The Evil of Balar – Preview

If you’ve read Curse or Doom, please let me know what you’re hoping to see in the third book in the comments below.

Scheherazade Meets Victorian Horror

Do they have the right person?

They were certain at the start, but then their captive started telling them stories. Through retelling dark events and uncovering secrets, the prisoner attempts to clear his name…or bide his time…

Who do they have locked up?

How long can they wait?

Welcome to the third installment of the Balar series.

The Plot Thickens

I do not like to spoil anything. So, I won’t go into too much detail here. Those of you that have raced through Doom know that major things have been revealed (e.g. the final story about the origin of the town) and big things have been left unanswered (i.e. who is the serial killer dubbed the Tailor?).

This aims to not only build on that but to shed new perspectives on existing events. Our prisoner saw many of the events in recent Balar history from another perspective. The mayoral party, for instance. And the whole deal with the Cult of Wax. Also, who recalls the crying woman in The Portrait in Curse?

A lot of this will be revealed. Can you put all the clues together? Who is the killer? What is the curse of Balar? Who is the man in the castle?

A Preview

The book will be available in paperback, hardcover, eBook, and on Kindle Unlimited. The eBook can already be preordered!

Here is the first story in the book to help whet your apatite. As always, I highly value your feedback – please tell me what you think in the comments below. Also, if you are interested in reading the ARC or becoming part of the Street Team, please follow this link.

Without much further ado, here is the preview!

Captured – Story #1 from The Evil of Balar

Somewhere in this dark space, a dog whimpers. The sound is close and threatening, yet somehow muffled, as if the beast is only a room away. It almost makes him drop the axe. The handle feels heavy in his hands. Splinters in his palm. He is forced to rest the heavy cutting head against the uneven floor, for there is not strength enough in his old arms. This is all they entrusted him with — hold the axe and stand out of the way.

Tibor Vulpe presses himself into the corner and squints down at the weapon in the gloomy lantern light, trying to stay calm. Not a weapon, but a tool for making firewood. How could it do anything more? How could it keep him calm? Breath hisses in and out of his nostrils. In and out. That is what Iosif said. Such a good boy. In and out. As long as he can do that — keep calm — the others will not realise his panic. They will not know that he forgot why they were here. Here in the place that stank of blood and coin and despair. Plus the smell of dog.

He looks up at the sound of muffled voices and stomping boots from outside. It made his pulse quicken. Whatever the source, the noises approach this horrid building — coming here. He nearly cries out as the door bursts open. Dark outlines against the moonlight, a tangle of limbs and kicking feet. A struggle. A fight. Three persons manhandling a fourth, carrying him in, resisting his retaliations. Choked words bereft of all nuance hums from this person’s mouth in lieu of a scream — gagged, silenced.

Tibor steps out of the way, nearly tripping over the axe — his only responsibility.

“The door,” one of the carrying men cries.

Tibor goes cold. Door? Which door? Other than the way in, there were two other doors. A wooden one that stank of blood and an iron gate that reeked of dead rat. Which? There is movement in the room, someone else hiding in the darkness. Two more figures — a crouched man and a skulking woman. Had they been here the entire time? Perhaps I have forgotten. They act when he cannot — they open a door to a room smelling of iron and dimly glowing with candlelight. The meagre flames flicker in the disturbed air.

“Here,” says the skulking woman, the candle flames pinpricks in her wide eyes, her outstretched arm keeping the door open.

The hidden dog barks. It was not in this newly opened room, it was somewhere else. Somewhere close.

“By the Light we are saved,” says the crouched man. He is holding something — a string of beads. He stands well out of the way — much like Tibor. A priest hiding in the shadows.

“There…in the cage,” says one of the men hauling the captive. He is tall and broad and dark of skin. Tibor knows this man, but his name escapes him. He recalls the man’s breathless urgency about an important matter. A matter important to me too? The captive thrashes, trying to get a hand on the door frame. His fingers slip. Floor planks groan. The haulers grunt and strain, stumbling over their own feet as they go. All is commotion. Tibor feels his gorge rises, a cold tremble rattling his wiry bones.

There is indeed an enclosure in the room, a rusted rib cage of a thing meant for fighting dogs. Wider than it is tall, a man would be forced to crouch or lay prone. The decayed metal twangs like a broken instrument as the captive struggles.

“His hands,” says one of the three, the dark man. “Retie his hands! Quickly!”

“Wha-what is this?” Tibor asks.

He can hear the crouched man looming beside him, his whisper much like the amen at the end of a prayer. “Retribution.”

The rusted cage clangs and rings out with a hollow, toothless song. Despite its age, it seems to be solid enough. The captive thrashes and kicks, but to no avail. The three that brought him in wipe their brows, straighten their clothes, or otherwise compose themselves. Two men and a woman. The latter’s pale fingers brush across her red lips — red from blood. She must have taken a wayward elbow to the face, perhaps, but she carries it better than any woman Tibor ever saw. A defiant scowl crinkles her handsome features as she locks eyes with him — a gaze he is unable to hold.

They march out of the room, slamming the door behind them. A key grinding in the lock.

“We have him,” says the dark-skinned man, warm pride in his voice. He leans back against the door.

“What do we do now?” asks the skulking woman, the one that was hiding in the shadows with Tibor. She is trying to brush a patch of dirt from her fine blue dress. It strikes Tibor that she might be a person of import. Perhaps if I saw her in the light, I would remember. It is merely too dark, that is all there is to it.

He watches the wooden door for a moment, the sound of the groaning cage is quiet for the moment. The door itself seems changed now that there is a person behind it. Some strange energy that he cannot quite describe that makes it seem as if it is pulsing — breathing.

He starts as he feels a hand upon his shoulder. One of the men who hauled in the captive is right beside him, harsh shadows upon his face. A familiar face. That pointed nose, those pinched features that run in the family. Yes, I know this man. A strange expression rests upon that familiar countenance. This man reaches for the axe before Tibor could make sense of things. He tries to snatch it back, but this man’s grip is too strong and sure. Icy panic rushes through him.

“Father,” says this man. “It’s fine, it’s me.”

“Iosif, of course,” he says. The face is his son’s, of course it is. He relaxes. He looks towards the door, that strange breathing door. “You caught that man?”

“Yes,” says Iosif, his breath hissing in and out, whistling over his teeth. “Not easy, but the three of us managed.”

Tibor pats him on his arm. “Good, my boy,” he says. He glances towards the door again and watches it breathe. “Who is this man you caught, son? Some criminal?” He feels a slight rush of panic and plunges his hand into his coat pocket. Still there. I haven’t forgotten everything. “Who is this man, son?”

Iosif closes his eyes and lets out a deep sigh. “You know this, father,” he says in that infuriating patient whisper. Tibor hates when people whisper. “I have told you. It is the man. The man who took Sergei?”

Sergei? The name cut like a razor. His youngest boy, the boy with his nervous way and polite manner. That boy never whispered at him. Taken. He feels a flash of anger rush through him. White hot. Irresistible. He tries to reach for the axe, but Iosif is quick and strong.

“Father, father,” he pleads, pushing him away with a firm gentleness. “No.”

“Let me,” he says. “Please!”

“Quiet,” hisses the tall woman with the bloody nose. “We will be discovered.”

“Light Lord save us,” cries the crouched man. Tibor is now certain that the man is a priest.

“I told you not to bring him,” says the dark-skinned man. He is now crouching next to the breathing door, peering through the keyhole. “He will ruin this whole endeavour,” he says looking back. The man’s hunched shoulders and bent legs making him seem like a coiled spring. Tibor finds that he is frightened of the man.

Tibor starts as he feels a hand on his cheek, cold and soft. The skulking woman was next to him. The one wearing the fine dress. There is a kindness in the creases around her eyes and in the crook of her smile. “All is fine, Mr Vulpe, all is fine,” she coos. She takes him by the hand and gently leads him to one of the benches. “Come sit,” she says. “Everything is fine.”

He complies and sits down next to her, squeezing her hand. He realises that all eyes are on him — watching him, waiting to see what he will do next. As if I am some crook. “What?” he says, trying to keep his voice low, but even he can hear the panic in it. “What is the meaning of this?”

“This happens sometimes,” says Iosif, his tone apologetic as if he is making excuses for some idiot child.

“There is nothing wrong with me,” Tibor insists. He looks at each of the staring faces in turn. “I just have to think. It will all come back.”

“What do we do now?” asks the tall woman, dismissing him and his confusion. She is addressing the dark-skinned man.

“Let us talk,” he says. He gives a final look at Tibor and then at Iosif.

“Leave him with me,” says the skulking woman.

Iosif touches his father on the shoulder. Tibor sees the priest watch their interaction. “Just a minute, father,” says Iosif. He, the dark man, the tall woman, and the priest with his nervous prayers, withdraw deeper into the shadows.

Tibor looks at the woman next to him. Her face flickers in the dim glow of a lamp that stands upon a barrel. There is kindness in her expression, a face that is infuriatingly familiar. “My name is Tibor,” he tells her.

She smiles kindly. He finds that he cannot look away from her lips. “I know,” she says, she too is whispering. “My name is Maeve.”

“Maeve?”

She rubs her arm. “You know me?”

“The mayor’s wife?” He suddenly feels a flash of shame. The shame of not addressing her by her proper title and at the shabby state he is in. “Oh,” he uttered seeing the glint in her eye. Recognition dawns. He drops his gaze. “My lady,” he says.

She takes both of his hands in hers. “Hush,” she says. “We are not ourselves. Not in this place.”

The two of them look at gloomy clutter of the room. This room that smells of blood and filth. “What is this place?” he asks, keeping his voice as quiet as possible. He shoots a glance over at his son and the others. They are leaning in close, whispering and hissing at each other. Tibor hates whispers. They contain only hurtful secrets.

“A terrible place,” says Maeve. “Something my husband ought to have put an end to long ago. They fight dogs here, I understand. Brutal business. Death. There, through the chicken wire is the space where hounds bite and tear at one another. There is the table where men give sacrifice to the god of gambling.”

Tibor looks around, some of the shadows coalescing in light of this information. He sees the arena, the table, the ale-splattered floor, and the bloodstains. Abandoned tables, empty counters scarred with rings and cuts. When he listens closely, he can hear the jingle of coin and the bark of a dog. A rusted iron gate to an adjoining room squeals as it moves on its complaining hinges, the space beyond full of empty crates, shelves, and kegs — an old storeroom. Had he been here before? Had he known this place back when a horrible truth was a clear as an open sky?

“Is there…” he begins, the words dying in his dry mouth. What a silly question. Of course there is a dog in here. He can hear it, growling, whimpering, snapping its jaws. It is no more than a room away, somewhere. Locked away, scratching at the walls that confine it. He realises that Maeve was watching him intently, waiting for him to finish. She must think me a simpleton, he thinks. Thoughts shuffled through his addled mind as he searches for a new question. “Why are we waiting?” he asks. “Why can we not go home?” He looks at the door, the door that holds the prisoner. It is still breathing, bulging as if it will burst free from the lock, unleashing the man.

“Proof,” says Maeve quietly, though she sounds unconvinced. “This man may well be responsible for all the evil in this town. He must be brought to justice. Mister Sahl there has a powerful connection, someone who can lean on the constabulary and the law. They merely need time to work their magic, so to speak. They will be here by morning.”

This made Tibor’s head ache. “I don’t understand,” he says. “Why us? Why not let the authorities take him?”

Maeve closes her eyes and sighs. “Apparently, we cannot trust them.” She shoots a look at the whispering huddle. “Not everyone is who they seem to be. At least, according to Mister Sahl. Madam Morar already tried speaking to Captain Kepler of the constabulary. He will not assist us.”

“I still don’t understand,” he says.

“Neither do I,” she says, squeezing his hand.

“What about you? Can you not do something as the mayor’s wife?”

She gives him a smile tinged with sadness. Her light hair frames her beautiful face, one marked with age and worry. How old she seems right then. “That is a … role that is not as powerful as it may seem to be.” She looks away. “The mayor and I… Well, things have not been the same since Mathéo…” she trails off.

“Your son?” he says. He vaguely recalls the twins Todorov, Mathéo and Pierre, or at least the gossip about them. They are of a social standing that Tibor can only wonder at. “What has he done?” he asks.

She looks at him, her eyes glinting with tears. “Nothing,” she says offering him that sad smile again. “Nothing at all.” She clears her throat. “Now all we can do is wait. Wait for Darras’s contact to convince the right people. Wait for this person to send trustworthy people to get him and deal with him. Perhaps then this darkness can end.”

Tibor looks at the whispering huddle again. “What are they talking about?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Planning, perhaps. Who will take watch. Something of that nature. It may be a long wait. We cannot leave.”

“Wh-who are they?” he asks, unable to prevent the question slipping out of his mouth. He tears one of his hands away from her and plunges it into his pocket. It is still there, the cool glass, he is safe. “S-sorry, I… The shadows, I cannot…”

She gives his hand another squeeze. “Peace,” she says. “I lose track of things too. Not to worry. You just need me to remind you.”

He takes a breath, the anguish in his chest easing. “Y-yes,” he says. “That’s all I need.”

She indicates the only other woman in the room, the one with the bloodied lip. “That is Madam Nicoletta Morar.”

“Do I know her?” he asks. He feels a jab of regret at admitting his ignorance.

“I do hope not,” she says. “She runs the Marigold House, a bordello, a brothel.”

“Oh, my… is she?” he does not know how to phrase the question. Even in his younger, clearer years, Tibor did not venture into such establishments. He had other shame to live with. Still has. His hand closes around the trinket in his pocket — still there, still safe.

Maeve makes a face. “I would not ask her that question, if I were you.”

“Why is she here?” he asks, feeling less regret this time. There is something about Lady Todorova that makes him feel at ease.

“Girls,” she says. “Someone has been harming them, taking them, killing them. Or worse.”

Tibor looks at the door. “That man? He is doing this?”

Maeve sighs. “It seems to be what everyone believes,” she says. “But how can one man do all this? Just one man. If he is the one, I doubt he did it alone. Too many dead, too many gone. Far too many things left unexplained. He doesn’t seem … old enough. No, he had help, I am sure.”

Tibor considers this. “I am still not sure why we are the ones doing this,” he says. “Why keep him? Perhaps we can get him to talk. Maybe if we ask him to unburden his soul.” He glances over to the priest in the whispering huddle.

Maeve seems to follow his line of thinking. “Perhaps not with the aid of that man,” she says. “I’ve heard of him. Father Stowe is his name. Lower down in the church and unpopular. I heard some talk that they are thinking of posting him somewhere. Somewhere far away.”

“Why?”

She shrugs. “Let us not speak ill of the church,” she says placing a hand to her neck. “Not when we need the Light’s Grace most.” She watches Father Stowe for a moment. “He is here to atone for past sins. That, and he said that he has heard confessions that implicate our captive.”

“And him?” he says, indicating the dark-skinned man.

“Darras Sahl,” she says. “A merchant from a fair away country. He is … shall we say … close to Madeline Wright the innkeeper.”

Tibor shakes his head, another name unfamiliar to him.

“He started all this,” she says, more to herself than Tibor. “His story is strange indeed. If it wasn’t for Sabina, I … I don’t think that I would have believed him.” She looks at Tibor, her eyes searching his. “He believes that Madeline has been … replaced.”

“Replaced?”

She shakes her head. “You will have to ask him yourself,” she says. She looks back at the whispering huddle. “The last one you should know.”

Tibor looks at the boy, his lanky frame, his furrowed brow. That pointed nose, so much like his mother’s. He rubbed his hands together when he was anxious, so much like him, his father. “My son,” he says. “Iosif, my eldest.” Something catches in his heart then. “My … youngest, Sergei … he …”

She squeezes his hand. “I know,” she says softly. “Iosif explained. Sergei never came home. Someone took him from school.”

He feels a flash of anger again. “Yes,” he says, feeling himself tremble. “Someone.” He points at the door. “We must speak to him. Where is my son? My boy…”

She squeezes his hand again as she coos. “Hush, dear Tibor,” she says. “We will have our answers soon enough. All we need to do is wait for the light of dawn. People will come. They will force the man to give up all he knows.”

Tibor wipes his running nose on his sleeve. He nods, his mouth forming unvoiced words. He feels cold and confused and dreadfully tired. The hiss of the whispering group was getting on his nerves — oh, how he hates whispering. That and the constant scratching and whining of the dog. It is here somewhere, somewhere close. Perhaps it is one of the fighting dogs. Some vicious animal that will bite and rip if it ever got loose. The others seem not to care. He shivers from more than just the cold.

Maeve rubs his hand. “There must be a blanket or something,” she says, making to stand. He does not let go, she lingers.

“Why are we not allowed to leave?” he asks.

“Excuse me?”

“You said that we cannot leave.”

She lets out another long sigh. Perhaps she has already explained it to him. Perhaps he is testing her patience. He sees her eyes glint as she looks at Darras. “We might give the game away if we do,” she says. “Even by accident, even with the best of intentions. We do not know who he is working with. Someone might come to his rescue.”

He lets go of her hand. “I think… I understand,” he says. “If we have the wrong person… he…”

“Let us not think of that,” she says, her voice a whisper. He glances around, her blonde hair flailing. “Now, let me find you a blanket. It will be a long night.”

He watches her wonder off into the dark. He does not know how Iosif, his son, convinced him to join this plot. It does not seem like him. Oh, how he wishes he could remember. For him, the past is filled with pain, useless pain and shameful regret. He is a man who lives very much in the present tense. His hand searches his pockets. Yes, there it is, the glass almost scoldingly cold in his palm. It will protect him. He will be safe. All he had to do was wait. Breathe, in and out, and it will all be clear in the morning.

*

Outside, in the night air that cut like a frosted blade, shadows moved. The waxing gibbous moon cast the scene in sorrowful silver, but it did little to reveal such things that did not wish to be seen. Figures in the gloom. Figures moving both with uncanny speed and malicious slowness. Unnatural things with pallid, naked bodies, crawling flat against the ground, up against walls, and squeezing between the narrow gaps between structures. Hand over hand, gnarled elbows bending the wrong way, limp legs dragging behind. Bare heads covered featureless skin, stretched across a meatless skull, shifted about, listening, hissing, whispering.

From across Balar the strange figures came. They converged here, unseen, in this deserted part of town among the warehouses, packing yards, mills, and abandoned factories. They came together here, where the captors guarded their prisoner.

They were drawn by a smell. Not by rent sinew and spilt blood. Not by the metallic smell of coins that have passed through too many fingers.

There was another smell. A stench so strong that they could not ignore it.

From somewhere in that old dog fighting pit, something stank of delicious shame — unvoiced regret. All around there was the susurration of whispers like the turning of pages destined for the fire.

There would be secrets for them to feast upon this night, the Whisper Men knew.

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