Think, Amelia, think, she willed herself. Amelia whipped off her blazer and held it over the window. Not convinced it would work, but willing to try anything, she prayed her desperation would pay off.
Her breath caught in her throat when the footsteps stopped outside the door. She listened, trying to gauge the reaction of whoever stood outside. The clatter of keys rang out again—the movements frantic. Is this actually working?! She’d laugh at the fool under any other circumstances.
The lock snapped and Amelia pulled her blazer from over the window. The door opened. Amelia yanked it further, grabbed the stranger by the hair and slammed their head into a wall. A sickening crunch of bone against brick resonated around the small chamber.
Amelia dragged the immobile figure further into the cell, shutting the door behind her. She glanced down at the unmoving form of Darcy, unconscious at her feet. Blood seeped down her forehead.
Searching for the keys, Amelia realise they must’ve fallen outside of the door. She shuffled over and stood by it, listening for any sounds. Certain no-one waited outside, she gently pried the door open, wincing when it creaked, holding her breath—again.
Bending down, she snatched the set of three rusted keys from the corridor floor and closed the door behind her a touch faster, to lessen the risk of it groaning.
Finally free, she needed to find a way out of this primitive prison unseen.
∾∾∾
With each second that ticked by, each time they went over and over the plan, Deacon became more impatient, aggravated and panicked. What the fuck is taking so damn long? He pictured Elora’s beautiful face and tried not to imagine the consequences of them being too late to save her with all this redundant, repetitive babble.
He paced the floor. Back and forth, back and forth, stopping only to give his input where he thought it necessary, striving to keep the beast within contained.
His anxious thoughts were cut short when Bernie came running into the room, dread etched across his features, eyes wide searching the room for him.
“Where is she? Please tell me she’s OK.” He grabbed Deacon by his powerful arms and drew on a strength belying his stature, while he shook Deacon for all his worth.
“Calm down, B. We know where she is. We’ll find her.”
Bernie turned to Lucas as he spoke, but he didn’t relinquish his hold on Deacon. The younger vampire started to feel the pinch from Bernie’s tightening grasp.
Bernie looked a pale, frightened mess—understandably. But he calmed himself and loosened his vice-like grip on Deacon. Lucas approached and placed a reassuring hand on his trembling shoulder.
“We’re going for her now, B. I promise we’ll bring her back safe.”
Lucas did not break his promises easily, but then again, the threat lying before them remained unknown. Deacon prayed his General would be able to keep his word. And not just for Bernie.
Lucas turned to Deacon. “You ready for this big guy? I need you level headed.”
Deacon raised his rigid chin, stared into his boss’s eyes and nodded once. He couldn’t afford to fail, not with Elora’s life at stake.
Lucas turned back to the group. “Get your gear together, we leave in five.”
∾∾∾
Amelia tried hard to keep her body from trembling, but it proved difficult—she witnessed first-hand what those lunatics were capable of. If she thought she knew fear before, it didn’t hold a candle to this. A gun held to her head? No comparison. Facing off against a gang of youths armed with broken bottles and knives? No comparison.
All of her past experiences did not compare to the thought of someone ripping her stomach open while conscious, and being held down by a demon burning a hole through her flesh. Not being with child made it less likely to happen, but not any less terrifying that something still could.
In the minutes that passed, Amelia locked Darcy in the cell, stuffing the Constable’s police-issue neckerchief into her mouth. Though, Darcy would need to break out of the shackles first. Amelia wouldn’t allow the traitorous bitch any opportunity to alert someone.
The corridor felt stifling, or perhaps Amelia’s nerves were getting the better of her. She started to feel claustrophobic until she noticed a door just ahead of her—sturdy oak and studded. Right out of some long forgotten castle. This one contained no window to peer in or out, so Amelia swallowed hard and edged her way closer.
Putting her ear to the door, she listened, but couldn’t hear a damn thing. Whether the thickness of the door impeded her hearing, or no-one actually stood on the other side of it, she couldn’t be sure. One thing felt certain, though, she did not revel in the sinking feeling swirling in her gut.
After a couple of deep breaths, she tried the handle. Locked. She slipped one of the keys into the lock, twisting it. Bingo! First time lucky, she rejoiced.
Amelia braced herself against the clicking of the lock, expecting it to sound forty times louder than it did. Relief swam through her when she barely noticed it. The creak of the door opening, however, sent her thundering heart on a one-way attempt through her chest—and not for the first time today.
Amelia cringed, going from heated cheeks and dripping sweat to ice cold and ready to faint. Her eyes remained fixed on the door, alert. Counting the seconds against the thumping of her heart, she breathed a heavy sigh of relief when nothing happened. Slowly, she poked her head out the door.
No-one came at her, so she stepped out of the corridor and into a large hallway with an attached dining room. Darkness permeated the area in a gloomy blanket. The only light came from a few, dim wall lamps, but the entire area yielded an eerie, unsettling aura.
Amelia expected to see a headless ghost float toward her from some darkened corner of the house. She thanked God it didn’t happen—her quaking nerves wouldn’t have allowed for her to handle it very well.
Adjusting to the lack of light, she noted the dining room housed several huge windows, curtains drawn back. Thick, dark clouds allowed a miniscule amount of moonlight to filter through, only to be eaten up by the black veil shrouding the house.
The hallway to Amelia’s right reminded her of an old game show. A group of kids would lead another wearing a sight-impairing helmet around medieval dungeons and such like, fighting all kinds of beasts and monsters. Amelia mimicked that blind kid, but with no-one to lead her to safety, she needed to find her own way out. She prayed her escape didn’t involve battling fantastical creatures.
Unable to pick out any escape route in the hallway—the walls covered floor to ceiling in big, heavy curtains—Amelia headed toward the dining room. The partial lighting shed on it also meant less chance of any spooks or spectres getting the jump on her in the darkness… or so she told herself.
Weaponless—having been stripped of her possessions during her comatose state—and airing on the side of fear, she tiptoed around the solid oak table. Amelia found it odd she couldn’t hear anything. Perhaps the witches were upstairs. If so, they could bloody well stay there while she looked for a way out down here.
She edged her way around the wall of the hallway-cum-dining area and came to a large oak, double door. It looked thick and heavy and she grew a little concerned it might make a delightful creaking noise like the one to the basement.
An eternity seemed to pass while Amelia stood loitering outside the large doors—she figured she didn’t really want to see what lay on the other side in case someone heard her and waited for her entrance.
Instead, she made her way over to the huge windows, peering out across the bleak, rain-swept countryside. Storm clouds amalgamated into one big, grey mass leaving a dark, foreboding atmosphere hanging over the house. Rain came down in thunderous torrents, lashing off the windows and bouncing off the gravel drive.
Searching the frames, Amelia couldn’t see any handles until she came to the middle of the three sets. Large, black metal catches were set some distance above Amelia’s head. She reached up and grabbed a firm grip on one. She tried to force it
either side, but it wouldn’t budge. Amelia’s heart sank.
“Shit!” she hissed through gritted teeth.
Making her way back to the wooden door, she placed an ear on the surface, listening for any noises on the other side. But like the basement door, the thickness could easily be obstructing her hearing—nothing floated through.
Letting out a long breath, Amelia squared her shoulders and cricked her neck—now or never, she thought. Attempting to swallow past her cotton-dry throat, she reached for the door knob, suppressing the choke trying to claw its way up. Sick with nerves, she twisted the handle and the door swung inward.
She stepped foot into a large room—at least thirty square meters—with a stone flagged floor and similar lattice windows to the ones in the dining room, equal in size. A huge, bricked fireplace accommodated one wall with an oil painting of some hellish landscape above it.
The rest of the room scream tasteful décor—reds and golds with expensive period furniture, rugs and drapery. A quick glance to her far right highlighted a set of patio doors leading outside. She moved toward them, but something to the left caught her eye.
Slick blood trailed in thick smears down the wall, creating a large void. The crimson ooze pooled on the luxurious carpet and formed a coagulated puddle of deep red. An unexpected shudder ran through Amelia’s body.
Striding toward the patio doors, she passed a small telephone table and noted a stack of paperwork spilling out the drawer—junk mail, solicitor letters, insurance documents. Somehow, Amelia couldn’t associate that barbaric murderess with this kind of everyday normalcy. About to walk straight past, she stopped to look at something that caught her attention.
Contemplating the evidence in front of her, she jumped when a pained scream rang through her ears. A body rushed her, rugby tackling her to the ground. The two slid through the gelatinous blood on the floor.
Amelia grabbed hold of her attacker’s arms and threw her aside. The weight of the body caused the sofa to shift forward as it careened into the back of it.
“You bitch!” Darcy stood and shook herself off while Amelia lay on her back in the crimson puddle.
The constable advanced, dark blood still oozing down the side of her face, eyes wide and wild while Amelia backed away. The crazed maniac launched a booted foot at Amelia’s stomach, causing her to wail and clutch her belly. A slap to Amelia’s face followed, before the DCI grabbed hold of Darcy’s ankle and yanked her leg from under her.
The witch fell backward and cracked her head against the sofa. Amelia used Darcy’s dazed state to her advantage and jumped to her feet. Before the Constable could right herself, Amelia smashed her fist into the side of Darcy’s face, almost joining her on the floor, but regained her balance.
Darcy howled an unnatural sound and scrambled forward. Amelia used the moment to look for a defensive weapon, noting the old-fashioned, iron poker by the fireplace. She ran for it, but Darcy tackled her and the two of them crashed through the mahogany table in the centre of the room.
Amelia rolled on to her front to get up, but Darcy grabbed the back of her head and attempted to pummel it off the floor beneath them. Amelia pushed against the floor with the flat of her hands, using the leverage to turn herself over. The effort afforded her another slap to the face before Darcy straddled her and tightened two hands around her neck, squeezing with a strength defying her stature.
Amelia’s lungs burned and white dots danced around her vision. She grappled around the floor above her head, searching for something she could use to force Darcy away from her.
Her hand fingered something solid and hard and she grasped at it before launching it at Darcy’s head.
The sharp end of the splintered table leg penetrated Darcy’s neck with a sickening squelch. Her eyes bulged and thick globules of crimson dribbled from the corners of her lips and down her chin. The witch coughed and warm blood splattered Amelia’s face and neck before she pushed Darcy off her, groaning over killing a woman she once considered a friend.
She shook herself out of her torn, bloodied jacket, breathing hard, while she stared at Darcy’s innate body.
Chapter 19
Deacon shifted in his seat. His body shook, and he clenched and unclenched his fists under the increasing tension. The drive to Cassandra’s Simonstone mansion seemed to take an age—he opted to ride with Chloe in her car. He didn’t trust himself to give the roads his full attention on his bike. Blake also rode in one of the cars from the Compound, Madison driving, after she refused to be left behind in an already breached building. Lucas and Sam screamed ahead on their bikes.
The monster inside Deacon itched to spring free, but he needed to remain level-headed for everyone’s sake, especially Elora’s. Losing his humanity could put her in harm’s way, but if any one of those witches already drew even a pinprick of her blood, he would not be able to quell the beast. It would destroy anything in its path.
Lost in thought, he failed to notice Chloe pulling up near Cassandra’s. Lucas stood waiting, an imposing figure in the dreary atmosphere. Sam, Blake and Madison pulled up moments later.
Everyone congregated at the gates to the property.
“Madison, Chloe, Sam, you’ve studied the blueprints, you know where to go?” Lucas asked them in turn, wasting no time.
Madison nodded before she beckoned Sam and Chloe to follow her. The three of them ran into the dense woodland surrounding Cassandra’s home.
Lucas nodded at Deacon and Blake. The three of them then leapt with lithely silence over the front gates, and disappeared into the murky depths of the trees lining the long driveway.
*
Madison, Sam and Chloe wound their way through heavy woodland to get to their destination. Nothing much in the way of light penetrated the thick canopy of trees overhead. Chloe wished she’d bought her torch with her—the three of them used the backlights from their mobile phones to find their way.
Madison warned the two officers that the basement they were headed for would not turn out to be the large wine cellar the plans depicted it to be—Cassandra turned it into a dungeon of sorts.
When Ivy became increasingly afraid of Cassandra and her little group of reprobates, she advised Madison of the cellar’s location—an escape route, should she need it.
So far as Madison knew, Cassandra didn’t possess knowledge of the secret tunnel’s location; it didn’t show up on any development plans. Nevertheless, she took precaution by enchanting the entrance.
The witch explained, for Chloe’s curiosity, that aside from drawing power from their birth sign, a white witch could cast simple protection spells or illusions, providing they didn’t directly harm another person.
“So, black witches are different?” Chloe asked.
Madison nodded. She clarified that black witches, or at least the High Priestess of a black coven, were once white witches. The magic they possessed was never enough for them—they thrived on power and the more they possessed, the more corrupt they became because of it. In the end, their selfish desires and acts consumed them until their souls and hearts turned jet black.
Unfortunately, a black witch’s power could not be limited to one element of nature, because nature refused to acknowledge their evil alignment. They drew on the unlimited powers of Hell to cause whatever devastation they wished, because Hell held no qualms with death and destruction, nor power and greed.
They still needed teaching, though, and a High Priestess would take on witches beneath her, with similar dark intentions, to coach them in the use of their catastrophic magic.
Madison’s explanation ended when they reached their location. Rummaging through the overgrowth of foliage, she uncovered a slim, wooden door set in the ground.
“It’s padlocked and chained.” Chloe looked over the witch’s shoulder.
Madison nodded. “I put them there.”
Sam walked up to the trapdoor and examined the padlock in his hand, his brow creasing. “There’s no keyhole.”
M
adison giggled at his naivety. “Of all the things you’ve likely seen, and still you don’t have a clue.” She brushed past him, waving her hand over the padlock. It snapped open.
“Cool.” Sam drew out the word in a childlike manner. A big grin erupted on his face—he looked like someone who’d never clapped eyes on a naked lady before, and had been handed a load of porn mags.
“Bless your innocence, Samuel.”
He cast Chloe a sideways squint and she chuckled at him, knowing he hated his full name.
Madison removed the chains and threw back the doors to reveal a dark, dank stone staircase. She made her way down.
“Come on, dumbass.” Chloe clipped Sam around the head and beckoned for him to follow her and Madison into the pitch black tunnel.
The shaft seemed a whole lot longer given that the only light source still came from three mobile phones. Madison led the way, groping along the slimy, moss coated walls. The whole passageway smelt like damp and something else no one could quite put their finger on. Something macabre.
The uneven, slippery floor made progress slow—on more than one occasion each of them needed to cling to the wall, or one another to stop from falling flat on their arses.
They stayed silent, too scared of the unknown, the unseen, but most of all for what they might unwittingly walk into when they found their way out of this God forsaken rabbit hole.
Madison stifled a cry of relief when they reached the end of the tunnel. She noted the rusted rungs of an old ladder leading up to an aged grate in the ceiling.
“I can move the grate, but I can’t stop the noise at the same time. Someone needs to go up there and move it while I silence the area.”
Sam went up and inspected the treads in the wall—they looked old and corroded—they felt a tad unstable when he grabbed hold of one and pushed his weight down on it. Rust crumbled in his hand and he wiped the orange, russet mess down his trousers.
He turned back to Madison with a look of dismay on his face. “I dunno… they don’t seem too sturdy.”
Invoking the Witch (The Faction Series Book 1) Page 17