Chapter Thirty-Three

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Scarwell Woods, Orkney

May 2024

CLEM

“Bloody hell,” Quinn whispers. “It’s a torch procession.”

“I don’t like the look of this,” Clem says. She regrets sitting on the bank now. The car is on the other side of the trees, so even if they dash back now, they will easily be spotted by the oncoming procession.

“Let’s just hold tight,” Quinn says.

They watch a long stream of people dressed in flowing robes move through the forest, several more flaming torches held aloft, bright as comets through the silhouetted trees. Long shadows pour down the field toward them, and in the sky above a full moon silvers the branches.

“I think we should go,” Clem says.

“They’re probably Druids, do you think?”

“Well, they’re Triskele.”

“Druids are peaceful, aren’t they?”

“Oh yes,” Clem says dryly. “They look very peaceful.”

Clem and Quinn move behind a tree trunk, watching on as the group stops at a clearing opposite the byre and slowly forms a circle, the heat of the flaming torches carrying across to the bank where they hide. Clem counts thirty, maybe forty people, some children among the group.

Suddenly they start to sing, no words and no melody, just a long, sustained note that splits into a harmony of two notes, then three, and so on, a dark chord that send chills up Clem’s spine. It’s a chilling, ethereal sight, the woods thrumming with the voices held in harmonic unison.

She sees a small figure moving into the center of the group. A young woman, she thinks, judging by the slender form and long hair silhouetted against the trees.

“Is that Senna?” she whispers to Quinn.

“I’m not sure,” he murmurs.

There’s something familiar about the way she moves, the outline of her face. Clem squints into the gloom as a tall man strides toward her from the opposite side of the circle, his long cloak sweeping behind him and something grasped in his left hand.

The humming changes tone, a minor chord, and suddenly the man holds the knife high above him and sweeps it across the girl’s throat. Clem shouts out as the girl’s knees buckle, and as she folds to the ground, several of the group turn toward the bank.

“Shit,” Quinn says. “I think they’ve seen us.”

They bolt down the bank, though the earth is loose, making it difficult to gain purchase. They manage to cross the clearing toward the car, but close behind her she can hear voices, fragments of exchanges between the group. Over there! That way! She sees the glint of the car roof in the field below and races for it, but suddenly she slips on long grass and goes down, hard, her elbow cracking something cold and wet. A rock, she thinks as she rolls to her feet and continues to run, a burning sensation announcing a bloody wound.

Quinn manages to find his car keys—for some reason he has locked the goddamn car—and quickly they’re inside, the engine turning over, the wheels spinning and the headlights revealing figures advancing on them.

“Move!” she shouts, and Quinn shifts the car into reverse, flinging them backward down the hill toward the road, the engine roaring. She keeps her head turned to the rear windscreen, searching out the gate they drove through.

Quinn manages to put enough space between the car and the advancing figures to turn around, the headlights picking out the gate. They’re so close, only seconds away, and she feels the first stirrings of wild relief as the car picks up speed.

But just as they reach the gate at the entrance to the field, it swings shut.

Quinn slams the brake and jerks the car to the left, a reflex movement calculated to stop them from crashing. But too late—the car smacks the concrete pillar holding the gate, bringing them to a stop.

A moment later, the car doors are opened, many hands reaching inside, pulling them out of their seats.

···

The byre, a long, single-floor building like a scout’s hut, is old and dirty inside, iron rafters exposed and lined with pigeons and cobwebs, leaves scattered around the room. An oil lantern is placed in the center, and around them stand at least thirty men and women, all of them dressed in long black robes, their faces covered in black and white paint. Some have their faces concealed entirely by masks made of animal skulls, four with long horns that spiral upward, others with chain mail masks. The room smells of earth and fur, of flame and wood.

Clem is terrified.

She thinks of Erin, and Freya, her stomach tightening at the thought of them being left without either her or Quinn.

They have both been thrown on the floor, the group of strangers towering over them. Clem feels herself begin to shake. They are trapped in here. No chance of escape.

“What is this?” Quinn says hoarsely. “Let us go or I’ll burn this fucking place to the ground.”

Someone kicks Quinn, hard, in the chest, the slam of a boot knocking him against Clem, his head thrown back into hers. She lets out a cry of pain. Quinn groans, and she hisses at him to shut his mouth.

In front of Clem is a woman of about eighty years, a wild mane of white hair to her shoulders, the top half of her face covered in black paint. Her sharp blue eyes stare out garishly amidst the black makeup.

“We saw you watching,” the woman says, bending down with surprising ease. “A pair of spies.” She glances at something in her hand, and Clem is horrified to see that the woman has her wallet, the driving license removed. They’ve found her backpack in the car boot.

“Clementine Woodbury,” the woman reads. “From 32A Southend Street in Glasgow. And this is Quinn Ferney, from Harrogate. You’re married but living apart?”

“Divorced,” Clem corrects.

“I see,” the woman says. “Well. You’re both a fair distance from your homes. We don’t usually get visitors unannounced.”

A flash of the scene amidst the trees springs to Clem’s mind. The man slashing the girl’s throat. She wants to be sick.

“We’re just looking for information,” Quinn says. She can hear the fear in his voice.

“Information?” the woman says. “I hear Google is good for that.”

“There was an incident on Fynhallow last Wednesday. A fire. Our daughter almost died, and her boyfriend, Arlo, was killed.”

The silence stretches out, the smell of blood reaching Clem’s nostrils. She swallows hard, realizing that neither the woman nor the people around her are reacting to this information, certainly not with any sympathy. It strikes her that they are responsible for the fire. They killed Arlo. And she and Quinn are next.

This is all a trap.