Ameena sat up, cursing, and wiped away foolish, hot tears in irritation. Her fingers were covered with heavy black eye makeup and she rubbed them on her black jumper. Stupid cow. What was the point in crying over something that was long gone?
Her parents had moved her to France when she was just a baby, only to rip her away again when she was eleven, when their organic farm business failed and the only thing to do was return to the real world and get proper jobs. They had sold all of the land but still owned the cottage; it was in too bad a state of repair, too small, too remote for even the staunchest of DIY enthusiasts. By now it was probably a pile of rubble.
They had never again returned, not even for holidays, though she’d begged and pleaded. Her parents had been too broken-hearted over the loss of their dream to ever face it again, though. They never seemed to notice that Ameena’s dreams had been stolen, too.
She tapped the ash into an old saucer on the side table and pulled out the tatty photos, even though she knew it was stupid. Her eyes drank in the sight of the sunshine and blue skies, lush green fields and the cheeky smile of the little girl with dark pigtails who was waving happily at the camera, blissfully ignorant of what was coming. The move to a frenetic inner city school where one naive, county girl who couldn’t write a word of English, was swallowed up and spat out again, tougher, harder ... and with her eyes wide open.
“Fuck it.”
Ameena stubbed out her cigarette and got to her feet, grabbing the backpack that was stowed on top of her wardrobe. Placing the photos carefully in the pocket, she began pulling out drawers and stuffing clothes in, ramming them down as hard as she could. She finished off with a few essentials including her phone, a small speaker and headphones.
Standing in the middle of her flat, she looked around, trying to think if there was anything she would regret leaving, any single positive thing about her life here that she would regret, and couldn’t find even one. She turned then, hauling the backpack over her shoulders and slamming the door on the hideous flat without a second glance. At the nearest cash-point, she cleared every penny from her pitiful savings and then, with a glimmer of hope burning in her chest, she headed for Victoria Station.
***
The taxi driver swivelled round in his seat, frowning at her and looking every bit as anxious as Ameena felt. “Vous êtes sûr?” he queried.
No. I’m not sure, Ameena muttered inwardly, biting her lip.
She swallowed and peered out into the darkness at the cottage illuminated in the headlights of the taxi. The years had not been kind. Good sense told her to scream no out loud and get the fellow to turn around and take her back to the station. No, she wasn’t sure, but what else was there for her? Her usual pigheadedness and stupidity forced her on, making her nod her head despite her fears.
“Oui, quite sure.”
She handed over a horrific amount of Euros, ignoring the pitiful amount that remained in her purse, and pushed open the door. A gust of wind snatched it from her and almost ripped it from the car as lightening cracked across the sky. Good omens weren’t exactly piling down on her. With a sinking heart, as she ran to the front door and searched for the big smooth stone they had always left the key under. With a little surge of triumph she grasped it and waved it at the driver who rolled his eyes, clearly thinking she had taken leave of her senses as he hauled her backpack out of the taxi.
“There is a lovely little Chambre d’hote,” he said as he walked over to the cottage with it, a concerned and fatherly light in his eyes. “It’s just a couple of miles away, very reasonable prices,” he added, looking at the crumbling building behind her with obvious distaste.
“Non, merci,” Ameena replied, knowing her savings would be gone in no time no matter how reasonable it was. “I’ll be fine. Thank you anyway.”
He gave a shrug, shaking his head at the mad English woman, and ran back to his cab as the rain began to pelt down in earnest. Ameena turned the key in the lock before she lost his headlights and pushed hard as the door protested but swung open.
The familiar scent of old wood smoke hit her first, and for a moment her spirits lifted. Scrabbling in the darkness she made her way across from the front door, cursing as she hit her shin on a chair, and fumbled around until she found the mains electric switch. At least her memories of the place were accurate, she thought with a smile. She flicked the switch and ... nothing happened. Of course nothing happened, you moron, you need to pay bills to get electricity.
Cursing her own idiocy, she wondered if she had just made the biggest mistake in a life time already scattered with a truly impressive amount of them. The sound of the taxi pulling away reached her ears over howling wind and rain outside and she tried to push away a shudder of misgiving. Light. She needed light, and warmth. It would look much better once it wasn’t so dark and cold. Ameena dug around in her bag until she found her lighter, and then made her way to the drawer where they had always kept emergency candles in case of the frequent power-cuts. Sighing with relief, she found a good supply and began to light them. Sadly, the results didn’t make her feel any better.
“Oh crap.”
Everything was tattered, dusty, shabby and horribly depressing. To her relief, there was one bright spot as she discovered there was still plenty of wood stacked up around the fireplace. The thought of a blazing fire was appealing and she shivered as the chill of the room enveloped her, a damp, musty smell now discernible over the smoky scent she had first noticed. First things first, then. Ameena advanced on the fireplace with the most positive attitude she could muster in the circumstances. The cheery glow of a good fire would make her feel better for sure.
The wood was good and dry, and within a very short time a merry blaze was crackling as she shut the doors of the log burner. Mercifully, the chimney seemed to be clear, and despite a little smoke, it had lit with no effort. Not to worry, though, there were plenty of other problems waiting for her attention. She regarded the rest of the place with mounting anxiety, running her hands through her short hair and attempting to quell the rising panic that was making her chest feel tight.
“Well ... perhaps it will look better in daylight?” she muttered, not feeling much hope on the subject. Deciding she may as well get it over with, she was about to investigate the bedrooms, when there was a heavy crash against the front door. She screamed and almost dropped the candle as every horror film she’d ever seen flooded back to her with dreadful clarity. The sound came again and she almost dropped the candle, except this time it was a series of heavy thumps.
“Qui est là?” she demanded, trying to make her voice deep and forceful and wondering if it was just the taxi driver come back to change her mind? If not, she prayed that she’d sounded big and intimidating. For a ridiculous moment, she considered trying to imitate a Rottweiler and then she heard a voice.
“Help.” Ameena inched closer, her ears straining to listen. As she moved close enough to press her ear to the wood, there was an even heavier thud that sounded like a body falling and made her shriek again, and then everything went quiet.
With shaking hands, and wondering if she had completely lost her mind, Ameena slid back the bolt and turned the key and the door flew inwards ... as a body landed at her feet.
She leapt back with a scream of terror, eyes darting outside to see if anyone else was around. The storm was lashing at the countryside, though, the wind howling and pulling at the closed shutters, the trees swaying in a dramatic fashion. No one in their right mind would be out in this weather, a fact which didn’t reassure her in the slightest as she stared at the body at her feet.
“Oh my God!” Ameena gasped, stepping closer and raising the candle as she prayed it was just a trick of the light. No, she wasn’t that lucky. For starters, the man was dressed in the most bizarre fashion. But as if that wasn’t enough, blood, thick and dark and sticky, was seeping through the clothes at his shoulder. His breathing was fast and he appeared to be unconscious.
Setting the cand
le beside him, out of the worst of the draft, she crouched down to take a better look. Pulling back his coat and shirt she found a neat bullet wound.
“Shit!” she cursed, as her pulse began to race.
He’d been shot, and if he’d been shot, the person who had shot him would likely be looking for him. For a moment, she just considered pushing him back out in the rain and shutting the door, but knew she didn’t have the heart. Maybe he’d asked for that bullet and gotten what he deserved, or he maybe he hadn’t. Either way, she had become a nurse for a reason, and she couldn’t in all conscience leave him to his fate.
Moving quickly, she got to her feet and grabbed hold of him under the arms. Using every ounce of strength she possessed, she heaved and slid on the dirty wood floor, landing on her backside with a thud. “Bloody hell, how much do you weigh?” she muttered, before hauling herself to her feet and trying again. This time he did move, but only a couple of inches. Taking a deep breath she heaved with all her might and he cried out in pain, stirring from his unconsciousness just long enough to pass out again.
“Look, I’m sorry but I didn’t bloody shoot you!” she snapped, as her arms and back protested under the strain. With one last heave, she pulled his boots clear of the door and ran to slam it, sliding the bolt firmly back into place. At least with all the shutters still closed, the house should look as dilapidated and abandoned as it was. With shaking hands, she pulled out her phone to call the police, an ambulance, and the bloody armed forces if necessary, only to find she had no signal. With a wail of outrage, she flung the phone into her backpack. Of course not, she thought, the words savage, that would be far too bloody helpful!
Running her hands through her hair, she regarded the man with despair. Now what? She had no supplies, no water or electricity. Oh shit, she’d have to clean the wound. Water? There was a well outside, she remembered, thanking heaven for small mercies. The water had always been clean and sweet. She’d missed the taste of it, but had rather hoped to discover it again under simpler circumstances.
Cursing, she snatched up her phone, stuffing it in her back pocket, and opened the door again, looking out into the darkness of the raging storm with her heart pounding in her ears.
“Please don’t shoot me,” she muttered, before taking a deep breath and running in the general direction she remembered the well. Thick, wet grass wrapped around her jeans, brambles catching her as she went, but finally she made it. The mechanism was rusted and hauling the bucket up no easy task, but somehow she managed it. Unhooking the bucket, she set it down and tried her phone again, walking around in the pouring rain as her eyes darted back and forth, scanning the darkness. Not a single bar lit despite her desperate pleas, and so she hurried back to the cottage, carrying the bucket and cursing all the way.
Unfortunately, her hopes that the man was just a figment of her stressed imagination were proved unfounded as his very solid presence was still taking up most of the kitchen floor.
By now, she was soaked to the bone, shivering violently, and extremely unhappy, to put it mildly. Muttering curses through chattering teeth, she moved about the kitchen and lit more candles so that she could give his wound a closer inspection.
Getting to her knees beside him, she discovered that it was a clean shot, through and through, as she could see the exit wound and it appeared to have missed anything vital. As long as it was kept clean, she thought it should heal with no problem. Although it must be painful, she wondered if he was hurt anywhere else, as she couldn't see why he would be unconscious. She placed her hand on his head, and then moved her fingers through his hair. He did seem rather hot, but there no obvious signs of any trauma. Discounting a head injury for the moment, she undid his shirt, wondering again as she did so at his peculiar outfit. His coat fell open as she worked and she squealed as not only an ancient looking pistol but also a sword was revealed. The pistol was obviously one of a pair, as the other holster was empty.
Ameena gaped in astonishment, wondering if there was any chance she could wake up now. Then she groaned and slapped her forehead, breathing out in relief, and chuckling as the truth of what must have happened to him dawned on her. He must be one of those weirdos who went round re-enacting ancient battles. Probably one of his nutty friends had used real shot and he'd come off the worse for it.
Oh thank the Lord.
She breathed out a sigh of relief. At least she didn’t need to worry about being murdered in her bed, after all. Well, assuming this place had a bed. She still hadn’t had a chance to see what had been left.
Returning her attention to the problem at hand, she continued inspecting him for injuries. Except her train of thought ground to a shrieking halt as the open shirt revealed a beautifully sculpted chest … and incredible abs … and a trail of dark hair that disappeared under his belt. Dragging her eyes reluctantly back up, she held the candle higher to take a look at his face. Dark stubble highlighted a strong jawline. Thick black lashes that would have been the envy of any woman fluttered as he groaned and shifted. There was a large gold hoop earring in one ear and a scarf around his neck that gave him a rather rakish air, like a pirate or a highwayman, she thought, and then snorted at her own foolishness. For all she knew he could be an escaped lunatic.
Ameena raised her eyebrows as she stared at his beautiful face again; well, nutter or not, he was certainly easy on the eye. She frowned, though, as she saw how heavily he was sweating now. Trying to retain her professional approach, she continued to check him over for broken bones and injury, but found nothing but hard muscle. With effort, she managed to strip off his jacket and shirt, and proceeded to shred the fine material of the shirt into strips. With this, she improvised bandages while she boiled some water to clean the wound.
As she waited for the water to boil, she searched for the small first aid kit that she had packed in her bag. She’d had too many misadventures of her own to ever go far without one. She had discovered to her cost that it paid to be prepared for trouble, as, in her experience, it inevitably found her.
Ten minutes later, and the wound was washed but still bleeding more than she was happy with. Ameena glared at the wounded man with a frown, cursing him and his stupidity. She didn’t have a needle and thread, and so all she could do was disinfect it. She had a bottle of Jack Daniels stashed in her bag, so that would have to do. Thank God he was unconscious.
The man shifted, and she turned back to him, but he was muttering nothing that she could understand. She wet some of his remaining shirt and used it to wipe his face. He was really feverish now and very pale, which was strange and worrying. The wound shouldn’t cause him this kind of fever. In desperation, she looked at her phone again and walked up and down, trying to see if she could find a signal. Nothing. Absolutely, bloody nothing. A clap of thunder exploded over the house, rattling the glass and scaring her so badly she nearly dropped the phone.
Staring down at the body of a strange man amongst the wreckage of her own long lost past, Ameena felt the hopelessness of the situation pressing down on her. She sat down on one of the remaining chairs and put her head in her hands.
“Well, Ameena, you’ve really excelled yourself this time,” she muttered.
In a lifetime of minor catastrophes and reckless decisions, this one really took the biscuit.
Chapter 2
Ameena poked at the fire; her patient might be sweating but she was freezing cold and shivering. The shock and the chill damp of the night had taken its toll and she felt miserable and shaky. The wound was still seeping blood at an alarming rate, which was worrying her more than she cared to admit. Explaining how she’d arrived in France and landed a corpse the same day was not a story she had any desire to explain to the Gendarmes. She had no idea when she’d be able to get help here, as she knew she was a good long walk from anything resembling civilisation. He’d lost a worrying amount of blood already, though. Getting to her feet, she stood looking at him, wondering how such a handsome fellow had got himself in such a bizarre fix.
She was about to set down the poker and dig out the bottle of whisky when his eyes flickered open. They looked from her to the glowing poker she held, widened in horror, and then he moved, with more speed than she could have credited for an injured man. Ameena exclaimed in shock, which seemed to unnerve him further, and he ended up huddled in the corner of the room, crouched with his back to the wall, eyes fevered and wild, and looking at her like she’d planned to murder him.
“Um, hi,” she said, holding the poker to one side and not really knowing what the hell else to say.
***
Bram’s heart was thundering in his chest, his shoulder burned and ached with an intensity that was making him want to throw up, and he was hot, like his blood was burning in his veins. He had woken to find the strange woman leaning over him and it had been a bewildering sight. Sharp grey eyes, heavily made up in black, short spiky black hair with a bright blue fringe that almost covered one eye, and a small metal ring glinting in her nose, with another little pointed stud in her eyebrow. He’d never seen a woman like this one before in his whole life. Combined with the red hot poker and the fierce look on her face, Bram could come to only one conclusion ... she was a witch!
“What do you want with me?” he demanded, finding his throat hoarse and dry.
The young witch’s mouth dropped open. “I don’t want anything with you, freak!” she snapped at him, grey eyes flashing with irritation. She took a step closer, pointing at him with the glowing end of a poker. “You’re the one that landed on my doorstep with a bullet wound in your shoulder. I was just trying to help, but the door is that way ... be my guest, bleed to death if you want to.” The witch rammed the poker back in the fire and stood glaring at him, folding her arms and staring at him with such fury that he was quite taken aback.
The Darkest Night Page 2