. Now if only I can master lock-picking, she stretched one arm over to fiddle with the lock on the cuff.
Not daring to blink during the struggle to free herself, her eyes strained from the effort. Sweat beaded her forehead, but she let out a half-breath when a clink indicated of one of her shackles had popped open. It hit the wall with a clang and she stilled, listening for any sign of movement outside.
Interminable moments passed before she resumed her attempt at undoing the other handcuff—satisfied no-one made their way to inspect the noise. Her whole body trembled, perspiration seeped from every possible place. Her mouth went bone dry while she held her breath again.
Amelia succeeded in popping all the restraints, but stopped when she heard footsteps hurrying down the corridor. Panic rising, she fought the urge to hyperventilate, racking her brains for what she could do next.
Sidling against the wall next to the door, she thought, really? Whoever looked in would be able to see she managed to free herself.
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