The women carried the old brown bones to the embers of our Hallow’s Eve fire and found its dying yet still-beating, blistering heart. Here, they placed the demon’s guise, and the priest said a few words he’d never speak on a Sunday in his pulpit.
“Hide your children well, in costumes of ghosts and witches. Or a denizen of Hell might come to them, dressed in human skin and bones to make a human guise.”
He kept Jenna’s mind, that boy. It never came back and neither did he.
As for me, Tom had known who and what I was, and that I’d never made a prayer at the crossroads, at least out loud. His mother had heard my heart, not Jenna’s demand, perhaps, and had preferred my desires to hers.
Even to this day, I leave offerings to She of the Four Faces at the crossroads, and I work always in her name, doing her business. But she never sent him back to me, even when I earned my land and house, and bought my high-stepping mare, and gave birth to the first of my black-haired daughters who look like witches.
Jenna had a child too, nine months from that Hallow’s Eve. It looked healthy and normal enough, but it only lived a day.
QUEEN OF THE HUNT
ADRIAN COLE
Adrian Cole’s first published work was a ghost story for IPC magazines in 1972, followed soon after by The Dream Lords trilogy of sword and planet novels from Zebra Books. Since then he has gone on to have more than two dozen books published, including the Omaran Saga and Star Requiem fantasy quartets, and the young adult novels Moorstones and The Sleep of Giants. His most recent novel is The Shadow Academy from Canada’s Edge Science Fiction and Fantasy Publishing.
His collection Nick Nightmare Investigates, which featured a number of stories about the eponymous hard-boiled occult private eye battling the minions of H. P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos, won the British Fantasy Award, while more recent collections include Tough Guys and Elak King of Atlantis, the latter continuing the exploits of Henry Kuttner’s sword and sorcery hero.
“I’ve always been fascinated by Hecate,” explains Cole, “since I first discovered her as a teenager (in Macbeth, not in reality). This ‘close contriver of all harms’ is well-established across Europe, and as a focal point for my story is clearly intent on living up to her reputation.
“I’m equally inspired by all things elemental—probably attributable to my country background (rural Devonshire in England)—and my fiction often reflects its living landscape’s relationship with the inner world of its inhabitants. Who could fail to be moved by Dartmoor, the sea or the deep forests, and the powers inherent in them? They will always be here as metaphors—or perhaps something even more tangible?”
LATE OCTOBER. TOO cold, as if November had arrived early.
Craig’s back was visible through the stand of trees, his head bowed in characteristic manner, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Several uniformed policemen stood around, motionless, waiting for further instructions from him. Otherwise the copse was silent, an odd moment frozen in time.
Coming toward them, Phillips gripped the leash of his German Shepherd tighter, the big dog straining forward as it led the way across the open field. Initially it had shied away from this place, and although its hackles were up, it had changed tack, eager to get into the dell. The smell of blood came unmistakably on the stiff breeze. To the dog it would have been potent.
Craig turned, fixing the dog and its handler with a sour look. “Sorry to drag you out,” he said. He wasn’t, of course. “But I think you can help with this one.” His bulk—he was tall and broad—momentarily blotted out the scene beyond him.
Phillips had been told it wasn’t pretty. The dog pulled its lips back in a feral snarl, not at Craig, but at what was beyond. It was properly spooked, inquisitive, but highly nervous. Phillips tugged the chain hard and brought the dog to heel. It took all his strength. He glanced beyond Craig into the dip. There were a lot of leaves, churned up and scattered as though a storm had blustered its way through here. The air was calm within the trees, though the breeze wasn’t enough to remove the smell of blood and opened flesh.
“Christ,” said Phillips when he saw the body. It was lying at an awkward angle as if it had been dropped from a great height, arms and legs twisted under it. The clothes had been ripped from it in places, the exposed flesh blotched with mud. Where the head joined the shoulders there was an open wound, the blood glistening as it coagulated. There was so much of it, clotting the leaves. The throat had been torn out and half the face was missing, as if someone had pulled it off clumsily, removing a mask.
Craig sucked in air through his teeth and exhaled. “Been here a day or two. I’m thinking this isn’t the work of a person. Not even a madman. Any thoughts?”
Again Phillips had to restrain the dog. It wanted to sniff at the corpse, but at the same time its nervousness—no, fear, the handler realized—held it back. He tried to soothe it. Phillips felt its thick hide trembling. Something weird was going on here.
“He’s been savaged, sir,” he said, bending down to look more closely, in spite of his revulsion.
“I reckon a dog, or dogs,” said Craig. “You’d know more about these things than me.”
Phillips nodded, studying the body and several places where the flesh had been torn and peeled away. “I was down in Cornwall a while back, when they had the last lot of sightings of the so-called Beast.”
“Wasn’t that a big cat?”
Phillips shook his head. “No, sir, not by my reckoning. Everyone thought so and it suited the media to play up to the big cat story.”
“What did you think?”
“Dog. I’ve seen enough sheep-worrying incidents and what dogs can do. A cat has teeth like needles, even the bigger ones. The teeth used on those sheep were canine. People may have seen big cats lurking about the fields—may even be some throwbacks to the old zoos from years ago. I’m sure they’re around. But all the dead animals I saw were killed by dogs.”
Craig studied the mangled body. “So I was right. This was a dog?”
“Maybe a pack of them.”
Craig frowned. “A pack? You mean, wild? Domestic dogs don’t usually hunt in packs, do they?”
Phillips stood up. He’d been told Craig was astute. For a Detective Inspector, he had the brains to move up in the system, but the word was he was a bit of a loner and liked his own way of doing things. Didn’t always fit in with the bosses. “You’re right, sir. Dogs can be organized in packs—like in a fox hunt. I guess you know it still goes on around these parts, never mind the ban.”
Craig grunted. It was both an acknowledgement and a sound of disapproval.
“Foxhounds didn’t do this. If you had a wild pack of dogs loose,” Phillips added, “you’d know it. Is this an isolated incident, sir?”
“As far as I know. No one else has been attacked, never mind killed. I’ll find out about the sheep. The local farmers will provide us with that.”
“You might find, sir, that if any of them have shot any dogs lately, they might not want to own up to it. Probably buried the evidence. It’s how things work.”
Craig made no comment. “Okay. Can you see if your dog can pick up a trail? If this is a dog, or dogs, we ought to be able to track them down.”
“Right. Mind you, we never did nail the sheep-killer on Bodmin Moor. There’s so much terrain. Same around here. A lot of forest. Wild dogs will go to ground.”
Craig looked at him for a moment as if he’d rebuke him. “Well, see what you can do, eh?”
By the end of the day, the body had been removed, and Craig met up with Phillips at the edge of a field, where it dipped down into a fast-flowing stream.
“We tracked something to this stream,” said Phillips. The big Alsatian sat beside him, tongue lolling, the dog apparently relaxed.
“You think it went into it?”
“Can’t find any tracks either upstream or down. We went a good mile or more in both directions. There’s a farm one way and a road the other. Whatever came here used t
he water to cover its tracks.”
“How about the other side?”
“Same, sir. Nothing.”
Craig scowled. “So we have a pack of dogs, possibly one dog, and they went into the stream and—what? Disappeared?”
“If the dogs had a handler, they could have gone down to the road, to wait.”
“And a van? Bundled the dogs in and drove away?”
“Seems a bit far-fetched, sir.”
Craig sucked in a breath. “If it’s a stray, or a pack, someone will be aware.”
“Do you know who the dead man is, sir?”
Craig nodded. “Yes, he’s a local guy. Owns a small company, making saddles and gear for horses. Riding is popular hereabouts. Roger Poulter-Evans. Fifty-five. Married, two kids, both working in London.”
“Does the wife know?”
Craig grunted. “No. I have the dubious pleasure of telling her.” He looked at his watch. “God knows what I’m supposed to say.”
“What was he doing out here, sir? It’s a bit off the beaten track. Did he have his own dog? Taking it for a walk?”
“Would you say he was attacked and killed in that wood? Or was he taken there and dumped?”
“It was done there. Too much mess for anyone to have disguised it. And Rex would have found traces of anyone else, if people were involved in the wood.”
“Okay. Thanks for coming over. I may need to contact you later. I’ll have my sergeant correlate any dog attacks. Let me know if you hear of anything.”
Mrs. Poulter-Evans was a slender woman whom Craig took to be about fifty. Her dress was expensive but plain, her home immaculate, and he imagined it being vacuumed and dusted several times a week. It was bright, everything meticulously set out, permanently ready for any visitor. The air smelled clean, the lounge suite was comfortable, cushions plumped, fresh flowers from an equally immaculate garden on display. A few pieces of sculpture, some modern, some older, like the oddly pot-bellied figurine in a glass case. Earth Mother, or something, Craig surmised.
None of this sanitized organization made it any easier to impart his news. He’d been ushered politely into the living room, along with the young policewoman, Anders, for whom this was going to be a new experience, and almost as harrowing as it would be for Mrs. Poulter-Evans he imagined. Their hostess sat opposite them, made smaller by the armchair, her white, frail hands gently clasped in her lap. She avoided looking Craig in the eye.
“I’m afraid it’s very bad news, ma’am,” he said. He was just going to have to be direct. “There’s been an accident.” He glanced at Anders. He’d told her how he wanted to play this.
Mrs. Poulter-Evans shuddered, raising a hand to her mouth. “It’s Roger, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I’m afraid he’s been killed.” What the hell else was he supposed to say?
She held her hand tightly to her face, tears squeezing from her eyes. She shook her head. “How? How could it have happened?”
“It was a dog, or dogs. Do you have a dog of your own?”
She shook her head, frowning. “Roger hated dogs. I would have liked one, but he wouldn’t hear of it.” There was a brief flash of anger in her eyes.
“No. Well, he was crossing a nearby field, near a wood, walking. Do you know why he was doing that? Recreation, perhaps?”
“Yes, he did like to walk, to clear his mind.”
“When did you last see him?” Craig made a brief gesture to Anders and she went into the kitchen.
The dead man’s wife seemed to be struggling to pull the memory from her mind. “Two days ago. Thursday. Yes, he went out that evening.”
“And you haven’t seen him since?” Craig spoke flatly, his personal views concealed.
“Well, no, I—I’m used to him going off. I just assumed he’d come back and gone out to see friends, or to see work colleagues. He does that sometimes, works late. Or spends time away. He’s—was—on the Council, you know. I went out as well, to see some friends of my own. When I got back, Roger wasn’t here.”
“What about his car?”
“No, it’s in the garage. But I thought someone had picked him up. I know it sounds strange—Inspector Craig, did you say?—but we aren’t very close. We haven’t been for a long time. Not since the children left. We tend to leave each other to our own devices.” She looked distant, maybe scanning something in the past. “I thought he’d just come back when he’d finished whatever he’d gone out to do. In fact, when you rang the bell, I wondered if it was him. He’s always misplacing his keys.”
Anders came in with a tray of tea. “I thought you’d appreciate this.”
Mrs. Poulter-Evans looked up at her in surprise. “Thank you, that’s very kind.” She poured a little milk into a cup and poured herself tea before the policewoman could do it for her. She stirred it for a long time.
“I’m going to have to ask you to come and identify him,” said Craig. “Will you feel up to that tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
“In the meantime, have you got anyone, family or friends, who can stay with you?”
“What?” she said, even more distantly. “Oh yes, yes, of course. I can ring them.”
“I’ll stay with you until they arrive,” said Anders.
Mrs. Poulter-Evans nodded, sipping her tea.
Craig got up. “Again, I’m very sorry about this, ma’am. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Anders escorted him to the door. “It’s never easy,” he said to her. “Keep an eye on her.” He wasn’t sure what else he could say, but she’d handle this better than he could, he supposed.
Craig felt himself dozing off. Back at home, late as usual, he’d hung up his jacket and slumped into the welcoming sofa. Maud had called out from the kitchen, and he’d responded with a grunt. For a moment he’d superimposed the Poulter-Evans couple over himself and his wife, their tired relationship, the quiet distance.
Craig opened his eyes and rubbed them. He’d need to question the woman further, so she’d need to be up to it. Did her husband have enemies? Rivals, maybe? If the dogs had been deliberately set on him, why? And where the hell were the dogs now? Maybe he’d know more in the morning.
“You look exhausted, darling,” said Maud, suddenly breaking into his thoughts.
She’s still an attractive woman, he thought. It would be nice to get up and wrap himself around her, hugging her close. But, she wouldn’t have approved. When did she last let me do that? He wondered. A long time ago. There was a barrier there now, and he didn’t know how to remove it. He’d tried, but she wasn’t prepared to let him. She liked things as they were.
“A difficult case. The media will be all over it soon.”
She sat down opposite him. She never sat beside him on the sofa these days. “Shall I put the news channel on?”
“If you like. I need a shower.”
“I’ll warm up a pie and veg.”
He left her to it. In the shower, under the piping hot stream, he saw again the ripped-up body of the dead man. For a moment the steam around him was a pink mist. Dogs. Big dogs. Someone would know about them. Heard them, if not seen.
When he returned downstairs, Maud was engrossed in the television. “My God,” she said. “That’s terrible. They say he was torn apart. It’s monstrous.”
“Yes, for once they’re not exaggerating.” Impossible to keep these things quiet. He saw the look of horror on her face. “No need for you to worry about it, though—”
“Roger Poulter-Evans. But I know his wife, Phoebe. Oh, not very well. We’ve only met a couple of times. More to say hello to.”
“Fragile creature. Yes, I saw her earlier. I had to break the bad news.”
“God, she must be devastated.”
“In shock. What do you know about her—and her husband?”
“She hardly mentions him. Typical middle-class marriage, I suppose. I got the impression they live their own lives. Pretty well off. She seemed content with things. Not very demanding of life.”
“Roger Poulter-Evans was killed by dogs?” Maud said, watching him eat slowly. “That’s weird. Dogs. How could that have happened?”
“It’s a lonely spot, so I don’t suppose anyone heard it.”
“What were they—strays?”
“Either that, or someone let them loose. Someone who didn’t much care for him.”
“Deliberate? My God, wouldn’t that be murder?”
“It’s a possibility. But keep it to yourself.” Craig knew she would. Whatever else, she’d always been loyal to him where his job was concerned. She had a quick brain and sometimes he was glad of her shared thoughts when he was puzzling something over.
“Why would anyone want to murder Phoebe’s husband? He was just a local businessman. I doubt if he had any rivals. Oh, he was on the Council, but I can’t see any of their squabbles escalating to something like this.”
“How do you know her?”
“She’s a friend of Mavis. I think we first met in Mavis’s shop. You know, the bric-a-brac place she’s opened in the Arcade.”
Craig looked at the various pieces of colored stone and sculpture on display in an adjacent glass cabinet. There was a new one, a female figure that looked vaguely Roman. “Is that where you got that?”
Maud glanced across. “Minerva, yes. Or Sulis, if you prefer the British name of the goddess.”
“Ah, the Roman city of Bath. Aquae Sulis. Mother goddess. Fertility and all that.” There was a slightly caustic edge to his voice.
Maud seemed to ignore it. “Rebirth and regeneration. Rather a nice idea.”
It was another cold, gray morning, with a threat of rain, or worse. Craig was at his desk at the station when Anders came in.
“How’d it go?” He’d assigned her to accompany Phoebe Poulter-Evans to identify her husband’s body.
The Mammoth Book of Halloween Stories: Terrifying Tales Set on the Scariest Night of the Year! Page 11