Burning (Dark Powers Rising Book 1)

by Rebecca Fernfield

“We need to start making our way back,” I tell Robin as I pull the straps of my sack forward, adjusting its weight yet again for comfort.

  “Just one more house,” he pleads.

  “Robin, no! We’ve got loads and I can’t be late home again. I left a note. If they find out where I’ve been—this far out—I’ll be grounded,” I say, explaining my anxiety.

  “Oh, come on, Edie!” he wheedles, “just one more.” He smiles down at me and presses his lips to mine. My objections slide away, but the fear still sits uncomfortable inside me.

  “Just one more then,” I concede as the tingle in my lips fades, “but we can’t be long.” I check my watch, 2.55pm. “The sun will be going down soon. Let’s walk back a bit—choose a house closer to town?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. You’re right. It’s late,” he says putting his arm around me, squeezing me to him. “Let’s get back home.”

  I sigh with relief as he takes my hand and we turn to walk back down the hill towards the main road. His hand wrapped about mine, palms together, I’m aware of every particle of my skin that touches his. I feel safer like this and even when we reach the eerily dead shopping centre of Tatley, where concrete carparks, vegetable markets, and department stores lie vast and empty, the usual fear doesn’t reach me.

  “This place gives me the creeps,” Robin says, giving my hand a squeeze as we walk past the broken windows of a wrecked department store, the empty darkness echoing as we pass.

  “Me too!” I reply, turning to look inside the cavernous room. Ceiling tiles dangle leaving gaping holes where wires and broken lights hang awkward. Dented metal shelving lies rusting, left where it was last trampled on. Naked mannequins stand crooked against the walls or fall prostrate across the floor. The room is barren. Nothing of use remains. “Do you remember what it was like before?”

  “Yeah, shops stuffed full of things we couldn’t afford!”

  “Hah! Yeah,” I reply remembering the bitterness of brightly lit shops stacked with folded jumpers and jeans, long padded coats with fur-trimmed hoods, and pouting mannequins posing in the clothes I was so desperate to wear. Time stood still as I stared into the electric glow at the peacock-bright women inside. They’d busy themselves tidying perfectly stacked shelves, waiting to spray their perfumes on the ever decreasing number of customers walking through the sliding doors, hiding their anxiety behind make-up and fixed smiles. It all seems so long ago now. And irrelevant.

  “Even before the food started to get low, me and mum struggled,” Robin continues, the pain of those times strong in his voice.

  “I remember,” I reply, the look of strain on my mother’s face when another meal had to be ignored strong in my memory. “Feels like we’ve always been hungry.”

  “Got really scary though—when the lorries stopped delivering.”

  “It was hell,” I agree. “The way people turned on each other.”

  “Hell on earth. That’s what my old man used to say, before ...” I don’t push him to finish. I know how hard it is for him to talk about his father.”

  “I know,” I say, filling the space. “It must have been so hard for you and your mother when he passed.”

  “It was. But hey, let’s not talk about that now,” he replies, forcing himself to brighten. “Even with the Snatchers to deal with things aren’t as tough as they were. We’re safe up on the hill now, ey?”

  I nod in agreement. “You’re right. I’m not so frightened these days and perhaps things will get better—you know—get back to normal, like they we-”

  “Shh!”

  “What?”

  “Listen. Can you hear it? The pounding … shouting too.”

  “Someone running?”

  “They’re close. Do you think it’s-”

  Robin grabs my arm and pulls me into the shadows of the department store. Glass crunches beneath my feet as voices sound through the abandoned streets. As the pounding grows louder, so do the voices.

  “I can’t see anyone,” I say anxiously searching up and down the empty street, panic rising as the noises get louder.

  Robin tightens his grip on my arm.

  “Shh, Edie. Be still”

  I wait for anxious seconds in silence. The footsteps louder, the voices harsh.

  “Down there,” he whispers, pointing to the concrete ramp descending into the black of an underground carpark. “Get down there before they see us.”

  My gut wrenches. The grey slab of concrete ends in a white wall. Winter sun reflects and brightens the space, but the ramp veers to the right and into a black hollow. The voices again, a girl, a boy, distressed. Daniel? Liza? The crunch of gravel underfoot sounds as I turn and run down the ramp, towards the white of the wall at the bottom. Robin veers to the right then disappears into the black. Fear wells inside me, clutching at my chest, and my heart hammers as footsteps ring out behind me. They’re following! Hair rises on my neck as I realise they’re behind me as I run down the ramp, the thud of our feet echoes off the cavernous walls. As I step into the blackness Robin grabs my coat and pulls me down to crouch behind the car parked closest to the exit.

  The thud of feet amplifies and bounces off the concrete and a tangle of bodies slams into the white wall. Screams and shouts. I watch horrified as three men follow close behind and grab at the crumpled bodies, broken and winded, on the concrete floor. I grip Robin’s hand, barely daring to breathe, as we crouch in the black.

  “Get them up!” a stocky man shouts to the others. The two bodies are pulled to their feet and stand, chests heaving, shoulders slumped, arms gripped roughly behind them and pushed up cruelly, heads bowed low as they are forced to bend. My breath catches as I recognise the men from yesterday, the ones who scared away the Snatchers and kidnapped the girl.

  Robin’s breathing sounds loud in my ear but even louder is the thump of my pulse as it throbs in my head. I stare, unable to take my eyes off the girl and the boy held roughly by the thugs. Who are they? They don’t look like Snatchers. Instinct tells me they are something else entirely. Something far worse.

  The girl straightens a little and the sun shines down the entrance and onto her face. She’s slight, slim, like we all are, but her red hair is dishevelled, her face dirty and stained, a dark circle etched onto her chin. She sags again, drooping under the hands that grip, seeming to drain of life. Not much older than me, the boy has a black line, tinged red, etched across each cheek, unhidden by the few hairs that cover his face. He struggles in vain against his heavier set, and obviously far stronger, captor. The strain of fatigue is fixed across the boy’s mud-smeared face, the swelling of a black-yellow bruise about his eye still obvious. My heart beats unbearable in my chest. Confident in their strength, the black-clad men are strangely quiet, the only sound the shuffling of feet and the whimper of the girl.

  “Get him to stand up,” the leader says, his voice harsh.

  The guard whispers in the boy’s ear and he stands, defeated and obedient as the leader reaches back to the sheath at his side and pulls out a knife. Its blade glints in the crispness of the sun.

  “Look at me boy!” he growls.

  My breath catches and fear gripes in my bowels as the guard pulls the boy forward. I push down the urge to run and launch myself at him, overwhelmed by fear, raging at my own cowardice. The boy’s eyes stare into the man’s—questioning, fearful.

  “Praise be to the Elect,” the leader shouts, his voice echoing against the concrete.

  The boy looks across to the girl and their eyes meet as the knife is plunged down into his heart.

  I stifle the scream that wants to burst from my chest and lurch unsteady, my knees trembling, the sweat of fear beading on my hairline, and watch as the thug pulls out his knife. He turns as the boy falls to the floor and beckons to the others to follow. As they drag the girl out into the brightness of the winter sunshine, the dying boy lies slumped on the unforgiving concrete and I wait in the silence of the black, listening to the stam
p of feet as they move further away, muscles burning with the effort of crouching.

  “I think they’ve gone now,” Robin says, his voice hollow.

  The pain in my stiffened joints screams as I stand, lurch, then run to the boy. He lies, knees drawn, arms flat, breath heavy as blood weeps, bright and thick across the grey of the ramp. I kneel down not daring to touch him, wanting to give him my comfort. Do it Edie! My hand slips easily beneath his neck and I cradle his head in the crook of my arm and stroke his cheek. He opens his eyes, questioning, fearful.

  “It’s ok. I’m here. You can rest now,” I soothe as the blood flows across the grey, seeping through the fabric of my jeans. He relaxes a little, his pupils darken and I stroke his cheek as they glaze over, staying with him until the heaving of his chest slows then stops. My father’s prayer for the dead is soft on my lips.

  Chapter Five

  We walk back in silence, together but apart, and I will the failing November daylight to disappear so that I can hide my heartbreak in its darkness. The memory of the boy’s eyes staring into mine as his lifeblood seeped from his body, is so fresh that I am still with him. Warm tears turn chill, and my cheeks sting as the temperature drops and the frost begins to bite. Robin seems to understand my need for silence, perhaps he needs it too. Neither of us speak until we’re standing at my front door.

  “Edie?” I look to him and see the emotion there and wrap my arms around him, needing his comfort.

  “Tomorrow,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I add with difficulty, sorrow locking me down.

  He bends forward, our lips meet in tender compassion and I turn, walk into my home and close the door against the harshness of the day.

  “Edie, is that you love?” my mother calls, her voice light, warm.

  I walk, deadened, to the kitchen.

  “What the! What’s happened? Edie, your clothes—the blood,” my mother exclaims as she stands looking at me uncomprehending. Her face drains of colour, pain and worry are etched there as she rushes to me with arms outstretched.

  “I … it’s not me. I’m not hurt,” I say, suddenly roused, wanting to take the worry from her.

  “But your hands and … and your jacket!” she says horrified. I follow her gaze and lift my hands. The palms are smeared red-brown and blood has trickled through my fingers and darkens the creases and lines of my skin. My jacket carries dark, wet stains and my jeans are black and heavy where I knelt to comfort him. The blood soaking through to my skin unnoticed.

  “What happened? How did you get covered in blood?” she asks, the anxiety high in her voice.

  I’m pushed back again to the ramp, the tangle of bodies and the knife. “There was a boy, a boy and a girl. They killed him. I went to him and held him as he died. I couldn’t let him die on his own. They killed him, Mum! Made him stand then stabbed him through the heart, and he looked at her and, and-”

  Emotion overwhelms me. I can’t speak. She pulls me to her and I bury my head into the soft grey wool of her jumper, letting the heaving sobs possess me in the tightness of her arms. We stand together until I quieten.

  “Edie, love, come sit down,” she says gently, guiding me to the kitchen chair, “sit down and I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

  I wait quietly as she pours hot water over the small green leaves of peppermint picked from the garden and then sip the tea, grateful for its soothing warmth. She sits across from me, elbow resting on the table, hand cupped under her chin, unruly blonde hair covering her shoulders, calm, patient, waiting for me to speak, understanding that I need this time.

  “We went into the lower town, me and Robin, to look for food. A girl and boy—they were being chased by three men—and when they caught them, they killed the boy and took the girl away,” I explain, disengaging from my emotions.

  “Snatchers?”

  “No, these were different. They were all in black and had tattoos across their faces—a black line across each cheek, here,” I say, moving my finger across my cheek. “The boy they killed had the same line, but it looked fresh, and the girl, I think she had a circle on her chin, but I can’t be sure.” I add. “I hid until they’d gone, then I went to the boy … he died in my arms.” Emotion rises again. I take a deep breath. “I said Dad’s prayer for him.”

  She sighs, reaches across the table and rubs my hand, her frown gentle with concern. “I’ll get some warm water and a cloth—get those hands clean,” she says standing then moves to the stove to pour warm water into a large chipped bowl in the sink. “Come over here, and try not to splash.”

  I sigh. She’s fastidious even in this crisis! She turns and looks at me, eyebrows raised in admonition.

  “Edie, we have to be clean, especially with blood. At the hospital everything had to be scrubbed and cleaned—we had to be meticulous—otherwise disease spreads.”

  “Well, we’re not in a hospital,” I respond, terse, “and you’re not a nurse anymore and we’re not patients.”

  “Huh! No, I’m not, but we still need to keep clean, even more so these days since there’s no medicine to help us if we get sick. Listen,” she says, softening, “you’ve had a terrible experience, but-”

  “I’m sorry,” I interrupt, regretful, “I’m feeling … bad, just bad.”

  “I can understand that, but please don’t take it out on me. OK?” she says as I pick up the cloth she’s dropped into the bowl and begin rubbing at the dried blood smeared across my hands.

  As I finish, she hands me a dry cloth. “We’ll have to talk to your dad when he comes home. He has to know about this—this new gang. He’ll want to step up the patrols no doubt.”

  “He’ll have to let me join now. I asked him last night and he promised to give me an answer after tea, but he didn’t come back.”

  “I don’t know, Edie. Things are getting more dangerous,” she says as she pulls her hair up and re-ties her ponytail, patting down the stray wisps.

  “But he has to let me help! I’m as good as any of the men.”

  “Yes, I know, but-”

  A banging on the door startles us, our conversation instantly forgotten, my mother instantly shushing to quiet the unseen visitor. Light from the kitchen throws a dim glow into the hallway. I watch curious as she hurries to the front door, blue jeans swishing, messy blonde ponytail bobbing, to stop the offending noise. Something must be wrong.

  “What is it?” she asks, her voice hushed and anxious. A man answers. I recognise him instantly; Conrad, Protector Teigan. His face is partially hidden in the shadows, but I can see the urgency in his blue eyes and the lines of anxiety digging in between his dark brows. His chest heaves beneath the dark leather of his jacket as though he has been running.

  “Daniel and Liza! They didn’t come back today. They went outside at first light. They were supposed to be back before sundown, but they didn’t come back.”

  My stomach lurches.

  “I went to look for them but nothing. I can’t find them.” His voice rises, the lines deepen. “I need to speak to Tristan. Is he here?”

  “Yes, I’m here,” my father’s voice sounds out from the darkness and his face appears behind the Protector’s shoulder. “Come this way, Conrad. We’ll talk in here,” he adds, slipping past him and nodding towards the closed door of the living room.

  Conrad sags a little in relief and follows him, closing the door behind them. I know I have to tell them about the men and Tatley and admit to my deceit. A queasy unease clenches at my stomach as I knock then open the door without waiting for answer. They have to hear me.

  “Yes, Edie, what is it?” my father asks patient, knowing I wouldn’t interrupt without cause, but frowning as he takes in my blood-stained clothes.

  Stepping into the room, I close the door behind me. An orange glow from the burner makes the shadows soft, the room warm and welcoming, but the tension is thick. My father and Conrad stand before the open hearth, deep in anxious conversation. Both turn and frown at my intrusion.

  “I was with
Daniel and Liza this morning. In the lower town. In Tatley,” I blurt as I close the door.

  My father’s eyes widen in surprise and my heart sinks a little as I see the disappointment flicker there. Why didn’t I stand my ground and refuse to go? Why didn’t I listen to my father? Why did I let Robin persuade me? The thoughts prick at me, but I continue.

  “We walked to the town together in the morning, but then separated. That’s the last I saw of them.”

  My father nods his head gravely. “Thank you Edie,” he pauses, holding my gaze, “for your honesty.” My heart thuds again with the pain of his disappointment. “You can go now.” He turns away to speak again to Conrad.

  “But that’s not all.” The men, I have to tell them about the men. “On the way back, there was a gang of men, all in black, with tattoos on their cheeks.” Reliving the scenes, breath is tight in my chest. Conrad and my father stare at me, eyes wide, expectant. “They were chasing a boy and a girl, about my age, and when they caught them … they killed him.” I blurt as my stomach knots and guilt overwhelms me. What if the men have Daniel and Liza? Why did I let them go? I could have saved them! I break. “I’m sorry, so sorry. I shouldn’t have gone. I told them it was dangerous. I warned them.”

  “But still, you went.” My father’s voice is serious, unforgiving. I can’t bear to look at him.

  “Yes,” I say quietly.

  “Then you must accept responsibility for that decision Edie. You were told not to go there, because of the danger.”

  “Yes, I know it was wrong, but the others, the others wanted to go because of all the food there. We wanted to help!” I add.

  There’s empathy in his eyes as he recognises my desire to protect and to feed, to lift the burden of it all. “Edie,” he says, more gently now, “we can talk about this later, right now we have to send out a patrol to look for Daniel and Liza. Getting them back safely has to be our priority.”

  “Tristan, if this gang have them!” Conrad’s voice is thick with worry. He turns to me. “Where exactly was it that you saw them last? Daniel and Liza?”