The Hallowed Forsaken: First Book of the Aradian Read online

  The Hallowed Forsaken

  First Book of the Aradian

  J.A. Pettingale

  Copyright © 2021 J.A. Pettingale

  The right of J.A. Pettingale to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any other form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Untitled

  1. The Perfect Image

  2. The Cult of the Deorum

  3. Officer Pierce Reporting

  4. Life and Death

  5. The World You Didn’t Know

  6. Influential Benefactors

  7. Donovan Gesture

  8. First Impressions

  9. One of the Family

  10. Heaven Under the Sun

  11. The Great Library of Information in Relation to the Magical Arts

  12. Aradia Vastate

  13. The Honour in Duplicity

  14. Discordant Leadership

  15. From Caesars to Constantine

  16. Assertions of the Dead

  17. A Girl’s Best Friend

  18. A Plan Into Motion

  19. Omen Couture’s Spectacularly Odd Circus Show

  20. Meeting the Maker

  21. Trials of Strength

  22. An Unfortunate Hypothesis

  23. Turbulent Connections with New Faces

  24. Riches and Wonders

  25. Intangible Attachment

  26. A Taste of Blood

  27. Love and Introspection

  28. Alone at Last

  29. Confined Invasion

  30. Unfettered but Imprisoned

  31. The Pitfalls of Hubris

  32. Tribulation and Revelation

  33. A Morbid Victory

  34. The Hearts of You and Me

  35. Dramatis Personae

  36. Character Themes Playlist

  37. Sariyah’s Mix

  “But man, proud man,

  Drest in a little brief authority,

  Most ignorant of what he’s most assured,

  His glassy essence, like an angry ape,

  Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven

  As make the angels weep.”

  William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure

  1

  The Perfect Image

  Patience had never been Sophie’s strong suit. So much to do and so little time to do it. She had books to read, TV to watch, and it had never once occurred to her that things should take more than a couple of seconds to get going. The plague of an on-demand culture, she mused, a complex notion for a girl of sixteen, reflecting on the impatient whims of the modern teen.

  Her bedroom perfectly reflected the house to which it belonged. Affluence and grandeur took pride of place. Beyond her queen-sized bed and walk-in wardrobe, an imposing bookcase housed endless novels; pages filled with stories that reflected her refusal to be that common cheerleader, or so she liked to think. Lovecraft and Kantian ethics dominated the dark oak encasement and created the perfect image of an intellectual that she so desired. Although, it had been some time since she’d actually read one of them.

  A timid tap at the door echoed around the room, and Sophie sat up on her bed, grumpy to have been disturbed from her reflection. She quelled her displeasure and spoke lightly.

  “Enter.”

  The door opened cautiously and a young maidservant poked her head and half a shoulder into the room. She made to speak, then hesitated and took a short breath. Sophie’s gracious demeanour cracked slightly.

  “Well, go on then, what is it?”

  The maid leaned in a little more and the door made the creaking sound that always caused Sophie to grate her teeth.

  “I... was just coming to ask if you’re ready for church, Miss Sophie?”

  “Of course I’m ready!” Sophie snapped, the pretence of patience gone. She glowered at the maid. “You should know I’m always prepared and on time. It is only proper.”

  The poor girl’s eyes grew wide and she gripped the door a little tighter.

  “Yes, of course, I know that, Miss Sophie... your mother... was asking.”

  “Well, tell her yes, I’m ready.”

  The maid nodded and hastily retreated.

  These servants, Sophie thought, always so timid.

  Despite her curt response, Sophie checked her appearance in the full-length mirror that stood as proudly as herself in the corner of the room. All seems to be in order, she thought, adjusting the waistband of her light green summer dress. The colour complimented her emerald eyes, and the polka dot pattern accentuated the raven locks that hung just past her shoulders. She slipped her bare feet into some matching green ballet flats and did a little jump and tap to check that nothing was loose.

  She was no stranger to going to church, her family attended every Sunday, but for some inexplicable reason, today her mother was taking extra precautions to check that she was prompt and presentable. She had no qualms with this, she always loved to attract some eyes, but sending the maid to check on her… why the sudden attention?

  As if echoing the thought, her bedroom door swung open – this time with a graceful ferocity. A woman entered with a long stride, her heels clicking on the wooden boards. Sophie spun to face her.

  “Good morning, Mother.”

  “Good morning, my dear.”

  Cecilia Lockwood had an immense presence, a naturally ostentatious air that followed wherever she went.

  “Dear, we’re leaving soon. You had better be ready by the time I call you to the car.”

  “Oh, don’t worry Mother, I’m ready now!” Sophie smiled

  “Don’t be silly – not in that pitiful servant’s gown. Put on something proper; you’ll embarrass us.”

  With one simple remark and the slight wave of a dismissive hand, Sophie’s heart sank. Her eyes flickered downward for a moment before returning to her mother’s gaze.

  “Yes, Mother... I’ll be ready.”

  Cecilia gave a curt upward nod, jutting her chin forward before turning to leave. Sophie dared to ask… “Mother?”

  She turned her head slightly to look back.

  “Yes?”

  “Will Father be joining us?” Sophie’s confidence wilted even as she spoke.

  “Your father will meet us there. Now get changed.”

  Without another word, she left before Sophie could think about prolonging the encounter – not that she wanted to.

  Glad for the respite from her mother’s severe expectations, she let her shoulders slump and quickly closed the door.

  Maybe one day I’ll manage to impress her? she thought gloomily, kicking off the wretched shoes and returning to her wardrobe.

  The dark oak sliding door revealed an array of extravagant dresses – outfits for any occasion or weather, and then some. It was a sight that always pleased her.

  Carefully, she removed a fashionable black knee-length dress, with layers of fabric overlapping to give it texture. She changed into it and stepped back in front of the mirror. She truly hoped that this would pass under the captious eye of her mother.

  Satisfied, she went to the window and knelt on the generous sill to look outside. She let her feet hang behind her and pressed her palms flat on the cool glass. It was something she’d done ever since she was a child – to survey the acres of land she was heir to; to watch the little people work and till the l
and that would be hers. From her lofty vantage point the estate workers seemed so modest and feeble, perspective creating the illusion that she could hold them in her upturned hand. She had always liked that thought.

  Sophie brought up a hand to shield her eyes from the Georgian sun that assailed her bedroom so intrusively in these early mornings. As blinding as it was, she enjoyed the effect it had on her room – making it even more visually striking. The light flooded through the great window and seemed to be absorbed by the black wooden floor, frames and wall paint. At the same time, it was reflected back by the blindingly white crisp linen of her bed and from the spines of her book collection. Sophie liked to fantasise that anyone entering the room to be greeted by this dazzling assault on the senses would attribute it to her radiant beauty. But it was just the contrast between light and dark, even she had to admit that.

  She gazed out of the window for quite some time before seeing “him” again. Sophie couldn’t remember the actual name of the chauffeur and general groundsman, but he always unsettled her. His complexion was of a sickly pallor and when he walked, he moved with such grace that it almost seemed unnatural. He was standing beside her mother’s Mercedes-Benz S-Class, a fine piece of modern engineering with an extravagant price tag.

  The car and the aberrant man waited patiently on the gravel driveway. Sophie watched him standing idly, looking down the estate road. What was that line her parents always said about him? She couldn’t quite drag it from the cloud of thoughts that occupied the recesses of her mind. The thought was almost in reach when she spied her mother parading out of the pristine, tinted glass doorway of the house, her usual snide smile in place. Before Sophie could react, her mother turned on the spot with the refined movement of an experienced dancer and set her eyes upon the window of Sophie’s bedroom on the third floor. Piercing cerulean eyes burrowed deep, critical fissures into Sophie’s chest and her body automatically lurched as she noted a single beckoning finger.

  Sophie leaped across her bedroom floor and forced her feet into some black mid heels, before almost staggering out of the room – a travesty if any servant saw her – but she didn’t have time to concern herself with such vexations.

  Hurriedly, she made her way across the balcony landing, moving quickly while attempting to retain as much dignity as possible. She passed the doors to the second living space and her parents’ bedroom that she knew so well, and descended the two-way marble staircase, her hand gently sliding down the burnished banister.

  Reaching the ground floor, her head automatically inclined downwards. She caught sight of her mother’s reflection in the polished marble, illuminated by light pouring in from the open front door. She quickly flicked her head upwards and corrected her hurried step, strutting up to Cecilia, now standing in the doorway, watching her daughter approach with a probing stare.

  “It’s time to go dear. You seem more suitably prepared for the occasion I see.”

  Respectful confirmation was given as Cecilia took her daughter’s hand, guiding her to the prepared car which growled to life when mother and daughter neared. Sophie heard the front door click shut behind her and allowed herself to be led around to the left-hand side of the vehicle. The chauffeur opened the leaden rear passenger door of the Mercedes and in a single fluid gesture, motioned for her to settle herself comfortably inside.

  Sophie slid the seatbelt into the lock and lay her head against the rest behind her. Her mother mirrored the movement effortlessly. Glancing in her direction, Sophie’s hunger to mirror her mother’s flawless demeanour only grew each time she watched Cecilia Lockwood perform any action. Each movement was purposeful, all of them equally vital pieces in an intricate mosaic of perception, designed for the eyes of others.

  The car doors closed with a heavy thud and it began its crawl down the driveway, the familiar crunch of tyres over gravel eradicating the birdsong in the grounds. Minutes passed before the gate to the Lockwood estate loomed in the distance. The substantial black bars of the gate shifted and turned inwards as the car approached and passed through them. Like flicking a switch, the car gained a sudden momentum, with an immediacy that seemed somewhat unnecessary. Sophie always revelled in the sheer speed at which she was driven down the long country roads of north Georgia state.

  Twenty minutes into their silent journey, Sophie watched as their local Evangelical church vanished behind them, out of sight within seconds of passing it. She arched a perplexed eyebrow before turning to her mother.

  “We missed the turning Mother! Where are we going?” Her tone was urgent, but respectful.

  Nonchalantly, her mother turned to look out of the back window.

  “Oh yes, we aren’t visiting our usual church today.” She turned back around, failing to elaborate.

  Sophie looked from side to side, unsatisfied.

  “Where are we going instead?”

  “A more exclusive church. You’re old enough to join me and your father there now.”

  “Exclusive?” Sophie persisted, still seeking clarity.

  Cecilia gave a curt nod.

  “Indeed. Attendance is only permissible by direct reference or relation. Melissa and Devon are members. You know them. Everyone is eager to meet and welcome you.”

  All the while, her mother kept her eyes on the road ahead, but Sophie sat a little straighter with newfound alacrity.

  People are practically dying to meet me, she exaggerated in her mind, then surmised, Maybe I really am finally getting her approval if I can join her new church club.

  The car purred on as Sophie observed the hills and trees roll by. A smile spread across her face as she reflected upon the situation. The chauffeur drove silently and turned the car with minimal inflections of his wrists and fingers. Truthfully, the car seemed to possess more personality than the man who operated it, and the thought amused her greatly.

  They had been travelling for close to an hour when a deafening, inexplicable pop filled the air, jerking Sophie from her soothing reverie. She instinctively sought her mother’s hand and gripped it tightly. After the initial shock of the sound, her mother composed herself swiftly and gestured for the chauffeur to pull over to the side of the road. With his preternatural poise, he glided smoothly to a halt and exited the vehicle. Sophie watched him kneel down to inspect the right-hand rear wheel of their transport.

  Cecilia exited the vehicle and ushered her daughter out, bidding her stand at a respectably safe distance from the road. She turned to accost her driver.

  “You mindless simpleton! How have you managed this?” Cecilia seethed at him.

  He seemed entirely indifferent to his employer’s harsh words.

  Sophie looked at the tyre he was now removing. A segment of it had somehow fulminated under some considerable heat. Parts of the rubber dripped and solidified on the road. She couldn’t believe that such grievous and profound damage had been caused by unsteady driving.

  Her mother rolled her eyes, muttered more displeased comments, then turned on her heels, clutching Sophie’s hand tightly.

  “No matter... it isn’t too far from here. Come dear, let us leave this working buffoon to his toils and we shall walk the rest of the way.”

  Sophie sighed inwardly and fell in alongside her mother’s imperious stride.

  These shoes were made to look good on me, they’re not for walking down the side of a road! she lamented.

  After ten minutes of walking along the path her legs began to protest. Just as she was opening her mouth to raise the classic childish query, she noticed a small, dispersed collection of exorbitant cars ahead. They were gathered around a focal point that seemed to be a clearing in the trees, with a dirt track shepherding away from them.

  “Ah, we’re here. Excellent,” Cecilia chimed.

  Her mother adjusted her hold on Sophie’s hand and continued to traverse the road which moved from tarmac to simple dirt and hard packed soil.

  At the head of the track lay a large but visually uninspiring – even ramshackle –
church building. Sophie was exquisitely, unimpressed.

  2

  The Cult of the Deorum

  Traversing the dirt track, Sophie frowned at the repugnant structure alleged to be the “exclusive” church her mother had spoken of. Its single short steeple was a little lopsided and crumbling from weather corrosion. The traditional stained-glass windows were no less dispirited, thickset mire lathering their surface, successfully obscuring the images suffocating beneath.

  The entire building appeared to be practically derelict, except for one feature. Standing at what looked to be twice Sophie’s height, the main door to the church seemed fortified and rejuvenated compared to its surroundings. Its wooden surface was polished and adorned with riveted semicircles, connected by darkened iron braces.

  Mother and daughter approached the edifice via the surrounding cemetery in the glade. Headstones of a bygone age were arranged in no particular fashion within the low, fragmented curtain wall. Sophie took to reading the epitaphs with a mixture of disquietude and curiosity. She noted that all the dates on the graves she’d seen were from the 19th Century or earlier. Whatever is this place? she wondered.

  Then she stopped.

  She was almost at the door, but was halted by a sudden deep misgiving about continuing onward. The door itself seemed to exude trepidation. Was it her imagination, or did it groan and warp as if taking a breath? Telling herself that this was impossible and not to be stupid, she was nevertheless struck by the impression that the door was drawing her in, threatening to engulf her. A bedevilling anxiety forced its way through her body, and she noticed her palm become clammy in her mother’s hand. A sharp urge to take flight besieged her, assaulting her good sense. Natural psychological processes at their most primitive begged her to flee, but her mother’s grip was like iron.