The Templar's Curse by Sarwat Chadda (classic books to read TXT) 📕

“I’d feel a lot happier if we had one or two reinforcements.”

She’d thought about it long and hard. Her dad and the other older knights were all the way in Dublin, no point contacting them as he’d tell her to wait until he was back, and that would be too late. And the squires? She’d only get them killed and she didn’t want to be dealing with that. She knew if she’d asked they would have come running, there was no doubting their courage but they weren’t ready. She’d spend her time worrying about them and that would get her killed. “I think you and I can handle the apocalypse.”

CHAPTER 25

They abandoned the VW a mile from the village. The tarmac had crumbled apart under the assault of the great tentacles of tree roots and weeds leaving massive potholes and jagged edges ready to rip the tyres apart. The letter ‘O’ on the village sign for Hollburgh had been painted over with an ‘E’ and morbid decorations hung from the branches. Dolls swayed on nooses, there were mobiles built out of animal bones and wind-chimes made of rusty scissors and kitchen knives. A scarecrow stood at the roadside, a sheep’s skull for a head. Its crooked fingers pointed towards the distant village and around its neck hung a sign.

Abandon all hope.

Faustus flicked one of the chimes to set it rattling. “I can see a theme developing here.”

“It’s like Disneyland for goths. This place must be real popular for Halloween beach parties.”

“You can hold my hand if you’re scared, Billi,” he said, smiling. “I don’t mind.”

“I wouldn’t hold your hand if we were standing at the gates of Hell. But thanks for offering.”

Billi adjusted her sword belt. The Templar sword hung off her left hip and there was a long dagger dangling from the right, a 15th century Venetian stiletto, an assassin’s weapon. She gripped the hilt over and over again, sliding it half out its sheath, checking it would draw smoothly when she needed it. It was nerves, nothing more. The waiting was the worst part. The tension would only go when weapons were finally drawn, not exactly a healthy life-style. She really should find a hobby to help her relax. Knitting was pretty trendy nowadays and maybe holding the needles would satisfy her natural craving for weaponry.

When had she started down this road? Boys were bought toy guns but most, sensibly, grew out of them. It was worse than having a mere enthusiasm for weapons of war, she felt incomplete without them. That was the path of addiction. Like others who needed drink, drugs or sex to fill the void, she needed… danger. Violence, even. She needed conflict.

What about Faustus? What did he crave? She glanced over at him and caught him looking at her, smiling to himself. Billi scowled. “Don’t make that face. You look gormless.”

“That’s what I love about you, Billi. Every interaction is an opportunity for a fight. You don’t need to try quite so hard. I know I’m charming, just give in to it.”

Billi shook her head. “Anyone tell you that you’re delusional? I am all but engaged to a prince. Whom I am literally off to rescue.”

“And I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m happy to wait.”

“Ivan talked about us retiring together in some dacha in the Ural Mountains. He has plans.”

“He has plans? What about you?”

“Suddenly getting out of this life sounds like a great idea.”

Faustus’s attention became more serious. “You’re never getting out of this life, Billi. It suits you too much and you have a gift.”

“I don’t like my gift.”

“We don’t get a choice, sometimes. You think I wanted this life? Sharing my world with the dead? You know how many ghosts are out there? They’re not all lurking rattling chains with their heads tucked under their elbows. Sometimes it’s just a gloom hanging over a place. The sun could be shining, there are pretty girls sitting on park benches but you just feel weighed down by things you can’t do anything about. That wears you down and sometimes you think what’s the point? They’re all pleading for you to help them, but how? They’re long gone and the sins that brought them to that place, between this life and the next, no one remembers. There’s no criminal left to punish, no injustice left to mend.”

“Does it hurt, Faustus? Seeing what you see?”

“All the time.” The weight of his gift only allowed him a little shrug. “The more you try and ignore them the more they demand your attention. They know you can see them, can hear them. All those sad, lonely spirits wandering a world that’s forgotten them. They’re like the gravestones at the back of an old parish cemetery. Overgrown and no one left who knew who they were. No one cares.”

No one but you.

He must know that, mustn’t he? Faustus reminded her so much of Kay. Not just because of their abilities, but they felt things honestly. How many times did you just pretend to feel? She lived in London, she was a Knight Templar. She was meant to help the poor, the weak. But what happened when she saw a beggar on the street? Sitting there with their empty coffee cup and cardboard sign with some story or another? Did she care? No. She looked away, pretended not to notice, got on with her own life, off to do something more important. She told herself she couldn’t take care of everyone, but had she even tried? She helped out at soup kitchens, all the Templars did, but that was just to make her feel better. That wasn’t real charity. Charity was putting yourself out for a stranger.

You’re trying to save them all.

But that wasn’t charity, that wasn’t goodness, not when you didn’t have a choice.

Faustus had a choice. He didn’t need to be here but he’d come because of her. She didn’t