by Ward,Matthew
Turning, she found herself face to face with her dad.
Davey Morgan sat, as was his habit, in the old rocking chair next to the glittering lamp. His left hand gripped the arm of the chair; his right rested on the stock of his trusty – and unlicensed – shotgun, balanced across his knees. His eyes were closed, his face was haggard, and his skin was waxy and pale. His hair, still as rich and black as Kerren's own the last time she'd seen him, was white as fresh snow.
"Dad?" Kerren knelt before the rocking chair, and placed her hand on his. He skin felt cold as ice. "Oh dad."
The trapdoor crashed back on its hinges, and the gorse-creature flooded into the room.
Kerren choked back sudden tears, conflicting emotions thick at the back of her throat. Guilt. Sorrow. Fear. But anger, above all. She'd never have the chance to apologise to her dad, nor he to her. She'd never take back the hurtful things she'd said when she'd left. That anger chased all other feelings aside, and drove her to action.
Kerren snatched the shotgun from her dad's knee, and brought it to bear. She'd only held it once before, one sunny afternoon spent taking pot shots at glass bottles set along the cliff edge. She knew herself to be a rotten shot, but at that range, it hardly mattered. She paid no heed to the face forming amongst the leaves, or how the creature's body grew more refined, more slender. She cared that it shrank away from the shotgun, just as she would have done.
Good.
The deafening double thunderclap swept the gorse-creature up, slamming it against the lamp room's windows. It slid to the floor as a pile of writhing stems, sap trickling from broken branches.
The thrashing stopped.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Kerren set the shotgun on the raised edge of the lamp pedestal. "What the hell were you?"
The gorse-creature surged into life.
Kerren didn't have time to scream. Branches twisted around her arms and legs, hoisting her off her feet. She felt its sap, warm on her skin, and the hundred tiny pinpricks of its thorns against her flesh. She struggled and kicked, burning anger giving way to the chill of fear.
The creature tightened its grip. Carrying Kerren past her father's chair, it pressed her face-first against the glass.
{{See.}}
Kerren wasn't sure what surprised her more: that the creature spoke, or the beauty of its voice. It sounded like birdsong on the moor, the babble of water on the hillside. There was melody to it – music of a type she'd heard before, but couldn't place.
{{See.}} This time, the word was insistent. A command.
"See? What do you mean, see?"
The creature gripped Kerren's head tighter, forcing her to stare down at the lighthouse's foot.
Even through the mist, Kerren saw silhouettes moving. Lurching. They were awkward, unsteady, as if drunk. She made out others further inland, back along the road. She remembered the bloated body entangled in the gorse, and knew with sudden certainty that these creatures were the same. "What are they?"
{{The light must shine.}} With a whisper of rustling leaves, the gorse-creature dragged her to the opposite side of the tower, forcing her to gaze out across the mist-shrouded sea. {{The light hurts them.}}
The seaward mists shifted, revealing three monstrous figures with thin, cruel faces. Each was as tall as the sky, and as insubstantial as the clouds. One gestured with an open hand, and a fresh tide of mist swept across the headland. The seas boiled. White-tipped waves parted, and more corpses clawed their way onto land. These were little more than skeletons, with only odd scraps and glinting metal remaining of their long-rotted clothing. The dirge swelled back louder than ever, the shapeless syllables as heavy as anchor chains.
The gorse-creature released Kerren. She collapsed, struggling for breath. "I don't understand."
The creature stepped away, the branches drawing in upon themselves to fashion a humanoid form; a woman's form. Pale, almost white, branches wove a face, and blood-red flowers spilled down her back as a mane of plaited hair. {{The light must shine. Make the light shine.}}
At last, Kerren understood. The gorse-creature hadn't been attacking her. It had been protecting her. Against them, the things from the sea. Whatever they were. "The light keeps them back, doesn't it?"
The creature nodded, the flowers in her hair bobbing with the motion. {{They do not belong here. The light sends them home. Make the light shine.}}
Make the light shine. As simple as that.
Kerren reached past her father's body and dragged the old wooden lever into place.
Nothing happened.
{{Make the light shine.}}
"I can't. It's not working!"
But why wasn't it working? The stairway lights had worked, so the generator was still running, so why not the lamp?
Kerren glanced down. For the first time, she noticed the tools scattered across the floor, the open panel in the base of the lamp pedestal. Crouching, she peered into the tangle beyond, her eyes falling upon frayed wires and scorched insulation.
{{The light must shine.}}
"You're not helping."
Kerren pushed the lever back into the 'off' position, then grabbed a pair of pliers and leaned inside the pedestal. Using techniques her dad had taught her, she cut away damaged wires and spliced in new ones to take their place. She felt his rough hands on hers as she worked, guiding every cut and twist, the gentle, reassuring squeeze that kept her fingers from shaking, and the soft breath on the back of her neck as he grunted approval. Then it was done. The feeling faded, and she was alone. Kerren examined her handiwork. A bodge job, but it'd hold. Wriggling out of the pedestal, she reached up and threw the lever.
This time, the result was everything she could have wanted. The lamp blazed into brilliant white light. A mechanical rattle echoed up the tower as ancient gears bit, and the optic began to turn. Kerren threw up an arm to shield her eyes, but too late. Splotchy blue afterimages burst across her vision. Blinking furiously, she twisted away from the lamp and stared out to sea.
The mist was gone. The mist, the figures in the sky... Even the dirge had vanished, the sigh of the sea faded to nothing. She beheld only the moon, and the white-tipped crash of the waves.
Kerren shifted her gaze inland. Had she imagined it all? As light and dark chased each other across the headland, she saw scores of shapes lying motionless upon the grass. Whatever had possessed the corpses had fled when the light had blazed into being, but the bodies remained.
Shaking with relief, she turned away from the glass. The gorse-creature stood motionless as the light pulsed out across the night. Her face was transfused with a smile so infectious that Kerren found herself returning it.
Then Kerren's gaze fell upon her dad once more, and the smile faded – not into tears, but a tiredness worse than any loss.
"He knew, didn't he? He knew he was dying. He called me back because he needed someone to take his place." Kerren shook her head, not sure why she expected the gorse-creature to know anything, or even to answer. "Why didn't he tell me?"
The creature stepped closer and tilted her head. {{The light must shine.}} Her voice shifted, her lips twisting the smile into mischief. {{Welcome home, Kerren.}}
Kerren gaped in recognition. "Jenny? Jenny, is that you?"
The light swept on, swamping Kerren in darkness. When it returned, the gorse-creature was gone. Only scattered leaves and blood-red petals showed she'd ever been there.
Kerren peered outside, back along the road – a road now clear of gorse. She saw her car, lost and alone next to the Dancers, themselves just bare stone glinting as the light touched it.
In the distance, St Morwenna's bell chimed eleven.
Survivors
Bloomsbury, London
Lizzy Holman found the cool subbasement air a welcome relief after the hot, crowded public spaces above. London's tourist season was in full flow, and the British Museum was crammed to the gunnels. Good for the gift shops; not so good for Holman. The museum was one of her favourite haunts, but n
ot on a Saturday afternoon.
Holman's partner made no effort to hide her boredom – every inch of her vacant expression conveyed an air of Gallic ennui. Then again, maybe it wasn't boredom. Lucille Dragaud's willowy physique, blonde hair and cold blue eyes gave her a vaguely elfin appearance, but somehow she put Holman in mind of a dragon watching livestock gambol on the hillside, mentally allocating their order of demise. Holman didn't understand how anyone could be bored in the British Museum. Its galleries offered a unique window into the ancient world. A little too unique, sometimes.
"Thanks for coming."
As ever, Professor Richard Terrance wore the harried expression of a man with too much on his mind. Thanks to his cadaverous frame and shock of unruly grey hair, he struck Holman less like an eminent historian, and more like the kind of scientist who crouched over a patchwork body while hunchbacked minions prayed for thunder.
He rose from behind his desk, wringing his hands. "I appreciate this. I know it's been a difficult year for Coldharbour."
"It's been unusual."
Normally, Holman found the professor's manner amusing, almost endearing. Not this time. Then again, nothing much amused her of late. Three months had passed since the disaster at HQ, leaving the building in ruins, and a supremely dangerous prisoner on the loose. Officially, all that was done with. Unofficially...? Well, that was something else.
Terrance made a polite noise. "Lizzy Holman, isn't it? I didn't realise you did fieldwork."
"Times change." Holman realised she'd spoken more curtly than she'd intended, and offered a smile to soften the blow. In point of fact, it was her first such assignment, not that Terrance needed to know. "May I introduce Lucille Dragaud?"
Terrance nodded his acknowledgement, appeared to think for a moment, and then proceeded to make exactly the same mistake that most men – and one or two women – made on their first introduction. "Enchanté, mademoiselle."
Holman rolled her eyes at what Terrance thought was a French accent, and waited for the inevitable outburst. To her surprise, it didn't come. However, from the look on Dragaud's face, she was re-evaluating the professor's position on her livestock kill-list.
"What do you want, professeur? We're very busy." As ever, a tone that could have cut glass undermined the flowing lyricism of Dragaud's accent.
Terrance winced, the expression betraying his shattered illusions. "We've had an incident."
Dragaud cast an exaggerated glance around the jumble of statues, bookcases and wooden crates scattered around the room. "I am astounded."
Terrance's face fell. "It wasn't supposed to wake up."
"What wasn't?" asked Holman.
"An incredible find, discovered in Nottingham. 12th century, or thereabouts. Really quite remarkable. They're finding all kinds of things under the Ravencroft site. Survived the fire in almost pristine condition. In fact…"
Holman would have loved nothing more than to delve into the details, but now really wasn't the time. "Professor…"
Terrance took the hint. "A clay statue. Norman in origin, but with Saxon influences, and a touch of something else. I was in the process of uncrating it when…"
"It woke up."
Terrance nodded vigorously.
"Statues don't wake up," objected Dragaud.
"No, but golems do." Holman sighed. It was all starting to sound horribly familiar. "This isn't the first time. What did you do?"
Terrance looked hurt. "Nothing, I swear."
A likely story, given the professor's record. "Where is it?"
"Locked in a storage room. I need you to… subdue it."
Dragaud shook her head. "How glamorous."
"I suppose we'd better see for ourselves," said Holman.
"Yes. Yes, of course. It's this way."
Terrance led them down a set of metal stairs and into an even older part of the building. Brickwork gave way to dressed stone, and concrete flooring to terracotta tiles.
"Why'd you put it down here?" asked Holman.
"I didn't," Terrance replied. "It walked here all by itself. One of my assistants tried to stop it. You probably saw his ambulance outside."
Holman glanced at Dragaud, but saw none of her own worry reflected in the Frenchwoman's eyes. If anything, they shone with anticipation.
Terrance drew up outside a wide, steel door, padlocked in three places. He rummaged absentmindedly in his pocket, and withdrew a bunch of keys. "One more thing."
Dragaud fixed the professor with a stare creaking with the weight of her aristocratic lineage. Probably one or two of her ancestors had wielded such a stare on the steps of the guillotine, for all the good it had done them. "Yes?"
"I insist you take the greatest of care subduing it."
"Insist away. We don't subdue things, professor. We stop them."
Terrance's eyes widened. "That won't do. This specimen is irreplaceable. It bears all the hallmarks of a work by Corbeau himself. Need I remind you the museum makes a sizeable donation to Coldharbour's budget? We expect cooperation."
Dragaud's tone chilled a few degrees. "And do you know what we expect, professor?"
"I'll call it in," Holman said hurriedly. Whatever the professor's sins, he didn't deserve a mauling. She stared at Dragaud, willing her to back down, just this once. Dragaud glared back, but held her tongue. Holman shifted her attention to Terrance. "Can't hurt to check." She raised her radio. "HQ from Holman, over."
A woman's voice crackled through the radio. "HQ receiving. Go ahead."
"The boss there, Carlotta?"
"No. Whitehall wanted a word. Is Crowe any good to you?"
"Perfect. Can you put him on?"
The voice on the radio became a dour North Londoner's rumble just short of a growl. "You not done at the museum yet?"
The words framed an accusation, but Holman took no offence. Crowe had to know they'd only just arrived. He wasn't one for small talk, that was all. She understood Crowe – just as he was one of the few people left at Coldharbour who had a handle on what was going on with her. "Professor Terrance has concerns. Says he wants his escapee back in one piece."
Crowe's voice deepened a notch. "Tell the professor he can stick that up his arse. I've a dozen other things on the board this morning. There's reports of something unpleasant at the old Mark Lane site, and you don't want to know what the construction crews have found under Battersea. I need the both of you back here as soon as possible. Got it?"
"Understood."
"You might also remind Terrance that this is the fifth time we've been out in six months. We're not his private security firm. If he doesn't like how we tidy up his messes, he's welcome to do it himself. Oh, and Lizzy?"
"Yes?"
"Be tactful."
"Will do. Holman out." She clicked the radio off. "I'm sorry, professor. HQ says it's not a priority. We'll do what we can."
Terrance quivered with indignation. It was quite clear he'd heard every word Crowe had said. Then again, that had been the idea. A touch of radio slight-of-hand was so much easier than talking him round. No one argued with Crowe. Well, almost no one. "It will have to do. Please take every care." He busied himself with the door, removing each of the padlocks in turn. "I'll let you go first."
Dragaud shot him a baleful look. "Thank you so much." Drawing a small black automatic from her shoulder holster and a torch from her jacket pocket, she turned to Holman. "Coming, intello?
Holman felt her cheeks warm, and bit back a retort. Roughly translated, intello meant 'geek' – a reference to her former life as one of Coldharbour's analysts. It still stung, no matter how many times she heard it. "After you."
Bracing her wrists in a crosswise stance – gun hand above, torch below – Dragaud eased open the storeroom door and stepped inside. Taking a deep breath, Holman drew her pistol and followed. At least the thing was only clay. They wouldn't have to send back for a demolitions team.
The room beyond smelt of mildew and rotting wood. Dragaud's torch beam ghosted methodicall
y across floor and walls, searching for the fugitive golem. It revealed only sagging crates and cracked tiles.
"It's not here," breathed Holman.
"No," Dragaud agreed. "But it was. Look." The torch's corona crowned a circle of broken brickwork, loose spoil heaped to either side. "It's gone for a little walk."
"Jesus. How strong is it?"
Holman levelled her own torch and stepped towards the tunnel. It was short, perhaps a dozen yards in all, and ended not in a wall of blank rock or soil, but a dark, empty space, framed by twisted metal.
"Watch your step, intello."
Holman ignored her and entered the tunnel. The flickering torch picked out bundled cables and curved metal walls. Another step, and she caught sight of a small, metal plaque. Vent Access. Central Line: 256/1245. "It's in one of the Tube's ventilation tunnels."
"How fun. Here!" Dragaud tossed her radio to Terrance.
He peered apprehensively around the doorframe. "What's this for?"
"We might need to talk to you."
"You… You don't want me to come?"
For a heartbeat, Dragaud's expression betrayed what she thought of that idea. Then her features settled into something almost polite. "No. We'll manage, won't we, intello?"
Holman eyed the unlit ventilation tunnel without enthusiasm. "Sure."
Without waiting for a response, Holman picked her way through the remains of the metal braces, and lowered herself into the ventilation tunnel. Thick, black dust lay everywhere. A dry, gentle breeze blew down from the right, warm against her skin. It carried a sharp tang of burnt oil and warm electrics. Somewhere away to the left, a train rumbled by.
"A lovely way to spend a summer's morning," said Dragaud, joining her.
Holman twitched her torch beam across the floor, revealing large, smeared shapes in the black dust. "I think we've got footprints."
Dragaud jumped down to take a closer look. "Putain."
"I know. Going by the stride, we're looking at something well over seven feet tall." The calculation came naturally, honed by years of investigating the aftermath of similar events.
"Scared?"
