Winter's Shadow

by M. J. Hearle

  She needed to find a light. It was too dim on the landing for her to begin searching. Considering the frayed state of her nerves, the idea of stumbling after Nefertem in the dark was deeply unappealing. Blake’s warning was also lurking in the back of her mind. It wasn’t safe for her here. Despite Blake’s kiss, the Sight hadn’t returned to her, though she could have desperately used the enhanced perceptive ability right now. Either the gift was as temperamental as he’d suggested, or her mind was too rattled to summon the concentration necessary for it to work.

  It took her a minute, but Winter eventually found the light switch, partially hidden behind a dead fern near the banister. She flicked it on and the green-shaded lamps overhead sputtered into life. However, the wiring must have been faulty because the bulbs continued to flicker, creating an eeriness Winter could have well done without. The light was just enough to see by, and Winter began to move through the strobing light towards the hallway.

  She turned a corner and came across an open doorway. Standing on the threshold of the room, she whispered, ‘Nefertem? You in there, little buddy?’

  There was no response, so Winter ventured forward and flicked on the light switch. It took her only a quick glance to deduce this was Blake’s bedroom. It wasn’t the small chest of drawers that gave it away, nor the neatly made single bed, pushed into the corner. It was Blake’s music collection.

  During their brief time together Blake had dropped enough music references to convince Winter that he had more than a passing interest in it, but she had never expected to find anything like this. An entire wall had been turned into a shelving unit containing an amazing array of LPs, EPs, eight-track tapes, cassettes, CDs – and pretty much every other type of playable music media from all stages of modern history. When he’d run out of space on the shelves, Blake had taken to stacking his music collection into neat, waist-high columns of albums and singles.

  Unlike Winter’s fastidious devotion to alphabetisation, there didn’t seem to be any logic to Blake’s cataloguing – Brahms was next to Kings of Leon, who shared shelf space with Queen and so on. Staring in wonder at the varied titles, Winter decided Blake had to have explored and owned a piece from every genre and subgenre music had to offer. It was an impressive collection, and if Winter hadn’t been feeling so tense, she would have had a difficult time restraining herself from browsing through it. However, she knew she shouldn’t be here. As there was no sign of the cat, she was turning to leave the room when something caught her eye – something silver, resting on the chest of drawers.

  Letting her curiosity get the better of her, she crossed Blake’s room and picked up the silver object for a closer look. It was a hinged double picture frame, the ornate silver slightly tarnished with age. In the left-hand frame was a sepia-toned photograph of Blake, dressed in what Winter could only guess to be a turn-of-the-century black suit. It was not unlike the suit he had worn to the concert the previous night, and Winter couldn’t help but smile at the slightly uncharitable thought that occurred to her – while Blake’s music tastes had shifted and evolved with the passage of time, it seemed his fashion sense hadn’t.

  The opposing frame held a photograph of a striking young woman with a thick mane of black hair and austerely beautiful features. Her first thought was that the woman might have been Elisabetta, the aged quality of the photograph making her red hair look black, but on closer inspection she realised her mistake. The Elisabetta she had glimpsed in Blake’s memory had been slight, possessing a shy girlishness, whereas there was nothing slight or girlish about this other woman. Instead there was a forbidding severity to her expression. The woman in the frame had to be Claudette, Blake’s sister.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Winter said softly to the grainy image. While she stared at the picture of Claudette, a low mewling sound suddenly came from deeper in the house.

  Nefertem!

  Winter replaced the picture frame carefully where she found it and left the room.

  Chapter 49

  Passing back into the flickering hallway, Winter turned a corner and saw the cats. She paused, the breath catching in her throat at the unsettling sight. During her first visit to the Velasco place she’d encountered four cats – Nefertem and three others: black, white, and grey. Winter had only seen Nefertem today and hadn’t spared a thought for his brothers and sisters, but here they were, along with a dozen or so other strays. If Winter hadn’t already been exposed to a similarly eerie collection (a clowder) of cats in her backyard, the scene would have been even more disturbing.

  What were they all doing crowded in this section of the house, as though sitting sentry beneath the hall window? Winter could see a door at the end of the hallway, which seemed to be the focus of the cats’ attention. Perhaps it was the room where Blake kept the cat food? Making jokes to herself didn’t help the unease Winter felt closing around her like a heavy, cold blanket.

  She searched among the multitude of sleek hairy bodies and spotted Nefertem curled up against the far wall, licking his paws contentedly.

  Crouching down, Winter patted a rhythm on her knees to draw the tabby’s attention.

  ‘Nefertem. Come here, boy!’ she said in hushed tones, feeling instinctively it was best to be quiet. Blake’s ambiguous warning haunted her thoughts – there was danger here! Winter now believed it more than ever; she could feel it thrumming in the air around her. Something was sleeping and she daren’t wake it up.

  ‘Nefertem!’ she called to the cat again, risking a louder tone. The tabby raised one sleepy eyelid and regarded Winter with boredom. He made no move to come to her side. The rest of the cats had noticed her too. Some of them turned their heads towards her in interest, while others merely glanced in her direction before continuing with their grooming and stretching. Blake’s black cat, the biggest in the clowder, shifted from its perch in front of the door and padded halfway down the corridor towards her. There it paused, meowing a soft greeting or caution.

  Exasperated by the tabby’s reluctance and increasingly agitated every second she lingered here, Winter started down the hallway towards the cats. It was as though she were in a dream, being drawn inexorably towards the end of a long hallway where something terrible waited. The flickering lights and the surreal sight of so many cats only increased the unreality of the scene. It occurred to Winter that Velasco himself had probably stalked through this hallway before murdering his wife and children and hanging himself, but she managed to banish that ominous notion. Winter now knew enough about the real terrors that lurked around her to not worry about mere ghosts.

  Stepping over the black cat blocking her path, she continued towards Nefertem. The cat turned to keep pace with her, following at her side.

  Winter reached the great window at the end of the hallway, where Nefertem lay in the shadows cast by the lattice.

  ‘Why did you run away from me?’ she asked, feeling the other cats’ eyes upon her as she picked him up. The cat felt a little stiff in her arms, its muscles tense. Winter sympathised. She felt pretty wound up herself. Turning to make a hasty retreat, Winter saw something curious.

  There was a mark painted on the door beside her. A symbol of some kind.

  It looked like a twisted snake with three lines slashed diagonally through it. There was also a smell – an awful smell that made her stomach roll. Three months ago a rat had died in the space between the walls of her bedroom and the bathroom. Winter had had to live with the stench for three days, constantly spraying the air with freshener to hide the noxious odour. That’s what this smell reminded her of now – decay.

  Winter gasped as the music began playing on the other side of the door.

  Nefertem stiffened in her arms at the sound, wriggling his furry head around agitatedly. It was the same scratchy, old-fashioned music Winter had heard playing the first time she’d entered the house. There was something else below the music – another noise. Someone was moving about in the room beyond the door!

  Despite this alarming devel
opment, Winter was strangely unafraid. It occurred to her that she should be afraid – that the appropriate response to this situation would be for her to grab Nefertem and run downstairs. Something was keeping her here. It was almost as if an alien consciousness had stolen into her mind, and now was influencing her actions.

  Just as Winter didn’t know why she’d started ascending the stairs earlier in the week, she was equally mystified to see her hand stretching towards the doorknob. She didn’t want to open the door, but felt powerfully compelled to nonetheless. Her fingers brushed the dull metal and that was when she heard the screeching behind her.

  A second later, something leapt onto her back, raking her with its claws. She cried out in pain, her voice lost in the angry scream of her attacker. A tail whipped in her peripheral vision – the black cat! It had gone mad. She dropped Nefertem in shock, and spun around frantically, trying to dislodge the screeching fury. However, the cat refused to be shaken off and dug its claws in deeper. Stinging pain lanced through her as its claws pierced the tender flesh between her shoulder blades. Finally, Winter managed to catch hold of the scruff behind the cat’s head and hurl it onto the ground. Instantly, the cat whipped around and came at Winter again.

  Now the other cats joined it, spitting and advancing on Winter, reacting to her the same way Nefertem had reacted to the Skivers; treating Winter as though she were their mortal enemy. Looking at their malevolent yellow eyes, Winter had no doubt that Blake’s cats were prepared to scratch her to ribbons if she didn’t get away soon. Only Nefertem held back, watching the attack from the corner, seemingly as shocked as Winter was by the wildness in his brethren. As the black cat coiled to spring at her again, Winter turned and fled down the flickering hallway. She could hear the cats padding on the carpet behind her as they gave chase.

  As Winter reached the top of the staircase, she caught her foot on a fold in the rug and went sprawling. She fell painfully down the first flight, sliding on her stomach, and came to an awkward rest on the landing. She quickly flipped herself into a defensive position, envisioning the cats descending upon her in a wave of teeth and claws, but was grateful to see they’d stopped. The row of cats sat at the top of the staircase, evidently satisfied that Winter no longer posed a threat.

  Keeping her eyes cautiously trained on the cats, she slowly got to her feet. Apart from being a bit bruised and battered, the spill down the stairs hadn’t left her with any serious injury. She felt a warm trickle run down her spine and stretched around, tentatively feeling for the wound. Her fingertips passed through a long, ragged gash in her top and touched the tender cut between her shoulders. Despite its aggression, the black cat had only drawn a little blood and the wound didn’t seem deep. She should probably clean it to avoid infection. Blake must have some disinfectant downstairs.

  With some apprehension, Winter turned away from the watching cats and the flickering lights. No wonder Blake had warned her against going up there! He had an army of mad cats prowling the hallway. Even as Winter entertained that thought, she knew it was wrong. The cats weren’t the danger. Blake had been afraid that whatever lurked behind that strangely marked door would harm her. Perhaps the cats had only attacked her to drive her away from it.

  She shuddered at the memory of that alien consciousness forcing her to reach towards the door. What would have happened if she’d opened it and let out whatever lurked behind? If she could just spend the next few hours waiting for Blake without incident or fear, then maybe – just maybe! – she might avoid having a heart attack from these prolonged bouts of fright.

  Apparently the fates had not finished with her yet, for as she came to the bottom of the staircase Winter saw something that filled her with fresh dread.

  The front door was standing wide open.

  Chapter 50

  Winter stood staring at the yawning darkness beyond the door, her heart pounding. She listened intently and heard nothing, save for the ticking grandfather clock behind her. There was no insect-like clicking, no other evidence the Skivers were in the house with her.

  Winter stepped off the staircase and paused, chewing her lip nervously.

  ‘Blake?’

  As she’d expected, there was no answer. Blake had Travelled through the shadows of the living room; there was no reason why he wouldn’t return that way. He certainly wouldn’t creep silently through the front door without calling out to her first.

  Gingerly, Winter moved closer to the door, ready to run at the slightest indication she wasn’t alone. She listened for sounds of movement in the quiet house, any sounds at all.

  There were none.

  Surely if they had gained entry they would have pounced on her by now. Could it be possible that the door had been blown open by the wind? The wind had been strong this afternoon; it wasn’t outside the realms of possibility that the door had opened beneath its gusts.

  Holding onto this faint hope, Winter warily crossed the hall. She couldn’t very well leave the door open, not knowing what lurked outside. Just as she was reaching for the doorhandle, the man stepped into view.

  She cried out, stumbling backwards as he filled the doorway. Dressed in a militaristic black uniform, the stranger looked like some kind of Special Forces operative. About twenty-five and solidly built, his face was broad and blunt. A large, ornate silver crucifix dangled from his bullish neck. Matching the bright lustre of the crucifix, the stranger’s hair was bleached platinum white. His eyes were bright with a cruel, animal cunning. That look in them alarmed Winter almost as much as the crossbow he pointed at her. It was loaded with what looked like long metal spikes. Oddly, there was something vaguely familiar about his features, but Winter was far too terrified to puzzle over it at this point.

  Winter continued to back away towards the living room, only to fall against something as solid and unyielding as a wall – another intruder. There were two of them in the house! A hand pressed over her mouth to stop her from screaming, while the other arm snaked about her middle, holding her firmly. The hand over her mouth smelled, somewhat incongruously, of peanut butter. Crucifix strode across the landing to where Winter was being held.

  ‘Who’s she?’ he asked her captor with a confused expression on his face.

  ‘How am I supposed to know, Marcus?’ the peanut-butter-scented person answered, revealing Crucifix’s name. Winter could tell the man holding her was much younger than Marcus, by the way his voice cracked slightly when he spoke. Peanut Butter couldn’t be much older than fourteen or fifteen.

  ‘I know her.’ The familiar voice came from the kitchen.

  Winter was swung around and saw with astonishment Sam Bennet striding towards her. Jasmine’s Sam, who she’d last seen holding hands with her friend at the concert. Sam of the cheerful grin, shining blue eyes and slight bewilderment. There was nothing of that Sam here. Instead, his grimmer, more intimidating twin had taken his place. Like Marcus, his muscular frame was clothed in a black uniform and there was a crossbow strapped to his back.

  ‘She belongs to him,’ Sam said, his eyes flicking to Winter. He seemed completely unconcerned and unsurprised to find her being held prisoner by these two men.

  ‘What do we do with her?’ Marcus asked Sam. Though he was clearly older, the way Marcus deferred to him suggested that Sam was the one in charge here.

  With a sigh, Sam tilted his head to one side and examined Winter as though she was a particularly annoying maths problem. ‘We’ll take her with us. I’m sure the old man would want to speak to her. First, though, let’s find out what she knows.’

  Sam leaned in to speak to her, his eyes as hard as chips of ice. ‘Winter, are you alone in the house?’ She couldn’t speak with Peanut Butter’s hand clasped firmly over her mouth, but she was able to nod easily enough.

  Sam was pleased by her answer. ‘Good. Where is he?’

  Winter made an effort to respond but couldn’t. Sam scowled at her captor. ‘Let her speak, Damien.’

  Peanut Butter – Damien – uncovered he
r mouth. Winter took a deep trembling breath, staring at Sam with wide, frightened eyes.

  ‘I don’t know, Sam.’

  Sam frowned at her. ‘Don’t be afraid. Just tell me where he is, Winter.’

  Still terrified, but resolute in her desire to protect Blake at all costs, she managed a small, unconvincing shrug in response.

  ‘Let me try,’ Marcus said behind Sam, and Winter’s stomach clenched in fear at the cruel smile on the brute’s face.

  ‘No, Marcus,’ Sam mercifully said, and grabbed Winter’s wrist. ‘I’ll put her in the van. Damien can use his crystals when we get home. You two get to work.’

  As Sam spun her around to drag her through the front door, Winter finally saw Damien. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen. There was a rash of pimples on his forehead, and some fine hairs above his lip which Winter assumed was his attempt to grow a moustache. Unlike Sam and Marcus, Damien’s hair was long and greasy. Though younger than the other two, there didn’t seem to be anything innocent about the teenager. Behind his thick glasses, his eyes studied Winter with a disturbing malevolence that made her flesh crawl.

  ‘Wait!’ he said as Sam pulled Winter towards the door.

  ‘What is it?’ Sam asked.

  Damien’s gaze drifted down to Winter’s neck – no, not her neck, but the necklace adorning it. He walked over and studied the green crystal closely. After a few seconds of inspection, he said with a trace of awe, ‘She’s wearing a lodestone.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Sam asked.

  ‘What’s a lodestone?’ Marcus asked, frowning.

  ‘She can call him with it, moron,’ Damien answered dismissively.

  Marcus bristled at the slight and took a step towards Damien. Sam stepped between them. ‘Cool it,’ he cautioned. Turning to Damien, he ordered, ‘Take it off her.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ Damien said, eyeing the lodestone greedily. He reached for Winter’s throat.