Time of Blood. Robin Jarvis

      

      First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Egmont UK Limited

      The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

      Text and illustrations copyright © 2017 Robin Jarvis

      The moral rights of the author/illustrator have been asserted

      First e-book edition 2017

      ISBN 978 1 4052 8025 9

      Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1734 2

       www.egmont.co.uk

      A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

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       Take nae fright,

       nor shiver wi’dread.

       There’s nowt to fear,

       lest the Esk run red.

       Also available

      THE POWER OF DARK

      THE DEVIL’S PAINTBOX

       Now available as an Egmont Modern Classic

      THE WHITBY WITCHES

      CONTENTS

       Cover

       Title Page

       Copyright

       Epigraph

       Front series promotional page

TIME-BURNED

1

       2

       3

       4

       5

       6

       7

       8

       9

       10

       FUR AND FEATHERS

       Back series promotional page

TIME-BURNED

      In the shadow of the West Cliff, the fog lay thick over the broad sands, masking the margin between shore and sea. Its webbed fingers caressed the stone piers that reached out into the calm waters, coiling up around the lighthouses, absorbing the guiding beams from the great lamps and diffusing them in a wide milky spread before the harbour mouth.

      The wooden bathing machines, which were stationed overnight at the foot of the cliff, appeared to float on the undulating mist like an armada of poky, white-washed sheds. On the beach before them, two small figures wended their way through the fog. One sported a broad-brimmed oilskin hat, the other a string of seashells about her brow; both wore ganseys of different designs. They were aufwaders – the half-forgotten fisherfolk of Whitby legend, who had dwelt on that coast long before humans settled there, but who now lived quietly and secretly in caves beneath the East Cliff.

      Nettie Weever leaned against a large cartwheel of the end bathing machine and waited while her friend, Hesper Gull, caught up with her. Hesper was revelling in the fog, whisking and flailing her short arms through it, creating eddying waves. The deep wrinkles of Nettie’s brow bunched together as she watched her friend’s carefree play. Hesper had been so much happier these past few weeks – everyone in the tribe had noticed and the reason was known to all. Silas, her husband, was missing.

      Silas Gull hadn’t been seen for over a fortnight. He had always been prone to wandering off and spending time away from the caves on some sly venture, but he had never been absent this long. He was such an unpleasant, scowling and untrustworthy rogue, it was a relief not to encounter him in the tunnels and the other aufwaders understood why his mistreated wife was starting to feel her old self again. There were of course those poisonous tongues who suggested Hesper had done away with her husband, but she was such a gentle creature that they weren’t taken seriously.

      Nettie almost hoped, for her friend’s sake, that Silas had indeed suffered some fatal mishap. Hesper deserved better than that bullying villain for a husband and she wished she had done more to dissuade her from marrying him those many years ago. Silas had made her life wretched and, though he never struck her, no doubt fearing what her brother Abel would do to him, he crushed her spirit with more subtle cruelties. It was wonderful to see Hesper so cheerful and hear her laughter again.

      Nettie lifted her wind-browned face to the night sky. Recently she had been reminded of those far-off days of Hesper’s courtship by the sound of chilling cries, high above the humans’ clifftop dwellings.

      She started. There it was again, that horrible, unforgettable noise, like a wailing child. She had heard those mewling calls before, when a human magician called Melchior Pyke had stayed in Whitby, with his sinister manservant, Mister Dark. That servant had frightened the aufwaders; unlike most of the townsfolk, he possessed the gift of second sight and could see them. With a grimace, Nettie recalled how he prowled the midnight shore, often accompanied by a grotesque animal with bat-like wings. She gave a sorrow-filled sigh: that was also the time her human friend, Scaur Annie, had died.

      She passed a hand over her face, grieved at the memory, then flinched when a gunshot echoed across the heavens.

      ‘Deeps take me!’ Hesper exclaimed, hitching up the cork lifebelt she wore over her gansey and joining Nettie by the bathing machine. ‘Rowdy doings up there this night. That’s the second of them stickbangers gone off – ear-achey loud they are. Why are them landfolk