Sentinel

First published in 2014 by Peridot Press

12 Deben Mill Business Centre, Melton, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 1BL

Copyright © Joshua Winning 2014

The right of Joshua Winning to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All characters in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher

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PROLOGUE

18
A
UGUST, 1589

I
T WAS MAGIC,
I
SABEL HAD SAID,
but Jessica still didn’t quite believe it. She’d pouted at first and turned her head. Isabel’s reproach had been hot like a needle in her ear.

“They become confounded in the afterworlds and they wander until time is nothing more than dull heartache. They require our help.”

Isabel had looked perfectly sane as she’d said it. Jessica had searched for a tell-tale twinkle in her eye or an uncharacteristic curl of her lip, but there had been nothing. Only that familiar stern brow, those thin, pressed lips and the cobweb crinkles about her eyes.

Now they were sitting hand-in-hand and Jessica was more confused than ever. She felt small, wished she was at home, even if that meant curling into a corner of the bed away from a man she didn’t love.

A faint vibration. A grumble of thunder. She was probably imagining it. Here, the only sound she could be certain of was the quick gasp of her own breath.

A crisp blue light quivered before her. It spiralled up from a bowl at the centre of the table, caught between their outstretched arms. The pentagon-shaped room glowed and the hairs on Jessica’s arms shivered.

“I have never seen blue fire,” she murmured.

She could only just discern the old woman’s watery outline through the light.

“It is a gateway,” Isabel explained. “A temporary opening between the worlds. Through it we are able to commune with those lost on the lonely roads, guide them toward rest.”

Jessica was ready with a tart retort, but the defiance died as it met her lips. A shape had stirred within the light. It looked like… a face. A man’s face. Deep-set eyes like wounds.

“Friend,” Isabel said. Jessica realised she wasn’t addressing her but the thing in the light. “Tell us your name, friend.”

Silence. Then–

“Harold Baxter.”

The voice convulsed awkwardly and Jessica trembled.

“Harold,” Isabel continued calmly. She didn’t sound like herself. The usually hard, clipped vowels were longer. Softer.

“Harold,” Isabel purred. “Why do you linger here?”

“JEREMY! He looks livid. What have I done? He’s- OH GOD! Blood!”

“Harold,” Isabel snapped. “Forget that. It is in the past now. You are free of such horrors.”

Silence. Then–

“There is another here.”

A faint jangle of bracelets. Jessica thought she saw Isabel’s face droop. It was impossible to tell through the curtain of light.

“Speak,” Isabel uttered.

A moment’s quiet. Then–

“Free me.”

It crashed like thunder. The voice made Jessica’s head pound.

Isabel’s grip tightened about her hands.

Choking heat blasted her face. The blue light fizzled and flames erupted.

The column of light blazed red fire.

Twin pinpricks flashed within the gateway and Jessica screamed.

*

She broke out into the night, where the folds of her dress were snatched up by the wind.

Terrified, Jessica collapsed in front of the house. She sobbed with her face in her hands.

Rain drove from above and the storm threatened to swallow her whole.

Caaw! Caaw!

The sound sang over the storm’s bellowing and Jessica scoured the shadows uncertainly.

Then she saw it.

Flitting through the darkness on powerful wings was a raven. Barely visible in the night, its keen eyes flashed in response to the lightning. It dropped to the ground a mere foot from the young woman.

They regarded one another for a moment. Overpowered by curiosity, Jessica got to her feet.

Caaw!

The bird took to the air once more and, smiling now, Jessica followed it into the storm.

CHAPTER ONE

Alone

8
A
UGUST, 2013

A
NITA HALLOW TOOK A DEEP BREATH
and tried to settle her nerves. At least they were here now. Soon they’d be moving, and the quicker that happened, the quicker she could do what she had to. She’d be home again soon. Her insides shuddered and she searched about for a distraction.

There, in the window: the reflection of a worry-tired woman. Anita changed her focus and peered out at the platform.

Cambridge train station was typically teeming for a Friday night. A tinny voice rang over the tannoy and though the rush hour had long since passed, the station was still alive.

“For God’s sake, Bobby!” a voice whinnied, and Anita was plucked from her reverie. She watched in the window as the reflection of a couple trudged down the carriage aisle; a plump woman was waddling along behind a man with spider-like limbs.

“Whatever you do it always goes wrong,” the woman shrieked. “I don’t know why you even bother, I just don’t. If it’s not one thing it’s something else. You’re a walking–”

The admonishments faded into the distance.

Anita shrank further into her seat as the carriage began to fill up. Around her, people hollered into their mobile phones; joking and arguing, shamelessly sharing the most colourful details of their lives. She wondered what those lives were like, dislocated as they were from the worries of her world.

A hand reached out and touched hers.

Anita jumped, then remembered Max. He was sitting across the table from her, his hair a scruff of sandy blond, eyes twinkling wryly. Nothing ever seemed to bother him.

“I told you about worrying.” He squeezed her hand warmly.

It would be easy to mistake them as strangers, they made such an unusual pairing. Anita’s timid, frowning countenance was thrown into stark contrast by her husband’s easy confidence. Yet here they were, eighteen years married. Their conflicting personalities complemented one another in ways that made them both better people. Anita’s gentle, compassionate nature ensured that she was able to defuse some of Max’s more fiery tempers, while Max’s determination meant that he was able to instil in Anita the confidence that she so often lacked.

“I’m not worrying.” Anita raised a defiant eyebrow. There was no fooling Max, though, and she sighed. “I just… I can’t,” she began, but she was aware that the carriage was now groaning with people. A nervous glance about her confirmed that none of the other passengers were taking any notice of them. And why should they?

“Everything will be fine, Nicholas can take care of himself,” Max said. “He’s not a child anymore. Isn’t that exactly why we’ve been called?”

“But that’s just it – we have no idea. It’s been fifteen years, what if something awful has happened?”

“All the more reason to keep calm,” Max reasoned. “If Nicholas needs anything he’s got Tabatha next door. I told you not to have that coffee; it always makes you jittery.”

Anita offered a weak smile. “I know.”

She turned to peruse the crowds once more. As they sat quietly, Anita’s fingers moved absentmindedly to a silver pendant threaded about her neck. She stroked the surface, tracing the familiar contours, finding reassurance in their permanence.

“Pardon me, is this seat taken?”

Anita looked up as a figure paused at their table. He was an elderly gentleman, his stern face creased with experience, silver-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of a large nose. He wore black from head to toe and the only other shade on his person was a slash of white at the neck; a clerical collar that marked him out as a man of the cloth.

“Feel free,” Anita said.

“Ah,” the priest said pleasantly, seating himself next to Max. “Much obliged.” He set a leather bag down on the table.

The blinkered lights above the train doorway beeped, and with a mechanical hiss the doors closed. The train’s engine gathered momentum, causing the windowpanes to judder, and finally they began their departure from Cambridge station. Summer air gusted in through the window and Anita peered up into the dark sky where a full moon peered back at her.

Max read his newspaper. Next to him, the priest popped open his bag, retrieving a pen and a pad of paper.

Anita watched him from across the table, observing the pen as it crept over the paper, gripped by knobbly fingers. She had always admired the men and women of the clergy. Though she didn’t believe in God – at least not the God that the Christians worshipped – she sensed the ardour of their conviction and respected them for it. What she admired most was the unwavering commitment of their faith. These people had devoted their entire lives to the belief that out there, somewhere, somebody was watching over and protecting them. They put their trust in something that they couldn’t physically prove, but rather felt. Faith was a complicated and wonderful thing.

Outside the panorama began to change. Cambridge gave way to a collection of small towns and fields.

“Can we trust her?” Anita murmured, mostly to herself. Opposite her, Max lowered his paper. “Tabatha, I mean,” Anita explained. She flashed a look at the priest, who was still absorbed in writing.

“I can’t think of anybody more worthy of our trust,” Max said. “Except Sam of course, but he’ll be with us.”