Chapter 11 Arwyn
ARWYN
Idreamed of Hector.
His infectious smile that was as rare as the crystals beneath the earth’s crust. His hesitant touch that screamed of desires he was afraid to share. And his eyes—those bright windows to a soul that I wished I was truly worthy of.
But I wasn’t. No amount of pretending or illusions could achieve it again, not now the truth of my darkness was out in the light.
My childhood had been a storm of abuse and lack of love.
It had become so normal for me that I never expected or wanted for anything more.
Until those weeks with Hector, and now it was like life just wasn’t worth anything without that companionship.
And even in my groggy, drugged state I recognised that, sinking unseen claws and refusing to forget.
“He’s awake.”
I struggled out of the half-waking, half-dreaming state, begrudgingly leaving Hector behind.
As soon as my body gained some sense of reality, I was aware that I was in a vehicle of some kind.
A smooth road rumbled beneath me, the upright fixture at my back rocking to the rhythm as it jolted over a speed bump and pothole.
My eyes fluttered open to find three unfamiliar faces peering down at me. There was barely any natural light, all besides that which haloed the back of their heads. But there was something I recognised, and it was these men’s fear. It was potent as sugar on my tongue as they looked down at me.
“Morning,” I spluttered, lips cracked and throat dry. Damn, I was as parched as the desert, and my head felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it.
At least, I wish they had.
“Someone get more of the haloperidol.”
My first instinct, at the mention of my father’s favourite sedative, was to lift my hand up, wrap it around a throat and squeeze until the life left my victim’s eyes. But that was no good when I realised that I’d been strapped down.
My arms and legs were bound in more than two places per limb, thick leather straps keeping me on what must’ve been some sort of hospital bed. That was when I noticed what was different about the vehicle I found myself awake in.
It was some sort of van. Medical equipment and shelving units throughout. There was just about enough room for the three armed Witch Hunters to sit vigil at my side, waiting nervously for me to wake.
My sluggish mind took a moment to realise I was in an ambulance.
My second instinct was to reach out with my Gift, encase these men’s minds in some horrifying illusion, and ruin their lives.
Before I even reached for it, I sensed the disconnect between me and my power.
Not only that, but Bahmet was as silent as ever.
And considering, up until now, that was exactly how I preferred the demon using my skin as a puppet, I had never been so desperate for his control.
“Where am… I?” I growled, to the dismay of the three Witch Hunters trying to decide which pre-made needle was loaded with haloperidol, and which was filled with something else.
No one answered, which didn’t surprise me.
“I will give you a second to answer, or I will feast upon your flesh until I need to pick veins from beneath my teeth,” I spat, recognising just how ridiculous I sounded.
It worked though. The three Hunters paused their task, horrified eyes falling back on me.
Illusions were not all about magic. Regardless if I could weave something powerful around them, it was the will of the person creating it that mattered to how believably it manifested.
So, I took the fear these Witch Hunters had of me, and gathered it in my powerless palm.
For all they knew, my magic wasn’t dampened by thistlebane, or whatever they’d been pumping me with.
I was still a witch… I was still the host of a demon lord.
“Answer me… quickly,” I said with a slow cadence. “I fucking hate waiting.”
The three chicken-shit men shared a look, before one of them cleared his throat and answered.
“We’re heading to London to meet with Father Tomin,” he said.
I could’ve guessed. Last I remembered I was in an abandoned hangar in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, being taunted with a television showing Hector’s downfall.
I’d pleaded with… my aunt—my bloody aunt for his safety.
Then there was a prick in my neck and the world faded to black.
Somehow I knew more time had passed since then; perhaps it was the ache in my neck that suggested more than one needle had interrupted skin, or the discomfort my body was in from being forced in the same position.
“When do we arrive?”
More silence, more frightened and hesitant looks. “In a couple of hours at most.”
Curse my burning thirst, because the next word came out weak and scratched, to the sudden humour of the three peering at me. “Why?”
“That’s enough. If he could hurt us, he would’ve done so already. Sedate him.” One of the Witch Hunters pushed a syringe into the shaking hands of another. “No more questions, and no more answers otherwise Father Tomin will have our necks. Orders have been explicitly clear.”
“You do it then,” the spotty teenager in far-too-big Witch Hunter garb replied, pushing the syringe in the other’s direction. “I’m not going near… it.”
“Pussy,” the third added, a wiry-looking middle-aged man with a nasty scar down the side of his face.
When he made an expression of disgust towards me, it made him look like he wore a Halloween mask.
It was the way his eye tugged down, and his left lip pulled upwards due to the mess of scarred tissue.
“Perhaps he is the smart one,” I bit back.
The scarred Hunter rolled his eyes. “Arwyn has no power, otherwise we’d be dead already. Isn’t that right?”
I couldn’t lie to myself and pretend I wasn’t even the smallest bit impressed with this man’s sudden aggression towards me. Not but a couple of minutes ago he was shaking in his unpolished boots when he simply looked at me.
“How about you come a little closer to me, and we can test your theory.”
His smirk faltered, but to my surprise he took steps towards me, the syringe outstretched.
I thrashed in the bed as much as my bindings allowed, snapping teeth and hissing like a feral cat.
Something inside of me, a slumbering power dampened by the sheer amount of thistlebane in my blood, seemed to raise a head in inquiry.
“Witch sympathisers will die by fire too, you know.” He put a hand on my shoulder, fingers pinching into the muscles beneath my thin black top.
No doubt he’d leave a bruise. Honestly, I’d prefer him to be harsher with me.
Because the more he hurt me, the quicker the darkness inside was waking.
“As soon as Father Tomin finds a way to get what he needs from you, you’ll be the first in line to burn on the pyre for the world to see.
I look forwards to experiencing what your skin smells like as it melts off your bones. ”
Hot breath worked upon me as he leaned in close, guiding the needle to my neck. “I’m the key to my father’s success,” I replied through clenched teeth. “My life is the only one secured out of the four of us. Don’t for a second think otherwise.”
The Witch Hunter’s smile deepened until his chestnut eyes burned with a darkness I once recognised in myself. A blind hate for a being they knew little about. “Is it?” He withdrew the syringe. “Do you know what then, if that’s the case I have an offer for you.”
I should’ve expected this coming.
“Name it,” I said.
“It would be easy for me to pretend we used up all the haloperidol, you know. I could tell them upon arrival that you were well-behaved. But for that, you will need to give me something. Give us all… something. Isn’t that right, boys?”
The two agreed in tandem, one less enthusiastic as the other.
I leaned up as much as my bindings allowed, leather pinching into my sweat-slick skin. “A Gift, you mean? I can almost see how hard you’ve become at the concept of power.”
My comment wasn’t a dig. The man literally had a tent in his loose trousers, one he didn’t bother to rearrange.
He nodded, eyes fixed to mine. It was the gaze of a starved man, a man looking at something he’d always wanted, and would do anything to get. “Exactly that. We’ve heard what you gave some of the Witch Hunters. And I—we will spare you if you offer us the same.”
A violent bout of sickness gripped at my stomach.
When I’d first returned after the Witch Trials, when Bahmet was louder and more prominent—not drugged with thistlebane—the demon had been glad to help my father.
I remembered sitting on a chair at the end of a church isle, as the pews were filled with Witch Hunters, when my father asked of me to bless his most loyal followers with a Gift.
Power that witches were given when they traded their souls to Bahmet.
And I did it, because I had no choice. Now, it was different.
I had a choice, and I clung to that because, in a twisted sense, it reminded me I still had some level of control in my hands.
“No.” I smiled a wide, wolfish grin. “I don’t think I will.”
The Witch Hunter dove forwards, growling frustration out of yellowed teeth. “Prick. Waste of time.”
I’d learned two things about my guards in the short time I’d been awake. They were scared of me, but also desperate. And in the messy combination of these two qualities, they would make themselves vulnerable, even to a person bound down.