Free Corben's Thirst: The Thirst Within Part 1.5 by Johi Jenkins Page A

happened then?” I asked quietly.
    Charlotte looked down at the lifeless shape in her arms. Her cold expression had softened, and she gently brushed off a hair that had fallen across Sara’s face. When she spoke, her voice was almost sad. “She jumped. I grabbed Alexandra and let Sara fall.”
    “And she died?”
    “After I put Alexandra back in her crib, I jumped down after Sara. I found her dead.”
    I wanted to believe Charlotte, but something about her account sounded like a lie. Or rather, it felt like she was purposely leaving out details. The nursery was on the second story of the cottage. Would the fall have killed Sara? But I didn’t question her.
    Charlotte buried Sara’s body in the woods behind the house and I pretended I wasn’t disappointed, or suspicious, of what had transpired.
    The next day was my mother’s funeral at high noon. Charlotte attended the burial but wore a veil over her eyes. When it was over she immediately retired to our bedroom to rest.
    That was the time they chose to attack.
     
    ***
     
    They were four men holding pitchforks. Real pitchfork-wielding townsfolk, like in the monster stories. Unfortunately I had no idea what they were up to. The sun was still up, so I could clearly see them approach my gate. I was outside already, still dressed in my funeral clothes, so I decided to greet them like a good neighbor. What did I know about their intentions to stab me with their tools? I thought they were just farmers. I called out to them as I approached.
    “How do you do?” I started to say.
    They didn’t even let me finish. The tallest one tackled me to the ground and punched my face, then held me down as I struggled to get up. The others approached and took turns kicking my sides. My defense instinct took over, even if there was no way I could win a fight of four against one. But I managed to kick one of them in their inner thigh, which only made them hit harder.
    “Stop! Why are you doing this?” I cried out breathlessly.
    “For our sister,” one of them said, in an accent that reminded me of Sara. Her country English had been just slightly more peculiar than the average maid’s. And then it finally registered that they must have been Sara’s family and were punishing me for her death.
    I tried to shout some pathetic excuse in my defense, but no words came out. They were dragging me to a nearby copse of trees shielded from the house and the road. Helpless, I asked them to stop again, but it only seemed to enrage them more. My muffled screams reached no one but them. One of them hit my head with something hard, probably the wood handle of a pitchfork, and I almost blacked out. But not before I managed to feel the sharp steel entering the soft flesh near my stomach.
    It had taken a few minutes, but that was when I finally became afraid—the first time I considered my death. They weren’t just beating me. They were aiming to kill me.
    And then I heard a loud voice boom over the ringing in my ears.
    “Lay your arms down and step away from him.”
    My brother’s voice. Thierry .
    I had not heard his voice in over two years, but that was unmistakably my big brother.
    My attackers scrambled away from me and turned in the direction of his voice. I looked up with difficulty and saw him standing gloriously by the gate, in funeral clothes, aiming his flintlock musket at them. He was far away, but I knew my brother’s impressive aim with his weapons. They didn’t. Someone barked a command that I could not make out, and a few seconds later a shot exploded through the early evening, followed by the thud of a large body collapsing next to me. I heard gasps and grunts and more barking voices, and then their heavy footsteps as they ran towards Thierry. I struggled to lift my head and see. Before they reached him, he had reloaded his weapon and shot again, felling another. And he didn’t stop—he unsheathed a sword, disposing of the other two in less than a minute in a beautiful,