Read Online Salem's Fury (Vengeance Trilogy Book 2) by Aaron Galvin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Aaron Galvin
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northeast.
Faintly, the wind whispers.
Something comes…
Father places a hand on my shoulder, drawing my attention.
I find his appearance altered. Gone are his long locks and owl feathers, his head now shorn. A living demon crafted in twilight, save for the whites of his eyes.
Like the blood trail of a wounded animal, traces of sappy darkness remain on my shoulder as Father withdraws his hand. I gather the blackness coating his body comes not from ash or paint even before I touch it. Indeed, the residue feels warm, liken to tree sap, and stains my skin.
I glance up and see Father’s cheeks draw tight.
He seems hardly to breathe at all as we wait, listening for any sign the forest might give of that to come, any ill spirit that shares our hunting grounds this eve.
Then, more than whispers.
Slow and rhythmic, their beat falls steady as the spring rains on the home I share with Father and Sarah.
Drums. Their sound hails from the direction of our village. I grimace, knowing the time for rain dances have come and gone…
“Father,” I whisper. “What gives the grandfathers cause to bang the drums?”
He does not appear to have heard me at all. His vision shifts to the treetops and my prey as the gay sound of pipes emerge from deeper in the forest.
A shadow falls from the sky, shrieking, its mouth agape, eyes wild.
I whip my bow up. My string twangs, and a whoosh of air breezes near my cheek.
My arrow flies wide of the target.
The snarling beast lands atop my head, collapses me with its weight. Biting and clawing, its shrill voice fills my ears.
I swat at the moving mass of muscle and fur. My fingers clutch around its tail. I yank it free and its nails rend my scalp in reward.
Growling, the raccoon seeks a new handhold.
Its claws call fresh blood from my forearms. I fight the urge to scream, and give the beast little chance to find deeper purchase. Swinging it free, I release the animal into the night.
Limbs crack as it lands in the distance.
Pain flows from thin scratches the raccoon left me with, all of them oozing blood. Wetness dampens my brow.
I brush the stickiness away with my hands. Both come away spackled crimson-black. My limbs falter, and I kneel for balance as the unseen drums and flutes play on.
I blink away the blood dripping in my eyes, and notice Father watching me.
A shadow of Sarah’s voice reminds me his name is Priest.
But I find no benevolence in giving the man before me such a name. Indeed, witnessing Father in the cruel torchlight, I think it easier to understand how the natives named him Black Pilgrim. A worthy name to honor a formidable adversary , or so Bishop told me in the stories of my youth . I recall, even then, wishing I, too, could earn such a formidable name.
Now, I am uncertain.
Father stares down at me, much the same as the ringed-tail had from its lofty perch. Yet where the animal glared at me in malicious wonder, far worse lives in Father’s gaze.
Disappointment.
“Father,” I say. “Why did you not come to my aid?”
His silence angers me more than my open wounds.
I rise and feel another dizzy spell force me to earth again.
“Father…” I mutter.
Still, he makes no effort to visit me. Indeed, he turns to leave.
Fire rages in my spirit. Grunting, I fight to stand, closing my eyes to keep from falling once more.
“Father!” I call.
I reopen my eyes and find him halted.
I stumble closer to join him.
The world threatens to spin beneath me if I continue.
“Father…why did you not—”
I stop short upon seeing he holds a blade in his left hand—the same dagger I have often gazed upon many a time. The same weapon Sarah used to slay Hecate, the Devil’s daughter, and save our family in the life before.
With a flick of his wrist, Father throws the blade at my feet. Even in darkness, I know the name etched upon its blade— Captain John Alden, Jr. A family weapon passed down from father to bastard son, now embedded in the dirt between my
Faintly, the wind whispers.
Something comes…
Father places a hand on my shoulder, drawing my attention.
I find his appearance altered. Gone are his long locks and owl feathers, his head now shorn. A living demon crafted in twilight, save for the whites of his eyes.
Like the blood trail of a wounded animal, traces of sappy darkness remain on my shoulder as Father withdraws his hand. I gather the blackness coating his body comes not from ash or paint even before I touch it. Indeed, the residue feels warm, liken to tree sap, and stains my skin.
I glance up and see Father’s cheeks draw tight.
He seems hardly to breathe at all as we wait, listening for any sign the forest might give of that to come, any ill spirit that shares our hunting grounds this eve.
Then, more than whispers.
Slow and rhythmic, their beat falls steady as the spring rains on the home I share with Father and Sarah.
Drums. Their sound hails from the direction of our village. I grimace, knowing the time for rain dances have come and gone…
“Father,” I whisper. “What gives the grandfathers cause to bang the drums?”
He does not appear to have heard me at all. His vision shifts to the treetops and my prey as the gay sound of pipes emerge from deeper in the forest.
A shadow falls from the sky, shrieking, its mouth agape, eyes wild.
I whip my bow up. My string twangs, and a whoosh of air breezes near my cheek.
My arrow flies wide of the target.
The snarling beast lands atop my head, collapses me with its weight. Biting and clawing, its shrill voice fills my ears.
I swat at the moving mass of muscle and fur. My fingers clutch around its tail. I yank it free and its nails rend my scalp in reward.
Growling, the raccoon seeks a new handhold.
Its claws call fresh blood from my forearms. I fight the urge to scream, and give the beast little chance to find deeper purchase. Swinging it free, I release the animal into the night.
Limbs crack as it lands in the distance.
Pain flows from thin scratches the raccoon left me with, all of them oozing blood. Wetness dampens my brow.
I brush the stickiness away with my hands. Both come away spackled crimson-black. My limbs falter, and I kneel for balance as the unseen drums and flutes play on.
I blink away the blood dripping in my eyes, and notice Father watching me.
A shadow of Sarah’s voice reminds me his name is Priest.
But I find no benevolence in giving the man before me such a name. Indeed, witnessing Father in the cruel torchlight, I think it easier to understand how the natives named him Black Pilgrim. A worthy name to honor a formidable adversary , or so Bishop told me in the stories of my youth . I recall, even then, wishing I, too, could earn such a formidable name.
Now, I am uncertain.
Father stares down at me, much the same as the ringed-tail had from its lofty perch. Yet where the animal glared at me in malicious wonder, far worse lives in Father’s gaze.
Disappointment.
“Father,” I say. “Why did you not come to my aid?”
His silence angers me more than my open wounds.
I rise and feel another dizzy spell force me to earth again.
“Father…” I mutter.
Still, he makes no effort to visit me. Indeed, he turns to leave.
Fire rages in my spirit. Grunting, I fight to stand, closing my eyes to keep from falling once more.
“Father!” I call.
I reopen my eyes and find him halted.
I stumble closer to join him.
The world threatens to spin beneath me if I continue.
“Father…why did you not—”
I stop short upon seeing he holds a blade in his left hand—the same dagger I have often gazed upon many a time. The same weapon Sarah used to slay Hecate, the Devil’s daughter, and save our family in the life before.
With a flick of his wrist, Father throws the blade at my feet. Even in darkness, I know the name etched upon its blade— Captain John Alden, Jr. A family weapon passed down from father to bastard son, now embedded in the dirt between my
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