The Grimm Dossier

Chapter 38 - The Abyss

England, West Coast
Devonshire, Dartmoor
St George, Skirrid Inn
5 November 1898, 6:51 p.m.

Thunder rumbled and the wind howled. As if the heavens were shedding tears over what was going on there in the little village on the moors. Two seekers amid death and chaos. Dr. Archer lowered the girl's body to the ground. Blood slowly seeped from her body onto the floorboards, staining the wood dark red. Kyle was still standing in the same spot. The mage still clutched the weapon tightly, his gaze fixed on the dead girl. As if she could rise from the dead at any moment. Very slowly, Dr. Archer came closer to his comrade, then carefully and cautiously reached for his hand.

"It's over." the doctor's voice murmured into the room as his fingers wrapped around the other Seekers. Slowly, deliberately, he disengaged the mage's stiff, cramped finger links from the weapon and released them from his grasp. He felt the man tremble and after another heartbeat, he reached out and pulled Crowford to his shoulder.

"You had no choice. She would have killed me," he said sympathetically. Even though he knew it might not be helping him right now. Killing another human being for the first time and seeing a life end at your own hands... Some it lifted like gods, others it brought to their knees. "Thank you... Kyle." The doctor murmured softly. He felt the other take a quivering breath. 

Then Crowford pushed away from him, nodded fabric, and turned his face quickly away. Benjamin did not blame him. Instead, he let his eyes wander. It was now up to them to sort out this mess.

Although his body did not stir, everything in him was shaken and still quivering under the blow that had hit him as hard as the witch. Kyle's thoughts and feelings were caked with black tar. He could do no more than stand there and look. His whole body was frozen as blood poured from his slender chest and soaked the thin robe. It stuck to her skin and left dark red drops on it like liquid rubies. Her lips were smeared with it, as were her chin and neck. So much red on pale skin.

Kyle felt the darkness inside him slam dangerously hard against the walls of his control. His fingers trembled uncontrollably. Even then, when Dr. Archer had taken the gun away from him, he felt the cold in his fingers like needles pricking his palms and phalanges. Nausea hung in his throat. A sticky, musty lump. Hard as a rock and with jagged extensions that made his throat raw the more he swallowed and that just wouldn't go away.

Your father would be proud of you.

It hit him like a fist in the stomach. Suddenly the smells pressed even harder on his senses and like bitter bile down his throat. The stench of rot, withering flowers, the metallic tang of blood. They pulled his taut nerves to the breaking point and Kyle wanted to roar, to let out the wedged cry of grief that robbed him of air and squeezed his chest. He had never wanted to kill.

Surely, anyone who lived in London and walked the streets at night must have once imagined what it would be like. If you had no other choice or your life depended on pulling the trigger or striking.

In his case, the latter was less likely than snapping his fingers and giving in to the urge to teach people to respect with a spell. For crying out loud, he was NOT weak! Physically, he might always be inferior to some men. But his mind was so much sharper and more honed than their cursed blades could ever be! But he held back. For years he had controlled the urge that grew like a black seed inside him, sprouting more and more if he was not careful in action and word or gave it too much leeway. When he lost control or gave in - like now. Then he could literally feel the black roots digging deeper into his soul. It became more and more difficult to uproot the parasites growing like weeds in his mind. He had been in dicey situations before. Yet Kyle had never pulled the trigger or stopped a heartbeat. He never attacked first, he only defended himself. But now...