Wings of Sorrow (A horror fantasy novel) by Iain Rob Wright Page A
Authors: Iain Rob Wright
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Perhaps she would wake up to find that it had all been a surreal nightmare.
Her door was already slightly ajar, so she nudged it open with her shoulder.
The light was already on, so she saw Indy’s luminous green baseball cap as soon as she entered. It had been placed on the centre of her bed. Nothing else in the room was out of place, and Indy was not present—so how did his hat get into her room?
Has Indy been here snooping through my things? Has that perv been breaking in?
No , Indy might be a little sex-obsessed, but his actions spoke louder than his words. Over the last few days he had done nothing except behave honourably. He was her friend, and one of the only people she could truly rely on.
Unless you count my demon bodyguard. I can always rely on him!
Jeez! It’s like Whitney Houston and Buffy the Vampire Slayer had a baby and called it Scarlet.
Scarlet, the Spark. Maybe the BBC will pick it up if I live long enough to write the script.
She wished she had her phone to call Indy—ask him why on earth his hat was on her bed—but she didn’t, so she would have to investigate further. She went over to her bed and retrieved the hat, placing her fingers underneath the brim and flipping it up into her hands. When she rotated it, she found nothing inside but a few dark, stray hairs and a line of grime around the headband. “Gross.”
She turned to her dresser to throw the hat down, but realised something else lay on her bed, something that had been hiding beneath the cap. Something terrible.
She recoiled, dropping the baseball cap to the ground and raising both hands to her mouth. Sitting on the centre of her bed was a hand. The red and white umbrella tattoo told her it belonged to Indy. The only reason she didn’t scream, was because she bit down on the side of her mouth, drawing tangy blood onto her tongue. If she screamed, her dad would come up, and then he would call the police, and they would question her…
But Indy needs my help.
I need to speak to Mr Chester. He said the White Order would help us.
She couldn’t leave Indy’s severed hand on her bed, so she pulled open one of her drawers and tugged out a pillow case. Poking it open with her hand, she hurried back over to her bed and reached out for the ghoulish item. “Eww, eww, eww!” It was a battle to fight down her revulsion as she prepared to grasp the hand as lightly as possible, using her thumb and forefinger as a pincer. Once her fingertips made contact with the cold, disembodied flesh, a bolt of electricity shot through her.
Flashes of light. Images.
She saw Indy. She saw her friend.
He was screaming.
When she looked down at her friend’s hand, which she still clutched by only its thumb, she saw that the underside was smeared with congealing blood. It got on her hands and she felt it fizzing against her flesh. Blood Magic. But she didn’t know magic, so how had she been able to see Indy—see that he was suffering?
She threw the hand in the pillowcase and folded it into a bundle, and then she moved towards her bedroom window. This would be the first time she’d ever snuck out of her room, but she hoped it was as easy as the kids made it look in the movies. Although they always have a handy drainpipe, or trellis, right below the ledge.
Climbing up onto the windowsill, she felt like the worst daughter ever, but it was better than being the worst friend. Indy needed her help.
She stooped down over the window sill and let her legs dangle outside. She straightened out, hanging by her fingertips. The drop below her was about seven feet to the grass. It would’ve been a softer landing in the spring, when the ground was wet, but this was Summer and the lawn was baked.
Okay, here goes. One… two… three!
Shit!
She let go of the ledge and pushed off against the wall with her foot, so that she spun to face away from the house and fall away from the wall instead of into it. The ground met her feet faster than she had expected and
Her door was already slightly ajar, so she nudged it open with her shoulder.
The light was already on, so she saw Indy’s luminous green baseball cap as soon as she entered. It had been placed on the centre of her bed. Nothing else in the room was out of place, and Indy was not present—so how did his hat get into her room?
Has Indy been here snooping through my things? Has that perv been breaking in?
No , Indy might be a little sex-obsessed, but his actions spoke louder than his words. Over the last few days he had done nothing except behave honourably. He was her friend, and one of the only people she could truly rely on.
Unless you count my demon bodyguard. I can always rely on him!
Jeez! It’s like Whitney Houston and Buffy the Vampire Slayer had a baby and called it Scarlet.
Scarlet, the Spark. Maybe the BBC will pick it up if I live long enough to write the script.
She wished she had her phone to call Indy—ask him why on earth his hat was on her bed—but she didn’t, so she would have to investigate further. She went over to her bed and retrieved the hat, placing her fingers underneath the brim and flipping it up into her hands. When she rotated it, she found nothing inside but a few dark, stray hairs and a line of grime around the headband. “Gross.”
She turned to her dresser to throw the hat down, but realised something else lay on her bed, something that had been hiding beneath the cap. Something terrible.
She recoiled, dropping the baseball cap to the ground and raising both hands to her mouth. Sitting on the centre of her bed was a hand. The red and white umbrella tattoo told her it belonged to Indy. The only reason she didn’t scream, was because she bit down on the side of her mouth, drawing tangy blood onto her tongue. If she screamed, her dad would come up, and then he would call the police, and they would question her…
But Indy needs my help.
I need to speak to Mr Chester. He said the White Order would help us.
She couldn’t leave Indy’s severed hand on her bed, so she pulled open one of her drawers and tugged out a pillow case. Poking it open with her hand, she hurried back over to her bed and reached out for the ghoulish item. “Eww, eww, eww!” It was a battle to fight down her revulsion as she prepared to grasp the hand as lightly as possible, using her thumb and forefinger as a pincer. Once her fingertips made contact with the cold, disembodied flesh, a bolt of electricity shot through her.
Flashes of light. Images.
She saw Indy. She saw her friend.
He was screaming.
When she looked down at her friend’s hand, which she still clutched by only its thumb, she saw that the underside was smeared with congealing blood. It got on her hands and she felt it fizzing against her flesh. Blood Magic. But she didn’t know magic, so how had she been able to see Indy—see that he was suffering?
She threw the hand in the pillowcase and folded it into a bundle, and then she moved towards her bedroom window. This would be the first time she’d ever snuck out of her room, but she hoped it was as easy as the kids made it look in the movies. Although they always have a handy drainpipe, or trellis, right below the ledge.
Climbing up onto the windowsill, she felt like the worst daughter ever, but it was better than being the worst friend. Indy needed her help.
She stooped down over the window sill and let her legs dangle outside. She straightened out, hanging by her fingertips. The drop below her was about seven feet to the grass. It would’ve been a softer landing in the spring, when the ground was wet, but this was Summer and the lawn was baked.
Okay, here goes. One… two… three!
Shit!
She let go of the ledge and pushed off against the wall with her foot, so that she spun to face away from the house and fall away from the wall instead of into it. The ground met her feet faster than she had expected and
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