《The Spire Saga [Isekai / Epic fantasy]》


 B1 C1 - The Suspect

    He had fought battles before. The nerves had always knotted his stomach in the anticipation for what was to come. The thrill. And this was a war, whether he knew it or not.


    Twenty-seven Monroe Street hunkered behind a thick blackberry bush and towering weeds that flourished in any space left unkempt by human hands. Here and there amongst the arching blades of grass were rusted cans and gardening tools, discarded like the weapons of a battlefield. Long grasses and towering weeds flourished about the house. An ancient lawnmower that had once been green was now no more than a forgotten Russian tank left to the sun¡¯s harsh embrace.


    The house itself was held together by mismatched sheets of wood nailed precariously together in a scattering, like a house after a hurricane. It was a confusion of conflicting colours and alternating shades, mixed with a hundred different types of mould. There were windows, but they were clouded with great cataracts of dirt. The door had once been racing green, but it had faded, and the brass handle had turned black.


    Kids did not trespass on this land, as though a stark warning had been posted telling them of the dangers that lay inside. This house had truly been forgotten, like a memory that had been locked away for the damage that it could do were it released.


    But like any repressed memory, at some point someone or something comes along and awakens it. There is always someone daring enough to throw stones at a resting leviathan.


    It was midday, sweat dripped from his brow in a slow but steady torrent. A warble of heat pranced on the bonnet. His eyes were fixed upon the house on Monroe Street. Every bone in his body told him it was wrong, everything right down to its crumbling foundations. Flood gates would open if he went in there, big damn flood gates.


    He took a final drag on his cigarette, the cherry glowed a vibrant red and then died away before he dabbed it in the ash tray. He held the smoke deep in his chest, savouring every last bit of it.


    ''All teams are in place - over,'' came the voice of Tom Saunders over the radio. Gin let the smoke out through his nostrils before he reached over and picked it up.


    ''Roger,'' was all he could manage. Gin took one last look at the house; his muscles had tensed in anticipation for what may lay inside. He rolled them. This was his job, what he woke up and breathed for, what he put up with the nightmares for. This was his purpose.


    ''All teams move in - over,'' he croaked into the radio as he hauled himself out of his blue Mondeo. He made his way toward the house, Tom appeared from across the street carrying a heavy iron ram. A yellow face smiled politely at the ram''s nose.


    ''You all set?'' asked Tom.


    ''As well as I can be.''


    Tom took the lead as Gin flicked out a metal truncheon. They both broke into a trot as they passed two brick pillars where a gate would have hung. Their feet crunched over ancient gravel and brushed through long grass that reached out trying to tangle itself around the two men''s ankles.


    Tom swung the ram backwards and allowed it to freeze there, filling the air with the anticipation before a coming storm, and threw it forward. Wood splintered and cracked, the door flew open. Shock waves rattled through the house, but the precariously held together building did not crumble.


    Gin grabbed hold of Tom''s broad shoulder and followed his partner through the tight turns of the house.


    ''Police!'' they both shouted. The same call was repeated by other officers who entered from all sides of the place.


    The ram hit the floor with a heavy thud, and Tom flicked a truncheon into being. As they entered the living room they halted and then spread themselves out.


    The lounge was pitch black, but for a stream of light that shone through the sullied windows. Dust danced in the beams of light, like horrified angels. Damp filled the air, the smell clawed at the lungs, making them tighten with revulsion.


    The rest of the officers converged on the lounge. In the centre of the room, illuminated by a single beam of light, was a sofa. A figure lay on it, sprawled out.


    A leather aviator jacket, red bra, poker-dot skirt, scarf and stained white shirt were twisted about the person, as though it was confused as to its gender and had dressed accordingly. On its feet were two perfectly polished loafers that shone in the window¡¯s yellow glow.


    ''What the fuck is that?'' asked one of the officers.


    ''A mess,'' said Gin. ''Pick it up.''


    Two officers took the figure by the arms and hauled it off the sofa. The sheer weight of an adult, uncooperative human forced them to slump to the floor in a clatter of uncontrollable limbs.


    ''Come on, mate,'' said one of the officers, as the pair struggled to get back to their feet and haul the person with them.


    Groggily the suspect¡¯s eyes opened, it groaned and began to slowly take in what was happening. The figure''s brown eyes locked onto Gin and Tom standing across the room, batons in hand. A wave of fear passed over its face.


    Then, as though a switch had been flipped, the face began to change; muscles relaxed while others contracted, creating a surge that travelled from one cheek to the other. It was as if the entire face was being re-wired.


    The figure''s body language had also been altered dramatically. Every angle, posture and movement spoke of only one thing: Rage.


    The two officers reeled back as they were shed like a great coat. The figure''s fatigue had dissolved away and now what stood before them was a man who was clearly prepared to take them on.


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    He turned on the group of officers across from Tom and Gin. They flinched, but held their ground, more stunned than afraid.


    A stocky lad came forward, his weapon held ready before him. The figure lunged in a single stride and came well within range to strike the young officer.


    As the truncheon came down the man flowed about the officer''s arm and at a critical moment, shifted his weight, breaking it.


    The sound bit into Gin''s heart and made his stomach clench.


    The young officer dropped to the floor, cradling his arm. His empty hand lay useless at the end.


    The suspect, as there was no doubt this was, tested the truncheon''s weight before flicking it about his wrist. In his hands, it seemed deadlier than a gun.


    ''Take him, all of you!'' Gin bellowed.


    Twelve men rushed forward, yet the odds still, somehow, seemed stacked against them. With a boxer''s deftness he avoided their clumsy attacks. With effortless skill the bat danced in his hands as he picked the men off, one by one. Cheek bones cracked, eye sockets popped and blood flowed freely. Standing among the fallen officers, the suspect was calm, his breathing slow. He was a predator amongst his prey.


    Yet more officers came at him. He punched, dodged, threw furniture and spun into kicks that sent his attackers flying across the room. But eventually, reality returned to this small forgotten house. The scales began to balance again, the furious angels dancing in the diffused daylight through the windows slowed. Instead of meeting his skill, the officers used their sheer weight of numbers to smother him.


    It was too much for the suspect and he let out a tortured cry of frustration at his physical failure. The sight Gin saw was that akin to bees defending their hive from an impervious hornet.


    Just as Gin believed that they had finally mastered him, the suspect roared and heaved at the pile of men on top of him. His head popped free and the tight mass of men began to slip and crumble. Desperate cries filled the room as the officers struggled to keep him contained. The suspect screwed up his face, a thick vein traced vertically down his forehead and his roar reverberated in all their hearts.


    Gin leaped on top of the scrum, his truncheon held high. He cried and brought the weapon down with all the force he could drive into that one movement. As the baton cracked over the suspect''s head, a thunderbolt seemed to pass through the mass of bodies as the tension snapped, sending them all collapsing to the floor.


    Shock and the resulting silence that filled the house froze everyone. No one took a breath; no one breached that barrier of silence. The broken room resembled a battlefield, bodies and ornaments scattered everywhere.


    The suspect, Shaun Osborne, lay unconscious on the floor. A trail of blood trickled from a gash in his forehead. About him the battered officers struggled to their feet, and began to look down on the body before them. They were tense, as though a lion lay there, sleeping, yet potentially dangerous all the same.


    ''I''m glad he''s chosen to exercise his right to silence,'' said Gin. He held a pair of handcuffs in his right hand and looked up, meeting Tom''s eyes. His partner let out a sigh.


    ...


    ''Shauny,'' a soft, feminine voice whispered. ''Shauny, it''s time to wake up now.'' It was the voice of his mother, the same voice that had encouraged him to sleep, and shushed his tears. ''Shh, little Shauny, my precious boy. Everything is going to be alright now.''


    But she had died five years ago. Blood had swirled in the bath water around her naked body, like crimson tendrils that had come to steal her away from him. Her vacant brown eyes stared into his. The mouth that had uttered such wonderful words to him, that had helped him win against his nightmares, slowly opened. A blood-soaked snake twisted from between those lips and dropped between her pale breasts, splashing into the water. It danced through the water towards him, curling left and right, its head held above the water, its eyes fixed on him. As it lunged, fangs lashing out at him, he screamed and woke up.


    He shot upright, lost his balance and fell to the tiled floor. His head was heavy and pain drummed into his skull with the rhythm of his pulse. Concussion spun the room about him and the light above stabbed harder at the tenderness of his brain.


    Something was wrong. He was familiar with the feeling of losing time, that disorientation and fear of what he may have done. This was different. Something was missing. Quickly, he realised what it was. That warm embrace that had let him sleep all these years was gone. He was forced to live again, to feel pain and suffering all over again - to hear that damned choir of voices in his head.


    Where had that comforting person who had soothed his hurts and told him he was not a freak gone? The one that had said: ''The world just does not understand you, Shaun. I do. I can stop your pain. Come, come closer, my boy, so that I may look into those beautiful brown eyes of yours.''


    Shaun had slept for a long time, longer than anyone ever should have done. He could remember the bed that had been presented to him. Thick black bed posts supported a sumptuous mattress and duvet. He had laid there, his mind lost in the folds of those wonderful sheets, in complete comfort and solitude. ''Rest,'' the man had said, ''I will deal with everything else.''


    Young Shaun looked about him, he was in a cell. He knew the smell, the usual single bunk and the tiny barred window near the ceiling. A toilet stood in the corner, a single roll of toilet paper sat on the seat. The walls were sanitary, plain, all but for a patch above his bunk. A string of red symbols had been painted across the wall in a perfect line. They were unlike anything he had seen before and to look at them twisted his stomach and made the pulsing pain only worse. As he looked closer at the alien runes he realised that they were drawn with blood, his blood. Shaun''s left wrist had been badly scratched and fresh blood still glistened in the cuts. The nails of his right hand were black with dried blood. Oh god, he thought, it''s all started again.


    He scrambled across the floor and grabbed the toilet roll. He''s left me, I can''t do this again. ''I wont!'' He studied the white toilet paper and began to tear huge pieces off and shoved them into the back of his throat. He gagged straight away. His mouth dried, but it didn''t stop him. He was frantic, tearing at the roll and slamming the pieces into his mouth, shredding his lips, dribbling blood down his front. Not again.


    He wretched and spluttered. He tried to take breath involuntarily, but the paper clogged his airway. His body jerked and writhed as it began to fight. He collapsed to the floor and, whether his mind wanted it or not, his body wasn''t going to give in easily. His face became purple, veins popped out of his forehead and his eyes became blood shot. The room spun and darkened and there he slowly began to fade away; his legs, now the only thing that twitched.


    From the hallway, the guard heard the commotion and burst into the cell. He fell to his knees, sliding some of the way to Shaun''s side. He took the young man by the neck and shoved his hand into his mouth, using two fingers he scooped the paper out of his throat.


    Shaun gasped and wretched at the air. ¡®No!¡¯ he croaked. ¡®No!¡¯ He slipped into unconsciousness in the guard¡¯s arms.


    ''Frank! Frank! For fuck sake, get in here!'' said the guard.


    Another guard sped down the hall and ran into the room. ''What the-'' he began.


    ''Just get the bloody nurse will you!'' As Frank sped back down the hallway calling for the nurse on his radio, the guard looked up at the runes on the wall and back down at the man in his lap. ''Haven''t you been busy?'' he said.


    Shaun slept that night on suicide watch. ''Watch that fucker like a hawk,'' Gin had said on the phone with the guard. ''I don''t even want him taking a piss without your say so. He''s going to be in prison for a long time. I''m going to make sure of it.''


    ...

 B1 C2 - Interview

    The interview room was dull with smoke-stained walls and little in the way of furniture. A metal table with a black plastic top was flanked by two steel chairs. A thick cloud of smoke hung above the table, slowly twisting and rolling under the fluorescent lights. One of the bulbs fluttered into life and, for a moment, looked as though it would stay lit, but it then went out with a faint ''ping''.


    Gin sipped at a plastic cup of coffee and took a drag on his cigarette. He rolled his tongue in his mouth before letting wisps of smoke out of his nostrils. Gin studied Osborne''s seemingly innocent demeanour; how his eyes were fixated on a speck of dirt on the tabletop. It made him sick to look at this man, but he should have been used to that feeling by now. His life had been full of sickness and disgust.


    He dabbed the cigarette butt in the ashtray and slammed his palm down against the table. Osborne jumped in his chair, breaking his focus. Gin was pleased by the surprise on the man¡¯s face.


    ''You''ve done terrible things, Mr. Osborne,¡¯ Gin said calmly. ''They lock people like you away for a long time and forget about you. That gives you plenty of time to think about what you''ve done and why you''re going to live the rest of your life in a solitary cell. And then, of course, there are the other prisoners. I''m sure they''ll take a particular interest in you for the crimes you committed, and I''m not talking about a picnic in the exercise yard.¡¯


    Osborne looked up, tears in his eyes. ''I... I don''t know what you''re talking about.'' His voice quivered and he started to sniff loudly.


    ''Don''t play stupid with me!'' Gin spat back. ''I''ve been in this game far too long for you to string a load of shit out in front of me. The evidence is stacked against you, and I know full well that you''re as guilty as the Devil. I''m going to bring you down, Mr Osborne.''


    Gin picked a file from his bag and slapped it onto the table. He opened it to reveal photos of child-victims in an array of sprawled positions and varying degrees of undress. Under the photos were their names. ''There are eight photos there. Eight children killed by your hand: Nancy Farquar, Thomas Whitmoore, William Grey, Samuel Dunn, Jessica Smith, Diana Aaronson, Claire White and Bobby Peterson. Every one of them had traces of your DNA on them; I can show you the evidence if you like. And this doesn''t include the thirteen other kids who are missing. Would you like me to read their names to you?''


    ''No!'' Osborne''s tears now fell freely down his cheeks. ''I don''t know what you''re talking about. I''ve never hurt anyone in my life. All I''ve ever done is help people.''


    Gin was close to blowing his top. Suddenly, the thought of picking Osborne up by his neck, throwing him against the wall, and strangling him ran through his mind like a freight train. He refocused his anger and formed it into a vicious verbal attack on Osborne. ''Your fingerprints were all over the bodies, we found fluids, hair and six of the murder weapons just laying around the shed you call a house. You know exactly what I''m talking about!''


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    ''I-I think that I w-would like to speak to a lawyer,'' Osborne stammered.


    ''A lawyer?'' Gin laughed so heavily his voice broke into a wheeze, he cocked his head skyward as he went on laughing. ''What would you want with one of those? They''ve got nothing left to save you with. You''ve been far too sloppy!''


    Once again, the fluorescent light flickered and popped out of existence. Gin looked up at it absentmindedly. When he looked back at Osborne, the man''s face was in the process of a metamorphosis. A wave of shifting muscles stripped away that innocent mask and began to shuffle like a deck of cards. When the change was complete the face was familiar, though rewired. The eyebrows were lower, darkening those brown pools, the skin over the nose was tighter and the mouth was as taught as a whip. The sight put a chill in Gin''s heart.


    ''They were so young, like tender new-born calves, I just couldn''t help myself. Seeing them run and play made me so excited, Detective. I just had to hunt them down.'' The voice was calculated, solid. It never faltered or flickered. It was perfection.


    Gin''s heart was struggling to escape from its tomb of bone, he was paralysed and he suddenly became aware of how cold his rose necklace was against his skin.


    ''This is what you want to hear, isn''t it? You seem to enjoy throwing these images around,'' he said stabbing at the file, '' but I can show you so much more. I could tell you of things that you never thought were possible. Come closer, Detective, let me look into those eyes of yours and I will tell you of my exploits.''


    He couldn''t. Gin''s fear left him almost catatonic.


    Osborne let out a chuckle that reverberated around the room and stabbed into Gin''s heart like a thorn. He leaned across the table, his dark eyes staring deeply into Gin''s. ''You have no idea what you''ve gotten yourself into. A storm is coming, and when it arrives I will be free and I will come for you.''


    Osborne¡¯s head dropped to his chest, his shoulders relaxed and the aura about him seemed to cool. When Osborne raised his head again, that innocent face had returned. ''I''d like a lawyer, please.''


    Gin¡¯s heart pounded so hard that it made him feel nauseous. His chest was tightening and saliva torrented into his mouth. He leapt to his feet and ran out of the door, racing down the hallway, crashing through colleagues and criminals alike. He sprinted to the gents and vomited into the porcelain toilet. His stomach heaved, trying to rid itself of the wrong that had invaded it. Eventually, he was reduced to dry heaving.


    ''Are you alright?'' Tom asked as he walked into the room.


    Gin spat into the toilet and wiped his mouth with paper. He took some time to calm himself, pushing the handle and watching the swirling water in the bowl. He opened the door and walked out of the cubicle. ''We need to get him checked over by a shrink.''


    ''I asked if you were alright.''


    Gin brushed passed Tom. ''Just do your job and get me a shrink.¡¯


    Tom watched the door close behind his partner and he ran his fingers through his blond hair. ''I think we need more than a fucking psychiatrist.''

 B1 C3 - The Farm

    Thackery Farm sat at the summit of a hill, looking out across the Marsh like a sentinel sent to watch the growing town of South Fairbridge.


    Once, the picturesque view had touched an old man''s heart and fed the pride he felt for his land. But that man was dead now, and the son who inherited the farm had sold all but a single field. He kept one tired, old cow and left the once-busy barn locked.


    The barn resembled an aircraft hangar sitting on a quagmire of mud. Sheets of corrugated steel had been blown off or had collapsed inside. The building had served its purpose long ago, and now it slowly rotted like the old man''s final crop.


    The son, Liam Thackery, rarely used the land for agricultural purposes. Mostly, he thought of the land as a source of quick cash when times were hard.  And there were certain practices that could only be done with seclusion and quiet.


    He had come across a wonderful young woman while he was in the pub a year before. Her name was Kim. She was a petite, green-eyed, dark-haired wonder of a twenty-seven-year-old woman. He couldn''t believe his luck when they hit it off. She had been impressed by his muscle and tough talk. He discovered she had a son. He was bright, cute and the best-behaved little boy you could ever wish to come across. His name was Shaun.


    Shaun and Liam got on like grease and fire. The boy looked up to Liam like a father; he wanted to dress like him, talk like him and even had his hair cut the same. Soon enough, people began to comment on how alike they were and, when told they were not father and son, they responded with: ''Really? You''d never know.''


    For Kim, the change in her life was dramatic. She had raised Shaun on her own for four years; bathing him, feeding him, changing him, teaching him. The burden had sapped the life out of her, and on more than one occasion she would fall asleep in the bath after he had gone to bed, as though the remains of her energy were seeping into the water. Through all of that, the thought of her little boy¡¯s brown eyes gazing into her own, melted her heart. She could never have hated him for the burdens he placed on her, he was her son. And now, she was glad he would have a father.


    The wonderful dream, however, had begun to crack and would soon shatter. Kim and Liam argued almost every night. Plates would be thrown, sending food careening across the room to eventually rain fire down on the kitchenware. And, on more than one occasion, Liam had hit Kim.


    On nights like this, Shaun would sit at the top of the stairs, covering his ears and slowly rocking himself. He would watch their shadows moving violently on the wall and would flinch when something broke or one of them would rush into the hall.


    One night, the couple was having a severe argument. Ornaments were swept from their homes in the lounge and thrown across the room. Kim and Liam screamed at each other, their voices breaking with the strain. Shaun sat, as usual, at the top of the stairs and recoiled as there was a loud crash. Kim cried out in pain.


    She burst into the hall, searching for more ammo to throw at Liam, and then spotted Shaun. Concern melted the anger from her brow, and she raced up the stairs to him. Kim took her son into her bosom and rocked him. Into his ear she whispered: ''Oh my baby boy...''


    Liam exploded from the living room, his predatory eyes locked onto Kim and his face sharpened with fury. ''Get down here! I''m not done with you yet, bitch!''


    Before Liam could pull her away, Kim squeezed Shaun tightly. ''Lose yourself, little Shauny, run away in that little head of yours.''


    He did as his mummy instructed and did so more often when they began to fight. He would crawl away into some corner of his mind and when he would return, all that was left was the carnage that the two adults had left behind.


    ...


    A year later, Shaun and Liam were at Thackery Farm. It was raining heavily, the water thrummed on the steel roof like a stampede of horses'' hooves. Shaun rather liked it that way, it dulled the whispers in his head so that he was not distracted by them.


    Liam was working under the hood of an old Buick he had bought from an old lady in Northamptonshire. His blue overalls were stained with grease and oil. He kicked his steel-toe capped boots on the concrete floor to get the blood flowing again.


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    Little Shaun was sitting on a sack of feed, playing with plastic cars that he had won from a box of Cheerios. Over the racket of the pummelling rain he made engine noises and the sound of squealing tyres. He would play this way for hours, lining them up or zooming them round in long arcing circles, becoming hypnotised by the patterns. The games let him fall back a little from reality and that comforted Shaun.


    There was a clatter as a wrench fell to the floor. ''Fucking hell!'' Liam roared and kicked the Buick''s bumper.  He stood back from the car, his hands on his hips. He let out a long breath as he rolled his tongue in thought.


    He turned round, a smile played across his lips, exposing his large yellow teeth. ''Hey, Shauny boy.''


    ''Hi Liam,'' Shaun replied, beaming.


    ''How would you like to play a game?''


    Shaun gave this a little thought and then jumped to his feet. ''Okay. What are we gonna play?'' he asked with a shrug of his shoulders.


    Liam looked about himself and spotted a coil of blue nylon rope on the floor. He picked it up and tensed it between his hands, it cracked under the strain. ''How about you''re a secret agent and I''ve managed to catch you?''


    ''Yeah!'' replied Shaun.


    Liam gave the boy a crooked smile that crept over his face like a reopened scar. ''Now,'' he said, ''I''ve managed to capture the legendary Shaun Osborne and I''ve tied him to the front of this...ah...combine harvester.''


    Shaun smiled and went and stood in front of the old, rusting harvester, facing Liam.


    But the older man laughed. ''No, Shaun, I think it would be better if you turned around.''


    The boy frowned but followed Liam''s suggestion. With the rope, Liam bound Shaun''s hands behind his back. The itchy nylon scratched at the boy''s wrists, and he moaned a little in discomfort. Once Shaun was firmly in place, Liam began to prance about behind him.


    ¡®You''ve done a lot of very bad things, Shaun,'' Liam said in the cool tones of an interrogator. ''And for those things, we''re going to have to punish you with the most terrible sentence of all.''


    Shaun laughed. ''Oh no what is it?''


    ''The Monster''s probe.''


    Shaun giggled away to himself, but Liam''s face was taught with intensity. His eyes were fixed on the boy¡¯s backside. He came closer, his footsteps echoing off the steel walls. He pulled down the boy¡¯s tracksuit bottoms and undid the flies of his overalls.


    ''Now it¡¯s time for you to pay,'' Liam said.


    The pain lasted only an instant.


    It was suddenly dulled, as though he had been given an anaesthetic, like the one he''d had when he had to have stitches in his head for cutting it on the kitchen floor. Then darkness began to grow from the edges of his sight, slowly creeping in until it took over everything. He heard and felt nothing.


    Suddenly, with the crack of a huge switch being thrown, a spotlight appeared before him; a single, crisp circle of light that was perfect in its brilliance. Within it sat a huge leather armchair.


    Shaun got to his feet and walked into the light. He ran his hands down one of the arms, following the maroon leather until it reached one of the lion heads that adorned either armrest. Its mouth was open in a tremendous, silent roar.


    It was only then that he noticed the boy sat within it. He was younger than himself, perhaps three or four. Their hair was the same colour; a dark brown, flecked with the occasional sprinkling of blond.


    The boy writhed within the leather, tossing, and turning, struggling to break free of the invisible bonds that held him down. ''No!'' he shouted, and then went on wrestling to break free. Like the crack of a lightning bolt his eyes popped open, and he let out a scream that broke his voice, a cry of sheer torment and horror. It was the cry of a boy whose innocence had been shattered.


    ...


    That cry hauled Shaun from his trance and onto the floor. The room spun like a cheap carnival ride. The boy''s face was burnt onto his retina, scorching his vision every time he blinked, appearing like a red ghost before him.


    Slowly, the face faded and retreated into his subconscious. Gentle, feminine hands gripped his shoulders and stopped the room from spinning, anchoring him to the spot. They guided him back to the couch he had been tossed from and seemed to secrete calmness into his body.


    ''Easy now,'' the woman said. ¡®I want you to close your eyes and concentrate on your breathing. You have been through an awful lot.''


    ''What... what the hell did I see?'' Shaun asked through deep breaths.


    ''A memory that has been suppressed deep in your subconscious, Shaun.''


    ''That was real?'' Shaun''s eyes were open now, staring at the psychiatrist. ''He did that to me?''


    ''I''m afraid so.''


    ''But...'' the reality of it all was beginning to knit itself together in his mind, ''he was my best friend. I trusted him! I was a boy... just a little boy...''


    ''It''s okay, Shaun. I''m going to help you.'' The psychiatrist touched his arm again, warmth radiated from it. But he couldn''t accept that contact any more, he pulled his arm away.


    ''You don''t understand, I don''t want help. I want this all to end. I''m bored of being the world''s fuck up. I know I killed those people now... the black outs. It makes sense. Do you know how it feels to wake up with blood on your hands and never know who you''ve hurt?''


    She was struck dumb. What could you say to something like that? But it was her job to say something. ''You are not well, Shaun. You need help. Please, let me make you better.''


    Shaun began to fall back into himself, his face becoming more and more blank. ''I want to go back to my cell.''


    Imprisoned tears stung the corners of her eyes. ''Sure. I''ll see you very soon,¡¯ she said.


    She gestured for the guard to take him away, but she didn''t think for a minute that restraints would be necessary. For once in this man''s life, he would gladly go back to that cell. He wanted the isolation, to be forgotten, to be away from those he had the potential to hurt.


    ¡­

 B1 C4 - Summoning

    In the late eighties it was the hope of a local borough council to build a perfect community in the South-East of England. The people who would live there would be meek, happy, social individuals who would share casseroles with one another.


    This never happened. Instead, the people of South Fairbridge hid behind SUVs, satellite dishes and microwavable dinners.


    It was true that South Fairbridge was a wonderful place to live, but like most towns in England today, the people were not interested in one another. They feared their neighbours and avoided even the slightest show of recognition that these other people even existed. When a child waved at a stranger, his parent was always quick to put his little hand down and shuffle him away. Crime was low and the schools won awards. The town had its good and bad points.


    South Fairbridge and its pristine, expensive houses sat before the Marsh; fourteen miles of unconquered water, grass, and mud. It was a haven for animals and plant life, and through it ran a white gravel path, like a scar on nature''s bosom.


    For Joshua Stone, the town failed to interest him. He had too many ideas and too few friends to find comfort in that suburban maze. Instead, he preferred to act out his fantasies within the Marsh. There he could be anything, and no one would tell him that he was a fool, or to grow up. No, the Marsh protected him from the outside world, the world where nothing happened.


    On this day he was a rally car driver. Gravel clanked against the frame of his bike, and a huge white cloud bellowed behind him. He pumped the pedals with all his energy, making himself pant with exhaustion. He still made the effort to produce the sounds of the engine as it screamed through the gears.


    He was halfway through the race as he tackled a series of tight bends and catapulted into a straight. His engine began to clank and splutter, and eventually died altogether. Joshua allowed the bike to coast to a stop and let it fall to the ground.


    From his backpack he produced a wrench and a set of allan keys. He set about working on the car, making the sounds of other cars rushing passed him.


    Joshua had been working for five minutes when he had to stop and drink from his bottle. The sun was baking, reflecting up at him from the gravel.


    ''I''ll have to get moving soon,'' he said to himself. He took another swig of his water and a white flash popped in the corner of his eye.


    He started, dribbling some of the water down his front. ''Shit,'' he cursed and rubbed at the wet patch. He looked back up in the direction the flash had come from. He waited.


    There it came again, weaker. A reflection from some polished object. It sat on a mound of grass some way off in the fenlands, on a tiny island amongst a sea of mud. A number of similar islands bridged the gap between himself and whatever it was out there.


    It took Joshua a moment to think of what he should do. Either he could ride on and continue playing his game, or he could find out what was sparkling. Curiosity, as they say, always kills the cat.


    He hopped to the first island, a distance no more than a large bound. His trainers quickly sank into the wet mud, caking them. He hopped like this for twenty yards when the inevitable happened.


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    He missed an island and landed in the mud. Instantly, he was up to his knees, but he was quick and reached out for the long grass of the island he had been aiming for. His right leg came out easily, but the left was held too fast by the mud.


    ''Come on!'' he screamed and yanked again, pulling at the grass. His ankle popped and his leg came free. He cried out in agony as he landed in a pile upon the grass. Joshua''s hands did their best to comfort his sprained ankle, but the pain was still excruciating.


    After a few minutes, he wiped at his eyes. The initial pain had subsided, but he knew that it would be a very long trip home. And then he remembered what he had come all this way for.


    He cast about and saw it, the next island over, gleaming like a wonderful jewel in the high summer sun. Luckily, the island was but a footstep away from the one he had landed on.


    With a painful leap he collapsed onto it, nearly landing right on the very thing he had gone through so much to find. He picked it up and turned it in his hands.


    It was a knife. Its blade was perfectly polished so that it could even have been a shard of a mirror. The handle was pure silver and had been crafted into the head of a serpent. Black jewels were set in the snake''s eyes, yet their darkness seemed unnatural, as though they sucked the light into their nothingness.


    Between the serpent¡¯s eyes was a single rune and as he turned the knife to take a closer look at it, the rune began to glow.


    A golden glow pulsed from the rune. Looking at that light made his stomach lurch, and his head pulsed with pain. His hands knew instantly that whatever this thing was, no good could come of it. He tried to drop it, but his fingers were locked to the metal.


    The light was growing, outdoing the sun''s luminescence. A low pulse buzzed through the air, rippling the water around him. With a sudden explosion of golden, sickening, terrible light, water rushed into the air and began to spin about the little island of mud.


    He closed his eyes and felt himself turning in the air, being dragged somewhere else. The noise was unbearable, as if a jumbo jet were passing over his head. ''Help!'' he tried to scream, but there was no air; only noise and the golden light.


    Then it was gone.


    He opened his eyes and that sickening golden light filled them, yet this time it flowed from multiple runes etched into a black stone that towered over him.


    Whipping his head about him, Joshua saw that he sat in a circle of stone surrounded by these large monoliths, and standing between them were hooded creatures with beaks that protruded beneath their hoods and talons that should have been hands. They clucked and squawked a horrendous rhythm that would turn Joshua insane if it did not stop soon.


    He reacted naturally and tried to run, but he fell as soon as he got to his feet. His ankle couldn''t take the weight. The creatures dove at him, holding him with their talons, pinning him to the ground. Joshua could do nothing but scream as they clucked and snapped their beaks at him.


    Before him, the air warbled and the darkness of this other world''s night seemed to take on another shade of black, like the abyss he had seen in the eyes of the serpent.


    Forming in the air was another hooded being. It towered above him, perhaps fifteen or twenty feet. Its long black cloak undulated in the air and inside its hood was a terrible darkness. With a burst of flame the being''s eyes ignited and burned white hot. They looked into Joshua and he felt a coldness take hold of his very being.


    He could do nothing, the beaked monstrosities held him pinned to the ground, one of them sent a long trail of saliva into his lap. But Joshua could not feel this, all he could sense was the spectre''s malice.


    From beyond the circle of stone came another of the hooded creatures and it bowed over one outstretched leg toward the spectre.


    ''O Servant of Treachery, most cunning of all the Deceivers, what is to be done with the human child?'' Its voice was rough, alien; it failed to form some of the words fully as though its tongue struggled to do battle with such a form of language.


    Whispers filled the air and then a thunderous voice ripped through the circle of stone, cutting through Joshua''s mind. ''Take it to the Guyren. The fires must not dim!''


    Joshua could only cry as he was carried away towards a bloodshot tower of smoke in the distance.

 B1 C5 - The Guyren

    Days, perhaps months, passed in this Other World while our own went on living. His ankle may have healed, but Joshua¡¯s situation had only worsened.


    A monstrous tower of smoke, illuminated in a ferocious orange, clawed at the sky as if it were the arm of a hungry god. The plume rose from the bowels of a rugged hill rimmed with stone. At its base, a tunnel had been dug, forming a red eye that beamed into the night.


    Figures, some gigantic with long, trailing arms, others, nothing more than children, ambled in and out of the tunnel. Their long shadows danced into the night, turning their forms into grotesque monsters.


    Shuffling his feet with his head down, for he was too weary to raise it, was Joshua Stone, the boy who had been stolen from his own world by nothing more than a knife. He wore almost no clothes; all that remained were jeans that had been so frayed that they were now no more than shorts. His skin was stained with dirt and bloody scabs. Long scars on his back were reminders of his masters¡¯ punishments.


    Inside, he was numb. In the initial days, fear had overwhelmed him, almost driving him mad. He had seen terrible creatures, living nightmares that he had believed to be reserved to the boundaries of books. But here, in this awful place, with a sky he did not recognise, they breathed, and screamed and whipped, and fed upon those that fell. Yet, he was numb. He ambled as a zombie, unaware of his actions, unaware of the splinters that scraped his arms, drawing blood. They, the Manashe, had driven him to be no more than a drone, like the rest of the slaves that toiled here.


    His back crackled as he picked up another pile of wood, leaving him a little winded. The wood itself was strange. It was almost black and aggravated the skin regardless of its abrasive texture. After adjusting the load, he began his long march back toward the tunnel that delved deep into the hill.


    Heat hit his face as he turned, as though it were the sun shining at him through this night. It took his breath away and he was forced to look down to catch his breath. His feet crunched through a thick layer of ash, which had reminded him of days spent playing in the snow. It fell from the sky in a constant torrent, sometimes in a blizzard, but never could it blot out the intensity of that heat.


    Beside him, one of the giant slaves, like a wall of grey skin, let out a groan that rumbled the ground as it hefted a tree trunk onto its shoulder. Joshua jumped out of the way as one of its feet came crashing down, trying to balance its mighty load. After a moment the great beast began to amble on, its feet sending tremors through the ground.


    He had managed to gleam from the screaming squawk of his masters, that these huge beasts were called Fremani. They spoke in a deep and rolling tongue that vibrated his bones as if they were tuning forks. He guessed that they must have been almost 12 feet high and five feet wide. Their arms, with muscles as big as boulders, would hang at their sides with hands that curved like the buckets from a digger.


    But it was their eyes that had surprised Joshua, for they had none. Instead, their grey lids had sealed shut over many millennia of evolution, for where they came from, deep under some distant mountain range, they had no use for them. Beneath the skin, the eyeballs rolled, searching for a light that they would never see.


    Joshua made his way to the tunnel entrance, on either side stood two of the Manashe, the guards and masters of the immense fire that burned beyond the tunnel¡¯s length. Their hooked beaks protruded from beneath their black hoods. From their nostrils dribbled a black, oily liquid that occasionally bubbled as they breathed. Thick whips were coiled in their hands, ready for one of the slaves to trip or dawdle. Their long claws tapped with impatience as their eyes searched ceaselessly amongst the struggling slaves.


    The Manashe to the right yawned, its black tongue lolling in its mouth, and then let out a terrible shrilling sound. It cracked the whip at one of the Fremani, with the ferocity of a thunderclap.


    In response, the great beast merely growled with anger and side-stepped away slightly. Before the master could unleash its frustration upon any more of them, they passed into the tunnel, being drawn in by the breath of the fire as it stole air from the outside world.


    A latticework of rope walkways looped above their heads. Manashe patrolled the length of the tunnel from their vantage point, occasionally cracking their whips and squawking commands down at their slaves.


    The floor of the tunnel was a mixture of ash brought in from the outside and the bones of those who had fallen, now crushed into the smallest of pieces. It took five minutes to walk the length of the tunnel, made all the worse by the weight of the wood in his hands. Constantly, the heat of the fire increased until it was unbearable.


    The tunnel opened onto a vast mezzanine of stone. Below the Guyren roared, its flames hungrily clawing at the air, buffeting the stone around it. It¡¯s plume of smoke towered through a wide opening in the roof of the chamber. Heat radiated from the walls turning the entire hill into a great oven.


    The slaves moved in a wide circle, edging their way to the edge before retreating through the tunnel only to repeat their journey.


    Joshua¡¯s head swam as the heat made him nauseous, sapping his body of what little energy he had left, as though the fire itself fed from his very life. He resolved himself to keep moving, knowing that he would be whipped for stalling, for holding up the line.


    The edge of the mezzanine appeared beneath his feet, the strength of the fire rumbled in the stone. He peered over the edge. The heat of the flames kicked his hair back. Almost losing his balance, he tossed the wood over the edge and pulled himself away. For a moment he believed that he had seen the flames reaching for him, forming hands that would grab him and pull him onto the mighty pyre. But then the thought was gone, he had moved on. The numbness overtook him.


    The chill of the night was a relief, if only for a moment. Behind him, one of the Fremani sighed; whisps of steam vented from his nostrils and its shoulders seemed to relax a little. Joshua, busy looking at the Fremani, walked straight into one of the masters. He bounced back and hit the floor, as if the creature had been made of iron.


    Joshua looked up at the Manashe, fear filling his body. The creature merely looked down at him, hate radiating from its golden-rimmed eyes. The creature opened its beak and spat at him. Quickly, Joshua got to his feet and trotted out of range of that terrible whip. For a moment, the Manashe maintained its hateful glare from within the darkness of its hood, and then went on looking over the rest of the slaves.


    A horn sounded and the slaves stopped in unison. A little distance from the huge stockpiles of wood and trees, a series of stone tables had been set with large cauldrons heated with wood fires.


    Whipped into another line, the slaves slowly ambled toward the food, with Joshua between two of the Fremani. Crouching on the rim of the cauldrons, their ash-caked claws gripping the hot metal, the masters served them their gruel.


    The gruel was thin, almost more water than actual food, and it sloshed over the edge of the bowl as the master flung it from the ladle, caking the floor. Two slices of mould-ridden bread were thrust into Joshua¡¯s hand by another of the Manashe, one hand tightening around the whip in its hand, clearly disgusted with being so close to any of the slaves.


    Joshua sat a little way from the others, his buttocks sinking deep into the ash. He ate quickly, almost tipping the gruel down himself as he tried to gulp the food down. The bread he dropped onto the ground, where it would continue to rot or be carried away by one of this land¡¯s horrid insects.


    Joshua faced the Guyren, its orange glow grew into the sky and blotted out many of the stars.


    For a moment, memories came back to him, and he remembered the sky of his home, of South Fairbridge. Many of the stars were hidden behind an orange veil of cloud and haze, only occasionally interrupted with the blink of a plane¡¯s lights. They were similar these two skies, yet here in this place the stars were different, wrong, his mind told him.


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    In every direction, the silhouette of a range of razor-like mountains framed the sky, punctuating the difference between his home and this distant world.


    He wept, for home was so far away, and he could think of no way to return, no way to escape the masters and their whips.


    No way to see his family again.


    ...


    Joshua threw up, as he always did. It was a harsh repulsion that stretched his diaphragm enough to threaten with snapping. A fine stream of sputum and gruel dribbled from his lips, Joshua could not have cared for how it ran down his chest. He barely realised that he had vomited over the wood in his arms. The gruel hardly nourished his body, causing him to grow ever thinner with each passing day that he toiled for his masters.


    Every day, by the rising of the sun, he felt weaker. His strides became smaller and smaller, and the pile of wood he could carry became lighter and lighter. Soon, he knew, the Manashe would realise that he could no longer serve them. He knew that they would throw him into the fire.


    He shuffled, almost wading his way through the ash. Joshua¡¯s eyes were raw with sleep deprivation and the effects of the Guyren¡¯s fumes. He was a boy on the verge of collapse, and soon the Manashe would pounce on him like vultures to a rotting carcass. He could see them watching him as he passed, their hungry eyes staring at him from beneath their hoods waiting for him to slip up or stumble.


    Once again, he passed through the tunnel, though this time the heat physically knocked him backward. Sweat and life evaporated from his skin, drawing yet more energy from his limbs. This is it, he thought. I can¡¯t go on.


    Joshua looked upward on the walkway the Manashe began to group together, each of them yearning for him to stall or collapse. Somehow, they knew that he was failing. Ahead of him, just beyond the exit of the tunnel, another of the masters tightened its grip on its whip.


    Again, a blast of heat was thrown from the Guyren, baring its force down on him. His knees struggled with the fundamental job of keeping him upright, but with little energy left they faced an almost impossible task.


    And yet, almost against all odds, he moved. He leaned into the heat, now like a blizzard in his current condition, and fought onwards. Above him, the Manashe were taught with anticipation, even hunger.


    The mezzanine had never seemed so hellish. Fumes spiralled upward, forming the plume of smoke into a noxious tornado. Below, roaring with a fierce intensity, the Guyren burned with a deadly purpose.


    At the edge, Joshua held the wood precariously in his arms. A bombardment of flames, fumes and gases threatened him. As he leaned forward, attempting to release the wood, he was hit by the tremendous ferocity the Guyren had taken on. The skin on his face almost boiled. Reactively, he threw himself back. He landed unceremoniously on his back, the ash not only bared the brunt of his fall, but may as well have sucked the very life out of him.


    Instead of struggling to right himself, his limbs merely lolled in their sockets, hardly registering the commands that his brain was firing at them. Get up! Get up! Come on!


    But he couldn¡¯t move, there was nothing left. The world around him began to fade; he heard the rumble of the fire and the ecstatic glee of the Manashe¡¯s caws in a muffled cacophony of sound.


    A blurred, hunched figure walked towards him. Something uncoiled from its hand, dropping to the ground. Joshua blinked and the world came back into focus, and an explosion of sound bombarded his ears.


    One of the Manashe stalked towards him, pulling back its whip and dribbling from its long orange beak. Its golden eyes shone with the light of the Guyren¡¯s fire; two orbs filled with murderous intent. Its arm tensed, ready to whirl the whip about itself and bring its punishment down on Joshua.


    The master was cut short. A sharp, shrilling call cut through the air. Panic filled the tones of that call, something had the Manashe spooked. The master left Joshua alone, quickly hobbling away along the tunnel, cawing in reply. Above, the rope walkways emptied as the Manashe dropped to the ground and hurried to exit the tunnel.


    Joshua managed to struggle to his feet. Looking around him, he saw the Fremani had been thrown into confusion. They called to each other in their rumbling language, causing the ground to thrum. Curiosity drove him forward and he found the energy to trot past the other slaves.


    As he ran along the length of the tunnel, children and Fremani alike cowered from the sound of his rushing footsteps as they would from the crack of a whip. But Joshua did not care for this; it was the Manashes¡¯ fear that compelled him, that drove his body beyond its exertion.


    Outside, just beyond the light the tunnel cast into the night, the Manashe had huddled together on their knees. They muttered what may have been incantations into the ground, occasionally cawing into the night.


    Without warning the air began to buzz. In fright, the Manashe jumped backward and began feverishly looking into the sky, their heads darting from one direction to the other. Soon the air rumbled and the sound of an approaching hurricane overpowered the roar of the Guyren¡¯s fire.


    From the sky, the clouds twisted and began to drop down, igniting with bolts of lightning. From the forming funnel, a dark unnatural object fell and raced towards them impossibly fast.


    It crashed into the ground with such a force that it sent the Manashe reeling to the ground. Even Joshua was knocked over by the following shockwave. The object exploded into a black cloud of vapour that swirled in the air before twisting about itself and collapsing inward, becoming ever denser.


    As the cloud twisted tighter and tighter it took the form of a being some twenty feet high. At its peak a hood took form and inside, with a burst of argent, two eyes ignited into the night, burning its glare onto Joshua¡¯s retina.


    ¡®You have failed me!¡¯ came the Deceiver¡¯s voice, pounding the ground with its power and causing Joshua¡¯s ears to ring.


    The Deceiver that towered before him was more powerful than that which he had seen before. Every twist of its black form seemed to radiate rage, and the air hummed with the weight of unseen power, like the charged atmosphere on an approaching thunderstorm.


    ¡®The fires have dimmed in recent days. The great war machine of Jendor D¨¢r has slowed!¡¯ A clawed hand uncurled a rotting finger and pointed at one of the Manashe. A golden feather clasped its cloak; a symbol that Joshua realised denoted it as the lead master. ¡®You!¡¯ the Deceiver¡¯s voice exploded. ¡®You have disgraced me.¡¯


    The Deceiver lifted the master by its neck, in protest the creature tried to caw, but its voice was suddenly silenced as the air was stolen from its chest. The argent eyes of the Deceiver flashed with anger and its grip tightened about the master¡¯s neck.


    The Manashe¡¯s body began to collapse in on itself; its arms and legs broke and twisted into its torso. Its beak cracked as its head disappeared into its neck. The Deceiver¡¯s hand seemed to swallow the torso and the remains of the Manashe¡¯s cloak until all that was left was the golden leaf.


    Bending unnaturally, the Deceiver brought its face down to the level of another of the Manashe. It nearly tried to cower away, but, instead, a stream of urine gushed down its legs, staining the ash.


    ¡®You shall be the new Guyren-dralnala. Build me a fire worthy of Jendor D¨¢r!¡¯


    In response the master bowed low into the ground, almost eating the ash.


    ¡®My patience for your race is nearly spent, prove to me that I can be wrong. Justify your existence to me!¡¯ The Deceiver¡¯s rotting hand caressed the Manashe. ¡®Do not fail me again.


    ¡®What is the name of your lord?¡¯ The Deceiver roared.


    ¡®Raaj Desemedon,¡¯ the newly appointed Guyren-dralnala croaked.


    ¡®Yes, now serve me!¡¯


    As those words reverberated from the stone about Joshua, the Deceiver¡¯s eyes came upon him. That gaze stabbed into him like a cold blade, freezing him to the ground. ¡®Foolish boy!¡¯ its voice boomed.


    Twisting through the air, with a mane of darkness, the Deceiver dove at him and lifted him into the air. With the purpose of a missile, they raced from the ground, over the heads of the slaves and along the length of the tunnel. The Deceiver¡¯s grip was relentless, locking his chest shut and freezing his bones until his flesh began to burn with pain.


    They came to a halt before the edge of the mezzanine. The Deceivers darkness whirled about them, excited by the hunger of the Guyren.


    Buffeted between the two extremes of the Guyren¡¯s unbearable heat, and the Deceiver¡¯s unstoppable cold, Joshua thrashed and bolted with pain.


    ¡®You shall fuel the Guyren, and learn to hate the world as I do, boy! You shall watch as the Great Forest burns and cheer as the Man Born of the Earth shall fall.¡¯ The Deceiver¡¯s voice was clear above the roar of the Guyren¡¯s reaching flames, filling Joshua¡¯s mind with its poison.


    The Deceiver released him. In an explosion of darkness it vanished, leaving Joshua to fall. As he fell, accelerating into the heat of the Guyren, his skin began to burn. He would have screamed, but he could not breath ¨C the Deceiver, Raaj Desemedon, had not allowed him to ¨C all he could do was plummet downward.


    Again, Joshua saw the flames manifest into clawing hands, hungry to delve into his flesh. Before his eyes could melt, he closed them shut, locking out the terrible sight of those hands reaching for him.


    The face of Joshua¡¯s mother flashed before him, he had almost forgotten her, burying her away in the numbness that had overtaken him. She smiled and reached out a hand to him, but the hand was wreathed in flames.


    Joshua¡¯s body crashed onto a stone ledge, pain exploded into his right leg. It caused him to take a deep breath and he screamed. His hands instinctively clutched at his leg, knocking his shin bone which had thrust through his skin. Again, he screamed, burning his lungs on the rising fumes.


    Shock overcame him and he fell unconscious. The roar of the fire was snuffed out of existence and for once his body rested. His muscles did not ache, they merely melted, losing their tension. The sensation of movement passed through his mind gently, but not enough to stir him to wakefulness. In the distance he heard the stuttering sound of voices, but his mind could not bring itself to decipher their meaning. Instead, Joshua fell into a sleep so deep only the Fremani would understand.

 B1 C6 - Missing

    Pale orange bricks, fresh white mortar and deep light giving roof-lights denoted the finest in late eighties architecture; functional, but with an almost embarrassed touch of daring modernism. Fairbridgewood Junior School was relatively small, tucked away in a quiet corner of South Fairbridge.


    To the kids it was a huge maze of classrooms, separated by cupboards and partition walls covered in paintings, stories and educational posters. As they went through the years, they slowly worked their way in a circle through the various extensions of the building, each one added to accommodate an ever-increasing number of pupils.


    Martha Price, a short, stout forty-nine-year-old woman, was a Year Three teacher at the school. She was shy with people, as though she had been untried by social settings, but powerful and strict with her pupils. The sound of her voice, alike to a strangled cat, shot adrenaline through the body of those children that she scolded with her vehemence.


    Often her thoughts cast back to the days when she had been able to throw blackboard rubbers at any pupil who had stepped out of line. She had been so good that the rubber almost homed in on pre-pubescent cockiness. But these days she restrained herself, instead she would give a verbal assault akin to a rocket propelled grenade.


    Her class was missing a pupil. She always thought that it would never happen to anyone from this school, that somehow the kidnappings would pass these families by. She felt that it was just one of those things you saw on TV, that can then be forgotten about. Tears filled her eyes when she learnt from the Robert¡¯s family that little Nathan had been taken.


    The walls were filled with stories and drawings that he had made, his name had the most stars next to it, and his smile was a ray of light in her classroom. He was so smart and talented in all things that she was sure he would go on to cure cancer. It pained her to think that perhaps that boy would never return, that he lay dead somewhere with all his possibilities up in smoke.


    Martha read out the names of her pupils as she took the register. Her eyes hovered for a moment over Nathan¡¯s name before she brought herself to move on. There was no sign of recognition from the rest of the class. They had not been told, the Headmaster believed that it would scare the children too much to know the truth. They were lucky, they had been spared the nightmares she had experienced. Never, she thought, I never thought it would happen to someone so close to me.


    ¡®Now children,¡¯ she said, looking over the rest of her flock, wondering which one would be picked off next by the prowling fox. ¡®What do we do on a Wednesday morning?¡¯


    Susanna¡¯s hand flew up like a rocket, flicking her blonde ponytail into the air.


    ¡®Yes, Sue?¡¯


    ¡®Assembly, Miss,¡¯ the girl answered with a very proud smile on her face.


    Martha smiled. ¡®Yes, that¡¯s right. Now I want you all in register order. Come on, in a line.¡¯


    The children formed an orderly line, after much reorganisation on their part, as they came to realise that most of them had no idea where they came in the register. Once they were settled, Martha ensured that all their shirts were tucked in, and that all their ties were straight. She led them through a blue door which led straight into the Assembly Hall.


    The class snaked to a gap in the crowd of sitting children. Martha took the military accuracy of shouting to the far end of the line to pull themselves back, so they were perfectly straight ¡®like all the other boys and girls.¡¯


    Mozart was playing on the sound system, a device that only the music teacher was allowed to operate on pain of death. She sat like an uncomfortable whale behind the piano, sweating in her ill-fitting black jumper. A pair of thick, semi-transparent glasses slid down her greasy nose before she pushed them back into their place.


    The music faded out and the chatter of the children died with it. Except for two little boys; one Indian and the other palest white. They were making animal noises that made each other giggle. Martha pounced on them with her iron grip and silenced their disruption.


    Martha nodded to her comrades, all of whom sat on plastic chairs along the edge of the hall. Martha took her place next to her class.


    The glass double doors swung open, revealing the bulging round belly of the headmaster. A black tie melted down his taught white shirt. His read face popped out of his shirt collar like an inflatable toy.


    Every head in the room pointed towards him, his authority was like gravity drawing all of them in. Huge bear-like hands grabbed at his thin leather belt and yanked his trousers up, he coughed as he did so, a single sudden sound that reverberated around the room. ¡®Good morning,¡¯ he said.


    ¡®Good morning, Mr Taylor. Good morning, everyone,¡¯ the rest of the room replied in a well-rehearsed chorus.


    ¡®I think we will start by singing a hymn. Mrs Peachman?¡¯ he said looking over at the music teacher. ¡®What will we be singing today?¡¯


    ¡®We will be singing ¡®One More Step Along the World I Go¡¯.¡¯


    There was a disapproving sigh from the back of the room as the Year Six bunch voiced their hatred for the song.


    Do not take the opinion that this was a Christian school, for it was not. However, some traditions cannot be broken.


    The piano began the marching song of the hymn, and the children began their yawning way through the words that were projected onto the screen by two girls manning the over-head projector.


    Mrs Peachman¡¯s fingers left sweaty fingerprints on the keys as she played. Her large glasses crept down her nose, before she repositioned them between keystrokes with a single finger.


    The hulking frame of the headmaster disappeared into the darkness of the shadow caste by the stereo cupboard.


    The children burst into a chorus of noise, like a sing-along prayer of allegiance about Jesus travelling along with them in everything they do, and reminding them to: ¡®keep me loving though the world is tough.¡¯ Love, these children would come to understand, can be all that holds our sanity together.


    The hymn came to an end and the overhead projector let out a dying whirr as its light went out. Mr Taylor appeared from the darkness beside the stereo. He coughed again and pulled on his belt.  What little commotion had started amongst the children quickly ended.


    ¡®As you may know, we have recently changed the doors on all our classrooms. As I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve already learnt, they can only be opened from inside. I would just like to mention a few rules about these doors this morning.¡¯


    Mr Taylor paced up and down the hall as he spoke. ¡®First of all, it is fine for you to let in a pupil through the doors if they should knock. Secondly, you must make sure that you close any doors behind you. Thirdly, if an adult comes to the door, your teacher must open it. You mustn¡¯t open the door to any adult. Do you all understand these rules?¡¯


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    ¡®Yes,¡¯ the room replied in a single chorus.


    ¡®Good, now our football team recently played the Brompton Middle School and I am glad to say that we won. So, well done to all those pupils that are on the team.¡¯


    Mr Taylor went on for about half an hour on various subjects, including one of his numerous dog walking stories where he met a man whose dog was injured by a rusted can.


    Once the assembly was over, Martha led her troop back through the blue door as the hall emptied one row at a time. There was a cacophony of noise as thirty children all sat down at the same time in her classroom.


    ¡®Okay class, it¡¯s Wednesday and we¡¯ve just had Assembly, so it¡¯s time we...¡¯


    Again, Susanna¡¯s hand split the air. Martha smiled and pointed a finger in the girl¡¯s direction.


    ¡®Do P.E., Miss.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s right. Now off you go and get changed, be quick about it. I want you all lined up outside the Gym in ten minutes.


    ...


    While the children disappeared to get ready, Martha grabbed a huge set of keys from the top draw of her wooden desk and checked her mobile phone. It was a brick-like thing because Martha had little use for it. No one called her, but that didn¡¯t stop her from checking it. Satisfied that no one had called her, she dropped it back into the draw.


    The walk to the Gymnasium took no more than a minute. It was a separate building built across the playground. It was another temple of fine architectural school design, a gleaming beacon of education. At least, that¡¯s how the Ofsted report read.


    Martha was halfway across the playground when a little girl¡¯s voice piped up behind her. ¡®Miss, miss!¡¯ Martha turned round and saw that it was Susanna. Martha put out her hand and the blonde girl beamed a smile and took it gladly.


    The two of them finished the walk over the smooth tarmac, crossing over snakes and ladders and cartoons painted onto its surface. Susanna waited as Martha undid several locks and silenced the bleating alarm system.


    ¡®Right then, said Martha. ¡®Let¡¯s get this place ready to play some sports in.¡¯


    She led the girl through the inner double doors which opened into the expansive sports hall and then froze, rooted to the spot. The large bunch of keys in her hands fell to the polished floor with an explosive crash.


    Susanna let out a terrible scream before sprinting away through the doors and away from the building.


    Martha was left alone, as she had been all her life. If there was any moment that she needed to be surrounded by strong, protecting arms it was now.


    She fell to her knees and tears began to stream from her eyes, wetting the floor as they fell from her chin.


    Before her the dull, sightless eyes of Nathan Roberts, her little star, stared back at her. He lay in a puddle of crimson blood. His arms and legs were twisted, as though he had been in a car accident. He was another victim of the world¡¯s cold truth.


    Martha fell forward and sobbed, a heart-wrenching, gulping cry that came from her belly upward. It was a final straw that had broken her, and she let all the years of her hurt to gush forth. ¡®Why!¡¯ she screamed before sobbing again.


    As she wept the lines of the hymn the children had been singing ran through her head:


    Give me courage when the world is rough;


    keep me loving though the world is tough;


    leap and sing in all I do,


    keep me travelling along with you


    ...


    Gin turned up an hour later. His blue Mondeo rolled into the playground, now swarming with officers in high visibility jackets.


    As he left the car, Tom descended the steps to the Gymnasium and met him mid-way.


    ¡®What have we got, Tom?¡¯ Gin asked as the two men now walked toward the building.


    ¡®Same sort of thing as before, the body has been mutilated and severely beaten. The only thing that doesn¡¯t match the other Osborne victims is the lack of any sexual abuse.¡¯


    Now inside, Nathan Roberts body, surrounded by a corona of blood, was visible to Gin. He winced a little at the sight. ¡®How long has the body been dead,¡¯ he asked the coroner as he rested the boy¡¯s body back onto his front.


    Removing his gloves the coroner replied, ¡®according to the liver probe, about ten hours.¡¯


    ¡®Jesus, then it can¡¯t have been Osborne,¡¯ said Tom.


    ¡®Then it makes the situation even worse, seems like he either has an accomplice, or we have a copycat,¡¯ Gin grumbled.


    Gin walked closer to the body. Laying in the puddle was a long, black feather that had been heavily battered. With a pair of tweezers he produced from his pocket, he picked it up and smelt it. The scent of rotten meat and smoke stung his nostrils, almost making him gag with its strength.


    He placed the feather back and walked up to the boy¡¯s body. Ripples danced over the blood, bouncing around the puddle. The boy¡¯s skin was heavily lacerated with deep cuts, criss-crossing his body. His arms and legs were snapped and bent, a bone jutted from the wrist of his left hand.


    Nathan¡¯s eyes, staring blankly towards the doorway, seemed to draw Gin in. There was something about them that made them irresistible ¨C as though they were calling to him.


    Looking behind him, Gin saw that Tom made his way through a doorway into one of the side rooms, and the coroner had left the building. A little nervously he turned back towards Nathan¡¯s body and stared into those eyes.


    Dark green, lifeless, and sightless the boy¡¯s eyes stared ever onwards. The right eye was bloodshot, probably caused by one of the blows he had sustained. But Gin focussed on the dark pupils.


    Slowly, ever so slowly he began to go deeper into the darkness of the boy¡¯s pupils. The darkness grew in Gin¡¯s mind, beginning to envelope him like the midnight waters of an ocean. Deeper and further in he went, being submerged within the darkness.


    Gin¡¯s thoughts became like tendrils, seeping easily from his mind like smoke rising from a gentle fire. But they were disorganised, scattering themselves into the darkness. Taking hold of them, Gin pulled them back into himself, before sending out a single tendril of his own will.


    It was a question, wordless but full of intent. In response images began to fill the darkness. They were thin, like the rolling mists that spread across fields. He saw birds standing like men, their golden eyes shining into the night. Tall ambling giants walked in endless lines. A long rock gauntlet stretched out before him. Heat burnt through the darkness, immense and hungry for more than just firewood. Claws sliced through the darkness, and a cawing laughter echoed about him. An incoherent booming voice growled into the darkness.


    He was thrust from Nathan¡¯s eyes and a bolt ran through his body as if he had been struck by lightning. A fine steam rose from the blood about him, excited by whatever forces were at play here.


    Gin¡¯s breathing was hard, almost panicked. Tom returned from the side room, speaking to another officer.


    ¡®You Ok, Gin?¡¯ he asked when he saw his friend¡¯s pale face.


    ¡®Just bad memories,¡¯ he returned.


    ¡®Maybe you should try talking about them one day.¡¯


    Gin looked back at the boy¡¯s body. ¡®Not yet, Tom.¡¯ With that he retreated from the Gymnasium altogether and slipped his slight frame into his car. He stared through the windshield at the scorching tarmac beyond it.


    From inside his shirt he revealed a necklace. On the end of the white gold chain was a dull, red crystal rose. A single emerald leaf was attached to a stem of the same colour. His fingers began to caress it, and warmth flowed into his fingers as memories began to float around in his head.


    Fifteen years ago, his life had been very different. He often yearned to return, but he dared not to. Gin knew that there was nothing left there for him anymore, that had been the reason why he had left in the first place. He had searched for a purpose, and he believed that he had found it in this place.


    Gin rested his head on the steering wheel. A bead of sweat raced from his forehead to his chin, where it fell into his lap. A single image burned into his brain: a woman¡¯s face. Her beauty was astounding, like no one else in the world. She was dressed in white, long blonde hair skipped down her back and her grey eyes pierced through the air.


    Tears stung at his eyes, and he had to choke back a growing lump in his throat.


    After a while he came back to himself, started the engine and drove himself to his hotel. He took a long shower, so hot that the steam filled the bathroom with a thick smog.


    Through the mist he could see the memories from Nathan¡¯s mind, playing over and over until he could stand them no more.


    Wrapping a towel around his waist he tried to ease his mind with mid-afternoon television. But each time the program cut to another angle, he would see a claw here, a beast there, or a roaring fire creeping through the darkness.


    In frustration, he threw the remote control at the wall, it smashed into several pieces and lay useless on the floor. The more that Gin looked at it, the more it began to resemble the body of Nathan Roberts.


    Gin gripped his brown hair between his fingers and yelled: ¡®alright! Enough, I¡¯ll find the answer.¡¯


    With that he threw on some clothes and dived into the car. He took it on a drive for thirty reckless miles, simply venting the tension that had built inside of him.

 B1 C7 - Wrethenlinian

    Joshua awoke enveloped in darkness and heat, it choked him and claustrophobia only went to tighten his throat further. He had become too accustomed to the expanse of the Guyren and the long lines of slaves, that this lack of sight terrified him. A trickle of sweat ran down his back constantly.


    All he could think of were those burning eyes. The spectres words came back to him now: ¡®you shall learn to hate the world.¡¯ Maybe he would, but how could he if he was dead. Is this what death is like? he wondered to himself. This never-ending darkness?


    He heard a stirring only a few feet away. It made long shuffling footsteps, coming towards him. Just before it reached him, it stopped. He could hear its slow, deep breaths like a gentle breeze passing a hilltop.


    Snap! The being before him smashed two rocks together, letting out ardent sparks, the brightness of which he had never seen before. For an instant a grey wall of flesh flashed before his eyes.


    Snap! Again, the sparks spat across the darkness, but this time the light did not disappear. One of the stones began to glow, growing quickly with luminescence. It went from a deep red to white in a matter of seconds.


    Joshua realised the grey wall of flesh was, in fact, one of the gigantic Fremani. Its eye-less face peered down. If it had been capable of staring, then it would certainly have been now. Joshua noticed that a scar ran from the right of its forehead to its left cheek.


    The beast began to purr, a sound that was more like the rumbling of boulders down a hillside. It was a soothing sound, all the same, and Joshua¡¯s heartbeat slowed a little. ¡®I did not mean to scare you, human,¡¯ the Fremani¡¯s voice boomed. The voice vibrated in Joshua¡¯s chest, and he could feel the floor reverberating with the sound.


    ¡®Gel¡­gelbanin,¡¯ Joshua stammered. He had heard the Fremani utter such a word to each other when they passed on their long march to and from the Guyren.


    ¡®Gelbanin,¡¯ the Fremani returned. From its nostrils, the beast began to thrum. The sound shook Joshua¡¯s ribcage.


    With a hand the size of a boulder, the Fremani offered Joshua the glowing stone. The boy did not take it, his hands itched at the thought of the pain they would endure holding something burning so brightly. Sensing the boy¡¯s tension, the Fremani purred lightly. ¡®I bring you Jemji so that your human eyes may see. It is not the stone¡¯s purpose to harm. Take it, you will see.¡¯


    Before the boy could refuse, the Fremani placed the stone in his hands. Joshua went to toss it like a hot potato, but it was quite cool. ¡®Wow, how does it get so bright, and not get hot?¡¯


    The Fremani continued to thrum happily. ¡®It is the Jemji¡¯s purpose to produce light, not fire.¡¯


    ¡®Do you have a name?¡¯ asked Joshua, still a little confused at how the Jemji was possible. ¡®My name is Joshua Stone.¡¯


    The Fremani¡¯s thrumming became louder in response. ¡®Gelbanin yanahe, Joshua. My name is San.¡¯


    San offered Joshua a bowl of water. The boy gulped down large mouthfuls of the cool liquid until his stomach was bloated with it. He had barely had a drink since he had arrived in this strange world. When he was done, and he had wiped the water that had spilt down his chin with the cuff of the grey robes he had been dressed in, San turned to him.


    ¡®The Fremani-danahin, the elders of my people, wish to speak with you. I must take you to the Dunaden, are you ready?¡¯ San asked, holding out one of his gargantuan hands.


    ¡®What is the Dunaden,¡¯ Joshua asked as he took San¡¯s aid to lift him from the ground.


    ¡®It is the meeting place of my kind, deep in this city,¡¯ San replied.


    Joshua let out a painful cry, he had forgotten that he had hurt his leg in the fall. ¡®I think it¡¯s broken,¡¯ he said to the Fremani.


    ¡®I will carry you. The elders will see that you are healed.¡¯ With that, the Fremani lifted Joshua off of the ground as though he was nothing more than a pebble and they passed through a huge archway.


    San moved through the tunnels at an incredible pace, air brushed Joshua¡¯s messy hair back. The sensation was soothing as it cooled his burning skin. They entered and exited a myriad of tunnels, and San never once halted to deliberate which tunnel he should choose. Even when they came upon a great hall filled with twenty separate tunnel entrances, he chose the correct one instantly.


    As they turned left into a new tunnel, Joshua noted that they were now rising and curling to the right in a long arc. It was then that a foul stench passed over them, Joshua almost gagged at the smell. Joshua felt San¡¯s trunk tense, and his pace quickened somewhat.


    ¡®The Fremani-danahin are calling for you, I must make haste,¡¯ said San, not even out of breath, regardless of the pace that he maintained. Around them, the walls became only a blur of grey.


    Finally, they emerged from that final tunnel into an expansive catacomb that had clearly been carved from the very rock. It was lit at regular intervals by Jemji, similar to the one that Joshua held in his hand.


    ¡®This is the Dunaden,¡¯ said San. Pointing towards a large amphitheatre to their right he said: ¡®and there we may observe the counsel of our people.¡¯ To their left, was a large stone pyramid with deep steps thirty feet high. At intervals sat seven of the Fremani on thrones of immense stone.


    ¡®Fremani-danahin, gelbanin. I bring you Joshua Stone,¡¯ San announced thrumming into the air.


    The elders thrummed in response and were met by their audience. The noise was almost deafening as it reverberated around the Dunaden. At the summit, the tallest and oldest of the Fremani rose from his throne and began to descend the steps of the pyramid before towering above Joshua.


    ¡®Welcome,¡¯ his voiced boomed into the stone at Joshua¡¯s feet. ¡®It is my pleasure to have you come before us, Joshua. My name is Borotar.¡¯ He bowed and began to purr.


    ¡®Thank you,¡¯ Joshua returned. ¡®If you don¡¯t mind, I¡¯d like to know how I got here. The last thing I remember was falling into the fire.¡¯


    ¡®It is Fate that brought you to us, my small friend,¡¯ Borotar rumbled gently. ¡®Your fall was broken by a stone ledge, stopping your soul from being consumed by the hunger of the Guyren. From the edge of despair, we brought you here, the last remaining home of the Fremani, Wrethenlinian. We believe that your arrival was not an accident. We, the Fremani-danahin, believe that you are the human child that we have been waiting for. It is our belief that you are the Boy of Seven Dreams.¡¯


    Joshua¡¯s face contorted into puzzlement. How can this be true? he thought to himself. ¡®Why me?¡¯ he asked aloud. ¡®I mean, I¡¯m not that special.¡¯


    Borotar purred and put a gargantuan finger under the boy¡¯s chin. ¡®You may not know it yet, but in time you will save us all. It has been foretold that a human boy will have seven premonitions, and it shall be he who will emancipate the Fremani from the Deceiver¡¯s slavery.¡¯


    Joshua let out a single, long breath that seemed to last a lifetime. ¡®I can¡¯t believe that. What if I¡¯m the wrong kid?¡¯


    ¡®I believe that you will fulfil the prophecy of my people, for I am certain you are the Boy of Seven Dreams. If I am wrong, then I shall be made a fool. But at this time, we have hope when all we have known is pain.¡¯


    Joshua¡¯s eyes passed over the other elders. ¡®How am I supposed to save you?¡¯


    Borotar cocked his head slightly. ¡®That we do not know, for it is you who will have the premonitions to guide us to our salvation.¡¯


    ¡®Where are we then? I thought that all of you were slaves like me?¡¯ Joshua asked.


    ¡®We are,¡¯ Borotar returned. ¡®The Deceivers forced us from our ancient home in the distant mountains. Our grief is too strong to mention its name, for we lost many of our kind on the long march to the realm of our enemies. Slaves they made of us indeed, forcing us to the point of death to serve the Guyren¡¯s hunger for wood, flesh and life. But we are a cunning race, and in time we set out to build Wrethenlinian, the final home of the Fremani. We live deep under the earth, directly beneath the Guyren. For now our location is hidden to them, yet they search for us ceaselessly.


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    ¡®Sadly,¡¯ Borotar said, dropping his head a little. ¡®Not all our race can be freed from their service to the Deceivers. But, in time, you will help to free them.¡¯


    Joshua¡¯s eyes were heavy, he rubbed his face with his hands, making his eyes sore. The struggle of his enslavement to the Guyren¡¯s hunger had drained him, and this extra weight of responsibility only worsened his condition.


    ¡®Now is the time to rest, Joshua Stone,¡¯ Borotar said with a warm tone. ¡®I have appointed San as your guard. He is loyal. He will protect you even if he must lay down his life before you.


    ¡®San,¡¯ Borotar said with a thrum. ¡®Take our guest to Huri, his leg should be healed at haste.¡¯


    The two Fremani exchanged a snort of a potent odour, which Joshua had to try not to gag at with great difficulty. San then turned away and passed back into the winding tunnels of Wrethenlinian.


    The Fremani counsel was not over. Borotar returned to his throne and was met by several questions from the other Fremani-danahin. With a hint of frustration, Borotar howled into the Dunaden. All were silenced by the sound.


    Borotar rose to his feet. ¡®You have questions, I understand. We are in perilous times, and there is not much time remaining for us. The Deceivers¡¯ patrols are ever increasing, and it may not be long before the location of Wrethenlinian is uncovered. Too long, already, we have lived beneath their feet.¡¯ Borotar seemed to grow weary, but he would not let himself falter.


    ¡®I believe with all the conviction of my soul, that this Joshua Stone is the human child from the prophecy. Who here will deny what may be our only salvation?¡¯


    One of the Fremani-danahin stood up, in respect Borotar sat down. ¡®Borotar, we have no proof of this boy¡¯s power, instead we should consider better, more apt options. Either we shall revolt from beneath our masters or be slaughtered from above.¡¯


    ¡®What else is left!¡¯ Borotar roared. ¡®Marched under the beating sun from our ancient home, and forced to endure the torture of two hundred years of slavery. We are trapped in all directions, confined to a city that is also our tomb, and too few of us there are to wage war upon the Deceivers and their armies. I ask you, Galan, what more is left?¡¯


    Galan sat down and grumbled to himself, nursing a withered arm.


    ¡®So it is,¡¯ said another of the Fremani-danahin, an old female who¡¯s face showed signs of her age like the moss of a stone. ¡®We shall put hope in this boy. Lest we crumble into the tide of time.¡¯


    The audience of Fremani thrummed into the air, its tone was full of hope, but tempered by uncertainty.


    On his throne, Borotar rested his head on his fist and pondered what may come to pass.


    ...


    The heat of Wrethenlinian made Joshua nauseous. The swaying of San¡¯s arms as they traversed the many tunnels of the Fremani city only made the feeling worse. Between his slowly lolling eyes, tunnels and passages passed him by.


    The Jemji slipped in his hands, bringing him back to consciousness as quickly as a slap to his cheek. Held so close to San¡¯s chest he could hear the beating of his heart, like the distant grumble of thunder. Joshua wondered what colour the Fremani¡¯s blood was. Is it green? he thought to himself.


    ¡®Are you well?¡¯ asked San.


    ¡®Yes, I¡¯m just really hot. It¡¯s making me tired,¡¯ Joshua returned wiping sweat from his brow.


    ¡®Wrethenlinian is deep below the Guyren, yet the fire¡¯s heat penetrates the earth for miles in all directions. Even here, we cannot escape its immense heat. It serves as a reminder of the oppression that still inflicts itself upon our kind.¡¯ San¡¯s footsteps rumbled about the tunnel as they rounded a bend.


    ¡®Then why don¡¯t you move away from here?¡¯ Joshua asked.


    San chose a new tunnel and delved into the darkness without hesitation. ¡®There is no way out. We must cross a far expanse of land, deep within the Deceivers¡¯ realm. We would be picked off one by one before we could ever build tunnels again.¡¯


    ¡®So, why can¡¯t you just dig your way out, and not walk on the land?¡¯ Joshua asked, perplexed.


    ¡®The Great Abyss lies to the South,¡¯ San replied pointing behind him. ¡®It is a fathom-less drop. And we are surrounded by the Jul¨¢ Dun Mountains. We cannot dig through them, for they are guarded by the Hyiem.¡¯


    ¡®Who are they?¡¯ Joshua asked, turning slightly in San¡¯s grasp.


    ¡®They are ancient spirits that dwell in the Roots of the World, deep tunnels that none should enter.¡¯ San stopped before an opening in the tunnel.


    As they entered, the Jemji¡¯s light illuminated a moderately sized chamber, huge pallets of stone butted against the walls around the edge of the room. It was an infirmary, with shelves carved into the stone to accommodate jars. Each one had runes etched into their surface in a jagged and almost artless language.


    Hunched over a patient was Huri. She was shorter than many of the Fremani, and slighter of frame, perhaps through age she had been eroded down like an outcrop of stone, or through the arduous nature of her work she had worn herself away.


    Her nostrils sniffed roughly, as though she struggled to breath in the air. ¡®Ah,¡¯ she said, her voice croaking. ¡®Is that the human child I smell?¡¯ She turned, surprising Joshua. Her face was a little sunken, and deep scars traced along her sagging eyelids rather than being smooth and slightly rounded as the rest of her kind.


    ¡®Gelbanin, Huri. I bring you Joshua Stone. His leg has been broken.¡¯ San rested Joshua down on one of the pallets. The boy winced slightly as his leg made contact with the stone beneath him.


    ¡®Hmm!¡¯ Huri grunted. ¡®Then much work we have to do,¡¯ she purred, it was an old sound that was broken and crackling.


    Her large hands traced the shape of his leg soothingly, Joshua cried out in pain as her fingers passed over the bone jutting from his skin. Huri sniffed at it deeply. ¡®Hmm!¡¯ she grunted again. ¡®An infection, hmm!¡¯


    From a shelf above him she brought down a jar and emptied its contents into her palm. Three stones rolled out. The first was small and resembled amber, the next was bigger and blue in colour, while the last would have needed Joshua to cup his hands to hold and was the colour of spent blood. ¡®Hmm! Furison, indeed.¡¯


    ¡®What are they?¡¯ asked Joshua a little frightened.


    ¡®Hmm! All stones have a purpose, Joshua. Jemji gives you light so that you may see, while the Vardem stone takes the life of those who may touch it. Individually, these stones would give you the most vivid dreams when powdered and make even the greatest Fremani rabid, but together they heal broken bones and flesh. Every stone has a purpose, hmm?¡¯


    Joshua nodded. ¡®Okay.¡¯


    ¡®Hmm!¡¯


    With a great show of dexterity, Huri rolled the stones around her palm, frequently warming them with her breath. Slowly she closed her palms and breathed deeply into them. There was a flash and smoke escaped from her fingers.


    Quickly, she brought her grey face before him, touching his forehead with her¡¯s. She thrummed loudly, sending the vibrations coursing through his body. The sound was not constant, it undulated and ebbed through him. He felt deeply soothed and the pain from his leg disappeared.


    He fell unconscious as the sound of a gentle crunch smoothly melded with the sound of Huri¡¯s thrumming. She righted his leg and bound the melded Furison to his leg.


    ¡®Hmm!¡¯ she said to San. ¡®He must rest.¡¯ She have him a powder in a small jar. ¡®Mix this with water when he awakens to treat the infection. He will be fine, hmm?¡¯


    ...


    Joshua awoke bathed in light. It took a while for his eyes to focus, colours were mingled into one smudge. He blinked several times and rubbed sleep from his eyes.


    When he could focus, he saw that the walls of his room were covered in a chiaroscuro of colours and shapes. Geometric shapes, arced over him, binding, and crossing each other. Different hues of colour frosted the shapes and radiated around the room. As he looked, he saw the shapes were carved into the stone with a fine deftness.


    ¡®Wow,¡¯ said Joshua looking about him. He looked down at his leg, the Furison was still strapped to his leg and he pulled the wrapping away to peak at his skin. New pink flesh covered the wound where his shin bone had penetrated through.


    Experimentally he lifted himself off the stone pallet he had slept comfortably on, much to his surprise. His leg ached a little, but it took all his weight without difficulty.


    Tossing the Furison and its wrappings aside he jumped around the room, happy to be in no pain. A large stone bowl of water stood in the corner of the room, and he dipped his hands into it and drank deeply.


    ¡®I am glad you like my work,¡¯ said San.


    Joshua turned and saw San standing beside the door. ¡®You did this?¡¯ Joshua asked, pointing a finger that dripped with water.


    ¡®Yes, there are three chambers like this one. They are the last examples of the rock-craft my race so dearly loved. Our ancient home was once like this through and through. It was a glorious city full of grandeur and wonder. But it is no more.¡¯ Visibly, the Fremani¡¯s shoulders slumped in sorrow.


    ¡®I am sorry about your old home,¡¯ said Joshua. ¡®I bet it was amazing. I would have liked to have seen it.¡¯


    San thrummed happily. ¡®I would have been glad to show it to you.¡¯


    ¡®But why did you make this, aren¡¯t you blind?¡¯ asked Joshua.


    A deep rumble came from San and his shoulders jerked slightly. Joshua realised his new friend was laughing. ¡®Not at all, I can see as well you can in the depths of the world. I can appreciate my own work as well as you. Though, I do not see as you do. Fremani are attuned to stone and sense its purpose and beauty. But we are blinded by sunlight, and only in the night may we move on the surface.¡¯


    From the doorway came a heavy-set Fremani, much bigger than San. He wore a steel helmet that accentuated the lines of his face, making it harsher and more ferocious. Immense muscles rippled as it shifted its weight. In its hands a trunk-like sword of the most amazing, polished steel rested. It spoke quietly with San before it left.


    ¡®I have been summoned to the Dunaden by Borotar,¡¯ said San. ¡®I will return soon. You should continue to rest.¡¯


    ¡®San!¡¯ he called back to the Fremani. ¡®Thank you, it is good to know someone cares.¡¯


    The Fremani thrummed. ¡®I have known the Guyren¡¯s slavery. This scar,¡¯ he pointed to the one that crossed his face, ¡®was caused by a Manashe¡¯s whip.¡¯


    On his own, Joshua looked about the chamber, it was as expansive and lavish as a presidential suite. Set onto thick tables were slabs of stone that had been fashioned into ornaments, sparkling with diamonds and rubies.


    On the bed, he sat and stared in awe at the ceiling, losing himself in the ripples of colour and the enchantments of the shapes. It was only exhaustion that tugged him into sleep.


    It was dreamless and healing, for he was comfortable here. The nightmares of the Guyren¡¯s lines began to fade and he started to remember happiness.

 B1 C8 - The Faceless Man

    ¡®Are you sure you want this?¡¯ her colleague asked her. ¡®He¡¯s a serial murderer of children, these things come back to haunt you, you know that don¡¯t you?¡¯


    It was a price she was willing to pay. She knew that she was ready to advance her experience as a psychiatrist.


    Her initial session with Shaun Osborne had moved her, revealing the tortured childhood that had been repressed by his mind. There was more to this young man than the simple label of a serial killer. He was a victim as much as those people he had hurt, and she wanted to help him. For the relief of his pain, she was willing to put up with whatever horrific acts he had committed, whether they would haunt her dreams or not.


    ¡®Amanda,¡¯ Dr. Stansgate said. ¡®I¡¯m worried for your safety with this man. He¡¯s dangerous.¡¯ His slight frame sat behind his desk, his academic voice was almost as frail as his body looked.


    ¡®No more dangerous than anyone else I¡¯ve had to treat. I¡¯ve learnt not to prejudge people, Will. That¡¯s what we must do in this line of work. Call me stupidly optimistic, but I look for the good in all my patients. If you can reach that in them, then you can help them.¡¯ Amanda reached into her bag and pulled out a pepper spray. ¡®But I do come prepared if things go wrong.¡¯


    Dr. Stansgate laughed. ¡®I can¡¯t say that I¡¯m comforted much, but I have always commended your attitude to your patients. You¡¯ll make a great psychiatrist if you don¡¯t lose that. But there¡¯s something I don¡¯t like about Osborne. I just can¡¯t explain it.¡¯


    ¡®Gut feeling, huh?¡¯ She placed her bag back down on the floor. ¡®Look, if I don¡¯t think I can handle him, I¡¯ll stop treating him. I just know there is good in him, and I¡¯d like to try and bring it out of him.¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s still the issue of the remaining kidnapped kids. The detectives want to know where they are.¡¯ Dr. Stansgate shuffled some of the papers around his desk. ¡®Do you think you can reach the real Osborne before it¡¯s too late for them?¡¯


    Amanda sighed with mild frustration. He does this, she thought to herself, attacking my own hope. ¡®My responsibility is for Shaun¡¯s mental well-being, I can hardly draw that kind of knowledge out of him in a heartbeat.¡¯


    ¡®Like I said, Amanda, this man is dangerous. If those kids are dead because they weren¡¯t found in time, I¡¯m not sure you could forgive yourself for not treating Osborne fast enough.¡¯ Dr. Stansgate dropped his head down and looked at her through the top of his glasses. ¡®That¡¯s the kind of danger I¡¯m most worried about.¡¯


    ¡®Will, please. I¡¯ll cross that bridge when I come to it.¡¯ Amanda¡¯s frustration was evident in her body language.


    ¡®Just¡­ be careful.¡¯ Dr. Stansgate smiled, giving up a fight he knew he couldn¡¯t win.


    Amanda beamed with an attractive, feminine smile of straight white teeth that shone from her rouged lips. ¡®You¡¯re a lovely old man, really.¡¯


    ¡®Hey, less of the old,¡¯ said Dr. Stansgate, wagging a finger at her.


    Amanda checked her watch and grabbed her bag and jacket. ¡®I have to go, I¡¯ve got another hypnosis session to start with Shaun.¡¯


    She had a well-toned figure with long bronzed legs and a face with strong cheek bones and delicate lips. She was beautiful, but she did not abuse her natural gifts as others might have done. She cared too much for other people to be too concerned about her own position in life.


    Bringing Shaun to Warrington Mental Health Centre had already had an effect on him. He seemed brighter, a little more lucid than he had been, trapped within the confines of his cell. Even though he was still surrounded by guards and kept away from the outside world, there was a comforting atmosphere in this place. She hoped that this would further her efforts to reach into him.


    Already, Shaun was waiting for her. From a myriad of seating choices, he had chosen to stretch out on an old sofa that seemed to have been taken from an old woman¡¯s house. She stood behind the door, peering at him through the reinforced glass. He was looking outside the window at the slowly swaying leaves of the trees that surrounded the centre. He seemed a little at peace; his hands no longer twitched with agitation.


    As she entered, Shaun gave her a smile. ¡®Hello, Amanda.¡¯ He took his legs off the sofa and sat straight.


    Amanda set her bag down and dragged a desk chair over so that she could sit directly in front of Shaun. She sat down and crossed her legs like two swords.


    Shaun couldn¡¯t help but look at them. The smooth skin excited him a little, igniting a fire that he had been keeping suppressed for the last few days. His eyes crept up her supple form, until he had to look away when he reached her gently breathing chest. Instead, he looked at the wall trying to snuff out the fire.


    ¡®I¡¯d like to try hypnosis again, Shaun. I think we¡¯re really getting somewhere. Could you look at me please?¡¯ her voice was sweet, and Shaun could not resist the request.


    ¡®I didn¡¯t like that memory from my childhood¡­ I sort of wish that I¡¯d never known that about myself.¡¯ As he spoke, he could barely hold her gaze. Whether it was shame or her beauty that made him look away, he wasn¡¯t sure.


    ¡®It¡¯s these early memories which are the building blocks for your condition,¡¯ said Amanda. ¡®The mind has intelligent defence mechanisms, but they can also do you harm when they rewire your brain to start relying on them too much. I¡¯d like to try something a little different to bringing back a memory. I¡¯d like you to relax for me.¡¯


    Shaun put his legs back onto the sofa and shuffled down a little so that his head rested comfortably on a cushion.


    ¡®Close your eyes and clear your mind of any thoughts, just think of your breathing as you take in a breath and release it.¡¯ Amanda¡¯s voice was hushed and rhythmic, both relaxing Shaun¡¯s body and leading him to clear his mind.


    ¡®Behind your eyelids you see nothing, just the emptiness of your mind. I want you to concentrate on this space and tell me what you see.¡¯ She got a notepad out of her bag and clicked a pen into life.


    Purple and red stars slowly spun in the darkness, but they began to fade as his eyes became accustomed to this darkness. As he relaxed, he heard more clearly the ambient noises of life. The gentle whirr of the air conditioning system, the rustle of the trees outside, the passing of traffic, the rise and fall of Amanda¡¯s chest ¨C before he could help it an image of her cleavage slowly rising and falling beneath her shirt flashed into that darkness. With frustration he shook his head and sighed, wiping the thought from his mind.


    ¡®Relax, you are doing well, allow the darkness and emptiness to surround you. You are comfortable here, safe from harm and worry. Tell me what you see,¡¯ Amanda reassured him. Her voice was like a feather passing over his body, relaxing but exciting his nerves to follow her instructions explicitly.


    Again, as the swirling stars began to fade again, the darkness came quicker, snuffing out the stars rather than allowing them to gently fade. The sounds of the room faded. Shaun could no longer hear the rustling trees or the traffic. Instead, he heard nothing, as though Amanda had placed earmuffs on him.


    Shaun opened his eyes, expecting to see the ceiling above him, made of grey, generic ceiling tiles. Instead, his eyes opened to the sight of his lap. He sat in a maroon leather armchair, with his arms resting on finely polished oak that had been carved into the silently roaring heads of lions. Shaun remembered having seen this chair before, the last time he had been hypnotised. A boy had been screaming at him, losing his innocence to the torture of his stepfather¡¯s whims.


    The chair was illuminated by a single spot of light. Just beyond it in the enveloping darkness stood a crowd of people. Their forms lacked detail, they were merely silhouettes of individuals of differing heights and builds. He could see that some were children, while others were adults of either sex.


    ¡®Who are you?¡¯ he asked the darkness.


    Who are we, they replied in a chorus. The sound was unsettling, for their tone lacked emotion, as though it was a helpless reaction. Ceaselessly they faced the armchair, solidly staring at him.


    ¡®Where am I?¡¯ Shaun tried again.


    Where are we? replied the chorus.


    ¡®Will you listen to me? I want answers!¡¯ he said more aggressively. He thumped a fist onto the oak. The sound crackled like thunder into the darkness.


    Will you listen to us? We want answers. Their response lacked his emotion, but something changed. Their heads turned in every direction. Shaun, they whispered. Shaun. Shaun. Shaun. The sound was almost deafening like an echo bouncing endlessly within a sphere.


    ¡®Stop!¡¯ he shouted, leaping from the chair. As he did, the voices ceased. Their heads turned to one of their own, an individual opposite where Shaun stood.


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    Its silhouette began to fade a little as it formed details and solidified. It took a single dignified step forward, becoming whole within the spotlight. The man was middle-aged, dressed in a cream suit with a midnight blue bow-tie. He held a cream hat to his chest. His face was familiar, acne scars pocked his tanned face and his brown, but greying, hair was combed back.


    ¡®Who are you?¡¯ Shaun demanded of this individual.


    ¡®My name is Andrew,¡¯ the man replied with a posh English accent. ¡®Of course, it is to be expected that you will not know of my identity, for we have never truly met. However, I know a substantial amount about you.¡¯


    Shaun frowned. ¡®How could you know so much about me, if we¡¯ve never met.¡¯


    The man who called himself Andrew looked about him at the surrounding crowd. ¡®We have been observing you for a long time. We have attempted to do more than be passive bystanders, but it seems our efforts have only worsened our situation.¡¯


    ¡®Our situation?¡¯ Shaun asked, now walking around Andrew. The man matched Shaun¡¯s height, and his eyes, too, were brown.


    ¡®Yes, our circumstances are intrinsically bound with yours. It would seem that our attempts to sway your own actions have perpetually failed; our communications are difficult when you have command of the Throne,¡¯ Andrew replied, indicating the chair with a point of the hat in his hand.


    ¡®Anyone who occupies it,¡¯ he continued, ¡®is in control of the physical body. For some time, we would share the responsibility of living out your life on your behalf. However, this task has been returned solely to yourself upon your reawakening.¡¯


    ¡®My reawakening, how long was I asleep for?¡¯ Shaun asked, now standing before Andrew once again. Shaun remembered that bliss, that constant silence that had soothed away the pain and worry he had felt for most of his life.


    ¡®You have slumbered for six years. Constantly we endeavoured to awaken you, but all our efforts were thwarted by a fashion that was beyond our understanding.¡¯ Andrew accentuated his words with a gentle prod of his hat in Shaun¡¯s direction. ¡®Although your reawakening is of a great benison to us, we are vexed by the implications that may yet be revealed.¡¯


    ¡®I was asleep for six years? But... how could that happen?¡¯ Shaun walked around the circle, trying to peer at the other faces of those beyond the spotlight, but they remained as silhouettes.


    ¡®It was an individual who misused the trust that you had granted to him. He is not one of us, he is from the outside. We lack further knowledge to comprehend fully what he is, but we are most certain that he is far more powerful than any other individual here. It was he who persuaded you to accept his offer of guardianship. It was he,¡¯ Andrew said, his brown eyes fixed upon Shaun, ¡®that took control and killed those children.¡¯


    Shaun stopped walking and turned his head to Andrew. Then it was true, his hands had committed those murders. Violation throbbed within in his stomach, a cold sweat pursed his brow. ¡®Who - who is he?¡¯


    ¡®He is known amongst us as the Faceless Man.¡¯ Andrew settled the hat on his head. ¡®Further knowledge we do not have about him.


    ¡®I would like you to meet some of the others that are present here,¡¯ Andrew said, changing the tone of their discussion. ¡®Many of us have waited a long time to meet you. I hope that you will not deny us this pleasure?¡¯


    Shaun looked around him. ¡®But none of them have any faces.¡¯


    ¡®It is nothing, simply a way that the mind works I am afraid. Come,¡¯ Andrew encouraged Shaun to him. ¡®This is Mary.¡¯


    From the darkness a heavy-set woman stepped forward, her silhouette forming as Andrew¡¯s had into a solid being. She was a good-looking woman in her mid-twenties, even with a few too many pounds on her, yet she was sweet all the same. ¡®Hello, Shaun,¡¯ she said politely.


    ¡®Mary cares for all of us when we are most in need.¡¯ Andrew smiled to her and gave a little nod. Mary returned it before stepping back again and losing all her details, becoming another of the silhouettes. Next, he indicated one of the child forms.


    ¡®This is Daniel,¡¯ Andrew announced once the boy had taken form. ¡®He protects us from pain.¡¯ Dried tears marked his cheeks, and a snail trail of snot had dribbled from each of his nostrils. He did not smile and shuffled uncomfortably on his feet. The boy, Shaun realised, was broken. It had been he who had taken away his pain when he had been abused by his stepfather. ¡®Thank you, Daniel,¡¯ said Andrew.


    Finally, Andrew brought forward an individual that, again, was the same height as himself, but built far bigger than Shaun. The muscles of his arms, shoulders and chest were taught and powerful. His face, strangely like Andrew¡¯s, was tight with passive authority. ¡®This is Roran, he fights the battles that come before us.¡¯


    Roran did not speak, only nodded in Shaun¡¯s direction. He wore white vest and combat trousers.  His boots had been shined so brightly that Shaun could see all their reflections in them.


    ¡®Roran specialises in gun-fighting and hand-to-hand combat. If he wishes, he can remove handcuffs, produce weapons from a myriad of different objects and overpower most men.¡¯ As Andrew spoke, Roran noticeably tensed with pride. Once Andrew was done, he too stepped back into the darkness.


    How many of you are there?¡¯ Shaun asked.


    ¡®At least forty, perhaps sixty. It is difficult to estimate, as many of us are not as entirely whole as others. What is undeniable is the fact that most of us are here for your protection.¡¯ Andrew put a hand on Shaun¡¯s back. He couldn¡¯t hide the slight shudder that ran through him. He had not expected to feel Andrew¡¯s hand on his body, thinking of him as little more than a spectre. ¡®Yes,¡¯ said Andrew, ¡®we are quite real.¡¯


    ¡®Wait, you said most of you,¡¯ said Shaun. ¡®What about the rest of them.¡¯


    ¡®We endeavour to keep them under control, and quickly subdue any Self who may be detrimental to the majority. I would not worry on this any further.¡¯ Andrew noticeably dropped the conversation and placed his hands on the Throne. ¡®I suspect that you have many questions still to ask. I would ask them now, while your time here remains. I am uncertain when it will again be possible for us to communicate.¡¯


    Shaun put his hands in his pockets. ¡®What is it that you do?¡¯ he asked.


    Andrew looked away from Shaun. ¡®I must apologise, but I cannot-¡¯


    A thunderous roar ripped through the darkness. The silhouettes looked in every direction, some crouching in fright.


    ¡®Now is not the time. Quickly, you must return to the Throne. I will take you back to the safety of the outside world.¡¯ Andrew, too, looked into the darkness about them. Another roar, full of a loathing that stung at the very fabric of this place.


    Shaun leapt onto the Throne. ¡®If we talk again, I want to know what you do,¡¯ Shaun said through gritted teeth. He couldn¡¯t help but think that this was far too convenient for whatever Andrew was trying to hide.


    With all his force, Andrew spun the Throne. The silhouettes formed a blur until they exploded into purple, red and golden stars that slowly faded into another darkness.


    ...


    Shaun opened his eyes, grey ceiling tiles stared back down at him. Ambient noise returned like an avalanche.


    ¡®Shaun?¡¯ asked Amanda. Her sweet voice warmed him, but he quickly thought back to what he had just experienced.


    ¡®I... I met the voices,¡¯ said Shaun.


    ¡®I heard you talking, but I only got one side of the conversation. Would you like to tell me about your experience?¡¯ Amanda had written pages of notes furiously. She took several quick observations of his reaction to what ever had happened.


    ¡®I only met a few of them, but there were so many more standing around us. I couldn¡¯t see their faces, they were like shadows. Andrew said that there were about forty of them... maybe more. I-I don¡¯t understand this?¡¯ Shaun¡¯s hands began to twitch again. Amanda wanted to touch them, soothe them, but she knew that Shaun was still a dangerous individual.


    ¡®I think that I may be able to shed some light on this situation.¡¯ Amanda set down her pen and closed her notebook, keeping her page with a single finger. ¡®I am sure that you have heard of Schizophrenia. Well, I believe you may have something a little more advanced than that.¡¯ Amanda let out a sympathetic sigh. ¡®Dissociative Identity Disorder. It¡¯s more commonly known as Multiple Personality Disorder.¡¯


    ¡®Oh God,¡¯ Shaun cried. ¡®Just when I thought I couldn¡¯t get any more fucked up.¡¯ He turned around, hiding his face in the sofa¡¯s cushions.


    ¡®I¡¯m not giving you a definitive diagnosis here, Shaun. If you do have DID, there are treatments that we can investigate. Some sufferers of DID go on to live normal lives.¡¯ Few, she thought to herself.


    ¡®Are they real?¡¯ Shaun asked, his voice muffled.


    ¡®Yes, quite real. They are individual personalities that form parts of your own ¡®whole¡¯ psyche. Those mechanisms that protected you as a child formed themselves into distinct personalities as you began to rely on them more and more.¡¯ Amanda wished that he would turn round, but she did not want to pressure him. ¡®I want to help you,¡¯ she said instead.


    ¡®I think-¡¯ Shaun began, but that ferocious roar tore through the room. Amanda was completely oblivious to it, but Shaun screamed in fear. One of the guards outside peered through the window, but Amanda put up a hand to hold him off.


    ¡®What¡¯s wrong, Shaun?¡¯ she asked.


    Suddenly, pain sheared through his shoulders. ¡®Oh God!¡¯ he screamed into the room. His hands tore themselves into the sofa¡¯s material as he clung on for dear life. The pain was excruciating. He had never felt anything even remotely like it before in his life. As the pain increased with pressure, he was yanked into the darkness within him. He closed his eyes as inertia pulled down on his stomach.


    ...


    When he reopened them, he saw that he was sat in the Throne once again. His hands gripped with all the effort that he could manage. The oak armrests creaked with the effort, but they were far stronger than he could ever be.


    Arching over him, a beast of muscle and malevolence bore into his shoulders with talons like butcher¡¯s knives. Blood gushed from beneath them, running down the young man¡¯s sides. Its dark fur rippled with the effort it took, trying to rip him free from the Throne.


    ¡®Give me control, you little dicked shit,¡¯ the beast¡¯s voice tore at him through the darkness. Its eyes burned at him, trying to bore their way into his sole like hot irons.


    ¡®No!¡¯ Shaun shouted back, his teeth locked together as he fought to keep his grip. The beast heaved, but again failed to tear him free.


    ¡®Think of all I have done for you. Think of all the pain I have stopped. Think of that and yield!¡¯ Another tremendous roar exploded from the beast¡¯s mouth, spitting saliva at him. It pulled, its muscles clearly rippling with the effort. Shaun could only scream as it felt as though the beast would tear him apart.


    With the sound of blades cutting through meat, the beast¡¯s talons retreated from his flesh. It leapt before him, growling as it did so. Its shoulders were squared with anger, and its fangs were bared, drooling with saliva. As Shaun watched, a transformation took place. The fur melted, becoming a black liquid. Its form shrank, until it was the size of a regular man. The liquid formed a black, pinstriped suit and a red tie melted down his shirt. Where there should have been a face, there was only a haze of flesh.


    ¡®You have won a simple victory,¡¯ the Faceless Man¡¯s voice still boomed from the darkness. ¡®Do not think that you will do it again. I will catch you at your weakest. I will come for you, Shaun, and I¡¯m going to make you butt-fuck that little shrink bitch of yours until she¡¯s dead. You hear me, Shaun!¡¯


    ...


    Beyond the darkness, Amanda cradled Shaun in her arms. A seizure caused his body to thrash. He moaned incoherently and screamed with pain. His lids flickered violently with the speed of a camera¡¯s shutter, the whites of his eyes were only visible beneath them. She could have been thrown clear from him at any moment like a bucking bronco, but the young woman strove to keep her hold on Shaun.


    Suddenly, the seizure stopped. Unaware of the internal struggle that had taken place, Amanda ran a hand through Shaun¡¯s hair. Sweat ran wildly from his skin and soaked his clothes. A guard leapt through the door followed by a nurse.


    The storm had passed, but Amanda was unaware that the Faceless Man had called for her to die. Shaun¡¯s resting face failed to show the massing potential inside.

 B1 C9 - The Marsh

    Marie was dying. The illness that would eventually kill her had no name, for the doctors had never seen a case like her¡¯s before. Specialists from every department of the medical sciences had failed to diagnose a known disease; they did tell her there was one surety: it was fatal.


    At fifty she was the unfortunate victim of a degenerative muscle disease that had never been seen before. It had no cure and no clear way of slowing down its progress. Her numerous doctors had tried a myriad of treatments, and had, at last, settled on combating it as a form of cancer, trying to kill it with chemotherapy. But rather than improving anything, this only increased her discomfort and shattered her already fragile body.


    Despite all of this, she beared it well, considering she could speak to no sympathetic ear about the pain that assaulted her every day. She still worked and kept a hold on the house that she had lived in for twelve years. She did it all for her ten ''children''. All of them were orphans, each with their own terrible story to tell, but their pain had been taken away by Marie''s immense generosity. There had been many before the kids that she cared for now, and they had all gone on to live happy lives. The ''family'' consisted of nearly twenty individuals, and they all loved her like a mother.


    Marie sat looking out at the river Brent that meandered its way along the flank of South Fairbridge, before trekking through the Marsh ahead of her. Her doctors told her not to drink, but she took a sip from her brandy. This is real medicine, she thought. They can go shove their chemo up their arses. Her feet ached, both from the disease and the strains of the day. She rubbed them vigorously.


    The water was still, mirroring the brilliant blue sky overhead. A lone duck drifted across the water like a paper boat, just idling along to wherever the currents would take it.


    They really have no idea what they¡¯re doing, do they? she asked herself at the thought of the next course of chemotherapy she would be given the following day. She turned her face to the sky and tried to peer at the darkness that lay behind that blue shroud. ''Am I really that annoying?'' she asked aloud.


    Her right leg began to twitch, she chose not to take it as an answer. Rubbing her thigh, she attempted to calm the muscles before it could become a full-blown attack. The disease affected every muscle in her body, eating them up at an alarming rate. The struggle to climb stairs, the incontinence, the ragged heartbeat, and the lolling of her tongue, she could handle, but it was the attacks that troubled her.


    When the convulsions came she was reduced to a paraplegic, powerless to control a single part of body as it bucked wildly. They happened every day now and during those moments she prayed to God that He would make them stop. Whatever He thought she had done, she must have paid the price by now... surely?


    A gust of wind chilled her smooth scalp, and the twitching subsided. With that note, she planted a beanie on her head and left the porch.


    Inside, the kids had strewn toys and scraps of paper all over the house. With the destruction complete, they sat watching Blue Peter in the living room.


    Marie glanced at the television, automatically beginning to clear the table of debris. For the millionth time, the presenter was making Tracy Island out of washing up bottles and other objects that she would have to stock up on, no doubt. She gasped as she looked at the drawing in her hands. A lump formed in her throat and her body froze.


    The page was caked in black crayon which had been smudged and swirled to form a hood. Beneath its brim two white eyes burned outward, like flames caught in a wind. She would not have been so horrified if she hadn¡¯t seen the very same thing in a nightmare a week ago.


    ''Who drew this?'' she enquired in the interrogative tone that only a mother could muster. As though she had cracked a whip, all of the kids turned around to look at her, before looking at one another to see who the guilty party was. Little Kyle stuck out like a pig in a suit, staring at his feet.


    Marie''s eyes locked onto him with the accuracy of a heat-seeking missile. ''Kyle, come here.''


    He stomped towards her, his eyes never leaving the floor. The rest of the kids were silent.


    ''Did you draw this?'' she asked.


    He mumbled something and began to squirm as if he was a fish caught in a net.


    ''What?'' That single word came down like a thunderclap. Kyle should have been sprawled out on the floor, but he miraculously managed to keep his footing. The rest of the kids sniggered slightly, but they quickly turned back to the TV when Marie''s fiery gaze scanned them.


    ''Come on, Chicken,'' she said, leading the little boy out onto the porch. If evolution had not robbed him of his tail, it would have been firmly locked between his legs.


    She sat on a bench and tapped her knee for Kyle to sit on. He did so, wiping his eyes. ''So, did you draw that picture?'' she asked, hugging him.


    ¡®Yes,'' his voice quivered, ''but I didn''t mean to.'' He began to sob.


    ''Hey boney-bum, there''s no need for that. I''m sorry I shouted at you. I was just worried. All I want you to do is tell me why you drew this picture?''


    ''Well, I don''t know, Mummy, I just drew it that¡¯s all. I didn''t mean to draw anything bad. It just came out of my head.''


    Marie studied the little boy before asking: ''Did you dream about this, Chicken?''


    ''No. I just drew him.''


    She smiled. ''OK, little one. Hey,'' she said, giving him a little jiggle with her leg, ''are we still friends?''


    ''Yeah,'' he returned, burying his head in her chest.


    She kissed his forehead and let him scoot back into the house. Marie looked at the face on the page again. The eyes pierced into her heart like the chemo, intoxicating her body till it could take no more.


    She crumpled the paper up and threw it into a waste bin beside the chair.


    Over the marshland, a single seagull cried and dove, racing away on the wind.


    ...


    Kyle was playing in the back garden. The drawing he had made some days ago lay rotting with the rest of their rubbish in the bin. Marie had spared no time in disposing of the picture, a chill had prickled her spine every time she looked at it. While Kyle was playing, she busied herself inside, making dinner for the many children who would be arriving any time now from school.


    A plastic bucket and spade along with several other toys lay half buried about Kyle¡¯s sand pit. He was skimming the sand with the back of a spade, forming long, snaking roads. Each time that he completed a junction or some new feet of engineering, like a bridge or a tunnel, he would run a toy car along the road to test it.


    Once he had finished, the sand pit had been transformed into a miniature town complete with hills, shops and buildings. Everything had been painstakingly carved from the sand with absolute devotion. Kyle was able to play like this for hours, becoming lost in the stories that he made up and the adventures that he could devise, with epic dialogue and sound effects. Sometimes the city would have to deal with some sort of natural disaster like a storm, a flood, or there would be a car chase and some kind of explosion would usually destroy some part of the sand town.


    One of his green cars rounded the bend of a hill, came down a long straight toward a store. Kyle was going to drop off the children from the car to let them go inside and choose some sweets for later. At the back of his mind, a monster would come and storm around the town and cause some havoc, but not yet - his train of thought was suddenly broken. By what? He didn¡¯t really know.


    He stood up, leaving the car before it could reach the store. He stared out at the Marsh; his eyes fixing upon a single point about fifty metres out into the muddy collection of small grassy islands. The idyllic scene stretched in every direction, endless miles of preserved land full of life and greenery. For Kyle, it was not the scene that he was admiring, for admiring was the wrong way to describe his fascination. It was a kind of calling, something inside was pulling him toward that point of land.


    Powerless to refuse the impulse, Kyle strolled slowly from the sandpit, across the lawn and stopped at the fence separating him from the Marsh.


    I can get there, Kyle thought with surety.


    He ducked his head under the fence and began to climb through the gap between the top and bottom rungs. Marie called him in for dinner just as he had one leg on the Marsh side, and the other still in his garden.


    Kyle started and banged his head on the top rung and let out an involuntary: ¡®ow!¡¯ He put a hand to his head and checked that he wasn¡¯t bleeding. He felt guilty and ran into the house, but not before giving that spot of land one last look.


    ...


    The dinner table was strewn with food, salad, burgers, sausages, chicken wings and fish cakes. A large bowl of fries sat in the middle of the table and the children helped themselves to everything like a Roman feast. Behind a vale of sauce bottles and soft drinks was Kyle.


    ¡®So,¡¯ asked Marie, ¡®what have you all been doing at school?¡¯


    Greg, who was nine, piped up: ¡®I was making a castle at school!¡¯


    ¡®Were you?¡¯ Marie asked, while cutting up everything on Kyle¡¯s plate into manageable chunks. ¡®What were you making it out of?¡¯


    ¡®Umm, clay. And when I finished it, I had to put it in the kiln. Tomorrow, I¡¯m going to paint it.¡¯ He stuffed a sausage into his mouth.


    ¡®Oh that¡¯s lovely. What colour are you going to paint it?¡¯ Marie was now putting a bib around Kyle¡¯s neck and passing him a plastic knife and fork.


    ¡®Umm, green I think.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s going to be a very pretty castle.¡¯ Marie sat down and realised that her own plate was empty. Hell, these kids sure keep me busy.


    Kyle watched as his foster mother filled her plate. He had been too young to really remember the suffering that he had gone through as a young child, but the scrapes, bruises and nightmares that pained him were all quickly soothed by his new mummy.


    His real mother, the one who had been a silly young girl too busy playing with boys to ¡®be careful¡¯, had cared so little for his safety that he had almost drowned in a bath no more than a few inches deep. Before Marie received him into her home, Kyle had been abused by his real mother. Three of his ribs had been broken and he had internal bleeding that the doctors were unsure if they could stop. For a time, it had been very close for Kyle. While his real mother thought less of him than a dog, he had found a woman, in Marie, who was devoted to him.


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    That tug, that need returned to him now. Kyle looked out of the window and was able to see that piece of land with ease. His fork, which had speared a piece of sausage moments earlier, was frozen in his hand.


    I can get there, it¡¯s not far. I can do it, I can, I can, I can make it.


    ¡®Kyle,¡¯ Marie said. ¡®Eat your dinner like a good boy.¡¯


    ¡®Yes, Mummy¡¯ the revere was broken, and he finished all of his food and even managed ice cream at the end.


    ...


    It was night, and the house brooded before the Marsh, creaking as the day¡¯s warmth lifted off into the night. On the top floor was Kyle¡¯s room. Toys littered the floor, and a Thomas the Tank Engine night light illuminated his room in a dim glow. The boy was snugly tucked in under the covers and was fast asleep.


    While the rest of the house was sleeping, with every other bed full, Marie¡¯s was the only one that remained empty. Outside, the porch was empty, but the door was slowly closing on its hinges.


    Marie ducked under the fence and struggled her way through the mud of the Marsh, her pyjamas were quickly soaked up to her knees and huge clumps of mud collected around her feet. She took no notice of the state of her clothes, for her mind was fixed on one thing.


    I can get there, it¡¯s not far, almost there. What is it, I need to know!


    The further she ventured, the harder the terrain became. The mud under her feet became looser, much more like the bank of a river heavy with silt; with each footstep her feet would sink up to her ankles and eventually she was wading up to her knees, using the long grasses around her to haul herself out and onward.


    A full moon, much like a giant spotlight, shone over the Marsh, highlighting every detail in a silver glow. The soaking mud glistened in the moonlight with the glimmer of a million crystals. Marie and her pyjamas seemed like a ghoul hovering and skipping over the ground, with the sound of her efforts passing crisply through the air around her.


    With a final, weakened pull she yanked her body free of the thick mud and onto a raised island of grass. She allowed herself to take in two deep breaths, her chest heaving up to the starry sky. But she did not rest long, she had arrived at the spot which had called to her all day long, interrupted her train of thought, and made her stare out at the marshland while she had cleaned the dishes. Her hands had been submerged so long that when they came out, deep furrows had wrinkled the skin on her fingers.


    Marie began to search the small island, which was no more than six feet in diameter, for whatever had been so important. Her fingers hunted through the grass, which was rough and unforgiving against her skin. It took her almost five minutes, and with every passing second, she became more and more agitated.  It was only at the point when she had become frenzied, frantically stabbing her hands into the grass and mud, did she find the object.


    It was cold, the size of her palm, yet heavy as lead. In the moon¡¯s glow, it was an almost obsidian pebble. She rolled it from one hand to the other, noticing how the surface lacked any imperfection, except for a single rune on its reverse. Marie squinted and held the pebble higher so she could inspect it. The rune was a twist of lines which overlapped and circled a central line. As she brushed a finger down that line, the rune began to glow in a sweet, golden light.


    With surprise, Marie flicked her hand, instinctively trying to drop the object. Instead, the pebble only pulled at the skin of her hand and remained where it was. She tried to pull it, but it felt as though the pebble had taken root in her flesh, and her bones. The glow was growing with intensity, losing its sweet tones, and becoming sickening. Feelings of intrigue had now given way to panic.


    She tried to dig her nails under the pebble, but she could only claw at her skin. Blood coursed from her wounds beneath the object, black in the light of the moon. ¡®Help me,¡¯ she screamed into the hostile darkness around her, but no one could answer. No one could hear her.


    A vibration shook the island, jarring Marie¡¯s limbs and causing her brain to thrum inside her skull. Thick, black cracks appeared in the mud as the grass was spread aside. At first, one of her hands slipped into a crack and she had to pull herself up, but then a leg was swallowed up; the shift in weight caused her body to twist and a sharp pain shot into her back.


    With both her legs now deep in cracks, straddling a mound of grass, and her left arm deep in another crack before her, she was ill prepared for what happened next.


    There was a sudden golden flash, and the mud island exploded, throwing Marie clear into the air. She was surrounded by huge chunks of stinking mud, grass, and beads of water. Crystals glinting in the moonlight.


    The sudden acceleration threw her limbs forward, she formed an arch as she shot into the air. But then a force punched her down towards the earth. The change in direction forced her limbs out behind her, cracking joints and pulling muscles to the point of snapping. She now plummeted toward the ground, joined by the water and mud. As she hit the marshy earth, everything seemed to implode, and with a whump and a sudden flash of golden light, she disappeared.


    ...


    There was an explosion of sound that echoed into the night like distant thunder. Water and mud rained down in every direction, and Marie smacked onto a cold stone platform. She must have fallen five feet, appearing from complete thin air.


    Around her she could hear chanting, wailing and the whooping call of some huge bird. She was dazzled by a sickening golden light that pulsed with the rhythm of the chanting. Through the brightness she could see hooded figures undulating and making huge gestures with their emaciated arms. The light came from a series of large monoliths that encircled her. Gigantic runes throbbed with that horrible glow which had at first warmed her, but it now sent an horrific shiver deep into her core.


    She whirled onto her back, flicking her head about her to scan the surroundings. Where the fuck am I? she screamed into her head. This is¡­ impossible.


    But it was possible, everything was quite real. The air was polluted, it had a terrible taste, like burnt oil and wood. It was difficult to breath, irritating the back of her throat. The sky was impossible to see through the glow of those huge slabs of rock and their beaming runes. The figures beyond the encircling monoliths chanted louder, more violently, and that hooting call of the bird peaked with hoarse tones.


    Everything stopped. The chanting, and the golden light shut down with such suddenness that Marie was now blinded by the darkness around her.


    She held out her arms, and her eyes were wide open with fright and the effort to see in such darkness. In the gloom, the figures slowly began to stalk forward, seeming to hover up the steps of the stone platform. A chill ran over Marie¡¯s body and she knew in that moment that she was in trouble, real bad trouble.


    From behind her came a loud thunderous growl, like a tiger fed on pure growth hormone. She heard the creature pad from behind her and then trot about the circle of stone pillars. Her eyes were wide with terror.


    ¡®Fuck this,¡¯ she whispered to herself, to the hooded figures advancing toward her, to that predatory creature beyond the darkness of the stone platform. Instinct now drove her. Adrenaline had ignited a fire in her heart like nitrous to a car engine, deep parts of her brain, evolved for this, were switched into gear. With lightning fast agility, she whipped from sitting to sprinting in the opposite direction.


    She collided into one of the figures, it gave out a terrible scream, like a strangled cat and snapped some sort of beak at her. Its hands gripped her arms, but its skin was leathery, dry and its fingers felt more like talons. Without thinking she punched her fist under its chin and screamed. ¡®No!¡¯


    The figure was knocked back, more with surprise than the force Marie had been able to muster. It collapsed into another of the bird-like creatures. Its companion gave out a squawk of frustration and was then itself hurled out of the way.


    Marie slipped on the stone step, the mud on her trainers had translated into this world just as easily as she had. She dived down the seven or eight steps, smacking her right knee into the ground. She did not linger long and was again sprinting. Adrenaline numbed her pain, allowed her to race into the darkness.


    As she raced from the confines of the monoliths¡¯ circle, she ran into the outside world and toward a line of trees. Behind a her, one of the bird creatures screamed a command. ¡®Thane, galag na votonor!¡¯


    There was a roar, like nothing Marie had heard before. The ground trembled and her heart buzzed in her chest. When it finished, she could hardly hear the thudding paws of the beast that thundered toward her over the ringing in her ears. But it was those regressed instincts which were finely tuned to those sounds. RUN! is all that sprang to her mind and her body responded.


    A twig scratched her face and flicked her eye. She let out a scream but raced onward. She deftly sprung over roots, hurdled low branches, and dived under more.


    Behind her, the beast crashed into the tree line. Branches were ripped clean off their trunks, splinters of wood shot through the darkness like the shrapnel from a bomb. It roared again before it broke into another sprint, merely yanking at the branches around it and tearing its way through.


    Marie had very little lead over this gigantic carnivore. Each bound gained it eight feet, but on a straight run it surely must have been able to make fifty miles an hour. With a quick glance Marie judged unconsciously that it must have been taller than a horse, and longer than a car. Thick muscles rolled beneath its dark fur.


    She sprung over another root and then shot left, changing direction with such speed that she had to use a branch to sling shot her round. Her grip loosened slightly, and the branch ripped into her skin. The pain didn¡¯t last long, the adrenaline took care of that.


    Behind her, the beast that chased her down turned, careered into a crop of trees, ripping each of them out of the ground with the sound of straining wood and tearing roots. It dug its claws into the ground and launched into a renewed sprint.


    Marie charged into a clearing, which turned hostile as she noticed the vine she almost ran into had huge thorns on it that were curved like the teeth of a shark and were almost six inches long. She dove to the ground at the last minute and felt a clump of her hair ripping away. A long series of these vines draped down from above and went on for another twenty feet.


    Scrabbling on all fours, she shuffled quickly to the end of the clearing until she was safely within the trees again and free of the vines. She leapt over a root and carried on running.


    ¡­


    Thane had not been born, it had been created in the breeding pools to the north of the Guyren. It lived for one purpose alone, to hunt and kill. Thane felt no pain, for there was no purpose, it would only be a weakness. The scent of the female prey was thick in its nostrils, as was the acrid scent of the black trees around it. But the prey¡¯s scent was warm, fresh. The beast could practically taste her flesh.


    When Thane exploded into the clearing it launched into a deep bound, building more speed. Vines rapped around each of its limbs, around its thick muzzle and strangled its throat. The thorns stabbed into the beast¡¯s flesh, cracking ribs, and locking easily into joints. Thane was held nine feet clear of the ground, wrapped in the thick vines. It thrashed its legs helplessly in the air.


    With a furious roar that was full of hatred, Thane rolled violently and with such force that the thorns that had stabbed so far inside its body now tore themselves free. Vines snapped and those that failed to give way merely sliced into Thane¡¯s flesh.


    Hunks of meat thudded to the ground, blood gushed and painted the trees around it. Thane¡¯s intestines spilled from its belly and huge patches of fur had been pulled back in massive flaps, revealing torn muscles and thick veins that pumped dark blood into the night.  With a frustrated growl, Thane pulled away the intestines that it had spilled, leaving them behind as it bound into the woods again, paying no attention to the blood that gushed from numerous wounds.


    ¡­


    Marie had cleared the woods and ran along the bank of a putrid, rotting river. The gravel made it hard to run, but the beast seemed to have been caught up back in the clearing. She pounded on for as long as she could take, but soon her legs simply ran out of steam, and she was powerless to stop herself as she came careering down to the ground. Her hands smashed into the gravel, yet more skin was torn away. She gulped air and then vomited.


    A hundred metres back, the trees burst, their limbs shooting in all directions. The hell-hound shot from the treeline and landed in the river, sending a huge halo of water around it like a white mane. As the water returned to the ground, the beast roared vibrating the gravel so much that they danced visibly.


    ¡®Shit,¡¯ Marie grunted and hauled herself up and struggled to run further.


    The creature thundered toward her, water frothing into the air around it. The distance between them diminished in a matter of heartbeats. As it leapt into the air in its final move to capture its prey - neither Marie nor the beast were prepared for what happened next.


    Marie fell, the ground beneath her disappeared. She had run out of riverbank and had launched herself over the face of a deep crevice. Her body rolled over and as she came upright her hand managed to catch a vine and her fingers wrapped around it. The vine burned through her hand. She felt the skin ripping away from the friction. She came to a stop. Her other hand reached and grabbed the vine.


    The beast had not been so lucky. The force of its leap sent it flying fifteen feet out into the void of the crevice. Its claws reached out to her in a last ditch attempt to capture her, to devour her. Marie saw the whites of its eyes flash with fury as it realised the truth - the chase was over, and it had lost.


    As the hell-hound disappeared into the darkness, falling with the speed of a diving plane, it let out a final deafening roar.


    The sound stretched and diminished as the creature fell into the darkness.


    ...


    Marie hung on for another few minutes, but the chase had brought on an attack. She lacked any strength to haul herself up to the surface, which was tantalisingly close, nor could she do anything to stop her disease taking away her control of her body.


    At first, cramp took hold of her calves, then her thighs twitched violently. Her body was shutting down, losing control. She felt isolated. Trapped. A prisoner within her own body.


    No, she could only whisper in her mind, for the ability to talk had left her. She felt as her hands began to twitch. She lost the sensation of the wooden vine. And then she felt as it slipped in her grip.


    Her stomach lurched as she fell. Air gushed passed her.


    The darkness consumed her.

 B1 C10 - The Shadow

    Shaun¡¯s psychiatrist, Amanda, was returning from a late shift at work.


    She opened her door, switched on the hall light, and dumped her work bag on a small ottoman. She rested her head on the front door and sighed, she was emotionally and physically exhausted. What happened today, she asked herself. Sometimes¡­ I¡¯m still astounded by what I come across in this job.


    In the kitchen, she grabbed a half-finished bottle of white wine, helped herself to a glass and quickly downed it. The bite caused her to cough, but the heat inside her was good, refreshing, revitalising. ¡®God, I needed that.¡¯ She poured another glass, almost letting the wine brim over the top and carried it upstairs.


    Amanda clicked the bathroom light into being, and a small extractor fan whirred into life with a clunking flap-flap-flap as the external cover bobbed in the airflow. She rested the wine on the side of the bath, reached over to the taps and started the water running. After bobbing her hand up and down, testing the waters temperature, she mixed in soothing oils and sniffed the wonderful scents that tantalised her nostrils. Already, tension was offloading from her shoulders, and the knots in her back unfurled slightly in anticipation of the hot bath. She watched as the tub filled. Steam rose from the hot water.


    Slowly, and with a purpose which had been with her ever since she was a small girl, she removed her clothes, carefully folded them, and placed them precisely on the toilet seat. Without thinking, she peered at herself in the long bathroom cabinet¡¯s mirror and rubbed her hands down the skin of her stomach. It was times like this that she felt alone. Not for the needs of a man, but for companionship, someone to be there to hear her fears, her thoughts, and needs.


    A long slender leg dipped into the water, relishing the hot prickle of heat and slid further in. Amanda eased herself into the almost scolding hot water, yet she did not yell out. Instead, she smiled and sighed deeply, this was a cleansing which was well overdue. She slid back until her entire body was submerged until her neck. She smiled to the ceiling and closed her eyes. The taps were still running, but they could wait a while.


    ¡­


    Downstairs, everything was quiet, nothing stirred. The only sounds came from the plumbing as the water ran, and the sounds of the bath being disturbed as Amanda eased herself in. The hallway was empty, except for the ottoman and a coat rack which was fixed to the wall.


    The front door¡¯s brass handle was well polished, reflecting a distorted version of the hallway, like the fisheye of a photographer¡¯s lens. Everything was still, just as it should be, as though frozen in time - perfect, yet only for a moment. An object moved down the hallway, it was long, thin but faint. A shadow undulated down the hallway, delicate like a stalking hunter. It made no sound, not even a footstep, or sound of rolling, swishing - nothing.


    Black mould spawned in its wake, sprawling out in all directions, coating the floor, the walls and ceiling in thick black spots, furred like moss growing on well-worn stone. Thin tendrils meandered along all the surfaces like the roots of a plant, and curling around light fixtures, knotting themselves around picture frames and switches.


    The shadow meandered up the stairs. It was almost without form. It rolled in the air, like the steam from a kettle or smoke from a cigarette. It never disbursed, merely replenished itself in this semi-transparent haze.


    ¡­


    Upstairs, Amanda had shuffled lower, now only her face breached the surface of the water. She wore a tired smile, one that resembled the tension releasing from her aching muscles. Shaun, she thought, if only you could feel this release. Ah, what will I do with you?


    She laughed to the room. Thinking of clients at home, huh Amanda? What would people say about that? She sat up, causing the water to react violently around her, almost sloshing over the side. As Amanda rose, she pulled back her hair and squeezed out a little of the water. ¡®Ah, that¡¯s good.¡¯


    She reached for the wine, and took a large mouthful, smacking her lips. She reclined and wiggled her toes under the hot flow of water.


    She took a smaller swig of the wine, and her mind suddenly thought of her ex-boyfriend Richard. He had been pretty good to her, but this lifestyle did them no favours. He couldn¡¯t handle the crazy hours she worked, and his care for her eventually got in the way - he didn¡¯t trust her patients.


    Richard¡­ she thought and slid a little deeper into the water.


    It would be one of her last thoughts.


    ¡­


    The bathroom door, which was only half closed, darkened. The rot had spread this far, and the tendrils trickled over its surface. Mould spores burst into being and stained the wood in off white and dark grey blotches.


    The door did not move, but that shadow skirted about it, slowly rolling like a cloud. It twisted now, with that slow but definite swirl until it towered above the bath. A second twist of smoke-like shadow unfurled from its side and stretched out toward Amanda. Her eyes were closed and a smile still beamed on her face.


    The dark shadow changed from smoke, till a hand began to form. It did not form skin, but instead the fingers were coated in a black bark. It was rough and seemed incomplete. From the main body of the shadow, more of that bark took form and a jagged face was scratched on its surface. The mouth was a gaping crack.


    The hand pulled back, and as Amanda opened her eyes in that relaxed daze, the hand pounced forward.


    ¡­


    The hypnotic daze was whipped away and Amanda gargled a scream. Water sloshed violently, splashing on the tiles and tipping onto the floor. She flailed her limbs wildly, but she was pinned to the spot.


    The shadow whirled and the hand came down harder, the bath began to whine under the pressure as the metal and fibreglass strained.


    Amanda could only stare wildly into the monstrous eyes before her, like the knots in a plank of wood. They were full of fury, and murderous intent. Her face felt hot with blood. Her head pounded with the pulse of her heart. A deep, dull pain throbbed in her head.


    Her mouthed gasped for air, but nothing could pass her collapsed throat. Her voice box snapped under the grip of this monstrosity, and the pain stabbed into her.


    Not like this! she screamed into her mind.


    ¡­


    Again, the shadow whirled and more force came down on her throat. The bark coated hand gripped tighter, until the sound of snapping bones crackled into the bathroom. Her neck was broken, and those bright intelligent, but terrified eyes became clouded, and unfocussed. Her thrashing body became slack, and her limbs haphazardly crashed back into the water.


    The shadow released her. The hand now melting back into that wisp of smoke. Her body twitched, causing her head to bounce gently. She was slowly slipping into the water and the bath made a terrible grating sound as she slid down till her head was submerged under the water. Those lifeless eyes stared onward.


    The water continued to run from the taps, and soon spilled over the sides and raced over the tiled floor into the hallway. It would be some hours before anyone noticed the water coursing from her front door into the street.


    The shadow rolled around the door and down the stairs, evaporating in the hallway. Everything was still, untouched and the only sound in the whole house was that of the overspilling bath.


    Shaun was sleeping again, comforted by thick, crisp sheets, completely unaware.


    ...


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    Gin straightened his tie in the reflection of his car window and took a deep breath in the cool morning air. From his pocket he slipped on a pair of sunglasses and took his latte from the roof of the car.


    The sun was rising quickly and that scorching, record high temperature would bake everything.


    Tom shouldn¡¯t be long, he thought. It was five to six, and his partner normally picked him up dead on six AM.


    In the distance, the sound of a siren whaled across the open playing field. Gin took a swig of his coffee and rested on his car. The hotel was pretty still, but for a few businessmen who had joined him at breakfast, and were now easing themselves into Mercedes, BMWs, and other much flashier cars than his own.


    A yawn stretched his face, and Gin rubbed his freshly shaven chin. He considered having a smoke before Tom arrived, but after looking at the packet, he gave them a disgusted look and threw them into an open-topped bin with a deft throw.


    A suited man was walking down the path from the foyer and made a passing comment: ¡®that sounded pretty full.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah,¡¯ said Gin, ¡®I just quit.¡¯


    The siren came closer and closer. Intrigued, Gin began to walk to the end of the carpark, sipping at his coffee. Tom¡¯s black BMW was racing down Main Street, the roar of its engine now evident.  ¡®This¡¯ll be a shit day,¡¯ Gin said to himself and thought of that packet of cigarettes.


    The unmarked car skidded to a halt before Gin, and Tom furiously gestured for him to get in.


    ¡®What¡¯s happening?¡¯ Gin asked as soon as he could throw himself inside.


    ¡®Osborne¡¯s psychiatrist was murdered last night,¡¯ was all Tom replied as he threw the car into first and made a fast three-point turn, the siren blaring, and making clacking sounds.


    ¡®Holy shit,¡¯ was all Gin could manage. What the hell is happening? he thought


    ¡®When was this called in?¡¯ Gin shouted over the sound of the engine and the blaring siren.


    ¡®About five minutes ago, just as I was on my way to your¡¯s. Seems a neighbour noticed a load of water coming out of her front door and called it in. The uniform that responded found her dead in the tub - taps were still running.¡¯ Tom hurled the car round a crowd of early morning traffic and went through a set of lights in the opposite lane.


    ¡®Any signs of forced entry?¡¯ Gin asked, holding on for dear life.


    ¡®Don¡¯t know, didn¡¯t ask too many questions.¡¯ Traffic blocked a junction, and they couldn¡¯t get through. The siren blurted and crackled. ¡®Come on, out of the fucking way!¡¯ As if in response, the cars slowly rolled aside, making room for them to shoot down the centre. The car¡¯s engine roared as they raced down the queue and through the traffic lights.


    It was almost another five minutes before they arrived at the scene. The entire street had been blocked off, and neighbours were at the ticker tape in their night wear.


    Nosey as ever, thought Gin.


    The two detectives hauled themselves out of the car and were let under the tape by a uniform.


    Sergeant James Bowman was talking to a forensics officer and noticed the two of them walking up the steep path. It was wet, but the water must have stopped running some time ago.


    ¡®Morning, gentlemen!¡¯ he said and shook each of their hands. He had been on scene for most of the bodies found in this case and was ever a comforting sight.


    ¡®Morning, Sergeant,¡¯ said Gin. ¡®This is all a bit dramatic for a Saturday morning.¡¯


    ¡®Tell me about it,¡¯ said Bowman. ¡®Shall I run you through what we have so far?¡¯


    ¡®Go for it,¡¯ said Tom.


    Bowman pointed to the path. ¡®At approximately four-thirty AM Mr Hamilton there on fifty-eight noticed water running down Miss Garcia¡¯s path. He thought that was odd as he had seen her return home sometime between seven thirty and eight thirty. He tried the door but got no answer, so he called the police. A uniform arrived at about five and gained entry and found Miss Garcia dead in the bath at roughly five-ten. Once we realised that she was one of your¡¯s, we called you in. That¡¯s as much as we have. Shall we go in?¡¯


    The water was about three inches deep, and soaked Tom and Gin¡¯s shoes easily. ¡®There are no signs of forced entry, nor of any struggle,¡¯ Bowman continued as he led the detectives up the stairs. The carpet squelched and the staircase creaked. It was completely saturated with water, as was the rest of the house.


    Inside the bathroom, a forensic photographer was taking close-up shots of each item. Another member of the forensics team was busy labelling all the evidence. Water covered the tiled floor, and the bath was filled right to the top, almost ready to brim over again.


    Amanda¡¯s body was twisted uncomfortably and was completely submerged under the water, only emphasising the pale skin of the body. Her eyes were staring blankly back at them all.


    ¡®We¡¯re just waiting for the pathologist so we can get a cause of death, but I think you¡¯ll find this interesting,¡¯ said Bowman pointing to the back of the bath.


    The headrest was crumpled and almost crushed. ¡®Ever seen that happen before?¡¯ asked Tom.


    Gin squinted a little. ¡®Never. How much pressure do you think it would take to do that?¡¯


    Bowman laughed. ¡®I think a lot more than your gym membership would provide you. Whoever it was, must have been both built like a brick shit-house, and mad as hell.¡¯


    ¡®Where¡¯s Osborne?¡¯ asked Gin.


    Tom crouched down a little and inspected a speck of mould that was floating on the water. ¡®I checked with the hospital, he¡¯s quite happily asleep.¡¯


    ¡®Good, last thing we need is him on the loose,¡¯ said Gin. ¡®Look, if you find anything-¡¯


    ¡®Unit Tango-one, do you read?¡¯ crackled Tom¡¯s radio. ¡®Unit Tango-one, do you read, over?¡¯


    Tom unclipped the walkie and stepped into the hallway. ¡®Tango-one, go ahead dispatch, over.¡¯


    ¡®Be advised that a missing person¡¯s report has been filed, you are requested to respond, over,¡¯ the female dispatcher¡¯s voice rattled away.


    ¡®Dispatch, are there no other units available, over?¡¯ Tom replied.


    ¡®Negative, over.¡¯


    ¡®Okay, what¡¯s the address?¡¯ Tom asked, picking his notebook out of his jacket and clicked a pen into life.


    Gin inspected the speck of mould that Tom had seen and pinched it between his fingers. It broke up easily in a thin puff of dust. He rubbed his fingers together and smelt them. ¡®Did any of the neighbours report any disturbances last night?¡¯


    Bowman made a quick flick through his notes. ¡®Nothing that I know of. The two houses on either side said that it was all quiet until they noticed the water streaming from the front door.¡¯


    Rubbing his chin, Gin made another pass around the bathroom and saw nothing of interest but noted the tidy pile of clothes on the toilet seat. ¡®Looks like she was pretty happy when she got in the bath.¡¯


    ¡®Clearly,¡¯ said Bowman, ¡®something went wrong down the line.¡¯


    Odd, such a violent death, but she never saw it coming. ¡®Let me know what prints you get,¡¯ said Gin.


    ¡®Gin?¡¯ called Tom. ¡®We¡¯ve been called out to another house. Seems like some foster mum went missing during the night.¡¯


    ¡®Well, aren¡¯t we a little busy here?¡¯ asked Gin. ¡®The pathologist hasn¡¯t even arrived.¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s no one else able to respond. There¡¯s not much else we can do here. Might as well check this out.¡¯


    ¡®Sergeant, keep us informed of the pathologist¡¯s findings,¡¯ said Gin.


    ...


    A patrol car was sitting on the driveway of the house. The children were huddled around a picnic table talking to the officer who had responded, their faces were sullen, and their postures were hunched, hugging the wooden table.


    Tom¡¯s car eased into the driveway and the two detectives climbed out. Two crime scenes in one day, Gin laughed to himself. That¡¯s either providence or some real bad luck.


    ¡®Morning,¡¯ said Gin as he approached the table. The kids spun around and looked up at him, cupping their eyes with their hands. The sun was shining so painfully off every surface that Gin was squinting himself. ¡®So, who can tell me what happened?¡¯


    There was a long pause, no one spoke for a time, until an older boy - maybe fifteen - spoke up: ¡®well we woke up this morning to get ready for school, and thought it was odd that Mum wasn¡¯t up already. So, I checked her bedroom and she wasn¡¯t there, but she hadn¡¯t made her bed - and that¡¯s odd. I thought she might have had an attack so-¡¯


    ¡®What kind of attack?¡¯ Gin asked, now cupping his eyes from the sunlight.


    ¡®She has this muscle disease thing, so she has, like, attacks all the time where she can¡¯t breathe and gets paralysed. Anyway, I ran round the house but couldn¡¯t find her. It¡¯s been quite a few hours now and she didn¡¯t leave a note.¡¯ The boy finished and looked around at the rest of the kids.


    ¡®Could she not have just gone to the shop?¡¯ asked Gin.


    One of the teenage girls laughed. ¡®Clearly, you don¡¯t know our mum.¡¯


    ¡®Where¡¯s your dad?¡¯ Must have been a busy guy, thought Gin looking round at all the kids. But then, he noticed that they did not look related.


    ¡®We¡¯re foster kids, bit of a sore subject,¡¯ the boy returned quickly.


    ¡®Mind if we take a look inside?¡¯ asked Gin, giving Tom a ¡®put my foot in it¡¯ look.


    ¡®Go for it¡¯ said one of the older girls.


    ...


    Inside, the house was spotless, except for a small corner where several toys had been spread around their containers.


    ''No sign of a struggle,'' said Tom as he entered the lounge.


    ''No,'' Gin replied, ''but what does that remind you of?'' He thought of a dirty house, weeds covering the front garden as though they were on display; some so high that they had flowered and made the garden look more like a meadow in the middle of a suburban neighbourhood.


    ''What the Garcia woman''s place?'' Tom popped his head through a serving hatch.


    Gin knocked his fist on the coffee table and sat down on a faux leather sofa. ''No, I was thinking of the second victim Thomas Whitmoore. These last two call outs have been the same as that. No sign of a break in, no motive or reason. What bothers the fuck out of me is that Osborne has been in our custody for almost a week and yet the toll has gone up from eight to eleven.''


    Tom exited the kitchen. ''So, it must be an accomplice?''


    ''Has to be, how else could people still be killed and kidnapped in the same manner - and with our man in custody.'' Gin lifted himself from the sofa and walked towards the stairs.


    As Gin was climbing them, Tom tailed behind. ''So, are we going to bung this disappearance in with the case?''


    ''Not yet, nothing is confirmed. We have enough to worry about without trying to look for a missing woman, but we''ll keep a close eye on it in case it looks like she definitely comes under our remit.''


    Just as the children had said, Marie''s bed was empty and unmade. The sheet had been pulled back in a controlled manner. Like the house, her room was neat, and everything seemed to have a place, even the pulled back sheet. This, Gin thought, is not the scene of a crime.


    ''Alright, I don''t think we''ll find anything here, let¡¯s go and see what came of the Garcia killing.'' As the two men left Marie''s room, Gin looked out of the window and felt a little pull as though the ground had been taken from him, very gentle, like the ghost of a thought, but it had been there. He chewed his lip and left.