The Lost: Book Two of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 36

A/N: Greetings dear Chapelites and welcome to the penultimate chapter of The Lost. The final chapter will be posted tomorrow, however please please do vote and comment on this chapter, I still need all your support! Thank you to the many of you who commented on last night’s installment, it’s very much appreciated.

With love,

Cinnamon xxxxx

PS. Are you ready?

 

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As Barton's body fell to the ground; shots began to ring out, bullets cutting into flesh, the Varúlfur, at first, appeared disorientated, shaken by the unexpected murder of one of their own from an unseen foe hidden out in the woods. But soon they re-grouped, their senses pricked and they were alerted to the army that descended upon them from the traitorous trees that had concealed its presence so well.

Fenton's cell picked off the first line of Varúlfur that charged towards the trees and I had to admit, I saw some sense now in his insistence that guns were a necessary evil in our war against the beasts and was certainly grateful for his people's expert marksmanship as one after another fell to the ground. Those that didn't fall were mortally injured and would be easy for the rest of the army to finish off up close.

Harper, Garrick and I burst into the clearing, blades at the ready as the closest Varúlfur lunged at us, jaws snapping and claws slicing through the air. Ducking under its reach, I spun and caught it across the side, prising open its flesh with one clean swipe of my weapon. Encircling it, Harper and Garrick did the same, catching it as it turned to lash out at the nearest assailant, only to realise it had another one to contend with and whirl back round to face them instead. Blow by blow, the beast, dripping blood from countless slashes to its foul body, was soon brought to its knees, where I plunged my blade deep into its throat, right up to the hilt.

Hearing a thunderous howl, my head shot up to see Vánagandr disappearing into the trees on the far side of the clearing, with Paul and the rest of the Noble clan spread out behind, blocking it off from any assault.

"He's leaving," I cried out. "Vánagandr is fleeing!"

"They're protecting their leader," called back Garrick, through gritted teeth, slicing the throat of one of the bullet-wounded fallen Varúlfur. "They can't risk Vánagandr getting shot."

Another beast charged at us and I winced as one of its deadly claws caught me on the shoulder, shoving me into the path of Harper, who snaked an arm around my waist, plucking me out of harm's way just in time as the Varúlfur attempted to reach me. Noting the blood that had quickly seeped through my shirt, Harper snarled with a boiling fury and threw himself at the animal, expertly avoiding its flailing arms and whipping around behind it. From the front, Garrick and I kept the beast busy, but all the while it knew Harper was closing in from the rear and its eyes took on a fevered, panicked glaze as it realised it was surrounded. Garrick's gaze flitted to Harper's and they nodded to each other in silent agreement. Making the first move Garrick leapt forward, catching the creature's attention and giving Harper the perfect opportunity to strike. With tremendous force, he thrust his blade into the Varúlfur's back, almost severing the spine at the base and causing the beast to crumble to the ground, its legs now useless. Howling pitifully, the Varúlfur tried to drag its crippled body away, but Harper kicked it onto its back and without a shred of mercy, he plunged the vicious blade directly into its throat.

Standing up, he sniffed derisively and spat on the ground next to where the beast lay. When he looked up again, we locked eyes for a split second and I felt the heat like a bittersweet sucker punch to the gut. He wiped the side of blade across his filth-caked jeans and on we went, throwing ourselves back into the battle that raged all around us.