The Red Riding Hoods Read online

  The Red Riding Hoods

  By

  C.J. Laurence

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Red Riding Hoods (The Grim Sisters, #1)

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  Also By C.J. Laurence

  READER INFORMATION

  You will consistently notice the spelling of the word ‘magic’ as ‘magick’ throughout this series. This is intentional and not a spelling mistake.

  Some of you may already be aware of the difference between the two, but for those of you who aren’t, here is a brief overview to give you a better idea:

  Magic is something attributed to magicians. The likes of Paul Daniels, Harry Houdini, David Blaine, David Copperfield, Derren Brown, Dynamo...

  Basically, those who are skilled in the fine art of optical illusions.

  Magick is something attributed most famously to Aleister Crowley. Those of you who are familiar with his name will no doubt already know his famous quote – ‘Magick is the Science and Art of causing Change to occur in conformity with Will.’

  In essence, the addition of the letter ‘k’ distinguishes spiritual discipline from stage magic and sleight of hand tricks.

  Where it concerns my characters, and the forthcoming tale, it is used from the perspective of magical realism, hence using the alternative spelling.

  Copyright © 2018 C.J. Laurence

  www.cjlauthor.com

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Designer: LKO Designs

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To all of you who believe in the supernatural—this is for you.

  1

  Beginnings

  Katana—her fifth birthday

  Most little girls at the tender age of five are dreaming of unicorns, Hello Kitty, and anything pink and glittery.

  But Katana Kempe was not like most little girls. It wasn’t that she was deformed in some way or even had a genius level IQ, but it was more the fact that her family hunted werewolves for a living. To them, werewolves were as normal in their lives as dogs in the lives of humans.

  However, the truth of the existence of werewolves was still very much a shrouded secret. Stories had banded about the world for centuries of men turning into rabid, blood-thirsty creatures, but only ever on a full-moon.

  In the UK, the threat of werewolves had been ever present to the extent that by the seventeenth century, official records stated that not even natural wolves were in existence anymore. All traces of wolves, natural and supernatural, were long gone from the country.

  To Katana Kempe, her bedtime stories to blissfully lull her into a deep sleep were not of princes and princesses finding their happily ever after, but of monstrous creatures rising from the darkness, horrid abominations of nature that her family slayed to keep people safe.

  She’d heard the story hundreds of times—the tale of Henry Kempe, her infamous ancestor who started this journey for the Kempe family.

  “His courage in the face of danger is still unrivalled to this day,” Malaceia, Katana’s father said, settling her into bed. “He knew their town was being stalked by a rabid beast. He knew whatever it was happened to be so grotesque and such a freak of nature that only he could take it on. When a third little girl went missing from her bed, Henry knew he had to take action.”

  Katana’s bright blue eyes grew wide with fear. “A little girl went missing from her bed? Just like me?”

  Malaceia nodded. “She was older than you, but yes, she was just like you. But you are so much safer. Death himself couldn’t break in here without someone knowing about it and coming to protect you.”

  Katana gave her daddy a big grin and snuggled down under her plain blue duvet, ready for the rest of the story.

  “Henry tried telling his towns folk of what he had seen but he was laughed at. So, he took his dog and mounted his horse and rode off into the forest. He returned six days later dragging the body of a beastly wolf and carrying its head on a stick. The kill was so fresh, its blood was still drying on his white riding cape. In fact, there had been so much blood spilled, his white riding hood was now painted red—red with the blood of his kill. That’s how we got our name, petal—The Red Riding Hoods.”

  “I wish I could meet Henry,” Katana whispered, snuffling into her warm bedclothes. “He’d have been so big and so strong.”

  Malaceia nodded. “He was, petal. He was an incredible man. When the towns folk saw what he was carrying into the square, gasps and screams sounded around him. Before their very eyes, the headless body withered back into that of a man. When someone fetched the good King himself, it was decided there and then that Henry Kempe would now be revered as the expert in ridding the land of such wicked creatures.”

  Katana clapped her hands together and squealed, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Daddy, tell the rest!”

  “Henry had caught the beast feasting on the girl’s heart, liver, and kidneys. He knew this must mean something to them as nothing else on her delicate body had been harmed. So, in front of the town, in the middle of the square, he gutted the man’s body and removed the same three organs. Then, in three separate fires, he burned the body, the organs, and the head to nothing but a pile of ashes.”

  “And then?”

  “And then King John congratulated Henry on such a fantastic job and bestowed upon him all the weapons and money he would ever need to complete the task of killing all of these creatures throughout the whole land.”

  “And then he got married and had lots of children and taught them all to be just like him.”

  Malaceia playfully tapped the end of his daughter’s button nose. “Exactly. And his children had children and taught them all the same, and it followed on through the centuries until we end up with you here, today.”

  “And I’m going to be just like Henry,” Katana said, her small voice full of pride and conviction. “And you, Daddy.”

  Malaceia nodded and pulled his lips into a thin line. “But there is lots to learn first, petal. Now, it’s time for sweet dreams before your first big day of training tomorrow.”

  After a kiss on the cheek from her beloved father, Katana drifted off into a deep sleep full of werewolves dying at her hands.

  KATANA—HER SIXTEENTH birthday

  It was the morning of her sweet sixteen, but for Katana it was merely another day closer to being out in the field, hunting these creatures and protecting the innocent from their monstrous paws.

  She hadn’t even opened a card or said thank you to her parents for her presents she had yet to open; she had questions that needed answers.

  Storming into her father’s office, she threw the Kempe family history book that she’d been given as a child on his desk and folded her arms over her chest.

  “But, how, Dad? I don’t understand how Henry knew to cut all those organs out and burn them separately. It doesn’t make sense. Any normal person would think that cutting the head off something would be more than enough to kill it.”

  Malaceia shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “I don’t know, Katana. Call it gut instinct or whatever, but he just knew that’s what had to be done, so he did it. It obviously worked out for the best, hmmm? You ask far too many questions instead of just accepting what is.” Malaceia clapped his hands together. “Now, have you reconsidered Tobias Bembridge’s offer?”

  Katana rolled her eyes. “I’m not interested, Dad. I’m sixteen now which means I have one more year of training before I can go out into the field and start killing these things in the real world.”

  “But we can’t let our bloodlines dry up, Katana. As a woman, you do have a right to bear children.”

  “No,” Katana said, slapping her hand down on his mahogany desk. “I have the ability to bear children. It doesn’t mean I want to.”

  “But the allegiances, Katana. If you married Tobias Bembridge, you’d be uniting The Red Riding Hoods with one of the greatest Preternatural Council families there are. Do you not understand how that could ensure our future?”

  Katana narrowed her eyes at her father and
set her hands on her hips. “Our future is dependent on werewolf numbers, not politically arranged marriages. Quit trying to marry me off already.”

  Malaceia sighed and scrubbed his shovel-sized hands over his face. “I wish you’d give up on this ghost of a dream of going out into the field, Katana. It’s not where women belong. It’s a man’s world. Even for regular humans, hunting of any kind is a man’s world.”

  Katana snorted. “And we’re also in the modern age where equality is ever present amongst the genders, Dad. Why have you even bothered to train me all these years if you didn’t want me to go out in the field?”

  “It’s a requirement that all Kempe children go through the training regime. Think of it as compulsory self-defence classes.”

  Katana screwed her nose up. “Are you kidding? So what, you figured that by now I’d be more interested in boys and nail varnish like all the other females in this family? Except aunt Marion of course.”

  Malaceia shrugged his shoulders. “Something like that, yes.”

  “What makes me less capable of killing a werewolf than Brogan or Ethan? Hell, they’ve had dozens of slip-ups in their live training sessions—I’ve had three.”

  “Exactly. Three that could have resulted in your death.”

  “And they had dozens that could have ended the same way.”

  “Your brothers are more than aware of that when they start fighting. They know the consequences of their bad decisions.”

  Katana lifted her hands up in front of her and waved. “Err, hello.”

  “No, Katana,” Malaceia said. He stood behind his desk and slammed his fists down onto it. The practice of doing this over the years had begun to leave concave imprints in his antique wooden furniture. “You’re a female and it’s always different for the females.”

  “Aunt Marion did it.” Katana hoped that bringing back memories of her dad’s younger sister would work in her favour. “She got over three hundred kills in her lifetime.”

  Malaceia leaned forwards and sneered in his daughter’s face. “Exactly. And where is she now? Pushing up daisies because she made one mistake. And she didn’t even leave one child to carry on the bloodline.”

  Without even thinking, Katana slapped her father around the face. The resounding crack from her palm meeting his solid cheek shocked her into realising what she’d done. She turned and ran.

  After that, she didn’t even dare be in the same vicinity as her father for several weeks. She learned through her mother, though, that she’d earned herself another years’ training after her seventeenth birthday.

  “For discipline,” her mother said. “All great hunters must follow a strict code of discipline.”

  “Great,” she muttered. “Another two years of this crap.”

  “If your father hears you say that, expect another addition to your disciplinary sentence.”

  Too stubborn for her own good, it Katana a little while to work out that sometimes keeping her mouth shut was the best way.

  KATANA—TWO WEEKS AFTER her twenty-second birthday

  She crept through the forest, step by step. Moonlight highlighted the path ahead, picking out the fallen twigs and bundles of dead leaves. A faint glimmer of orange light danced a mere few hundred yards away. A gentle breeze swept over her, sending a small chill down her spine.

  Nearly at Grandma’s, she thought. Nearly in the warm with delicious food and a solid roof over my head.

  Reaching the front door, she pushed it open, shouting over the creak of its hinges. “Grandma, Grandma, where are you? I’ve brought your favourite meatloaf.”

  “In the bedroom, dear,” replied a croaky voice. “I’m not feeling too well.”

  She crossed the tiny kitchen and approached the closed bedroom door. When she opened it, there sat Grandma, in bed, wearing her dressing gown and woolly hat, and cuddling a hot water bottle to her chest.

  “Oh, Grandma. You don’t look well at all. What a big nose you have!”

  “Dear child, all the better to smell that beautiful meatloaf with.”

  “Your eyes are so big, Grandma. Do you need a cool cloth?”

  “No, dear. They just allow me to see your sweet innocence even better.”

  Katana walked around the side of her Grandma’s bed and sat down next to her. Taking hold of her gran’s forearm, she gasped. “Oh, Grandma! How warm and cuddly your arms are.”

  “All to make our hugs better, sweet child.”

  Katana put her hand in the basket and pulled out the meatloaf she’d so carefully wrapped earlier that afternoon. Carefully undoing the greaseproof paper, she exposed the divine smelling brown loaf that made her own stomach grumble.

  “Would you like me to cut you some, Grandma? I bet it’ll make you feel better.”

  “You spoil me, dear. That would be lovely, thank you.”

  Before Katana could even think, an ear ringing punch knocked her clean off the bed, sending her sprawling through the air. When her head connected with the hard-wooden wall behind her, stars danced before her eyes.

  Grandma flew out of bed, ripping her nightclothes from her body. Only it wasn’t Grandma beneath the clothes; it was a huge white wolf.

  Standing on its back legs, it stalked towards its prey, snapping its jaws with every step. Drool dangled from its pink gums.

  Katana sighed and screamed in frustration. She glanced up at the top corner of the bedroom, knowing what was up there.

  Making eye contact with the small, black hole, she stuck her middle finger up at it and glared at whoever was watching.

  “Are you fucking serious?” she said, climbing to her feet.

  The wolf stopped in his tracks. His shoulders drooped, and he whined as he sat down on the bed. “Was it me?” he said. “Was I not scary enough? Did I hurt you?”

  Katana rolled her eyes at her insecure friend. He had more social anxiety issues than a teenage girl. “I’m fine, Jacques. You were fine. It’s these idiots expecting me to still be training like this and taking them seriously.”

  “Katana!” Malaceia shouted, storming into the cabin. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You do know these training exercises cost money, right?”

  As her father strode in, bustling all of his six-foot-six height and two-hundred-pound mass of muscles, Katana dropped her defiant gaze to the floor. She’d never admit it to anyone, but angering her father was the only thing she feared. However, sometimes it was needed to make a point.

  “Dad, come on. I’m twenty-two years old and you got me going over training scenarios I did when I was six. I know all of the moves this little role-play takes and I can also win every single one blindfolded.”

  “Pride comes before a fall, Katana. There is nothing wrong with going back to basics.”

  “Dad, you sent Leon out into the field when he was barely seventeen. Ethan was hunting on his seventeenth birthday. Even the others had barely passed a week of being seventeen before you packed them off hunting. Yet here I am, being treated like a baby. Hell, by the time Brogan was my age, he’d killed over a hundred werewolves already. Come on, Dad. Give me a chance.”

  Malaceia stared at his defiant daughter. Growing up with six older brothers had left her with little innocence or fears about broken nails.

  Still, being a female in this world was not easy. Unlike her brothers, Katana had too much of her own mind for Malaceia to class her as a confident hunter. He had a duty as her father to protect her. “Sometimes it’s the simple things that catch us off track.”

  She sighed and strolled over to the basket full of fresh meatloaf. “Let’s not make this about uncle Arald. For once.”

  Malaceia balled his fists at the mention of his twin’s name. “This isn’t about Arald,” he said, forcing each word through gritted teeth. “Why does everyone keep saying that? I couldn’t give two shits about damn Arald!”

  Seeing the hatred oozing from his face, Katana struggled not to laugh. When her father looked like this, she likened it to the evil face pulled by her first horse, Hestallia.

  The chestnut mare had a unique ability to almost curdle milk with the sour, empty stare she’d give right before she whipped around and barrelled people in the face with both back feet. It had been a handy move to have in live training though—it caught many a werewolf off guard, buying Katana valuable seconds to gain the upper hand. Hestallia was now retired, and her son, Katana’s current horse, Altair, was much more amenable and used his speed rather than his back feet to gain time.