The Last Witch: Volume Three

After scouring every inch of this cell, it’s clear that there is no way out except the obvious. There are no loose bars or bricks I can prise free. The gaps between the metal bars in the window are far too narrow, even for my petite frame. So instead, I watch the door and listen for the sound of a key in the lock. As I do, other sounds reach me. The sounds of screaming and the harsh cries of pain. I sit hour upon hour, forced to listen to them. The sun moves slowly across the sky, and it takes everything I have not to let myself fall asleep. As dusk descends, the sky darkens and rain starts to fall. I’ve been given no food or drink since I arrived. The hunger I can cope with, but the thirst! It’s unbearable. I make my way towards the window and step up on the divots in the wall so I can stretch out my hand and catch some of the falling water to quench at least a little bit of this thirst.

Gripping the bars and feeling dizzy and cold, I watch the Hunters march back and forth, patrolling this fortress and happily chatting to each other. The large platform with the hanging nooses is still there and thankfully, empty. All the screams I’ve heard today have come from inside the castle walls. I wonder how many others are here, and most of all, I wonder fretfully where my dad is right now and what is being done to him. By the time night arrives, I have little strength and almost zero energy. I sit with my back against the wall and wait.

Wait for food. For water. For sleep or death in the form of torturing Hunters.

I must have drifted off because I jump awake when I hear a key turn and the wooden door open. I’m on my feet and ready to fight Mike or whoever else is heading this way.

It’s a woman dressed in the telltale coat with a gun tossed over her shoulder. She slides a bread roll across the floor to me and slams down a metal cup full of water.

‘Inquisition in the morning. You’re gonna need your strength,’ she says with a yawn, leaving swiftly and not even looking at me. I run to the bars.

‘HEY! WAIT!’ I call after her. She stops and turns on her heal with an annoyed sigh. ‘The man I was caught with. Where is he? Is he here?’

She lets out a scoff and rolls her eyes.

‘You lot speak fucking gibberish. Fucking vermin.’

She leaves and slams the door behind her, fueling my anger and frustration.

‘I’M SPEAKING ENGLISH, YOU BITCH!’ I kick the bars, ignoring the pain it creates in my toes. ‘WHERE’S JENSEN? WHERE’S MY DAD?’

I get nothing back except silence. I turn and feeling lost in hopelessness I slide down to the floor. I eye up the bread, covered in dirt, and decide that it’s not safe to eat it. It could be poisoned or laced with some kind of drug. The water too. I tip out its contents and keep a tight hold of the mug thinking that if Mike or any of his pals return tonight, I’ll slam it into his face.

Water trickles in through the window from the downpour outside. I watch it slide down the stone walls and as the sun sets, I hear a familiar sound. The scuttling of tiny feet. Two little rats scurry in through the bars, their noses twitching in the air, and they head straight for the bread roll. I watch them devour it. Either the poison doesn’t work on rats, or it’s pretty slow because they seem more than satisfied when they leave.

Then, I feel a sensation that is all too familiar wash over me. One that fills me with terror but also a glimmer of hope. I jump to my feet and clamber up the wall, peering through the bars with wide eyes and frantic breath. The Hunters start to gather, flocking towards the far left of the courtyard to an enormous, thick and formidable set of iron gates. There’s excitement between them. A restlessness and anticipation. As their trepidation grows, so too does the sensation of magic in the air.

It gets closer and closer and closer.

The iron gates open and a black four by four speeds in. As it skids to a stop, many Hunters gather around with straight backs and hands up high in salute.

The car door opens, and stepping out into the rain, with dirty blonde hair and a pulled-up collar, is Theodore Kendryk.

He looks around the courtyard as a Hunter starts speaking to him. As Theo’s eyes scan in my direction, I leap down and pin myself closer to the wall.

I listen to their footsteps as they head inside the castle and can’t help the smile on my face.

Yes, Theo is here and that is very, very bad.

But…

I can sense magic now, so that means the effect of the spell has worn off. If I can get close enough to Theo, I can use my Sensativa on him.

I can take his magic. His Energy and Telekinetic powers. I can find Dad and get us the hell out of here!

∞∞∞

I pace my cell, feeling Theo’s presence nearby but not close enough for him to walk through that door at any second. In my hand, I grip the mug which was brought in earlier. A pathetic weapon, but it’s all that I have right now. Feeling his magic, how angry and destructive it is, fills me with adrenaline. I give myself a pep talk as I stalk this small cell, telling myself I can do this. That I can fight him. That all I need to do is get close enough.

Hours pass. The rain continues to fall and the occasional flash of lightning illuminates my prison. I start biting my nails, wondering why Theo isn’t coming. What else could he be doing that would delay his gloating over my capture and the inevitable torment – accompanied by questions – regarding the journal, the spell he needs to resurrect the dead and where the others are hiding?

More lightning flashes beyond the window, and as I watch the ground light up, casting shadows of the bars across the floor, I realise something.

There’s no thunder.

I head to the window and cautiously pull myself up so I can peer through the bars. The courtyard ground lights up once more, but there are no streaks of lightning in the sky. No. Instead, it’s the windows opposite that illuminate from inside in a vibrant green colour.

It’s Theo’s lightning. And he’s using it mercilessly.

‘Dad…’

I turn to the bars of my cell and start screaming.

‘HEY!’ I yell. ‘HEY! HUNTERS! HEEEYYY!’

I take the metal mug and hit it as hard as I can, making as much noise as possible while screaming over and over for someone to come.

Eventually, the wooden door opens and in storms the female officer from before. The one who ordered Mike to leave.

‘You need to take me to Theo,’ I tell her. ‘You need to-’

In a swift move, she pulls out a baton and slams the butt of it into my stomach, sending me down to my knees, winded and struggling for breath.

‘Listen closely, freak. Unless you want trouble, I suggest you shut the hell up. You’re giving me a headache.’

‘You need to take me to Theo!’ I gasp. ‘Take me to him now!’

She sneers at me and shakes her head.

‘What is that? Some kind of weird, witch language? Is it devil speak? Huh?’ She crouches down, making herself eye level with me. ‘Speak English, vermin!’

‘I am speaking English, you backward, purist, piece of shit!’ I snap back, still holding my middle.

‘You know, I can not wait until tomorrow,’ she muses with a cruel smile on her lips and a far away glistening in her eye. ‘I just love watching you all kick and struggle as the noose hugs you tightly.’

I react to her words by spitting in her vile little face.

Slowly, she wipes it away, watching me with darkening eyes.

‘Seems you can understand me, even if I can’t understand you.’ She tuts and wags her finger in time with each tut. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

Angrily, she unlocks my cell. I’m dragged to my feet and led out through the wooden door, down a corridor and into a much larger room. There are two cells, one to the left and one to the right. But these are bigger and filled with people. As we walk through, they press their backs to the wall in terror. All of them wear the same grey smock I do. Their skin is dirty and pale. Most are badly bruised or cut. And all of them look terrified and starving. Ahead, as if on display in a museum, are devices.

Torture devices.

Things I recognise from the history books I used to read at Harry’s house.

Metal Thumbscrews. Pokers. The pear of anguish. The spiked chair. And a variety of whips.

She reaches out and selects a whip. Her weapon in hand, she presses me against the bars and before I can even turn to try and challenge her, she just starts hitting. Over and over, lashing at my back, over the smock, with all the strength she can muster. Her furious grunts echo around the room as the others gasp and whimper, looking on in terror. Each time I go to turn, she strikes until I fall to my knees. Her strikes are over the thick and coarse material of the smock so fail to break the skin, but hell am I going to bruise. She tosses the whip behind her and throws me into one of the cells.

‘If any of you,’ she screeches. ‘So much as looks at me, I will do the same to you.’ She then reaches out for one of the devices on the shelf and returns to the bars. She kneels so I can see what she holds in her hands. ‘And if you ever spit on me again, you filthy little rat, I will shove this inside you.’ She holds up the pear of anguish and turns the handle fervently, opening it wider and wider, bringing bile to my throat. ‘Got it?’

I give a single nod and lower my gaze.

With a slam, she returns the unholy implement to the shelf and heads to the door, but not before throwing out a few more threats.

‘For many of you, this sunrise will be your last. If you wish for your death to be swift, I suggest you contemplate how you intend to answer the questions you will be asked for the final time tomorrow. One!’ She holds up a finger. ‘Where are the Nomad camps? Two.’ She holds up a second finger. ‘Where are the remaining witches? Three.’ A third finger joins the other two. ‘Where is the journal? And four.’ She raises a final finger. ‘Where the fuck is Lilly god-damn-Hooper? Think on those, and you may be spared some torment.’

She leaves, slamming the door behind her.

I try to get up, but each attempt I make is weak and I fall back down once more. My back burns red hot. A familiar pain, I’m sad to admit, and one that reminds me far too much of a most miserable upbringing. I pull up my knees and gingerly try to sit. A pair of hands gently rest on my upper arms. And then another. Two men help me sit.

‘Easy,’ one of them says. ‘That’s it. Take it slow.’

‘Thank you,’ I tell them, blinking slowly. They keep me on my knees and hold me as I sway. Others join us, kneeling close by and offering words of comfort. ‘I’m alright. Really. I’ve had much worse.’ My attempts to brush off their help is met with a chorus of agreed murmuring.

‘We know, Lilly. But you’re still hurt.’

‘You know me? Wait. You can understand me?’

‘Of course we do and yes, we understand you.’

I lift my gaze and focus on their faces. ‘I know you,’ I tell the man who holds me up. ‘You’re… oh, you’re… Dylan, right? I met you at the Nomad camp way back.’

‘Yeah,’ he replies with a warm smile. ‘Back when Grayson was in charge. The night you and Gabriel got engaged.’

‘Yeah!’ I nod. ‘I also met your mum.’ His face falls at those words. ‘Oh… oh no she isn’t-’

‘Yeah,’ he sighs. ‘Last week. They hung her out in the courtyard.’ He nods as his eyes brim with tears.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I offer. ‘I truly am.’

‘It was quick,’ he says, swallowing painfully and sniffing. ‘I am thankful for that mercy.’

‘It’s a mercy a lot have failed to receive,’ the other man states grimly. ‘Forgive, me, Miss Hooper. But what are you doing here?’

‘Word was you were dead,’ a woman, probably in her mid-thirties with straggly black hair, calls over.

‘Or still Broken,’ adds another. ‘What’s with your eye? And the ends of your hair?’

‘It’s complicated,’ I reply. ‘I’m not Broken. I’m me. Don’t worry about the eye. I’m fine. And where I’ve been is… well it’s complicated. I don’t even understand it. And you know what else I don’t understand?’ I look to the door. ‘None of the Hunters seem to understand me.’ I look back at Dylan. ‘It’s like I’m speaking a totally different language and they don’t seem to recognise me. There are pictures of my face all over the television. Posters are plastered on walls all over the country.’

‘Maybe they’re playing some kind of twisted joke? Or maybe that woman doesn’t know who you are?’

‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘Theo’s here. He’s here and he’s been looking for me for a very long time. Yet, he hasn’t come to see me.’ I shake my head and groan against the pain. ‘I don’t think he knows I’m here. I don’t think any of them know who they have in their cell.’

‘Then we’ll try and keep it that way,’ Dylan promises. ‘We all know what he plans to use you for. We know Theo’s spell needs the death of as many connected to the Arcane Realm as possible. We’ll protect you, Lilly. As much as we can.’

‘Thank you,’ I reply. ‘But don’t put yourself in harm’s way. Don’t-’

‘We were born to protect you. Just as you were born to save us, we’ll help you in any way we can. I promise.’

I nod, knowing that there is little point in arguing. And I lack the strength even to try.

∞∞∞

The night passes us by in silence. There are murmurings about the distinct lack of Hunter presence in the cells. Dylan says that it’s not uncommon for the odd Hunter to pop in to “blow off some steam” or pass his shift “interrogating” the prisoners for information they know they do not possess.

Bunch of bloody psychopaths!

Food isn’t a given and water is sparse. They say it’s unsettling that not a single soul has entered the dungeon since my lashing. I drift in and out of an extremely uneasy sleep and when the sun starts to rise, it fails to break through the thick, heavy clouds. The rain continues to hammer down, sliding mud and filth down the holes that act as windows. When I’ve not been sleeping, I’ve been on my tiptoes, gripping the bars and pressing my bare feet into the cold, wet and moss-covered wall so I can see out of the window. It must be approaching midday when the Hunters out in the courtyard seem to come to life. They stop their casual banter and slow and steady patrolling and start to talk in excited whispers as they rush from place to place.

‘Something’s happening,’ I tell the others. Most of them join me at the window and haul themselves up to see.

The Hunters are starting to assemble. Many gather by the entrance gate to the courtyard. Dozens upon dozens leave the shelter of the castle and head into the rain, hoods up and heads down as they walk with purpose, gesturing animatedly to various items and locations that surround them. Orders are issued and they rush off, keen to fulfil their tasks swiftly.

Dylan groans and rests his forehead on the bars that cruelly separate us from our freedom. He tilts his head and looks at me with solemn eyes.

‘What is it?’ I ask, feeling a lump of dread rise in my throat.

Outside, the hard snap of wood draws my attention. The Hunters are atop the platform, testing the lever to the trap door beneath the hanging ropes.

‘It’s an execution day,’ Dylan replies. ‘When they get rid of all the people who are of no value.’

The lump in my throat gets much bigger.

‘But don’t worry. You’re new. You’ll probably just be made to watch the executions.’ His eyes glaze over and he adds quietly, ‘They like to bring us all out to watch.’

Not long after the brief check of the gallows’ effectiveness, the door to our cell is opened and countless Hunters, all dripping wet from the rain and with cruel smiles on their lips, start herding us out. To keep us in line and encourage our compliance, electric prods are jabbed into our sides, winding us sufficiently enough so we can barely stand, let alone try to run. Those unfortunate enough to lose their footing and fall are met with hard kicks to the ribs or the sole of a boot is slammed into whatever part of the body the Hunter can reach. We scramble through the narrow corridors, bumping into each other’s mostly bare flesh and helping to keep as many on their feet as possible.

Dylan stays close, his hand gripping my elbow. Many others encircle me and there’s an odd sense of acceptance shared among most of them.

That this is it.

This is the end.

Their final walk.

They have lived their whole lives knowing the risk that their very existence entails. As children, Nomads have been warned of what awaits them if ever captured. My brief time with them taught me that. And my best friend, dear sweet Amara, never held back in sharing the hardships that growing up in her way of life created. They have accepted that capture means death. And if their death is swift, it is a mercy. But swift or not, as soon as they are within a Hunter’s grasp, death is inevitable.

I don’t know what will happen next. If I am placed upon those gallows and still no one seems to recognise me, what do I do? Do I remain silent and follow my kin in their long drop with a sudden stop? Or do I call out? Tell them who I am? Will they understand my words because if the past few days have been any indication, they may not. I will die and the final spell may never be performed. A spell I don’t even know if I can accomplish. The event may have already passed. It has been a year after all.

I could get one of the others to call out. Dylan, perhaps? He could tell them who I am. Let them know I am here and together we could try to make a deal to spare the others.

But Theo needs them dead, I remind myself. He needs as many, if not all of us, dead. That includes my child, if she is alive, that is, and myself. The only value I have to him is to read the spell he so dearly desires.

As my thoughts rage and my fear for all of these people starts to overwhelm me, others begin to join the bustle from other cells, all wearing the same dirty old cotton smocks. It’s so cramped I can barely move in any other direction except forwards. They hunch over, groaning in pain from injury or slow starvation. A man beside me has a wound on his face, festering and oozing pus. His skin is green and I know there is poison in his blood. A woman ahead looks back at me. Her lips are swollen and bruised. Her lower face is covered in dried blood. When she winces, I see that her teeth have been pulled from her gums. Every single one. An older man coughs blood over the back of the person ahead of him before falling to the floor. We try to lift him again, but the sheer volume of people pushing us forward means that he’s lost to us all underfoot. Then, as if this nightmare couldn’t get any worse, a small and shivering hand grabs mine. I look down and see the widest and most terrified eyes I have ever seen in all my life.

‘Clara?!’ I gasp, not failing to hide the sob that comes with it as I see Billy Songer’s daughter, the little girl from the auction, looking up at me. Her mouth tries to move, but not a single sound comes out. Her tiny hand almost claws at me in desperation. I swoop her up, pinning her to my body as she wraps her small legs around my waist. She’s shaking as if being electrocuted. The chattering of her teeth is so violent I fear they will shatter. ‘I’ve got you,’ I tell her, frantically looking for a way out, an escape, or someone to help. But the only other faces I see that don’t belong to the half-dead and traumatised are those who jeer and yell at us to “shut up” and “keep moving”. And the only other door I see, is a large, solid iron one painted a deep red, straight ahead. It groans open and we’re all shunted and shoved towards it, straight into the heavy rain and thick mud. As the rain falls over us, we’re kept in formation by the threat of guns and vicious dogs with snarling jaws that snap and growl, pulling hard on their leashes, desperate to get their teeth into a straggler. I keep whispering to Clara. I tell her she’ll be okay and I pray to the heavens, through the black clouds and falling rain to whoever may be listening far beyond, that I’m not lying to her. As we’re marched across the courtyard, we start getting filed into two separate paths. One leads to the right, towards the gallows. The other leads left to something that was just out of view from the windows of the cells.

Two large cages, perhaps four meters by two and made entirely of black metal bars, sit side by side. There is no distinction between who is sent where. Dylan’s arm is grabbed and he’s pulled away from me. To the right. And I, still holding Clara tightly to my chest, am herded left to one of the cages. I stumble up the grilled stairs that pinch and hurt my bare feet and stagger inside. I’m lost in the crowd of people, all wailing and pleading as they try to protect themselves from the jabbing of the cattle prods beyond the bars. The floor of the cage is grated, just as the steps are. The holes are small enough so we can’t fall through them and sharp enough that it’s agony to hold your own weight. I stumble, fighting through the pain as I take Clara’s weight too. But no way I let her go. Her face is buried in my neck and her quickened little breaths have my hairs standing on end. After a minute, the cage door is shut behind us and locked. The Hunters back up, slapping each other on the back for a job well done. They keep their eyes on us, admiring their handiwork. Frantically, I search for a way out. Everyone does.

My eyes examine every inch of the cage while I’m jostled against bodies, and I desperately try to keep my footing on the sharp metal beneath my feet. Not only are there no weak points, but as I’m shunted to the far side and my arm meets the bars, I realise that there is something really, really wrong.

Sickeningly so.

With one hand still holding Clara, I reach out and pick at the odd substance encasing the bars. It reminds me of the grill Uncle Harry would have me clean every time he wanted to fire up the barbecue. When it wasn’t washed from its last use, the skin of the meat would be encrusted to it, and it would take ages to scrape off.

Slowly, I look down.

Below us, in a separate compartment below the cage, are a series of silver tubes, the ends of which are burned black. Charred bones litter the ground below, as well as the odd piece of partially melted jewellery.

We’re in a giant fucking furnace.

I hold Clara tighter. Others embrace those beside them, sharing words of comfort. Tears streak down their faces and they sob so sadly it breaks my heart. Others look catatonic. Their eyes are vacant and grey. Their mouths are moving, but I can’t make out what’s being said. Perhaps they’re saying a final goodbye to the ones they are about to leave behind. Maybe they have simply lost their minds. Perhaps they’re talking to God or merely telling themselves the same thing I keep saying to this small child currently clinging to me.

‘It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.’

Beside the gallows is another cage, but that one is more of a holding pen. I spot Dylan looking through the bars, yelling. But I can’t hear his words through the torrential rain and anguished cries of those around me.

A loud and high-pitched siren wails overhead. It carries on for several seconds and stops only when we’ve all fallen silent.

A harrowing hush falls over the courtyard.

Two men in Hunter uniforms walk onto the platform, carrying with them a solid wooden table. They slam it front and centre before stepping aside. Only then do I realise that on the far corner of the platform is a heavy-duty camera being operated by a Hunter. He takes his time, ensuring that the lens captures everything that he wants to be captured.

Behind the platform, the doors to the castle open wide.

Four Hunters step out, marching in step with their backs straight and faces forwards. Behind them, two other men emerge.

Naked, bleeding, bruised and barely able to walk… my father.

Chains bind his feet, barely giving him enough slack to take a proper step. His hands are clamped in heavy cuffs in front of him. His grey hair is clumped together in blood and hangs over his face. He’s slow. Limping and pulling one of his feet behind him.

He’s pushed forward by a man in a large, grey, hooded coat.

The Grey-Cloak.

The man who murdered my husband.

And now he has my dad.

He stumbles forwards. His groans of pain travel clear across the courtyard as he tries to lift his head. He comes to the platform and with difficulty, starts to climb the steps. The Grey-Cloak walks close behind him as my dad struggles with every step. The chains around his feet are barely long enough to allow him to climb. When he reaches the top, the Grey-Cloak takes his elbow and positions him beneath one of the nooses.

Only then does Dad manage to lift his gaze. His eyes scan the two cages directly in front of him. His eyes are almost swollen shut and blood trickles down most of his face.

My Sensativa senses Theo’s magic. With each passing second, I feel him closing in. Sure enough, he walks through the door and bounds up the steps to the platform, taking his place beside my dad. The rain falls over him and a twisted look of excitement washes over his face.

‘Welcome,’ he calls to us all, laughing at his opening word. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am that you could make it here for this monumental occasion.’ He claps his hands together and almost everyone in the cage, myself included, jumps.

The Hunters around us chuckle amongst themselves, watching their master with admiration.

‘Now, I don’t usually enjoy coming to watch you leave this world. But today? Well, today is special. Because here with me now is a man I once called “Friend”.’ He looks at my dad. ‘It is not very often that I would ever admit openly that I considered myself capable or inclined to hold someone as a friend, but on this occasion, I did. And just as I suspected, I was left disappointed… and betrayed.’

He points to the camera and turns to face it with his head held high.

‘I speak to you now directly,’ Theo says. ‘To Tobias Kendryk. To Cailean Collins. To Connor Quinn and – If you are still out there somewhere – Miss Lilly Hooper.’

I feel the blood drain from my face as I realise, he’s filming. This is going out on Television just as with the other executions.

‘I want Connor Quinn or Lilly Hooper. I want back what you stole. You had until midday today to provide them. I have given you twelve hours to contact me. I warned you all that if you failed, there would be consequences.’ He steps aside, revealing my dad to the world. He then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone. He holds it high. ‘You have my number. Call me now. I will stop this.’

He waits, hand high and eyes unblinking as he stares down the camera.

Behind him, The Grey-Cloak steps forwards. He takes three strides and then stops.

I’ll be damned if he’s not looking straight at me. He has his hood up and his face is completely concealed, but I swear I can feel his eyes boring into me, all the way from over there.

I feel the blood in my veins start to boil and a deep hatred and need for retribution rise in my chest.

She’s there. Inside. Whispering to me. Telling me what I need to do. Who I need to kill.

The minutes that pass are agonisingly long. When a bell tolls, signalling midday, Theo slowly places his phone back in his pocket and sighs while shrugging his shoulders.

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

With a click of his fingers, the sound of hissing starts beneath our feet and the stench of gas fills my nostrils. Everyone starts screaming. The cage beside us is filled with petrified commotion as their gas pipes are turned on too. Clara clamps around me like a vice and feeling her tiny little frame tremble is too much to bear.

Theo’s malice filled voice calls out loudly. ‘Let’s get started, shall we?’

I scream out, calling his name as loudly as I can.

‘I’M HERE!’ I yell. ‘THEODORE KENDRYK! I’M HERE! LILLY HOOPER IS RIGHT HERE!’

But my voice is lost amongst the countless others.

A Hunter turns on a flamethrower and faces us.

‘Let the games begin,’ Theo laughs, as the Hunter releases a stream of fire.

The flames from the cage beside us burn bright. Soon the smell and the smoke from their flesh make it hard to breathe. Dark shadows thrash inside the inferno. The roaring of the heat almost drowns out the cries of the dying. I slam my hand over Clara’s ear and pin her close, hoping to hell she doesn’t look. Theo glances at his phone with his hand on his hip, watching it impatiently and getting more and more frustrated when it fails to ring. I call out again, desperately trying to be heard over the carnage. Dad watches the burning cage, his chest shuddering as he cries, but the Grey-Cloak… he keeps looking straight at me.

The gas below our feet shuts off after Theo waves a disinterested hand in the air and with yet another shrug, he strides towards my dad.

‘Where is she?’ he demands.

‘Dead,’ he replies. ‘I told you.’

‘Last chance. Where is-’

‘I ain’t telling you anything different, you fuck.’

Theo observes his old friend for a moment, contemplating whether he’s telling the truth or not. But he knows, either way, that no other answer will pass his lips.

Theo gestures to the Grey-Cloak and issues an order.

The Grey-Cloak seems to hesitate, his feet shuffling side to side. Only when Theo turns to look at what he’s so distracted by does the intense stare from the psychopathic mass murderer in grey come to an end. Instead, he turns his attention to my dad and pulls a noose over his head.

Theo turns to face us all, and then turns to the camera.

‘This man is a traitor. He betrayed me. He betrayed us all and sided with the monsters that seek to destroy this world. There is only one punishment fit for a traitor.’ He looks at my dad. ‘You, my friend, are sentenced to be hung… drawn… and quartered.’

‘NO!’ I cry out, but no words pass my lips. ‘STOP!’ Again, nothing. My voice has gone. It’s not just failed me, it’s abandoned me completely.

I watch helplessly as the Grey-Cloak tugs on the other end of the rope and pulls. Dad’s feet kick out and shake as he’s hoisted up. I keep trying to shout. I never stop! Nothing leaves my mouth except heavy and frantic breathing, accompanied by desperate sobs.

Dad!

When his struggles lessen, The Grey-Cloak lets go of the rope and drops him in a barely conscious state to the wooden floor of the platform. The noose is removed and my dad is placed on his back atop the table. The Grey-Cloak shackles down his hands and feet while another throws ice over him, waking him up. From his belt, the Grey-Cloak unsheathes a long-curved blade and stands over my dad.

No. No. No, no, no, no, NO!

I shake uncontrollably, desperately screaming but not able to make a sound. My throat is red-raw with the effort!

Has my Broken side stolen my voice? What the fuck is happening?!

The blade moves slowly as it descends on my dad’s torso.

I feel sick and dizzy, desperately wanting to look away but unable to stop from watching.

The sounds around me fade.

The burning cage beside me. The wails of those pressed against me. The cheering and jeering of the Hunters around me. The sobbing of the little girl in my arms.

I think that perhaps I’ve gone deaf.

But then a voice whispers to me, from deep within. For once, it’s not my Broken-self. It’s someone else. A ghost.

‘Go to sleep, Lilly. Close your eyes… and sleep. They are coming.’

As if someone is slowly dimming the lights, everything goes black.

‘They are coming…’

I slide down the bars, still holding Clara as my head gets too heavy to bear. I rest it there, on the flesh covered bars, and slowly blink with heavy eyelids.

‘They are coming… I am so, so sorry. Just hold on.’

The last thing I see in the small tunnel of light left is the tip of the blade sinking into my dad’s stomach, and the thrashing of his body as it slowly, so slowly draws upwards.