The Nightjar by Deborah Hewitt

Author:Deborah Hewitt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK

The abrasive rasp of stone scraping against stone startled her. Every muscle tensed. Then the granite door cranked open and a pair of leather boots stepped out into the corridor. Finally. The 1 a.m. patrol.

An astonished Runner stared down at her. It was evident that he’d never found anyone trapped here – until now.

‘What the hell are you doing down here?’ spluttered the Runner. He was a dark-haired man, probably in his late fifties, with watery blue eyes and a build like a rugby prop forward.

‘I’m … a bit stuck,’ said Alice.

‘You’re trespassing,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

She scrambled to her feet and took a generous breath to steady her nerves. ‘I’m Alice Wyndham.’

This clearly meant nothing to him. A frown darkened his face, and he seemed to regain his mental footing.

‘Let’s check you out then, shall we?’ he said as he grabbed her arm and bundled her through the still-open doorway.

They hadn’t known quite what to do with her. They’d performed a blood check, piercing the skin on her fingertip – she’d been careful not to give them the hand carrying Bridget’s blood. And they’d confirmed she was indeed Alice Wyndham: one of their own employees, but suspended for a previous incident of trespass. They were loath to summon their commanding officer, Reuben Risdon, for advice in the middle of the night. So they’d opted for throwing her into an empty cell. Someone else could deal with her at a more godly hour. It couldn’t have gone more smoothly.

Her cell was cramped and a heavy smell of damp hung in the chilly air. She tiptoed to the bars and peered out, into a corridor similar in layout but not design to the one she’d just left behind. Here, the tiles on the floor and walls were carved into unusual patterns, and the cell doors were made of intricately woven iron and oak. As an added precaution against travelling into the cells, the doors and patterned stonework changed frequently, so as to prevent easy visualization of the doorways – the work of House Pellervoinen, according to Marianne. Fortunately for Alice, their precautions were futile against Crowley’s unique blood; he could open any lock, including those on the cell doors.

There were two blue-uniformed Runners playing poker at one end of the corridor. The dark-haired prop forward was smiling broadly at his cards, but a quick glance at his nightjar showed he was masking a poor hand.

‘I win this hand, Rhone, and you can eat the lettuce-and-tomato sandwich my wife made for me.’

‘Fuck that,’ said another voice – Rhone, she assumed. ‘I’m not ending my hunger strike for a salad. I want a greasy steak or nothing. Vegetarianism is an insult to my beliefs.’

She’d assumed Rhone was the other Runner, but the voice had come from a cell opposite. And that was when she realized. August Rhone: the necromancer.

‘Your beliefs?’ snorted the Runner.

‘Absolutely. You can’t worship Death and then refuse to eat dead animals. That’s the ultimate insult.’

The lettuce-eater winced and tossed a coin onto the pile.

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