The Angel Sacrifice - Prologue Pt1

The Angel Sacrifice - Prologue Pt1

   "I have watched the sun rise every morning since I arrived here," the stranger mumbled. He pressed his forehead against the kitchen window and embraced the cold sensation spreading across his skin. The sun was beginning to appear on the horizon, turning the sky into a kaleidoscope of colour. "I have never had the pleasure of watching the sun rise before. I like the sense of freedom that it gives me."

   The stranger had turned up at the farmhouse three days ago, wrapped in a black cloak that obscured his features. Midnight hadn't long passed when he knocked on the door and demanded to speak with the owner. The owner's wife refused to let him inside. A desperate instinct took over and he lashed out, catching her windpipe with his fist. She crumpled to the floor instantly. He detained her with rope and moved silently through the house to find her husband.

   Her husband had known what he was as soon as they were in sight of each other. He fought valiantly, to defend his home and his wife from the stranger. But he was easily overpowered and restrained like his wife.

   "You don't deserve to know what freedom feels like, Demon." The farm owner spat. His voice pulled the stranger from his thoughts.

   "Your farm also gives me a sense of freedom, Mr. Whitby." He continued, ignoring Mr. Whitby's comments. "Everything here is so peaceful."

   He pulled the hood of his cloak lower and turned to face his captive. Mr. Whitby had been tied to a chair in the middle of the kitchen. Rope bound his hands behind his back and his ankles to the chair legs. A loose noose hung around his neck; the discolouration of his skin evidence of its use. After three days of mild toture he was starting to look twice his age. His once golden hair with slick with gease and clung to his forehead. Dark circles ringed darker eyes. Dried sweat and urine stained his clothes.

   "I'll admit that I have fallen in love with what you have here. And because of that I have used your defience as an excuse to stay here longer. But, sadly, I cannot afford to waste anymore time. My plans must be put into action quickly and for that to happen I need you to do as I ask, Mr. Whitby."

   "I don't know what you're talking about." Mr. Whitby rasped. Frequent use of the noose had left his throat dry and sore.

   "I don't know what you're talking about." The stranger mimicked. He slammed the palm of his hand on the counter. "So you keep saying. But we both know that you are lying." He walked across the kitchen to where the range burned fiercely. He opened the door, flooding the room with heat, and began to stir the coals with a metal poker. "You are an Oracle; someone who can read the future of others by using Tarot Cards."

   "I am not."

   "Do not deny it. As I said before, I have been lenient because of how your home makes me feel. I will not be lenient anymore." He stirred the coals slowly, watching the flames flicker around them. "I found your deck upstairs, in your matress. A very clever hiding place."

   "That means nothing. Lots of people own a deck; it doesn't mean that they're an Oracle."

   The stranger sighed. "Let's not play this game anymore. I am becoming tired of it. You are an Oracle and you will read my future."

   Leaving the range, he walked towards the kitchen table. Three chairs had been roped together and on top lay Mrs. Whitby. Her hands were tied behind her back, bloody welts covering the sore skin. A potato sack had been placed over her head, blocking everything from view. After promising to leave her alone on the condition that she stays where she is, all Mrs. Whitby could do was listen to the sounds of her husband being abused and cry quietly to herself.

   "You said you would leave her alone." Mr. Whitby said.

   "It is a shame," the stranger mused as he pulled Mrs. Whitby into a sitting position, "that you are being so adamant about not being an Oracle. It's a quality that makes it obvious that you are one. Oracles would do anything to save themselves from reading the future of a Demon." He spat the words through gritted teeth. His kind were always treated with the same disrespect.

   He walked back to the range and pulled out the poker and admired the white hot glow that now emanated from the end. The whole rod pulsed with heat. He leant over Mr. Whitby's chair and whispered in his ear. "But would you risk your wife's life?"

   "I beg you, don't touch her." A bead of sweat ran down his forehead. He looked at the stranger with pleading eyes.

   The stranger placed the poker on the table and removed the sack from Mrs. Whitby's head. A gag had been placed in her mouth. Tear stained eyes looked at him under his hood and all he could see in them was fear.

   "Hello, my dear." He cooed softly. He wiped a tear away with the back of his hand. "I don't think you like being here while you husband and I talk, do you?" She shook her head slowly. "And I don't think that you want to see what I'm doing to your husband, do you?" Again she shook her head. "Good, because I can make that happen."

   Before either captive could register what was happening, he grabbed Mrs. Whitby's hair and pulled her to the ground. He pressed the side of her face against the wooden floor and made sure that she was looking directly at her husband. He grasped the poker in his other hand and held it millimetres away from her left eye. Her eyelashed brushed the end when she blinked, instantly singeing off. She tried to struggle underneath him, but the stranger had three times her strenth. Her sobs came louder and faster.

   "Please," Mr. Whitby cried, "let her go!"

   "Agree to read my future and your wife gets to keep her eyeball." He watched her husband carefully, rading every expression that flittered across his face. He could see the hesitation, the uncertainity of whether he should risk his wife's life or not. The stranger growled in anger. Even a Demon wouldn't be so low as to risk a loved one. "Time's up."

   He plunged the poker deep into her eye. Her agonised screamed tore through the house and echoed off the walls. Her body convulsed in pain. She began to struggle in her captive's grasp, blood spurting across the kitchen floor.

   All the colour from Mr. Whitby's face had drained away, leaving him as pale as the white-wash walls around him. He swallowed the hard lump in his throat and let silent sobs rack his body.

   "If you do not admit to what you are and agree to read my future, then I'll do the same to her other eye. And then I'll do the same to her mouth. And then her ears. And then..."

   "Alright," Mr. Whitby sobbed, "alright, I'll do it. Just let her go."

   "Agree to it outloud!"

   "I, an Oracle, agree to read your future using my Tarot Cards. Not let her go!"

   An unusual sense of achievement spread through the stranger's body. After three days, he was finally going to get what he had come for.

   The melted remains of Mrs. Whitby's eyeball stuck to the metal as he pulled the poker out. She screamed once more before curling herself into a ball and whimpering feverishly. There was nothing that the stranger could do for her, so her left her on the floor and occupied himself with the next step of his plan.