Welsh Road (The Depravity Chronicles) (23 page)

After driving
another few miles, Isabelle parked her car at the Park & Ride, which sat
between the road and the woods. She was not thrilled about having to be in this
place, but it was the only section of Welsh Road where parking was available.
It was illegal to park along the shoulder. When she stepped out of the car, the
energy from the spirits, as well as the naturally occurring waves of the “hot
spot” of magical portals, blasted her senses.

Welsh Road had
been built in the 1950’s to connect the agricultural and logging areas of
Crimson Falls and Taylor’s Landing. At one point in its history, Welsh Road was
the main artery for lumberjacks and farmers, and the Park & Ride was often
used not only for commuting purposes, but also as a resting place for  massive
equipment and oversized vehicles. Yet, with the dramatic decline of both
farming and lumber mills, Welsh Road had become the street version of a ghost
town.

The Park &
Ride had also been a popular “parking” lot, providing teenagers with a
convenient, out of the way location to go after the movies so they could make
out. It was made infamous, however, by the 1967 Midnight Massacre, where twelve
high school students were brutally murdered after the Homecoming Dance. Ever
since that fateful night, the only kids that came to the Park & Ride did so
on a dare, or to raise some Hell on Halloween night. Since that fateful night
nearly a half century ago, an additional thirteen teenagers had died. Their
throats had been cut, leading the authorities to classify their deaths as
suicides. But most people thought that was bullshit; most people believed that
the serial killer was still at large, lurking in the woods from the wee hours
of Halloween morning, through the day, and into the night.

Isabelle glanced
at her watch: 4:00pm. Halloween was only 8 hours away.

As she stepped
out of her SUV, she felt like she was being watched. With the exception of a
few cars that passed by, she was completely alone. She suspected that something
significant was going to happen tonight, and that her daughter was going to be
playing the starring role. She was jolted back to reality when a dark figure
emerged from the woods.

“You should not
be here,” a soft, feminine voice warned her. “You of all people should
understand the consequences of trespassing onto unholy ground, on the day of an
unholy anniversary, at the time when the veil between the living and the dead
is at its thinnest.”

Isabelle
immediately recognized the voice. “Grandmother,” she said. “It’s good to see
you. Why are you being so cryptic? Get over here so I can get a proper look at
you.”

Isabelle’s
maternal grandmother, Eleanor, had introduced her to the Craft and was her most
valued mentor. She died nearly a decade ago, at the ripe age of 100, on her
birthday. She only visited now in times of great joy or imminent danger. Today
was obviously the latter. Isabelle anxiously scanned the parking lot and street
for any unwelcome entities. Spirits were usually drawn to her, which was one of
the reasons she avoided Welsh Road. Tonight, however, the ghosts were scarce.
More proof that something significant – and paranormal – was destined to occur.

“Cut the
formalities, darling,” Eleanor said flatly. “Who’s being cryptic? Are you
stupid? Why would you come here all alone, tonight of all nights? Do you not
know that I am keeping watch over my great-granddaughter? Do you not trust me
to protect her?”

“I have missed
your way with words,” Isabelle said, grinning. “And the only thing that was
stupid was binding her magic. If I recall, that was your brilliant idea. And we
all know how well
that
has turned out for her.”

“This is not the
time for nostalgia, Isabelle.”

“Who’s
nostalgic?”

Eleanor ignored
her. “If you insist on entering these woods, then I have a question for you.”

“Oh, goodie,”
Isabelle retorted. She suddenly felt like she was seven years old again, having
her hand slapped by Eleanor’s ancient wooden spatula.

“Why are you
still married to that husband of yours? I thought I made it clear then – and
now – that you should not have mixed your magical line with his.”

“You did make it
clear, Grandmother, right up until I walked down the aisle. Oh, right. And
every day thereafter until you crossed over. Hank is
not
magical, and
neither is his family. For the most part, he has been a wonderful husband and
father.”

“For the most
part,” Eleanor snorted. “Would that bad part be his complete rejection of your
gifts? Or the part where he thanks his God every single day that Jena is not ‘afflicted.’”

Now it was
Isabelle’s turn to snort. “If you don’t mind, I have to get to Jena. Feel free
to accompany me, or not.”

Eleanor rolled
her eyes and sighed heavily. “I didn’t come here from the other side to argue.
I came to help. I will take you to your daughter.”

“Thank you,”
Isabelle said.

“Oh, and by the
way…binding Jena’s magic was
not
my idea. You were the one consumed by
the nonsensical idea that she had to be
normal.
We are
not
normal,
Isabelle. My Goddess, darling. Why would anyone strive for normality?”

“Fitting in is
difficult enough without being a supernatural creature,” Isabelle pointed out.

“Fitting in is
overrated,” Eleanor grunted. She was an abrasive, stubborn woman with a mean
streak a mile long. At the same time, she was indispensable when it came to
understanding and using magic. Without another word, she led Isabelle into the
woods.

“I assume you
realize that we are being watched,” Eleanor said as she noticed Isabelle
scanning their surroundings.

Isabelle nodded.
“Of course. The angry spirits that haunt this road.”

“No, they have
not made themselves present thus far.”

“Then who is
watching us?” Isabelle asked.

“It’s not a who,
it’s a what. If am right, which is usually a safe assumption, then I would say
that an ungodly alliance has been forged.”

“That’s
comforting. What kind of creatures are we dealing with here? What kind of
alliance?”

“That I do not
know,” Eleanor said. “There’s been gossip on the other side.”

“The other side
of the veil?” Isabelle asked.

“No, Isabelle.
The other side of my ass.”

“Lovely,
Grandmother.”

“Yes, Isabelle, the
veil. Goodness, dear. I leave you alone for a year and you’ve become downright idiotic.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway,”
Eleanor continued, “I’ve not been able to see anything clearly, nor can I
discern the purpose of this union.”

This took
Isabelle by surprise. In her many years of practice, she had yet to come across
a witch as skilled as Eleanor in her ability to track paranormal phenomena. She
was like a magical bloodhound. For most witches, crossing over after death
often amplified their abilities. If Eleanor was being shut out by this alliance,
Isabelle shuddered to think what else they might be capable of doing.

Out of the blue,
just ahead of them, a large shadow dropped from the trees.

“You should not
be here,” a deep, raspy male voice warned.

“So I’ve been
told,” Isabelle said.

“Reapers wander
these woods tonight,” the shadow said.

Isabelle laughed.
“I suppose you believe yourself to be one of these Reapers? If
you
know
what’s good for
you
, you will climb back into the tree you just jumped from.”

“Strong words
for a woman who walks Welsh Road alone,” he said. “No one to hear you scream,
no strong man to come to your rescue.” The man dashed toward her, giggling
maniacally.  

Isabelle lifted
her hand, quickly forcing the man to stop abruptly. He fell to his knees, holding
his head in his hands.

“What is the
meaning of this?” he demanded. Isabelle detected a hint of fear in his voice.
“What is this pain in my head?”

“What do you
make of this?” Isabelle asked Eleanor. “We need to figure out if he’s connected
to Nicholas’ disappearance or knows anything about Jena.”

“Who are you
talking to?” he asked when Isabelle released him from her assault on his mind.

“He can’t see
me,” Eleanor said. “That narrows the field as to what kind of creature he is.”

“Who are you?”
Isabelle asked the stranger.

Silence.

“We can do this
the easy way, or the hard way,” Eleanor said, making sure the man heard her
voice. His eyes darted around frantically, searching for the source.

“Fuck you!” the
man shouted. He tried to sound intimidating, but his voice now lacked the
confidence he had when he first threatened her.

“I hate that
word,” Eleanor said with great contempt. “Can anyone even have a conversation
anymore without using that word? This culture has become so vulgar.”

“I’m going to
ask you again,” Isabelle said. “Who are you and why are you here?”

Once again, the
man remained silent.

Isabelle raised
the ante. She looked at Eleanor, who nodded. Together, they combined their
Marsh Magic and delivered a near fatal blow to the man’s pain sensors in his
brain. He screamed a bloodcurdling string of words, most of them in an ancient
language that had not been spoken in many centuries. More importantly, the pain
triggered two sharp teeth – fangs – to descend from his gums.

“Vampire,”
Isabelle gasped. This did not make sense. “Why couldn’t he see you? Vampires are
able to see the dead, are they not?”

“I have cloaked
myself from both the living and the dead tonight,” Eleanor said flatly, as if
that were no great feat of magic.

“Why?” Isabelle
asked.

“I would have
people bombarding me from all angles, most of them searching for that ever
elusive white light.”

Isabelle
redirected her attention back to undead stranger still on his knees. “What
would a vampire be doing here in Minnesota?”

He didn’t utter
a single word.

“Kill him,”
Eleanor said. “Quickly, before the others come.”

“The others?”
Isabelle asked.

“Yes, the
others,” Eleanor said, exasperated. “Have you always been this stupid or did
you take lessons?”

“I took
lessons!” Isabelle retorted. “Guess who my teacher was?
Anyway
, this
vamp may be able to give us valuable information. They cling tightly to their
immortality when it is threatened.”

“How ironic,”
Eleanor mused.

“I can always be
reborn,” the vampire said bitterly. “So kill me. I would rather die at your
hands than by the one who summoned my coven.

“Well that
answers one question,” Isabelle said, wondering where the rest of his kin were
hiding.

“I know what
you’re thinking,” Eleanor said to Isabelle, who was considering allowing the
vampire to live. “But remember this: vampires have long memories. If you do not
kill him, then he will hunt you down and kill your friends and family. You’ve
already done Jena a disservice by keeping her in the dark about our magic. You
really need to stop making mistakes.”

Isabelle closed
her eyes, held out her hand, and called for a branch from a nearby tree. Within
seconds, a thirteen inch, thick stick arrived in the palm of her hand. Its
point was unnaturally sharp; the perfect instrument of death when facing a
vampire. Just as she was about to plunge the makeshift stake into his heart,
the vampire began to negotiate his release.

“I will tell you
what you need to know,” he pleaded. “My name is Rufus. I am a member of a
prominent, powerful coven.” In an effort to stall Isabelle, he began babbling
about his life history. Rufus must have known that had it been up to Eleanor,
he would already be nothing but ash.

“What makes you
think I need anything from you, Rufus?” Isabelle hissed.

“If you kill me
then you won’t be able to save your daughter in time.”

Isabelle perked
up at the mention of Jena, taking turns staring at the vampire and her
grandmother. “What do you know about my daughter?”

“I know that as
we speak, she and her friends are walking toward a most unpleasant death.”

“So you will
tell me who’s in the farmhouse and what they have planned?”

“Farmhouse?” the
vampire asked.

Isabelle gripped
the stake tightly.

“Oh, oh, the
farm
house.
Yes, of course. That’s where the altar is.”

“The altar? What
altar?” Eleanor asked. Isabelle repeated the question.

“Nina is going
to do what so many others have failed to do in the past. She is going to
summon…” but his voice trailed off, his black eyes becoming glassy and distant.

“Summon who?”
Isabelle pushed.

“No, please!” he
begged. “I wasn’t going to say anything, I swear it!”

“Who’s he
talking to?” Isabelle asked, now desperate to hear his confessions. “Can you
hear anything?”