The Raven’s Knot. Robin Jarvis

her partner’s face.

      ‘Tom,’ she said. ‘Slow down. There’s black ice all over these roads.’

      ‘We’ve got to get home, Hazel!’ he told her and the urgency in his voice was startling. ‘We’ve got to get home, and fast! It’s too open here. I don’t like it.’

      Before she could respond, something tapped lightly upon the windscreen. It was only a twig but Tom’s reaction to it was surprising.

      ‘Where’d that come from?’ he demanded, his voice rising with mounting panic.

      The woman gaped at him in disbelief. ‘Where d’you think it came from?’ she laughed. ‘It’s a twig! Please, Tom, slow down.’

      ‘There are no trees on this stretch of road,’ he replied gravely.

      Bewildered, Hazel threw her head back. ‘The wind blew it, a bird dropped it – I don’t know! I don’t care – but you’re driving too fast. Listen to me!’

      But Tom hardly heard her. All his senses were focused upon the road ahead, yet not one of them prepared him for what happened next.

      From the night it tumbled, out of the blind heavens it dropped – hurtling down with ferocious force and by the time he saw it, it was too late.

      Into the bright light of the headlamps it fell – a monstrous, massive bough. Raining insanely out of the sky, the mighty limb of ancient oak came plummeting towards them.

      With a tremendous, violent crunch of metal, the huge branch slammed into the bonnet of the car and the windscreen shattered into a million tiny cubes.

      Screaming, Hazel threw her arms before her face as the vehicle bucked and shuddered beneath the vicious impact, and she braced herself as the tyres skidded upon the icy road.

      His face scored by the twigs which had come whipping and flailing in through the splintered window, Tom gripped the wheel tightly and struggled for control as the vehicle shot into a wild, careering spin. But the windscreen was utterly blocked and all he could do was shout to Hazel to hold on.

      ‘NO!’ the woman yelled, clinging to him frantically as the car flew across the road and burst through the hedgerow. Into a field it thundered, with the branch still wedged upon the bonnet, and over the frozen furrows it charged.

      Then, with a lurch, the spin ended and after one final jolt, the terrifying madness was over.

      Gingerly, Hazel unfastened her seat belt and reached across to Tom. His hands were still clenched about the wheel and, when she held him, she discovered that he was shaking as much as herself.

      Neither one of them spoke, both pairs of eyes were fixed upon the enormous branch that had dropped so unexpectedly and so illogically from above.

      ‘It might have killed us,’ she whispered, apprehensively reaching out to touch the rough, glassstrewn wood. ‘But where...? Where did it come from?’

      Tom made no reply, his heart was pounding in his chest and his eyes widened as he stared upwards.

      ‘My God...’ he whimpered.

      This time Hazel heard it too and her hands clasped tightly about his.

      High above them the sky was filled with a terrible yammering, a foul screeching cacophony that grew louder with every awful instant.

      ‘The engine!’ Hazel cried. ‘Tom, start the engine – quickly!’

      Her partner fumbled with the ignition but the car merely coughed pathetically whilst, overhead, the dreadful shrieks mounted steadily.

      Down the nightmares swooped, bawling and squawking at the top of their voices – down to where the puny chariot struggled in the frozen mire. They crowed their hideous delight at the prospect which awaited them.

      ‘Lock the doors!’ Tom cried. ‘Don’t let it inside.’

      ‘But what is it?’

      ‘I don’t know!’

      Screwing up his face, he tried the key again and the engine turned over.

      But it was too late. With a great down-draught and a clamour of high screeching voices, they were caught. There came the beating of gigantic wings and the roof buckled as large dents were punched in the metal beneath the weight of many descending objects.

      Then the enormous branch was flicked from the bonnet as easily as if it were a piece of straw. The yammering was deafening now and Hazel’s own voice joined it as she let loose a desperate scream.

      Into the car, curving under the roof, there came a great and savage claw which gripped the contorted metal and the vehicle was shaken violently.

      A piercing clamour ensued as the vehicle was punctured and talons stronger than steel began to rend and rip. Like a tin of peaches the car was opened, until the two stricken occupants were staring straight up through the torn, jagged rents and knew that their deaths had come.

      For a moment, as they were seized and dragged into the upper airs, Tom’s and Hazel’s scream’s equalled the vile, raucous laughter of the foulness which had captured them.

      Then the two human voices were silenced and, once the feast was over, the night was disturbed only by a slow, contented flapping as dark, sinister shapes took to the air.

      Across the Somerset levels all was peaceful again, except for one remote field just outside Glastonbury, where the engine of an empty, wrecked car chugged erratically and the radio played soft, romantic melodies.

      A force dormant for centuries was loose once more – the first of the Twelve were abroad and in the days that were to follow their numbers would increase.

      Over the East End of London a bright moon gleamed down upon the many spires of the strange, ugly building known as The Wyrd Museum. But below the sombre structure’s many roofs, its cramped concrete-covered yard was illuminated by a harsher, more livid light.

      Bathed in glorious bursts of intense purple flame, the enclosed area flared and flickered. With every spark and pulse, the high brick walls leapt in and out of the shadows and everything within danced with vibrant colour.

      Lovingly arranged around a broken drinking-fountain, a new tribute of withered flowers appeared to take on new life once more as the unnatural, shimmering barrage painted them with vivid hues of violet and amethyst.

      Yet behind the first floor windows, the source of the lustrous display was already waning as the last traces of a fiery portal guttered and crackled until, finally, the room beyond was left in darkness. Then a child’s voice began to wail and a light was snapped on.

      The Separate Collection and everything it had housed were almost completely destroyed. Vicious smouldering scars scored the oak panelling of the walls, blasted and ripped by blistering bolts of energy that had shot from the centre of the whirling gateway.

      Yet, from those sizzling wounds, living branches had sprouted and now the room resembled a clearing in a forest, for a canopy of new green leaves sheltered those below from the harsh electric glare of the lights and dappled them in a pleasant verdant shade.

      Neil Chapman was drained and weary. His mind was still crowded with images of the past and the frightening events he had witnessed there.

      Together with a teddy bear in whose furry form resided the soul of an American airman, he had been sent back to the time of the Second World War to recapture Belial – a demon that had escaped from the museum. This harrowing task they had eventually achieved, but Ted had not returned to the present and the boy didn’t know what had happened to him.

      Now, all he wanted to do was leave this peculiar, forbidding room and surround himself with ordinary and familiar objects. To be back in his small bedroom that was covered in football posters and sleep in a comfortable bed was what he craved above anything, and to forget forever the drone of