The Darkest Hand Trilogy Box Set by Tarn Richardson

Author:Tarn Richardson [Richardson, Tarn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: RedDoor Publishing
Published: 2019-07-21T22:00:00+00:00

FIFTY-THREE

1900. SHORES OF THE BLACK SEA. ROMANIA.

The handle of Tacit’s heavy case felt reassuring to him, as he stepped along the shore of the Black Sea. A cold wind came off the water. It was close to dark. Night time seemed to fall earlier and faster in this part of the world. Maybe it would have been better to wait before making the journey but it was too late for second thoughts now. He shivered and drew his long dark coat tighter around him. It was a little loose, but Tacit would grow into it. He’d taken it from his master, just as he had Tocco’s revolver and case. His master would have approved. The old Inquisitor wouldn’t have wanted his belongings to have languished in his Inquisitorial locker. It wasn’t the Inquisitor’s way to sit and gather dust. “Only in death let the dust have a chance to settle on you,” Tocco always said. Tacit thought of his master’s grave and unconsciously his hand fell to the revolver at his side.

Ahead he could see the outline of rocks, running down from the hills on the right, tumbling into the dark depths of the sea. Everything appeared just as it had been described to him when the assignment had been posted. A witch. On the shores of the Black Sea, Romania. Spreading witchcraft, fear and lies. To be terminated. An urgent assignment. His first on his own.

He followed the outline of the rocks down towards the sea with his eyes and shuddered as he recognised a dark shape amongst the silhouette of jagged rocks, a hunched figure staring back towards him. He swallowed and considered taking a shot at it from here.

He braced and caught hold of himself, measuring his breathing and his thoughts. Stupid. Remember your training. Calm. Keep calm. Focus. Control. Always control. He removed his hand from the handle of the revolver and stepped forward, muttering an ancient prayer to Saint Joseph under his breath. It was one which had always caught his imagination.

Oh, St. Joseph, whose protection is so great, so strong, so prompt before the throne of God. I place in you all my interests and desires. Oh, St. Joseph, do assist me by your powerful intercession, and obtain for me from your divine Son all spiritual blessings.

He looked up at the figure. He’d never hit her from here, not even with the Saint’s help.

He walked until the pebbles of the shore slowly turned into rocks and began to climb, passing stones marked with the black etchings of witchcraft. The route up was damp with night mist and spray from the sea tide, seaweed and algae making the way treacherous. But Tacit’s heavy-soled boots bit firm into the rocks, his fingers like crampons within the crannies of the stone.

He pushed his case onto the topmost rock ahead of him and heaved himself after it, cursing that he’d brought the thing at all. A bullet to the witch’s skull would suffice. No ointments, potions or symbols would be needed on this assignment.

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