The Sacrifice

by Donna Collins

  A door opened, and heavy footsteps walked across the floor.

  Eliza held her breath. If she stayed quiet, maybe she’d go unnoticed. Strong hands gripped her shoulders, and she jerked away. The chain around her ankles tensed, and her attempt to gain some distance failed. The pair of hands held her tighter, and Eliza writhed and lashed out.

  “Eliza, calm down.”

  “Daddy?” Eliza stopped moving. She felt her father’s fingers tug at the restraint that tied her neck. “Daddy, we have to get out of here before Mr. McKenzie comes back.”

  “We will, but first you have to hold still.”

  Eliza felt the cold steel of a blade press against her throat, and she flinched. Never had she longed to see her father and feel his arms around her as much as she did this very moment. The blade sliced through the tape around her neck, and the restriction wrapping her throat loosened. He pulled the hood from her head, her clammy face welcoming the coolness of the room, and hugged her tight.

  “My dear child, I should never have let you leave me.”

  Eliza sank against his chest, her cheeks welcoming the comfort of his soft, expensive shirt. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “I have my ways.” He pulled away from her, his palm cupping her chin, and held a bottle of water to her lips. “Drink this.”

  “No, we have to get out of here.”

  “We will, but first you need to drink.”

  Water trickled across her lips, and Eliza drank. The refreshing taste felt good. She’d swallowed half the bottle before her father finally took it away and placed it down beside him. He still held the knife, but made no attempt to cut her hands free. Instead, he cupped her chin and tilted her head from side to side, as though examining her.

  Stone walls glowered under the flicker of candle flame, and hardened wax hung like disfigured stalactites around the base of their wrought-iron holders. A large wooden table dominated the centre of the room. On the floor around it, straw overflowed from open crates. The room looked medieval. “Daddy, where am I?”

  The door opened and Mr. McKenzie walked in, his beige corduroys and tan leather loafers stained with what looked to be dried blood. He looked from Eliza to James, and smiled. “Well, look what we have here.”

  “Daddy, quickly, cut me free.”

  But instead, James turned from her and stood, the blade still in his hand. “What the hell is going on here?”

  Mr. McKenzie stepped forward. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Eliza pulled at the chains around her ankles. “Daddy, don’t trust him. He’s the one who brought me here.”

  James stole a glance back towards her, then refocused on Mr. McKenzie. “You didn’t sedate her.”

  “I wasn’t instructed to.”

  Eliza’s head started to swim, and she struggled to focus. Her hands dropped to her knees. “What’s happening?”

  James placed the knife on the table. A robe hung on the back of the door and he unhooked it and slipped it on, lifting its hood over his head. His face disappeared under a shadow of darkness, leaving only his jaw visible. “You’re dangerous, child. I have to protect myself.”

  Eliza fumbled against her restraints, bruises ringing her ankles. The room swirled around her, and her vision blurred. The candlelight faded, and she slumped against the table leg. She glanced at the bottle of water beside her. “What’s wrong with me? What have you done?”

  “It’s just a precaution… A little something to dull your senses.” Her father knelt before her. “You’ve caused me many problems disappearing the way that you did.”

  “McKenzie’s working for you?”

  James flashed a grin.

  Eliza’s head lolled forward. “It’s you who wants to kill me?”

  “No, no, no. I don’t want to kill you.” James lifted her head. A smile that just wouldn’t die beamed from ear to ear. “I want to crucify you, in the most glorious way.”

  Tears streamed Eliza’s cheeks. As weak as she was, she still pulled at her restraints. “You’re insane.”

  James stood. “My wife said the same thing, moments before she fell to her death.”

  Eliza glanced up and tried to focus. Had her father just admitted to killing her mother?

  He reached for a whip. Several leather braids hung from a wooden handle, each embedded with acorn-sized lead, sharp glass, and nails. James admired it. “Glorious, isn’t it?”

  It wasn’t glorious. It looked horrific.

  “Your mother was one of a kind. Without her, I could never have created you.”

  “And yet you killed her.”

  Her father laughed. “My wife wasn’t your mother. She was just a convenience. I created you with another, solely for this one purpose.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “My family has searched for one of your kind for centuries.”

  “My kind?”

  “You’re a Mind Mover, my child, as was your mother.” James stood. “I made you, and I took you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my wife didn’t possess the power.”

  “So Billy isn’t my brother?”

  “Only half of him is.”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “Heaven is a powerful place. Unfortunately, the Hamilton name isn’t welcome up there. Your male ancestors, myself included? All destined for…” James tapped his foot on the floor. “I don’t want to go down there.”

  He stepped towards her. “You’re a descendant from Christ himself. Your blood will open the Gateway to Heaven. Up there I can summon my family, and rule…well, just about everything.”

  “Where is my real mother?”

  “Someplace where she can no longer be a bother to me.”

  James caressed the leather whip. Seemingly no longer interested in their conversation, he turned his back on her. “Do you know what this is, my dear?”

  Eliza tried to focus, but the objects around her danced in front of her eyes. She felt James’ hand cup her chin and suddenly he was in front of her again. “Some call this a Roman flagrum; others, a cat o’ nine tails. It was used on Jesus Christ himself moments before his Crucifixion.”

  Eliza’s eyes widened.

  Her father saw, and grinned. “Not with this exact whip, you silly girl. Even I can only obtain so much. No, this is a reproduction. A one of a kind.”

  He let the whip dangle in front of her, his eyes sparkling with delight as he watched her cower from it. Finally, he dropped it on the table. He glanced at Mr. McKenzie. “Strip her and get her up to the tower.”

  Mr. McKenzie waited for James to leave, then cracked his knuckles. He glared down towards Eliza with eager eyes. “Alone again,” he said, grabbing the waistband of her trousers.

  Eliza kicked out, twisting her tortured body in an attempt to free from his grip.

  Mr. McKenzie laughed. His strength far outweighed hers, and he pinned her back, ripping apart her trouser zipper and yanking the denim to her ankles. “Nice panties.”

  “Get the hell off me.”

  He reached for the neck of her shirt and tore open the first two buttons. His fingers lingered an inch from her skin. “You sure have grown into a fine looking woman.”

  Eliza squirmed away from his touch, but she was weak and exhausted, no longer able to fight. “Please, don’t...” She pulled against her restraints, but they only sliced deeper into her wrists.

  “Relax. I don’t want you for that. Not when I have a fine wife at home.” He lifted his weight, and reached for the robe. Eliza seized her opportunity. She raised her knees, praying the chain had enough slack in it, and smashed Mr. McKenzie in his groin – for the second time.

  Mr. McKenzie’s eyes bulged, and he doubled over. “You whore,” he said, hitting her across the face.

  Eliza’s head snapped to the side. Bells rang inside her ears, and when someone shouted, it sounded a million miles away. The sweet taste of blood
filled her mouth. She had no doubt that the Shadow would now come for her.

  A firm hand grabbed her by the hair and hauled her to her feet. She tried to focus, but every item in the room separated and became two. Mr. McKenzie glared down at her, the glint of the blade he held in his hand blurred but still painfully clear.

  Eliza twisted away, but Mr. McKenzie gripped her arm and held her still. “If you try anything like that again, I will kill you where you stand. Do you understand?”

  Eliza spat the blood from her mouth. It hit McKenzie’s shoe.

  He glanced at it briefly, but made no attempt to wipe it clean. When he looked up again, pure evil filled his eyes. A small smile found his lips and he reached for the whip. He struck Eliza across the legs. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, yes,” Eliza cried out. Her legs weakened, and she buckled over.

  McKenzie released her. “Now, put this on.” He threw the robe at her.

  Eliza saw the door only metres from her. Mr. McKenzie no longer held her arm, and although struggling to see straight, she raced towards the opening.

  Mr. McKenzie was quicker. He caught her by the throat and squeezed his bitten-down nails deep into her skin. Eliza coughed and spluttered, her arms pushing against his until her body weakened and she had no choice but to submit.

  “Now, let’s try again.” Mr. McKenzie released her, and reached for the knife.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The works of Shakespeare had never interested James Hamilton.

  His father, on the other hand, had sworn by them, often throwing a quote into a conversation whenever the occasion arose. James much preferred Dickens, or the poetic words of Keats. And yet, from the thousands of books lining the shelves of his magnificent library, it was Shakespeare’s Henry V he most revisited. Gilt lettering shone on the dark green leather spine, and a pleasurable tingle made the hairs on the back of his neck stand. This book excited him more than he cared to admit.

  He gulped back the last of his whiskey and placed the crystal tumbler on the nearby desk. A quick tug on the cuffs of his robe, and he reached for the book. Careful not to scuff the top of the spine, he pulled the novel towards him. A click resonated behind the shelf, and he released the book, allowing a section of the case to swing inwards.

  Inside, stone steps led down into a dark passageway. Oil lamps burned from the ceiling, lighting the tunnel until they hit a pit of darkness at the very end that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Lon Chaney movie. Decades earlier, when James’ father had first made this secret part of the house known to him, he’d been apprehensive to enter. Today, he could hardly contain his eagerness.

  A stream of cold sea air pushed past him. Several tunnels led off in various directions, all leading down to the caves below. For centuries, smugglers and pirates had used the tunnels to unload tobacco, ale, and whatever else the ocean brought their way. Nowadays, any sightseers or tourists who thought about venturing into the caves from the beach were greeted with darkness and claustrophobic angles; their fear eventually outweighed their inquisitive minds, discouraging them from exploring any further than thirty feet.

  James reached for the wood, and grinned. The final piece of the Cross. He held it in his hands. Now nothing could stop him from gaining the entry to Heaven his family had sought for over eleven centuries. He entered the cold passageway and descended the uneven path. Fungus clung to damp rock, and water dripped from the arched ceiling. Beyond the darkness, a wood-panelled door sat at the far end of the corridor, behind which his daughter awaited her fate.

  Ocean air raced the tunnels, and the passage he finally chose bore the wildest gusts. The length of wood was far too long to fit the narrow hallway, so James sidestepped and pressed against the wall, his back scraping every jutted stone behind him. Away from the main tunnel, darkness beckoned. Each step led further into shadow, until the glow of light totally vanished. Now, without vision, James had no choice but to rely on memory and footwork alone. Although familiar with this route, the wet and uneven floor always proved a challenge, even with the sturdy grip of his boots. Several times he slipped, his balance only saved by the tapered and damp passageway wall. When he collided into an iron gate, it brought him to an abrupt halt.

  Years before James’ birth, his father had installed the gate as a security measure to block unwanted access to the house, the passageway once being the sole entrance for his great grandfather’s import-export business, which consisted of drugs, guns, tobacco, alcohol, and even people on occasion. However, since his father’s death over three decades ago, it had gone unused.

  James propped the timber sign against the wall and shook the ache from his shoulders. The sound of the ocean rolled through the cave. There wasn’t much further to go now and he knelt, fumbling for the loose rock somewhere near the bottom of the gate. He found it and wriggled it free. Tucked deep inside the hole, James found a small bundle of dry cloth. He unwrapped it, feeling the smoothness of a newly cut key that slipped inside the brand-new lock with ease.

  Lifting the wood back under his arm, he continued to edge forward until he squeezed out from the cave entrance to soak up the sight above him. Only a sliver of moonlight could be seen, the green halo of the eclipse almost fully covering it. Little had been mentioned of last night’s three-hour lunar eclipse, and although the green halo had experts from various news channels baffled, it had received no more than a minute or two of air time.

  James continued across the beach. Sand flicked across the toes of his shoes and into his socks, the tiny slice of moonlight leaving him little time to complete what he had to do. Worn steps hidden by foliage led up to the top of the cliff, and every steep tread challenged James’ calves until he finally reached the top. He stopped to catch his breath. On a sunny day, the ocean could be seen all the way to the horizon. Not tonight, though. Waves crashed against each other, each spray catapulting high into the air. Late gulls, confused by the early darkness and still searching for food, hovered for many minutes before swooping down and disappearing into the water. James tugged on the cuffs of his robe again, and re-corrected his twisted collar. Leaving the sea behind him, he headed for a dirt path tucked inside a mass of trees and foliage.

  It took only minutes for the path to lead towards the crumpled ruins of St Catherine’s Tower. Legend had it that centuries earlier the tower had adjoined a prominent and respected church whose sworn duty had been to protect the Cornish coastline from evil and demons. Young girls were slain in unlawful sacrifices until, in the early seventeenth century, the charred remains of its priest had been found decapitated and tied to a tree far out in the woods. Whispers soon swept the neighbouring towns that the devil himself had been at work, and townsfolk, frightened for their lives, stayed away. But years of neglect, adverse weather, and many, many wars had taken their toll. Stone by stone the church had collapsed, and what hadn’t tumbled into the sea had been taken by the ground and buried.

  Ivy swarmed one side of the ruin. James edged along the narrow path surrounding the tower’s circumference. His arms ached, as did his legs, and the ocean view no longer held his attention. The sky grew darker by the second, shadows nearly eclipsing the moon. In less than twenty minutes, he knew there would be no moon left to see. Only one entrance, a stone arch, accessed the inside of the tower. Undergrowth and weeds grew from cracks in the deteriorated frame, and tree roots pushed up through the earth and ran in bas-relief patterns on the forest floor. The uneven ground made it hard to navigate, and several times James stubbed his toe and tripped. Yet, he clung to the lump of old wood.

  Inside, the tower roof had long since gone and, as outside, wildflowers and moss grew from stone walls. The previous night’s rainfall still muddied the ground and, lying in the centre of the area, three wooden beams created what was soon to be the most perfect Cross history had ever known: the True Cross.

  James stepped forward, his boots sinking in the sludge of previously left footprints. Excitement fluttered insid
e his stomach, and he smiled. The surge of exhilaration he felt was better than any sex he’d ever known, and he eagerly lowered the wood towards the top-end of the post. As it had with the wooden beams he’d assembled before it, the nearer the two items came together, the stronger an invisible force fought to keep them apart. James took a deep breath and pressed down harder, fighting to feel timber against timber. Mud seeped across his sinking boots, and he pulled them free to gain a better grip. He tightened his hold around the wood, grit his teeth, and let out a yell of frustration.

  Only centimetres separated the wood, and James waited for the invisible force to switch movement and wrench the sign from his grip. As with the timber before it, it did just that, and a rapid flash of white light filled the small tower, the intense brightness blinding. James turned away and shielded his eyes. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he quickly wiped them away. When he finally opened his eyes again, the glare had died and his vision had blurred. For several seconds, the purest darkness known to man surrounded him. He blinked repeatedly until his spotted vision faded and gradually, stone by stone, familiarity surrounded him again. He wiped the last of the tears away. Scratches covered his palms, splinters embedded deep in his skin. He ignored all of it, his attention back on the wooden monument lying on the ground. The True Cross in its entirety, as it had been centuries ago.

  Wind whistled in through a small hole in the wall, which had once served as a window, and James paused as the air cooled his clammy body. He was so close to achieving what his ancestors before him had failed to do.