Page 5 of Dark Desire (Dark Souls Spin-off Short Story)

Chapter Three

“ S omeone 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 horns in 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?”

Without even breaking eye contact because she already knew who I was referring to, Beryl replied, “My cousins. Thea and Polly.”

“Are they still alive?”

“Thea died four years ago. But Polly lives in London. The traitor moved away with that husband of hers and forgot all about her roots.” Her eyes narrowed as I pulled back my hood to reveal long burgundy hair and spiralling horns. “Who are you again?”

“I’m Polly’s son. I’ve come to stay with you for a visit. That is what you will tell people in the village when they ask about me. My name is…Zack.”

“Polly has a son?” Beryl scowled. “That is so like her not to tell me.”

I tutted. “Oh, I know. But best not to mention it to her.” I broke my hypnosis and tapped her on the shoulder as I transformed back into my human form.

She blinked multiple times as I wandered around her living room, getting acquainted with my new home.

I plopped my enormous body down on the floral-patterned sofa, crossing one muddy boot over the other even though they dangled over the sofa arm, and then I placed my hands behind my head.

Small and awkward, but it beat sleeping in a tree.

Beryl reappeared from the hallway she had wobbled off to with a folded towel. “The bathroom is upstairs on the right, Zachary. Use it. You stink. And take your filthy boots off my sofa.” She hit my boot with her walking stick. “Has Polly raised an animal?”

“Afraid so,” I grunted, standing up and making my way to the front door.

“Where in heaven’s name are you going at this time of night, young man?

” she scolded, and I paused, tilting my head with a frown at the ticking clock above the fireplace.

There was so much wrong with that sentence, but let’s start with the fact that it was only nine-thirty.

I spun around and hypnotised her once more, sighing deeply.

This was already more work than I anticipated.

“Beryl, for your benefit, don’t test my patience.

I do not answer to you or need your permission to do anything.

You won’t question where I am or what I do from now on.

If I am not around, you will assume I am running errands, hiking, or some shit.

Now, you are going to give me a spare key to this house, and I will come and go as I please. Do you understand?”

She nodded, and I broke the connection. She moved to the chest of drawers by the door and rummaged through it until she held out a spare key to me. I took it with a smile.

“What are we going to do about the witch?” she asked as I yanked the front door open with a creak.

“Get your pitchfork ready, Beryl. We're going to smoke the witch out.” Beryl’s face was a picture of glee as I shut the door behind me.

As I headed back up the hills towards the church, I froze when I saw movement in the graveyard ahead. Ducking behind a tree, I crouched down and tried to make sense of what was happening.

With a shovel in her hands, Darcie was frantically digging at an old grave, tossing soil into heaps beside it.

She stopped to wipe the sweat from her forehead with her jumper sleeve, smearing mud across her face before carrying on.

Frowning, I inhaled deeply, and the unmistakable scent of blood and death filled my senses. What the hell was she doing?

Climbing the tree quickly to get a bird’s-eye view, my eyes widened at the dead body of a man lying on the grass next to the already occupied grave she was excavating.

When she finally reached the coffin with her shovel, she threw it aside and climbed out of the ditch.

Her puffs of breath dispersed into the chilly air around her as she tried to catch her breath, peering across at the engraved tombstone covered in ivy.

“Apologies for disturbing your rest, Mr Tippel but I hope you don’t mind sharing,” she said, before bending down and, with great effort, rolling the dead man into the grave on top of Mr Tippel’s coffin.

She stood up, throwing her head back to stare up at the darkening skies and closed her eyes, lost in a moment of relief.

After a few seconds, she rolled her shoulders and picked up the shovel to cover the corpse.

She paused, turning sharply to cast a glance over her shoulder and towards the trees.

I leaned further back into the darkness.

Convinced she was alone, she abandoned the shovel and waved her hands in front of her, muttering a Latin incantation, and the heaps of mud slid across the ground, sealing the grave.

She placed her hand on top of the dirt, and slowly, grass and weeds grew, making the grave look unspoilt and long-forgotten.

She stood up, wiping her hands on her flowy skirt, grabbed the shovel, and then headed back inside the church, locking the door behind her.

I stared in disbelief at what I had just witnessed, trying to make sense of it.

She’d killed a man and buried him in an already occupied grave.

Who was that man? Where did he come from?

Why did she kill him? Did she do this often?

Was she a serial killer? If so, taking up residence in a church filled with graves was a twisted brilliance.

The mystery of this woman had just become even more compelling.

The light in her bedroom switched on, drawing my attention to her silhouette moving across the window.

I leaned forward on the branch, my body instinctively drawing closer to her as she sat down at her vanity table with her head in her hands.

She stared vacantly at her reflection in the mirror for a few moments and began muttering to herself.

She was a complete lunatic. But I couldn’t stop watching her.

She stood up suddenly, walked over to the window, and gazed out into the distance.

My chest tightened at the flicker of sadness that marked her features.

A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye and traced down her cheek, clinging to her top lip before her tongue darted out and she licked it away.

I narrowed my eyes, physically hardening the contours of my face to warn myself to feel nothing but hatred for this woman.

Her hazel irises really were as warm as honey as they scanned the hills and the perimeter of the graveyard before she yanked the curtains shut.

I slumped back against the tree, keeping my eyes on her shadow as she moved around the room.

Her dark figure lifted her t-shirt over her head and leaned forward, dragging her skirt down her legs.

My traitorous heart beat a little faster, and my dick twitched against the rough material of my jeans with its first real sign of excitement in centuries.

“We hate her,” I reminded myself, my low whisper full of conviction.

‘Yes. We hate her,’ Ambroz reiterated in my mind for both our sakes.

I could feel his arousal too, making my body react as my gaze traced every curve of her naked form behind that curtain.

The images of what she would look like if she pulled those curtains apart and gave me a perfect view made all the blood rush to my dick, turning it to steel.

A low growl rumbled from my chest because I loathed just how turned on the outline of her naked body made me. A few nights ago, I couldn’t even get hard with my dick in a hot vampire’s mouth and now, I was throbbing for the witch’s fucking shadow.

After her shower, she returned to the room and then the light switched off.

But I didn’t leave. My vicious gaze stayed locked on her window, imagining her sleeping soundly in her bed, oblivious to the danger lurking outside.

Dark and twisted ideas about breaking in while she slept, of watching her from the shadows and plotting all the twisted ways I’d torture her before I wrapped my hands around her neck and watched the sparkle of those honeyed eyes fade as I took her life had my heart racing and my breathing coming out in sharp, erratic bursts into the night air.

I'd fantasised about these things before, but I’d never had a face to put to them.

Now I did, which seemed to pose a new problem.

Her warm eyes. Her pretty lips. Her soft, smooth skin. The image of her beneath my hands, at my mercy, made my blood pulse with something far more dangerous than revenge. It burned with dark desire.