CHAPTER THIRTEEN- SHADOWS UNVEILED: PART 3
Saturday 12th August, 2018- NEW SALEM, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
(5:49 AM)
Then chaos erupted like a spark igniting dry tinder. Just as the robed figure reached to unlatch the next cage, the sound of tearing flesh still echoing from the altar, one of the captives surged forward. With a desperate cry, the captiveâ bloodied, bruised and half-mad with terror, lunged at the figure, grappling with them in a sudden, violent struggle. The force of the captiveâs charge sent the Hollow priest sprawling to the ground, the knife clattering away from his hand.
âRun! Run now!â, the man shouted, his voice hoarse and broken, but filled with a fierce determination.
For a split second, the other captives hesitated, their wide, terrified eyes flicking between the frenzied feast happening mere feet away and the open glade that stretched beyond the boundary of the plantation. Then, with the fire of survival kicking in, they scattered like startled deer, bolting towards the forest that surrounded Oak Valley Plantation.
A womanâs scream pierced the air, cutting through the growls and ravenous sounds of the feast. One of the five captives, a young man barely in his 20s, didnât make it far. His cries for help were abruptly silenced as a Hollow guest pounced, dragging him back to the throng of feeding monsters. The Artist turned just in time to see the unfortunate soul disappear beneath a frenzy of snapping jaws and clawed hands.
Elizabethâs voice rang out, shrill and furious. âInfidels!â, her face twisted into rage beneath her mask, the elegance and composure she had maintained now fully shattered, âSomeone get those infidels!â.
Several of the Hollows immediately abandoned their meals, eyes glowing with hunger as they began to give chase. The captives, now four in total, had made it to the edge of the open glade, their legs pumping frantically, but it was clear they wouldnât make it far. The Artistâs heart pounded in their chest as they watched from the balcony. The tension coiled in their gut like a serpent. This is getting out of hand.
Lucius, ever the showman, leaned forward in his seat with a slow, deliberate smirk across his obsidian-crimson eyes. âMy apprenticeâ, he called out, his voice dripping with mock affection, loud enough for all the whole table to hear, âwhy donât you help us catch these runaway prey? Surely, it would be a simple task for someone of your talentâ.
The Artist felt the weight of every eye upon them. Claire, seated beside Lucius, gave them a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. Elizabethâs gaze, however, was sharp and expectant, like a predator eyeing fresh meat. There was no way out. âDamn Luciusâ, The Artist thought.
With a silent curse, The Artist leaped from the balcony, landing in the soft grass below with feline grace. The chase had begun.
They took off in a blur, feet pounding the earth as they sped towards the edge of the glade where the captives had fled. The scent of blood and fear hung thick in the air, pulling them forward. Behind them, Elizabethâs guests laughed and howled, the thrill of the hunt sending them into a frenzy. The Artist moved swiftly, their mind racing as fast as their legs. Just catch one. Play your part.
The forest loomed ahead, dark and dense, the trees like towering sentinels that watched the madness unfold. As they entered the tree line, the sounds of the hunt shifted. The forest muffled the feast and the cries from behind, leaving only the sound of the captivesâ ragged breaths and snapping twigs beneath their frantic footsteps. The Artist caught sight of one of the captives, the smallest of the group, just ahead.
With a burst of speed, The Artist tackled the man to the ground. They rolled in the dirt, the captive kicking and thrashing wildly. âGet off me!â, he screamed, swinging blindly at The Artist with all the strength his malnourished body could muster.
The Artist caught his wrists, pinning him down in the soft undergrowth. âStop! Iâm not going to hurt you!â, they hissed, their voice barely above a whisper, hoping the others wouldnât catch on to the act.
The manâs breath came in short, panicked bursts as he struggled beneath The Artistâs grip. Up close, he was smaller than theyâd expected. Barely 5-Feet and 58-Inches, his brown eyes wild with fear. His head had been shaved completely, the mark of the cult, the âTwanasâ, was branded into the flesh of the left side of his neck and bump, still red and raw. The simplistic symbol sent a chill down The Artistâs spine. He was just like the others, stripped of his clothes and identity, a sacrifice waiting to happen.
But not yet. Not if The Artist could help it.
âListen to meâ, The Artist whispered urgently, loosening their grip slightly as the manâs struggling slowed, âIf you want to live, you have to trust me. Iâll get you out of here. But you need to calm down, and follow my lead. Understand?â.
The man stared up at The Artist, eyes wide and disbelieving, âWhyâ¦why would you help me? Youâre with them!â.
The Artist shook their head, âNot by choice. Now, do you want to get out of here or not?â.
For a moment, the man hesitated, but the desperation in his eyes told The Artist everything they needed to know. With a slow, reluctant nod, the captive stopped fighting.
âGood,â The Artist muttered, pulling him to his feet. âNow stay close. We donât have much timeâ.
(6:53 AM)
The Artistâs heart was still racing as they grabbed the captiveâs arm, pulling him to his feet. âWe need to move, nowâ, they muttered, scanning the forest, ears pricked for any signs of pursuit. The man was trembling, but his legs followed instinctively, driven by the same primal need to survive. They took a step forward, ready to sprint deeper into the woods, but then the air around them shuddered with a sudden vibration.
A plume of dark smoke erupted behind them, swirling into the shape of a person. The Artist froze, recognizing the magick instantly. The captive stiffened in terror as the smoke coalesced into Claireâs familiar silhouette. Her eyes gleamed, cold and calculating, as she took a casual step forward, the smoky remnants of her teleportation still swirling around her like a shroud.
âThere you areâ, Claire said, her voice lilting and sweet as though they were old friends meeting by chance.
The Artist stiffened. âClaireâ, the name escaped their lips like a hiss, thick with restrained anger. The man beside them cowered, his eyes darting between the two figures, unsure if he should run or collapse into despair.
The Artist stepped forward, putting themselves between Claire and the captive. âWhat the hell are you doinâ here?â, they snapped, their Southern drawl creeping into their voice. The stress was peeling away their usual composure, leaving them raw. âDonât give me that âIt ainât what you thinkâ line. I want to know why the hell youâre mixed up with these twisted freaks!â.
Claire raised an eyebrow, folding her arms, her red lipstick-tainted lips curving into a sly smile. âItâs not what you thinkâ, she said softly, âYou need to trust me, if you want to find your parentsâ.
The words cut through the tension like a blade, and The Artistâs jaw tightened. âOh, Claire with Blair. How convenientâ, they spat sarcastically, eyes narrowing, âYouâve been tangled in this mess the whole time, havenât you? Whatâs the damn plan then? What, Iâm just supposed to hand this poor guy back to Elizabeth as some kind of gift?â.
Claire shrugged, her demeanor disturbingly calm. âHeâs cult propertyâ, she said cooly. âYou let him go, and youâll raise more suspicions than you can handle. Iâm sure by now you know how this game worksâ.
Before The Artist could respond, the man, hearing their conversation, realized the depth of his predicament. Panic seized him, and without warning, he bolted into the trees, his breaths ragged and frantic.
âNo, wait!â, The Artist shouted, reaching out, but it was too late. Claire barely glanced in the manâs direction before she raised her hand. A burst of dark energy enveloped the fleeing captive, lifting him off the ground and suspending him helplessly in the air. His limbs flailed in a fruitless attempt to break free, his screams filling the otherwise quiet forest.
Claireâs voice was smooth and unbothered. âThis is your only chanceâ, she said, turning her head slightly to glance at The Artist. âKnock him out. Take him back to the plantationâ.
The man was still suspended in the air, terror making him thrash even harder. âYou lied to me! You fucking liar!â, he screamed, his voice thick with rage and betrayal. âRot in hell, both of you!â.
The Artist turned to Claire, their face a mask of frustration. âWe canâtâ¦â they started, but Claire cut them off.
âYou canât risk your life and mine for hisâ, she said sharply, her voice dropping its soothing tone. âDo you really think Elizabeth wonât notice? You think youâll survive that? Heâs just another sacrifice. You know thatâ.
The Artist clenched their fists, every muscle in their body coiled tight with anger and helplessness. Fighting Claire would be a whole other ordeal, one they werenât sure they could win. Worse, it would blow their cover. And yetâ¦the thought of killing the man felt like a betrayal of everything they once stood for.
The man, hearing their exchange, his face pale and streaked with dirt and blood, looked down at The Artist with wide pleading eyes. âPleaseâ, he gasped, his voice breaking, âIf youâre gonna kill me, just do it quick. Donât let them have me. Not like thisâ.
Claireâs lips twisted into a sardonic grin. âThose whelps back home would eat roadkill any dayâ, she said, âDo what needs to be doneâ.
The Artist swallowed hard, the weight of the decision pressing down on them like a suffocating fog. Slowly, reluctantly, they reached into their jacket pocket and pulled out their handgun, the .44 Magnum Revolver cold and heavy in their hand.
The man stared at the weapon, then squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing ragged but resigned. The Artist raised the gun, their hand trembling slightly. âIâm sorryâ, they said.
A single shot rang out.
The manâs body fell limply to the ground as the dark magick released its grip. His face was peaceful, the fear and panic gone, leaving only stillness.
For a moment, the forest was silent. The Artist stood there, gun still in hand, feeling nothing. No anger. No sorrow. Just numbness, like the life had drained from them too. They holstered the revolver and bent down to lift the manâs lifeless body, draping it over their right shoulder.
Claire approached The Artist softly, her voice eerily somber. âIâm sorry it had to come to this, but you did the right thingâ, she said, though the words felt hollow. The Artist didnât respond, their eyes dull, unfocused. They could feel Claireâs gaze on them, sharp and probing, but they didnât care anymore.
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Together, they walked back to the mansion, the weight of the dead man like a stone dragging them down with each step. The hollow eyes of the guests would be waiting, eager for their prize. Elizabeth would be waiting, a cruel smile playing on her lips.
And The Artist? They were just going through the motions.
(6:01 AM)
The Artistâs boots crunched against the gravel as they laid the manâs body down at the edge of the gathering. The guests, still in their grotesque hybrid forms, eyed the fresh corpse with hungry anticipation. Elizabeth stood above them all, the sunrise casting a soft glow on her face, making her look almost etherealâ if not for the twisted grin playing at her lips.
âAh, splendid workâ, Elizabeth said, her voice dripping with satisfaction. She stepped forward, her flowing red gown trailing behind her as she observed the body, âAnd Claire, darling, I trust there were no issues?â.
Claire, standing beside The Artist, met Elizabethâs gaze evenly. âNone at allâ, she replied smoothly, âThe other three escapees have been retrieved. Theyâre back, alive and suitably terrifiedâ.
Elizabeth clapped her hands softly, her long fingers tapping together with a quiet click-click-click. âMarvelous! And just in time for breakfastâ. She looked over the crowd of eager ravenous guests. âEat, my dears. Feast to your heartâs contentâ.
The Artist watched in silence as the guests descended upon the body with savage glee, tearing into the flesh with unnatural vigor. It was a scene they had witnessed before, but it never grew less disturbing.
Lucius approached with that same predatory grin stretched across his face, his obsidian-crimson eyes gleaming with approval. âYou have done well, my apprenticeâ, he said, voice smooth and cold, âYouâre showing real potential. One day, youâll make a fine Darkstalkerâ.
The Artist forced a neutral expression and nodded respectfully. âThank you, Master Decanusâ.
Lucius gave The Artist a cold pat on the shoulder before turning his attention back to Elizabeth. âThereâs much to discuss regarding our nextâ¦paymentâ, he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, âShall we, my lady?â.
Before Elizabeth could reply, Claire interjected smoothly. âMaster Decanus, would you mind if I borrow your apprentice for a while?â. Lucius paused, then looked at Claire with a sly smile. âNot at allâ, he said, waving a dismissive hand. âYou can have my apprentice for the whole day if you wish. Think of it as an extension of my contractâ.
The Artist stiffened at Luciusâ words but managed to keep their expression neutral. Lucius had barely given it a second thought, as though lending them out was nothing more than an afterthought. âThank youâ, Claire said, giving Lucius a polite nod before turning to The Artist. âCome with meâ, she said softly, motioning toward the mansion, âWe need to talkâ.
Elizabeth nodded to Lucius, and the two of them walked off together, their figures melding into the early morning mist as they headed towards a secluded area of the backyard.
As they made their way to the mansion, the woman from earlier, with her intricate tattoos and striking platinum blonde hair accented with streaks of red called out to Claire. The woman was followed closely by the pale gaunt young man from before.
âClaire! Waitâ¦â, the woman cried out, quickening her pace to catch up with them. But Claire didnât slow down her stride.
âNot now, Laurelâ, Claire said firmly, dismissing her without breaking her stride, âWeâll be back laterâ. Laurel looked frustrated, but she halted in her tracks, her pale companion casting a wary glance at The Artist before both turned away, disappearing back into the crowd.
Once inside the mansion, Claire led The Artist to the foyer. It was quieter here, the sounds of the macabre feast fading into the background. They climbed the steps leading up to the grand entrance and sat down, the cool morning air still hanging in the atmosphere.
For a moment, neither spoke. The weight of everything that had transpired pressed heavily on The Artistâs shoulders. They glanced at Claire, who seemed calm, but there was a tension beneath her surface, a subtle unease she was trying to keep buried.
âSo, what now?â, The Artist finally asked, breaking the silence. Their voice was quiet but edged with weariness.
Claire sighed, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees. âWe have to be smart,â she said, her voice low. âLucius and Elizabethâ¦theyâre planning something bigger than what we saw today. This whole stunt is just a small part of their grand designâ.
The Artist frowned, âAnd youâre still working with them? Why?â.
Claire met their gaze, her expression unreadable. âIâm not working for themâ, she corrected, âIâm using them. There are things at play here that you donât understand yet. But I do indeed want you to find your parents, youâll need to trust meâ.
The Artistâs lips curled into a bitter smirk. âTrust you?â, they echoed, shaking their head, âAfter all this? After everything I just saw?â. Their accent thickened with frustration, the weight of the situation starting to break through their usual calm facade. âClaire with Blair. How convenientâ.
Claireâs eyes narrowed slightly. âI get itâ, she said, her voice sharp. âYouâre angry. Youâre confused. But Iâm one of the only people who can help you right now. You think Lucius or Elizabeth are going to lead you to anything but a shallow grave?â.
The Artist exhaled, the tension in their shoulders easing slightly, though the weariness remained. âSo, what do we do?â.
âAsk me anything and I will talkâ, Claire replied.
The Artist stared at Claire, their mind racing with the overwhelming weight of everything they had seen and done today. With a slow, controlled breath, they broke the silence. âDoes Elizabeth actually know who I am? Does she know about my parents?â.
Claireâs gaze softened slightly as she met The Artistâs eyes, âJames and Samantha. Yes. She knows exactly who you areâ, she confirmed, her tone cautious, âSheâs been pretending, playing dumb, but I donât know why. Thatâ¦worries meâ.
The Artistâs fists clenched at the thought. They had felt that something was off about Elizabeth from the start, but to know she had been faking ignorance struck deeper. âAnd what about my parents? Do you have any idea where they are?â.
Claire hesitated for a moment before nodding. âIâve got a few leads. But none of them strongly point toward The Cultâ, she paused, her eyes searching The Artistâs face for a reaction, âItâs possible theyâre involved in something much bigger, something outside of Blairâs immediate graspâ.
The Artist frowned, frustration building in their chest. âThen where are all these captives coming from? Who are they?â, The Artist asked.
âMost of them are taken from Endecott Forest State Parkâ, Claire replied, her voice quieter now. âLost campers, the homeless, driftersâ¦people who the world wonât notice missing. The Cult has an outpost there. Itâs upstate from here, past Jacksonville, if Iâm not mistakenâ.
The Artist nodded, recognizing the area immediately, âEndecott Forestâ¦thatâs quite far but at least its within state. So, youâre saying itâs one of your leads?â.
Claire shook her head, âNo. Your parents were viewed asâ¦special by the Cult. Elizabeth even knew you when you were a baby. If theyâre still alive, theyâre being kept somewhere more secure than a mere outpostâ.
The Artistâs gaze hardened, âThen letâs hit the outpost. We dismantle Blairâs operations there, get a sense of what theyâre doing. We can cripple them, slow them down. That would send a messageâ.
Claireâs eyes flashed with concern, âThatâs suicide, and you know it. The Cult is too strong. Todayâs ceremony shouldâve shown you how prepared they are for any attack. Going there guns blazing wonât solve anything, itâll just get you and me killedâ.
âThatâs exactly why we need to act now!â, The Artistâs voice rose with intensity, âThe Cult is not invincible, and you owe me, Claire. I did what you told me to do. I killed that man. I brought him back like some twisted prize. We canât let these people keep doing this!â.
Claire sighed deeply, looking down for a moment before nodding slightly, her voice gentler now, âI get where youâre coming from, I do. But youâve been up for over 24 hours dealing with this Hollow ceremony madness. Iâve been right there with you, and we both need rest. If we charge into something like this now, weâll both end up deadâ.
The Artistâs shoulders slumped. They wanted to fight, to act, to do somethingâ but Claire was right. They were exhausted, barely holding on as it was. âSo, what then? You want me to just sit around?â, they asked.
âIâll take you home. You need to sleep, recover. Iâll handle Elizabeth and Blair for nowâ, Claire said, her voice firm, âIâll be back in the next 33 hours, and weâll take it from there. But you need to live a little, too. Take some time for yourself, meet new people, find something outside of all thisâ¦deathâ.
The Artist looked at Claire, doubt flickering in their eyes, âAnd what if I canât wait? What if I canât just sit still?â.
Claire smiled faintly. âTry a hobby. Bowling, Pool Table, Dartsâ whatever keeps your mind occupiedâ, she said, âGo back to bartending, or focus on your art. Justâ¦try to live for a bit before itâs too lateâ.
The Artist hesitated but eventually nodded. âFineâ, they said quietly, âBut donât keep me waitingâ.
(7:03 AM)
With a swift motion, Claire raised her hand, and the air around them shimmered with a dark swirling energy. In a blink, The Artist found themselves standing in the familiar surroundings of their apartment on 11th Lane, Fleuve Street. The French Quarter was alive with distant sounds, but here, inside, it was quiet.
The Artist stood still for a moment, their eyes drifting to the framed sketches and unfinished paintings hanging on the walls. Memories of their childhood flooded back, the space feeling both familiar and strange at once. With heavy limbs, they walked to their old bedroom, collapsing onto the bed. The weight of everything hit them at onceâ the exhaustion, the grief, the unanswered questions.
Sleep came quickly, pulling them into a deep heavy slumber.
But it was not a peaceful sleep.
In the darkness of their dreams, something terrible lurked, something that watched, waited and whispered a name familiar to them.
Thursday 17th March, 1718- COLONY OF WILLOW IN FRENCH AMERICA
The battlefield was a grim expanse of chaos and death. Gunpowder stung the air as muskets fired sporadically through the thick haze of smoke, the sound lost in the screams of the wounded. French colonists, once hopeful for a new life in this distant land, now fought desperately to survive against an unrelenting force. The Hollows, a twisted army of shadowed almost humanoid creatures bound to The Willow, swept through the ranks, tearing down soldiers as if they were made of parchment. Their weapons glinted wickedly in the dim light, the unmistakable echo of machetes cutting through the mist.
Horses charged, their hooves kicking up earth and blood, while French artillery thundered off in the distance, a futile attempt to hold back the tide. Bayonets clashed against crude steel, the din of battle ringing in Nathan Noirâs ears, though the mist choked the very air from his lungs. He blinked against the smoke, unsure whether the light cutting through was moonlight or daylight. It was all the same nowâ chaos, death and mist. He couldnât tell how many hours had passed.
âMon commandant! â (My Commander!)â, a panicked voice in French shattered Nathanâs thoughts as a figure stumbled through the fog toward him. The soldierâs blue and white uniform was soaked in blood. It was Sergeant. Bastien Dumas, clutching his side where a deep wound gaped open. His pale face was streaked with dirt, his eyes wide with fear. âTheyâre flanking us on all sides! We canât hold much longer!â, his words came in loud gasps, but it wasnât the report of their failing battle lines that terrified him most.
Nathan gripped his rapier tighter. âDo you hear her?â, Dumas whispered, his eyes wild, âDo you hear her coming?â.
Nathanâs stomach clenched. âIs it truly her, Sergeant? La Saule?â, his voice was steady, though a cold sweat ran down his back.
âYesâ, Dumas gasped, barely able to speak through his fear. âItâs herâ¦La Reine des Creuxâ¦she has comeâ.
Nathan closed his eyes for a brief second. The air felt thick with dread. âAs long as Captain Hawkwood caught everyone out of Willow, thatâs all that mattersâ, Nathan muttered, though even he knew it was a fragile comfort. They had only delayed the inevitable.
Then the ground trembled.
It was subtle at first. A slight vibration, barely felt underfoot, but then it grew stronger, more violent, until the very earth beneath them seemed to groan in protest. Soldiers stopped fighting, looking around in confusion. Even the Hollows seemed momentarily stilled by the rumbling beneath them. In the distance, beyond the thick veil of smoke and mist, a shadow began to form. It rose taller than any man, any tree, its shape becoming clearer by the second. A giant silhouette, almost as tall as the sky, emerged from the fog, blotting out the battlefield in its wake. Its voiceâ inhuman, dark and ancient, boomed through the air, calling out over the dying screams of men.
âNathan⦠Nathan⦠Nathanâ¦â, she called.
It called his name, over and over, like a terrible hymn.
Nathanâs blood ran cold. His grip on his rapier tightened as he looked around at the scattered remnants of his army. They were losing, and they all knew it. Most had already fallen, their bodies left to the merciless Hollows. Only a handful of his men remained standing, their faces pale and eyes wide with terror.
He had no choice.
âSur moi! â (On me!)â, Nathan roared in French, raising his blade high, âPour moi! â (To me!)â.
The French soldiers, battered and bloodied, began to rally around him. They moved in closer, forming a tight line. Muskets were raised shakily, bayonets ready, though the men holding them were barely standing. Nathan felt the ground tremble again, but he forced himself to stand tall, locking eyes with his remaining men. They were frightened, and so was he. But they couldnât give in now. Not after all they had suffered. Not when they stood on the brink of annihilation.
âWe fall back onto each other!â, Nathan bellowed, over the rising wind and the calls of the Hollows, âWe fight, and we do not falter!â.
The fog swirled around them, the eerie voice of The Willow still echoing in the distance. The giant figure drew nearer, the earth shaking under its immense weight. Nathan could see its hollowed eyes through the smoke, they were black pits of nothingness, with twisted branches that made up its body. The Willow had come for them.
But Nathan would not surrender. Not now.
With a fierce cry, he raised his rapier high and charged, his remaining men close behind him, ready to face the terror that awaited them.