The Lost: Book Two of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 35

A/N: So, dear Chapelites, herein is the first installment of the finale chapters. I had initially planned just two more, which has now turned into three and I will be uploading one a day for the next three days and then the epilogue will follow. I know everyone is super-busy with Christmas right on our doorstep, but I’d appreciate it if you could leave a comment on each chapter and vote too if you enjoy!

Thanks so much for your time and undeniable patience,

 With love,

Cinnamon xxxx

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The thunderous clouds smothered the night sky, strangling the light emanating from the moon and painting the world black. The winter rain had been incessant since those first few drops that had fallen onto my face the night before and although it was slowing now, the ground at Oxleas Wood was sodden and waterlogged in places, making it hard to walk as we crept stealthily through the trees.

The air was thick with the cloying odour of fungal damp and the churning smell of dirt and rotting vegetation but most of all, it was heavy with the stench of the beast, not all of it fresh, which told me this was a habitual hunting ground of theirs.

Garrick had nodded when I had whispered this observation. "They feel at home in the woods, why do you think we always stick to the cities?" he muttered back.

I couldn't help but wonder how we could possibly gain any upper hand in a place the Varúlfur knew very well, but I quickly stomped on that thought, pushing it as far down as it would go and carried on trudging through the woods, my senses ever alert. Every now and then I would glance back to find Harper close behind, his face smudged with the wet mud we had all smeared across our hands and faces, trying to mask our own scent as much as possible. After all, we did not want to alert them to our presence until it was too late for them to run.

The primary cells led the way, including Garrick, Harper and I, Edward's crew and Fenton and his people. The rest of the army followed close behind, ready to advance on the unsuspecting Varúlfur when the signal was given.

The meeting point was in a clearing just a short walk from Oxleas meadow, where the sun-worshippers and picnickers congregated in the summertime, taking advantage of the wide open space and lush green carpet. At night, Oxleas wasn't quite so pretty. And during winter-time, it was hard to spot the beauty in the damp, dark deadwood and the fungal spores that infested every dank corner. The trees, stripped bare of their summer coats, looked like blackened wraiths, their charred bones reaching out to touch you with skeletal fingers and scratching cruelly at your skin. On the ground, creepers would twist and tangle around your feet, grabbing at your ankles in an attempt to bring you to your knees. No, at night, Oxleas was not pretty at all.

As a particularly persistent branch snagged on my shirt, I cursed only to hear Garrick hiss a warning and halt abruptly, holding his hand in the air and motioning for us to stop. Pointing at the ground, he crouched low, indicating we were to do the same and Harper and I moved to flank him behind the corpse of a fallen tree.

About fifty metres ahead, standing amongst the army of oaks with its misshapen back slightly hunched over, its long arms lolling by its side, was a lone Varúlfur. Our eyes instinctively scanned the thick wood, for where there was one Varúlfur, there would surely be another. Scouts very rarely patrolled on their own.

We waited, each second more agonising than the last. Garrick turned to Harper and shrugged, while Harper frowned deeply, his sharp eyes returning to where the scout stood. Finally, when he seemed satisfied that the Varúlfur was indeed alone, he nodded to Garrick in some silent command and silently, Garrick crept to the left, keeping low to the ground. Tugging on my hand, Harper led us round to the right and I followed his lead, hunkering down as much as I could as we snuck through the trees, drawing closer to the beast from the other side.