“I don’t believe you. You couldn’t have the real thing, so you settled for me, Cameron’s doppelgänger. I’m packaged the same as him, but come with a different personality.”
“Can’t you fucking hear yourself?” I cut across him with a glare.
I can see how much this is tearing Willow apart, and I’m sick of watching him lay into her. Whatever her initial intentions may have been at the start of their relationship, she must have developed true feelings for him at some point. Dating him to get back at me is one thing, but agreeing to tie herself to him until death do they part is another entirely. Right now, he’s stomping all over her, and it’s pretty damn obvious he no longer gives a shit. This anger of his has been brewing for some time, borne of his own insecurity and inability to father children with her. It goes beyond the past several weeks since the anniversary party. He’s about to lose his shit completely, and we’re both in danger of suffering the consequences of his rage.
Ciaran lunges at me, and I sidestep, easily dodging his fists. We had so many fights growing up—I know his tactics. He allows himself to be led by fury, but I’m far more calculating. He swings for me again, and ducking under his outstretched arm, I land a blow to his stomach, momentarily winding him. He doubles over, gasping for breath.
“Stop, Ciaran. You can’t win this fight,” I tell him, shaking my head as he straightens, seemingly determined to continue.
I barely manage to dodge his next attempt to hit me, but years of alcohol abuse have weakened him, and he’s not as fast or nimble as he used to be.
“Willow, get out!” I order.
She doesn’t need to see this, and her being here only gives him another, weaker target.
Ciaran whirls around to face her and I throw another punch, clipping his jaw and knocking him off balance. He staggers and falls, but he manages to grab onto the coffee table before hitting the floor. My concern for Willow as she darts around the room, dangerously close to our altercation, momentarily distracts me, and Ciaran uses the opportunity to throw himself at me, taking us both to the floor.
I grunt as my back hits the wooden flooring, and I barely manage to keep my head from connecting with it. Ciaran is on top of me, and though he finally has an advantage, I’m not about to let him beat me. My punch to his face is weaker from this position, but it still stuns him enough for me to roll over, simultaneously dislodging him and freeing myself.
We both get to our feet, panting, and I scowl when I see Willow is still in the room with us, nervously watching what’s unfolding between me and Ciaran. His gaze follows mine, and when he sees her standing there, his eyes narrow. I spot his intent before he even begins to move and I tackle him, sending us both crashing into the glass coffee table. The sound of breaking glass mixes with our heavy breaths, and I get to my feet with a groan.
“I concede. Enough,” he gasps, and I nod, stepping away from the pile of broken glass that once resembled a table.
I may not have taken many direct hits, but I’m still slightly winded. I turn toward Willow, but she’s no longer standing in the doorway. A sharp blow to the side of my head makes my ears ring and my vision blur. The fucker just sucker punched me.
“You think you’re so much better than me. You always have. You were too fucking scared to take what you wanted, but I wasn’t. You threw away the best girl you ever had, but then you couldn’t fucking stand it when I took your broken toy and kept it, could you?” Ciaran spits out.
Still staggering and trying to regain my balance, Ciaran punches me again, this time in the face. My lip splits and blood leaks down my chin. I straighten up just as his fist comes flying at me once more, but it doesn’t connect.
“Stop it!” Willow shrieks as she hurls herself at Ciaran, sending him careening backward into the mess of broken glass and wood. An awful gurgling noise fills the air, and I look down in horror at Ciaran, who is lying on the floor with a part of the wooden frame protruding from his stomach.
Pulling out my phone, I dial 911 and call for an ambulance. However, I don’t think they’ll make it in time to save him. Not with the amount of blood seeping out from around the wooden shard impaling him and dripping from the corners of his mouth. Willow is sobbing in my arms, trying to get to him, but I hold her tightly, keeping her with me.
“Don’t touch him. You could make it worse. If you pull that out, you could do more damage to him. The paramedics will be here soon. Go upstairs, get cleaned up. I’ll stay with him.”
Willow shakes her head, refusing to leave the room, no matter how hard I try to convince her to go.
Sirens pierce the air, smothering the sound of my brother dying in front of us. We had our rivalries, and we had our differences, but I never expected our relationship to come to such a violent end…with me holding his broken wife while my brother bleeds out in their living room.
Epilogue
Willow
It’s been six months since Ciaran died. I’ve still not really come to terms with it, or the fact that Cameron is now living with me, and in a few months, I’ll be giving birth to our little girl. It’s all been so overwhelming, and the addition of pregnancy hormones on top hasn’t helped my shaky emotional state.
I’m happier, but I still miss Ciaran at times. Do we ever get over the ones we once loved, even if they abused us, or do they linger like the familiar, faint scent of those who’ve long since passed? I loved him, and every day I regret what happened to us. Cameron has been helping me, giving me space when I need it and comforting me when I wake up crying, remembering how Ciaran died and what led him there.
Cameron saved me from a loveless and abusive marriage to his brother—a man who hurt me, left bruises on my skin, and an emptiness in my heart. He was headed on a path to self destruction and was dragging me along with him. I survived, but a small part of me still perished with him.
Sometimes the memories hit me hard when I’m least expecting it. I start seeing Ciaran instead of Cameron, and I have to remind myself that Cam isn’t like his brother. There are some things I can’t do with him, things that remind me so vividly of Ciaran that they trigger panic attacks, but we’re working on it. When my anxiety levels rise, he simply holds me close, talking me through it until I can breathe again.
I don’t think there are any good guys or bad guys in our story. We were all capable of both, but with hearts like ours, that feel everything so intensely, it’s difficult not to get swept up in the emotional tide.
I’m adjusting, slowly but surely, to my newfound freedom from the weight on my shoulders I didn’t quite comprehend. Cam is right there with me, sharing the load instead of shedding it all and leaving it for me to carry, like he once did.
I roll over in bed to look at him, and rubbing a hand over my belly I remember how Cam looked when he saw our little one on the screen for the first time, the fierce love and devotion evident in his eyes.
Everyone always complains how much they hate their in-laws—well, I married mine.
About Ally Vance
Ally is an International Bestselling Author who writes in the Dark Romance & Horror genres. Ally lives in Kent, in the United Kingdom with her husband, stepson, and two cats.
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Other Books By Ally Vance
Evelina: Blaire’s World
Fractured Darkness
Petals of Discontent (A Death Blooms World Novella)
The Scent of Wolves
Jason Hes
Prologue
For days now, a wolf has prowled through our township every night, and every night another life has been claimed.
It began with the blacksmith's girl who went missing down by Black Tar Creek. My neighbours assumed she went there to wash her clothes. She was only meant to be gone for two hours, and when she didn't come back, the blacksmith became worried. After all, how long can it possibly take to wash dirty laundry? Armed with a rusted mallet, the very same he uses to hammer swords and utens
ils into shape, the blacksmith marched through the woods without a word to the rest of us and disappeared behind the trees in search of his daughter. When he returned, he was as pale as death.
It had taken hours for the blacksmith to quit trembling and find his tongue once more. When he did, he offered us nothing more than a quivering finger raised and pointed in the direction of the creek and the words, "She's over there". A few of us braver lads, each old enough to wield our swords confidently in a fight and young enough not to care for the danger we might face, came together in the center of our little hamlet and ventured toward the creek. What we encountered made our stomach roil and the hairs on our arms stand on end.
The blacksmiths girl stared up at us from the sandy bank. Her eyes were glazed and open wide. Her chest had been ripped open down the middle, so much so that her flesh and rib cage was spread out before us like the wings of a butterfly. Every organ that should have been inside of her was gone. She was nothing more than a mottled husk. A shell. A dagger was embedded in her stomach.
The next day, Old Lady Dawson disappeared. The day after that, it was Benjamin Trait. It all too soon began to feel as though our hamlet was getting picked apart by a wild stranger - no, a beast - and, with every grotesque discovery even the bravest among us grew terrified. Each corpse had been gutted like animals, their organs removed. And embedded in every body was a dagger.
A town meeting was called. Us neighbors sat shoulder to grubby shoulder as rumors were passed around like sweet wine. Some were convinced they'd seen a silhouette of a hooded ogre staring at them from the outskirts of the meadow not far from where our township merges with the forest. Others told tales of a wolf that walked on its hind legs and spied on them from their bedroom windows. Neighbors laughed at neighbors. Insults were hurled. Punches thrown. Fear and anxiety bred an ugly chaos, one that was only dulled by the roar of our leader.
"Enough!" His voice boomed, eyes narrowed and lips curled into a snarl. Although later we regretted how we felt, at that moment the notion that our leader was the true beast had passed through the heads of more than a handful of us. "We need order at this time!" When all of us were silent, only then did he continue. "This is what we know. We are being terrorized by an entity - supernatural or otherwise. Our people are being butchered. Our numbers are dwindling. Has anyone in this hall tonight a solution they would like to propose?"
None of us said a word. In the near distance, a lone sheep bleated.
The leader nodded his head. "I have two courses of action I want to share with you all this evening. After that, we will put this to a vote and settle this horrendous matter." He cleared his throat with a phlegmy grunt and raised his hands. "Either, we send a party to our brothers and sisters in the city center, where they will ask for assistance from the king himself. This will take days, perhaps even weeks. And who knows what the beast will do while we wait, and whose souls will be lost by the time they return..."
An eerie quiet descended inside the hall. Then, a baby wailed, only to be hushed by its mother.
"My second suggestion is this," our leader crossed his arms over his barrel-like chest. "We send for Gunther the Vile."
Countless voices burst out at once. Praising. Cursing. Gunther the Vile, the son of a mad god. Gunther the Vile, who nailed the hearts of his enemies to trees and used their limbs as fire wood. Gunther the Vile - aroused by terror and war. The very same madman who was cast from the village years ago and hadn't been seen since.
But what was our alternative? To get picked off and murdered one by one as we waited for our party to make our plea to the king, a plea that would no doubt be ignored?
Gunther, whether we liked it or not, was our only hope. For who better to destroy a beast, than another?
The decision was made, and the brother-in-law of Gunther the Vile was chosen to head into the forest and go to the cottage where the rogue and the boy's sister were said to reside. Gunther's brother by marriage was his polar opposite. Lanky, cherub-faced and sweet, we wondered if the golden haired boy had it in him to survive the forests, let alone convince Gunther to protect us from the beast. Whether we believed he had it in him to or not, the boy was to leave in the morning.
We went to bed and slept uneasy. When we awoke in the early hours of this morning, one of our shepherd boys was discovered disemboweled and floating in our well.
Gunther's brother-in-law left to seek the brute out an hour later – eyes large, shoulders trembling. His puny sword rattling against his thigh.
Chapter One
His name is Ambrose. He is nineteen years old. He is a skilled wordsmith and talented bard. He can sing and hold a tune like no other in the little hamlet. However, these are not the traits he is known for.
As he parts branches from his path and keeps his eyes cast to the muddy earth for fear of snarled roots that could trip him up and dirty his clothes, he wonders who he hates more. The frightened hamlet and his so-called ‘beloved’ neighbors, or the demon whose reputation he has never been able to escape. Not since the man married his sister all those years ago. He hates the forest and everything in it. He hates the man who claimed his sister. Hates how terrified his neighbors are. And he despises the blood-thirsty wolf terrorizing his home.
Think of this as a quest! A tiny voice inside his skull whispers to him as he stops to plot his way over a stepping-stone path along Black Tar Creek. One you’re bound to end up enjoying! It’s highly doubtful, but perhaps one day Ambrose will be able to look back on this moment in time when he is older with grey hair and a herd of grandchildren and chuckle to himself. But that day is years away. Right now, he’s finding it very hard to keep a brave face.
A bird squawks overhead. The sudden noise makes him lose his footing and he tumbles to the muddy ground. Ambrose peels a leaf from his forehead and groans. He has no idea where he is going. The villagers gave him no direction. All his intimidating and broad-chested leader told him to do was walk north until he came across a cottage in the woods. Ambrose has never been to this cottage. No one in the village has. He hasn’t seen or heard from his sister in years.
He thinks back to how the two of them used to play in the meadow next to the hamlet’s border when they were young. His sister was as blonde as he, and just as full as life. The two would chase one another through the long grass and swap fairy tales like currency. And the songs… The songs they would create together were nothing short of magical.
The two only grew closer as time went on. Their bond saw them through losing their father to the Great War, and their mother to madness. They were twin flames, feeding and thriving off of one another. They didn’t need anyone else. Until the day his sister met Gunther. Then all she needed was him.
Ambrose balls his hands into tight fists and punches the nearest tree. Pain shoots down his arm and he howls. Why is he so weak? Why couldn’t he have been strong enough to save his sister from that man? That murdering rogue? If not for her sake, then for his own. Ambrose was all alone when she left in the dead of that winter night years back. It felt as though his flame had snuffed out, and never came back again. Sure, his neighbors had done what they could to treat the boy like their own, but they were not blood. They were not family. For Ambrose, no one but his sister meant anything to him at all.
A random thought passes through his mind and he sits up straight. Perhaps being forced into the forest to retrieve his brother-in-law could have its benefits. Surely when he’d see his sister again, she’d realize what she has been missing in her life all along, just like Ambrose felt. She would come back with him to the village and stay there with him – that he was certain of. He doubts she will need much convincing.
Ambrose cannot imagine what it must be like to live with a brute like Gunther the Vile in the middle of the forest in what will most probably be a tiny, dilapidated cottage. It must be hell for his sister. He is sure she has tried to escape multiple times but to no avail. She must be Gunther’s prisoner. Stories of the man-animal have reached Ambrose’s ea
rs many a time. Tales of Gunther setting fire to orphanages. Whispers of him decapitating whores and stuffing their heads onto massive sticks.
At the thought of this, nimbus clouds gather in Ambrose’s chest and he gets up, flexing his injured fist. In the past, he would have died for his sister if it came to it. That has not changed in the slightest.
He continues his journey forward with all reluctance pushed aside.
As morning bleeds into afternoon, and afternoon gives way to night, Ambrose decides to stop and rest. The leader of his hamlet told him before he left that it wouldn’t be more than a two-day trek to the cottage, so apart from pouches of food and bladders of water, Ambrose didn’t bring anything else. He uses his little sword to cut and chop wood from a nearby tree and collects the pieces into a bundle on the forest floor. He finds two stones and claps them together until there is a spark. It takes a good hour or so before his meager fire burns to life.
Opening one of his pouches, he removes a brick of goat cheese and bread, which he breaks in two. While he eats, he allows his mind to lose itself in the flames that crackle the wood and lick the air. From somewhere not so far away, an owl hoots. The sound is a lonely one. Ambrose wonders if there are predators about, then he thinks about the beast. What is preventing the monstrosity from stalking him? The beast could be spying on him at this very moment. He could potentially become the next victim, and if he did, if that is to be his fate, his body will be left in the mud and leaves and bloat and decompose and become one with the nature surrounding him, only to be trodden and walked over by animals and humans alike in years to come. No one would ever know, and the beast would keep killing.
Outlaws: A Romance Anthology Page 17