Ooo! Finally, some action. Well, almost. You'll have to wait until next week for the fight scene (as well as I can deliver one). But, as promised, you will get a glimpse into what makes Charlotte so special, and there is a small clue in this week's story. (If you can figure it out from the miniscule hint I give you, then you will get a cookie. A big one.)
Once again, I need to thank mom for giving me the little spark of inspiration I needed to get this thing rolling.
Amanda had never realized how loud the electricity of the compound was until it suddenly went out. There was a brief reprieve when the generators tried to stir to life, but their grinding mechanical sound shuddered to a halt. Then there was silence.
The eerie semi-light of dusk was all she had to see by, but it was enough. Beyond the fence, near the tree line, Amanda could clearly see a person, a man standing and looking up at her. Although she could not make out his features, this man exuded a malevolence that palpable. Without knowing how or why, Amanda knew beyond any doubt that it was him down there.
The vampire from Provence had finally found her.
A cold knot formed in the pit of Amanda’s stomach and spread quickly up through her lungs. She longed to scream for help, for François to save her, but the coldness in her chest refused to let any sound escape. She stood there trembling from the effort of trying to turn and run while the vampire strolled casually toward the compound and her.
As she watched him mockingly test the fence’s strength she found herself wondering why she was so surprised. After all, he had given an unspoken promise to return for her. His smile told her that he would let her live with the knowledge that it had been her hand that had freed an unimaginable evil from it’s grave, and then he would come for her.
“He thinks you are weak.” Hearing another voice so close behind her shocked Amanda’s voice free and she screamed as she fell in a heap at the feet of Charlotte Foxtrot. “He thinks you will be easy to take, but he is wrong.”
Charlotte’s green eyes were positively burning in the gloom of the fast fading light. She looked down at Amanda and smiled as she hefted a long metal spike to her shoulder, a small bound book dangling from her wrist on a beaded chain. Behind her, François cracked his knuckles. “Just say the word, mon amour.” Amanda could hear the lust for a fight in his voice.
As the sound of breaking glass reached them from the floor below, Charlotte placed a folded piece of parchment, brittle with age, in Amanda’s palm and folded her hand around it. “By the time we are finished with him, he will pray to God to end his suffering.”
And Amanda fully believed it.