The Legacy

The Legacy

The Legacy is reveals how Sorcha Kennet’s life transforms when she discovers her true heritage.

The Legacy

Darlene Reilley

 

“I’ve got a story to tell you, Sorcha. It’s about our family and the legacy we carry.” As he said it he picked up a silver hand mirror off of the bedside table and handed it to her. “But first you need to see the results of what happened for yourself.”

 

Sorcha hesitated, remembering the ache, but she looked in the mirror. Sorcha gasped. Her hand reached up to a face that was not her own. Instead of her blue eyes, they were dark grey, and her long hair blonde hair had turned into a deep auburn. Her skin was a darker shade as well. She felt the fire running through her system. She caught her gaze and saw a flicker of red in her iris. She felt the necklace at her throat. What once felt like molten lava was now the same temperature as her body.  She met her Uncle’s gaze.

“Tell me the story, and don’t you dare leave anything out.”

 

Sorcha Kennett jogged on the treadmill to the steady beat of her heart and the loud blaring music of the latest Katy Perry song. Her red t-shirt and black running shorts accentuated her curvy figure. She had arrived at Uncle Max’s Michigan estate late that afternoon. The estate had been empty except for the staff because the family was vacationing in San Juan, away from the chilly temperatures and snow. She had missed that boat. It was all Lance’s fault; Sorcha had stayed at Oxford to spend time with him, but he had other plans with one of the freshmen from building C. Ex-boyfriend, she reminded herself.

Sorcha had come home to lick her wounds. She ran—from Lance, from the piles of homework, even from her family. She thanked her lucky stars that the house was empty—a week holed up would be the perfect way to figure out her next move. Her thoughts were interrupted when the door opened, and a man with a gun came into the gym. It was aimed at her.

“Turn it off and get down.” Sorcha turned the machine of and stepped down. He ogled her, making her wish she had picked old tatty running clothes.

“Put your hands up.” He motioned her closer toward him with the gun. “Who are you? The house was supposed to be empty.” He had beady eyes and his breath smelled like rotten eggs.

“I’m Sorcha. I’m visiting here.” She put her hands up in front of her facing out. Her heart beat raced. Who was this guy, and why was he in her Uncle’s house?

“Let’s go.” He forced her toward the stairs. She struggled, but he grabbed her arm and pushed her against the wall holding the gun to the middle of her back. He leaned closer to her and spoke right in her ear. The hair on the back of her neck stood straight. “Don’t struggle. Do not resist us, or the Shadow Prophet will kill you.”

Sorcha believed him. He pushed her up the stairs and down the hall to the library door. Sorcha froze just inside the door. They were not alone.

Oh, God. I’m too young to die. What are these people doing in this house? Why me? Why now?

A tall thin man with brown hair stood in the center of the room. He wore a pair of blue jeans and a grey sweater with a gray shirt underneath. He looked as if he stepped off the cover of GQ. Her heart tripped for an entirely different reason this time. She almost called out to the stranger.

“Boss, look what I found.” He closed the door behind them.

No hope there. Stay strong, Sorcha. Wait until you have an opportunity and get away. That’s what Uncle Max would do. Keep your cool, and get away. Focus on that.

“What have you found, Peter?” The man asked, but soon his attention was diverted. “Who are you, gorgeous?”

“She said her name was Sorcha, Boss.” Peter said.

The tall man took her hand in his own and kissed the back of it, then led her over to a couch. He pushed her down.

“Check the rest of the house—and Peter?” The man near the door turned. Now that he wasn’t holding a gun on her, she could see Peter was a short round man dressed in black. “No more mistakes.”

“Yes, Master,” Peter scurried off.

“Who are you?” Sorcha asked. Calm. Keep calm. Figure it out and get away. “What do you want?”

“I’m Ezekiel Blake.” He pointed to the wall safe. “Do you know the codes to this?”

“No,” she answered. An awkward silence filled the room.

“I believe you, Sorcha.” She let out the breath she had been holding. He turned back to the safe. “I believe you because your life is on the line. You will tell me the truth, because if you don’t I’ll kill you. The house guards are dead. But you’re lucky, Sorcha. You arrived just in time to witness the greatest moment in history. Sorcha Kennett—yes, I know who you are—you are going to witness the resurrection of the Shadow Prophet.”

Sorcha froze. Uncle Max kept three guards on at all times at his house and it wasn’t just for family protection. She had seen the inside of the vault once, but Uncle Max always said that it held their family legacy. If Ezekiel man wanted something in there, it was trouble.

“What do you want?” she asked as he made his way over to the wall safe and began playing with the combination.

“I am here to recover something.” He said, focused on the lock. “Something your family stole from mine a long time ago.”

She wondered how she could escape, but her cell and keys were upstairs. The nearest neighbor was miles away.

“You’ve never seen the combination entered?” He asked.

“No. We’re not allowed in the library when the Senator is working,” her eyes settled on the fireplace poker. It was near the other end of the brown leather sofa. She scooted towards the other end of the sofa, but the poker was just out of reach.

“What’s so important in there?” She asked.

“Nothing you would understand,” he responded. The safe opened with a click.

Peter barreled through the door.

“Boss, the rest of the house is empty.” He was breathless.

“Good,” Ezekiel held out his hand. “Give me your weapon, Peter.”

Peter walked over and handed over the gun. He cowered.

“Boss, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that she was in the house.”

“I know you’re sorry, Peter.” His eyes were wild as he looked down the barrel at his minion. He had served his purpose and it was time to get rid of excess baggage. Peter whimpered. “Stop. Sniveling.” Ezekiel shot Peter in the forehead. Blood dripped down his forehead and he fell backwards. A pool of blood formed under the body on the tan and brown Persian carpet.

Sorcha screamed. Ezekiel covered the room and stood before her. He lifted her off of the couch and pushed her against the bookcase between the vault and the fireplace. The poker was on the opposite side of the fireplace. Sorcha flinched as Ezekiel pressed the cold steel of the gun against her neck.

“I think I’ll save you for later,” he sneered. She looked into his eyes and saw inky blackness and an evil unlike any she’d ever seen. It shook her to the core.

“You won’t get out of here.” He pressed against her and came up so close that his mouth was right beside her ear. “By the time anyone notices what’s happened, we’ll be long gone, my blonde beauty.”

She struggled against him, but he hit her in the forehead. Sorcha fell limp to the ground.

 

When Sorcha came too, she didn’t know if hours or mere minutes had passed. She was still in the library and her head throbbed. The vault was open and there was a full black duffel bag at the base of the bookshelf, with a little black pouch with a golden Celtic cross design on top. Ezekiel was by the door talking on his cell phone.

“Get the plane ready. We’ll take off as soon as I’ve arrived.” He shut the cell and crossed back to her. He knelt down beside her and brushed the hair out of her face. Sorcha saw her chance and seized it. She kicked him, landing a blow. Sorcha stood. He recovered. They fought hand to hand. Both were trained in Martial arts. She was good, but he was better.

Sorcha had one distinct advantage—his strength was his weakness. With each punch or kick he grew tired. Sorcha wore him down. He threw a kick that caught her in the stomach and sent her flying. Sorcha grunted as she hit the bookcase. Her hands reached out to break her fall, but her right hand found the bag. Her hand came around the pouch.

“Don’t. You. Dare. No one will beat the Shadow Prophet to his glory,” he screamed.

She opened the bag and a heavy red stone with gold setting on a simple gold chain fell into her hand. Sorcha slid it over her neck.

He lunged and tried to punch her, but she blocked it. Sorcha felt a jolt of energy coming not from her, but from the stone. She countered his every move, and out of nowhere she had a flash as everything around her slowed.

She saw herself in the near future.

Sorcha watched as she dispatched Ezekiel. The ring came off his finger. She gazed down at her hand. The ring and necklace were a matching set.

He retaliated by aiming a gun at her and firing. The bullet missed.

Sorcha let out a breath and looked over at the man, returning to the present.

The necklace felt as hot as molten lava onto her neck, but it didn’t scorch. Instead the power urged her to finish the battle. With renewed energy she gained her feet and reached toward him. Sorcha pummeled him. Ezekiel fell to the floor, and in that moment she reached for his hand.

The ring slid off of his hand and attached itself to the middle finger of her right hand. Sorcha screamed. Her head fell back and she rose off the ground; her hands splayed as a red and orange orb of light emanated from the ring and the necklace. The orbs merged and surround her within a ring of fire.

The heat of the transformation burned in her eyes turning the blue orbs to bright red. She focused the energy with her hands towards the man who invaded her family home, killed the innocent, and promised more violence.

The enemy stood. Sorcha pushed the energy towards him and burnt him from the center of his body out. His body exploded, spraying bits and pieces everywhere.

Exhausted, Sorcha sank to the floor. The surrounding fire extinguished itself as she reached the floor and collapsed. Her red eyes closed. Her world went dark.

 

Later, Sorcha felt herself return. She was somewhere soft, and she smelled the lavender candles that her Aunt Lisa bought for her bedroom. Enya played nearby.

“You’re okay,” a deep voice said.

“Uncle Max? What happened?” she asked. Her eyes hurt.

“Something that shouldn’t have happened until your 21st birthday, but you were always ahead of the rest of us,” he said.

“What do you mean? Why can’t I open my eyes?” she asked.

“Turn off the lights and leave us,” Uncle Max dismissed the other person in the room. The door opened and closed. “We’re alone.”

“What happened Uncle Max? Why do my eyes hurt? The last thing I remembered was that man—Ezekiel. He was in the house and, oh, God, what happened?”

“Just a minute,” he said and lifted a soothing pack from her eyes. “Go ahead and open them, Sorcha.”

She opened her eyes to the dim light of the bedroom. The only illumination came from the bedside lamp. She looked up at the man who raised her.

“Well?” She demanded.

“The house was broken into while we were on vacation. They killed three security guards, the cook, and the butler. You took them out before they could harm anyone else.”

“I don’t understand. Why do my eyes hurt? I know I stopped him. I know…oh, I know what happened.”

“You remember?” Max said.

“Yes, but I don’t understand why. Why did it happen? What did he want? He was raving about something our family stole from his a long time ago. I think he was crazy; he called himself the Shadow Prophet.”

 

 

 

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About Darlene Reilley

Hey, I'm Darlene Reilley. I am a writer living in the Pacific Northwest. If you're looking for writing prompts, inspiration, and a fellow writer to commiserate with, you've come to the right place.
This entry was posted in Adventure, Comic, Creative Writing, graphics, Science Fiction, Short Stories, Writing Secrets and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to The Legacy

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