Angel Manor (Lucifer Falls Book 1)

Chantal Noordeloos

Angel Manor by Chantal Noordeloos

First published in 2014 by

Horrific Tales Publishing

This edition published in March 2015

http://www.horrifictales.co.uk

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Copyright © 2014 Chantal Nooordeloos

The moral right of Chantal Noordeloos to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

eBook Edition

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

"[Chantal's] writing pins you in place and delves deep into your soul to find those things you'd rather keep hidden. It is sharp, focused, and direct. It strikes when you least expect it and burrows into your soft, unprotected places. The heart. The brain. The guts. The soul."
JG Faherty, Bram Stoker and ITW Thriller-nominated author of
Carnival of Fear, Legacy
, and
Fatal Consequences.
[email protected]

Acknowledgments

Ahhh, the acknowledgments… my moment to thank everyone who has helped me through the insanity of publishing a book. This is the moment where I get to dazzle everyone with beautiful words that will make those special people feel invaluable. In truth this actually the moment where I sit in front of a blank screen for hours, feeling the train of blind panic approaching the station, because I want to get it right... but I don't know what to say.

*cracks knuckles* So... here goes nothing.

This is to all of you who believe in me. Who take the time to pick up this book, or any other work written by me, and read me. To those of you who take the time to write a review (I love you for it)

I have to wave my pom-poms for the very awesome Stephen Bryant who made my cover. He took my ideas and made something so stunning that the first time I saw it, I may have gotten a little teary eyed.

A great big thank you to my editors, Lisa Jenkins and Simon Marshall Jones, who have made this manuscript into a real book. Who have hunted down all my mistakes and beaten them in submission.

A hug and a kiss to my awesome beta readers, Vix Kirkpatrick and Kerri Patterson, who read the manuscript when it was still far too big and messy. They gave me their time, critical eye and honest opinion... what more could a writer want? You girls are amazing.

And finally all the love to the people who got me through the rough moments. A special shout out to my loving husband, Daan Noordeloos, and to my very dear friend Jim McLeod, who both have my back when I need them to.

I am very fortunate to have so many great people who support me. Even if I didn't mention you by name in this acknowledgment, know that you mean the world to me. Thank you all.

To Graeme, who is the Statler to my Waldorff.
To my nun-fearing Jim, who will always haunt my pages,
And to Chris, whose voice will forever chase my demons away.

Prologue
Summer Solstice 1822

The blood trickled over the sagging breasts of the Mother Superior, staining her white skin crimson. The limp body of a five-year-old boy hung slack in her arms.

“Reverend Mother…” Sister Agatha’s voice trembled. “There must be a kinder way to kill the child, one not so… inhumane?”

The nun looked up at her, her wrinkled face a canvas of red splatter framing pale-blue eyes which almost seemed to glow. The older woman straightened herself, letting the child drop with a wet smack, her wrinkled hand still wrapped around one of his arms as the lower part of his body hung slack against her ankle. He looked like a limp doll, a toy she hadn’t quite finished playing with.

The nun’s lips curled into a sneer, and her eyes narrowed. “Sister Agatha, I know you are new to the order, but when you took your holy vows, you were instructed in the rules of the convent. This is your first solstice, and I understand that our methods may seem harsh to a newcomer, but we have a sacred duty.” The woman dropped the arm and stepped over the young boy. Trails of blood trickled down her torso and across her legs, covering them in a slick red layer. “Do you think I enjoy this?”

“Yes,”
Sister Agatha wanted to scream,
“You’ve lived too long in this world of torment and murder, and it has turned you into a monster.”

“No, Reverend Mother.” Agatha lowered her eyes, focusing on the blood pooling around the young boy’s body.

“I know this isn’t easy, Sister.” Calloused hands grasped her cheek and chin, forcing her to look into those terrible eyes. “But we follow God’s will. If we don’t, the consequences will be disastrous, and for more than just a handful of unwanted children. No one cares for these wretched souls.”

I do,
Sister Agatha thought, but she held her tongue. The screams of dying children reverberated through the stone convent. Her eyes pleaded with the Mother Superior.

“Have you considered the ritual that I found? It would save so many of them. There would be no need for all this bloodshed.”

“You would ask us to make such a great personal sacrifice for a ritual that might not work?” The older woman shook her head, a condescending smile playing on her wrinkled lips. “Sister Agatha, we’ve discussed this. There is only one way to ensure the safety of the seal, and we can’t take any risks. This is not a game.” The blood-stained hand moved down Sister Agatha’s neck, passing over her shoulder, and gripped her bare arm, squeezing the flesh. “We thought you were ready for this when you made your vows. You are no stranger to death. You were especially chosen for the blood already on your hands.”

Agatha’s voice was barely above a whimper. “I am indeed no stranger to blood and death, but I killed sick and deformed children, not healthy ones. I’ve never seen such gratuitous torment as I have here.” Her eyes darted around the chapel to the naked figures of the other Sisters. The sound of lashes drew her eyes to the stout figure of Sister Helene, who cracked a long bullwhip across the backs of a trio of bound children, each no older than seven. Their fragile skin tore as the leather thong licked across their flesh, spilling crimson tears.

In the centre of the chapel hung a twelve-year-old boy, suspended upside down from black ropes. The blade of a large rust-covered saw sliced through the flesh of his groin, a red waterfall gushing from the wound, spraying across his chest and face. The agonised screams the boy made sounded otherworldly, every morbid vibrato note hammering against Agatha’s mind. A wave of nausea hit the back of her throat.

The bodies of fallen children lay scattered around the room, their blood coagulating in a pool covering over half the chapel floor. The whimpers coming from the survivors were little more than a pitiful hum.

Agatha had thought her mission noble when she’d first joined the order, but this suffering overwhelmed her with nausea and regret. There was a better way than this needless waste of young life; Agatha was sure of it.

“We could save thousands of lives by sacrificing but a few. Sister Anne and I have studied the texts, and we’re pretty confident we can do it… tonight even. We’ve made all the preparations, just in case you changed your mind. The sacrifice required is relatively small compared—”

The Reverend Mother’s hand lashed out, connecting with Agatha’s cheek with a loud crack. Pain spread out in tiny pinpricks across her face. Shocked, she clutched her face and looked at the Mother Superior.

“Enough of this!” Spittle flew from the Reverend Mother’s lips. “Your rituals are pagan. We serve our Lord here as we were instructed. You had best mind what blasphemous words you utter here, Sister Agatha. The Lord does not look kindly upon heathens.” The older woman’s face relaxed slightly, and her expression turned from angry to stern. “We will never speak of this again. Now go and make the sacrifices required of us.” The old woman shoved her forward with a force that belied her frail appearance. Agatha slipped on a puddle of blood, her legs sprawling under her like an awkward doe’s. She fell to the ground, her wrists and elbow hitting the floor hard. Pain shot up through her arms, her naked body shivering on the cold stones. She looked up to see the Mother Superior walk away, leaving bloody footsteps in her wake. Agatha’s eyes followed her until she passed the body of little Margaret. The young girl lay with her neck twisted at an impossible angle, eyes staring lifelessly at the horror within the chapel.

I must find Anne.
Sister Agatha scrambled to her feet, her hands and legs stained with cold, sticky blood. She glanced at the carnage around her and then she ran, the soles of her feet slapping against stone, the impact rattling her teeth.

She ran from the chapel, through the narrow passages, and across the great cloister. The Sister felt the cold eyes of the twelve stone angels lining the walls of the large open area look down on her. Slowing her pace, she glanced up at the imposing statues. Even knowing stone couldn’t judge her, she found it difficult not to imagine God peering down through those blank eyes. A shudder ran through her spine, and she picked up her pace, not stopping until she reached the library.

“Anne…” Her voice reverberated off the high walls, echoing parts of her words back at her. “Sister Anne?”

A voice came from behind her. “Sister Agatha…”

Agatha turned to face her ally. Anne was dressed in a long, white chemise, her red hair loose and flowing like liquid fire over her shoulders. Anne ran down the stairs, the white nightgown fluttering behind her.

“Did you inform the Reverend Mother that we are ready to perform the ritual?”