Page 5 of Dark Desire
She had sealed her fate.
Chapter Three
“Someone murdered my Betty, and justice must be served,” Cheston shouted passionately, slamming his fist down on the wooden stand for emphasis. His loud voice echoed off the walls and seeped through the cracked window I was standing beside outside.
The old men had been right. An emergency village meeting had been called to investigate the murder mystery of Cheston’s prized cow.
“Did you call the police?” A woman asked from the packed crowd of nosy neighbours who had swarmed into the tiny village hall. Clearly, they all had nothing better to do on a Thursday night than discuss a dead cow.
“Of course, I called the police, Maureen,” Cheston said, rolling his eyes beneath bushy eyebrows. “PC Mawdly said that without CCTV and with no tyre tracks or damage to my fences, it’s unlikely they’ll find the culprit. But I refuse to let this go.”
“Then maybe you should get CCTV, Ches.”
The farmer glared, a vein protruding in his neck that looked rather appetising from where I was hiding in the shadows outside the village hall.
“I watched a documentary a few months back about livestock being targeted by meat thieves. They butcher the cattle and sell the meat on the black market.”
“The black market?” A woman shrieked, fanning her face. “Are we safe? We are made of meat too!”
“Meat thieves! All the way out here? Whatever next?” Another man tutted with a shake of his head.
“It wasn't a meat thief! I’m telling you, it was a sacrifice. The warnings are in the wind. Darkness is upon us. Ever since that witch appeared with her bad omens.”
“Oh, Beryl. Stop. Leave the sweet girl alone. Darcie is not a witch,” the woman I recognised from the printing shop defended her employee. “You just hate outsiders.”
“She is a witch! How do you explain the storm?”
“Climate change?” Badger teased. A few low chuckles echoed around the room but Beryl refused to yield to them.
“The day she arrived we had the worst storm and flooding we’d seen in years. And then there’s the voodoo things she makes and hangs outside that church.” I smirked. I’d found an ally in crazy, old Beryl.
“I asked her about those,” Evie argued. “She’s spiritual. She hangs them there to ward off any evil spirits. She does live in an old, creepy church with rotting corpses in her garden. I’d do the same.”
“I agree the woman is quirky, but she’s harmless. I can’t see her butchering an enormous cow in the dead of night. She rarely even leaves that church,” Badger added, and I huffed at how well-liked she seemed to be among the locals. I’d need to change that.
“Has anyone noticed that strange giant skulking around here recently? ’Ee was in the Higgly Piggly the other night, and I saw him strolling the streets again today with his hood up, looking very suspicious. Maybe ’ee’s our cow killer," a man shouted from the back row. I dropped my head back against the stone and groaned. So much for remaining inconspicuous.
“Now, I say, let us stop pointing fingers and just keep our wits about us. We are trying to encourage tourists, not scare them away. Let’s keep our eyes peeled for any suspicious activity in the village and hope that this terrible act was a one-off. Cheston, we are awfully sorry about Betty. Perhaps we can hold a memorial for her after tomorrow’s festival,” a blonde woman said, taking command of the room. She was wearing a plastic badge on her left breast that stated she was the chairperson.
Cheston nodded and returned to his seat. The chairperson dismissed the meeting, and the locals gradually filtered out of the hall, heading for their warm homes. Old Beryl was the last to leave, taking her time to hobble down the steps with the help of the railings. After ensuring everyone else had left, I partly shifted into my demonic form and stepped out of the shadows.
Offering her my arm, I said, “Let me help you.”
“I need no help–” She paused as her frail, milky eyes locked with my black orbs and her pupils dilated. My hypnotic powers took hold, and she instantly relaxed. “Okay. Thank you.”
I smiled, showing razor-sharp fangs that should have scared the woman into an early grave but my magnetism kept her calm. “We are about to become the best of friends, Beryl. Now, show me where we live.”
“Who are you?” she asked, unable to break eye contact, but her body moved on its own accord, leading us through the deserted village towards a terraced cottage next to the bakery. I kept my wings folded behind me and my hood up to hide my hornsin case anyone spotted us, but luckily, there didn’t seem to be anyone around.
“Someone you trust.” The irony didn’t escape me that an old superstitious tyrant was being persuaded to trust a demon without question. “You are right, Beryl. Darcelle Knightsbridge is a witch.” Beryl’s eyes widened with a triumphant look as we stopped outside the porch of her ivy-covered front door. This cottage was clearly designed with a goblin in mind as I took the keys from her hand and ducked my head to slip through the threshold.
“I knew it!”
“And you don’t want witches in this town, do you, Beryl?”
“No! This is my home. I was born and raised here, as was my mother and grandmother, and all those before them. This place has a history of attracting witches, and I know one when I see one. You know, I say we should go back to burning witches at the stake for their evil intentions, just like they used to.”
I smirked, staring down at the little old woman. “I couldn’t agree more.” I pointed over her shoulder to a framed photograph on her windowsill of a more youthful Beryl with two other women. “Who are they?”
