Abigail Gibbs - Autumn Rose

O Angel, ravish me in my youth!

Render me incapable of thought

And reduce me to the primal eldest joy,

For I am yours,

Until the day Christ calls.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication O Angel, ravish me in my youth! Render me incapable of thought And reduce me to the primal eldest joy, For I am yours, Until the day Christ calls.

Prologue

Chapter One: Autumn

Chapter Two: Autumn

Chapter Three: Autumn

Chapter Four: Autumn

Chapter Five: Autumn

Chapter Six: Autumn

Chapter Seven: Fallon

Chapter Eight: Autumn

Chapter Nine: Autumn

Chapter Ten: Autumn

Chapter Eleven: Autumn

Chapter Twelve: Fallon

Chapter Thirteen: Autumn

Chapter Fourteen: Autumn

Chapter Fifteen: Autumn

Chapter Sixteen: Fallon

Chapter Seventeen: Autumn

Chapter Eighteen: Autumn

Chapter Nineteen: Autumn

Chapter Twenty: Autumn

Chapter Twenty-One: Autumn

Chapter Twenty-Two: Fallon

Chapter Twenty-Three: Autumn

Chapter Twenty-Four: Autumn

Chapter Twenty-Five: Autumn

Chapter Twenty-Six: Autumn

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Autumn

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Autumn

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Fallon

Chapter Thirty: Autumn

Chapter Thirty-One: Autumn

Chapter Thirty-Two: Autumn

Chapter Thirty-Three: Autumn

Chapter Thirty-Four: Autumn

Chapter Thirty-Five: Fallon

Chapter Thirty-Six: Autumn

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Autumn

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Abigail Gibbs

Copyright

About the Publisher

I suppose I always knew I was different; that my fate was set in stone, and that one day, I would sit on a cold, hard throne. A symbol of what I am. A deity of my kind.

A deity among many.

I was not conscious. I was running through the green grass, screaming her name in a tongue as familiar to me as the shadow that the tall grey-stone building cast in my path. Tears streaked my face and I struggled to climb the steps, hearing the babble behind the closed entrance doors, like the stream beside the lodge that would swell after the winter rains. My polished, square, school-approved heels squealed in protest as I burst through the double doors, coming across the same sight I had seen a thousand times: hundreds of faces turning to me and then blackness. I waited, breathless though asleep, for the scene to replay itself as it always had in the past.

But this time was different. Instead of waking up in a cold sweat, cheeks wet, bed soaked, I drifted into another scene. Now, a tall statue loomed in front of me and sunlight glinted off pale paving and the tumbling water in two identical fountains. Almost as though somebody had hit fast-forward, the scene sped up and I watched, captivated, as thousands of suit-clad humans and camera-carrying tourists rushed from one side of a square to the other. The clouds sailed across the grey, simmering ocean of a sky, the square darkening as day turned to night, Nelson lighting up on his column as fewer and fewer people passed by. Eventually, Trafalgar Square emptied of any life, except for a few pigeons and a lone girl.

The scene slowed and focused on the girl. Dark hair framed her face and she wore a long black coat, half-unbuttoned to reveal the darkened outline of cleavage and hoisted high enough to show the hem of her black dress, which she tugged down every few minutes. She wasn’t pale, but neither was she blessed with a tan; most striking of all were her eyes, purple , which glowed above the light of her mobile.

Slipping her phone back into her pocket, she moved to sit on one of the long stone benches beneath the trees that lined the square. After a single minute, she perked up again, alert and tense.

Abruptly, the scene cut and was replaced by another. Darkening, congealing red liquid coated the ground and stained the water of the fountains like wine. Bodies littered the floor and I looked on, sickened as their life and energy drained from their necks and seeped across the city I knew and loved; the city I was torn from …

I was wrenched back to consciousness. Bolting upright in bed, I reached for the light on my alarm clock, surprised. It had only just turned one o’clock in the morning.

I was sweating now and heaving in air, hugging the clock to my chest so its light illuminated the room. It was empty, but every time I blinked I could see blood, and bodies, and purple eyes …

Groaning at the vivid images still implanted in my mind, I grabbed a pen and reached up to the calendar above my bed, crossing out and therefore marking the start of another day of the fast-evaporating summer holidays: the 31 stJuly.

‘Well, look here, it’s everyone’s favourite recluse.’ An apron came flying my way and I caught it, unfolded it and tied the strings behind my back.

‘Good morning, Nathan.’

‘Did you hear that, Sophie?’ he asked, turning to one of the new, young waitresses, whose arms were stacked up with crisp white plates as the much older Nathan emptied the dishwasher. ‘It’s a good morning. How unusual.’

I stared at the girl and tried to decide if I’d met her before, or if she was just totally indistinguishable from the other skinny-jeans-clad and powdered orange Saturday staff.

‘And how am I a recluse?’ I asked without tearing my eyes off her.

She returned the gaze with wide eyes as sweat began to trickle down her temples. Her fingers nervously tapped against the rim of the lowest plate and as I side-stepped her to grab a pile of menus, she scrambled back and squeaked. The plates in her hands dropped towards the tiled floor.

Haven’t met her before, then.

With a flick of my finger the plates froze in mid-air and floated onto the worktop. Before she could react again I left the cramped kitchen and made my way towards the front of the Harbour Café, flipping the ‘Closed’ sign on the door so it read ‘Open’. It was the end of August, and though it was still early I could see through the window that tourists were already beginning to crowd the busy walkway from the working harbour to the more upmarket marina; in the distance, trawler fishing boats squeezed between jetties, bringing with them the smell of fish. Neither was the glass a barrier against the sound of chinking of masts and the cry of the gulls as they swarmed for their chance to snatch a portion of the day’s catch – the score which accompanied every morning in the bustling fishing town of Brixham.

Nathan rounded the counter and crossed the café in a couple of bounding strides – not hard because of his tall and lanky build. He cocked his head apologetically.

‘Before you arrived, she was telling me she’s never seen a Sage,’ he explained in an undertone.

I shrugged. Her reaction came as no surprise. In the year I had worked at the café, only Nathan – the chef – and I had been permanent, and every new member of staff had given me a wide berth and left shortly after. The only reason I hadn’t lost my job over it was because my boss knew she could get away with paying me less. I wasn’t about to put up a fuss. She had been the only person in town willing to offer me any work at all.

Nathan placed a tattooed left hand on my arm as I went to pass. ‘And recluse because you haven’t answered my texts for a month.’