Vengeance (Book 2 of The Meadowsweet Chronicles)

PROLOGUE

WINTER 1939

Amongst the pine trees of Raven Wood, the screams of lunatics danced through the skeleton limbs. It was the only sound in an otherwise silent world. By the time the cries reached the village of Heargton, they had become even more pitiful in their fading fragility – like the cries of ghosts, long forgotten and long wished dead.

Paulina rocked herself backwards and forwards in an attempt to soothe herself away from the horror of it all. Even here, on the top floor of the asylum, the Maternity Ward, there was no sanctuary – no peace or maternal bliss. Here babies were ripped from their mother’s wombs and the chord that joined them, permanently severed. By the time the drugs had worn off, the baby was nothing more than a half-remembered dream – leaving in its wake a terrible hole in the soul that no amount of tears could fill. All around the county, poor childless couples would wake to find a bundle of joy being delivered along with the milk and the post. Dreams paid for with the price of somebody else’s nightmares.

Down below, on the lower floors of this hell especially created for the still-living, unspoken terrors travelled through the cells like a roiling wave of fear and pain.

James Mason, known to the orderlies and other inmates as The Creeper, sat on his haunches in the corner of his room and tapped his finger rhythmically against the metal leg of his bolted down bed. He whispered prayers for the salvation of his soul – only it wasn’t God he was praying to. As the passing orderly snuck a quick look through the spyhole, he sighed with relief that the perverted little sicko was apparently calm and quiet – unlike the rest of the inmates, who had been whipped up by the electrical storm raging outside: freak weather for the time of year. (Even the eldest villager had never known it to thunder, lightening and snow a driving blizzard all at the same time.) Little did the orderly know that far from quiet, The Creeper was busy communicating with a minion from Hell – very busy indeed.

On hearing the metal scrape of the spyhole cover, The Creeper turned his attention momentarily to the door and listened carefully to the voice inside his head – the voice told him tonight he would become a free man: that he would at last be able to indulge in every vice his little black thoughts could conjure: that he would, at last, be able to satisfy the needs, which denied, had made him mad and weak. Only freedom didn’t ever come without a price – there were a few little things that needed to be taken care of first. Nothing much for someone of The Creeper’s "extensive experience," the voice assured him.

Listening to the sound of the orderlies muffled footfalls travel down the corridor, he skittered to the door and waited. He wasn’t sure how it was all going to play out – but he had been promised that all he had to do was trust in the Dark Lord and he would be delivered. And he did believe. He believed with the whole of his dark and traded soul.

All at once, the sound of the asylum alarm blared, drowning out those screams of the agitated patients. In all the years that The Creeper had been incarcerated in those bleak walls, the only time the alarm ever went off was when one of the lunatics had managed to escape – a rare occasion. The drugs ensured little scope for initiative.

All at once, The Creeper’s eyes were drawn to the clockwork locking system of his cell door, which was mysteriously turning of its own accord. He felt his heart leap at the miracle from the Dark Lord manifesting in front of his very eyes. The door swung open with violent force. The Creeper stood, inert with awe for a moment, and then took a tentative step forward to the threshold of his room, which was in truth better defined as a cell. He was no fool. He knew the punishment for attempting escape was a needle through the eye and into the brain so that no such thoughts (if any thoughts) ever plagued him again.

Cautiously, he poked his head into the corridor and scanned up and down, seeing to his further amazement that the door to every cell was wide open. In the distant corridor, lunatics and orderlies chased one another around in some crazy, dangerous game of chase. Some of the patients had fashioned weapons out of various found objects, and the screams were not only those of freedom, but of pain and terror too. It was the Dark Lord’s rallying war-cry, and The Creeper was a keen and passionate soldier.

Paulina heard the sound of the alarm and she knew that something terrible was happening – an event that would shake both this world and the worlds above and below. Paulina Chase knew about these things: she knew because once, about nine months ago, she had danced with The Devil, and as they had danced, He had whispered into her ear that the end of the world was coming: it was coming very soon. She cradled her ripe belly in her arms and felt the contractions rip through her tired, distressed body. Whatever else occurred this evening, this night in history belonged to her and the son that she would give birth to: the son who also belonged to a Prince of Demons. He had courted her in her dreams and danced with her under the moonlight in the meadows surrounding Coldstone House, laying her down on Chase soil – Witch Hunters’ soil – to bring together the blood, earth and seeds of Demon and Redeemer – a powerful cocktail of blood that would ensure an offspring’s power and immortality.

If her family had known this heinous truth, Paulina would already be dead. In the Chase family, the holiness of water was far thicker than blood.

The Creeper made his way up the many flights of stairs, hiding in the shadows from the orderlies. At last he arrived at the maternity ward on the very top floor of the asylum. ‘So many pretty little maidens held captive in this lofty tower,’ The Creeper mused. He licked his lips at the thought of the fun he could have if only he didn’t have a bigger calling to attend to. He followed the sound of labor cries coming from the shadows at the end of the long, bleak ward. The rest of the floor appeared deserted; the women had been herded away earlier from the impending danger via the metal fire escape – but not this one. This one had stayed behind – because whether she knew it or not, she was waiting for him to arrive.

The laboring woman was in such agony that when The Creeper threw open the door she didn’t even turn to note him standing there – watching her with a disgusted fascination. With one great roaring-push, a slithering mass of limbs fell between her thighs, and within seconds a sharp mewling cry came from the creature on the floor. The Creeper stepped forward, and the woman, who looked almost still a girl, noted him for the first time since his arrival. Instinctively she flinched from him, scrabbling between her thighs to retrieve the baby in some act of maternal instinct. But before she could move, another great contraction ripped through her body and the urge to push came once more. She had no idea what was happening and she was gripped by panic, crying a cry that tunneled through the ages, far back into the dark ages and the times before, when man was little more than a mammal stalking the Earth. The sound of it made The Creeper want to run away but he couldn’t go back – not now, he had made a bargain and he was beginning to quickly realise that making that bargain had been like stepping into quicksand.

As another contraction surged through Paulina, she cried out for the mercy of God; and the baby in her arms screamed as if it had been placed in scalding water. Paulina looked down into its eyes and, to her horror, she saw them flash with a bright crimson light. Her next cry was not because of physical pain but because of the anguish of her heart tearing into two. She knew she had looked directly into the eyes of the Devil. She turned her petrified gaze to the stranger at the door. She was about to ask him a question, but before she got a chance, the question was replaced with a scream that only ended when another baby expelled from her loins. She looked down on it in shock. Unlike its elder sibling, this baby was small and fragile, already wearing a crown of soft blonde ringlets. His eyes were closed peacefully and his mouth trembled with his first breaths like a perfect rose-bud in the spring breeze. A weak, sad, Nooo! came from her lips as she saw the perfect little baby covered in vicious bites and bruises. Noo! she whispered as she reached out her hand to touch its cherubic cheek. What did he do to you? Her body shivered with the disgust of holding something so vile. She wanted to get rid of it – to put it down on the floor and never look on it again: her heart screamed for her to, ‘Kill it!’

Paulina began to weep with the horror. The Creeper stepped forward as if to offer comfort, but comfort was an alien idea to such a monster. Paulina looked at him and croaked, Who are you?

I am no one. I serve the child in your arms and I have come to take him to his father’s people, he replied, holding out his hands to receive the baby into his waiting arms.

‘Kill it! Do it now before it’s too late,’ her heart screamed.

The Creeper mistook her hesitancy for some kind of maternal bond and urged, We don’t have much time. I need to get him away from here.

She thrust the creature into the extended arms of the lunatic and cried, Take it away! Just get it away from me!

As soon as her arms were free, she scooped up the little angel from the floor and cradled it to her breast, allowing the waves of love she felt for him to wash away the stains of its abominable sibling.

At the sounds of footsteps scampering down the hallway and the voice of a female nurse bellowing through the corridors, Miss Chase? Miss Chase, are you here? Are you here? The Creeper slunk back into the shadows and made his silent way through the maze of corridors and out of the asylum towards his destination.

Oh, there you are! the nurse said kindly. Paulina recognized her as one of few nurses who ever showed the women compassion and she sighed with relief. It was momentary. The nurse’s face contorted into a mask of confusion and disgust as she looked down on the small, naked child in Paulina’s arms.

What have you done to him? she asked.

Paulina looked down onto the bruised and bitten flesh of the innocent baby in her arms.

What have you done to him? the nurse repeated.

Before Paulina could protest her innocence, the nurse lunged at her and swept the baby up into her arms.

You evil, wicked, sinful, whore! she said as she made the sign of the cross with her free hand. What sort of monster are you? she asked before kicking Paulina so hard in the stomach that she curled up into a ball on the floor with the force of it. The nurse continued to kick her, over and over as she screamed condemnations with each blow. At last, seeing Paulina huddled in a bloodied mess of pain and sorrow, the nurse ran from her, cradling the baby in her arms – leaving Paulina to faint into the dark crimson puddle of blood that spread between her legs with the parting spite of, I hope you die and go to Hell!

*

The heavy tolling front-door-bell of Ravenheart Hall sounded. The maid scurried to the door and opened it. She was not surprised to see the shadowy figure of a man with a bundle in his arms. She had been told to expect him – she had also been told that he was a murdering lunatic and that he shouldn’t be allowed over the threshold.

The maid extended her arms and received the bundle of rags that offered poor protection for the baby against the bitter snow-filled sky. No matter – the baby radiated an almost vicious heat. Her mistress had warned her not to look into the baby’s eyes. She was a good servant and she obeyed. She shut the door on the lunatic without saying a word.

The maid walked the bundle through the chilly corridors until eventually she entered the fire-warmed library where three sisters stood expectantly around a black clad crib, waiting the arrival of a baby.

CHAPTER 1

Jeremiah stood by the window looking out across the grounds. He held his phone in his hand, his fingers anticipating the vibration of an incoming message. It had been over twenty minutes since he had sent Fox Meadowsweet a text with the simple words, ‘I love you.’ Twenty minutes that had seemed to span an entire age. As he stood looking out at the falling snow in the moonlight, it felt as if Coldstone House were some form of ghost-ship, floating adrift on an endless ocean of time. He had never felt so far away from home – or so lost.

In this way he stood for over an hour. No response came, and part of him knew no response would ever come. Where the blade had cut the palm of his skin, it needled, adding to the mountain of irritations he already suffered.

Downstairs, Daniel, his father, would be sat in the armchair by the fireplace, a bottle of Scotch at his feet.

My father, Jeremiah whispered the words and the heat of his breath misted the windows. My father! As if the day hadn’t been a complete head-freak already, it had been capped off with the dramatic finale of Uncle Daniel revealing that he was not his Uncle as Jeremiah had believed for the seventeen years of his life, but was in fact his father.

Jeremiah pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. ‘My mother and Daniel?’ The idea was ridiculous. He had never thought of his mother and Daniel as close – in fact if anything, their cool relationship had been a point of frustration to Jeremiah over the years; her reluctance to let Daniel stay over or for Jeremiah to spend any additional time with him had led to many door-slamming rows – but of course all that made sense now. She had purposefully tried to drive a distance between them.

My mother?

Jeremiah could see what any woman, his mother included, might find attractive about Daniel. He was handsome, and interesting, and exciting – But my mother? Jeremiah thought about his mother’s perfect veneered nails and how the colour always perfectly matched her lipstick, and how that was always applied as meticulously as her clothes, which always had exactly the right shoes and bag. ‘Maybe she had been different,’ he thought. ‘Maybe I made her different,’ he thought with a trace of guilt.

Well, just add that to the pile, he muttered.

You really should stop talking to yourself – they’ll think you mad and lock you away – I should know!

Paulina’s voice startled him and he turned in her direction to find her sat in the chair by the fire.

"Well if the talking to myself doesn’t do it, the talking to dead people thing will, he said, smiling wryly. Paulina, you’ve really got to stop letting yourself in like that."

Why? Being alone isn’t good for you. You need company or else you’re going to get all mixed up in those thoughts of yours.

Jeremiah returned his gaze to the window thinking that the company of a ghost was hardly company at all.

So did she reply?

Pardon?

Paulina pointed at the device in his hand like it was something from an alien planet, which in a way he guessed it was. On that … on that contraption, did that pretty little girl respond?

How do you…? Paulina, how long have you been in my room?

Long enough to see you declare your love and to have some kind of existential crisis.

Jeremiah sighed. If you insist on barging in, then at least manifest when you arrive – surely there is some kind of etiquette about these things?

The room filled with the smell of rich smooth tobacco. Paulina was smoking a cigarette. Even the smell of the cigarette had a ghostly quality, like when you walk into a bar and you can still smell the years of heavy tobacco use but it has turned sweet and mellow.

I don’t suppose you’ve got some liquor hidden away? she asked.

No! he sighed, regretful of the situation. He felt he could really do with a glass of forgetting. There was certainly no way he was going to get any escape from falling asleep. He looked at his watch. It was already two-thirty in the morning.

Do you want to talk about it?

There was a pause. Yes, yes, he’d like to talk about it. He desperately wanted to sit down with someone and unpack the events of the day; from the moment he woke, to the one he was standing right in at this moment – only it wasn’t with Paulina. It was Fox – Fox, the only one who would understand. The cut on his hand prickled with the thought of her. ‘A blood bond – a marriage of enemies.’

Before Jeremiah could take control, a tear slipped from his eye. Immediately, he wiped it away – ashamed to be seen crying, even in front of a ghost. As if she read his mind, Paulina said,

You’ve got to stop thinking so hard, Jeremiah. It’s thinking that turns you crazy. You think and you think, and then you think some more – and all that thinking stops you doing things; things that need to be done.

She stopped to take a drag on her cigarette and Jeremiah, captivated by the potential answer her words offered, waited.

Yes, she continued, "you’ve got to learn to take action – to accept where you are in the moment and take control of it – even if that means destroying what you truly believe you love: even if it means killing something beautiful and innocent because of the potential for evil it holds. Your father understands this because he is a Witch Hunter. I understand this because I am the sacred vessel that is a Chase daughter, just as Aunt Penelope is. The blood of a Witch Hunter runs through our veins, even if we do not carry the curse of being a son, our own sons will be cursed. And you need to understand this, Jeremiah, because you are cursed with the gift of your forefathers; if you don’t get to grips with that idea soon, you’re going to fail – worse still, you’re going to self-destruct."

Jeremiah gazed at the vision in front of him. A shiver danced over his skin. Who are you Paulina? Who are you – really?

She turned her face away under his scrutiny. She feared she had said too much.

I don’t understand any of this. I don’t know who I am – what I am? he asked.

You are a Witch Hunter, Jeremiah – a Witch Hunter who has made a bond with the Devil, she said, nodding to the cut on his hand.

He curled his fingers round his palm defensively. How…?

She shook her head and held up her palm, which bore a white jagged scar across it. Jeremiah looked at her questioningly but Paulina didn’t elucidate, she merely faded out.

Well that’s got to be the greatest avoidance trick I’ve ever seen! he shouted angrily after her. Tell me a whole load of shit and then just fade out when I need you. Come back – you can’t do that! You can’t just show me that then leave!

CHAPTER 2.

Fox could not sleep for the sounds of screaming that came from her sister’s room. Despite the soothing balms and the laying on of hands, Swan’s injuries were vicious, and her trauma more so. Wren had given her a dose of sleeping tea in the hope she might find some rest, but all it had done was trap Swan in a sleeping world where the nightmares could feed on her.

Fox lay in bed with the curtains open and looked up at the ripe moon. Even the knowledge they had saved a little girl’s life could barely balance itself with the injury the Meadowsweets had endured. Every time Fox drifted near to sleep, the sound of Swan’s screams brought back images of her tied to the stake and burning. Fox feared she would never be able to shake that image from the back of her eyelids. Then, when woken, her thoughts headed directly towards Jeremiah, the blood bond and the damnable text message.

‘I love you.’

I love you? Fox repeated through tears. Screw you, Jeremiah Chase! How dare you? She hit at her forehead with her balled fists. Screw you! her tears grew into sobs. She pulled the pillow down between her arms and cradled it in place of human comfort. She had never felt so alone. So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours that she felt she had lived a whole year in a single day.

Unable to bear being trapped in a No Man’s Land of nightmares and thoughts, she got out of bed and threw on her jeans and a jumper. She fished in the bottom of her chaotic wardrobe and pulled out the large woolen paisley shawl that had once been her grandmother’s. The feel of it wrapped around her offered her a momentary sense of comfort and company.

Despite the hour, Fox needed to walk. She snuck down the stairs, conscious the kitchen light was on, indicating her mother was unable to sleep too and was up to nocturnal activity. She pulled on her wellies and quietly unlatched the door.

Where are you going? her mother asked, having crept silently out to observe her daughter.

Fox noted the slightly wild look in her mother’s eyes, which were magnified by her reading glasses, and the large leather book tucked under her arm. Fox had no headspace to worry about whatever it was their mother was doing consulting ancient texts in the middle of the night.

I need to walk, Fox replied.

But it’s three in the morning?

Yes. Expecting a flat out refusal, Fox steeled herself for battle.

Okay, her mother said resignedly, but don’t be long, please.

Fox, on autopilot, was about to protest before she realised her mother was granting her permission and rendering her speechless with surprise.

Just make sure that you wrap up warm, and stick to the lands please, her mother added.

By lands, Wren meant the Meadowsweet territory that extended through the cottage garden, across the meadow to the river and then out to the Abundance Woods. The Meadowsweet territory went no further east than the road that led south of the Village, and no further west than the ruined Abbey.

Okay, Fox said sliding the bolt on the door.

Her mother called out to her just before the door closed behind her, If you happen to come across any Blood Berries, can you bring a pocketful back with you. We need to do something about those dreams.

Fox walked in the direction of the meadow, her feet pressing the freshly fallen snow under foot. The sky was now a clear orb of brilliance, holding shimmering stars like glitter. Her breath came out in a misty cloud into the cold air. She shivered and wrapped the shawl around her tightly. In the distance, thin smoke streams curled from the Gypsy caravans’ wood-burners and trickled into the sky. The camp was silent. Fox thought about Carmen snuggled up in her van and wondered if she dreamed of a warm bed in a house made of stone.

Fox reached the stream that marked the boundary between the garden and the meadow. The stream was a frozen block of ice, which in the moonlight sparkled like a ribbon of diamonds. She crouched down and put her still burning hand against the soothing ice, examining the trapped universe it contained. Leaves and water insects speckled the ice, and the shadowy figure of a large stream trout lurked under the surface in the shallow remains of water.

Suddenly, there was movement in the sky and Fox turned to see the silent flight of a barn owl heading out over the meadow and towards the woods. She followed it, chasing its path across the stream and the meadows and into the woods, but it was too swift. Somewhere amongst the scraggly skeletal tree canopy, it had stopped. She felt its eyes boring down from some hidden space, but no amount of seeking it out could find it.

Fox shivered. The woods were dark, even with the light of the moon. She waited for her eyes to properly adjust before heading back towards the boundary and home, stuffing her pockets full as she went with small rowan sticks and berries, which her mother called, Blood Berries. These woods were as familiar to Fox as her own home. Every tree was known to her, every curve in the path easily navigated by her knowing feet, and yet tonight – tonight the woods felt different. She shook her head. ‘Maybe it’s just you who is different,’ the internal offered. From somewhere above her came the plaintive hoot of the owl, but whatever its message was, it was lost in translation – only Fox knew from its tone she really should try and understand because the owl had something important to tell her.

A movement to her right drew her attention. Her eyes, which were now translating the gloom into shapes and vision, focused down in its direction. The sound of a tuneful whistle came winding through the darkness. At first, Fox convinced herself it was the way the wind was travelling through the trees, but the melody was undeniably a human expression. Fox’s heart skipped. Despite the tune being quite jolly in its nature – there was something ominous about it – some latent threat. The whistling stopped. There’s nothing bad here – not in the Abundance Woods, you know that. The Rowan trees protect the lands. The internal was doing a valiant job of persuading her that her imagination was out of control; understandable given the day she’d had. Her ears strained into the silence, listening. Then the whistle came again and a terrible energy tunneled towards her. ‘Predator!" the internal screamed. ‘Run!’

And Fox did run – she ran swiftly over the lands, and the stream, and the meadow, only stopping when she had reached the safety of the cottage. Hearing the commotion of Fox’s frenzied entrance, Wren came rushing to the door.

What on earth’s the matter? her mother asked.

There was someone – something in the woods.

In our woods? What?

Fox shook her head. I don’t know – something bad.

Wren dropped her shoulders with visible relief. Oh, Fox, you know that the woods are protected. Nothing bad can be in the woods. It’s not possible – it’s just your mind playing tricks. It’s been a very stressful day. You’re suffering from shock – it’s understandable, darling – you’ve seen things today that no soul should ever have to witness.

Fox shook her head and was about to protest but Wren wrapped her daughter up in her arm, silencing her.

It’s been a very difficult few hours. You need to sleep. Your sister needs you to be strong.

Fox nodded her head, relishing the soft warm cashmere of her mother’s cardigan and the scent of jasmine oil on her skin. Her mother, sensing Fox’s need for comfort, planted a small kiss on top her head before untangling her from her arms and commanding her to go to bed.

Fox collapsed onto her bed, not bothering to undress. She looked up at the moon and listened to the night – but it was silent. Before she could fight sleep, the sun had risen and Fox burst awake into a cold morning. The house was deathly silent.

Being a Saturday, her mother would normally leave early for the shop, but she doubted that with Swan so poorly her mother would be sticking to the normal routine. Fox left her room and headed in the direction of Swan’s room but before she even reached it, she could see through the open door that Swan was not there. Her bed was neatly made and a cold fresh breeze blew through the empty room. Fox shook her head with confusion – Swan had been far too delicate to move. Sickness snaked through her stomach.

Behind her, Bunny was travelling up the stairs. Fox could sense her agitation. Where’s mu…? Bunny’s question was left unfinished as she clocked the empty room. What’s happening? she asked, with an edge of panic.

I don’t know.

"Where’s