Something Wicked This Way Comes Page 19

  “Good morning,” I said, lifting my face, and then we were kissing, as easily and hungrily as if we’d never stopped to sleep.

  IT WAS much later when we finally stumbled out of bed. Niall was off to meet his mum, and I was suddenly facing my first walk of shame in well over a decade. The less said of my attempts to sneak casually back into the guesthouse the better, but suffice to say the embarrassment had almost receded by lunchtime. I spent the day hard at work in Vainguard, and for the first time felt like I was making significant progress. By the end of the afternoon, I had contacted companies about everything from skip hire to pest control, although I wasn’t expecting any of them to get back to me until Monday, and had completed a detailed inventory of the barn and Vainguard itself. Just after lunch, the Elliots showed up, and I gave them the tour I’d been promising.

  They all professed to find it interesting, though Doug clearly wasn’t as keen on the history as the rest of them. He did look around the cobwebby dorms with a low whistle, though, then remarked, “It’s like a game, y’know? Like something’s going to drop down from the ceiling and eat Mac.”

  Mac shot his brother a disgusted look and said, “You’re so immature.”

  I could see Doug’s point, but I wasn’t going to say so. Instead, I led them on to the chapel, bracing myself.

  Today, though, it seemed relatively benign—a sad, tatty little room. The boys liked the upper rooms and marauded up and down the stairs a few times, playing reiver.

  Michelle, though, lingered in the chapel. I stayed with her, despite the way the room made the back of my neck crawl. Even today, with no tangible threat in the air, I couldn’t bring myself to leave anyone alone in there. She took a slow turn around the room, then crossed to the photo behind the altar.

  “Is this the orphans? Poor little things.”

  I’d forgotten it was there, but now I looked at it, I shivered. If this was the same photo that Felix had, it probably showed the victims of the accident. I had forgotten the list of names underneath—would I be able to identify them all?

  “Why are their faces crossed out?” she wondered, with a faint shudder.

  “By all accounts, Martyn Armstrong was a very troubled man. I don’t think he ever recovered from his childhood.”

  She picked it up, frowning. “He didn’t cross himself out—he’s there in the back row.”

  Young Martyn was a sullen-looking blond boy with his arms crossed. Well, he’d had every right to scowl, though I wasn’t going to breathe a hint of that to Michelle.

  “I wonder,” she said, and began to count along the rows. “Four others. These two little girls at the front—Vera Harris and Mary Johnstone. This boy in the middle—Frederick Miller. And this bigger girl—Jean Parfitt.”

  I jumped a little at the familiar name, but Michelle was too caught up in her line of thought to notice. “It’s not the same pen every time—it’s blue here and black there. I wonder….” She trailed off, shivering.

  “What?”

  “Do you think these four might still be alive? Oh, no—it’s a morbid idea.”

  “But very much in character from what I’ve learnt of the man.” I took the picture from her, studying it. Had Martyn Armstrong spent his life tracking the other Vainguard orphans, marking them off one by one as time took its toll? “If you’re right, this might be useful. We’ve been thinking about tracking some of them down. Felix—my boss—is very keen on documenting the history of the place.”

  “I’m not sure I’d want to in your shoes. It’s not exactly got a friendly feel to it.”

  “Do any buildings?”

  “Oh yes,” she said at once. “You can always tell a happy home. And I do believe places hold on to their pasts.”

  “Like haunted houses?”

  “Not even that, though I know people who have felt things. No. Some places….” She stopped, clearly searching for words. “Some places have echoes. You’ve been up to the castle at Hermitage, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “The girl there said to us that it always feels eerie, even on the brightest summer day. This house is like that. It hasn’t forgotten everything that happened here.”

  I knew exactly what she meant, but I didn’t want to admit it. I had to keep working in the place, and I didn’t want to give my imagination that much lease.

  “Mom! Mom!” Here was Doug, thundering down the stairs. “Mac found a dead eagle. It’s so gross. Come and see!”

  “Oh God,” I said involuntarily and hurried to investigate.

  The “eagle” turned out to be a pigeon which had got trapped inside the stove on the first floor. The poor thing had clearly fallen down the chimney at some point in the last few months. I marched the boys down to scrub their hands under the hot tap in the bungalow, then armed myself with rubber gloves to dispose of the thing. The Elliots made an exit, Michelle apologetic and her menfolk cheerful, and I tried to get back to work.

  The wind had been rising steadily all day, and by early evening it was wuthering around Vainguard so hard I didn’t want to go out, even just to get to my car. The clouds had continued to pile up, and it was dark enough that I switched the lights on. I couldn’t make out individual trees, but the whole forest seemed to be astir, a constant swaying shudder like someone trying to pull free of quicksand.

  When a door slammed upstairs, I jumped, my heart leaping.

  I had to go up and investigate—make sure no one was there. But I admit I did it with my phone clutched in my hand, turning on every light I passed. It was only when I got upstairs and felt the breeze skitter across my skin that I realised how many draughts there were in an old house this size—every cracked window frame and broken pane of glass let the wind in. Everything light enough to be moved by a breeze was shivering—dust sheets, loose sags of wallpaper, the cobwebs that hung like veils in the corners.

  I closed every open door I could find, even as others rocked and jumped in their frames. At last I gave up and retreated downstairs, turning off the lights to leave the hallways dim with shadows.

  Back at my makeshift desk, I emailed DS Trenton and my bosses about Michelle’s theory. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to try tracking down these four children, and if Jean Parfitt was still alive, her evidence might be key.

  If.

  I picked up the photo when I was done, studying the rows of faces. It was old and unclear, and I couldn’t read much into young Jean’s tiny face—was there strength of will there, or was I just reading that into the image from what I already knew? All I could really tell was that she was dark-haired and tall for her age.

  She would be in her mid-eighties now, if she was still alive. Plenty lived longer. Where was she? What had happened to her in the intervening years? Had she still been in contact with Martyn Armstrong, or had she turned her back and escaped from Vainguard and its terrible memories? Had she married and had children of her own?

  Did she know what had happened to all the other children who had died in Blacklynefoot?

  Another gust slammed against the windows, hard and sharp enough that I recoiled as if I had been slapped. Behind it came more, roar upon roar of wind tearing down out of the hills to lash and claw at Vainguard. The lights flickered. Then with a noise like the sky tearing, something crashed against the front of the building and the power went out.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  DARKNESS POURED over me as everything died—not just the darkness of the storm, but that other terrible lack of light that had already claimed me in the chapel twice before.

  I think I screamed. I know I fell to my knees.

  I couldn’t feel the polished floor below me, couldn’t tell where the table was, or my phone. All I could feel was the presence of something wicked, something that had finally come to claim me.

  I froze, hoping that if I didn’t move, didn’t breathe, it wouldn’t see me, but my heart was thundering so loudly I knew it must be louder than the storm.

  But there was another sound too, sh
arper than my heart, closer than the rage of the storm. Not the screech of tyres and crumple of metal my flashbacks usually brought—not this time.

  I could hear glass shattering, windows bowing in one by one, and I knew that would be how it took me—not by ice or force, but by relentless slivers of splintered glass slicing down at me.

  Even knowing that, I could not make myself move.

  Then from somewhere outside, in the heart of the storm, I heard another sound.

  A horse whinnied softly.

  Immediately some of the fear eased. I managed to rise onto my knees, holding my hands out blindly.

  There were more of them now—not one horse but many, hooves beating through the roar of the storm even as the thunder rolled.

  Lightning flashed across the sky in a sudden, brilliant burst. I stumbled to my feet and ran, desperate to get out while I could.

  More lightning, flash after flash, and the thunder tangled with it, so close together that no rational man would have gone out in it.

  I got to the barmkin before the next flash faded and went staggering across it, half-blind from the afterglow.

  The chapel door was open.

  Not just open—something about the fey, otherworldly light of the storm made it seem like there was more light in that corner—as if the chapel itself were illuminated.

  I didn’t go near it. A few more desperate strides got me to the front door, and I wrestled it open, pulling until the storm ripped it out of my hands and sent it slamming past me.

  The rain I hadn’t heard hit me then, spearing into my face so I threw up my arm in self-defence.

  Lightning again, and it illuminated the yard before me—gleaming with dark rain, the buildings on each side looming shadows. I was lucky, I suppose. If the lightning hadn’t shown me what lay ahead, I would have gone straight for my car.

  My car—which lay under the toppled pole that had carried the power line to Vainguard.

  I recoiled, blinking as the world went dark again and the thunder snarled out above me. I couldn’t see where the line had fallen—had it landed on the wet cobbles? Was it safe to keep going?

  Behind me, in the darkness of the barmkin, I thought I heard someone laugh.

  I ran anyway, hoping it wasn’t going to be the end of me, but nothing came blazing up my leg to tell me I had made the wrong choice. I was halfway across the yard before the next flash of lightning, and I twisted back, trying to see what I was facing.

  Someone stood in the entrance to Vainguard, where I had been a heartbeat before.

  It was the man in the red hat, and this time I recognised the emotion that was twisting his face. It wasn’t mere hatred or disgust.

  It was triumph.

  The flash faded, and I was left blind, unable to tell if he was moving towards me. Disorientated, I spun around again, leaping for where I thought the gate must be. Niall wasn’t home, but if I could get to the road, I could try and get to the guesthouse.

  The air was still booming and pounding around me, and now I realised that it was too regular for thunder. There were riders drawing close, men mad enough to gallop through the heart of a storm.

  They should have come around the side of Vainguard, should have surrounded me, dragged me off my feet, trampled me down before them. I heard them coming, heard them draw closer and closer.

  But I did not see them, even when the sound of hooves and tack rang out right around me, even when I heard them wheel and turn back towards Vainguard, even when horns rang out and rough voices shouted slogans in an accent I could not understand.

  I had no idea if they were trying to rescue me or if I’d just been caught up in some ancient drama. I didn’t hesitate. I ran, hurtling down the drive as if all the hounds of hell were on my heels.

  They could well have been at that point.

  I didn’t look back, even when the invisible riders swept up behind me again, keeping pace with me—either to herd me or protect me.

  I was almost at the lodge when I saw the light—a candle in the window. Without thinking, I hurdled the wall and threw myself at Niall’s door, hammering on it with both fists. “Niall! Niall!”

  I don’t know how long it took him to open it—he says it was no more than seconds, but it seemed like forever. Then, all at once, I was falling forward into his arms.

  “Leon!”

  Behind us, the riders picked up their pace, galloping away along the line of the border. Niall swore hard and dragged me inside, slammed the door behind me, and reached past me to ram every bolt closed.

  I was still gasping for breath, and he towed me across the room, rubbing my arms. “You’re safe now, honey. I’ve got you.” I was beginning to believe him, but the next flash of lightning still made me jump. He shushed me, leaning in to kiss my forehead. I hadn’t realised how badly I was shaking until I felt the steadiness of his hands on my arms.

  I had to know how much of what had happened was inside my head, so I forced myself to look up and meet his gaze. His eyes looked deep and dark by the flicker of candlelight, and I couldn’t read his expression. “The riders? Did you…?”

  “I heard them. Not the first time, either.”

  I breathed out relief, sagging against him.

  “Scared you, did they?” he murmured, voice still gentle.

  “Treating me like a spooked horse again?”

  He shrugged. “If the shoe fits.”

  “Hey.”

  He kissed me again, a quick peck at my lips this time. “Better. Feel up to getting those wet clothes off?”

  “Trying to get me naked?”

  That got me another kiss. “Happily, but right now you’re dripping on my floor.”

  “Such a romantic.” I was feeling better with every comment, though I wasn’t sure how much I should relax. Niall might think we were safe, but that man—that thing—had been inside Vainguard. Stone walls were no guarantee of safety, and I didn’t like the way every corner of even this familiar room had turned shadowy. “It wasn’t just them. I don’t think we should—”

  “Leon.” He sounded very serious, but not afraid. “I’ve got horseshoes hanging over every door and window. They’re not there because I ran out of space to store them in the van.”

  I gaped at him. “What?”

  He shrugged again, and a defensive note crept into his tone. “Keeps the devil out. My grandpa had them up before me and his granddad before him. It’s old-fashioned now—more than old-fashioned—but I don’t knock what works.”

  I opened my mouth, ready to argue, then closed it again. It was irrational and superstitious and absurd to think that anyone could cling to such an idea without irony, especially someone as strong and clever as Niall.

  But something had ridden through the storm beside me, so maybe I shouldn’t rush to judgement. Instead I said, “Okay. Right. Could do with a few of those up in Vainguard.”

  He snorted. “Doubt anything is strong enough to keep evil out of that place.”

  I wasn’t inclined to argue. “Maybe. Can I borrow a towel?”

  He took the change of subject gracefully. “You know where I keep stuff. Help yourself to clothes. I’m going to get some more candles lit. Bloody generator should have come on by now, but I’m not going out to fix it until the rain’s died down a bit.”

  He kept grumbling as I went upstairs—loud enough that I could hear him even as I rummaged through the airing cupboard—about having to leave his mum early when they saw the forecast, about how much it would cost to finally replace the damn generator and the amount of time it would probably take to get the bloody power lines repaired. The wind had died down a little now, and the crunch of the thunder came less often, but the rain had set in. Every window was awash, but the light had brightened a little—not the darkness of a low storm but the grey dimness of rain.

  By the time I headed downstairs again, the coffee table and every window sill were covered in candles—everything from plain white sticks to little birthday cake ones stuck into a lum
p of putty.

  Damn, he had to go and be sweet as well. How was I ever going to go home and leave him here?

  “Oven’s out, but the hob is gas,” he said. “Soup sound good?”

  “Sounds perfect,” I said, and made my way through to the kitchen. “Thank you.”

  He snorted. “Don’t thank me until I’ve checked the best-before dates.”

  “Not just for the soup.”

  He shrugged again. “C’mere.”

  I went, sliding my arms around his waist and leaning in for a kiss. He felt very warm—very safe—and I relaxed, letting a little more of my jitters fade away.

  The kiss was beginning to get heated when his phone rang. He pulled away and said, voice dripping regret, “I need to get it—could be an emergency.”

  I let him go, busying myself with the tins.

  “Uh-huh. Aye. No, he’s here with me. Everyone else in? Out, and my generator’s down. Uh-huh. Any word on the river? Let me know.”

  He wandered back into the kitchen as he hung up and slid his arms around my waist, cosying close. “That was Fiona. She’s got a tree down across the drive, and the phone mast across the lane looks like it’s about to go—says don’t even try to get back to the guesthouse by road.”

  “I can’t anyway,” I said and winced as I finally realised that my car was probably destroyed. “My car’s under a pole.”

  His arms tightened. “Good thing you didn’t leave any earlier, then.”

  “Yeah.” I shivered. “What’s up with the river?”

  “We get flash floods sometimes. We’re safe up here, but it’s all hands to help evacuate if it threatens to break its banks in the village.”

  I thought of how close to the water some of those houses were and nodded. “Yeah. Shit, is that likely?”

  “Probably not for a short burst like this, unless there’s a problem upstream. Things were bad during the winter floods a few years back, though.”

  “More and more reasons not to open a school here,” I said.

  “Vainguard’s on high ground, but you’re still risking being cut off from the north.” He nuzzled my neck. “Right now, though, I guess that means you’ll have to stay with me another night.”