The Missing Blood Rite Part 4

Artful Goldenears didn’t ask to become a hero, known as the Bat, but now he has to help a ghost save her children, can he do it in time?

“This might be a dumb question,” The Bat asked standing where the blood had stoked into the dirt of Tear’s home. He stared down at the deep brown in the earth and then over to the ghost of the owner of the blood. She wouldn’t or couldn’t see the pool of the off-color earth. He then turned back to the Chief with his warriors hiding outside, waiting for the command to attack the Bat. “But how many enemies do you have?”

                “A stupid question, indeed,” Tear hissed at him. “The list is long.”

                “As I feared,” The Bat said, glancing over at the ghost. “Tell me about this witch.”

                “What is there to tell?” Tear said. “She took children, bled them, and used their blood for spells.”

                “Her name?” The Bat asked, never taking his eyes off the ghost.

                “She no longer has a name,” Tear told him, following his eyes to the empty air.

                “When she was excused, her name was taken from her,” Katheryn said, “but it was Faye Toothsliver.”

                The Bat nodded at her, thanks.

                “Is she there?” Tear whispered.

                “Yes,” The Bat said, turning his hellfire eyes to him, “where is the hut of this witch?”

                Tear frown, “We don’t know.”

                “You don’t know?” The Bat asked. “How did you capture her?”

                “We got her stealing a child from a tent,” Tear said.

                “Have you looked for her den?” The Bat questions.

                “Of course,” Tear growled, “but she has it hidden with magic, I believe.”

                “Great,” The Bat said, looking down at the blood once more. “I want to meet this child.”

                “Why?”

                “Just bring the child here,” The Bat growled, staring hard at Tear. He crossed his arms and then a moment later gave the order to his warriors in his own tongue.

                The Bat stepped to a small table against the leather wall of the tent, pulling out a few elixirs from his belt. He started to mix them together with Tear studying them hard, but not asking a question at all. One of the bottles had a deep red goo taking its sweet time pouring into the other bottle with a green and yellow gas. Once the goo touched the gas, it all turned a deep purple with hints of any even darker black in it. The colors mixed together, washing over each other, and devouring any empty places in the bottle. He shook the bottle, then put it to the side.

                “What is it?” Tear asked after the Bat had placed the cork back into it.

                “You’ll see,” he said, smirking under the helmet. There had been some bonuses to being the legend hero, which included being hard with other squirrels. He had to keep the act up when in the armor, not carrying his staff - that had been the hardest part of the whole thing �" but most of all acting like a grumble squirrel who has lived for lifetimes.

                Tear growled, stepping forward and pointing the finger at him. “If you are playing me. I will cut your head off.”

                It’s not you, I’m playing, the Bat glanced over at the ghost of Katheryn. “You are always welcome to try,” the Bat hissed back.

                Before Tear could utter another word, the tent open with two of his warriors being in a small squirrel trying his best to show no fear. It worked until he saw the Bat standing there in the full horror of his armor. The longhorns of his helmet made him look more like a demon than a hero. The boy, somewhere around the age of eight, burst into tears.

                “Stop it, boy,” Tear ordered, and the child did his best to hide the tears. “You are safe.”

                He didn’t say a word; just simply nodded.

                The Bat step forward, and the boy step back with Tear growling,” Do not show fear.” The boy stopped dead in his tracks, waiting for a second, and then took a step closer to the Bat.

                He kneels to face the boy with the hellfire swirling in his eyes, he winked at the child, hoping it would calm him down. It did not, but the boy, this time, hide his fear well.

                “What is your name?” The Bat asked.

                “He won’t tell you,” Katheryn said. “A name has power to the Blood Ones, and only the clan is allowed to know your name.”

                “You don’t have to say it,” The Bat softly told the child. “Do you remember the night the witch came for you?”

                He shook his head, yes.

                “Do you remember if she was alone?”

                Another nodded for a yes.

                “Do you recall where she took you?”

                He shook his head no.

                “Like I said before,” Tear stepped forward,” we stopped her before she took this child away.”

                “But she touched you, right?” The Bat asked.

                He nodded a yes.

                “Good,” The Bat said, turning to the bottle on the table. He grabs it and then took the child by the arm. “This will not hurt,” The Bat said, taking the cork out and letting a drop fall onto the child's arm. “It will show us the magic the witch was using or �"“

                He glanced over at the ghost. “Anyone who had been touched by her magic.”

                The eyes of the ghost shoot wide as the dropped hit the brown fur of the child. The purple hissed like steam from a teapot and the black of the goo launch around his arms, circling and then racing out to all the points it could find of the witch’s magic. Some of the black smoke wrapped and swirling around the feet of Katheryn’s feet. Everyone could see the smoke resting in the air, but all the Bat could see the ghost tears racing down her face.

                The Bat rose to stare at her. “The witch killed you?”

                Katheryn said,” For betraying her,”

                “You were �"“

                “A part of the convent,” Katheryn cried,” but” �" she looked at Tear confusion at the smoke �" “he didn’t know. He never knew.”

                “Where is the den?” The Bat asked.

                “I don’t know,” Katheryn said. “I never knew.”

                He spun to Tear, not sure if he should say a word about his wife, but he had only a little while before the magic of the elixir would fade. “Follow me,” he ordered dashing out of the tent following the long path of the black smoke.

Author's Note

If you had made it this far, then I appreciate it, and before you start to tear my work apart (which doesn’t bother me too much), let me explain something. The most common critique I see is about my spelling and grammar. It is an understandable critique, and I do not blame you for pointing it out. After all, spelling and grammar are the tools in which we use to craft our work, like a paintbrush or a chisel. The artist must know how to use these tools well, but like an artist who has a tremble in their hand's somethings will never be perfect.
My tremble in my hand is caused by my dyslexia. It is something, no matter how much I learn, study, or work on, it will never go away. It is the reason you will find a good bit of spelling and grammar mistakes in my work. I ask you to keep this fact in my when you are about to write your critique.
Also, I feel the need to point this out, this website is like a journal for me. A messy journal I used to work out problems in my stories or to simply warm up before digging into my novels. I do not hire an editor for the work here. I do not spend hours and days pouring over these stories to make them perfect, that energy is saved for the project I plan on taking to market. Everything on this website is my world-building exercises or sketches for other projects.
I do hope you enjoy my work, but this website is not a publishing house for me, and it shouldn’t be for you either. Something to keep in mind as you write your critique.