Callie - An Enchantress Novel - Book 1

Prologue

George licked the blood from the split on his swollen lower lip. "Christ, that one was strong," he mumbled, rubbing his aching jaw with his free hand. He rolled his shoulders, attempting to ease the ache from having to carry the heavy load so far into the woods.

The full moon lit the way to his destination, negating the need for a torch, which could easily have given him away. He dumped his burden on the ground by his feet and picked the shovel up to move the decaying leaves to one side. The soil was still loose from his visit a week before, making it easier to dig and he dug only deep enough to stop any inquisitive animals from digging the evidence back up.

A loud crack sounded close by. He stopped and looked all around, listening for any more sounds. After a brief moment, the silhouette of a large stag became visible in the clearing off to his right, snorting and making clouds of steam with its breath in the chill of the night air. He stood, shovel ready, and listened for a minute more before continuing with his task.

With a dull thud, the sheet-wrapped bundle hit the bottom of the shallow grave. He peered in after it to see a small hand had fallen out of the cover. Tutting in exasperation as he jumped into the hole, he unwrapped his latest blunder to tuck it back in. Pale blond hair, matted with blood, covered the battered face of a petite ten-year-old girl from a farm near his home.

This one had been a fighter and strong as an ox for all the size of her; she had head butted him and knocked a tooth out before he managed to restrain her. He beat her senseless after that, cracking her head on the wall, punching her in the stomach and face numerous times. Then as she lay bleeding on the floor of his bedroom, he held her down with his hand at her chest while she continued to thrash about as he raped her, increasing his pleasure ten fold with her struggles. Sometime during the tussle, his hand had moved to her throat and he hadn't noticed her movements had stopped until he lay panting over her still body.

He shivered as the memory passed and with a flick of his boot, pushed the arm back in and laid the sheet over it again.

Once the hole was filled in, he walked to the big fir behind the makeshift grave and carved a notch to match the seven already there.

Three years' worth of his playthings lay buried in the shallow graves around the tree. The first notch was his friend Pete. The night before the twins had kicked him out, he'd gone to Callie's room in a drunken stupor while Pete slept on the sofa downstairs. A mistake in hindsight, but he hadn't been in any condition to think about it at the time. Adrianne had jumped him and the noise of the fight had woken Pete who came barrelling into the room wielding a pocket-knife. Before he knew it, Pete was dead. Blood coated his hands and the knife George held.

It's their fault that Pete's dead. It's the twins' fault, not mine. He thought in remembrance of that night, again feeling the same satisfaction when he had cut her, the aggressive one, slicing her face from eye to lip.

The long trek back to his car afforded plenty of time to reminisce about the events that had him returning to that same spot time and time again. He learned nothing from his mistakes.

Taking a different route home, this time passing through a small village, he came across his next tiny, little plaything all alone in the back garden, chattering away to her doll. With no one around to see him, he slipped over the fence, snatching her up with his hand covering her mouth to stifle her screams.