Darkfall: Shadows of the Deep, page 7
‘That’s true. And I’m sorry, truly, but—’
‘Don’t,’ Assandra snapped. ‘You’re going to tell me it was for my own good, aren’t you?’ He gave another slow nod. She sighed. ‘How could it possibly be for my own good?’
‘The Deathborn almost killed your sister back then. She and I knew the danger of what we were doing. We always planned to bring you into the fold, but Cora didn’t want you getting hurt, and she felt the risk was hers alone to take at first. When things were far enough advanced, she then wanted to show you everything she had built and ask you to be a part of it… but only when it was safe. In her mind, having you involved with the delivery of the spawn kept you out of direct harm, but you were always close enough for us to keep a protective eye on you.’
‘You talk like it was Cora who was in charge and making all the decisions.’
‘And that would be true,’ Vern said. ‘I helped show her the way, but I don’t have the gifts she or you possess, so she led the way. You know how hard-headed she could be, so there was no other option but to do things on her terms.’
While the hard-headed comment about Cora was certainly true, Assandra still wasn’t certain she believed everything she was being told. It was all too… convenient.
Remain sceptical, she reminded herself.
‘There is no excuse for not letting me know my own father was alive,’ she snapped at him, ‘no matter how much you try to blame Cora. I remember how things were growing up. You weren’t a person to follow orders, you gave them. My mother was a husk of a person because of you, and my sister and I were all but forgotten about. You viewed us more as specimens than daughters.’
Her father remained silent for a few moments. ‘I won’t try to defend how I was back then,’ he said, ‘because it is unforgivable. I was driven solely by my work, and nothing I can say will change that. I suppose in many ways, that is still true. But Cora understood in the end. She believed it all, just as I did.’
‘In the end,’ Assandra repeated, ‘Cora turned into a monster. She wasn’t even human anymore.’
‘Regardless of her outward appearance, Cora was still in there,’ Vern said. ‘Though it’s true, she was ascending to something more.’
Riddles again. Assandra felt like she had so much to say. However, it was all so overwhelming. Too much had been thrown at her over the last few days, and she felt exhausted. So, Assandra withdrew.
Even though she hadn’t been before, Assandra knew Kettleness wasn’t too far, so she decided to spend most of the remaining time in silence. She would let her father show her what was so important that Cora had given her life for it. After that, she could decide if she actually cared.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘Tom!’ a voice yelled.
Stay hidden, Tom Sullen told himself. He was crouched behind some boxes on the harbour, pressing his body tight up against the wooden crates to avoid being seen—his fellow workmen were looking for him. Sweat dripped from his body, despite the evening drop in temperature, and his heart pounded.
The other workers from the warehouse were all getting ready to depart for the day, ready for the shift change, and were climbing in the provided horse-drawn coaches to make the trip back to Kettleness.
Tom couldn’t go with them. Not like this.
That day at work had been one long struggle. Ever since the monster had attacked him, Tom had been feeling gradually worse throughout. Has to be an infection. At first, Tom had felt jittery and on edge, and that had developed into dizzy spells, as well as nausea and sweating. A few of his colleagues had noticed, mentioning he looked awful. Bull especially had eyed him in suspicion. If Tom was to fall badly ill, would Bull and the others in the inner circle think of him as a liability? Could he end up like those things caged down beneath Kettleness? At one point, Tom had to hide for a little while to throw up behind the warehouse. That was when he’d realised he couldn’t go back with the others. Tom didn’t have a plan thought out, beyond just hiding until everyone had left and then figuring out what to do. Visit a doctor maybe, to help get the infection under control.
As he hid, Tom gently pulled back his dirty sleeve to inspect the wound. The edges of the gash were red and angry. For some reason, the open flesh refused to scab over. It wasn’t a particularly large hole—in truth, he’d suffered worse while doing his job—but it wept with pus and throbbed. It itched terribly, as well.
On top of that, despite feeling sick, a persistent hunger had dogged Tom throughout the day. He’d forced down some food earlier, despite the queasiness, but it had had little effect on his desire to fill his belly. Specifically, Tom felt a craving for meat. Earlier in the day, when standing next to a man who had sliced his finger open, Tom had immediately noticed the sharp, coppery smell of blood—worse, it made him salivate.
He looked over the crate and saw the searching men looking the other way. They were standing far enough back that Tom felt brave enough to run a little ways more down the harbour, keeping low and behind any cover he came across. He then slunk into a side alley. One of the last things he heard was Bull telling the others that those on night-shift would have to find Tom. The man then added loudly that ‘no one betrays the boss’s trust.’ Tom knew that had been meant for his ears.
As Tom moved through the streets, his mind desperately scrambled for what to do next. Where would he go? Having been born and raised in Whitby, that town was the only place he knew, other than Kettleness, and he had no family to turn to. Tom was alone. But he couldn’t stay in the area, he knew that. The Skivington company was just too big. He would be found easily. However, given the late hour, with darkness already set in and no transport available, Tom knew he couldn’t leave Whitby until morning at the very least. He had no accommodation, but Tom knew the town well—there were some places he could hide and get some rest. Places where he would be at least mostly protected from the elements. Come morning, Tom would be able to reassess, then try and find a way to get out of town.
The constant itching in his forearm was a reminder that he needed to get his injury looked at soon. At the very least, it needed cleaning. That was perhaps something he could address himself. All he needed was some clean cloth to use as a bandage, as well as some water or, ideally, alcohol. He had none of those things, though he wasn’t the type to consider himself above stealing if need be.
With that in mind, Tom followed the River Esk, eventually reaching an area where public houses overlooked the water. There was also an outcropping of concrete that jutted into the river, a place he knew where sailors and fishermen sometimes gathered to sit and drink if the weather permitted. He was also aware of the unwritten rule of that particular wharf: none of the Skivington fishermen were welcome there, which was why he hadn’t visited in a while.
Tom knew there was a chance he could be recognised, but it was a risk worth taking. The worst that could happen was people would force him to leave.
Or they will violently attack you, he told himself.
As expected, there were a number of fishermen spaced out around the wharf. It wasn’t a particularly large space, with maybe ten or so people in the area, sitting together in a group, all except two men who had apparently decided to sit and drink alone. Most of the fishermen had a bottle or flask in hand, and some even had food: chips, fish, or packets of meat. It was the meat that drew Tom’s eye. There were also some alight burn barrels dotted around the wharf, providing heat. As Tom approached and stepped onto the concrete area, no one really paid him any attention, and the chatting and laughing continued.
Good.
Tom walked to the edge of the harbour and took a seat on one of the rusted, weathered mooring posts fixed to the concrete base. From that position, he could remain on the outer edges of the sparse gathering, but was still able to see everyone. Looking around, Tom considered trying to steal a flask, but knew that was a risk. He’d have no idea what was inside. Ideally, Tom wanted rum. He could use it to wash out his wound, but it was also his favourite drink, and he knew it would help him sleep. The thought of stealing a flask and ending up with gin or brandy turned his stomach.
So, he instead scanned the area and looked for a bottle with clear liquid inside. He spotted some in the hands of the weathered men. I hope that’s rum, not gin. Odds were good, considering it was the preferred tipple of most fishermen.
If Tom was patient and sneaky, he knew he could make off with some alcohol and food—he just needed the right opportunity. God knows I’m due a little luck, Tom thought. He tilted his head forward and rubbed his eyes, trying to keep the tiredness away.
‘Drinking alone there, fella?’ a slurred voice asked.
Tom looked up to see a short, squat man approach with the gentle sway of someone pretty well inebriated. He carried a clear bottle and had a brown paper packet with ham sticking out from inside. Tom quickly cast his eyes up to the night sky and allowed himself a small smile. It seemed the luck he was due was actually making itself known.
The approaching man had wild and white sideburns, which ran out from beneath a rain hat. He was wrapped in a long raincoat, and the bottle he was carrying was clutched in a cracked, meaty hand. The bottle was only half full, but it was better than nothing.
‘I’m not drinking at all,’ Tom replied. ‘Down on my luck at the moment. Just looking for a place to rest for a while.’
The man gave an understanding nod and sat on one of the moor posts next to Tom. He let out a strained sigh as he lowered his weight down. Tom got an unmistakable whiff of rum on the fisherman’s warm breath.
‘Skivington’s lot are sucking up all the work out there,’ the fisherman said. ‘Bastards. If you aren’t with em’ then work is scarce.’ He leaned forward and held out the bottle. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘have a swig. It’s my second bottle, so I’m happy to share.’
‘Thanks,’ Tom said and took hold of the bottle. As the wet neck touched his lips, he grimaced, knowing the saliva from the older man was all over the rim. However, he immediately felt the alcohol warm his stomach. Tom then offered the bottle back, but the man waved a hand.
‘Have a little more,’ he said.
Tom smiled. ‘You local?’ he asked.
‘Not originally, no,’ the man said. ‘Only been in town a few weeks, in truth, as I’ve been helping out a friend. I’ll likely be gone again in a few days. Not much for me around here. Nice town, but no prospects. Not with Skivington ruling the waters.’
‘Where are you staying?’ Tom asked, wondering if there might be extra space.
‘Doss house up the road,’ the fisherman said. ‘Horrible place. Crowded. But it’s a bed for the night. You live close by?’
Tom paused. ‘Used to. Nowhere to go no more.’
‘You homeless?’
‘Suppose I am.’
‘So, where do you sleep?’
Tom shrugged. ‘Anywhere I can find. There are some caves along the beach that give decent shelter from the rain.’
‘Sleeping in a bloody cave?’ the man asked, incredulous. ‘Nowhere more comfy than that?’
‘Might be,’ Tom said. ‘But it's quiet, and I’m left alone.’ It was all lies, of course. Tom had been forced to sleep rough a few times, but he’d always done so in town, never resorting to sleeping out on the beach. It did have some appeal now, however, the more he thought about it. Tom was confident no one would be out there, especially the Skivington workers, so it provided isolation, despite being uncomfortable.
‘What happens if the tide comes in?’
Tom smiled. ‘I get wet.’
The man let out a laugh. ‘That you would. Or you’d drown.’
‘Some of the caves don’t really flood,’ Tom said. ‘Besides, I’m a good swimmer.’
The man narrowed his hazy eyes on Tom. ‘Not sure you’d swim too well at the minute, lad. You look ill. You sick?’
‘I’m fine,’ Tom lied. ‘Just my natural colour. My dad said I always looked like Death warmed up.’
The stranger let out another laugh. ‘Well, keep sipping that rum, it’ll put some colour in yer cheeks.’
Tom took another drink. ‘Thank you,’ he said again. ‘Rum always helps get rid of my hunger too.’
‘You not eaten?’
Tom shook his head. ‘Not today, no. But this,’ he shook the bottle, ‘should be fine enough.’
The fisherman unbundled the brown paper he was carrying, then set it on his knee, revealing several slabs of pink meat.
‘Have some ham,’ he said.
Tom’s eyes lit up, and his mouth salivated. ‘Appreciate that. You sure?’
The fisherman nodded, so Tom quickly grabbed a large handful, surprising even the kind fisherman with how much Tom stuffed into his mouth.
The fisherman quickly closed the paper again.
‘Well, leave some, lad,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I still want to eat some myself, ya know.’ He put the meat away into one of the pockets of his large raincoat.
Tom quickly chewed through what was in his mouth. It was far too dry, but at least it was something. As he swallowed, however, he soon realised his belly needed more, like the small amount of meat only served to reignite his hunger instead of quelling it.
His stomach growled loudly.
The fisherman raised his eyebrows. ‘Jesus, you really are hungry, lad.’
You don’t know the half of it, fisherman.
A strange idea then came to Tom.
What if he tried to overpower the man and just steal his food? Pummel the fisherman with the bottle, then take his clothes and the ham. The notion quickly escalated: what if Tom went further? The ham wasn’t really enough—but the fisherman himself… how much meat was on him?
Tom shook his head. What the fuck am I thinking?
Tom started to panic. Never in his life, even in his most hungry and desperate state, had he ever considered anything like that. Yet now, the notion not only seemed plausible, Tom found he actually craved it. He suddenly felt the need to get away from his new friend, to get away from everyone. He got to his feet, swaying slightly before he got his bearings.
‘I… I have to go,’ he said and took a step forward. The fisherman, still sitting, quickly grabbed Tom’s arm. Tom instinctively tried to pull away, surprised at the man’s suddenly aggressive behaviour. ‘Let me go!’ Tom snapped as panic flooded him. He knew he was drawing the attention of the others on the wharf. His head spun. The infection was making him feel disoriented and weak.
‘Just fucking wait, lad,’ the fisherman said. He started to get up as well.
But Tom didn’t want to wait. What if others came over and saw his wound? Would they draw the attention of Skivington workers who might be nearby?
Tom tried to pull his arm free, but the man held on tight. ‘Let go!’ Tom snapped.
‘Wait,’ the man said, then reached his other hand out as well.
Tom reacted instinctively. He swung his free arm and hit the fisherman across the side of the head with the bottle. The man toppled sideways, clutching his head. Shit, Tom thought. He… he was reaching for the bottle. He just wanted his drink back.
Other men on the wharf started getting to their feet.
‘What’s going on over there?’ one shouted.
‘The cunt hit me!’ the fisherman yelled from the ground. ‘He’s trying to steal my booze.’
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Tom turned and ran, clutching the rum in his hand. He still felt weak, but adrenaline pushed him on. The damage was done now, so if he had to flee, he might as well keep the drink. It’ll help me get through the night.
‘Come back, ye thief!’ he heard the fisherman yell. ‘I’ll find ya, not letting my rum go that easy.’
Tom ignored him and continued to sprint, weaving through the streets. However, breathing soon became a struggle, and his lungs started to burn. At one point, he had to duck into a side alley just to purge the contents of his cramping stomach. He saw half-digested ham in with the bile on the ground.
As soon as he was able, Tom gathered himself and continued travelling north to the edge of town, and then headed down a small embankment that led to the beach. The sound of the rolling waves was almost comforting to him.
When deciding where to run to, Tom realised he had instinctively fallen back on his conversation with the fisherman, and the caves were the only place he could think to go. With any luck, he might find some relatively dry kindling inside one of them and could get a small fire going.
Tom wasn’t sure how viable it would be to sleep in a cave. For one, if the tide did come in, he wasn’t certain they were deep enough to keep from flooding, despite what he’d told the fisherman. But at least for the next hour or so, he could find a spot away from everyone and sit and drink.
Once he was on the beach, Tom made his way across sand that was littered with stones, pebbles, and empty shells. Some areas of the beach were rife with seaweed, and he had to navigate past some large rocks as he moved parallel with the high cliffs to his left. The sand underfoot was relatively damp, and since it hadn’t rained that day, he guessed that meant the tide had already been in recently.
Tom reached a point where the cliffs pulled back, creating a space between two outcroppings. There, he saw the walls of the rock had a large cave opening. The ground inside was an uneven mix of large rocks and small stones, and it sloped upwards the farther it pushed back. It was protected on all sides except the front—and, more importantly, no one else was inside.
This will do.
Tom slowly walked inside, careful not to slip on the rocks—most of them were coated with seaweed or long, stringy moss. He soon saw a large boulder that was relatively clean, well elevated, and had a wide, flat surface. Tom clambered up to it and sat down. He looked out towards the sea and let out a sigh, contemplating the mess his life had become in less than a day.
His stomach ached, and Tom immediately thought about filling it with a gulp from the bottle. The rum churned in his gut. He pined for something different and couldn’t help to think back to the wharf, where he’d imagined what it would be like to eat some of the fisherman’s flesh. Even now, it… seemed exciting to him. For some reason, his body told him that would be the only way to sate the ravaging hunger.
