“Well,” Rose said, “I expect that whatever Carrie and Kye were up to, it’s nobody’s business except their own.”
“Oh, of course, I agree, absolutely! I’m not one for gossip, but you know, I just thought it was unusual. I didn't even know that Kye was back in town.”
“Well, now you do and I suppose so will everyone else. Excuse me, Dottie, but unless you want to help me pour out four hundred cups of cider, I really must be on my way.”
Dottie’s smile collapsed into a frustrated sulk. “Oh, I'd love to stay, but I promised to meet my son.”
“Give him my best regards.” With a forced smile and a wave, Rose turned her back and marched up the steps of the town hall. Opening the main door, she stepped inside and was welcomed by a cool drop in temperature.
“Stupid woman,” she muttered. But she wasn't sure if she was talking about Dottie or Carrie.
She'd been hoping that Carrie and Dylan’s separation was a temporary measure – despite Carrie’s insistence that it wasn’t. But Kye Anderson? What was he doing back here? And why was Carrie so eagerly jumping into bed with him?
Shaking her head, Rose crossed the foyer and entered the main hall.
She stopped still. Someone was here.
Rose stared at the young woman standing by the galley tables, where barrels of cider sat next to trays filled with hundreds of paper cups.
“What are you doing?”
Startled, the young woman looked up. “Oh...Um, hi.... I was waiting for Nat?”
Rose stared at her. “It’s Rachel, isn’t it?” She took a few steps into the room, eyeing the girl as she drew closer. She was holding something behind her back. Something she didn't want Rose to see. “Nat was expecting you half an hour ago. You were supposed to meet her at the top of town.”
She moved closer. Rachel turned, her hands still clutched behind her back.
“Oh? Nat asked me to help out with the drinks today. I guess I must've got mixed up.”
Rose was by the tables now. The girl was definitely hiding something. She could tell by her flustered voice, the way she kept angling herself so Rose couldn't see what was behind her back.
“Nat's gone off looking for you. Might as well wait here – she’ll be back soon enough.” She nodded at the girl. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
Rachel shook her head, then smiled. Rose’s withering stare wiped it from her face. Biting her lip, Rachel slowly lowered her hands. “Busted.”
Rose arched an eyebrow at the cup of cider the girl was clutching. “I hope you’re eighteen? I won’t be accused of serving drinks to underage tourists.”
Rachel stared at the floor. “I'm really sorry. I was waiting around for Nat and... never leave a bored teenager alone with a vat of booze.”
“Well, don’t you dare take another drop. It’s bad luck to drink the toast before time.”
Rose raised an eyebrow. No doubt kids these days thought the Devil’s Day ceremony was a silly old tradition filled with superstitious nonsense. But evil had shown its ugly face in this town one too many times. If raising a glass and wishing good cheer brought about some good, then Rose was happy to pour out a thousand glasses and drink every superstitious last drop. She marched up to the first barrel of cider, located the tap near the bottom and slipped a paper cup beneath it. Sparkling, yellow cider poured out, filling the cup.
“Don’t just stand there, girl. Make yourself useful and get pouring. Nat will be back soon, and a few of the women should be here any second to help. We've only got twenty minutes to fill that lot up.” Rose nodded to the stacks of cups on the tables.
Rachel stepped forward. “Sorry. Sure. Thanks.”
Rose shook her head, set down the filled cup and reached for another. Rachel moved over to the adjacent barrel.
“Um, it’s Rose, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“Where did you say Nat went to?”
“I believe she’s gone off to the caravan park. That’s where you’re staying, isn’t it?”
“She’s gone there now?”
Rose stared at the girl’s empty hands. “That’s right. But she’ll be back. Are those cups filling themselves?”
There was something strange in the girl’s expression that Rose couldn’t read. Was it worry? Fear?
“You alright, girl?” she asked.
Rachel nodded, picked up a cup and started filling it.
Rose flashed her another look. She could see why Nat liked the girl. She was weird and awkward, just like Nat.
They worked in silence, filling the table with cups of glistening cider. The front doors opened and voices rushed in. A group of women entered, chatting and laughing. They fell silent as they saw the stranger pouring drinks next to Rose.
“Less gawking and more pouring, ladies,” Rose said, “If we don’t get these drinks out in time, old Mayor Prowse will have a fit.”
“At least he’ll be sober for once,” one of the women said and they all laughed. They got to work, pouring drinks and setting them on trays, shooting curious glances at the awkward teenage girl who avoided their stares and smiled uncomfortably.
Minutes passed. Rose found herself staring at the door, then at Rachel, then at the women.
Where was Nat?
An uneasy feeling was unsettling her stomach, like she’d swallowed a bird and now it was trying to find a way out. She turned back to Rachel, whose smile had faded, replaced by steely concentration as she poured cup after cup of cider, almost filling the second table of trays by herself.
Rose reached for another cup. The fluttering in her stomach continued to grow.
32
TWISTED IMAGES TORTURED Nat’s mind, over and over, like a scene from a horror film stuck on repeat. A pile of corpses. Puncture wounds and blood-soaked clothes. Slashed throats and dead, staring eyes. She had seen more than her fair share of horrors in her life, but nothing that she’d experienced could come close to what lay festering in the sun behind caravan number fourteen.
Now, as Nat desperately ran, feet kicking up dust on the tarmac, she was afraid that the images would never leave her. Like blood, they might fade and turn rusty with time, but they would always be there, catching her off-guard at unexpected moments and snatching her breath away in the middle of the night.
She knew who had slaughtered these people.
It was the Dawn Children. They were responsible.
The Church family murders had been a warmup act. Now they were here in Devil’s Cove and the main show was only just getting started.
Pelting down the hill, she saw Grenville Row coming up on her right. An idea came to her. She didn’t know what the Dawn Children were planning, but she knew that Devil’s Day was part of it. There were hundreds of people in town, all completely unaware of the horror she’d found in the caravan park.
Nat veered right, racing past the fenced off site where Grady Spencer’s house had once stood, then throwing open her garden gate and running up the path.
Seconds later, she was inside her kitchen and leaning over the sink, drinking mouthfuls of icy tap water and dousing her face. Droplets dripped from her chin as she moved over to the knife block and pulled out the knife with the biggest blade. Then she was on the move again, racing back through the hall and grabbing the telephone from the wall. She punched 999 on the keypad and waited for the line to connect.
The emergency operator spoke in her ear. Nat asked for the police, then she was on hold again, the seconds dripping by like melting tar as she tried and failed to steady her breathing.
“Come on!” she hissed. The police operator answered and the panic Nat had been fighting to contain came flooding out in a tsunami. “They’re dead! They’re all dead! You have to come!”
The operator’s voice was soft and steady. “Try to remain calm. I need you to say that again.”
“They're here! The Dawn Children are here in Porth an Jowl! People are dead at the caravan park. Please, you need to send someone now
!”
Hanging up the phone, Nat ran to the front door and threw it open. Then she was outside, hurrying through the garden and back onto Cove Road. She ran, down and down, past row after row of stone cottages, feet stumbling, almost tripping, until she reached the town.
The high street was empty. The shops all closed. The town square silent and still. The Devil’s Day parade had already made it down to the promenade.
Nat raced along the pavement, footfalls echoing eerily all around. Reaching the end of the street, she slid to a halt.
What did she do?
Did she head back and take the shortcut to the promenade through the town square? Or did she head for the town hall?
Movement glimmered at the corner of her eye. She glanced over her shoulder to see two uniformed officers emerging from the square. They were moving quickly, heading in the direction of Cove Road.
Relief surged through Nat’s body. The phone call had worked. Porth an Jowl might be saved. She waited for more officers to emerge from the square.
No one else came.
Waving her hands, Nat called out to the officers. But they were already gone, disappearing from sight as they turned onto Cove Road. She knew she should chase after them, tell them that two police officers were not enough. But she needed to find Rose.
Nat crossed the street and entered Harbour Road. Pounding up the steps of the town hall, she barged inside. Then slid to a halt.
The hall was empty, the tables cleared. Which meant Rose and her team were already down at the promenade, handing out drinks for the toast.
It would be hard to find her, harder still to get her out before the Dawn Children struck. And they were going to strike at any moment. Nat felt it in the air, sick and cloying, an impending sense of doom that made her want to curl up under a table and cover her face with her hands.
She spun around, sick and terrified. Her gaze snagged on a door at the back of the hall. She ran towards it, foolishly hoping to find Rose inside.
The kitchen was empty, except for two large plastic containers that had fallen out of the waste bin and lay on the centre of the floor, a few drops of glistening liquid drying on the tiles.
Nat stared at the bottles, a cold sweat dripping down her neck. Leaving the kitchen, she hurried back through the hall. Her legs were begging for respite. Her lungs were hot and prickly. But Nat kept moving. She couldn’t stop to rest. If she did, Rose was good as dead.
A fresh wave of adrenaline surged through her limbs, Nat flew from the hall and down the steps, out into brilliant sunshine. She raced towards the seafront and the hundreds of people gathering on the promenade, all unaware that Death had come to Porth an Jowl.
33
DETECTIVE CONSTABLE TURNER stood staring up at the castle battlements, pulse hammering in his ears. He flashed a look at DS Hughes, who returned his troubled gaze as she reached for her police radio.
“I’m calling the hostage negotiation team,” she said.
Turner returned his attention to the three figures teetering on the edge way above him, little Lindsay Church clamped between the two adults.
“This isn't a hostage situation,” he muttered to himself. “This is something else.”
He’d returned to his empty home late last night, after one of the darkest, most upsetting days of his career. He’d sat in an armchair, drinking rum in silence, Luke Beaumont’s tiny legs sticking out from behind a tree in his mind, a lurking, twisting dread in the pit of his stomach.
Something was coming. Something big.
All the fragmented pieces were fusing together and finally beginning to make sense: the abduction of Noah Pengelly; the return of Cal Anderson; Grady Spencer’s house of horrors; the murder of Councillor Beaumont – captured on video by author Aaron Black, also now dead; the Church family murders; the killing of Luke Beaumont, his body purposefully left to be found.
And now this – Lindsay Church had reappeared. And she was not alone.
Everything was connected in an unnerving, sinister chain, one event unfolding to reveal another, like unfurling petals of a poisonous flower.
Turner stared at the bodies above him. Was this it? The main event?
Or was this just another petal?
Hughes was busy on the radio, the uniformed officers all standing by, bodies tense and ready to spring to action on her command.
How long would it take for the hostage negotiation team to arrive? For Armed Response? The murders of the Church family and Luke Beaumont were already using up valuable police resources. And now officers securing the Devil’s Day festival had been pulled out to attend what looked like a hostage situation, even though Turner’s gut was telling him it was anything but.
It was as if all of these events had been purposefully timed to stretch an already depleted force thin, to scatter it across the county like a handful of chicken bones.
Done on the radio, Hughes turned back to him. “They’re on the way. We need to keep the area secure until they arrive.”
The fluttering in Turner’s gut turned to panic. “They’re going to be too late.”
The sudden certainty was like a kick to the groin, white-hot and excruciating.
Above their heads, the woman was shouting again, her voice echoing across the bay. “We are the Dawn Children! Children of the light! Our father tried to protect us from a world of monsters. But he was taken from us. Now we will show the monsters that this is our time! Now we will take back all that is innocent and light. Now the monsters will fall and we will have Our Salvation!”
“What the hell is she talking about?” Hughes said.
The Dawn Children raised their arms, lifting the Church girl’s hands above her head.
Turner didn't wait for further instructions.
He bolted forwards, through the open castle door and across a large hall, his footfalls echoing around him. Outside, DS Hughes screamed at him to come back. He knew he was breaking protocol. He knew it was his job on the line. But seeing the lifeless body of Luke Beaumont had broken something inside him. If Lindsay Church died too, he knew he would never recover.
Turner ran, eyes darting from side to side as he searched for a way up. Finding a set of stairs, he raced up to the next floor, barely aware of the grand furnishings and tapestries, all blurring into one.
He threw open another door. Then another.
He was outside again, racing through a tiered garden at the rear of the Mount. An elderly gardener was bent over, digging up weeds. He glanced up as Turner thundered towards him.
“Which way to the roof!” Turner yelled.
The startled gardener pointed wordlessly upwards and to the right. Turner skidded to a halt, almost tripping over his feet, found another door and raced inside.
More halls. More doors.
He wrenched each one open, sweat pouring down his back, lungs burning in his chest, room after room revealing nothing more than dusted antiquities. Until he came to the last door. Then more steps reaching up, hemmed in by narrow walls. He took them silently, his hands tracing the brickwork, until he reached the door at the top.
Perspiration ran into his eyes. He wiped them with the back of his hand, tried to steady his breathing as he pressed his ear to the door. Light poured in through the sides, along with the whisper of a sea breeze and the woman’s hollow voice still ringing in the air.
Slowly, carefully, Turner gripped the brass ring handle and pulled.
The door swung open an inch. Daylight rushed in, burning away shadows. Holding his breath, he pulled the door open wider and peered out.
He could see them. Fifty feet away. Still standing on the battlements. Hands linked. Their backs turned. The young woman on the right, the boy on the left. Lindsay Church trapped in between.
There was something in the boy’s hand, glinting in the sunlight. A knife.
Turner swallowed. Shut his eyes for a second.
What was he doing?
He was breaking every rule. Every code of practice. All it wo
uld take was for one of them to turn and see him and then Lindsay Church was dead. But if he stood and did nothing, she was dead anyway.
Because the Dawn Children were about to jump.
Turner opened the door a fraction wider, letting in more light.
Sounds of approaching footsteps made him turn around. Two uniformed officers were heading straight for him.
He shot up a hand, pressed a finger to his lips. They nodded, eyes round, pupils dilated.
Turner stepped outside.
He moved like a cat, his keen eyes fixed on the trio. The breeze was gathering momentum, making their hair flutter.
He came closer. One more step. Then another.
The air was thick and hard to swallow.
The Dawn Children were silent, their hands still gripping Lindsay’s, leaving her balancing on tiptoes.
Turner was halfway across the rooftop. Close enough to hear Lindsay’s frightened sobs. He risked a glance behind him and saw the uniform officers at the top of the stairs. He held up a hand, telling them to stay there.
Then he turned back to the Dawn Children and slid another step forward.
He was closer now. But still not close enough.
He took another step. Then another. Sweat running into his eyes. Blood rushing in his ears.
Closer. Closer.
Arms reaching out. Hands splaying.
Fingertips almost touching the back of Lindsay’s t-shirt.
The boy turned. Glanced over his shoulder.
Turner froze.
He watched the boy’s eyes widen with surprise. Heard his breath, sharp and shocked.
Now the woman was turning around, recoiling in horror at Turner's presence.
Turner lunged forwards, springing through the air, desperately reaching for Lindsay.
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