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The Hallowed Forsaken: First Book of the Aradian Page 2
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Then, a distraction across the glade. Sophie glimpsed movement in the tree line and turned her head a fraction. What was that? Some kind of animal prowling in the woods? This new potential threat further assaulted her primeval intuition and her inner conflict reached a peak. Pupils dilated and cheeks flushed, she forced out a deep breath and willed her gaze to return to the door. The timbers now seemed to have been restored to their regular structure and the feeling of foreboding in Sophie’s gut was muted as she fought to batter it down.
Keenly aware of the consequences of vexing her mother, either through hesitation or disobedience, Sophie steeled herself.
No, she thought, I’m better than this fear. I’m a Lockwood. I command a room with presence, just like Mother.
Sophie closed her eyes for what felt to her like eons, then took a step forward. She glanced at her mother and was surprised to see her looking proud, gratified, as if she knew what had just occurred.
Vacillation conquered, Sophie allowed her mother to guide her up the steps to the door. Cecilia took hold of the iron knocker and gave two short, light raps. These were followed by a further two, slower, more substantial blows. A code? The sound echoed for a second before being replaced by a wounded cry from the door’s hinges, their true age emphasised.
The door opened partially and the upper body of a man appeared. He was squat and stout, his posture hunched and craven. Or perhaps it merely reflected his desire to prove just how low he could stoop before Cecilia.
“Mrs Lockwood, it’s most wonderful to have you return for today’s service. A true honour as always.”
“Certainly,” Cecilia waved dismissively. “Has my husband arrived?”
The man looked exhilarated to be addressed with more than a curt greeting.
“Oh yes, he arrived most prudently early Mrs Lockwood. He always is…”
“Yes, yes, thank you.” Cecilia brushed past the man, sending him staggering backward a step, instantly obscured from view.
Sophie always marvelled at her mother’s adeptness at disregarding those she considered below her. Seeking to emulate her, it was an art she was in the process of refining herself, but had not entirely mastered. She was often intimidated by those taller and more imposing than herself.
With a final suspicious glance at the glade, Sophie stepped over the threshold of the door that had inspired such distress in her. Inside, as her eyes adjusted to the change of light, pure astonishment was the only reaction she could ascribe to her new surroundings. Compared to the dilapidated exterior of the church, the interior had a sleek, lavish feel to it. Extensive dark oak pews were positioned in two rows down the large open space, bisected by an aisle that ran between them. An opulent wine-coloured carpet with gold edging traversed its length, and smooth, high-reaching pillars punctuated the centre aisle; three on each side, all evenly spaced for structural support.
Drawing the majority of her attention, however, were the windows that presided over the contents of the church, positioned above tenebrous doors that presumably led to other rooms. The intricately designed stained glass panes cast themselves over the nave, their sheer magnitude presumably designed to suppress and humble any worshipper who found themselves within the church walls. In contrast to the usual vivid, varied colours of a Christian church, however, each panel reflected a similar shade of purple, be it a light violet or deep indigo. The effect was to infuse every inch of the nave with a purple haze. Even the air itself seemed to possess an amaranthine hue.
She walked on, incredulous at her surroundings. Never had she seen such petrifying elegance and beauty in one room. Its aura banished any semblance of fear left within her, leaving only wonder. As she took in its impressive vista, she realised her pace had slowed and her mother was now markedly ahead, lowering herself softly onto a front row pew with her usual refined grace. Sophie hastened to her side and, after meandering around two worshippers locked in heated debate, she sat down.
“I’d forgotten what a staggering sight this must be for your first time dear,” her mother intoned as she sat calmly, her hands in her lap.
“Yes, it’s… it’s amazing!” Sophie replied, the words slothful in leaving her mouth. “When do I get to meet everyone?”
“Keep to yourself for now dear. Your moment will come once proceedings begin.”
Cecilia cast a knowing glance to the pulpit at the head of the immense structure. It was dark oak with gold plating decorating its edges, similar to the other wooden structures of the room. Sophie caught the glance and matched it, wondering if it meant what she thought it did.
Am I expected to introduce myself in front of everyone? To say a few words? I wouldn’t even know what to say!
Silently she panicked a little, yet the thought of the attention she would garner intoxicated her.
Heeding her mother’s words, Sophie sat patiently, her hands neatly nested in her lap. The low murmurings of the worshippers echoed in the rafters and she couldn’t help but observe the people she would soon become acquainted with. At the far end of the nave she spied the Dinwoods, the wealthy descendants of southern plantation slavers. They were engaged in what appeared to be a riveting discussion with Melissa and Devon Perristone, present as her mother had confirmed they would be. The two families were the influential, almost as prosperous, neighbours of the Lockwoods. She thoroughly enjoyed being slightly more well-to-do than the children next door.
Sophie continued her inspection of the other wealthy families, all pristinely dressed. She recognised faces from various social gatherings and country club meetings over the years. I have really made it into the big time now, she glowed, easing back around to face forward.
Now her attention fell upon the large stone altar situated alongside the pulpit. Intricately carved patterns edged its smooth surface and atop were placed three boxes in a systemised fashion. Before she could ponder what they might contain, the triptych that dominated the back wall purloined her attention entirely. Sophie gazed again at the blending shades of purple stained glass, but this pivotal piece was different to the others. The two side segments used a lighter grey palette and presented a scene of featureless worshippers supplicating before the central glass frame, which itself depicted three towering figures. They were equally featureless apart from their magnificently petrifying wings that spread out to encompass all, created from a mosaic of intense white glass that dominated the surrounding images with its glare.
For the first time Sophie wondered how the light pierced the glass so keenly, given the sheer defilement of their appearance on the outside. She chastised herself for not thinking of it sooner, but the thought came and went like a wave breaking on the shore.
Half an hour passed and Sophie was growing increasingly bored. The pride that drove her mother to ruthlessly maintain their image at all times denied her the privilege of playing on her phone while she waited, sat neglected at the bottom of her mother’s Birkin bag.
A moment later, however, conversations around the building began to cease. Families took seats scattered around the nave and left ample space between each grouping. It gave the impression of a plutocratic gathering of noble families, preparing to determine the proceeding steps of a grand republic, and Sophie shuffled closer to her mother as the lights seemed to dim automatically, allowing the mauve air to consume the room.
“I thought Father was going to be joining us?” Sophie whispered in her mother’s ear.
“Hush, dear.” Cecilia kept her eyes focused forward on the pulpit, dismissing her daughter. Sophie knew better than to protest.
The same doorman who had greeted them ambled down the centre aisle and Sophie watched as he crossed in front of the altar and moved to open a side door. Before he had opportunity, the door was vigorously forced open from the other side. The poor man was propelled backwards as Vincent Lockwood strode into the body of the church.
Every eye in the room tracked his movement past the altar to ascend the pulpit, attention unwavering. The entire gathering seemed
held in a single moment of tension. Lockwood reached the top and took in a heavy breath. As he exhaled, the tension in the room dissipated as easily as the air from his lungs. He began to address the worshipers in the soothing voice Sophie knew so well. The voice that could walk across water and mollify any resentment, no matter how grave.
“Friends! Family, brothers and sisters… welcome to this very special occasion.”
His cadence was skilfully honed by years of oration. He held the room with a well-practised pace – tempered yet deliberate, frequent inflections emphasising carefully selected words.
“Today, is a very special day,” he continued, his hands resting on the railing before him. “For today is the anniversary of the day those vermin, the traitorous lesser gods, banished our lords, oh, so long ago.”
Sophie listened intently. The subject of the speech was entirely lost on her, but the manner in which it was given captured her attention regardless.
“We dedicate our hearts, our very souls to our most unspeakable champions. But today…” – his hand gestures became more impassioned – “…my beautiful wife and I are willing to truly present our devotion. Devotion manifest in the most imperious of ways.”
The worshippers murmured amongst themselves. Was it confusion or anticipation? Sophie couldn’t tell.
Vincent made his way down the pulpit steps and stood before the altar as the obsequious doorman hurriedly transferred the three small boxes to a side table, keeping his head bowed. Sophie could do nothing but stare openly as her father’s gaze swept across the crowd and ended, firmly meeting hers.
“Sophie, my darling, come on up.”
He gestured for her to come forward with a twinkle in his eye, a sharp grin across his clean-shaven face. Sophie’s heart pounded irregular rhythms in her chest. Her moment had come. Her mother gently encouraged her and Sophie slid out of the pew, rushing forward with a mixture of pride and trepidation. Her father wrapped an encompassing arm around her shoulder as she took her place beside him.
“My very own daughter, before you all, will present her undying commitment to the Deorum, our masters. She is willing to take the passage! To unite with an untethered entity of our lords!”
At this declaration, the worshippers rose to their feet and cheered. Even Cecilia elegantly clapped her fingers into the opposite palm with a smile of admiration and pride, directed towards Sophie.
The glory, the pure gratification of the attention of these people overwhelmed Sophie. They represented everything she desired to become. Focusing her mind once more, her eyes darted up at her father who loomed over her, hand still firmly on her shoulder.
“What happens now, Father?”
Her voice was almost lost in the bellows of the worshippers.
“Follow my instructions and soon you’ll feel the embrace of our lord’s warmth forevermore.”
Vincent gently stroked his hand through Sophie’s hair and she gave him a wide grin.
“Father... I don’t understand the history of our lords, or who they are. Will... will that be a problem?”
“Of course not, my darling. You will know everything soon enough.”
Sophie nodded.
Overwhelmed by the moment, and of her own volition, she then found herself obeying her father’s directive to lie down on the stone altar. Her mind raced, awash with a surge of confusion.
What happens now? she wondered. Now comes, what… my… my baptising? Do they do that here? Do their… my gods baptise? I suppose it’s time to find out.
She felt lost. Reassured by her father’s presence, she smiled up at him as he stood beside the altar. But he returned her look with a laconic grin – all teeth and no warmth now. He grasped her left wrist and guided her arm upward to an intricately carved sigil in the top left corner of the altar. As her skin made contact with the marking, she felt an attraction – an invisible pressure on her wrist that restricted its movement to naught, fixing her hand in place.
Before she could express her surprise, her father had repeated the process with her free arm, and the toxicant of proud confidence left her. Sophie struggled a little, attempting to lift her wrists from the table, only to be met with an increase of pressure. A twang of pain ran up her arm.
“Father, what’s happening? Why can’t I move my hands?”
Fear sought to overwhelm her. In an insistent, higher pitched voice she pleaded,
“Father! What are you doing?”
The worshippers continued their ballyhooing and her protests were swallowed in the roar. Sophie could only watch in abject terror as her father removed her shoes and fixed her ankles, uncomfortably flat, in the two remaining corners. Her breath became short and fast. Her emerald eyes flitted from focus to focus – her father, the strange building, the enraptured congregation spun by.
Discomposure and anxiety clashed, and adrenaline flooded her body. Sophie attempted to thrash from side to side to free herself, but to no avail. Vincent Lockwood looked down upon her with a vexation in his eye. In a final treacherous act, he used one finger pressed firmly to her forehead and Sophie’s head was pinned to the altar, imprisoned, her freedom entirely curtailed.
Restricted, deceived and without a hope, she could do nothing but stare at the ceiling. A painting covered the entirety of its surface. It was one of the Deorum her father had mentioned in his speech. Its skin had an awful pallor and wings grew from its back at unnatural angles, curling around towards its face – or simply its head, for it had no real face. It was featureless apart from closed slits for eyes and a small open mouth that resembled the soulless mouth of a cave.
Sophie heard the sound of a latch being flicked open. An attempt to look around was in vain, but presently her father appeared into view, a glinting ceremonial dagger in his grasp, the handle black and hilt golden. Her voice was merely a whisper in the air when Sophie begged.
“Daddy... please...”
She sniffled up at an unmoved, uncaring face.
“It’s time to embrace your saviours, darling. This is what you’ve been waiting for.”
An agonised scream burst from Sophie’s lips as the tip of the blade pierced the skin of her left forearm. She felt the blade trace upwards and her scream peaked at new heights. White hot pain struck like lightning and Sophie frantically wiggled her fingers and toes. She could do nothing more to resist.
The image of the god peering down at her seemed to shift. Sophie blinked away tears of disbelief as the creature’s clawed fingers seemed to transform into three dimensions and flex. The throbbing in her arm grew increasingly tortuous, and through bared teeth she was compelled to gaze at the aberration as her father continued his grim carving. The claw was indeed lifting away from the surface of the painting, followed by the creature’s head, then shoulders. Harrowingly, it wrenched itself out of the curved ceiling inch by inch. The great strain of the creature’s movements was evident as it screeched and clawed at the surrounding beams, splintering a few with its talons in a single slash.
Sophie’s psychological processes were overloaded by the sheer magnitude of the beast, writhing its way towards her. Coupled with the inconceivability of her situation, her sanity seemed to turn in on itself and she forgot how to function. The pain spiked and she screamed, but her own voice sounded far away, as if it belonged to someone else. The creature’s illogical wings spread out as its torso fully clawed itself out of the painting. Now those talons reached ravenously for her, but even this action seemed far away as her vision blackened.
Sophie felt betrayed, hurt, lost.
No more.
Blackness.
Welcoming darkness was all she felt.
Her thoughts were a distant echo, along with the world.
The only impression her broken mind could form was an acceptance that this was how she died…
Then…
As if charged by a defibrillator, Sophie was electrified back to conscious reality as a calamitous explosion blew the church doors off their hinges. The creature
screeched once more before being frozen in place; trapped and unable to make further progress towards her. Her father was still beside her, the knife lying on the altar, slick with blood, but a young voice rang out.
“I OBJECT!”
All eyes were fixed on a new figure in the devastated entrance. At last, Sophie managed to turn her head weakly to the side. There she saw a young woman with multiple figures behind her. The woman spoke.
“Oh... this is definitely not a wedding!”
3
Officer Pierce Reporting
An incredible groan filled the bedroom and blended with the shrill ringing of a phone alarm. Sariyah sat up in bed, cursed loudly at no one in particular, and swiftly silenced the alarm with the tap of a finger. It was Sunday morning and only her second week back working in the Adytum, after what felt like a lifetime away. She let out a long exhale and attempted to quiet her frantic mind, just as she had been taught. She let her anxieties rush out with the air from her lungs and pictured them doing so.
“You’re an officer now, protecting mortals and innocents from the magical world, one bad guy at a time. You’re doing pretty good for yourself, so don’t you forget it.”
She slipped out of bed and began to carefully brush her hair in an undersized mirror, straining and hunching unnaturally to suitably view her work. The tug of the brush through her hair was the only sound in the room, so her mind began to wander.
The title of official Adytum Officer, with all of its perks, didn’t come without a degree of stress and responsibility. Yes, it commanded respect from her peers – and that pleased her significantly – but the respect was afforded begrudgingly. Most of her fellow Sorcerers had not taken to her prolonged “vacation” with any form of grace or leniency. However, she had proven her natural aptitude for, and connection to magic time again. Enough to be reinstated by the Consuls, only one of which held any degree of sympathy for her case.