Secrets in the Dark

by Darcy Coates

  Through the window, Clare could see the red and gold of a sunset spreading through the falling snow. The weather outside could be ferocious, and it could be terrifying, but it was the first time she’d seen the property look so beautiful.

  They ate in silence. Dorran was never very chatty, but he seemed quieter than normal. She snuck glances at him. He was tired, but there was something more in his expression. She tucked her feet up under herself and put her bowl aside. “Dorran?”

  He startled, and some life returned to his eyes. “Sorry. I have been ignoring you, haven’t I?”

  “I don’t mind that. But… something’s worrying you.”

  He opened his mouth then closed it again. Clare waited. After a moment, he said, “There is a lot to do. That’s all.”

  “You’re worried about going to the car, aren’t you?”

  He chuckled. “You read me too easily.”

  “I’ll go with you. I’ll be there to help.”

  His smile cracked. She’d touched on a sore spot. Clare found his hand and wrapped hers around it, twining the fingers together. He felt cold.

  “You can tell me,” she whispered.

  His voice was raw. “I cannot even fight you on accompanying me. This is not something I can accomplish alone. I would need your help. But that would mean asking you to step into a situation that… that may kill you.”

  “That’s fine. I want to come. And by now, you should know I’m not letting you go alone.”

  A chuckle broke through the tension masking his face. “Yes. You are strong. Stronger than I expected. But this, Clare—”

  The flames made shadows leap across the planes of his face. He was quiet for a beat, then he continued in a calmer voice. “This will be dangerous. More danger than I ever wanted you to be in. And I do not know if I can keep you safe out there.”

  “We can prepare. We’ll have weapons. Maybe even some kind of armour.”

  “Yes. But I keep thinking of what your sister said this morning. The heroes are dying. The ones who take risks are never heard from again. And her advice seemed so wise; do not take chances. Choose the safest path. Hide.”

  Clare didn’t know what to say. She and Dorran sat so close that she could feel his chest rise with every breath and see the dampness shining in his eyes. He blinked, trapped in some kind of mental battle, then he spoke again.

  “And yet, I feel like we must try. Yes, we could sit here, hidden, always taking the cautious option, always guarding ourselves, but what life is that?” He was holding her hand almost hard enough to hurt. “That is not the kind of life I want to give you. Hungry. Unable to see your sister. Always flinching at the noises in the walls. That is not the life you deserve.”

  “Dorran.”

  His eyes were growing increasingly frantic. “But I am afraid. Oh, Clare, I am afraid. I have never cared about anything so much. I must keep you safe. I want to see you happy, if I can. Why must these goals be so thoroughly opposed?”

  “Dorran.” She shuffled around so that she could sit in his lap, carefully detangled their hands, and wrapped her arms around him. She could feel his heart through his shirt. It thundered. She held him tightly and whispered, “It won’t be your fault if something bad happens out there.”

  “But…”

  “I want to go. I’m ready to go. And, yeah, I’m frightened, too, and I’m hoping you’ll stay near me if things get bad. But… if it goes wrong… that isn’t your fault. It’s a choice we made together.”

  He didn’t answer. His arms enveloped her, though, as though he never wanted to let her go.

  Clare buried her face into his chest. She knew very little about his childhood, but what she’d learned was painful. His mother had controlled him through guilt, and he’d never learned how to let it go. It was like an invisible weight on his shoulders. She wished she could do more to ease it from him, but she worried that it might be too deeply engrained, that he would always accept more responsibility than he deserved.

  Instead, she stretched to put her head closer to his and kissed his neck. He shivered. His fingers tangled in her hair. She tilted her head back, and his lips brushed hers then pressed closer for a kiss. He was sweet, moving carefully and tenderly. She held on to him, warming him, and felt the tension fade from his body.

  They stayed like that until the fire began to burn down into coals. As the room’s shadows deepened, Dorran’s hoarse voice disturbed the stillness. “How soon would you like to make the journey to the car?”

  Clare bit her lip. The longer they put it off, the more she would dread it. Already, it loomed like an impassable mountain. “Soon. Tomorrow?”

  He nodded. “Yes. It is probably wise to go early, before our stores grow too low. That way, we will still have some time to adjust our plans if anything goes wrong.”

  It’s not going to go wrong, she told herself as she closed her eyes. Dorran will look after you, and you’ll look after Dorran.

  She fell asleep at the fireside to the sensation of Dorran stroking her hair. The scratching sounds continued to follow Clare into her dreams. She wrestled with them, sometimes trying to run from them and sometimes trying to find their source, but no matter what she did, she couldn’t escape them.

  Clare woke early. The pale light coming through the windows told her the morning would be clear. It didn’t bear much significance on the rest of the day… but she wanted to take it as a good sign.

  She rolled over. Dorran stood at one of the tall, narrow windows, hands clasped behind himself as he surveyed the land outside. Clare rose, bringing one of the blankets with herself to wrap around her shoulders. Dorran held out an arm to welcome her at his side, and together, they looked out over the pure-white field.

  “I have a plan.” He looked tired; dark circles ringed his eyes.

  She wondered how long he’d been awake. The melancholy seemed to have lifted, though, and Clare smiled. “Yeah?”

  “It is an hour’s walk to the car. All of yesterday afternoon, I was trying to think of how we could be faster. Improvised skis? Lighter loads? Under the best conditions and if we jog the whole way, we could be there in half an hour and back in the same amount of time. But that is still an hour spent outside. An hour where we are vulnerable.”

  The air was clear that day, and the forest stood out more sharply than normal. The pine trees wore their familiar cap of white, but the trunks were still dark. Clare searched the spaces between them for movement. She knew hollows lived in the forest, but it came back to the same question that continued to plague her. How many?

  She tilted her head back to look up at Dorran. “What did you decide on?”

  “I changed my way of thinking.” He flashed her a smile. “Instead of trying to be fast, we will be slow.”

  “Okay.” She wasn’t following, but she trusted he knew what he was talking about.

  “Instead of packing light, we will bring a sled. There is chicken wire in the storage shed behind the garden. With a good, strong cloth, I believe we can create something like a tent—something tough enough to protect us if the hail returns.”

  She’d been so focussed on avoiding the hollows, she hadn’t considered the temperamental weather. But the first time they’d attempted to reach the car, they had been caught in a hailstorm that had risen unnaturally quickly. They didn’t seem to strike often, but when they did, the storms were brutal.

  “We will have weapons,” Dorran said. “But more importantly, we will have armour. This time, instead of trying to kill them before they bite us, we will make ourselves unbitable. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah. Defensive, rather than offensive.” Clare nodded. “It’s smart.”

  “Good. Eat first. You will need energy. Then we will see about our equipment. I would like to leave no later than midday. If we are being slow, we must be prepared for all eventualities—including being waylaid. I would not want to be outside after dark.”

  Chapter Seven

  Clare and Dorran crouched in the s
tone room bridging the garden, the basement, and the wine cellar. The room was cold, but it was closest to the equipment they needed. Dorran had laid out a sheet to work on. One of the immense, heavy-woven red drapes had been wrenched off its holder in the dining room and lay in a pool beside them. Dorran unspooled chicken wire from its roll and, by buckling it and tying it, created a dome shape.

  “We will be like a turtle,” he joked.

  When it was completed, it would be just large enough for them to huddle underneath. Once the frame was ready, Dorran layered the drapes over it, then a second set of the wire, followed by more drapes. The fabric was thick. It added to the construct’s weight, but Clare hoped it would be enough to keep the weather out, at least.

  Clare had her back to the cellar. She couldn’t tell if that was better or worse than facing it. Her mind was constantly hunting for the scratching sounds, the shuffling, and the quiet breaths that would be her only warning of someone creeping up behind her.

  Dorran rocked back on his heels, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “It will be heavy. But I would rather carry this weight than have it fail on us when we need it most.”

  Clare finished tying off one section. She couldn’t help but admire their handiwork. The vivid red cloth would stand out against the white snow, but it was a solid construction. Dorran lifted one end, and Clare tried picking up the other side. Between the two of them, they could heave it up, but Clare knew they wouldn’t get far carrying it on their backs. They dropped it back onto the floor.

  “It won’t be such a burden when we have the sled.” Dorran packed up the tool kit they’d been using, scooped up the unused chicken wire, and carried it back to the shelves in the storage area. As he put away the equipment, Clare brushed her hand across some of the tools. Garden gloves, so old and worn they were starting to fall apart. Trowels. Bottles of fertiliser. They were all well-used.

  A sense of regret washed over her. Dorran’s family had issues, but he’d talked fondly about some of the staff. Someone had dedicated their life to tending to the garden. They had worn the gloves daily. And they would never be back.

  She turned away. A pitchfork caught her notice. She picked it up and shook dust from its handle. “Dorran, what about this?”

  “Yes.” He felt across the prongs, testing their sharpness. “This will be useful. I will try to find a second ranged weapon too. And a knife of some kind, perhaps. I wish this family had been interested in swords—” He broke off, and his eyes flitted towards the ceiling.

  Clare looked up, too, a spike of panic catching in her throat as she thought Dorran had heard something.

  Then he smiled. “My uncle used to be involved in fencing. They will not be any use for weapons, but the masks will make a good defence for our faces. Come, let’s see if I can remember where he stored his equipment.”

  They dropped the pitchfork beside the protective dome and crossed to the stairs. Clare was faintly aware of how quickly the time was passing. She had a sense that if they didn’t get there that day, they might never make it. The sky had stayed clear all morning. It was almost as though the outside world were waiting for them, staying on its best behaviour as it coaxed them outside. If they missed their chance, the following day might be storming. And then the next. And then, all of a sudden, they would be out of food.

  Dorran moved carefully. They still hadn’t found most of the concealed passageways, and as long as they stayed open, the house wasn’t truly theirs. Any time they passed through a new room, he paused at the door and listened.

  The constant guardedness was beginning to wear on Clare. Every noise and creak made her flinch. By comparison, Dorran was like a rock. He was cautious, but never flighty. When Clare’s nerves started tightening beyond endurance, she looked at his face, watched how steady and confident he was, and made herself relax.

  Dorran tried one of the second-floor rooms first, but after a minute of sifting through a wardrobe, backed out. “Not here. Which means it’s either in his bedroom or—”

  Clare grabbed his arm to silence him. In between the house’s natural noises, the buffeting wind, and their own movements, she thought she’d caught a hint of another noise. A human noise.

  Dorran held still while they listened. Under the house’s hollowness, Clare was sure she could hear a voice. Words. Coming from above them. On the third floor.

  Madeline? No… she was so careful about not letting us hear her before. She can’t be back. And the others don’t talk.

  Dorran silently unsheathed his knife and beckoned for Clare to stay close to him. Together, they stepped into the hallway and faced the stairs. The voice had fallen silent, but Clare could still feel its echoes, seemingly hovering around her ears like invisible moths. Dorran was at the stairs before Clare could hiss a warning to him. His dark eyes scanned the upper landing as he ascended, and Clare, her heart beating against her ribs, followed closely.

  What if it’s a trap? They could be trying to lure us towards them.

  They stopped at the top of the stairs. Neither of them breathed. The silence held for a moment. Then the voice came again, floating out of their bedroom.

  “I hope you’re okay. I’ll try again tomorrow.”

  Clare took a sharp breath, half in relief, half in shock. The voice was Beth’s. They’d agreed to speak again that day. She’d been looking forward to it—but she hadn’t realised the morning was that late. She slipped past Dorran and ran along the hallway, jarring the cuts on her leg but barely noticing. She caught herself on the bedroom door, fumbled to unlock it, then darted inside. The radio sat next to their fireside bed. She grabbed it and turned on her signal. “I’m here! Sorry!”

  Static answered her. Clare dropped back onto her heels, burning disappointment stinging her throat and eyes. She should have watched the time more closely or at least thought to bring the radio with her.

  Dorran hesitated in the doorway, his eyes tight. “I am sorry…”

  “Not your fault.” The words were automatic. She swiped her palm across her eyes to clear them and took a ragged breath. “She’ll try again tomorrow. And I’ll make sure I don’t miss it.”

  He approached, and his hand gently rested over her shoulder. “Would you like some time?”

  “No.” They didn’t have time to spare. She pushed onto her feet and took a slow, steadying breath. “Let’s keep going. Where did you say we were looking next?”

  They followed the hallway around a corner, where Dorran unlocked and opened the door to a bedroom. A strange sensation spread through Clare as she stepped over the threshold. Most of the house had been maintained so impeccably that it was hard to imagine someone living there, but this room was filled with signs of life. At the same time, it had an odd feeling about it—one Clare couldn’t put into words.

  A bed, not much different to their own, had been neatly made. A jacket hung across the back of a chair, with a scarf carelessly draped over a side table beside a hairbrush and watch.

  Clare, feeling like she was intruding on something private, didn’t let herself touch anything. She stayed to the centre of the room with her arms wrapped around her chest. “What was his name?”

  “Eros.” Dorran stepped around the bed to approach one of two large wardrobes.

  Clare knew the name. Dorran had told her about Eros when recounting the night half of his family had died at Madeline’s whim. She’d put cyanide in their wine, culling the family of any sign of dissent. Eros had taken Dorran’s side in the disagreement, and he had lost his life for it.

  Shivers travelled through her. She understood why the room disturbed her so much now. The way the scarf and jacket had been carelessly arranged made it look like Eros had risen from bed just that morning. But he had not lived there for many years.

  Madeline had not left the room locked up and forgotten, either. The furniture had been kept free from dust. The sheets must have been changed regularly. Each morning, the jacket would have been lifted to allow the chair to be dusted then
carefully placed back the way it had been.

  “Found it.” Relief bled into Dorran’s voice as he pulled boxes out of the base of the wardrobe. He hadn’t been impervious to the room’s atmosphere, either. He tucked two objects under his arm, shoved the box back into the wardrobe, then crossed to the door with steps that were slightly too fast to be casual.

  “Great.” Clare followed him, trying not to show how relieved she was. “What else do we need?”

  “I think we’re ready, actually.” He held out a hand, pulled her in for a hug, then kissed her forehead. “Are you all right?”

  “Absolutely.” She took a moment to rest against his chest, as though she could absorb some of his confidence. Then she stepped back and put a genuine smile on her face. “I’m ready.”

  Dorran collected their equipment in the foyer. The sled looked old and shabby, and Clare instinctively knew it had been used by the staff rather than the Morthorne family. On it, Dorran stacked the pitchfork and a hatchet, along with two thermoses filled with hot tea and a spare jacket. The red-covered dome rested over them, just barely fitting on the sled. Dorran tied it down with twine then began gathering jackets and insulated pants from where they kept them on the side table by the door. He handed them to Clare one by one.

  She remembered how cold the outside had been last time she’d ventured into it. The clothes had been enough to stop her from freezing, but they still hadn’t quite managed to keep her warm, so she didn’t complain as Dorran bundled her in layer after layer.

  “These should also help protect us from the hollows,” Dorran said. “The clothes shouldn’t tear easily, and with this much padding, we will only need to watch our hands, ankles, neck, and face. In theory.”

  Clare was already wearing knit gloves, but Dorran passed her a leather pair, as well. They were a men’s size and too big for her, but she knew why she was wearing them. Knit would be easy to bite through. Leather, not so much. The gloves extended over her wrist, and when she rolled down her jacket sleeves, Dorran tied a piece of twine around the them to hold everything in place. As he worked, his fingers grazed over the bandage on her wrist, and his eyebrows pulled a little lower. Clare wondered how closely his thoughts mimicked hers.