Undying – Chapter One

Here’s the opening chapter of Undying, the next Hellequin Universe novel, out on 30th January.

Available to pre-order on Kindle now (paperback on release, and audible coming in the future).

Chapter One

Village of Anfarwol

Everything leading up to this moment had been a terrible idea.

It should have been an easy assignment. Eric Pointer had been asked to join a group of investigators looking into a decades-old serial-killer case, where the killer appeared to have resurfaced for the second time since the original murders nearly forty years earlier.

He’d been quite excited, primarily because it had been the first big story assigned to him since getting the job at the national newspaper, and also because everyone knew serial killers equalled sales. Besides, it was in Wales, and everyone told him how beautiful that part of the world was and how much fun he was going to have.

Turned out, it was much less fun when running through a forest pursued by… honestly, Eric wasn’t sure. Monsters. Killers. The devil himself. Any of those would sound correct to him. All he knew was that being in their company was going to get him killed, because it had gotten everyone who had come with him killed.

At least, he assumed they were all dead. He saw bodies, the blood, heard the screams. He hadn’t stayed around long enough to check that all of his companions were among the victims. If he’d done that he’d already be among their number.

Eric narrowly avoided a low branch only to run into another, which all but wiped him out, sending him sprawling on the muddy ground. It had rained for two weeks straight which, frankly, was the British summer all over, although it was also quite low on Eric’s immediate problems.

He scrambled back to his feet, almost smacking his head on the branch again, and heard the call of someone behind him. It was followed by loud crashing, as though something had just torn trees apart in their effort to get at Eric.

It was a quick thirty-minute drive back to the village of Anfarwol. Back to safety. He just had to get out of this damn camp first, had to get back to the car park. Why was the car park so goddamned far from the camp?

Eric ran mostly on adrenaline and a burning desire to not become another statistic in the number of dead. He was soon avoiding more trees, shrubs, roots, and large rocks. He slipped more than once but by the time he saw the sign for the car park—lit by the moon—he could have kissed it.

He raced across the gravelled parking area, ignoring the other four vehicles, and stopped by his brand-new burgundy Honda Civic. He fumbled the key from his jacket pocket, dropped it twice into a puddle at his feet, extricated it with an unpleasant wince, took a deep breath, and pressed the unlock button. The indicator lights on all four corners flashed. The car did not unlock.

The sounds of crashing through the dark forest sent panic jolting through Eric.

He pressed the button twice more in quick succession, although neither time had any other effect than more flashing orange lights. He tried the door handle, tried the button again, and only then realised he had the key fob turned upside down, and he’d been attempting to unlock the car’s boot.

Someone burst out of the forest, standing on the opposite side of the parking lot to where Eric stood wide-eyed and frozen in place. His brain screamed at him to move, to get in the car, but his body was having none of it. Eric had always wondered if he would be a fight, flight, or freeze type of person, although he’d have preferred to find out when his life wasn’t in danger.

The… thing that arrived in the parking lot held a machete in one hand, the moonlight glinting off the blade, having the unfortunate side effect of showing the blood that drenched it.

That did the trick to Eric’s brain. He tore the car door open, practically jumped inside, and managed to hurt his finger by smashing it down on the start/stop button. The car’s engine came to life as the thing with the machete just remained in place, making no movement toward Eric.

The car’s headlights illuminated the monster. Nearly seven feet tall and broad shouldered, it wore what looked to Eric like leather armour with buckles and metal accents all around it. A mask covered its features, and it wore a large-brimmed, black hat, although as its gaze lingered, Eric froze again. For a moment, he just sat in the car, the lights showcasing the entirety of the murderer before him.

Eric shook his head, put the car in first and sped out of the car park.

It wasn’t until he was out of the forest and back on a main road that he considered someone hiding in the seat behind him. He slammed on his brakes, and almost threw himself out of the car, standing ten feet away from it as rain continued to pelt him. Eric tentatively stepped up to the car and tried to look in the back but the rear windows were tinted, and he couldn’t see anything. He took hold of the car door handle, and practically wrenched it open, revealing… an empty back seat.

Eric placed his head against the roof of the car and let out a huge sigh of relief before remembering there was a murder a few minutes behind him. He scrambled back inside and drove off into the night toward the village of Anfarwol.

The village was home to four thousand people, and one of the United Kingdom’s safest, with the worst crime committed in the years since the camp murders, being the graffiti artist who spray painted a black sun on the wall of the civil hall.

Eric’s plan was simple. Get back to his Bed and Breakfast, get his stuff, and get to London and the relative safety it offered. Compared to where he’d just been, he’d have taken a war zone to live in right now. His mind flashed back to the news only a few years ago, where London had been a literal war zone. He’d been at university at the time, and had missed out on covering it, but considering the number of people who had died to overthrow an insane Greek Goddess, he’d probably been best sat in Edinburgh and watching it all unfold on the news.

The entire world had been at war with Avalon, with people who felt themselves above humanity, who wanted to rule them. A war only occasionally fought in the light; London, Washington, Portland, being three of the big battles that had taken over any news networks still able to show the truth.

The war was over, evil had been vanquished, and those humans who had hitched their wagons to the invaders had been arrested, tried, and imprisoned, or—if you were powerful or rich enough—quickly and quietly removed from public life. Entire news channels had vanished overnight, as had newspapers, social media platforms, and a host of online personalities who helped Avalon spread fear, misinformation, and frankly aided in the deaths and imprisonments of many of their own people.

Eric forced his mind to push those thoughts aside. He’d always wondered how the people after a world war had just gotten back to their lives, and it turned out that five years was actually a long time for those who only saw the war on tv or read about it online. People want to forget and that’s easy to do when you were always fairly safe to begin with.

Slamming on the car brakes at the last second, Eric took a moment to breathe. He’d almost missed his turn into the village, and would have ended up in the middle of nowhere. He hadn’t even set up his Satnav, primarily because he had no idea where his phone was. Back in the forest, or maybe at the campsite. He had no way of contacting anyone until he got back to a landline phone.

“Inform the police,” he said to himself softly. “That first, then run.”

He sat at the junction for a few more minutes as he tried to figure out a way to inform the police and run, but he was pretty sure that wouldn’t look good in the police report. Besides, at least then he’d have the police with him. He’d feel much safer.

Sixty seconds later, and Eric had decided that yes, the police really were the best idea. So, with much trepidation in his soul, he turned the wheel toward the village, and continued on through the winding country roads – dark and foreboding only illuminated by the headlights of his car.

Considering it was nearly four in the morning, Eric wasn’t surprised to find the village of Anfarwol was asleep. He drove at a normal speed along the main road, trying to remember the way to the police station. It took him three wrong turns before he got it right, and was practically overjoyed to see the lit-up, white and blue Police sign outside of the station itself.

The building was of Georgian design, and much like a lot of the village appeared to be lost in time. The newest buildings were, at their newest, sixty years old, and the oldest were centuries, if not more.

Eric parked his car out front, got out, and felt the overwhelming urge to burst into tears. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and decided that breaking down in tears wasn’t going to get him any safer, and ascended the six steps to the large, glass front door.

When he stepped into the reception area, the warmth of the central heating washed over him. Eric was cold, wet, bloody, and miserable, but that warmth made things feel a tad better.

There were a selection of six chairs in the reception area, three next to a door marked Private, and three opposite it, next to a cork board adorned the leaflets of the local habitants. A reception desk sat directly in front of the entrance, and therefore in front of Eric. Behind the desk was a concerned looking man in police uniform. He was in his fifties with greying hair, a clean-shaved face, and eyes that said he’d seen a lot he didn’t want to talk about. He smelled vaguely of cedarwood and cigarette smoke, as though he’d had a smoke and rubbed his body with a car air fresher to get rid of the smell.

“Mister Pointer?” the police officer asked.

Eric took two steps forward, took a deep breath, and said, “They’re all dead.”

The next few minutes were a bit of a blur, but ended with Eric being taken through the Private door and into the police station proper. He was brought into a small canteen, given a bacon sandwich, cup of tea with enough sugar in it that it was probably no longer called a drink, and half a packet of custard cream biscuits on a paper plate.

Eric stared at the biscuits for a moment and chuckled, looking around to make sure he was alone. Despite what he’d been through, he chuckled again, feeling like he was at the world’s strangest birthday party.

The tea was nice, sweet, and smelled vaguely of camomile, which meant he guessed it was supposed to be relaxing. Probably defeated the object to pile it full of sugar. He drank it anyway, and realised the police officer he’d been talking to—although he couldn’t remember their name—had left his notebook on the table.

Eric looked around and risked a glance. The notebook was full of doodles, pictures of houses, of trees, of cars. He flicked through the pages until he paused and felt the horror of the night bubble back up to the top. There was a picture, a drawing in blue biro, of the thing that had killed the rest of his group. That had watched him get into his car, and drive away.

Eric’s reaction was immediate and violent, and he threw the notebook away, watching it bounce off the far wall. He got to his feet, grabbed a butter knife from the table, realised it was utterly dull, and picked up a fork instead.

He’d taken two steps when the world went dark, and he pitched forward onto the cold tiled floor. He was awake, but couldn’t move, his entire body refusing to do what it was told.

The main entrance to the canteen opened and two police officers—one male, one female—stepped inside. They were accompanied by a man in blood-red robes with a red fox mask covering his face.

“No,” Eric said as defiantly as he could.

The man in the mask picked up the fork from the ground beside Eric and showed it to him. “Be still now,” he said softly, almost soothingly. “No harm will come to you.”

“Killed the men with me,” Eric slurred.

“They fought and died,” the man said, straightening up. “You ran and lived. Well done. We were meant to grab you before it got dark, but you arrived late. Sorry about that. You’re here now, but we can’t have you asking for a phone or calling anyone.” He removed something from his pocket and showed it to Eric – his mobile phone, the screen destroyed.

Eric watched it tumble from the man’s hand onto the floor, the sound of it striking the ground seemingly lasting forever.

“You are drugged,” the man said. “Sounds will be quite strange to you. You may see things that were not there. I would like you to write my story, and for that you must live. Show a usefulness to me, and maybe you, too, can become part of what we’re trying to achieve.”

“Murdererererer,” Eric said, the word going on much longer than he expected it to.

“Good night, sweet Eric,” the man replied. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Eric closed his eyes… and opened them again in a strange place. A cell. Eric sat up, decided it wasn’t worth the pain, and lay back down again, looking around his new surroundings.

The cell was fifteen feet by fifteen, and had the bed he was laying on, a toilet, sink, and small desk with chair. Bars lined three sides of the cell, allowing him to look through into those on either side, although there was a five-foot gap between them. He couldn’t reach the adjacent cells using his own body without injury on his part.

The toilet and sink were against a bare stone wall at the rear of the cell, and had a small curtain on rails that could be pulled around them. Not much privacy, but better than nothing. There were no windows, so no way for Eric to figure out where he was in relation to the outside world.

Just beyond the bars of his cell was a hallway with steps at the far side. Eric risked sitting up again. This time it hurt less. There were five cells in all, his was the second from the right. None appeared to be occupied, although the meagre light from the torch—actual fire-lit torchlight—in the area outside of the cells kept everything in a dingy setting.

“You’re not dead,” a voice said from the cell beside his. “I did wonder.”

Eric fell out of the side of his bed, jarring his hip on the stone floor.

“Sorry,” the voice said. It had a British accent, although it was tinged with a little French.

“Where am I?” Eric asked, squinting for a better view of whoever occupied the cell.

“Ah, that’s a slightly more complicated question,” the definitely male voice said, but Eric still couldn’t see anyone. “Wales would be the easier answer. Near Llyn Tywyll Campsite.”

Panic threatened to overcome Eric. “No, I’d gotten away from here. No, no.”

“Hey,” the voice said, calmly. “You’re fine.”

“They murdered everyone,” Eric snapped.

“But not you and not me,” the voice said. “Means we still have a chance. Also, people are going to come looking for us.”

“How long will that be?” Eric asked.

“I’m not sure,” the voice replied. “I don’t think these cells were designed to keep people. I think they’re old animal pens. Maybe dogs, maybe something worse than dogs. They smell funny. I think I’d like to figure out what’s going on here before we’re rescued.”

Torches flickered to life in the gaps between the cells, bathing the cells in their light. Eric’s mouth dropped open as he got a look at the inhabitant of the cell beside his. “You’re a… a… a… Not human.”

“Was once,” the prisoner said. “Long time ago now.”

“You’re a fox.” Eric stared at the three-foot tall fox-humanoid. It wore black leather armour, similar to what Eric had seen on the murderer, although there was no way of confusing the two.

“Foxman,” the prisoner said, stepping towards the bars and holding out a hand-shaped paw. “Name is Remy.”

Eric stared at the hand.

“I do not bite, my friend,” Remy said. “Actually, that’s not true. But I won’t bite you.”

Eric put his arm through the bars and shook Remy’s hand. “Eric,” he said. “Journalist.”

Remy took his hand back, and smiled.

Eric’s face paled as he stared at the sharp teeth inside Remy’s mouth.

Remy stopped smiling. “Apologies, sometimes I forget that people aren’t used to a talking fox. As for my job, well, job titles are harder for me. A little bit of everything over the centuries.”

“And you think people are going to come find us?” Eric asked, clinging to that thread of hope.

Remy’s smile returned. “When my friends turn up, every single bastard responsible for our current predicament is in deep trouble.”

“You sure?” Eric asked.

“You ever seen a sorcerer when they’re mad?”

Eric shook his head. “Are you a sorcerer?”

Remy laughed. “No, just your local, friendly foxman.”

“And you have a sorcerer friend?” Eric asked, the hope in his voice tangible.

“A few of them,” Remy told him, a wicked smile spreading across his face, once again showing his sharp, white teeth. “And let me assure you, when they arrive, they’re going to fuck everyone’s shit up.”