The Gretel Series: Books 1-3 (Gretel #1-3)

by Christopher Coleman

  But he was also ready for the payoff. He was ready for that feeling that had been described to him by Marcel as described to him by his wife. And he was ready to bring Petr home from that school and, more importantly, to get him out of that orchard for good. ‘We need to watch her,’ Marcel had told him, referring to his own granddaughter. ‘Gretel knows more than she knows.’ Stenson had no idea what Marcel was talking about at the time, and after his visit with the girl he understood even less. Gretel seemed like a typical teenage girl to him—mature certainly, but typical—naturally distrustful of authority, and devastated that her mother had gone missing. But ultimately Stenson had deferred and agreed to position Petr at the Klahr orchard to act as their unknowing spy.

  But it was time for all of this to be over. It was time to become untangled from all of this villainy.

  Stenson exited his cruiser and stood tall, surveying the surroundings, squinting for any sign of the old woman. “Hello,” he called out. He wanted to follow with the woman’s name but realized he didn’t know it. He wondered if even she knew it at this point. “Hello,” he called again and closed the cruiser door, deciding to take the direct route to the front of the cabin.

  Stenson imagined a flurry of scenarios as he approached the front door—an exercise that, as a System officer, was automatic to him. He didn’t conjure any images that were particularly dangerous, especially since the escaped prisoner had already been caught, but the quietness made him wary. The most likely scene, he thought, was that the woman was dead, or else severely wounded. The prisoner had escaped after all, and Stenson could only believe that she’d done so using force. Perhaps the story was even known by now, revealed to Marcel by his daughter in some gleeful rage. He suddenly wished there was a way to contact the warehouse.

  But what did it really matter? Stenson’s only real concern—besides keeping his own freedom—was the potion. The beautiful potion. He realized now that he was addicted to it without ever tasting a drop! Ha! That was madness, of course, but it was true. It was the first and last thing he thought about each day. Every day. He’d risked his career, farmed out his son, and been an accomplice to kidnapping, torture and attempted murder. What more evidence was needed to show he was a slave to it? And the more he thought of it, the worse the addiction grew.

  And now, with months of images of the brew stirring slowly in the middle of his mind, he almost couldn’t stand it. His respect for Marcel on this matter was immense; how had he had resisted it all those years? But this respect was somewhat offset by Stenson’s hatred about the fact that the old man never learned the recipe himself, that he had never taken the path of his wife. Of course, Stenson never considered that if Marcel had known the recipe, Stenson’s role in the whole plan would have been unnecessary and he would have been left out. But that was addiction.

  He forced his mind back to the top concern on the docket: The potion, and the fact that it wasn’t completed. The Source was still alive, which according to Marcel meant, at the very least, the final ingredients had not been included. Stenson was pretty sure he’d been told that piece involved the heart, but it could also have been the liver. Whichever. It was close to finished. Very close. It had to be!

  He knuckled five aggressive raps on the cabin door, the thick, solid design of the structure muffling the sound into something dull and impotent, like knocking on a tree trunk. He waited a moment and then walked a few steps to the porch-level window, bending over at the waist and cupping his hands around his eyes as he put his forehead to the glass to peer in. But he could see only vague outlines and darkness, the result of decades of built-up grime and dust.

  The System officer walked back to the door and this time turned the knob slowly. It twisted easily, ironically almost, considering the daunting mass of the door itself. He pushed the door open about three feet and was immediately assaulted by the unmistakable stench of flesh. Old and rotten. Dead. He turned back to the air of the porch and breathed deeply, instinctively lifting his uniform shirt to cover his nose and mouth while blinking out the film of water that had formed protectively over his eyes.

  “Oh my God,” he whispered.

  His mind instinctively formed a few additional, more precarious, scenarios for what might be in the cabin, and after processing them almost simultaneously, the officer pushed the door firmly with both hands so that it opened as wide as possible, offering the awful odor an undisturbed route of escape. The width of the doorway allowed Stenson to see most of the inside of the cottage from the porch, the only exceptions being the two bedrooms off to the side. And with this expansive vantage point, his conditioned brain went through the progressions. A disturbance had occurred. Violent. In the kitchen area. The escape had been through the back door (it was open). And there was something else. Something much worse.

  Stenson’s breathing became rapid and his throat tightened at the sight. Something had been shattered, something ceramic—a bowl or plate—and the dark mixture that it had contained was now splattered grotesquely across the floor.

  “Oh God, no!” The words came out in something resembling a whine, and Stenson raced into the cabin, now completely unaware of the foulness in the air. He reached the scene on the floor and knew instantly—not with magic or witchcraft (screw you, Marcel!), but with the knowing instincts of a seasoned detective—that his chance at immortality was finished.

  Oliver Stenson stood with his legs slightly apart and his head hung, his eyes closed as if saying a prayer in front of a gravesite. He opened his eyes and stared absently at the dried black puddle, making sure to keep his boots clear, just in case...just in case it was still...viable.

  With his index finger extended, he began to kneel toward the floor. He needed to touch the black sludge, to feel for himself whether there was truly power there. The tip of his finger was only inches away when a sound from the back of the cabin broke the stillness. It was rustling and quick, and Stenson’s hand instinctively repositioned itself away from the puddle to his sidearm. He knew it was unlikely to be anything too concerning, probably just an animal, lured by the sickening promise of decaying flesh. But he was cautious anyway, as he’d been trained to be in even the most seemingly benign situations, and he unholstered his weapon as he walked toward the open kitchen door.

  More noises came from the back, this time heavier and more methodical, though still quick. Stenson reconsidered his original assessment and now thought the sounds were footsteps. Human footsteps. He stood in the doorway and faced the outside, his toes just across the threshold. He gripped the gun tightly and laid it close to his chest.

  “Who’s there?” Stenson called, deepening his voice an octave. He waited a few beats for an answer, sensing attentive ears just outside the door. “My name is Officer Oliver Stenson. I’m a System officer. If there is anyone there show yourself or respond to me now.”

  “What can I do for you, Officer?”

  The words imploded the silence almost before Stenson had finished barking his commands. The voice was clear and robust, young and feminine, and for a moment Stenson felt like a child, seven or eight maybe, whose mother has just caught him sneaking sweets before dinner. It was almost comforting. But not quite. There was something else in the voice, in the tenor perhaps, something vibratory in the pitch that was ancient and unfriendly. And the words had come not from the backyard but from inside the cabin, near the front door in fact, on the opposite side of the house from where he’d heard the footsteps.

  Stenson spun toward the voice and raised his weapon. His eyes were wide and locked, not with fear exactly, but something close to it, uneasiness perhaps. Enhanced uneasiness.

  “And what is your answer to my question, officer.” The words were slightly playful and challenging. “Again, in case you weren’t ready for it the first time, the question was ‘What can I do for you?’”

  Officer Stenson lowered his sidearm and stared at the figure which stood rigid and motionless; the dusky gray robe it wore gave it the appearance of a shadow, fa
ded and strayed from its source. The eyes and cheekbones were blanketed by a large hood which draped forward several inches past the figure’s face; the only features Stenson could see with any clarity were the nose and lips. It was the old woman, he was sure of that, the general outline matched, and she had worn the same robe on the other occasion they had met. And besides, who else would it be?

  But she was different now, transformed in some way. And it wasn’t just her voice, which had lost all trace of the off-key, aged hoarseness he remembered from the few words she’d spoken that day. She was...taller, sturdier. Imposing even. Or maybe it was just that her posture was better—perfect in fact—that she appeared taller. And from what he could see of her face she was younger, judging by the smoothness of the skin on her nose and color of her lips, by at least a decade. Maybe more.

  “Were you outside?” he stammered finally. “Did you hear me call you? How did you get in here so fast?”

  “I was outside and I did hear you call,” the woman challenged in a tone conveying the question ‘and what are you going to do about it?’

  The woman stood waiting for a reply to her implied question, but Stenson stayed silent.

  “And I’m fast, Officer Stenson,” she continued, “that’s how I got in here so fast.” At this remark her eyes flickered. “Now, one more time: What can I do for you?” The old woman’s words had lost their airy edge and were now sardonic and impatient.

  “What can you do for me? Do for me?” Stenson’s voice rose considerably on the second sentence, and he opened his eyes wide, presenting that slightly crazed look signifying that a punch in the nose for asking such a question wouldn’t be unreasonable. “Perhaps you hadn’t noticed...” Stenson again wanted to address the woman by name but remembered, once again, that he didn’t know it. “The young woman who was sent to you, that was arranged for you to...blend...or whatever it is you call it, is no longer here! So maybe the first thing you can do for me is tell me why she isn’t here anymore and, instead, is sitting alive in a System holding house. And she’s there, by the way, only because I found her lying in the middle of the Interways! That’s what you can do for me!”

  The old woman stood motionless for a moment, staring at him, and though he couldn’t see her eyes, Stenson knew it was a look of hate. She then formed her lips into a pleasant smile, while at the same time raising her hands and gripping the flopping edges of the oversized hood. Stenson noted again the smooth unblemished skin, this time on her hands and wrists, as she pulled the hood back slowly, revealing the truth about what the officer had thought may have been just a trick of the shadows and sunlight. She was younger. By twenty, even thirty years, he guessed. For a moment he thought he may have been wrong about his initial certainty that this was the same person; but no, it was definitely her, the woman he’d conspired with to murder a young mother in order to use her innards for his own youthful quests. But how? The woman in front of him now looked barely older than a young mother herself. If he was being honest, he would have described her as attractive. Beautiful maybe. Her skin was taut and unblemished, and the dullness of her eyes was replaced by the alert glitter of a schoolgirl’s. And her hair. Her hair erupted from the hood of the cape in a mane of auburn silk, pouring down her shoulders and chest like diluted honey.

  Stenson opened his mouth to speak but stopped, not knowing exactly what to say. Then, suddenly, he made the obvious connection. It was the potion. And it was better than what he’d been promised. Younger. It could make him younger!

  The woman again stood still, as if showcasing herself for the man. But Stenson stared for only a moment. He knew the woman was studying him, and he’d seen her lips, barely splitting apart, revealing the stark whiteness of her newly polished enamel. The twitch of her mouth was slight, unnoticeable by the average citizen, but to Stenson it was a common tell, and it snatched him back to the moment. He took a breath and gripped his fingers tightly around his firearm, anticipating action. He was in that stage of an encounter—he’d been there dozens of times, he figured—when a perpetrator is weighing the options of whether to flee or attack, and by what means he’ll carry out the decision. In almost every other case, Officer Stenson would have guessed correctly as to which move this perp was going to make. Given the two choices, a child would have guessed the same. First of all this was a woman in front of him, and an older woman at that (though not as old as she used to be). And, ostensibly, she was unarmed, as well as uniquely familiar with the environment having lived there for what, a hundred years? This suspect was no threat to him. This suspect was a runner (‘and I’m fast, Officer Stenson, that’s how I got here so fast’). It was System Work 101.

  These calculations were processed in the mind of Officer Stenson automatically, only seconds before the witch glided across the room, as if carried from behind by a blast of sudden wind, and slammed against the torso of The System officer.

  She’s flying! he thought, like a real witch. It was the last conscious thought of Officer Stenson’s life, just before the enormous fingernails of the woman entered his gut below the ribcage, piercing his stomach and severing his large intestine. With her other hand she gripped the back of his head and pulled it close, like a lover overcome by passion. But instead of a kiss, the woman exposed her fangs, newly filed and razor sharp, and tore out the left side of her victim’s neck with the ease of an African lion. She clung tightly to the man, her mouth open in anticipation of a struggle, but the attack had left the officer instantly paralyzed.

  She was stronger now, much stronger, and it would take some time to learn the appropriate effort needed to kill her prey in the future. But she had time now. So much time.

  She spat the hunk of flesh toward the sink and discarded the body of Officer Oliver Stenson to the floor with the care of sock tossed to a hamper. His skull popped against the countertop on the way down before joining the rest of his body in a puddle of bodily fluids—a mixture that included both his and those of the woman he’d helped capture. His chest lurched in its last few attempts to get oxygen to his lungs, but his mouth hung agape, frozen, unable to suck any air past the shroud of blood and saliva that had built up on his tongue and in his cheeks. And with his windpipe shredded, the air would have never made it anyway.

  “You’re rather lucky,” the old woman said absently, “in another life I would have kept you to die much slower.”

  WITH BLOOD DRIPPING from her chin, the woman walked outside through the back door and looked to the place where she’d been digging. Interruptions! She’d been expecting the officer of course, especially since the girl’s escape, but she had work to do; there was no time for distractions. She needed to recapture her prisoner, somehow keep her alive and remake the potion. It would take time, certainly, and there was no guarantee the prey would survive the ordeal again. But if she didn’t, all was not lost. There were others. Others who were nearby with perfection in their blood. Other Aulwurms.

  The cabin, however, was no longer safe. If only she’d sampled the mixture earlier! She’d have her prisoner without this hassle! But she knew that wasn’t completely true either. Even if she still controlled the girl, the old woman knew the extorting thieves would be coming. The mixture was overdue: she could recall the schedule perfectly now in her revived brain. And it was ‘Marcel.’ Yes, that was his name. That was the man who had sent the lovely Source to her, and she reveled in the purity of this truth. But it was she alone who could make the brew. It was she alone with the knowledge of the recipe. Not them!

  And things took time. There was no patience in this modern world; everyone needed things now. And this System officer, Stenson, he seemed particularly hasty. She could see in the way he leaped for the spilled potion that he’d grown addicted to the idea of it. To the idea of immortality. It was a pattern she’d seen dozens of times in her past. No temperament to handle the wait. And as she’d also witnessed, the pursuit of the broth had caused his early expiration, an irony never lost on her.

  But Stenson’s deat
h was unimportant. Nothing more than a mess to clean. Her aims were different now. She’d found the true serum. The one she’d heard whispered of in the Old Lands by her ancestors. The myth sought by all. She could stay young. Forever. She was strong again, of mind and body. And Life. She would reconnect with It. Control It as she once had when she was young and zealous.

  She walked back to the kitchen and stood over the twisted body of Officer Stenson, which now lay still, dead. The witch’s feet were planted irreverently in the remaining mixture on the floor, and she almost chuckled at the locked expression of fear and pain on the officer’s face. She kicked the left side of his body and heard the sound she was listening for—the jingle of keys—in his right pocket. She reached over and pulled the ring of keys free, and then dangled them in front of her face, smiling at the confidence she felt inside of her. It was almost impossible to believe what she was considering—no, not considering, what she was going to do. The world now seemed a platter to her, a buffet of opportunity and treasure. Every second in this cabin now seemed a waste of the eternal time she now possessed. If even yesterday she’d been granted this opportunity, the opportunity to drive off in this machine, she would have certainly hidden from it, afraid of the technology she’d shunned for so long. She’d driven a car in the past, in the days before secrecy and privacy had taken over her life, but it had been years, and she’d certainly never controlled anything like the monster parked outside. Yes, her old self would have spent days, weeks maybe, figuring out some method to dispose of the car without ever starting the engine or even getting inside. But now the machine excited her and the thought of driving released a burst of saliva across her tongue. The energy under her. The power and speed at her control. And, most importantly, the utility of the thing. There were more sources to find before this day ended, and the car would help her find them.