The Last Witch: Volume Three

England. Five Years ago:

Night has fallen over the United Kingdom. Midnight approaches, and for many, they are sleeping soundly in their beds.

Fast asleep and sitting at the kitchen table, using a slice of marmite on toast as a pillow, a young Connor Quinn has drifted off whilst reading the life story of Genghis Khan. His mother affectionately rolls her eyes as she lifts his head and peels the cold piece of toast from his face. She replaces it with one of her jumpers, lovingly folded into a soft cushion. She brushes his hair from his face and kisses his forehead before leaving to join her husband in bed. She chuckles to herself at her son’s unusual habit of falling asleep on various condiment covered slices of bread with a book left wide open close by. The cuckoo clock chirps, signalling midnight as she passes, but even the shrill call of the wooden bird fails to wake her son.

Deep in the wilderness of the Pennine Way, a group of men, women and children gather around a campfire. Jensen Hartley among them. Together, they listen to Theodore Kendryk regale his people with stories of his wicked sons and their debauched plans for all those who stand against them. Jensen sits to the side of the gathering, nursing a bottle of beer. He disassembles his gun, carefully using his cleaning rod to wipe the barrel as he watches his most trusted friend tell the same story he has already heard a hundred times over. He wonders at that moment, what he would be doing right now if his wife and daughter were still alive. The watch on his wrist gives a small beep indicating that it’s midnight. He tuts at the dried blood-splatter on his weapon and reminds himself that next time he shoots one of those Nomad scum, he shouldn’t stand so close.

Bloodstains are a real shit to get out.

Down by the south coast, in a large mansion by the sea, dozens of men patrol the walled-in estate of the most powerful men in the world. They nod to one another as they pass and report the all-clear at every available opportunity. Inside, in the ground floor games room, two best friends and unknowing brothers, play pool and talk of women and whiskey. Gabriel Kendryk and Cailean Collins play shot after shot, rarely missing. Gabriel drags his fingers through his hair to get it clear of his eyes before putting a cigarette in his mouth. He pulls out his ringing phone from his jean’s pocket, groans and tosses the phone on the bar, ignoring the hopeful blonde calling him. Happily, he returns his full attention to potting the black. She was fun for a few hours of distraction, but not nearly special enough to keep him entertained for another night.

He wishes that he could find a woman to love. A woman that could capture his heart and maybe get it beating again. A strong woman. One filled with passion and fire and not just interested in him for his position in the coven, his magic or his good looks.

He’s been so empty for so long. So lost and alone.

Even his brother’s gone. There, in the house, but further away than ever before. He hates how displaced and cold his brother is. How stuck he feels, trapped in Grayson’s current as he charges forwards towards nothing good. Nothing good at all.

In the stately office, a little further down the hall, Grayson Kendryk issues orders to Hendrix Spencer. He wants to know who is responsible for the raid on one of the camps in Scotland. It was a small site, and the loss was inconsequential to him, but it has annoyed him nonetheless. Hendrix nods and leaves, growling as he hears the joyful laughter of the irresponsible fools down the hall. The clock in the lobby strikes midnight.

Thirty miles down the road, in a manor house set off the main road, Toby Smith has settled in for a night of debauchery in a high class and very discreet gentleman’s club. He takes his time choosing the whip he plans to use on his companion. He’s fired up after watching his future play-toy through the window this afternoon. He thinks of the bruises she had on her cheek. The swelling on her wrist. The cuts on her lip. She’s fucking perfect. Made to break. Made to hurt. Made to suffer. And she will do all of that for him. He needs to vent off this sexual frustration. His companion is a brunette. That’s no good. Toby demands she wears a wig for him, so she hurries off in her stupidly high heels to find just the right one. The more he watches the young Hooper girl, locked up and suffering in that old house on the moors, the more his desire to claim her grows. She’s so small. So delicate. So damaged.

She’s so… perfect.

When his companion returns, red wig in place, he chooses the nine-tail and shackles the pretty young thing to a magnificent four-poster bed. With each strike, he thinks of his future girl. His sweet young Red. She has no idea who he is yet.

Oh… but she will, he says to himself as the clock strikes midnight and the whack of the whip meeting flesh makes the girl scream out.

She will.

In the heart of the moors, just on the outskirts of a small village, the Hooper house is silent. The dogs are tied out front, sleeping soundly in their kennels. The maid has just finished her romance novel and turned off the light, ready to dream of her future knight in shining armour who will whisk her away and buy her a boat. Mr Simmons has just finished his weekly phone call to his husband, which ended in a nasty argument fueling his already short and fiery temper. Simmons pulls on his eye mask and huffs, annoyed that instead of going to fix things with his partner, he must instead spend his day baby-sitting the Hooper’s vile family secret.

It’s a good job they pay him well. Another couple of years, and he’ll be able to retire happily and comfortably.

Harry and Christa Hooper are already out cold, passed out on the sofa, sleeping off three bottles of wine and two glasses of port. The television is blaring. The cigar Harry was smoking has fallen from his lips and is slowly burning a hole in the rug. Christa dreams of the young gardener who will visit next weekend, the one who, for a small fee, will show her a few moments of pleasure.

Something her fat, balding quick-tempered husband hasn’t achieved once in all their years of marriage.

And upstairs, at the very end of the landing, is an old white door. Beyond that, up a bare flight of stairs which leads to the attic, another door.

Closed, but very much… unlocked.

In the attic, an old and broken bed lies empty. The duvet is strewn on the floor. A thin and ratty T-shirt has been tossed aside.

And a young woman screams against the clammy hand covering her mouth. Her hands grip the edges of the chest of drawers she’s bent over. Her hips slam into the wood again and again and again. Each thrust her captor delivers is more demanding than the last. He pants. The stench of sweat and stale liquor turns her stomach, but not as much as the pain does. It makes her dizzy. It makes her weep. Her tears fall over his knuckles as she holds on for dear life.

She closes her eyes and sends out a prayer.

Please, someone, anyone, save me… or just kill me. I can’t live like this anymore.

The next thrust is too violent, and she slips. Her head connects with the wall and she is given at least one mercy tonight.

Sweet unconsciousness claims the young Lilly Hooper, just as the grandfather clock down in the hall strikes midnight.