Scaderstone Pit (The Darkeningstone Series Book 3) (22 page)

“There’s a junction coming up,” Cally said. “I think it’s the third right. Should I take it?”

I turned back with a start. “Sorry.” I checked the map. “Yes. Turn right.”

But Cally didn’t take the turn. Instead, she pulled the car over to the side of the road, just short of the junction, and parked.

I glanced down at the map. “What’s wrong? That’s the turn. We just need to take it.”

“I don’t know,” Cally said. “The sign says it’s a dead end.”

I peered out toward the side road. I could understand why Cally was reluctant to drive down it. The road was very narrow, a single track country lane, and it looked unused. Its surface was littered with loose gravel; coarse grass and weeds had crept across its crumbling edges. I checked the map one more time. “Yes, I’m sure.” I leaned forward and craned my neck to look along the track. In the distance, I could just make out a stand of trees, but there was no sign of the hill. “I can’t see much from here, but when we get past those trees, we should see the hill.”

“All right,” Cally said. “If you’re sure, let’s give it a go.” She eased the car forward, taking the turn slowly, and the car rocked and bounced on its suspension as we crossed onto the uneven track. We drove in silence for a while. Cally was preoccupied with the potholes in the track’s unkempt surface, but I kept my eyes fixed on the line of trees in the distance, waiting for the moment when the hill would emerge from behind them. But before we got that far, we came up against a problem: a metal security barrier that ran right across the track. Cally brought the car to a halt. “Oh great,” she said. “We must have taken a wrong turn.”

I shook my head. “No way. This is the place. I’ll see if I can open it.” I climbed out of the car and jogged up to the barrier. It was a modern automatic barrier that seemed strangely out of place in this lonely country lane. There was no way of opening it that I could see, and there was no way that we could drive around it; the bank on either side of the road was too steep. I walked back to the car, thinking through our options. Cally leaned her head out of the window. “Any good?”

“No. We’ll have to walk from here.” I nodded toward the trees. “It must be just over there. It’ll only take us a few minutes. We can leave the car here.”

Cally looked doubtful. “I’m blocking the road. What if somebody comes?”

“I don’t think that’s likely. It looks like no one ever comes here.”

“All right,” Cally said. She closed the windows and climbed out, locking the car behind her. “But we’d better not be long.”

I nodded. “Let’s go.”

We walked quickly over the open ground, heading in a straight line for the trees. As we walked, I found myself getting short of breath.
I should go to the gym more often
, I told myself. But it wasn’t the lack of exercise that was making my chest tight and my mouth dry; in a few short minutes we’d pass beyond the trees and I’d see the hill again. And now that I was so close, the memory of the brooding black stone sent a worm of anxiety to squirm in my stomach.

“Did you hear that?” Cally asked. She tilted her head to one side. “I heard a car or something.”

“No,” I said. But when I turned around, there, bumping over the open grassland, was a Land Rover. And it was heading straight toward us.

I looked at Cally. “Oh no! What are we going to do?”

“Just take it easy,” she said. “Let me do the talking. If they say anything, we’re just out for a walk. We haven’t done anything wrong.”

I nodded. “No problem. Your French is a lot better than mine. I’ll keep quiet.” But as the Land Rover homed in on us, I let a few harsh words slip between my clenched teeth. Since I’d arrived in France, I’d had nothing but trouble, and somehow I didn’t think my luck was about to change.

“Don’t look so worried,” Cally said. “Stop muttering. And here—hold my hand. We’re just a young couple out for a walk, OK?”

I hesitated then reached out and took her hand. Her skin was soft and warm, and as her fingers wrapped around mine, it felt as though our hands were made to fit together. I gave her a shy smile. “I guess this is France, after all.”

She returned my smile. “We’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

The Land Rover ground to a halt in front of us. The driver stayed in the cab while a burly young man in a dark blue uniform opened the passenger door and headed toward us, frowning.

“This is private land,” he said, and although he had a French accent, his English was very clear. “There is no entry for the public here. Please go back to your car.”

I gave Cally a meaningful look. How had he known we were English?

But before I could say anything, Cally gave the man a warm smile. “Pardon, mais—”

The man didn’t let her finish. “Go back to your car.” He stood in front of us, his arms folded.

I didn’t recognise the man’s uniform, but he had an unmistakeable air of authority, and when I glanced down, I saw he wore a gun at his hip. Even so, the way he’d just spoken to Cally was making my blood boil. “We were just taking a walk,” I said. “We wanted to see the hill.” I half turned and pointed toward the trees.

The effect on the man was instant. He scowled and his right hand moved down to rest on his holster. For a long second, he stared at me. “You will return to your car, or you will be detained. You will turn your car around and then we will escort you back to the main road. If you return to this area again, you will be detained.” He looked from me to Cally. “Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Cally said coolly. “We’ll go for our walk somewhere else.” She looked at me. “Come on, let’s go.”

“OK. It doesn’t look like we’ve got much choice.” I took one last look toward the trees, hoping for at least a glimpse of the hill, but I could see nothing.

We started walking back toward the car. When I looked back, the man in uniform was watching us and speaking into a mobile phone or a radio. When I was sure we were out of earshot, I said, “That was weird—they seemed to come out of nowhere. Were they police?”

Cally shook her head. “No way. I’ve never seen that uniform before. And there were no markings on the Land Rover. I’d guess they were some sort of private security firm.”

“But how did they know we were out here? And how did he know we were English? It doesn’t make any kind of sense.”

“No,” Cally said. “Although, I guess we look like a couple of tourists, and English is sort of a default language for anyone who isn’t French.”

“Maybe. But it still seems strange that they turned up so quickly.”

“Agreed,” Cally said. “But there was a barrier. So maybe it’s some kind of military base or something. That would explain why there’s nothing marked on the map.”

I shook my head. “It couldn’t be much of military base—the road is so narrow. And there’s no sign of traffic. And somewhere like that would be marked out and fenced off. There’d be high fences topped with razor wire, and warning signs.”

Cally sighed. “Perhaps you’re right. But anyway, you can let go of my hand now if you like. I don’t think our subterfuge fooled him for one minute.”

“Oh, OK.” Reluctantly, I let go of her hand, and we walked back to the car, with the Land Rover following slowly behind us.

The Land Rover stopped on the opposite side of the barrier and the uniformed man climbed out of the cab and watched, stony faced, as Cally struggled to turn our car around within the confines of the narrow track. “Maybe you should just reverse out,” I said. But Cally obviously knew what she was doing, and soon, we were able to set off along the rough track. When I looked back, the barrier was open, and the Land Rover was already following us along the lane. It didn’t stop until we reached the main road.

As we headed back toward Grand-Pressigny, I kept glancing over my shoulder. There was no sign of the Land Rover, but there was something else that bothered me. “It’s that car again,” I said. “It was behind us earlier.”

Cally looked in her rear view mirror. “The red one?”

“Yes,” I said. “The VW estate.”

Cally shrugged. “It’s just an ordinary car. How can you be sure it’s the same one? Did you see its number plate?”

“No,” I admitted. “But even so, it seems like too much of a coincidence.”

“OK,” Cally said. She slowed the car and pulled over to the side of the road.

“What are you doing?”

“Wait and see,” she said.

I turned in my seat and watched the red VW, but it didn’t slow down, and its occupants, a pair of young men, did not even glance in our direction as they passed us by.

“Problem solved,” Cally said. She half turned in her seat to look at me. “I know things have been pretty stressful, but we need to keep our heads. We need to keep things in perspective. If we go jumping at shadows, we’re not going to get anywhere.”

I pursed my lips. Cally was right, but if I was on edge, it was hardly surprising given everything that had happened. And I still had a niggling doubt about the red car; it seemed a strange model to be driven by a young man. It was the sort of car I’d associate with a family. But I didn’t say anything to Cally; I knew how it would sound. “OK,” I said. “We’d better go back and face the music.”

Cally nodded absently as though she was lost in thoughts of her own. And for the rest of the journey back to the museum, we hardly said a word.

Chapter 27

3550 BC

CLEOFAN STARED AT THE STRANGE WEAPON
in his hand. Glowan had called it a striker and the name seemed right; it had killed her with one blow, splitting her skull as if her bones had been no stronger than an eggshell.

Slowly, Cleofan uncurled his fingers and let the striker fall to the ground. “What have I done?” he whispered. “What have I done?” In a daze, he slipped his bow from his shoulder and stared at it. The wood was cracked and his cherished bow was ruined. Useless. He threw it down and moaned, clutching at his hair with both hands. The ledge seemed to spin around him, and he staggered backward, reaching out to the mound of stones to steady himself. But the awful hissing and crackling was even louder here, and he grimaced, shaking his head to clear his mind.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “This place is cursed.” He hurried toward the edge, seeking out the place where he could climb down. But just as he turned and began to lower his body over the edge, a pitiful, keening wail rose above the unearthly noise.

Cleofan’s stomach lurched, and he clung onto the lip of the ledge, clamping his fingers, white-knuckle-tight, onto the bare rock.
What evil is this
? Glowan could not have made that high-pitched cry; she could not still be alive. But what of the evil Shade that had made its home inside her body? It would be angry, and looking for a new home: a warm body to claim as its own.

Cleofan began scrambling down the steep slope, his fingers slipping, his feet sending showers of small stones to rattle and tumble down to the rocks below. He was breathing hard, hardly looking where he was placing his feet, and he’d completely lost sight of the track he normally used to climb down the treacherous slope.

He reached out to grab hold of a rocky outcrop, but as he gripped it, his foothold crumbled and his feet started to slip. Cleofan tried to shift his weight, but he lost his balance, and suddenly, there was nothing beneath his feet but empty space. He cried out, and for a heartbeat, he dangled from the rock face, holding on with one hand. With his free hand, he clawed against the bare rock, but here, the stone was smooth, without the slightest crack or crevice to provide a handhold. Cleofan grunted and heaved himself up by the strength of one arm, pushing his feet against the rock face, searching for a new foothold to keep him from falling.

There. First, one foot found a narrow niche, and then the other. Cleofan pressed himself against the rock face and closed his eyes. He could take some of his weight on his feet now. But even though his arm felt as if it had been ripped from his shoulder, he could not let go of his precious handhold. He gasped for air, his chest heaving, his blood pounding in his ears.
You fool
, he thought.
You’re letting the Shade drive you to
your death
.

He opened his eyes and looked up toward the ledge. There was no sign of danger, but as Cleofan clung to the rock for dear life, he heard, once again, the high-pitched, wavering wail that had sent him running. And his eyes went wide as he suddenly realised what he’d done.

“The baby!” he moaned. “I didn’t think about the baby.”

He stared upward, reliving the dreadful moment when he’d arrived on the ledge. Glowan had been about to strike her baby, but he’d stopped her. The baby hadn’t moved, but Cleofan hadn’t looked closely; he’d lost his courage and run for his life.

Cleofan ground his teeth together. If the baby was still alive, he’d abandoned it to its fate; the evil Shade would surely destroy the poor child. These terrible wails were the baby’s bitter cries of agony. Cleofan shook his head. He’d killed Glowan to defend himself, but he could not hide like a coward while the defenceless baby was attacked.

He reached up as high as he could, stretching his arm until his muscles burned. And there, just when he thought he could reach no farther, he found a handhold. It was a sign. Cleofan grunted under his breath as he pulled himself up, and he began to climb.