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Mowlam raised his coffee. “Goodbye, Detective.”
“Goodbye. And thanks for your time, sir.”
Barbara took the plate from Mayflower and walked back to her table, feeling uneasy. Everything Mowlam had said was perfectly reasonable, but it was that easy-going plausibility that bothered her. He was a teacher. Persuasive, charming, good-looking. Catnip to impressionable teens.
Barbara took a swig of beer. The son of a bitch had got to her too.
“How many dead kids will it take for the law to change its mind?”
She picked up her sandwich…and paused.
That was it. Of course.
It explained the video, the jacket, the inconsistencies in timings.
She wiped her fingers on her napkin and grabbed her phone.
“Hello?” Nicholls sounded weary at the other end.
“I think I know what the boys were doing that night.”
17
Athelinda moved silently through the old mining settlement, eyes scanning the darkness.
The huge refinery loomed behind her. To her right were the cottages and bunkhouses where the rest of the Colony lived. Some had fallen into disrepair in their absence, but they would fix them, as they had before.
Ahead, a long track ran between the wooden buildings. Athelinda could see the old schoolhouse and the lodge (previously the home of the mine’s managers, now her own abode). Further along was the factory where Colony members made clothing and shoes out of animal skins and old human clothes. Past this was the dairy, now used as an indoor barn and slaughterhouse. The land behind had been fenced into a grazing area for pigs and goats.
At the peak of the Deadhart Mining Corporation’s operation, in the early 1900s, several hundred men had lived and worked here in the settlement. The town of Deadhart had expanded to service the mine, exporting ore and importing supplies via the river. Later, a spur had been built off the Alaskan railroad.
The human expansion had come at a cost to the Colony. While they had lived side by side with the local Dghelay Teht’ana population for almost two centuries, the incomers saw them as a threat. The Colony found themselves driven from the mountains into the Denali wilderness. The men had greater numbers and more sophisticated weapons. When the Colony tried to defend their land, they were hunted and slaughtered. Or worse.
However, everything has its time. By the early 1930s the copper had run out and the mine closed its gates. The buildings were abandoned and left to rot. That was when the Colony moved in, claiming the mining settlement as their own.
And they had been settled here. Until the boy. Until humans once again forced them from their home.
But now they were back. And this time they would not run.
—
The street was quiet tonight. Snow coated the ground. A few children played in a small makeshift playground, mothers chatting nearby. School had finished for the evening. Lessons started in the late afternoon during the winter, three days a week. Basic literacy, math and vampyric history as well as cooking, crafts and other practical skills. There was little else to teach of use and sometimes Athelinda wondered why they persevered at all. The children would never grow up to have jobs or further their education. All of that was forbidden to them. They had so many years to live and yet so little of substance to fill their long lives.
Athelinda lingered near the playground, watching the children. Two girls and a boy, maybe four or five years old, playing on the tire swings and slide. Athelinda paused, something tugging inside her. A distant memory. Playing with other children like this, but not in darkness; with blue skies above and the chitter of the morning birds filling the air. Wind rushed through her hair, laughter rang in her ears. And later, tucked into bed, a melodic female voice sang:
“Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop. When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.’’
For a moment the pang of yearning was so strong Athelinda felt faint. She reached out and grasped the wooden fence that bordered the playground. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply. Flashbacks. To before. She hadn’t had one in centuries.
“Are you okay?”
She opened her eyes. One of the little girls, slight with dark hair, hovered on the other side of the fence. She looked at Athelinda curiously.
“You look sick. Are you going to puke? My mommy says that you go green when you puke.”
Athelinda studied the child: only a few inches shorter than she was, dressed in a faded green dress and long animal-skin jacket. At a glance, they could have been sisters or playmates, except for the eyes. The girl’s were still open and innocent, free from guile. Athelinda tried to recall her name. Gretchen.
“I’m not going to puke,” she said.
