Claimed *Completed*

"I'm already living on borrowed time. When it comes to it, it will be my time to go."

500 years ago Cathy should have died, but she didn't. She was saved by the Devil.

"I agreed to something ... Something that cant have been important then, it seemed too far away.
I'd agreed, after five hundred years, to hand myself over to the Devil, to become his."

Now her time's up, but back in the city where it all started, things are far from over. Cathy finds out that there is more to the Devil than she ever thought. A new boy, a best friend and a deadly enemy, things are about to get complicated...

"No one's that good or bad, it's not that simple, nothing's that black and white. It's more grey."

*Hi, this is my first Movella, so I'd love some feedback and constructive critsism! Thanks :)


3. Monday, 17th January 1512

Monday, 17th January 1512






  I’m running. I can feel the wind through my hair, my skirt flapping around my ankles, bare feet hitting mud.

  I concentrate on each of my senses in turn.

  I can see the murky brown water of the River Kiay, flowing beneath the Kiay Bridge ahead. The river is close enough to the sea that the tides affect it here; tonight the tide is out so mud is left behind to cover the exposed river bed. Along the banks of the Kiay the people that had been bustling along these roads earlier in the day have dispersed and now only a few people are left to wonder in the dusk; men entering taverns, the homeless finding a place to spend the night and the odd person hurrying to get home before the darkness falls completely.

  I can smell the stench of the river water and the mud it has left behind, but I have become used to the smell and mostly ignored it, for I have worse to worry about.

  I can hear wooden door slamming, women and men both screaming abuse, the rowdy singing of the intoxicated men in the taverns. But the sound that bothers me most, however quiet it is, is the gentle sobbing of children, some orphaned, some lost, and most of them on deaths door step.

  But whatever their reason to cry I can never bring myself to fell sorry for them, only contempt for them as they pity themselves. Even now I can’t bring myself to pity them too; if they are so miserable, why don’t they do something about it?

  The thought makes me run harder and faster than before, mud slips below my feet, but I never once stop or slow down, for I am intent on reaching my destination.

  I concentrate on my foot steps, the rhythmic thudding of my bare feet. There is something soothing about the noise that makes everything seem okay again. I want to stay like that forever, locked in the rhythm, but when I arrive at the bridge it all comes flooding back to me, the reason I’m here and what I’m about to do.

  I am stood at the bottom of the Kiay Bridge, staring up at the great mass of stone. It takes a moment to register how breathtakingly beautiful it is in the sunset, but when I do I feel a pang of regret for choosing this place for what I am about to do.

  No sooner have I thought this than I give myself a mental slap and tell myself that I’m not backing out now, not for something so stupid.

  I set my eyes on the centre of the bridge, my final destination.

  I ignore a group of men that are shouting profanities at me; drunk and laughing at their own wit. They ask me what a young girl like me is doing out here at this time, but I stride on past them. They will see what I am doing here, maybe then they won’t laugh. But then again they might, they seem sick and twisted enough.

  At the centre of the bridge I hop over a low bit of wall. I’m perched precariously on the edge of the bridge, staring down into the depth of the River Kiay. Only then do I really think about what I’m doing.

  No-one will miss a girl from the slums of Toritos, certainly not my mother and step-father, they will be glad to be rid of me, I am doing them a favour.

  A body in the river won’t make any difference either, they are always washing up. Maybe someone from the slums can have my skirt, I always liked it. Strangely this thought gives me the first hint of doubt; I don’t like the thought of anyone else having my clothes, they are mine, I have made them, and they are the only thing I can call my own. This seems to distress me more than the thought of dying itself.

  Then another thought hits me like a bomb and I can’t believe it never occurred to me – Elizabeth! I can’t imagine why I haven’t thought about it before. What will happen to Elizabeth if I die? Who will look after her when she is ill? I doubt mother will even notice. Elizabeth won’t understand what has happened to me. No seven year-old can comprehend death. She might end up as one of those children living on the street. Living with mother and step-father is bad, but she won’t know how to fend for herself if she has no home at all.

  I grip the wall harder, no longer willing to go through with my plan.

  Suddenly I feel fingers pushing me from behind and I am caught off guard. I swing around to see whose the fingers belong to, but the movement finds my feet in mid-air and I’m falling.

  Down and down... air rushing through me. The water is coming up to meet me.

  I close my eyes, willing it to stop, to end. The beatings, the work house, step-father’s shouts, mother’s screams, Elizabeth’s crying- Elizabeth! What will happen to her? No! No!

  But my impact with the water is just moments away...

  I hear a laugh in the distance; an evil, cackling laugh from above, far worse than that of the drunken men.

  Then; a face, jet black hair, pearly white skin, piercing red eyes.

  Another voice; “Hello my dear...”

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