Alison Roberts - One Night To Wed

It was taking forever to get back to what now felt like safety—being within four walls and behind a locked door.

Fliss crept between hiding places and every time she moved just a few metres, she had to crouch and wait until her heart stopped hammering and her breathing slowed so that she could actually hear more than the blood pounding in her head.

Then she would wait, listening intently for anything that might indicate danger. The Bennies’ unkempt orchard, with its long grass and overgrown apple trees whose branches mingled with each other, provided reasonable cover but the black tree trunks and twisted branches looked like stationary figures. It was also a haven for wild creatures and Fliss broke out in a sweat at the rustling a nearby hedgehog made.

Having reached the end of the orchard, there was a far more daunting space to cross. The tiny cemetery with its headstones casting pools of black shadow so dark they looked like deep, water-filled holes. Fliss had never realised how many shades of black existed and they all seemed threatening tonight.

It took a long time to gather her courage for the next step of this journey and in those lonely moments Fliss stared at the gravestones and tried not to think of the times she had attended burial services. Of the desolation she’d experienced as a ten-year-old child, watching her father being laid to rest.

Of the guilt and helplessness when she’d stood at her mother’s graveside only a few years later.

Fliss might never have found the courage she needed to move into the cemetery if she hadn’t heard the faint call.

‘Help…please…Someone help me!’

It was a woman’s voice. A woman who was in pain and terrified. Possibly the one whom Fliss and Jack had heard scream what seemed like hours before.

Fliss couldn’t not respond to the plea for help. The part of her that could forget anything personal and focus totally on the needs of someone else took over, and when she moved this time it was with a confidence and stealth she had been all too aware of lacking up till now.

She almost made it to the crumpled figure lying between a tall headstone and the marble angel that was so old its nose had crumbled off. But by the time she saw the black figure launch itself at her from the shadow of another headstone it was far to late to even turn, let alone try to flee or defend herself.

She landed in the grass, face down, with a jolt that forced any air out of her lungs, and the pain of trying to breathe again almost overwhelmed the fear that came with the knowledge that she was about to die.

It was a male figure pinning her to the ground. No woman could weigh that much and still have the feel of iron-clad muscle and untold strength. Why hadn’t he shot her, like the others? Had he finally run out of ammunition? Was he going to kill her by some much slower and therefore more horrendous method?

Fear kicked in then, and Fliss struggled, ready to fight for her life.

She felt herself turning onto her back but her arms were pinned to the ground on either side of her head and her legs were still crushed by the weight of her attacker.

The struggle was silent and fierce. The paralysing effect on her diaphragm from the initial body blow meant that Fliss couldn’t draw enough breath to scream yet. When she found she could suck in some oxygen, she stopped struggling for a split second to do just that.

And in that moment she focussed on the face hovering so close to her own. She could see the features that were well disguised but not altered by the black substance that covered them.

Could see dark eyes that were staring back at her with an extraordinary expression.

A strangled sound like a sob finally escaped Fliss. A release of terror. The birth of something far more welcome.

Her hoarse whisper was a desperate plea to confirm what she thought she was seeing.

‘Angus?’

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