The Sacrifice

by Donna Collins

  He glanced back at McKenzie. Gone was the thug prepared to do anything for his diabolical employer. Now all that remained was a weak and dying man full of so much fear and dread at the anticipation of what was going to happen, he’d lost control of his bladder. Roman wanted to smile, to believe the man before him deserved this comeuppance, but the truth was, Roman didn’t truly believe it. He just knew that Eliza didn’t deserve it more.

  Roman moved his other hand to McKenzie’s chest, his broken arm shaking under the movement. Around him the tower blurred, and lightheadedness took over. A blue light emanated from his hand and warmed his palm, its light glowing brighter and brighter until it formed the perfect sphere. McKenzie’s body went as rigid as an ironing board. His face paled and shadows darkened his aging skin. Faint whispers begged for mercy, but Roman closed his eyes.

  Still, Eliza remained motionless; her struggle would come soon enough, when the discomfort hit. Roman blocked the thoughts from his mind and drew a deep breath. This was going to hurt all three of them.

  He swallowed, preparing himself for the agonising pain that would certainly consume his broken arm, and punched his fist into McKenzie’s chest. McKenzie’s gurgled cries confirmed he was inside, and only then did Roman reopen his eyes. No broken skin and no blood shed, and when Roman located and clasped the man’s heart, he found it surprisingly warm and beating strong. Roman tightened his fist and twisted. McKenzie’s arms shook and his bloodshot eyes bulged.

  Roman turned to Eliza. He wanted to promise her it wouldn’t be painful, but the truth was it was going to hurt like hell. He wanted to apologise for the pain, but the agony he was about to inflict was unforgivable. Gently, slowly, he pressed his hand against her chest, his fingertips soaking in the softness of her skin until they were inside her. The holes that pierced her hairline vanished. Bruises faded beneath blood-dried skin. Roman felt everything, all the pain Eliza had suffered before she died: every kick, every punch, every lash of the whip. He waited for her to gasp the first breath of her next life cycle, which she did with a short intake of air. Her eyes widened and she cried out as he wrapped his fingers around her heart, and immediately her arms pushed and clawed at him. Her body arched and contorted, and she tried to roll away. Behind him, he heard loose stones rattle from the walls – her doing, not his. The dagger catapulted towards him and he ducked from its path, hearing it smash into the opposite wall.

  “Eliza. Stop.” Roman pressed harder, holding her in place. Pain boiled inside his head, and the tower darkened from his sight until he saw nothing but a blue glow explode from McKenzie’s body and cross to Eliza’s.

  Eliza screamed, and her body thrashed beneath him. The pain inside Roman’s head boiled hotter than a crematorium furnace, and he bit down, the taste of his own blood filling his mouth. Now rage consumed him, and he squeezed McKenzie’s heart until he felt it harden like a rock. Spasms dominated the whole of the man’s body, and he writhed uncontrollably until the last of his dying screams gurgled from his throat and Roman felt his heart crush into powder and syphon between his fingers. He withdrew his hand and stared at McKenzie. Pain contorted his face. His open eyes stared directly towards the sky, confusion and fear still clouding them. He was dead.

  Eliza’s eyes, however, were closed, and her motionless body didn’t move, not even when Roman slipped his hand from her. He collapsed back on his arse, watching her chest rise and fall with each shallow breath. He watched nearly two dozen of them before she finally moved and sat up. She peered down towards her chest and trailed her fingertips across the red imprint of Roman’s hand. When she finally raised her head and glanced around the tower, it was as though she were seeing it for the first time.

  Roman cradled his broken arm and waited for her search to reach him. It located McKenzie first. A brief frown lightly creased the ridge of her nose, and the faintest of smiles flickered in the corners of her mouth. An oddity Roman didn’t expect from her. Finally, she looked away, continuing to scan the area until she saw him sitting, breathless, only metres away from her.

  Shock replaced the smile. She scampered away to the far wall and stared at him. A green tint lightened her usually dark-brown eyes, and then it was gone. In the flash of an eye, the worrying look fell from her face. Her eyes darkened to their normal colour, and she placed her hand on her chest once again. “Is he dead?”

  Roman looked at McKenzie, his body riddled with pain and already stiffening.

  “That thing you did to him...to me. Is that what killed him?”

  Roman nodded.

  “Am I going to die as well?”

  “No. I did it to save you.”

  “I feel different.”

  “Trust me, you are the same as you were before.” Roman clawed himself to his feet.

  Now she was scanning the tower again, this time with more urgency. “Where’s Billy?”

  Roman clenched his jaw. He glanced at the patch of dirt where Billy had vanished into the dark light. Eventually he’d have to tell her what happened, but not right now. “We need to go.”

  “Not until you tell me where my brother is.”

  Roman limped towards the tower entrance. He’d done what he needed to do, and now he needed to get as far from here as he could. He needed to hide once again.

  “Where are you going? Is my brother alright?” Eliza was on her feet. She blocked his path.

  Roman cradled his broken arm to his chest. He thought about lying and telling her what she wanted to hear. Instead, he sidestepped her and headed through the doorway. “Billy’s dead.”

  Behind him, he heard her muffled sobs. He didn’t want to turn around. If he did, he’d see her gazing at him with that pleading look upon her face, and he’d crumble. Fuck. Roman turned to face her.

  Moonlight rolled across the stone walls like a morning mist, its blue haze sucking away what little colour remained in her face. Shadows darkened beneath her eyes and hollowed out her cheeks. The robe no longer covered her, exposing her semi-naked body. Her whole demeanour took on that of a haunted skeleton.

  She said nothing, her brown eyes glistening behind her tears.

  Roman forced his gaze from her. He grabbed the robe from the floor and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Eliza, I need to go. Some people…they’re coming for me—”

  She stared at him, acknowledging his words with a slight nod. Then she collapsed.

  Roman caught her and lowered her to the floor. He couldn’t leave her, but he couldn’t stay either. Every second that ticked by was one less second he put between himself and Purgatory.

  He hugged her shaking body, the strawberry scent still lingering in her hair even after all she’d been through. Then he released her and got to his feet once more.

  He hobbled through the tower entrance, and this time he didn’t look back.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  SATURDAY

  The Chamber, Purgatory

  Not even the lad’s screams could cover the sound of his arms being dislocated from his shoulders.

  The Sheriff cranked the handle again. The already-taut rope pulled further, and the gurgled cries the Sheriff loved to hear spat from the young lad’s throat.

  Shame. The boy passed out before his pelvis had a chance to splinter apart.

  The Sheriff slapped him across the face. The lad’s head just whipped from left to right, then lulled against his dislodged shoulder. He wasn’t going to give anything more tonight – and that infuriated the Sheriff. He hadn’t frequented this chamber in little over six months. His involvement with the rack had been even longer than that. And now the eagerly anticipated build-up of brutalising this peasant for the best part of the night left him feeling deflated and unfulfilled. He’d have to choose his next victim more carefully, and make him pay in spades.


  Behind him, he heard one of his aids approach.

  The Sheriff glanced once more at the lad lying stretched on the rack, his head of orange hair hardly discernible beneath the clotted blood, his skin lacerated and shredded from the whipping the Sheriff had administered earlier that afternoon. It would be an age before the Sheriff’s main duties of overseeing these torture chambers would allow him the time to come down and indulge again.

  Damn it. Humans just weren’t as strong as they used to be.

  The aid nervously cleared his throat.

  The Sheriff sighed. “You’d better have something worthy to report.”

  “Sir, we’ve located prisoner 4429.”

  The Sheriff lost interest in the red-haired lad. He spun towards the aid, unconcerned if his sudden elation and sadistic delight were obvious. “It’s about time. Where is he?”

  “England. South”

  “Be more specific.”

  “Somewhere around the Cornwall area.”

  Disappointment momentarily quenched the Sheriff’s joy. He inhaled. Held it. Drummed his long fingernails against his leg. Exhaled. “I can’t fetch him from somewhere. I need an exact location.”

  “I’ll get one for you straight away.”

  “I don’t want you to get it – I want to you to already have it before you come here and disturb me.” The Sheriff’s fingers paused drumming. He glanced at the pathetic red-haired boy and thought back to better times, when his prisoners could handle hours of torture before they finally died. He grabbed the rack handle and twisted. He didn’t stop until the young lad’s body completely severed apart. The bloody sight failed to calm the building rage he felt. He noticed the aid. “You’re still standing there, which would suggest to me that you now have the location.”

  The aid’s eyes widened with fear. He cleared his throat. “No.”

  “Then why are you standing there?”

  “I have the men ready to move upon your command.”

  “Without a location?”

  “I’ll get it now, Sir.” He bowed. Turned. Scampered to the doorway.

  “And tell the men to stand down. I will do this capture myself.”

  “But, Sir, the support of your men is a requirement.”

  The Sheriff reached the aid in two long strides. He slapped him across the face. Watched the disfigured skin redden almost immediately. “Your job is not to preach the law. Your job is to get me the exact location before I slaughter you.”

  The aid bowed again. He backed away as quickly as he could, and made haste. The Sheriff waited until his scampering footsteps disappeared down the passageway. Then he sighed. He was surrounded by nothing but incompetent fools.

  He turned his thoughts to prisoner 4429. The same sadistic delight returned. It would do him good returning the escapee back to Purgatory. He had, after all, been one of the Sheriff’s unapologetic pleasures back in the day. Not his most favourite victim, mind you, but the man could suck up pain like nobody else. It would be a pleasure to hunt him down and bring him back to the fold.

  It would be just like the good old days.

  Having brought Eliza back from the dead, Roman’s unsanctioned resurrection has revealed his whereabouts to the same people he has spent a lifetime hiding from. Now he needs to get as far away from the Hamilton mansion as he can. Alone.

  The hourglass has turned and time is slipping away, but Roman can sense that things around him are not as they should be. Now he has a decision to make. Does he take off before his hunters arrive – keeping Eliza from harm but leaving her to deal with the aftermath of the night before? Or does he take her with him and pull her into further danger that could ultimately cost her her life?

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  Donna Collins was born at home in Romford, Essex, England. Five minutes later, she was one-hundred-per cent a bookworm. Her favourite novel, Enid Blyton's The Children of Cherry Tree Farm, was a gift from her parents and now the most worn book on her bookshelf.

  It was this book, and her love for 70's and 80's TV shows such as Hart to Hart, Charlie’s Angels, Hunter, and Dempsey and Makepeace, that lured Donna to the dark side of mystery and thriller writing. Since then, Donna has racked up many favourite authors, including Paula Gosling (A Running Duck is the second most worn book on her bookshelf), Jonathan Kellerman, Patricia Cornwell, and A.J. Quinnell.

  Although Donna loves to write, she also loves crime - and her career proves it. Having founded her school magazine, her professional career includes not only working at OK! Magazine but also for Essex Police, Ormiston Prison Services, and Essex Offender Services. With publishing credits for freelance and commissioned magazine articles under her belt, Donna has now turned her attention and imagination to what she is best at – storytelling.

  In her spare time (what spare time?), Donna loves anything scary that will get her adrenaline pumping, including storm chasing, fright nights, zombie-infested shopping malls, and séance panic rooms - with her all-time goal involving the open sea, a cage, and a whole heap of great white sharks. Donna also proudly boasts finishing the 2010 London Marathon, but you'll have to ask nicely if you want her to tell you where she was placed and who overtook her.

  The HUNTED series is Donna's first trilogy.