Da’s mouth twitches and for a second I think he’s going to smile. Then his face becomes stern once more.
“You don’t need to worry about them. They won’t bother you again. I’ll make sure of that. Best to forget what you saw.”
Is he joking? How am I supposed to forget them? I shake my head, questions spilling from me.
“Are they dangerous? How many of them are there?”
“Alva—”
“Where do they live? Why haven’t I seen them before? Did they go away? Do they migrate?”
“Please, lass,” he snaps. “Enough. I’ve told you.” He wipes his hand across his face. “You don’t need to concern yourself. Get some rest.” His tone makes it clear it’s not a suggestion.
I close my mouth, biting my protest back. I still need to play by the rules. “All right. Goodnight, then,” I say, standing slowly.
My father nods, looking away from me to the open door of the stove. The firelight reflects in his eyes, flames dancing there like he’s the devil. It sends a shiver through me.
As I reach the door he stops me. “Wait,” he says. “Are you planning on going into the village tomorrow? To take your work to the mailman?”
“Yes.” I wait for him to forbid me, to order me to stay in the cottage again, but he merely gives a single nod.
“Will you answer me one thing?” I ask. “You say they’re not gods, so what are they?”
His expression is bleak. “Something else. Now off to bed, I’ll deal with it. Trust me.”
It’s the one thing I can never do.
I leave the room on wobbly legs that owe just as much to the whisky as leftover fear. I lock myself in the washroom and strip, rescuing the pine candy from my pocket. I leave the dirty skirts on the floor while I wash myself.
When I close my eyes I see the creature turning towards me again. My teeth start to chatter, though I don’t feel cold.
I wrap my earasaid around me and head into my room. My father is at my window, turning the key in the lock on the shutters.
“For peace of mind,” he says gruffly, stepping around me without meeting my gaze, shutting the door behind him. He’s left his candles on the stool by my bed, three of them welded to the plate with wax.
Crouching down, I peer under my bed. My bag is still there, tucked back in the shadows, and I shove the bag of candy inside before pushing it to the wall again. The morning won’t come soon enough. If I didn’t already have enough reason to flee, the existence of these gods, or whatever they are, would have made up my mind.
I change into my nightshirt and climb into bed, deciding it won’t hurt to leave the candles burning tonight. Then I tug the blankets up, over my head. The walls feel too thin, not strong enough to keep those things out. I curl up smaller, pulling my pillow down and dislodging the letters I’d written to Giles. I sit up, holding one in each hand. It feels like a lifetime ago that I wrote them.
I’ll need to write another, I realize. I have to warn the villagers there are monsters up here, in case my father doesn’t. They’ve a right to know what they’re facing. Then I sigh. I don’t know what they’re facing. Not old gods, is all I have. Something else.
Like that helps.
I’ll do it in the morning, before I go. Hopefully things will be clearer then. That decided, I push the first two letters back under the pillow, and hunker down under the covers.
Fear is a funny thing. Moments ago, I worried the walls wouldn’t keep that thing out. But now, whisky warming my veins, my heart beating at a normal pace again, covered in the blankets I’ve had since I was little, I feel … if not safe – because I haven’t felt safe for a long time – then steady. Even the sound of my father in the kitchen is comforting, for the first time in years, because it means I’m not alone. I’m glad he was here tonight, and that he looked outside. If he hadn’t… I turn from that thought. He did. And he came for me. I’m grateful.
I still shiver when I think of the creature’s face, and hands, and I expect it would be a whole other matter if I blew the candles out and lay in the dark – but my fear feels manageable now. It helps that it’s quiet outside, except for the familiar sound of the loch hushing and shushing. I let myself sink into the floating feeling the whisky has given me. I leave the flames burning and I don’t think of the thing, even as my eyelids grow heavy.
I sleep.
*
The room is dark when I wake, except for a thin golden line of daylight between the shutters.
And it all comes back to me.
I sit up, gasping for breath like I’m breaking through water, my hand clutching my nightshirt.
Bone-pale skin, hairless, blind. Wide mouth. Those terrible, terrible fingers.
Within a blink I’m out of bed, throwing open my bedroom door.
“Da? Da?” I call.
He’s not here.
To be sure, I check every room: the washroom, his study, his bedroom, the kitchen. In every room the shutters are closed, and when I try to open them, I find they’re all locked. I look for the key, expecting to see it sitting in one of the locks, but it isn’t.
By the time I try the front door, I already know what to expect, though it doesn’t stop me from punching it with the base of my fist and swearing.
He’s locked me in.
Whether to keep me safe, or to keep me from running screaming all the way down to the village, he’s made me a prisoner.
I lean my forehead against the door. How am I going to leave Ormscaula today if I can’t even leave the cottage?
TWELVE
By candlelight, I ransack the place, going through every drawer in the kitchen, tipping every cup and jar over and rummaging in the contents, spilling years’ worth of useless knick-knacks on to the table. I find broken clothes pegs, single buttons, rusted nails, a dull penknife, but no key. He’ll have the one for the front door with him, but the spare key for the shutters might still be here; I just have to find it. In my hunt I leave a trail of wreckage behind me, letting everything lie where it falls as I move on.
Into my father’s room, placing the candle on the stool by his bed as I lift the mattress and peer beneath it. I check inside his drawers, turn his shoes out. I pull every item of clothing from his chest, patting down the pockets, tossing them aside when I find nothing. I even try prising up some of the floorboards in case he has one like mine, perfect for hiding things under. But still no key, and my heart beats like an executioner’s drum.
I don’t care if he comes back, I don’t care if he catches me. I have to get out of here today. This is my chance – maybe my only chance. My job, everything I’ve worked for, saved for…
I need that key.
By the time I get to his study I’m in a rage, a human hurricane tearing through the house, not giving a damn what’s in my way, or whether I destroy it. I only stop when I see both long guns and both pistols are gone from his gun cabinet. I check the bullet and powder store and see it’s depleted too.
My father, the godslayer.
I search the room, pulling books out and checking behind them, standing on the window seat to feel across the tops of the bookshelves, going through the drawers in his desk. My heart leaps when I find a leather pouch, feeling the outline of a key inside, until I pull it out and realize that it’s too small for the shutters and the wrong shape; the end is a twelve-pointed star, narrow at the tip, like an arrow, the bow a wide hole I can easily grip. I don’t know what it’s for, but it’s not what I need.