The Lost: Book Two of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 37

A/N: So, finally, here it is: the final chapter. Thank you to everyone who has voted and commented, it really does mean the world. I don’t have much else to say, it’s 2am here and I’ve got to be up in five hours for work, so I’ll stop rambling and ask you to vote and comment again if you happen to still be awake at this dark hour. 

 Thank you, you guys rock!

 Love Cinammon xxx

 PS. Are you ready for the end, dear Chapelites?

 

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The pain was immobilising.

The cold grip of grief had set into every muscle, every bone, every inch of my skin until I was prostrate in agony, still clutching onto Garrick’s body, with his blood on my hands and the taste of him on my lips.

Lifting my head, I stared blankly through the trees into the clearing. My vision was murky with tears but I could see our army’s retreat and figures disappearing into the forest. It was like watching the great walls of the citadel collapse before my eyes. The generals had fallen and brick by brick, the defenses had crumbled to the ground, leaving behind nothing but dust and a memory.

The remnants of the Varúlfur clans had followed their new leader into the darkness of Oxleas but I could hear their howls and knew they were not too far away.

Dazed and stricken, I let go of Garrick and stood up, feeling the utter emptiness like a rot festering in my gut. I don’t know how I managed to walk away. I was racked with a terrible sense of guilt and every step further away from him seemed like the worst betrayal.

Stumbling through the mud, I made my way over to where Harper lay, knocked out cold at the base of the mighty oak. Half of his face was drenched in blood and the angry wound on his cheek made my heart judder to see it. Vánagandr's claws had reached far deeper than I had thought. Around his throat, the skin was turning mottled purple as if he was wearing a dog collar of bruises and a deep stain spread down his shirt from the ragged gouge at the top of his arm.

Dropping to my knees beside him, I touched his cheek - the unscarred side - with my bloodied fingertips. "Harper?" I said. Nothing happened. "Harper?" I repeated, more insistent this time as I shook his shoulder gently.

A small moan escaped his lips.

With my hands under his armpits, I pulled him up off the ground to rest him against the trunk and as his head slumped to one side; it was then that I saw the blood matted in his dark hair. Touching the spot gingerly, I winced at the small indentation under my fingertips. The heavy weight of abject fear pressed down upon me. I had to get him up. I had to get him out of here.

I had made a promise.

"Wake up, Harper," I urged, feeling the panic seep into my bones. "We have to go now; we have to get out of here, before they come back. Please, I need you to wake up."

He moaned again and his eyelids flickered briefly.

"Come on, Cain," I growled. "You can do better than that. Wake up, damn it!"

His lips parted, a weak wisp of breath whistling out. A sliver of emerald appeared from under one lid but the other remained closed, the eyelashes matted together with blood and mud.

"I know you can hear me," I said, feeling the sob bubbling up in my throat. "Please.... please come back, I can't...." I broke down, unable to continue as the grief consumed me. It hurt so very much. It hurt to breathe, to speak, to think, to remember.