The Bitter End Read online

  The Bitter End

  Direction from the Devil

  Ann Evans and Robert D Tysall

  Contents

  Also By Ann Evans

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  A Note from Bloodhound Books:

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2018 Ann Evans and Robert D Tysall

  The right of Ann Evans and Robert D Tysall to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by them in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Also By Ann Evans

  Kill Or Die

  For my wife, Heather, thanking her for all her love and support.

  Robert.

  And for Wayne, Angie and Debbie with love.

  Ann

  Prologue

  Auschwitz 4 August 1944.

  ‘Hexe!’ the word rippled around the chamber softly, barely audible, like a breath of wind. They backed off, all of them - the soldiers who had herded these gypsies into the room hours earlier, murmuring the word: Hexe – Witch!

  Panic glinted in the eyes of the young uniformed men as they shuffled away from her. Witchcraft, there was no other explanation. The woman, perhaps in her forties, maybe younger – they aged quickly here at Auschwitz, those who didn't die – eased herself up from amongst the tangle of naked corpses as if she was rising from the dead. She was naked like the bodies around her, hair shorn to no more than stubble, sallow cheeks and sunken eyes. But very much alive.

  The soldiers looked to one another. No one willing to pull their gun and shoot. One soldier ran to fetch the commander. He came in from the August sunshine, peered into the chamber. ‘Nicht moglich! Not possible!’

  ‘Hexe!’ the word echoed from wall to wall.

  Petronella Kytella, mother and widow, had lain down with her young son, cradled him in her arms as the doors clanged shut and gas was pumped in. She'd sang a lullaby softly to him as those around her screamed and tried desperately to claw their way out. She hadn't been afraid to die – saddened, yes, especially for her son, and had marked a circle around them both, a circle and a six-pointed star, as tradition had taught, scratched into the concrete floor with a stone. Then, like her dear son, had closed her eyes and waited for death.

  The boy, like everyone else in the room, now lay dead. She would join him very soon. She wondered which of these monsters in their black uniforms would take the pistol from their holster and put a bullet through her head.

  The officer who had just entered, snapped out an order. Two younger soldiers stepped over the bodies, grabbed Petronella by her thin arms and dragged her towards the door.

  She blinked as the summer sunshine dazzled. They stood her against a wall.

  ‘Warter sie hier!’ They marched off.

  Head down, Petronella stood with her arms crossed over her nakedness. She wished now that she could pray. To have a God to beg mercy from. But her god was the earth, nature and the seasons. She was a witch, like they'd said, but her work, her beliefs were for the good of others, always. She had never hurt anyone, never wished harm on anyone. Not even these monsters.

  The officer returned, carrying a cotton frock and shoes. Not her clothing – but clothing. He threw them at her. Confusion washed over her. No bullet?

  She dressed quickly, and he grabbed her arm, turning her, marching her towards an armoured car. Hot cracked leather burned her legs but the windows were open as he drove.

  Petronella gazed upwards at the blue sky as a warm breeze fanned her face, and wept silently for her son.

  The Fuhrerbunker, Berlin 23 April 1945

  * * *

  Over the winter, news reached Adolf Hitler of a gypsy woman who had survived his gas chamber. It was rumoured she was a white witch. He demanded she be brought to him. His body was growing weaker, another host was needed. This body had served its purpose. The Master would be pleased with the devastation of so many humans.

  For so many years now, he had been protected from harm. Harm others would have done to him. But humans were weak, and their ailments crippled their bodies. It was time now to move into another human host and continue the Master’s work. And the body of a witch, a white witch, was perfekt.

  One week later …

  * * *

  Petronella Kytella stood before him, unusually tall for a woman, skinny and afraid. But she would become stronger. Once in possession of her body, she would know no bounds. He snapped out a command to the two officers standing guard either side of her, telling them to leave her with him. ‘Lass uns in ruhe!’

  He circled her, hands behind his back, clasped together to stop the trembling. ‘You are a witch?’

  ‘I am of the earth,’ she uttered, her eyes downcast.

  ‘You make spells?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He stepped closer to her. Looked into her face. Then took her hand in his and brought it up to his lips. ‘I have need of you.’

  For a second, terror sparked in Petronella Kytella’s eyes. She would have run, had there been any place to run to in the small concrete bunker.

  Hitler felt himself shudder as the demonic essence, Lamia, a spirit that had dwelt in his body all these years, now slipped into Petronella Kytella, filling every crevice of her body like a hand slipping into a silk glove.

  The void left inside him was immense. The soul of Adolf Hitler had been crushed by Lamia's dominance many years earlier, like so many before him – Ivan Vasilyevich, Vlad Dracula, Caligula – there had been so many lives, stretching back to day one. But there was still just a shadow of the former Austrian artist and politician still functioning for him to summon the guards.

  As clarity returned, he thought back. It was his inauguration as Chancellor in 1933 that had been the moment – he saw that now. He remembered walking amongst the people, shaking so many hands. Which hand had it been?

  Now, the pain that Lamia had shielded him from for so many years, protecting him from illness, even assassination attempts, enveloped him. He was vulnerable again. And he knew the world would blame him, Adolph Hitler, for all the atrocities that Lamia had caused through him. The deaths of so many – millions of men, women and children. It was too much to bear, he could not take the agony as he remembered what had been done at his hand – yet through no fault of his own.

  But who would believe that? No one.

  He forced himself to retain the persona, the one the world knew, to give one last order as the guards returned. ‘See she is looked after. Clothed, fed, she is to go to England. See to it!’

  * * *
>
  Slipping from the disintegrating body of the man into the woman, Lamia instantly, sensed that this one was different. She felt the resistance of this half-starved female as she inwardly strove to fight off the infiltrator. It was the witch in her, the whiteness, the purity. Well she would not win. The battle for the body and soul of Petronella Kytella had begun, and there would be only one victor – Lamia.

  * * *

  Petronella felt the attack in every fibre of her being as Hitler touched her. Now looking at him, he visibly shrank, as if racked in pain. Anguish contorted his face, as if his wickedness had caught up with him.

  But now she feared for her own soul. There was some parasitic evil crawling through her, trying to control her. Black nothingness swarmed through her head, smothering her consciousness. She fought inwardly to shake free of its hold. Bitterly, she knew she had not the strength to fight it.

  As the guards led her away, Petronella glanced back to see Hitler taking a Luger from a desk drawer. Reaching the outer door, the sound of a single gunshot reverberated through the corridors.

  The suicide of Adolph Hitler was the last conscious thought of Petronella Kytella. Lamia was reborn.

  1

  June 1980. Oakwoods, Ashby on the Wold, Surrey.

  Something was moving through the long grass. Nine-year-old Paul Christian saw it first, recognised it for what it was. He grabbed his best pal Owen’s arm. ‘Careful! It's an adder.’

  ‘Where? Oh crikes, you're right.’ The bigger, red haired boy grabbed a stick. ‘Kill it quick!’

  ‘No way,’ Paul said, horrified at the thought. ‘They're rare. You never see adders in the wild. Look at it. It's beautiful.’

  ‘It's a bloody snake. Kill it!’

  With all his heart Paul wished he'd never mentioned it. Owen wouldn't let it rest. He'd been bored all day, itching to do something. And killing a snake was just his sort of entertainment.

  ‘It's not hurting anyone,’ Paul argued.

  Owen, a good six months older, taller and heftier than him, sneered. ‘You're chicken. Daren't kill a poxy snake.’

  ‘I'm not chicken. I just don't want to hurt it.’

  Owen flapped his elbows in and out, making clucking noises. ‘Christian is a chicken. Christian is a chicken.’

  Paul felt his cheeks starting to burn. ‘I'm not!’

  ‘So, prove it.’ Owen picked up a rock and pushed it into his hand. ‘Go on, smash its head in.’

  Paul did his best to stand up to his friend. ‘No! That's horrible. And anyway, it's not hurting anyone.’

  ‘So, what's that got to do with anything?’ Owen said, hurling another stone at the snake.

  Paul grabbed his arm. ‘Pack it in, Owen. That's cruel.’

  ‘Pack it in, Owen, that's cruel,’ Owen mimicked him. ‘What a ponce you are at times.’

  ‘I'm not! Anyhow, it's gone now.’

  Owen ran a few yards to where the snake had slithered down a hole near an oak tree, then turned back. ‘So, if you ain't a chicken, you can prove it another way.’ There was mischief written all over his freckled face.

  Paul knew what was coming. ‘I'm not knocking on her door again. She nearly caught me last time.’

  ‘That's okay,’ Owen grinned. ‘You can outrun the old hag easily, and while she's off chasing you, I'll sneak in and get a good look at her gold.’

  Paul groaned. Owen was convinced the weird old woman who lived in a crabby cottage in the woods had a hoard of Nazi gold stashed away. Once when they'd peeped through her window, they'd spotted something shining like gold on her mantlepiece. Owen had never let it drop.

  ‘I ain't gonna nick it. I just wanna look at it,’ said Owen, curling his arm around Paul's shoulder and leading him off towards the cottage.

  He didn't like the stranglehold, but at least they were heading away from the snake.

  The cottage gave him the creeps. Gravestone grey, with a single small window, like some one-eyed monster watching him. The roof sloped almost to head height, and there was always a crow perched by the chimney. It cawed as they moved stealthily towards the door.

  This was their regular pastime, or rather Owen's regular pastime. And if he didn't go along with it, he had to endure Owen's taunts about being too scared, too chicken.

  Most times, the old woman ignored them. But once when they'd peered through the window, her face had shot up from inside, ugly and snarling like some demon and they'd nearly crapped themselves.

  She'd got a black cat, which seemed appropriate. They joked about her being a witch. There was even a rumour that she'd poisoned a load of local churchgoers just after the war. She certainly looked like a witch, all in drab, black clothes, and her face was pretty ugly … damn ugly, in fact.

  The last time, last Sunday, when they'd been bored, and she'd chased him, Paul had been shocked at how tall she was. Tall and lanky, but boy, could she run. His heart was in his mouth as he'd shot through the trees to escape her. Owen had fled in the opposite direction. They'd met up again later and had a good laugh about it.

  ‘I'm gonna peep through the window,’ hissed Owen, as they crept up on the cottage. ‘Might see her … you know, doing it with her cat. Her familiar. That's what it's called.’

  Paul wasn't too sure what he was on about but matched his own leering expression to Owen's as they tip-toed around the side of the building, then ducked down.

  ‘Go on then, knock her door,’ Owen hissed, nudging him.

  ‘I will in a minute.’

  He jabbed Paul in the ribs. ‘Go on, get knocking, and if she chases you, I'm gonna sneak in and look for that gold.’

  There was no way out of this without losing face, so taking his courage in both hands, Paul crept up to the front door, rattled the knocker and ran like hell.

  She didn't come after him, and eventually he circled back through the woods and met up with Owen again. He hadn't spotted her doing it with her cat. He hadn't spotted any gold either. But at least he couldn't call him chicken.

  Needing something else to pass the time, Owen decided to build a bonfire.

  Paul let him get on with it, and sat on a tree stump in the clearing, whittling a cat from a bit of wood. He wiped the wood sap from the blade of his penknife down his grey shorts. ‘You gave me this knife, Owen, for my birthday, remember?’

  ‘Yeah, kind, ain't I?’ grinned Owen as he put a match to the kindling. He piled on dry leaves and twigs until it was quite a blaze. ‘Hey! Paul, look. It's the old hag's cat.’

  A black cat came strolling towards them, tail erect, amber eyes focused on them. There was quite an air about it, like it owned the place. Paul crouched down, calling the cat towards him. ‘Here, kitty …’

  It ignored him and instead curled itself around Owen's leg. He instantly kicked out. ‘Get off me, you mangy creature.’ His foot launched the cat into the air.

  It landed in the middle of the fire.

  Its screeching seemed to bounce from tree to tree, birds took flight. The sound was torturous, like a baby in agony. Frantically, it thrashed about, desperate to escape the flames.

  ‘Get it out! Get it out!’ Paul yelled, grabbing a stick and trying to drag the cat out. ‘Owen, help me.’

  Owen stood back, watching, fascinated. ‘Nah, let it burn.’

  The screaming stopped, leaving only the crackling of the fire and the smell of burning fur. Paul stared in horror at Owen. ‘You've killed it!’

  ‘Good.’

  The sound of heavy running footsteps made them spin round. The old woman burst through the woods, a look of hell in her eyes as she took in the scene. And then she screeched. ‘Theron! You killed my cat!’

  She picked up a rock.

  ‘Shit! Run!’ Owen yelled.

  They shot off in opposite directions. Paul ran for his life, but she was right behind him. Glancing back, she was like a mass of swishing blackness, long clothes, long legs, face as ugly as sin, but incredibly nimble for her age.

  He didn't see the tree root and in th
e blink of an eye he was flat on his face in the dirt. He scrambled onto his back just in time to see her towering over him, rock in hand. Frantically, he skittered backwards on his elbows, desperate to get away.

  The last thing he saw was her slamming the rock down towards his head.

  2

  October 15 2012, West Sussex

  Rear Admiral Paul Christian, formerly of the Royal Navy, and now a leading member of the MOD's Defence Intelligence Agency adjusted the volume of his car radio. Bad Moon Rising was playing. He’d always liked the song. He sang along, fingers tapping on the steering wheel as he followed Helena's little yellow Fiat along the winding lanes. They knew the twists and turns well. It was the route they took every weekday morning and evening since leaving the Royal Navy eight years ago. In another mile they parted company. Him north to Westminster and Thames House; his wife north west to Tunbridge.

  He saw her head move to the left, glancing back at him through her interior mirror. He blew her a kiss. Another five or six bends and they'd be at the junction and the parting of the ways.

  * * *

  Heading south, the petrol tanker driver reached across to the passenger seat to stroke the fat tortoiseshell cat curled up there. Fat because he spoiled her. She’d turned up at his door six months ago, a scrawny scrap of skin and bone. Perhaps because he’d shown her kindness, she’d become his faithful companion, accompanying him on his trips around the south of England.