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  Martin nodded. He trusted Connor; he was the only man Martin had called friend since becoming a vampire. He looked closely at the man’s face, beneath the swelling storm clouds and the blinding darkness, and could neither see nor read any reason not to believe in him now. But then that face changed. The strength in his eyes faded away. The round mouth fell open and he let the flashlight fall to the floor. Martin took a step towards him.

  ‘Connor? Are you okay?’

  ‘This is my town,’ Mooney whispered, but Martin did not hear him. He had pivoted on his heels to look in the direction of Mooney’s impassive stare. He could understand why the mayor had reacted in the way he had.

  Walking across the parking lot towards them was a group of about twenty men and women, all carrying some sort of weapon ranging from a kitchen knife to gardening implements. Martin had an immediate flashback to his eviction from his village in Wales so long ago, and he found himself rooted to the spot.

  Slowly, the voices of the mob could be heard and they drew both Martin and Mooney out of their stupor.

  ‘There he is.’

  ‘Where’s the other one?’

  ‘Surround him!’

  ‘Get him!’

  Martin immediately took up a defensive posture, but Mooney brushed past him and addressed the group.

  ‘What do you think you are doing? This man has been our protector—’

  ‘Shut up, Mooney,’ yelled a woman from the middle of the crowd. When she pushed her way to the front, Mooney sighed. Susan Welsh no longer looked the model professional; her hair stuck out at numerous angles and she wore no makeup. It looked like she had literally dragged herself out of bed. She wore an ill-fitting jogging suit instead of her usual attire, but her face burned with the same determination Mooney was used to seeing in her workplace.

  ‘A boy is dead because of his son,’ she spat. ‘An eye for an eye, Mooney.’

  The crowd roared its approval and came forward, those at the front raising their weapons high. Mooney raised his hands to the crowd in response, like a preacher calling upon his congregation to repent.

  ‘We do not know that to be true,’ he countered.

  ‘Patrick said you would say that,’ Susan replied and then turned to the mob. ‘Patrick Robinson said he would say that!’

  Mooney stepped towards her, lowering his voice. ‘You need to think hard and fast—’

  One of the men shoved him in the chest and he stumbled to the ground, coming to rest on his knees. Martin leapt forward.

  ‘NO!’ shouted Mooney, his now bloody left palm signaling for Martin to halt. He felt sure the crowd was an instant away from becoming more than hostile, and if Martin was to lash out at one of them, the whole town would turn on Martin and Christian. As it stood, he was unsure about how much support Robinson had gained, but he believed that his political skills would overcome the situation.

  When Martin paused, the crowd closed in, shovels, knives, clubs raised and ready. Martin opened his mouth wide, extended his canine teeth and snarled back at them. Some backed away, lurching against the unyielding wall of people behind them, but mostly they stood their ground. Martin sensed the overwhelming scent of fear, but could now pick up on individual thoughts.

  He can’t attack us all.

  If he goes for one person, everyone else will attack.

  It’s like Patrick said.

  Robinson is right about him.

  ‘Go!’ Mooney yelled. Martin’s gaze flicked to the stricken mayor. Connor’s eyes were imploring him to listen.

  ‘Go now!’ he shouted. ‘Find your boy and find the truth. Only—’

  One of the men charged in and kicked Mooney in the ribs. He let out a groan as the air in his lungs was shoved from his body.

  Go! he mouthed once more.

  Martin nodded and leapt into the sky, silencing the grumbling mob but bringing a smile to Mooney’s face. The mayor rolled over onto his back and addressed the crowd; the words were nothing more than a whisper, but everyone heard exactly what he had to say.

  ‘You’re making a massive mistake. Massive. I warn you, if this is your choice, you’d better follow it through with conviction. Because if you don’t kill them both, God help your souls.’

  Martin accelerated upwards but kept his eyes on the scene playing out on the Head as he made his escape. Part of him had expected the crowd to take their frustration and aggression out on Connor, and if they had then he would have had no choice other than to intervene. He had sworn to protect Skerries and all of its residents, but he would give no hesitation in ignoring that pledge if any harm came to those closest to him.

  Christian, where are you?

  He projected his thoughts across the town. He flew into and through the nearest bank of clouds, his clothes becoming even damper. He hovered in the clear night air above, searching the town for a sign from his son. Had another mob gone after Christian? Had they succeeded in capturing him? Or worse? He battled with the wrath these questions fuelled within him, reining it in until it became an ally, and he focused his thoughts on finding his son. As the heat of fury dissipated, he realized that the prevalent emotion left deep in his body was fear. Not fear of the townspeople. Not fear even of his own death, but the fear that Christian had taken the life of another.

  How could he have been so stupid to let him mix with the humans? If anything happened to Christian, Martin knew he would never forgive himself, that he would have failed the boy’s mother. For the first time in years, a tear worked its way from the crease of his eye and down his cheek. As it edged downwards it crystallized and froze upon his skin.

  He could not place his son within Skerries, but he knew where Christian would head for, which place had become particularly special for the boy: the outcropping of rocks on the furthest point of South Beach. Martin dropped back into the clouds and used them as cover as he sped over Skerries to uncover the truth. As he dropped to a lower altitude, the sliver of ice on his face melted and was gone.

  30

  Sinead had sprinted as fast as she could until the noise of the crowd was nothing but a distant groan behind her and the glare of the rotating red and blue lights was left in the distance. As she neared the pond not far from the back of her house, she cut across the field and towards the only gate built into the black fencing that surrounded the windmills. She paused at the gate, bent over with her hands on her knees as she sucked in oxygen. She had tiny spots dancing across her eyes and she breathed deeply until they were gone. She listened carefully and was relieved not to hear any footsteps following her. She had expected Owen or Frank or…

  The instant she thought of David, she vomited on the grass in between her shoes. She felt like such a fool that she had trusted Owen, and felt sick that he would go to such lengths to destroy her relationship with Christian. Surely Claire had been wrong when she shouted that David had died—but what if she hadn’t?

  What was for certain was that the town was more than ready to blame Christian for what had happened, and now she had to find him and get him to talk to her father; only then could this mess be sorted out. Once she knew Christian was safe, then she would find Claire and make her tell the truth.

  She opened the gate and stepped through, closing it after her. She mapped out her route to the beach in her head and sprinted across the path towards the road. There was no traffic to be seen and she crossed safely, choosing to take the back lanes rather than the main thoroughfare. Her route would bring her out halfway along South Beach, not far from the public toilet building, which would give her some cover as she advanced out into the open. She hoped that Owen and Frank would have stayed with their stricken friend, but if they had been so obsessed with Christian to have done what they had already, then maybe all common sense had been abandoned.

  She sprinted up the narrow lane and ducked down low between two cars that were parked right at the end. This was her last chance to catch her breath before sprinting across the narrow road and onto the beach. She looked left and ri
ght and felt sure there was no one else there. If Christian had spotted anyone, he would have found a way to warn her. As she plotted her route once again, the heavy clouds overhead finally decided to unleash their burden onto the town, and large drops of water began to fall. Within seconds, the slow and steady rainfall became a deluge and Sinead was soaked. She could only see as far as the public toilets about sixty yards over the road and decided that should be her first waypoint. Even if it was locked, the roof overhung the walls of the building and it would give her a few moments to gather herself before she pressed on along the beach.

  There were no cars, and it seemed that very few of the houses overlooking the beach had any lights on. She kept her head down as she ran, one hand across her brow to deflect the rain from her eyes. Her steps scattered the puddles that had already formed in the gutters, and when she brought herself to a stop in the cover of the toilets, her feet almost skidded out from under her.

  Once again she stood, doubled over and breathing heavily, tucked in against the southern wall of the building. Her thighs and her calf burned as the lactic acid built up. Except for her own lungs working overtime, the only sounds were the wind whistling in off the sea and the rain exploding on the roof above her. Water spewed out from the side of the building where the drains could not handle the sudden downpour, and Sinead realized that while her top half was currently out of the rain, it would not take long for the small area where she stood to become flooded. Looking down the beach, she could barely make out the rock formation that she was headed for when the waves broke against it, the water flashing up into the air and smashing back down.

  She had two options: she could either run directly across the beach to her destination, or take the path, which, although it offered a more indirect route, would be easier going than the damp sand.

  She decided to take the beach. She straightened herself up. She would run parallel with the wall, her back was against it until she hit the beach, and then veer right, directly south. Filling her lungs with air, she took off and powered towards the sand. As the corner of the building passed by her left shoulder, her legs were taken out from under her and she rolled across the path and onto the sand, scratching her face on the wet concrete. Her clothes were instantly soaked to her skin.

  She rolled onto her backside and stared, dazed, back the way she had come. Her fingertips gently touched her face and swiped at the blood that speckled there. Her attention was rapidly drawn back to the building when a voice spoke from the shadows.

  ‘So where’s your boyfriend now?’

  Frank walked towards her. He dwarfed her. He stood over Sinead, making no effort to help her up.

  Owen had been right; the toilets were the only cover between the road and the beach, and she had chosen to head there after all. While he was congratulating himself for a job well done, Sinead was cursing herself for being so stupid. The next mistake, however, was Frank’s to make.

  ‘I said, where’s your boyfriend?’ He aimed a kick at her thigh, just as Owen had told him; no sympathy.

  Seeing his front leg rise off the sand, Sinead reacted immediately. She pushed herself forward and towards Frank, whipping her left leg in an arc across the surface of the beach. Before his foot connected with her, she took his standing leg out from under him and he fell to the sand with a grunt. She leapt to her feet and took her ready stance; one foot in front of the other, fists raised, knees bent, ready to spring into action.

  Frank stumbled to his feet, unsteady on the rolling surface of the beach. With a roar, he charged at her, intent on bringing her to the ground before she had a chance to use her legs again. Sinead dropped her front knee and swung her right fist, straight and true as hard as she could. She connected exactly where she had aimed—right in his groin. His advance stopped immediately, the air in his lungs expelled with a high keen. Both of his hands moved to cup his injured area and Sinead stepped in and swung her left foot in a high roundhouse kick that connected with Frank’s jaw, dropping him to the sand. His body made a wet slap as he landed, unconscious, on the sodden beach.

  Sinead’s body shook even though she did not feel the cold or the rain. She had never had to use her karate skills in life before, but her instructor had taught her that it was only to be used in defense, and that it was to be used properly to totally subdue any attacker. She had achieved that completely.

  She was still bouncing on the spot, arms still raised towards Frank’s prone body, when Owen tackled her from behind. He flattened her against the beach. He grabbed a handful of her hair and rammed her face deep into the sand. He shoved her over onto her back, pinning her left arm under her body and holding the other above her head. He trapped her legs by positioning his knees either side of her hips and letting all his weight settle there. He twisted her arm higher, finally drawing a yelp from her. With his spare hand he grasped her throat, placing pressure on her windpipe. He leant over her and spat on her face.

  ‘So where is he? Where’s the little freak run off to?’

  Sinead was trembling hard in alarm and revulsion. ‘How…how can you call him a freak? You’ve just killed your friend!’

  He slapped her hard across the face, and her left cheekbone began to glow red in the night.

  ‘This might not be the way he said it would happen, but it’ll have the same effect. He’ll be gone!’

  ‘The way who said what?’

  Owen’s hair was plastered to his skin, the rain coursing across his forehead and his cheeks, but even so, Sinead could see the tears streaking down his face.

  ‘Robinson,’ he breathed. ‘Robinson. We’re a team…and it’s the little freak who killed Dave, just remember that. You just…’

  ‘No!’ Sinead screamed. ‘It was you! I was there, I’ll—’

  He grabbed her throat again and began to squeeze, applying more and more pressure with every syllable he spoke.

  ‘Oh no! You’re wrong. It was the freak. Not me. The freak. Do you understand?’

  What terrified Sinead the most was the extreme calm that had fallen across Owen’s face. As she struggled to suck in more air, she realized that something inside of him had broken and that he had no intention of letting her go, of stopping the pressure, of letting her breathe. He would not make the world any brighter around her; in fact, he was making it dimmer and the world was narrowing, but that was okay because the pain, the pain—even though he was pushing harder, the pain was going away, and…

  The weight disappeared off her body and she gasped violently, her hands involuntarily moving to her throat. The spots that her running had brought on returned tenfold. She sat up just as Christian and Owen crashed into the wall of the toilet building and slumped to the floor.

  Christian disentangled himself from Owen’s arms and clambered to his feet, sporting a graze to match Sinead’s across his face. He stood over Owen for a couple of seconds, taking in the damage the impact had caused to the building; the wall looked off kilter, some of the bricks had become dislodged, and the roof had become detached from the main structure. Neither of them found the will to smile when Christian turned to face her, but they both understood how happy they were to see each other relatively unscathed.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, crossing the sand and helping Sinead to her feet. He wrapped his arms around her and felt warmth inside when she reciprocated.

  ‘Just,’ she said, her throat burning with every breath. ‘They jumped me. I…’

  ‘I know, I know. I was on the island. I thought I would tell my father what happened while I waited for you. I didn’t see anything until that one’—he pointed at Frank’s still form—‘jumped out at you. I got here as soon as I could.’

  ‘You got here just in time,’ she said, reaching up to kiss him. And then she paused. ‘Behind you!’

  Christian pushed her away from him and onto the sand, and instinctively ducked. The loosened brick in Owen’s hand whipped by overhead. Owen, already concussed, stumbled as his balance deserted him. He dropped the brick as
he fell backwards into Christian’s grip.

  ‘I’ll kill you both!’ he shrieked.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ whispered Christian as he grasped Owen’s chin.

  Sinead looked up from the sand and did not have time to scream in protest as she watched Christian twist Owen’s head to the side. She heard the crack as Owen’s neck snapped, and she saw the life in his eyes extinguished. She had time only to turn her head away as Christian extended his teeth. She did not witness Christian tear a hole in Owen’s throat and feed on his blood until he could take no more then let the corpse drop to the soaking sand, the last of Owen’s blood spreading out in an oil slick stain.

  Christian could no longer feel the rain on his body or the blood that ran down his chin and dripped off his jaw; he could no longer see the body at his feet; he could no longer hear Sinead crying, covering her eyes, burying her face in the sand, and he was rushing away from the beach, being pulled backwards through a pitch black tunnel. When the scene on the sand was a mere pinprick in the distance, he was rushed forwards again, his hair drying in the wind that his speed created. Instead of the beach opening out before him, he saw flames, and lava and the burned corpses of the two tramps his father had killed, and the charred body of Owen Flannery waiting for him, and then he was yanked backwards again, away from the omen of his future, speeding along the black tunnel until he was back on the beach and the rain had become thunderous and Sinead was crying, and Owen was dead, and the future was set, and Christian dropped to his knees and craned his head back and screamed into the storm with despair.

  Mother, he yelled, over and over.

  It was like his father had said: he would never see his mother. They would not spend eternity together as his father had hoped.

  Then a different pain gripped him deep in his stomach, and the scream of despair became a howl of pain as he crumpled to the sand.