Tide (The Sarah Midnight Trilogy) Page 23

  Winter was terrified, but anger had the best of her fear. She saw red, and threw herself on him. He was too strong for her, Winter’s only real strength was in the water. He held her down, and his hands were burning her skin already.

  “Not the Blackwater,” she implored, hating herself for begging, but to have her skin and flesh and bones melt away like she was some demon … She didn’t want to die that way, she couldn’t.

  “No. Don’t worry, Winter,” he said, and his voice became strangely soft. “It won’t take long.” He looked her straight in the eye as he pushed the sgian-dubh into her side, slowly, tenderly even. When he took it out Winter thought she’d die from the pain, but he stroked her hair and held her.

  “Shhhh. It’ll be over soon,” he whispered.

  But it wasn’t over soon at all. He had pierced her so that she would lose blood slowly, and her agony would last a long time.

  James walked away as if nothing had happened, leaving Winter on the sand.

  She implored him to come back. “Please don’t leave me,” she said, hating herself for having begged him twice, but she wanted to live. She was too young, too full of life never to swim again, never to lie in the sun again.

  He didn’t come back, of course. Winter watched James Midnight walk away, feeling the whole world spin as the little patch of bloody sand beside her became bigger and bigger. She crawled into the sea, dragging herself inch by inch, and let the water enfold her. Her despair eased at once, because at least she was going to die in the water – given the circumstances, she felt she couldn’t ask for more.

  But it wasn’t her time.

  Her sight was blurred, she was weak, she knew she was lost, and then she heard a high-pitched, whale-like sound, and a whisper. “Hemalla, putri …”

  It was her father in his Elemental form. He was a whirlpool of water, a bit darker, a bit denser than the sea, vaguely seal–shaped. He cradled Winter to him and swirled around her until everything went black and she was sure she’d died.

  *

  Winter woke to find herself on a rock in the middle of the sea, so far from the shore that she couldn’t see land anywhere. She was surrounded by a pack of seals, their black noses nudging her legs, a fin resting on her arm, as close as they could get, to make her strong again. Her wound was agony, but it wasn’t bleeding anymore. Her father had healed her.

  She swam ashore and slipped into her mother’s cottage – Murdina cried as she heard what had happened, but she promised to pretend Winter was dead. It was the only way.

  Winter swam to Jura, and up to Colonsay, and there she lived, mostly alone with the seals. She didn’t return to Islay until her mother got ill. By then Hamish and Morag had died, Cathy’s destiny was a mystery – she had been sent away – and James was in Edinburgh. Winter couldn’t leave her mother to die alone, and she couldn’t take her away from the island, it would have broken her heart. She had no choice but to return.

  Not long after her return to Islay word came through that James and his second wife, Anne, had died too. The family was finished, but for Sarah Midnight and for Stewart’s son, Harry, in London. Winter knew already that Stewart had ended up rejecting the Midnights, and that he’d moved to New Zealand and died young. Winter never set eyes on a Midnight again, until Sarah arrived. She felt no hate for her. Stewart was a kind man, and Mairead was as innocent as a seal pup – Winter couldn’t hate the whole family.

  And Sarah? Would she be like her father, like her grandmother?

  Maybe Sarah would be the one who saved the Midnights, who restored them to their old power, to the way they were always meant to be – protectors, guardians of them all.

  44

  A Child Ashamed

  She was told they knew

  She was one of them

  A child ashamed,

  Already sure

  Her blood was black

  … I wish I could ask for forgiveness. I wish I could say I did it because she asked me. She asked me by trying to do it herself, over and over again.

  But in here I only write the truth, and here it is: she was about to jump into the cold waters, to be drowned like an unwanted kitten. But at the last minute, she turned around.

  She said, “Mum, I want to go home.”

  And I thought of her screaming, I thought of the hours spent trying to get some sense out of her, of her precious diary full of scribbles and little drawings and stupid poems when she should have done her job, for all of us. And I didn’t mean to, of course, but before I knew it, all the disappointment, the sheer embarrassment of having such a coward for a child came back – and yes, that’s what she was, a coward – and I pushed her into the water.

  She looked at me, surprised. That was the last thing she’d ever expect. Of course. Who would think that their mother is going to put an end to their life?

  She fell into the water and she didn’t struggle. No splashing, no writhing. She just floated there for a minute, and then she looked at me again. As if she had accepted what I just did.

  She looked so scared, though. And her little hand went up towards me, once, but without much spirit, as if she knew I wasn’t going to take it.

  Without spirit, yes. Even in death she was spineless.

  Our eyes met and she was without reproach. Her gaze was sweet, resigned, which made me despise her even more – and still, those eyes will stay with me as long as I live. I watched Mairead throw herself back to float with her face skywards. Her little face was quite blue already, and I knew she’d die from the cold before she’d die drowning.

  I am quite dead myself now. But I have to find a daughter for the family. She won’t have the dreams, but at least she’ll have witchcraft. Proper witchcraft, not Mairead’s little gentle games.

  How was she ever born into our family?

  When I walked in and I told them all – when I told them how I tried to save her – they looked at my dress, and they saw it was dry. Hamish accepted it. He couldn’t entirely blame me, anyway. Mairead was half his. Probably all his, given the way she had turned out. James, even at his young age, understood. But Stewart. Stewart hates me now, even more than before.

  I foresee that this will dissolve our family. Another consequence of Mairead’s uselessness, I suppose. All I can do is wait until James is old enough to marry and see that he and his wife have the daughter I was supposed to have.

  *

  Slowly, deliberately, Sarah tore the letter to pieces, and piece by piece she put it into the fire.

  The last memory of Mairead’s murder had been destroyed.

  45

  Broken Destiny

  What they turned you into

  Black embers

  It was well after midnight when Nicholas came to find Sarah in her room, sitting beside the cold, black remains of the fire. She looked very small and very lost in the big, shadowy room. Then she turned her face to him, revealing her tear-streaked cheeks.

  “What happened? A dream? Oh, Sarah.”

  She let him put his arms around her, inhaling woodsmoke and soil, the Nicholas scent she’d come to know so well.

  “It wasn’t a dream,” she told him quietly. “I read the last letter. Morag Midnight was a monster. And so was my father. And so am I!”

  “What? Slow down! What letter?”

  “The final letter. Yes. She … my grandmother …” Sarah covered her face with her hands.

  “It’s OK. It’s OK.”

  “It’s not OK! She murdered Mairead! It was she who killed her! And my father knew! They all knew!”

  “She killed her own daughter? Why?”

  “Because Mairead couldn’t cope with the dreams. She wasn’t strong enough. She took her to the sea and threw her in. And Mairead was …resigned. She accepted it, in a way, if you believe what Morag wrote. She wanted it!”

  “You told me she was only thirteen. A thirteen-year-old child doesn’t want to die!”

  “She must have been made to feel that way. Can you imagine? She knew she
was a disappointment.” Sarah’s voice broke.

  Nicholas held her close. Was this a chance he needed to take? He didn’t want to use the mind-moulding on her again, but he wanted to make her feel better, and he didn’t know how. In desperation, he cast his numbing fog around her again, cradling her in his arms, watching as it took the edge off her thoughts, softening her pain.

  “Shhhh. It was long ago. It was so long ago, and you can forget it now,” he soothed.

  Sarah closed her eyes. “I can’t. I’m just like them.”

  “No, you aren’t. It ends here, Sarah. The misery that was handed down to you. You don’t need to hand it down to your children. Although their blood is in your veins, you’re your own person. You can choose who you are.”

  Nicholas’s hypnotic voice was calming her, bit by bit, as it had done so often. She felt the familiar dizziness taking her, weakening her.

  “Do you hear me, Sarah? You don’t need to be like them.”

  “That’s what Winter told me,” Sarah murmured into his chest, confused. She wrapped her arms round him.

  “You can choose who you want to be.” Nicholas repeated his mantra over and over, his hold on her strengthening.

  You need me too, she thought suddenly, the notion piercing the blanket of sleepiness that he brought with him. She frowned, surprised. He was comforting her, not the opposite, so why was she feeling this way, that she was somehow supporting him, that for once he was the vulnerable one?

  Sarah disentwined herself from Nicholas and looked into his face. She gasped at what she saw. His eyes were as red-rimmed as hers, and just as troubled. He looked as if he was on the verge of breaking.

  “Don’t be upset, Nicholas. I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine,” she whispered, but the blurriness was returning. “I’m so tired. I can’t speak. I can’t think. Why are you doing this to me? What are you doing to me?” She wasn’t sure whether she was making any sense now.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair. “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want this anymore, Nicholas. Please stop,” she muttered, leaning against him, unable to move.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, but he didn’t lift the fog – he wanted to hold her in his arms for as long as he could, and never let her go.

  It was late the next morning when Sarah walked into the kitchen.

  “Are you feeling OK?” Sean asked her when he saw her pale face and tousled hair. He put down his sgian-dubh – he and Elodie had been practising the runes again. “You look terrible.”

  Sarah stretched and turned slowly around, taking in the scene. “I’m fine. I fell asleep.”

  “Come and sit down,” Sean interrupted. He didn’t want to know the details. “I’ll make you a cup of coffee.”

  Sarah smiled wanly at the offer. Caffeine man, she used to call him, because he thought that everything could be fixed with coffee.

  “There might be biscuits to go with that,” Niall began, pulling a tin out of one of the cupboards.

  Elodie chipped in. “Oh, me too, thanks!”

  Mike stood up. “Here, take my chair.”

  “I read the last letter. My grandmother murdered her daughter,” said Sarah suddenly. Her words fell like stones, and the room was silenced. “She wasn’t good enough. My aunt Mairead, I mean. She was frightened, she couldn’t take the dreams. They were too much for her. So Morag drowned her. Just there.” Sarah pointed out the window, towards the beach. She spoke as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was telling them.

  “Jesus,” whispered Niall.

  “So anyway. I’m going for a walk. Alone,” said Sarah before anybody could suggest otherwise.

  “No you aren’t. Unless you have a death wish,” replied Elodie. “The demon-bird is still out there.”

  Sarah shrugged. “I need to be alone.”

  “I’ll walk ten steps behind you, OK? But I won’t leave you.” Sarah looked at Elodie, surprised. There was warmth in her voice, something she wasn’t expecting.

  But Sarah misunderstood. I hate to be pitied. She lifted her chin. “No thanks.”

  Elodie took a step back, biting her lip. Sean was about to speak, but too late.

  “I’ll come with you,” said Nicholas, appearing as if from nowhere.

  Sarah swung round. “No. I need to think,” she whispered, a tight note in her voice.

  Nicholas’s face darkened. “Of course. I’ll leave you be.” He stood back to let her pass.

  “You’re not going anywhere on your own.” Sean strode over and took Sarah’s arm, turning his back on Nicholas.

  Finally, Sarah exploded, shaking him off in a single violent movement. “Will everybody let me be! I’m a curse! I’m a walking curse! And I want to be alone!”

  Sean and Elodie exchanged a quick look, and unspoken words passed between them. Sarah would not go alone.

  Nicholas frowned as he watched Sean storm out after her, but he didn’t stop him. Sean’s form blurred and vanished as he walked onto the beach.

  Sarah sat on the rocks at the far side of the bay, lashed by the wind and rain, looking out to sea, eyes dark with sorrow. Let the demons come. If the last of the Midnights dies, it might not be entirely a bad thing.

  Sean sat not far from her, invisible to her, so immobile, so still that he was sand and water, part of the landscape, watching over Sarah, keeping her safe.

  46

  Death Written in Blood

  Our end is coded

  In the spark of our beginning

  The demon-bird sat panting, his back resting against the stony cliff. I failed again, he kept telling himself, choked with fear and fury. His hands were clutching his chest, where blood oozed from his wounds. Please stop, he begged. Please heal. Please let me have enough strength to complete my mission.

  With huge effort he removed the mask from his face, loosened his beak and mane and laid them on the sand beside him. Relieved of the disguise, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Next, he removed his leather cloak, which he used to catch the wind as he flew, and the claws.

  Tancredi Falco grabbed some rags from a bag beside him and held them tightly to his chest, willing with all his might for the bleeding to subside. He didn’t have long. And he had accepted that. He’d go the same way as his brother Ranieri, and soon he’d see him again. But first, he had to do what he’d come to Islay for. He ran his bloodied hand through his long, straight brown hair, leaving a smudge of red on his forehead.

  How long will it be, before I’m strong enough to strike again? Because if I don’t kill Sarah Midnight, it’ll be the end of us all.

  47

  Poison

  Ceilings heavy with memories

  Walls thick with years

  Never silent, always whispering

  The births and deaths of generations gone.

  Listen when I beg the old house

  Let your children go

  Sean

  This house is poisoned, if you ask me. I know Sarah has been fantasizing about living here, but it is so full of sorrow, so full of ghosts. If it was me, I’d knock it down and let nothing but weeds grow on its foundations. I’m still reeling from Sarah’s revelations about her aunt’s murder. The Midnights are even worse than Harry let on. I wonder if he knew – his father certainly did.

  It’s Christmas Eve. Sarah is in the kitchen now, cooking away. In a crisis, Sarah cooks – that’s what she does. We decided to stay on Islay for a little while longer.

  “What would be the point of going?” Sarah had said. “Wherever we go, the Surari will follow us. We might as well face them.”

  I looked to Elodie, who, unexpectedly, echoed Sarah’s words. “No more running away,” she whispered as she turned away from me.

  Ever since our kiss on the beach, there has been an awkwardness between Elodie and me. I can’t help thinking that she’s not really longing for me, but for Harry’s ghost, Harry’s memory. When I catch her looking at me I am afraid, because I can never feel that way for her. Sh
e doesn’t deserve any more heartache after all she’s been through. I don’t want to hurt her, but I can’t help being in love with Sarah.

  There, I said it. It was no secret, after all. I’m in love with Sarah, and that’s never going to change.

  I can feel this house humming, vibrating with what’s to come. We’re all jumpy, nerves taut under the skin, waiting. The Midnight ghosts are all around us, and sometimes I think they’re closing in on us; and so, we have to presume, are the Surari. Any time now, they will strike.

  So here the rest of us are, counting the hours trickling slowly one after the other, with Sarah sorting cutlery and polishing silver obsessively. As Niall whispered to me, while we prepared the vegetables exactly the way Sarah instructed us, we are like the orchestra on the Titanic, playing on as the ship is about to sink.

  Sarah brushes past me on some errand, running upstairs. The light of the multi-coloured window plays in her hair, and the hand she leans on the banister is raw and bleeding.

  48

  The Blood Is Strong

  A mother’s call

  To keep you safe in times to come

  Sarah knelt in front of the fire in her bedroom again, as if in front of an altar, and the box of letters clutched to her chest was the sacrificial offering.

  The wood flamed wildly in the grate. This was the second time in her life she was burning something her family had inflicted on her. First her dream diary, the black-bound book where she had recorded her first four years of dreaming, and now her grandmother’s letters.