She’d been so focussed on avoiding the hollows, she hadn’t considered the temperamental weather. But the first time they’d attempted to reach the car, they had been caught in a hailstorm that had risen unnaturally quickly. They didn’t seem to strike often, but when they did, the storms were brutal.
“We will have weapons,” Dorran said. “But more importantly, we will have armour. This time, instead of trying to kill them before they bite us, we will make ourselves unbitable. Do you understand?”
“Yeah. Defensive, rather than offensive.” Clare nodded. “It’s smart.”
“Good. Eat first. You will need energy. Then we will see about our equipment. I would like to leave no later than midday. If we are being slow, we must be prepared for all eventualities—including being waylaid. I would not want to be outside after dark.”
Chapter Seven
Clare and Dorran crouched in the stone room bridging the garden, the basement, and the wine cellar. The room was cold, but it was closest to the equipment they needed. Dorran had laid out a sheet to work on. One of the immense, heavy-woven red drapes had been wrenched off its holder in the dining room and lay in a pool beside them. Dorran unspooled chicken wire from its roll and, by buckling it and tying it, created a dome shape.
“We will be like a turtle,” he joked.
When it was completed, it would be just large enough for them to huddle underneath. Once the frame was ready, Dorran layered the drapes over it, then a second set of the wire, followed by more drapes. The fabric was thick. It added to the construct’s weight, but Clare hoped it would be enough to keep the weather out, at least.
Clare had her back to the cellar. She couldn’t tell if that was better or worse than facing it. Her mind was constantly hunting for the scratching sounds, the shuffling, and the quiet breaths that would be her only warning of someone creeping up behind her.
Dorran rocked back on his heels, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “It will be heavy. But I would rather carry this weight than have it fail on us when we need it most.”
Clare finished tying off one section. She couldn’t help but admire their handiwork. The vivid red cloth would stand out against the white snow, but it was a solid construction. Dorran lifted one end, and Clare tried picking up the other side. Between the two of them, they could heave it up, but Clare knew they wouldn’t get far carrying it on their backs. They dropped it back onto the floor.
“It won’t be such a burden when we have the sled.” Dorran packed up the tool kit they’d been using, scooped up the unused chicken wire, and carried it back to the shelves in the storage area. As he put away the equipment, Clare brushed her hand across some of the tools. Garden gloves, so old and worn they were starting to fall apart. Trowels. Bottles of fertiliser. They were all well-used.
A sense of regret washed over her. Dorran’s family had issues, but he’d talked fondly about some of the staff. Someone had dedicated their life to tending to the garden. They had worn the gloves daily. And they would never be back.
She turned away. A pitchfork caught her notice. She picked it up and shook dust from its handle. “Dorran, what about this?”
“Yes.” He felt across the prongs, testing their sharpness. “This will be useful. I will try to find a second ranged weapon too. And a knife of some kind, perhaps. I wish this family had been interested in swords—” He broke off, and his eyes flitted towards the ceiling.
Clare looked up, too, a spike of panic catching in her throat as she thought Dorran had heard something.
Then he smiled. “My uncle used to be involved in fencing. They will not be any use for weapons, but the masks will make a good defence for our faces. Come, let’s see if I can remember where he stored his equipment.”
They dropped the pitchfork beside the protective dome and crossed to the stairs. Clare was faintly aware of how quickly the time was passing. She had a sense that if they didn’t get there that day, they might never make it. The sky had stayed clear all morning. It was almost as though the outside world were waiting for them, staying on its best behaviour as it coaxed them outside. If they missed their chance, the following day might be storming. And then the next. And then, all of a sudden, they would be out of food.
Dorran moved carefully. They still hadn’t found most of the concealed passageways, and as long as they stayed open, the house wasn’t truly theirs. Any time they passed through a new room, he paused at the door and listened.
The constant guardedness was beginning to wear on Clare. Every noise and creak made her flinch. By comparison, Dorran was like a rock. He was cautious, but never flighty. When Clare’s nerves started tightening beyond endurance, she looked at his face, watched how steady and confident he was, and made herself relax.
Dorran tried one of the second-floor rooms first, but after a minute of sifting through a wardrobe, backed out. “Not here. Which means it’s either in his bedroom or—”
Clare grabbed his arm to silence him. In between the house’s natural noises, the buffeting wind, and their own movements, she thought she’d caught a hint of another noise. A human noise.
Dorran held still while they listened. Under the house’s hollowness, Clare was sure she could hear a voice. Words. Coming from above them. On the third floor.
Madeline? No… she was so careful about not letting us hear her before. She can’t be back. And the others don’t talk.
Dorran silently unsheathed his knife and beckoned for Clare to stay close to him. Together, they stepped into the hallway and faced the stairs. The voice had fallen silent, but Clare could still feel its echoes, seemingly hovering around her ears like invisible moths. Dorran was at the stairs before Clare could hiss a warning to him. His dark eyes scanned the upper landing as he ascended, and Clare, her heart beating against her ribs, followed closely.
What if it’s a trap? They could be trying to lure us towards them.
They stopped at the top of the stairs. Neither of them breathed. The silence held for a moment. Then the voice came again, floating out of their bedroom.
“I hope you’re okay. I’ll try again tomorrow.”
Clare took a sharp breath, half in relief, half in shock. The voice was Beth’s. They’d agreed to speak again that day. She’d been looking forward to it—but she hadn’t realised the morning was that late. She slipped past Dorran and ran along the hallway, jarring the cuts on her leg but barely noticing. She caught herself on the bedroom door, fumbled to unlock it, then darted inside. The radio sat next to their fireside bed. She grabbed it and turned on her signal. “I’m here! Sorry!”
Static answered her. Clare dropped back onto her heels, burning disappointment stinging her throat and eyes. She should have watched the time more closely or at least thought to bring the radio with her.
Dorran hesitated in the doorway, his eyes tight. “I am sorry…”
“Not your fault.” The words were automatic. She swiped her palm across her eyes to clear them and took a ragged breath. “She’ll try again tomorrow. And I’ll make sure I don’t miss it.”
He approached, and his hand gently rested over her shoulder. “Would you like some time?”
“No.” They didn’t have time to spare. She pushed onto her feet and took a slow, steadying breath. “Let’s keep going. Where did you say we were looking next?”