but louder, so slipped into the consulting room and crept over to the window that overlooked the lane behind the clinic. Outside were three child-sized figures dressed in black leggings and short cloaks, baggy hoods over their heads, obscuring their faces. They were struggling to load a body into the back of the idling ambulance, a body that was wrapped from head to foot like a mummy in gauzy swaths of spider silk. Their captive was fighting hard, squirming and wriggling in an effort to wrench free. Muzzled, the captiveâs angry protests were smothered, the voice squashed and unrecognizable. Almost unrecognizable.
Nieve tugged desperately at the window, trying to yank it open. It was jammed shut. The only way out was through the front door. She tore out of the consulting room, ran past the reception desk, and out the door. Without slowing, she turned sharply at the corner of the building and sped down the alley beside the clinic . . . but she was too late! By the time she got to the back lane, the ambulance was pulling away. Frantically, she searched the ground, seizing a rock to throw at it, a last ditch effort to stop them, but already the ambulance was speeding down the lane toward the road that led out of town.
She hurled the rock furiously in its wake.
Mayor Mary! Nieve had failed her, but what could she have done? Not only had she been outnumbered, but the figures themselves, although small, were not children. When the ambulance had peeled away, spinning its tires and spitting gravel, one of the abductors had turned to stare at her. His hood had fallen onto his shoulders revealing a bald head and a clenched, rag-grey face. His yellow eyes, taking her in, were as sharp as pins.
âNineâ
Truant
â T he nights are getting longer,â Sutton said, staring out at the starless sky.
Thatâs for sure , Nieve thought. Longer, denser, and more sudden. At exactly five oâclock the dark had come racing in from all sides and swallowed up what little light was left in the day.
âDad?â She tried to get his attention, not easy these days. Sheâd never known her father to stand around so much like a gowk â Granâs word â aimless and jingling the loose change in his pockets. â Is Gran home yet?â
âNope. Sheâd drop by if she were, wouldnât she?â
âGuess so.â She listened to him jingling his change, which reminded her. Reaching into her pocket, she said, âHereâs that ten dollars.â
He smiled down at her, accepting the bill. âHey, thanks En. Iâll pay you back.â
âNo Dad, itâs yourââ
âThisâll top up what I need for the sitter.â
âButââ
âNieve is old enough to stay on her own.â Sophie had swept into the room, dressed to the hilt in a black evening gown and satin heels, tear-shaped onyx earrings and matching necklace. Splashy compared with her usual working clothes, but Nieve knew this job involved high-class sympathy. Probably lots of weeping of a snobbier sort, snivelling discreetly into lacy hankies between sips of champagne.
âI donât want her to be alone,â Sutton shrugged. âI called Becky to come over.â
âUnnecessary.â Sophie pulled on a pair of long black gloves. âYouâre not a baby, are you, dear?â
Nieve shook her head, watching her mother tug on the gloves, flexing her fingers and smoothing the wrinkles out of the silky material. The gloves disguised but didnât completely hide the ring she was wearing, which rode like a bony bump on her little finger. But then, Nieve had caught sight of it before the gloves went on . . . and the ring had caught sight of her! Thatâs what it seemed to do anyway. The ringâs stone was as soft and black as a pupil, and she could have sworn that she saw a thin golden membrane falling quickly over it, blinking as it vanished into her motherâs glove. It
John O'Riley
Jill Gregory
Celya Bowers
Aria Cunningham
Stephen Lloyd Jones
Christopher George
Learning to Kill: Stories
Brenda Sinclair
Karl Iagnemma
C. J. Cherryh