“A plan?” I scoff. “A plan?!” I scream.
I can feel my control slipping like sand as I take fast steps towards him. Before I know it, my hand connects hard with his cheek and his head whips to the side. My chest heaves as tears fall from my eyes.
“Your original plan just sentenced my best friend to a fate worse than death, Felix. You say you are in love with her, but you just gave her a one-way ticket to hell.”
“I was trying to protect her.”
“Typical man,” I scoff. “Protect her by ruining her? Be grateful you weren’t born a woman, Felix. Men cannot protect us when they are the ones causing us pain! Now get the fuck out before I say something we both can’t come back from.”
I shoulder past him, storm into my room, slam the door and lock it. I grab the first thing I come across, a framed photo of me and Felix and throw it across the room. I tip my head back and scream into the ceiling before pressing play on the surround system again to try and drown out the memories in my head.
‘Little Girl Gone by Chinchilla’starts playing out loudly as a bubbly sensation crawls up my skin.
Drip, drip, drip.
It’s not enough. I squeeze my eyes but all I can see is the crypt, all I can feel are their hands, all I can smell is the blood.
Drip, drip, drip.
I look around and see my umbrella leaning against the wall. Grabbing the handle, I squeeze it so hard my knuckles turn white as I try to centre myself, but nothing helps. I scream again as I grab the next photo.
This one is of me and Father and I smash it to pieces. Then I move on to more photos, more trinkets, anything I can get my hands on. Lifting up the umbrella, I start smashing everything I can see. If I smash hard enough, I can beat out this pain. If I smash hard enough the fearhasto go…right?
The anger seeps out of my pores as I destroy nearly all of my room until I am standing in the middle of a pile of shattered glass.But it is not enough. It will never be enough.
Breathing heavily, I grab the pocketknife lying on my desk and flick it open, the sharp click doing nothing to calm the burning in my chest. I move to my bed before I start slicing the pillows and mattress, ripping through whatever I can reach.
Rage, this is what I need. Not sadness, or fear…but rage.
For me, for Robyn, for any other woman forced to be a pawn in this bullshit life built by foolish men. Taking a breath, I look at the destruction of my room as I drop the umbrella on the floor. I know what I need to do.
I pick up my phone, send a group text, and open my bedroom door.
I know where you are now. And I am coming for you, Robyn.
Hold on.
CHAPTER 2
FAE
One of the few good things about living on the outskirts of Essex in a little village called Coggeshall is the lack of traffic and lack of CCTV. I can get from one village to the next in under ten minutes without ever being seen. Better yet, I can be in London within an hour, so it comes as no surprise to me that The Company set up their foundation here.
Not only do Coggeshall’s roots stretch back over a thousand years, but most locals keep themselves to themselves. That is why when they hear rumours about witches’ tunnels that run beneath the village, they dismiss it as a quirky side story rather than the deep underbelly of the United Kingdom’s elite.
Many of the properties on the outskirts of the village are owned by The Company and during training we are never allowed to venture too far from the centre… you know, just in case we are called upon to do their dirty work.
I am no stranger to how the system works. Even though I was never meant to be a part of it, it has always been a part of me. Most of the meetings take place in my Father’s crypt, so it was standard for me to see men and women coming in and out of my home as a child. My Father is one of the founders. There areten in total and it is the highest title to hold in The Company. A privilege, apparently.
I roll my eyes at the thought as I pull up to our local church and quickly jump out of my Mercedes-Benz GLE. To the public, it is a beautiful slice of history. To me, the pale, weather-worn stone feels foreboding. Its walls are thick and solid, the kind that hold centuries of secrets in their seams.
Narrow arched windows scatter across the length of the building as gravestones dot the churchyard. Some are still upright; some are broken, whilst others lean as though tired of telling the stories of the dead. Many of the inscriptions are now missing as moss creeps over the stone. It is the sort of place that doesn’t demand attention, but once you notice it, it refuses to be forgotten.
The gravel crunches under my feet as I walk up the path toward the large, imposing wooden doors. For everyone else the church closed hours ago… for us, it has only just opened. As I push the heavy door open, my footsteps echo across the stone floor that stretches forward in pale geometric patterns.
A single dark slab lies set among the tiles, its inscription long since worn away. Rows of wooden chairs face the altar. During the day, the church looks warm with soft honeyed tones filling the space, but at night that is when the real darkness takes over. The air feels hushed and poisoned. It is like nothing you should feel in a place of worship.
The timbered ceiling arches high above me, as I continue my walk down the aisle. I pass the altar before taking a sharp left and pull down the large candle holder fixed to the wall. The false panel shifts open and I slip into the narrow space behind it as my breath comes in short, sharp waves.