CHAPTER THIRTEEN- SHADOWS UNVEILED: PART 3

Saturday 12th August, 2018- NEW SALEM, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

(5:49 AM)

Then chaos erupted like a spark igniting dry tinder. Just as the robed figure reached to unlatch the next cage, the sound of tearing flesh still echoing from the altar, one of the captives surged forward. With a desperate cry, the captive— bloodied, bruised and half-mad with terror, lunged at the figure, grappling with them in a sudden, violent struggle. The force of the captive’s charge sent the Hollow priest sprawling to the ground, the knife clattering away from his hand.

“Run! Run now!”, the man shouted, his voice hoarse and broken, but filled with a fierce determination.

For a split second, the other captives hesitated, their wide, terrified eyes flicking between the frenzied feast happening mere feet away and the open glade that stretched beyond the boundary of the plantation. Then, with the fire of survival kicking in, they scattered like startled deer, bolting towards the forest that surrounded Oak Valley Plantation.

A woman’s scream pierced the air, cutting through the growls and ravenous sounds of the feast. One of the five captives, a young man barely in his 20s, didn’t make it far. His cries for help were abruptly silenced as a Hollow guest pounced, dragging him back to the throng of feeding monsters. The Artist turned just in time to see the unfortunate soul disappear beneath a frenzy of snapping jaws and clawed hands.

Elizabeth’s voice rang out, shrill and furious. “Infidels!”, her face twisted into rage beneath her mask, the elegance and composure she had maintained now fully shattered, “Someone get those infidels!”.

Several of the Hollows immediately abandoned their meals, eyes glowing with hunger as they began to give chase. The captives, now four in total, had made it to the edge of the open glade, their legs pumping frantically, but it was clear they wouldn’t make it far. The Artist’s heart pounded in their chest as they watched from the balcony. The tension coiled in their gut like a serpent. This is getting out of hand.

Lucius, ever the showman, leaned forward in his seat with a slow, deliberate smirk across his obsidian-crimson eyes. “My apprentice”, he called out, his voice dripping with mock affection, loud enough for all the whole table to hear, “why don’t you help us catch these runaway prey? Surely, it would be a simple task for someone of your talent”.

The Artist felt the weight of every eye upon them. Claire, seated beside Lucius, gave them a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. Elizabeth’s gaze, however, was sharp and expectant, like a predator eyeing fresh meat. There was no way out. “Damn Lucius”, The Artist thought.

With a silent curse, The Artist leaped from the balcony, landing in the soft grass below with feline grace. The chase had begun.

They took off in a blur, feet pounding the earth as they sped towards the edge of the glade where the captives had fled. The scent of blood and fear hung thick in the air, pulling them forward. Behind them, Elizabeth’s guests laughed and howled, the thrill of the hunt sending them into a frenzy. The Artist moved swiftly, their mind racing as fast as their legs. Just catch one. Play your part.

The forest loomed ahead, dark and dense, the trees like towering sentinels that watched the madness unfold. As they entered the tree line, the sounds of the hunt shifted. The forest muffled the feast and the cries from behind, leaving only the sound of the captives’ ragged breaths and snapping twigs beneath their frantic footsteps. The Artist caught sight of one of the captives, the smallest of the group, just ahead.

With a burst of speed, The Artist tackled the man to the ground. They rolled in the dirt, the captive kicking and thrashing wildly. “Get off me!”, he screamed, swinging blindly at The Artist with all the strength his malnourished body could muster.

The Artist caught his wrists, pinning him down in the soft undergrowth. “Stop! I’m not going to hurt you!”, they hissed, their voice barely above a whisper, hoping the others wouldn’t catch on to the act.

The man’s breath came in short, panicked bursts as he struggled beneath The Artist’s grip. Up close, he was smaller than they’d expected. Barely 5-Feet and 58-Inches, his brown eyes wild with fear. His head had been shaved completely, the mark of the cult, the “Twanas”, was branded into the flesh of the left side of his neck and bump, still red and raw. The simplistic symbol sent a chill down The Artist’s spine. He was just like the others, stripped of his clothes and identity, a sacrifice waiting to happen.

But not yet. Not if The Artist could help it.

“Listen to me”, The Artist whispered urgently, loosening their grip slightly as the man’s struggling slowed, “If you want to live, you have to trust me. I’ll get you out of here. But you need to calm down, and follow my lead. Understand?”.

The man stared up at The Artist, eyes wide and disbelieving, “Why…why would you help me? You’re with them!”.

The Artist shook their head, “Not by choice. Now, do you want to get out of here or not?”.

For a moment, the man hesitated, but the desperation in his eyes told The Artist everything they needed to know. With a slow, reluctant nod, the captive stopped fighting.

“Good,” The Artist muttered, pulling him to his feet. “Now stay close. We don’t have much time”.

(6:53 AM)

The Artist’s heart was still racing as they grabbed the captive’s arm, pulling him to his feet. “We need to move, now”, they muttered, scanning the forest, ears pricked for any signs of pursuit. The man was trembling, but his legs followed instinctively, driven by the same primal need to survive. They took a step forward, ready to sprint deeper into the woods, but then the air around them shuddered with a sudden vibration.

A plume of dark smoke erupted behind them, swirling into the shape of a person. The Artist froze, recognizing the magick instantly. The captive stiffened in terror as the smoke coalesced into Claire’s familiar silhouette. Her eyes gleamed, cold and calculating, as she took a casual step forward, the smoky remnants of her teleportation still swirling around her like a shroud.

“There you are”, Claire said, her voice lilting and sweet as though they were old friends meeting by chance.

The Artist stiffened. “Claire”, the name escaped their lips like a hiss, thick with restrained anger. The man beside them cowered, his eyes darting between the two figures, unsure if he should run or collapse into despair.

The Artist stepped forward, putting themselves between Claire and the captive. “What the hell are you doin’ here?”, they snapped, their Southern drawl creeping into their voice. The stress was peeling away their usual composure, leaving them raw. “Don’t give me that ‘It ain’t what you think’ line. I want to know why the hell you’re mixed up with these twisted freaks!”.

Claire raised an eyebrow, folding her arms, her red lipstick-tainted lips curving into a sly smile. “It’s not what you think”, she said softly, “You need to trust me, if you want to find your parents”.

The words cut through the tension like a blade, and The Artist’s jaw tightened. “Oh, Claire with Blair. How convenient”, they spat sarcastically, eyes narrowing, “You’ve been tangled in this mess the whole time, haven’t you? What’s the damn plan then? What, I’m just supposed to hand this poor guy back to Elizabeth as some kind of gift?”.

Claire shrugged, her demeanor disturbingly calm. “He’s cult property”, she said cooly. “You let him go, and you’ll raise more suspicions than you can handle. I’m sure by now you know how this game works”.

Before The Artist could respond, the man, hearing their conversation, realized the depth of his predicament. Panic seized him, and without warning, he bolted into the trees, his breaths ragged and frantic.

“No, wait!”, The Artist shouted, reaching out, but it was too late. Claire barely glanced in the man’s direction before she raised her hand. A burst of dark energy enveloped the fleeing captive, lifting him off the ground and suspending him helplessly in the air. His limbs flailed in a fruitless attempt to break free, his screams filling the otherwise quiet forest.

Claire’s voice was smooth and unbothered. “This is your only chance”, she said, turning her head slightly to glance at The Artist. “Knock him out. Take him back to the plantation”.

The man was still suspended in the air, terror making him thrash even harder. “You lied to me! You fucking liar!”, he screamed, his voice thick with rage and betrayal. “Rot in hell, both of you!”.

The Artist turned to Claire, their face a mask of frustration. “We can’t…” they started, but Claire cut them off.

“You can’t risk your life and mine for his”, she said sharply, her voice dropping its soothing tone. “Do you really think Elizabeth won’t notice? You think you’ll survive that? He’s just another sacrifice. You know that”.

The Artist clenched their fists, every muscle in their body coiled tight with anger and helplessness. Fighting Claire would be a whole other ordeal, one they weren’t sure they could win. Worse, it would blow their cover. And yet…the thought of killing the man felt like a betrayal of everything they once stood for.

The man, hearing their exchange, his face pale and streaked with dirt and blood, looked down at The Artist with wide pleading eyes. “Please”, he gasped, his voice breaking, “If you’re gonna kill me, just do it quick. Don’t let them have me. Not like this”.

Claire’s lips twisted into a sardonic grin. “Those whelps back home would eat roadkill any day”, she said, “Do what needs to be done”.

The Artist swallowed hard, the weight of the decision pressing down on them like a suffocating fog. Slowly, reluctantly, they reached into their jacket pocket and pulled out their handgun, the .44 Magnum Revolver cold and heavy in their hand.

The man stared at the weapon, then squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing ragged but resigned. The Artist raised the gun, their hand trembling slightly. “I’m sorry”, they said.

A single shot rang out.

The man’s body fell limply to the ground as the dark magick released its grip. His face was peaceful, the fear and panic gone, leaving only stillness.

For a moment, the forest was silent. The Artist stood there, gun still in hand, feeling nothing. No anger. No sorrow. Just numbness, like the life had drained from them too. They holstered the revolver and bent down to lift the man’s lifeless body, draping it over their right shoulder.

Claire approached The Artist softly, her voice eerily somber. “I’m sorry it had to come to this, but you did the right thing”, she said, though the words felt hollow. The Artist didn’t respond, their eyes dull, unfocused. They could feel Claire’s gaze on them, sharp and probing, but they didn’t care anymore.

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Together, they walked back to the mansion, the weight of the dead man like a stone dragging them down with each step. The hollow eyes of the guests would be waiting, eager for their prize. Elizabeth would be waiting, a cruel smile playing on her lips.

And The Artist? They were just going through the motions.

(6:01 AM)

The Artist’s boots crunched against the gravel as they laid the man’s body down at the edge of the gathering. The guests, still in their grotesque hybrid forms, eyed the fresh corpse with hungry anticipation. Elizabeth stood above them all, the sunrise casting a soft glow on her face, making her look almost ethereal— if not for the twisted grin playing at her lips.

“Ah, splendid work”, Elizabeth said, her voice dripping with satisfaction. She stepped forward, her flowing red gown trailing behind her as she observed the body, “And Claire, darling, I trust there were no issues?”.

Claire, standing beside The Artist, met Elizabeth’s gaze evenly. “None at all”, she replied smoothly, “The other three escapees have been retrieved. They’re back, alive and suitably terrified”.

Elizabeth clapped her hands softly, her long fingers tapping together with a quiet click-click-click. “Marvelous! And just in time for breakfast”. She looked over the crowd of eager ravenous guests. “Eat, my dears. Feast to your heart’s content”.

The Artist watched in silence as the guests descended upon the body with savage glee, tearing into the flesh with unnatural vigor. It was a scene they had witnessed before, but it never grew less disturbing.

Lucius approached with that same predatory grin stretched across his face, his obsidian-crimson eyes gleaming with approval. “You have done well, my apprentice”, he said, voice smooth and cold, “You’re showing real potential. One day, you’ll make a fine Darkstalker”.

The Artist forced a neutral expression and nodded respectfully. “Thank you, Master Decanus”.

Lucius gave The Artist a cold pat on the shoulder before turning his attention back to Elizabeth. “There’s much to discuss regarding our next…payment”, he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, “Shall we, my lady?”.

Before Elizabeth could reply, Claire interjected smoothly. “Master Decanus, would you mind if I borrow your apprentice for a while?”. Lucius paused, then looked at Claire with a sly smile. “Not at all”, he said, waving a dismissive hand. “You can have my apprentice for the whole day if you wish. Think of it as an extension of my contract”.

The Artist stiffened at Lucius’ words but managed to keep their expression neutral. Lucius had barely given it a second thought, as though lending them out was nothing more than an afterthought. “Thank you”, Claire said, giving Lucius a polite nod before turning to The Artist. “Come with me”, she said softly, motioning toward the mansion, “We need to talk”.

Elizabeth nodded to Lucius, and the two of them walked off together, their figures melding into the early morning mist as they headed towards a secluded area of the backyard.

As they made their way to the mansion, the woman from earlier, with her intricate tattoos and striking platinum blonde hair accented with streaks of red called out to Claire. The woman was followed closely by the pale gaunt young man from before.

“Claire! Wait…”, the woman cried out, quickening her pace to catch up with them. But Claire didn’t slow down her stride.

“Not now, Laurel”, Claire said firmly, dismissing her without breaking her stride, “We’ll be back later”. Laurel looked frustrated, but she halted in her tracks, her pale companion casting a wary glance at The Artist before both turned away, disappearing back into the crowd.

Once inside the mansion, Claire led The Artist to the foyer. It was quieter here, the sounds of the macabre feast fading into the background. They climbed the steps leading up to the grand entrance and sat down, the cool morning air still hanging in the atmosphere.

For a moment, neither spoke. The weight of everything that had transpired pressed heavily on The Artist’s shoulders. They glanced at Claire, who seemed calm, but there was a tension beneath her surface, a subtle unease she was trying to keep buried.

“So, what now?”, The Artist finally asked, breaking the silence. Their voice was quiet but edged with weariness.

Claire sighed, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “We have to be smart,” she said, her voice low. “Lucius and Elizabeth…they’re planning something bigger than what we saw today. This whole stunt is just a small part of their grand design”.

The Artist frowned, “And you’re still working with them? Why?”.

Claire met their gaze, her expression unreadable. “I’m not working for them”, she corrected, “I’m using them. There are things at play here that you don’t understand yet. But I do indeed want you to find your parents, you’ll need to trust me”.

The Artist’s lips curled into a bitter smirk. “Trust you?”, they echoed, shaking their head, “After all this? After everything I just saw?”. Their accent thickened with frustration, the weight of the situation starting to break through their usual calm facade. “Claire with Blair. How convenient”.

Claire’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I get it”, she said, her voice sharp. “You’re angry. You’re confused. But I’m one of the only people who can help you right now. You think Lucius or Elizabeth are going to lead you to anything but a shallow grave?”.

The Artist exhaled, the tension in their shoulders easing slightly, though the weariness remained. “So, what do we do?”.

“Ask me anything and I will talk”, Claire replied.

The Artist stared at Claire, their mind racing with the overwhelming weight of everything they had seen and done today. With a slow, controlled breath, they broke the silence. “Does Elizabeth actually know who I am? Does she know about my parents?”.

Claire’s gaze softened slightly as she met The Artist’s eyes, “James and Samantha. Yes. She knows exactly who you are”, she confirmed, her tone cautious, “She’s been pretending, playing dumb, but I don’t know why. That…worries me”.

The Artist’s fists clenched at the thought. They had felt that something was off about Elizabeth from the start, but to know she had been faking ignorance struck deeper. “And what about my parents? Do you have any idea where they are?”.

Claire hesitated for a moment before nodding. “I’ve got a few leads. But none of them strongly point toward The Cult”, she paused, her eyes searching The Artist’s face for a reaction, “It’s possible they’re involved in something much bigger, something outside of Blair’s immediate grasp”.

The Artist frowned, frustration building in their chest. “Then where are all these captives coming from? Who are they?”, The Artist asked.

“Most of them are taken from Endecott Forest State Park”, Claire replied, her voice quieter now. “Lost campers, the homeless, drifters…people who the world won’t notice missing. The Cult has an outpost there. It’s upstate from here, past Jacksonville, if I’m not mistaken”.

The Artist nodded, recognizing the area immediately, “Endecott Forest…that’s quite far but at least its within state. So, you’re saying it’s one of your leads?”.

Claire shook her head, “No. Your parents were viewed as…special by the Cult. Elizabeth even knew you when you were a baby. If they’re still alive, they’re being kept somewhere more secure than a mere outpost”.

The Artist’s gaze hardened, “Then let’s hit the outpost. We dismantle Blair’s operations there, get a sense of what they’re doing. We can cripple them, slow them down. That would send a message”.

Claire’s eyes flashed with concern, “That’s suicide, and you know it. The Cult is too strong. Today’s ceremony should’ve shown you how prepared they are for any attack. Going there guns blazing won’t solve anything, it’ll just get you and me killed”.

“That’s exactly why we need to act now!”, The Artist’s voice rose with intensity, “The Cult is not invincible, and you owe me, Claire. I did what you told me to do. I killed that man. I brought him back like some twisted prize. We can’t let these people keep doing this!”.

Claire sighed deeply, looking down for a moment before nodding slightly, her voice gentler now, “I get where you’re coming from, I do. But you’ve been up for over 24 hours dealing with this Hollow ceremony madness. I’ve been right there with you, and we both need rest. If we charge into something like this now, we’ll both end up dead”.

The Artist’s shoulders slumped. They wanted to fight, to act, to do something— but Claire was right. They were exhausted, barely holding on as it was. “So, what then? You want me to just sit around?”, they asked.

“I’ll take you home. You need to sleep, recover. I’ll handle Elizabeth and Blair for now”, Claire said, her voice firm, “I’ll be back in the next 33 hours, and we’ll take it from there. But you need to live a little, too. Take some time for yourself, meet new people, find something outside of all this…death”.

The Artist looked at Claire, doubt flickering in their eyes, “And what if I can’t wait? What if I can’t just sit still?”.

Claire smiled faintly. “Try a hobby. Bowling, Pool Table, Darts— whatever keeps your mind occupied”, she said, “Go back to bartending, or focus on your art. Just…try to live for a bit before it’s too late”.

The Artist hesitated but eventually nodded. “Fine”, they said quietly, “But don’t keep me waiting”.

(7:03 AM)

With a swift motion, Claire raised her hand, and the air around them shimmered with a dark swirling energy. In a blink, The Artist found themselves standing in the familiar surroundings of their apartment on 11th Lane, Fleuve Street. The French Quarter was alive with distant sounds, but here, inside, it was quiet.

The Artist stood still for a moment, their eyes drifting to the framed sketches and unfinished paintings hanging on the walls. Memories of their childhood flooded back, the space feeling both familiar and strange at once. With heavy limbs, they walked to their old bedroom, collapsing onto the bed. The weight of everything hit them at once— the exhaustion, the grief, the unanswered questions.

Sleep came quickly, pulling them into a deep heavy slumber.

But it was not a peaceful sleep.

In the darkness of their dreams, something terrible lurked, something that watched, waited and whispered a name familiar to them.

Thursday 17th March, 1718- COLONY OF WILLOW IN FRENCH AMERICA

The battlefield was a grim expanse of chaos and death. Gunpowder stung the air as muskets fired sporadically through the thick haze of smoke, the sound lost in the screams of the wounded. French colonists, once hopeful for a new life in this distant land, now fought desperately to survive against an unrelenting force. The Hollows, a twisted army of shadowed almost humanoid creatures bound to The Willow, swept through the ranks, tearing down soldiers as if they were made of parchment. Their weapons glinted wickedly in the dim light, the unmistakable echo of machetes cutting through the mist.

Horses charged, their hooves kicking up earth and blood, while French artillery thundered off in the distance, a futile attempt to hold back the tide. Bayonets clashed against crude steel, the din of battle ringing in Nathan Noir’s ears, though the mist choked the very air from his lungs. He blinked against the smoke, unsure whether the light cutting through was moonlight or daylight. It was all the same now— chaos, death and mist. He couldn’t tell how many hours had passed.

“Mon commandant! — (My Commander!)”, a panicked voice in French shattered Nathan’s thoughts as a figure stumbled through the fog toward him. The soldier’s blue and white uniform was soaked in blood. It was Sergeant. Bastien Dumas, clutching his side where a deep wound gaped open. His pale face was streaked with dirt, his eyes wide with fear. “They’re flanking us on all sides! We can’t hold much longer!”, his words came in loud gasps, but it wasn’t the report of their failing battle lines that terrified him most.

Nathan gripped his rapier tighter. “Do you hear her?”, Dumas whispered, his eyes wild, “Do you hear her coming?”.

Nathan’s stomach clenched. “Is it truly her, Sergeant? La Saule?”, his voice was steady, though a cold sweat ran down his back.

“Yes”, Dumas gasped, barely able to speak through his fear. “It’s her…La Reine des Creux…she has come”.

Nathan closed his eyes for a brief second. The air felt thick with dread. “As long as Captain Hawkwood caught everyone out of Willow, that’s all that matters”, Nathan muttered, though even he knew it was a fragile comfort. They had only delayed the inevitable.

Then the ground trembled.

It was subtle at first. A slight vibration, barely felt underfoot, but then it grew stronger, more violent, until the very earth beneath them seemed to groan in protest. Soldiers stopped fighting, looking around in confusion. Even the Hollows seemed momentarily stilled by the rumbling beneath them. In the distance, beyond the thick veil of smoke and mist, a shadow began to form. It rose taller than any man, any tree, its shape becoming clearer by the second. A giant silhouette, almost as tall as the sky, emerged from the fog, blotting out the battlefield in its wake. Its voice— inhuman, dark and ancient, boomed through the air, calling out over the dying screams of men.

“Nathan… Nathan… Nathan…”, she called.

It called his name, over and over, like a terrible hymn.

Nathan’s blood ran cold. His grip on his rapier tightened as he looked around at the scattered remnants of his army. They were losing, and they all knew it. Most had already fallen, their bodies left to the merciless Hollows. Only a handful of his men remained standing, their faces pale and eyes wide with terror.

He had no choice.

“Sur moi! — (On me!)”, Nathan roared in French, raising his blade high, “Pour moi! — (To me!)”.

The French soldiers, battered and bloodied, began to rally around him. They moved in closer, forming a tight line. Muskets were raised shakily, bayonets ready, though the men holding them were barely standing. Nathan felt the ground tremble again, but he forced himself to stand tall, locking eyes with his remaining men. They were frightened, and so was he. But they couldn’t give in now. Not after all they had suffered. Not when they stood on the brink of annihilation.

“We fall back onto each other!”, Nathan bellowed, over the rising wind and the calls of the Hollows, “We fight, and we do not falter!”.

The fog swirled around them, the eerie voice of The Willow still echoing in the distance. The giant figure drew nearer, the earth shaking under its immense weight. Nathan could see its hollowed eyes through the smoke, they were black pits of nothingness, with twisted branches that made up its body. The Willow had come for them.

But Nathan would not surrender. Not now.

With a fierce cry, he raised his rapier high and charged, his remaining men close behind him, ready to face the terror that awaited them.