Каарон Уоррен - The Year's Best Dark Fantasy and Horror 2018 Edition

Wiping her salt-stiff hair out of her eyes, Lady Galatea sat up. Staring at the skull-and-crossbones insignia on the webbing of her left hand, she listened to the hiss of the waves upon the scree and drew in a ragged breath. She could remember nothing before this moment.

The baby kicked and she pressed her hand against her swollen belly. An image of Sir Henry rose before her eyes. Him, she remembered. A shadow fell between her and the dawning light. She looked up.

A man stood before her, his cap in his hand. He had a mop of unkempt black hair, threaded with gray. Between his left thumb and forefinger was a skull-and-crossbones tattoo exactly like her own. She shaded her eyes with her hand.

“Do I know you, sir?”

The man nodded gravely.

She stared at that tattoo again, so black against his pale skin. “I do believe we are related.”

The man knelt before her. “That we are, Lady. By blood as well as by calling.” He offered his hand and she took it, standing with difficulty.

“I murdered my husband,” she said, though she held her head high, both proud and defiant. Kane did not reply, but continued to clasp her hand in his. “He betrayed me and so I killed him. I believe I shall hang for it.”

Kane squeezed her hand gently. “Your husband was taken by the tide. All the village was witness. He was given back to the sea as was just and right, like every man of his line as far back as any can remember. It was the tithe they swore to keep these lands.”

“Will it happen to me?”

“No, Lady.”

“And to my son?”

Kane did not answer at first, but then replied, “He will have many fine years before such a fate befalls him.” He offered his arm, and she took it.

“Where are we going?”

“To the Great House on the cliff.”

“The château?”

Kane nodded.

“Do I live there?”

“Aye, Lady.”

At the base of the cliff, DeMains waited, a brocade shawl in his hands. When she approached, he placed it around her shoulders. “You are even lovelier than I thought possible,” he said.

“Your words are kind, good sir,” she answered graciously. “And your name is?”

“DeMains, Lady,” he said with a sweeping bow. “Ever your servant.” Then he took her hand and kissed it.

But even as the sculptor lifted his lips from her pale hand, Lady Galatea gave a little cry and clutched her belly.

“The child,” she said. “I think it is time.”

The two men exchanged a glance.

“Yes,” Kane said. “Today is the Solstice. Come. We must get you to safety.”

With the two men holding her arms and gently guiding her, Lady Galatea made her way up the cliff to the château, where the morning fires were already being lit.

They went on a long bike ride under a punishing midday sun. Much of it was along well-trodden pathways through scrubby brush. Large swathes of deep sand meant there was little traction; you had to get off and push. Graham was sweating hard by the time they reached Cabo Sardao. He was grateful for the rest; glad too that he’d had to bring up the rear because Felix, his six-year-old son, was struggling more than most. The rest of the group stood around watching their arrival. One of them started a slow handclap that was taken up by the others. He gritted his teeth against the urge to offer a rebuke. Watch your temper, he warned himself. It was something Cherry was often remarking upon.

You ’re getting worse as you grow older… you need to just kick back and not let things irritate you so much… there’s a heart attack up ahead, you know, just waiting for you. Remember that time…

Ricardo, their guide, was talking now in his halting but charming English, about the spits of rock reaching out over the bay. Steep cliffs fell away on either side. Earlier they had watched as intrepid bathers carrying towels inched down the sheer drop, aided only by old ropes left behind by thoughtful climbers. It seemed a big risk to take, no matter that the rewards were your own private beach.

“You walk slowly and carefully if you want to see stork’s nest,” said Ricardo. “If he trips and falls he has wings. You don’t, I think.”

“Do you want to see the nest, Felix?” Graham asked.

“Yeah! Is it storks with the big legs? Or is that herods?”

“Herons. They both have big legs. And so does Sheila over there.”

No need for that, Graham. You’re on holiday. Be friendly.

He thought of Cherry back at the apartment, gorging herself on pastéis de nata and drinking Super Bock by the pool. She had booked them the mountain bike activity as a surprise. Bonding time for you and the ankle-biter , she’d called it. When he asked her why she couldn’t come along too, she grew defensive. You know I can’t deal with heights. I’d hold everybody up.

The other members of the group began moving forward along the narrowing path. Graham took Felix’s hand and followed. He watched Sheila’s backside as she picked her way through the thigh-high grasses. Keep that in your sights and you can’t go wrong, he told himself, then had to stifle laughter. He was thinking of Star Wars for some reason, and of Luke Skywalker guiding his X-wing down to do battle against the Death Star. That’s no moon.

“What are you laughing at, Dad?” Felix asked.

“Nothing. Just mind your step, okay? And keep hold of my hand.”

Graham was envious of those who paid little heed to the precipice. Heat haze smeared the sea-chewed promontories further south. If he squinted he could just make out the car park where they had begun their tour. His boy’s hand loosened in his grip; he reinforced it, and told Felix not to mess around.

Once he could see the nest—an arrestingly large aggregation of criss-crossed sticks that lipped over the edge of the cliff, as if the stork was cocking a snook at its precarious

situation—Graham felt no compunction to get any closer. He didn’t want a photograph; there were no chicks, the stork was not in residence… it resembled little more than an abandoned game of Jack Straws.

“Come on, Felix,” he said. “Let’s get back to our bikes.” He felt his relief grow with every step nearer the trail. So far, this holiday had involved too many of the things he preferred to avoid in everyday life: heights, blistering heat, exertion. He wished he was back at the hotel with Cherry. Felix loved the pool; they could bond themselves silly in there without the worry of punctures, or falling to their deaths, or storks attacking.

Or Sheila’s backside.

Our cruisers can’t repel firepower of that magnitude .

“Are you being okay?” Ricardo asked.

“Fine,” Graham choked, turning around to see the rest of the group queuing up behind them as they inched back along the path. “I must have just breathed in some pollen or something. I’ll be okay in a minute.”

“Take a five,” Ricardo said. “There’s something anyway I want you to look at.”

The group stared at Graham: bovine, sweaty, ill-dressed for the weather and the activity. He could already feel the rough canvas hems of his shorts abrading his skin; there’d be blisters later, or at the very least an ugly red chafing. What happens when middle-aged people get off their arses for a week. Short-sleeved shirts striped with back sweat. Red temples. A sluggishness; a lethargy. He remembered being Felix’s age: football and tag in the back garden for as long as it was light enough to see. Drinks and snacks on the lam. When did you lose that playfulness, that drive? When did you go from let’s play out to let’s lie in?

Ricardo was on his knees in shrubbery that looked as if it had come from a science-fiction film set. The ground was carpeted with stunted plants with thick leaves and fat clustered flowers the color of mustard.