Chapter 1
THE END
“RUN…”
Cyrus turned in the direction of the voice. The chamber was cold, dank and ill-lit by dying candles weeping over craggy ledges. He smelled something sweet, yet foul in the air. Then it struck him. It was the reek of fear.
He searched the darkness. Several rusted manacles draped against the damp walls, and the odd meat hook jangled overhead.
“Fibian,” Edward cried.
Cyrus looked to the small spider. Edward clung to Cyrus’ shoulder, pointing forward. Cyrus peered ahead.
At the room’s center, Fibian lay strapped to a thick, wooden chair.
“Angels,” Cyrus gasped, “What happened?”
Candlelight illuminated Fibian’s sharp features. He was haggard, a ghost of himself. His face was bloody and battered, his nose broken and his eyes swollen. Deep lacerations outlined his brow and cheekbones. The way he sat, Cyrus suspected his ribs were broken too.
“Run,” Fibian repeated, wheezing, “Before she returns.”
He moved his head, gesturing to the rear of the room.
Cyrus rushed to Fibian’s side. He began to unbuckle the leather straps around his wrists. Long dried blood stained the chair’s deep grain.
“No, go - now,” Fibian coughed, blood spattering his lips.
Cyrus unstrapped his friend’s ankles, contemplating their escape. The only way out was the stairway. But that was suicide. Yet if they stayed…
Cyrus hefted Fibian out of the chair and hauled him to the double doors.
“Get ready to run,” Cyrus whispered.
“No,” Fibian begged.
“Cyrus,” Edward pleaded, digging his legs into Cyrus’ flesh.
Cyrus unbolted the steel lock. Something heavy clicked behind them. He turned. Beyond the shadows, a hidden door in the back wall began to edge open. A long, spidery hand reached through the crack. Cyrus’ legs grew weak. A bald, crooked, old woman emerged through the passage.
“The Sea Zombie,” Edward gasped.
The creature’s white powdered face and wooden, costume nose were spattered with dried blood. She grinned like a snarling wolf. The rip in her membrane-thin cheeks exposed dark, decaying gums.
She began to move forward with a cripple’s gait, but Cyrus was not fooled. He knew crushing strength hid beneath the grey, tattered robes.
She looked at Cyrus through black, oily eyes, their deep sockets drilled into jutting cheekbones.
“Murderer…” she said in a breathless whisper, “Thiefff!” she spat, as she raised her blackened, right arm.
The right arm that, because of Cyrus, was now handless…
