Tad Clarke

Copyright © Tad Clarke, 2008

PROLOGUE
Tucked away along the northwestern shores of Scotland, the ruins of a castle overlooked a cliff high above the coastline. The castle’s walls succumbed to Mother Nature’s fury decades ago as they crumbled back into the ground from which they rose. Only the timeless waves crashing on the beach hundreds of feet below remembered what the structure once was. A thick of trees hid the rocky, uneven terrain, and the closest road was more than a mile away. To the south lay the fishing village of Kylesku, but it was as forgotten as the castle, for only a few people traveled to this part of Scotland even during the short summer tourist season.

Residents in the village shied away from talking about the castle, quick to dismiss strangers’ inquiries; however, if encouraged with a pint or two of ale, an old-timer in the local tavern might tell of an ancient curse placed upon the castle and the land surrounding it. Every so often, a handful of teenagers attempted to go to the ruins late at night. Few succeeded in reaching the actual structure. Of those who did, none returned to it ever again.

If one ventured to the area on this day, though, the ghost stories would surely multiply, for thirteen people lay dead in the last of the towers still standing, their bodies strung about a small room used for unknown purposes. All of them were dressed in long gray robes made of a flaxen cloth, and none of the bodies carried a visible wound—not even a mark—save one, a man in his early fifties, and his body was mutilated in unthinkable ways. The room was in perfect condition, but outside one would swear that the tower was ready to collapse at any moment. Yet that will never happen, for magic protected this room, an ancient magic that would endure until the end of time.

Of the victims, one young woman with strawberry blond hair and tiny freckles dotting her nose was smiling, but the rest had expressions of pain and agony. The mutilated man appeared ravaged by a large animal, his robe shredded and his left arm ripped from its socket. His head had been cleaved from his neck, although it was a clean cut that must have been made with a very sharp, very large instrument—an ax perhaps? The head rested several feet from the man’s body, his eyes still open, but they did not register the horror that had become him. Instead, they carried a look of defiance that continued to show these many hours later.

A trail of drying blood led back to his body, and a message was written with it on the wall behind:

With this, my revenge begins.
My thirst shall not be quenched
until this world dawns its final day.
From beneath, the darkness will come.
Prepare.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jolena Casp sat up in bed suddenly wide awake. Her dreams that night were filled with white, the last one of a white dove flying low over a snow-covered field. A white wolf lunged from the ground below and caught the dove in its teeth before everything went red.

“Marcus, it’s time,” she said to her sleeping husband, nudging him with her elbow to wake him from his slumber. “The queen of the witches has returned.”

Copyright © Tad Clarke, 2008 All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law, without written permission of the author.