Burning (Dark Powers Rising Book 1)

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  DEDICATION

  To Safi, Evie, Harrison, Mia and Jacob.

  For our future.

  Chapter One

  WINTER 2081

  I watch as the child lies silent, cradled in the arms of his mother, tiny arm stretched upwards, fingers grasping red-blonde hair, its face hidden, pressed into her chest, lost in the soft plum wool of her jumper. The woman’s hair rests in curls about her shoulders, head leant back against the fuchsia-pink velvet of the sofa, legs blanketed against the cold, mouth agape.

  The room is still, noiseless.

  A column of dust-ridden light falls across the room, shining through the half-drawn, sagging curtains, and onto the child’s yellow curls. I watch, straining through the dinge, waiting for the rise and fall of his chest. Nothing.

  The only breath in the room is my own. It swirls and eddies about my face in white clouds, dancing in the freezing air. I squeeze my gloved hand tight around the door handle, squashing down the rising fear and close my eyes, my father’s prayer for the dead soft on my lips. “Rest in peace beloved, where pain and suffering can’t reach you.”

  A wall of white painted wood shuts out the scene as I gently pull the door to, but the stench of decay still lingers. Another house off-limits.

  Stepping outside, keeping close to the wall, I pull down the roll-neck of my grey under-top from over my nose and breathe deep from the cold, cleansing air, a welcome relief from the stagnant pollution inside. Before me, the sun sits low but bright above the land, the backlight to billowing orange clouds, fronted by shifting greys that spread across the horizon. The moon is a fat disc of mottled silver suspended above them in the pale blue of the winter sky. I pull back the top of my worn leather glove, baring my wrist to the biting cold, and read my watch: 3.55pm. I’ve left it late today and dark will fall before I can get back. My stomach lurches. I shift the rucksack on my back, glad of the vests, tees and roll-necks layered under my coat. The bag is heavy and the layers stop the straps cutting into the flesh of my shoulders, a welcome barrier.

  From my position against the wall, I check up and down the road. Bare trees stand black, stark, repetitive against the endless line of red-bricked houses. A smoke-grey cat, tipped white at ears and tail, saunters, unhesitant, across the empty road, the only sign of life on this stretch. I step out, wary, watching for movement, then turn right to begin the walk back to the compound.

  Head down, collar pulled up against the cold, I walk until the street opens out to an expanse of parkland and stop for a moment, awed at the beauty of the fading daylight. The silhouettes of a hundred trees and their thousand branches stand in relief against a soft apricot haze. My watch reads 4.25 pm. The queasy ache of fear squirms in my belly and I quicken my step.

  Footsteps echo behind me and fear rises again. I look back. Three figures walk there. Seeming to talk. Nonchalant. Where did they come from? They don’t seem interested in me, but I quicken my pace. They quicken theirs. The hairs on my neck creep. Why didn’t I leave earlier? I look behind. They still seem disinterested, hands tucked into their pockets, but they’re not talking now. Their steps seem faster. Are they keeping pace with me? I quicken my step and begin to jog, the heavy rucksack knocking against my lower back. The crunch of grit beneath running feet sounds loud behind me. I force myself to look back. Yes, they’re running too. My heart bangs in my chest, a stone feels lodged in my guts. I push forward, forcing my legs to run hard, but the sack is weighing me down, making it harder, slowing me.

  A dark and solid figure, arms pumping in time with mine, fists clenched, white against the cuffs of khaki sleeves, pulls up beside me, keeping pace. My heart pounds. Heavy breathing to my left and another running man flanks me.

  “What you got in the bag?”

  A hand grabs at my rucksack and I’m yanked back hard, the straps jarring on my collar bones.

  “Yeah, let’s have a look,” the man to the left sneers as he turns to face me, his hand gripping my arm, pressing me down towards the ground.

  “Hey! No!” I shout as I struggle to keep my balance, pushing against the pressure of his arm. “Gedoff!”

  He’s too strong and I sit with a thump on the gritty path. I have to get away from them so cross my arms and roll over, twist myself out of their grip. As I scramble to my knees, a hand grabs my leg and steely fingers lock around my ankle. I drop to the tarmac. A heavy weight presses me flat, a knee firm against my back. It is impossible to move. I lie rigid, my cheek cold against the grit.

  “What’s she got?”

  “Get it off her.”

  “I can’t. She’s holding it too tight.”

  “Give her a kick then.”

  “No. Wait. I’ll get her to hand it over.” I’m surprised at the hint of compassion in the man’s voice. He leans down close to me. “You’ll let go of the bag,” he breathes in my ear, “if you know what’s good for you.”

  The bag is yanked back again with such force that my face and chest lift off the floor.

  “I’m not waiting for her to do as she’s tol-”

  “Shh! Look.”

  I hover above the hard path, straps cutting at my thumbs, wrapped tight against my chest.

  “What?” the man barks, his grip still holding me high.

  “Shut up and look.”

  I strain my neck to see what it is that has stopped them in their tracks.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s them. Up the hill.”

  They stand like bizarrely contorted mannequins, transfixed as they follow the road into the distance. The grip on the straps loosens and the pressure on my back lifts. Boots next to my face shift uneasy, scratching on the gravel, the men suddenly unsure.

  I take my chance, and roll off the path and onto the grass of the verge, pulling the rucksack out of the man’s loosened grip. As I roll, I push up with my knee to a crouch and catch sight of the scene ahead. I stop. Figures. Four men and—a girl!

  I am still, not wanting to be seen, and slowly inch behind the nearest tree. In the darkening light it is difficult to see, but the four men don’t look like the scruffy thugs that usually prowl the streets at night, the ones who held me down only moments before. They’re dressed in black from head to foot: fitted black jacket, black trousers, heavy black boots. The girl, her blonde hair straggled and loose over her bowed head, is gripped between two of them, her arms pulled forward as they walk, moving down the hill, towards me. I shuffle in, as close to the tree’s bark as I can, hiding behind its trunk, and watch as they step off the path, onto the verge then across the road. Whispers behind me and the sound of boots scratching on the tarmac. One of the men stops mid-stride, raises his head and looks in my direction. I freeze, stock-still, but unable to take my eyes off his face. Across his cheeks, disappearing into his dark sideburns, are thick black lines. He stands in the road, looking towards me, but it’s not me he’s seen. The men, the ones who’d grabbed me, are disappearing down the hill, running as fast as they can.

  Tattooed faces watch them as they disappe
ar, then continue their walk across the road and bundle the girl up through the open side door of a dark blue van. Its engine begins to thrum.

  I watch intent, hardly daring to breathe, and slide round behind the tree, keeping out of view. If they see me will they take me too? Her blonde hair disappears into the blackness as the door is slammed shut. The van pulls out into the road and disappears down the hill.

  A hand grabs my shoulder. I gasp. My ribs lock, trapping the air in my chest.

  “What are you doing out this late, Edie!”

  Robin!

  “Me! What am I doing here? What are you doing here scaring me half to death?”

  I swing around, angry with the terror running through me, relieved to see the familiar face looking down on me.

  “You know you’re not supposed to be this far down,” he says, ignoring my reprimand, concern filling his blue eyes. I shy from his gaze.

  “Did you see them?” I ask, distracting him.

  “Yeah,” he says, looking down the hill as if the tail-end of the van can still be seen.

  “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen them before, but if they frightened those scum-bag Snatchers off they’re not people we want to mess with.”

  “Where do you think they’re going?”

  “How would I know? Anyway, what are you doing out so late and on your own? Your dad will kill you!”

  “I’ve just been looking for stuff.” I say defensively. “I got loads. Look!”

  “Shh! Keep your voice down,” he says, looking up and down the street. “Tell me on the way home.”

  Chapter Two

  We arrive back to the familiar steep slope that leads home as dark finally descends, settling blackest among the hedgerows that line the narrowing road. Overgrown hawthorns have been left untamed and reach out as if desperate for the other’s touch. There is nothing but the moon to light our way and the dark blue of the sky. As we reach the top, where the land flattens, the iron gates of the compound are closed before us.

  “Joshua!” I whisper.

  A figure steps out from behind the column of bricks, chestnut hair gleaming black from under a woollen hat pulled low, eyes dark in the disappearing light.

  “How do, Robin? Edie?” he nods his head in recognition through the iron bars of the gate. “You’re out late. Good job your dad’s not back yet Edie. He’ll have your guts for garters if he finds out.”

  “He’s not back yet?”

  “No, none of them are,” Joshua says as he unlocks the rusting gates and opens them enough for us to pass through. Unease shifts over me. “They’ll be back soon though. They’ve just had to go out further than usual, that’s all,” he adds, picking up on my anxiety.

  I nod in acceptance and push through the narrow gap with Robin close behind. It closes with a small clack as Joshua gently pulls it to, always mindful to be quiet, and fixes back the padlock. The only light to show me the path to my home comes from the moon and the low casting light from a few solar lamps stabbed into the soil of the garden at the front of the house. Everything sits quiet and dim in the night. The house could be abandoned; not a sliver of light escapes from the blacked-out glass.

  “See you tomorrow, Robin,” I say as we reach the path and turn to walk to the door. He mumbles something I don’t catch and, as I reach out to press down the handle, I realise he’s behind me. I swing round in surprise to a wall of coat, my eyes level with his chest and when I look up his eyes are locked on mine, framed by the black band of his hat and the blond of his long hair. I suddenly feel shy and a little anxious. Is he going to kiss me? He bends very slightly forward. Panic tingles through me and I can think of no escape other than to cough and cover my mouth with my hand.

  “Bye!” I mumble, awkward and trip over the step in my hurry to get into the house.

  “See you tomo-” his voice cuts off as I make the door a barrier between us.

  I lean back against the closed door relieved, but can’t stop the curl of a smile creeping up onto my lips as I remember the sparkle in the blue of his eyes as they looked down into mine.

  “Is that you Edie?”

  “Hi. Yes, Mum. It’s me.”

  A sigh of relief from the kitchen. The light flickers.

  “The battery’s draining again. Let’s have a look at what you got before it goes off, love.”

  I walk over to the table and pull the heavy rucksack off my shoulders. It nearly slips to the floor before I heave it onto the table.

  “There was a child, a toddler,” I blurt, the memories flashing suddenly in my mind.

  “A child? Where?”

  “In one of the houses. It looked alive—at first.”

  She sighs. I understand.

  “Which area Edie? We’ll need to tell your dad. Make sure to stay clear.”

  “It was in Tatley.”

  “That’s the closest I’ve heard.”

  “But we’re OK aren’t we? I mean, we’re all-”

  “Yes, yes, of course we are. We’re all still strong. The child must have been weak. Where was the mother?”

  “She was dead too … holding the child.”

  “Oh! Well, they must have both been weak then,” she says, faltering.

  “Mum, I’m not stupid. They died of disease, didn’t they!”

  She looks up, the strain obvious in her eyes.

  “Yes, I guess they did, but that doesn’t mean we will.”

  “I know. I know, but if it means we can’t go down to Tatley anymore then where are we supposed to find stuff?”

  “If I’d known you were going there I’d have put my foot down. It’s too dangerous—too far out and that’s where those girls have been going miss …” she stops and I look at her sharply.

  “Missing? Whose been going missing?”

  Silence.

  “Mum? Who?”

  She turns away and I know she’s not going to talk unless I really press her.

  “Look, I’m not a child. I’m seventeen for Christ’s sa-”

  “Edie Fletcher! Language!”

  “Sorry,” I say, shame creeping onto my cheeks. My mother’s ire is not something I want.

  “We may be living tough; but we don’t need to talk rough.”

  I sigh and raise my eyebrows. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard her say that!

  “I know. I’m sorry, Mum. Who’s gone missing though? Please tell me.”

  “All I know is that some girls and boys from the other groups went out searching and didn’t come back. Not just one group, from a few of them.”

  “You mean someone’s taking them?”

  “Yes, I guess so, and Tatley is one of the places the kids were searching in.”

  “Mum, there …” I want to tell her about the girl bundled into the van, but know it will mean an end to my searches and my freedom.

  “What love, what is it?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I reply as I walk over to the plastic barrel sitting on top of the kitchen worktop, grab a glass from the shelf, and open the tap. Nothing. It’s empty again.

  “Mum, there’s no water left,” I add quickly, deflecting her attention from my unfinished confession. “Shall I get some more?”

  “Yes, that would be great sweetheart.”

  I grab the barrel, wrapping my gloved fingers around the blue handle, and open the back door, careful not to crack the plastic edges against the door frame, and step once more into the darkness, closing the door quietly behind me.

  The moon shines on the stone slabs that lead down into the blackness of the garden. A solitary light sits spiked in the ground at the bottom of the path, marking out the tank where I need to refill the barrel. A hoot sounds in the distance, a lone owl, searching for prey out on the vast moorlands that sit above our hillside homes.

  I kneel down and lift the lid of the tank and push the barrel down into the black water inside, listening to the glug as air is pushed out and the water takes its place. Kneeling, my body s
till, the cold of the winter evening begins to seep through my clothes and settles next to my skin. I shiver and hug my free arm around me, willing the barrel to fill quicker so I can get back to the warmth.

  The silence of the night is broken by the familiar, unnerving shouts and screams of the town sounding out in the distance. Suddenly vulnerable, I haul the barrel out of the pit and carry it, both hands straining to keep a hold, water dripping down its edges onto my boots, back to the kitchen, guided only by the moon and the small solar lamp placed next to the back door.

  Chapter Three

  “Here, let me help you with that,” my dad offers as I struggle to lift the weighted barrel over the kitchen doorstep. He smiles at me from my mother’s shoulder as they hug in warm relief at another day’s return. The room seems warmer, brighter now that he is back. Lines of age crinkle about his hazel eyes and my heart warms as he looks at me. I forget the cold and the daily struggle for a moment and return his love with my own smile.

  “Someone gonna help me?” Pascha, my younger brother, pleads from behind them, vying for attention as he heaves the leather catch-bag onto the scrubbed table.

  “Hey, sis, look what we got today,” he says with a smile, his hand deep inside the bag, as I share the weight of the water barrel with my father and carry it to the counter.

  “Look!” he repeats, his green eyes catching mine, and pulls out a pheasant. His hand grasps around its feet, leathered grey talons poke sharp from his clenched fist. Its head wobbles and metallic feathers glow red and copper in the soft light. “It went in one of those metal traps I found. Didn’t it Dad?” he says, looking to him for recognition. “Easy!”

  I nod my appreciation as he lays the dead bird on the table. “There’s more,” he says, anxious to keep my attention, and dips his hand back into the bag. This time it’s a rabbit he holds high, long feet grasped together, head lolling on its broken neck. He beams at me. “I got this one too. From one of my traps. Look, it’s bigger than Dad’s.”

  “Yeah, sure, if you stretch it out,” I tease. “And since you caught it you’ve got to gut it,” I add, pulling a look of disgust and sticking my tongue out at him.