The Messenge (Iva and Nick) novel Chapter 386

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Ma’s throat was parched, dry as old parchment, each swallow sending a painful scrape down her esophagus that made her wince.

She had been so consumed by the prospect of facing her nightmares-the dark forest, the towering Lycan, the terrifying chase-that she had forgotten the simplest of tasks. Filling her water jug had slipped her mind entirely, lost in the whirlwind of fear and determination that had consumed her thoughts throughout the evening.

Now, lying in the darkness with Youssef sleeping peacefully nearby, she was paying the price for her distraction. Her tongue felt thick and swollen, her lips cracked, and the dryness in her throat was becoming unbearable, a constant ache that refused to be ignored.

She tried to will herself back to sleep. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, on the soft rhythm of Youssef’s breathing beside her. But her body was relentless, demanding the water it needed, and the discomfort grew with each passing minute.

She looked at Youssef, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of deep sleep. He wouldn’t wake. He was a good sleeper, a blessing she was endlessly grateful for.

She calculated the distance to the kitchen in her mind-a short walk down the corridor, a quick stop at the pump, and she would be back before he even stirred. The journey would take no more than five minutes if she was walking fast. Five minutes of risk for a relief that seemed essential to

her survival.

Her need overpowered her caution.

She slipped out of bed, her bare feet silent against the cold stone floor. The nightgown she wore was thin and worn, offering little warmth against the chill of the abbey at night.

She grabbed the empty jug and opened the door slowly, carefully, making sure the hinges didn’t creak and announce her presence to anyone who might be awake.

The corridor was dark and still, lit only by the pale glow of the moon streaming through the narrow windows. The silence was thick, broken only by the faint whisper of the wind and the distant hoot

of an owl.

She moved quickly, her steps light and practiced. The abbey was familiar to her now, every stone and corridor etched into her memory. But there was something about walking through it at night that made her skin prickle with unease.

The ancient stone walls seemed to loom closer, the shadows deeper, the silence more oppressive. She had never felt truly alone in the abbey before, but tonight, she felt watched.

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She had almost reached the kitchen when she heard it.

murmur.

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She stopped in her tracks, her heart suddenly pounding against her ribs. Her hand tightened on the jug, her breath catching in her throat.

She listened, straining her ears. For a moment, there was nothing. Just the pounding of her own heart. Then she heard it again-voices, low and muffled, coming from somewhere ahead.

She frowned.

The nuns were always in bed by this hour. They rose early for prayers and retired early, their routines as predictable as the rising sun.

Who would be awake at this time? Who would be gathered in the darkness, speaking in hushed

tones?

Her instincts screamed at her to retreat, to go back to her room, to forget she had heard anything and pretend she had never left her bed. But her feet carried her forward, drawn by a curiosity she

couldn’t suppress.

Something was wrong. She could feel it in her bones.

She moved closer following the sound, keeping to the shadows, her bare feet silent against the cold stone. The voices grew clearer as she approached the main office of the head nun, the words becoming distinct and chilling.

She pressed herself against the wall, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain they would hear it. Her hand trembled against the cold stone, and she forced herself to breathe slowly, evenly, trying to calm the panic rising in her chest.

Through the crack in the door, she could see several figures gathered inside.

Men. Several of them, their bodies large and imposing, their voices low and harsh.

They were not dressed like the villagers she had seen in the nearby town. Their clothes were dark, practical, designed for stealth and movement. They carried weapons-blades, crossbows, and other implements she didn’t want to identify.

And among them, a few nuns.

These nuns stood differently, their postures rigid and alert, their expressions cold and calculating. This was a strange gathering.

She was about to step away, to retreat to her room and pretend she had seen nothing, when a glint of metal caught her eye. One of the men held a blade in his hand, its edge catching the faint

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moonlight that filtered through the window.

Robbers.

They were being robbed.

But something about the scene didn’t add up. The nuns were not cowering in fear. They were not bound or threatened. They were standing among the men, their faces hard, their bodies tense. They were not captives. They were collaborators?

Iva’s stomach churned with dread, a cold knot forming in her gut.

She pressed closer to the door, straining to hear the conversation over the pounding of her own

heart.

–

“…last hunting trip was successful,” one of the men was saying, his voice rough and satisfied, carrying the smugness of a predator who had made a kill. “We found a small pack in the eastern woods. Wiped them out. Every last one.”

Another man chuckled, a cold sound that made Iva’s skin crawl with revulsion.

“Good. They’re getting bolder, those abominations. They think they can hide among us, blend in with the humans. But we know. We always know.”

“Those creatures of the devil,” another voice added, dripping with contempt. “Werewolves. Lycans. Whatever you want to call them. They need to be eliminated. Every last one of them. They’re a plague on this earth, a corruption of the natural order.”

The head nun’s voice cut through the murmurs, cold and commanding.

“Have any been identified in this area? Any we need to be concerned about?”

One of the men shook his head.

“Not yet. But there have been rumors. Sightings in the nearby villages. A lone wolf, perhaps, or a small pack. We’re monitoring the situation.”

Iva felt the blood drain from her face.

*Werewolves.*

*Lycans.*

*These were hunters!*

The reality of what she was witnessing crashed down on her like a tidal wave, suffocating and

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terrifying.

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She stepped back from the door, her heart pounding, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her legs

felt weak, and she pressed her hand against the cold stone to steady herself.

She had to get out.

She had to get Youssef and run, to disappear into the night and never look back. The thought of what these hunters would do to her son-to a half-Lycan child-made her stomach heave.

But her foot caught against something-a loose stone, the uneven edge of the ancient floor-and she stumbled. Her hand flailed, and the water jug slipped from her grasp, crashing against the wall with a deafening sound that seemed to reverberate through the entire abbey.

The noise echoed like a gunshot.

Iva froze.

Her blood turned to ice.

Inside the office, the voices stopped abruptly. A heavy silence descended, thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl and the frantic pounding of her own heart.

Then, a voice-cold, sharp, and dangerous-cut through the silence.

“Who’s there?”

Elle Vintea

Thank you for supporting this book and if you enjoy it don’t forget to try my latest completed book Omega’s Christmas Ball and I can guarantee that you will not regret it.

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