by Alix Marsh
COPYRIGHT
Old Beginnings
The Forgotten Slayer Book 1
Published by Alix Marsh
Copyright © 2013 by Alix Marsh
Cover Art by Valentyne Photography
http://valentynephotography.blogspot.co.uk/
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be reproduced, in any form, without the author or publisher’s permission. All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.
FLYNN HEATH WAS LYING spread-eagled, on his back, in a hedge. Splintered branches poked and scratched as his body sank a little further before settling.
He closed his eyes and tried not to breathe too hard. There was something particularly nasty jabbing him in the backside and he’d rather not be plunged into a freefall through it. A fine spray dusted his eyelids. He opened his eyes again to find it had started to drizzle. The darkening clouds promised worse to come.
Happy whooping birthday to me!
“Not funny, Toby,” he heard Rose say. “Do you always have to act like a total retrobate?”
“Flynn started it and I suppose you mean reprobate,” replied Toby. “A retrobate is someone who got stuck a few centuries back while a reprobate is—”
“Oh, just shut it!”
“I was just saying—”
“Um, guys?” croaked Flynn, still trying not to breathe or move or do anything that might dislodge him. He couldn’t see much through the matt of entwined branches and leaves, but he knew from the sudden silence that they’d finally remembered him.
Rose’s head appeared above him. Her blue eyes were wide and angry, staring at him from beneath the pink baseball cap she always pulled on as soon as they were through the school gates.
She didn’t sound very concerned when she snapped, “Are you okay?”
“A hand up would be nice. If you two are finished squabbling, that is.”
“Wow,” exclaimed Toby, grinning over Rose’s shoulder. “I obviously don’t know my own strength.”
“You’re not going to know your own face when I’m done,” growled Flynn. The three of them had been friends since forever, which meant he could get away with saying things like that. It also meant Toby could get away with shoving him into a hedge, apparently. “Are you going to grin down at me all day or help?”
“Oh, right.” Rose reached for his hand.
Toby took his other hand and, between them, they pulled Flynn out of the hedge. The tearing sound on the way up was his grey school trousers. Well, at least his mom wouldn’t kill him today, it being his birthday and all. But that didn’t rule out first thing tomorrow morning.
“Uh, oh,” Rose said, reading his mind. Except, she was looking straight past him, her expression frozen in horror.
Flynn registered three things at once. He’d left an unfortunate dent in the hedge and the really, really unfortunate part was that the hedge belonged to Mrs. Crowley and, even worse, the front door was swinging open.
“Down!” He yanked Rose with him behind the hedge.
Toby dropped to his knees beside them. “Of all the hedges to fall into, dude.”
Flynn glared at him. To be fair, this wasn’t all Toby’s fault. They’d both been messing around on the way back from the bus stop, giving each other the odd cuff and shove. Toby had shoved a little too hard and Flynn had toppled over backward.
Into Mrs. Crowley’s hedge.
Actually, revised Flynn, this was all Toby Creedon’s fault.
But he didn’t get a chance to say what was on his mind because, at that moment, Mrs. Crowley started screeching.
“I know you’re there. Come on out, you little hooligans. Don’t think you’ll get away with this! I saw everything! I know exactly who you are.”
Flynn doubted it. Mrs. Crowley was as blind as a bat even with her bifocals on, which she generally refused to wear on account that there was nothing wrong with her eyesight.
But he wasn’t about to stick around and argue.
“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered, keeping below the hedge line as he crawled.
Rose and Toby stayed close and they didn’t stand up again until they were around the corner and well out of sight. And then they sprinted the full ten minutes to Rose’s house without looking back.
Rose bent double, holding her side and gasping, “You don’t think she really saw us?”
Flynn was too out of breath to do anything but shake his head.
“Worst ever start to the weekend,” groaned Toby, digging his hands into the front pockets of his trousers and sounding not the least bit winded. At thirteen, Toby was taller than most of the sixth-formers at school, so he had the leg advantage when it came to long distance sprinting. “The old bat will have us trimming her hedge with a pair of nail scissors.”
Toby wasn’t joking. He’d spent a Saturday weeding her lawn on his hands and knees last year after an incident involving his football and her prize bed of black roses.
Once upon a time, like a million years ago or something, Mrs. Crowley’s family had owned all the land around these parts and she thought that gave her the right to act like the village’s tormentor. Crowley Manor still stood in the middle of its own forest about three miles down the road, although now it was some ultra posh and exclusive boarding school called Victor Grey Academy. So posh, the kids never came down into the village. They were probably airlifted straight up to London in private helicopters for days out.
Rose unlocked her front door and stepped inside. “You guys want to stop by for a while?”
“Nan should have arrived by now,” Flynn said, shaking his head. “I promised my mom I’d be straight home.”
“I don’t have anywhere to be.” Toby raised a brow at her. “Unless you’re spending the afternoon making yourself pretty for tonight.”
Her cheeks flared red. “Why do you always have to be such a boy?”
Toby gave Flynn a look. “I don’t even know how to respond to that.”
The door slammed in their faces.
“What did I do wrong this time?” Toby asked.
“I don’t care.” Flynn shoved him toward the door. They were going to the cinema complex tonight to celebrate his birthday and he didn’t want to have to buffer his two best friends throughout the movie. “Just apologise and make it look real.”
Toby started muttering something but Flynn waved him off and turned to stomp down the path. He, Toby and Rose had been tight for as long as he could remember. But lately, Toby and Rose couldn’t seem to stand each other. He didn’t know what had changed, but he wished it hadn’t. Why couldn’t everything just stay the same?
By the time he reached the village square, the sky had grown dark with the storm blowing in. Dim lights flickered from the shop windows that opened onto the square, but it was the pale yellow halo emanating from the lantern above the door of his dad’s antique store that enticed anyone with a lick of sense to come take shelter inside. Mom always said the store wasn’t a business, it was a hobby, and if it weren’t for her job at the bank, they’d be in the poorhouse.
Dad never seemed to mind. He’d lean in close to whisper in Flynn’s ear, “Some days I think I must be the luckiest man in the world. The rest of the time, I know I am.”
Flynn’s feet drew him in that direction, but just then the drizzle thickened and he skirted the war memorial in the middle of the cobbled square instead. If he hurried, he might still make it home without getting thoroughly soaked. Head down and chin tucked in, he left the lights behind as he cut across Ecchland Green.
He was just passing The Giant, an ancient tree with a gnarled trunk and branches t
hat had been battered close to the ground in places, when a set of claws grabbed his arm. Before he had time to scream, the claws yanked him under the cover of those sagging branches.
His mouth opened, but his breath seemed frozen in his lungs. All he could manage was shallow pants, his heart skipping every second beat, and then his eyes focussed and his legs turned to jelly. From relief. It was only an old man, his stooped form buried beneath a dark cloak.
The man’s skin was pasty, his cheeks gaunt, and the spindly fingers locked onto Flynn really did look like the claws of a vulture or something.
The most dangerous thing about the man was his body odour. He smelled rank, as if he’d been walking in the rain for months.
Flynn didn’t want to be rude, but seriously. He pulled his arm out of the man’s grip and staggered backward until he hit the tree trunk.
“I have something for you,” said the man, his voice deep and not the least bit shaky. He reached inside his cloak and brought out an object wrapped in folds of mangy animal hide. Not the nice kind of leather bought in a store: This animal looked as if it hadn’t been too healthy even before it had died.
Flynn eyed the flea-infested gift warily. “Thanks, but I really shouldn’t— Oh, okay,” he gasped as the man pressed the bundle into his hands.
“The Darswich is your birthright.”
“Like a birthday present?” Flynn asked doubtfully, giving the man a hard stare.
Little Rislin was so small, there weren’t even enough kids to fill the bus that carried them to the secondary school in the next village. Flynn knew everyone, and he knew he’d never seen this man before. “How do you know it’s my birthday?”
“That’s not important, boy.” The man’s eyes narrowed on him. “What are you looking at?”
Flynn dropped his gaze.
“Well, come on,” prodded the man. “Don’t you want to see what it is? I haven’t got all day.”
Flynn’s shoulders stiffened. He almost tossed the stupid gift back, but that would be rude. And, well, he was trying not to be.
He picked at the mangy leather, trying to touch as little of anything as possible. His breath caught when he saw the silver dagger nestled in the folds. The blade was slim, about five inches in length. The hilt was designed to resemble three entangled snakes, their heads curved around the base of the blade. Just below the head of each snake, a ring of blue, white and red stones were embedded into the silver to form a collar.
“Do you accept the Darswich?” asked the man.
Flynn’s fingers closed around the hilt. The leather wrapping dropped to the ground as he held the dagger up, admiring it in the weak light. His heart kicked with excitement. He really shouldn’t accept it.
“Wicked,” he said, flicking it this way and that with a turn of his wrist. It’s not as though he’d be stupid with the blade. He was thirteen now, not a kid anymore.
His mom wouldn’t care if he was thirteen or thirty. She’d still have the horrors.
Reluctantly, Flynn lowered the dagger, blade pointing to the ground, and offered it back to the man.
“I wish I could,” he said wistfully. “Really.”
He frowned at the man. What was he? Like eighty at least. Flynn softened his voice. “Listen, I think you have me confused with someone else. Is this gift for your grandson? Maybe I can help you find him. What’s your name?”
The man stepped forward.
Flynn stepped back, forgetting he was already up against the tree. Enough with the not being rude. He was out of here. But before he could scoot left, bony claws closed over his hands, locking his fingers over the hilt of the dagger.
“What are you doing?” demanded Flynn, trying to struggle free without success.
The old man’s grip wasn’t anywhere near as feeble as it should be. Flynn glanced left, then right, seeing nothing but branches and leaves and rain, rain, rain. It was coming down fast and furious now, drowning out the rest of the world.
“What do you want with me?” He hated the quiver in his voice, but this man was really strong. And clearly demented.
Somewhere above, lightning ripped a blazing scar that lit up the sky. Less than a second later, thunder shook the ground. The storm had broken and it was right on top of them.
The man jerked Flynn up and close with such strength, Flynn practically tipped over on his toes. The dagger was wedged between them, the blade pointing into the man’s chest. Not that Flynn had any control over that. The man was clamping his fingers together so hard, they’d gone numb. His wrists could be forced down and under at any moment and that blade would be pushing into his own chest. He was at this psycho’s mercy. That thought turned his legs to jelly, this time from fear.
“Do you accept the Darswich?” barked the man. “Free will! Bah. I’ve had enough of this.” His eyes glazed over, but somehow were still piercing Flynn. “Do you accept the Darswich?”
“Yeah, whatever,” Flynn muttered. What the freaking hell was going on here? “Fine, whatever, I accept it.”
“Excellent. Now repeat after me.” The man shook his head roughly a few times, and then his stare was so black and empty it sent a chill down Flynn’s spine. “Word for word. Do you understand, boy?”
“And then you’ll let me go?”
The man sneered. “And then I’ll let you go.”
Flynn nodded. He didn’t believe the man. This was it. This was the way he died.
“Upon the blood of mine soul
Upon the honour of mine blood
Upon the ancient line of my kin’s honour do I pledge my life”
The man gave another jerk, a small reminder that Flynn could die right this second or buy himself a little time to plan his escape.
Flynn swallowed past a lump of grit and spoke the words.
There was more weird Shakespearean verse that Flynn numbly repeated while steeling himself for the moment the dagger would reverse in attack.
“To follow those who hath come before
To lead those who hath yet to come
To give mine self unto the keeping of our ancestors
I claim this Darswich to seal my eternal oath
I am now
And for all of time
Bound unto the House of Thyestes”
The moment Flynn had finished uttering the last line, a strike of hot energy hit below his knees and flashed upward, gripping his entire body in an electrified spasm. The white heat was everywhere, inside and out, fusing bone and melting skin.
His blood was on fire, his veins scorched.
It felt like forever before his body released and his legs gave out beneath him. Flynn started to collapse, felt himself sinking, but a sharp tug brought him back up. The man’s hands were still locked around his, holding him up, waiting. A pale blue shimmer outlined the man, as if he’d absorbed the power surge and now the sizzling heat was leaking out from him at the edges.
Power surge... They’d just been struck by lightning.
And survived.
Flynn looked up. The blackened boughs of the willow tree hung above, now almost bare with only a few scorched leaves crackling and hissing in the wetness.
Something small and hard popped Flynn on the chin. He flinched, his eyes widening in static shock as he brought his gaze down again.
The old man was blowing up like a helium balloon. His cloak pulled wide, the shirt beneath popping buttons and then ripping apart at the seams until all his clothes had shredded from his body. And then his skin stretched, transparent thin, finally breaking up into a patchy mess over a surface of rough greenish hide.
A shiver trembled through Flynn like a runaway train. His teeth rattled in his gums. He wanted to run.
He wanted to run and scream and then run some more.
But he couldn’t move.
His body was a lump of petrified uselessness as he watched a monster growing out of the man.
The upper torso was mottled green and as tough and wrinkled as an elephant. The head was fat and r
ound, no mouth or nose visible, just a mass of leathery folds from which two black eyes peeked out. Silvery green scales started at about waist-level and covered the lower half, including the trunk-like legs.
“You know what must be done, slayer,” rumbled from somewhere within the green monster’s belly. “Finish this.”
Flynn’s eyes bulged. The claws clamped around his hands were now thick green stumps.
“Pathetic,” growled the monster. “Fortunately, I no longer need you, boy.”
That didn’t sound good.
Life returned to Flynn’s limbs. He started struggling and kicking, twisting his arms until his wrists rubbed raw.
The monster held on with little effort, pushing Flynn backwards.
Flynn’s legs buckled and he went down. The monster came with him, smacking the breath from his chest as they both hit the ground. The weight on top of him was there and gone in an instant. The monster had impaled itself on the dagger still wedged between them. Instead of being crushed by the dead weight, though, the leathery, scaly monstrosity disintegrated into a mass of grey dust, swirling up into the sky like a mini tornado.
THE STORM BLEW OUT and the rain petered to a drizzle. When the drizzle finally cleared and the dark clouds drifted apart to let some sunlight through, Flynn ran out of excuses to remain huddled under the tree. He pushed to his feet, slid the jewelled snake dagger into the inner pocket of his blazer, and made his way home on rubbery legs.
He’d been struck by lightning. His brain had obviously been fried, causing the hallucinations.
Monsters did not exist.
And if he’d killed some old man, where was the body?
The lightning must have struck as he’d walked past The Giant and everything he thought he remembered before, everything he thought had happened afterward, was just loose screws from his rattled brain.
The oblong weight in his pocket was the only problem. He slid his hand inside his blazer, hoping to discover it was just a stick or slab of stone he’d picked up in his crazy state. He didn’t need to pull the dagger out. His trembling fingers explored the unusual shape of the engraved snakes, the bumps along the collars, and he knew that part, at least, couldn’t be denied.