The Murder Of Willowstream

Ch.26. New Tomb

The Den seemed alien to them all now. An unwelcoming void, filled to the brim with unspoken secrets that hissed in the dark stone corners at the intrusion, and did not want anyone here. It writhed with a static discomfort just shy of being painful.

The smell of smoke and fire clung to their clothes in a stale miasma that refused to leave, and not a single one of them had yet dared to speak. Even Lily was quiet, holding herself close and uncharacteristically guarded. Like she had lost something deeply personal or had been wounded in the most intimate of ways.

They had left the burning Santana Manor before the fire department had made it's way to the scene, with Eve remaining behind to deal with the authorities and cling to the hope that her mistress was not gone. It wasn't the most responsible of behaviours: but given that none of them could come up with a reasonable explanation as to why they were there or what they could possibly find in it's kindling remains, the group had thought it best to leave.

"Alaric..." Rhys spoke, unnervingly shattering the silence that hung thickly with the unsaid words. But he needed him to understand that what happened wasn't his doing. It wasn't his fault. He needed Alaric to know that, despite what he had done, it had only been in what he thought to be his friends best interests. For his safety.

"Don't." Alaric's reply was short and blunt, leaving no room for retort. His look burned into Rhys' core with a fury that unseated every instinct in Rhys' body that now screamed at him to run. But there was no blame here. It was anger and bluster, and at the root of it all: guilt.

Alaric's eyes briefly looked passed over the shoulder of Rhys where they made contact with Lily, and he could not help but let his thoughts wander. Was this the price for the deal he had made? The loss of his friends. The loss for any hope at a happy family?

Fire, as with most creatures, was a true death for Vampires unlucky enough to escape its blaze. There was no way in his mind that his mother or father could have survived such a spontaneous inferno. Was it his fault he wondered. Or had the hunter coincidentally struck again at Willowstreams most powerful resident?

It didn't take long at all for Rhys' perspective to change on the atmosphere of the room. At first he thought it was his fault for the tension, but when he saw the knowing looks his friends seemed to be giving each other; he began to think otherwise.

"Did I miss something?" Rhys reluctantly asked, turning to Marshal who looked away sheepishly.

The feeling of dread that crept in seemed to fill the entire capacity of the small den. Patience, already burned thin from the fire, was rapidly thinning further, and Rhys felt himself begin to vibrate with nerves. No matter the cause for this expectant air, it was undoubtedly set in his mind that it was about him, and he hated it.

That was when the voice came. Causing them all to freeze on the spot at it's suddenness, like deer caught in the headlights. It was quiet at first. Louder than a whisper but audible over the wind that seemed to carry it, serpent-like, through out the den.

It grew louder, and louder, when their heads turned to discover the source; there, standing across the opposite end of the quarry, directly facing into their den: was Micah. He was small at this distance, but they didn't need sharp eyes to see his arms contorted at his sides as his body twitched in an aggressive manner. His eyes rolled back until just the white and veins were visible, his voice carried on the wind as if he was commanding right beside them. Each word caused the Den to shake with stone and dust. Sediment pouring, like a granulated waterfall, from every crack and crevice.

"Spirits of the Earth, I call to thee

Awaken and crush my enemy

Grind the flesh, and crack the bone