The island god, p.1
The Island God, page 1
The Island God
Unholy Island Book Three
Sarah Painter
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
* * *
Copyright © 2024 by Sarah Painter
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published by Siskin Press Limited
Cover Design by Stuart Bache
Also by Sarah Painter
The Language of Spells
The Secrets of Ghosts
The Garden of Magic
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In The Light of What We See
Beneath The Water
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The Lost Girls
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The Crow Investigations Series
The Night Raven
The Silver Mark
The Fox’s Curse
The Pearl King
The Copper Heart
The Shadow Wing
The Broken Cage
The Magpie Key
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The Unholy Island Series
The Ward Witch
The Book Keeper
The Island God
Contents
Welcome To Unholy Island
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Thank you for reading!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Crow Investigations Series
For Dave. Always.
Welcome To Unholy Island
Lindisfarne, or Holy Island, is a tidal island in the county of Northumberland in northern England. Visitors can gawp at the impressive remains of its ancient priory, established in 635AD – a beacon of religious learning and salvation in a cruel world, enduring as a place of pilgrimage and piety throughout the years. When the priory was abandoned as part of the dissolution of the monasteries in the sixteenth century, religion gave way to military concerns. Henry VIII demanded fortifications against the Scots, and a castle was built on the highest point on the island.
Unholy Island sits a few miles northward, in an area that has been Scotland and then Northumberland and then Scotland again throughout recent history, but in ancient times was just the Old North. Unlike Holy Island, it escaped royal and monastic notice, and has endured without much external interference.
Unholy Island is a mile further out in the cold sea than Lindisfarne, but it has a similar causeway. Stable enough for vehicles twice a day, if you stick to the window of opportunity provided by the tide. Holy Island is also accessible on foot, the final destination for the famous pilgrimage of St Cuthbert’s Way. The more distant position of Unholy Island means that only the strongest or most foolish would attempt to reach it on foot. Or the desperate.
On an average day, you can see Holy Island from the mainland, with the distinctive shape of the castle rising on its rocky hill.
Unholy Island is only glimpsed when the air is clear and the sun is high in the sky. It seems to have its own weather system, staying almost permanently shrouded in mist. Even for those who live close to the causeway on the mainland, it is easy to forget it is there at all.
* * *
The island community is very small and the visitor numbers are not large. Few people know about the island and those that do, those who bring delivery vans or visit to fix utility poles or water pipes or fibre broadband, don’t really think about the place after they leave. It’s not that they forget about it completely, it just passes from the front of their mind. In the case of the delivery drivers and the post office, this is a regular recurrence. A weekly knowing and then unknowing that becomes a familiar part of their mindscape and doesn’t unduly trouble anybody.
There are tourists. Throughout the summer, a handful make the crossing. They walk the quiet beaches, watch the ringed plovers, skylarks and oystercatchers, birds which can still successfully nest as there aren’t enough humans to trample their homes, and eat lunch in The Rising Moon. If the bookshop is open, they squeeze between the packed shelves and browse the used stock and usually come out with a small stack of books. They might buy some homemade tablet from the general store or a painting of the waves from the owner of Strand House, and as the sun crosses the sky and the tide begins to turn, lapping at the edges of the causeway, they get back into their cars and drive back to the mainland. The sea reclaims the island and the visitors eat their tablet, read their books, hang their new artwork, but never really think about Unholy Island again.
Chapter One
Esme Gray had made a nest for herself on the sofa. She was surrounded by piles of books and there was a small table pulled close for her mug of tea and a plate of biscuits. On her lap she had a notebook, pencil case and three different colours of sticky note. Sylvie, the French stove, was glowing happily, warming the room and drying the damp February air. Rain was pouring steadily down the windows, but it only increased Esme’s sense of contentment. She was inside, safe and comfortable, losing herself in the joy of learning.
Since the island bookshop had almost been burned down by a disturbed young woman, twisted by blood magic to the point of madness, the shop had opened up to Esme in a way it never had before. She had lived on Unholy Island for seven years and had seen books about herbal remedies and Celtic myths in the backroom ‘esoteric’ section. Now, the shop was offering her books about hexes and cursed objects, transmutation and levitation, white magic and protection spells. There was also an ever-changing selection of myths and folklore, as if the shop was eager for Esme to read all the stories that had been told of spirits and shifters, gods and monsters, fortune, fate, and the follies of man.
Some of the books she was able to buy, and she had an expanding home library at Strand House, the bed-and-breakfast on the island, but others were definitely only given as loans and she took extra care with these volumes before returning them to the shop. There were other books, ancient leather-bound tomes with onion skin pages and covers mottled with years of handling that were only to be looked at within the stockroom of the shop, and only when Luke Taylor, The Book Keeper, was present. Discovering these rules had been a process over the last few weeks, with the bookshop letting her and Luke know exactly when they were getting things wrong. Its methods of communication included flashing the lights, humming quietly, shaking the bookshelves, and dropping the temperature in the shop until Luke and Esme’s teeth chattered.
She had been taking notes from a chunky book about warding magic. She was the island’s Ward Witch and knew the ritual that she had inherited from the previous holder of the role. Esme thought there was no harm in being as informed as possible, however. Besides, she wasn’t a believer in tradition for its own sake. Just because something had always been done a particular way, didn’t mean that was the best or right way. You only had to look at the patriarchy.
By the time she finished her tea and turned the last page in the book, the fire was getting low, so Esme stood up, scattering stationery supplies, and added a log. Sylvie was a temperamental stove, sometimes sullenly refusing to draw and others burning with a fierce heat, but she made up for this by being the most beautiful blue enamel. Esme’s predecessor had a French surname, and she assumed that Madame Le Grys had brought Sylvie with her when she arrived on the island. She wondered what her successor would find at Strand House that would make her wonder about Esme. Her paintings, she supposed. The seascapes that she felt compelled to repeat. She sold plenty to the summer visitors, but never came close to running out. Jetsam, the cat she had also inherited, was sleeping on the smaller sofa. He woke up and stretched, turning to present a view of his rear as he did so, and then curled up on the cushions and closed his eyes.
‘Luke is coming round after he closes the shop. Be nice.’
Jet didn’t move.
‘I know you’re listening. And I want you to keep your claws to yourself.’
Jet opened one eye.
Esme took a breath. This was a risky strategy, and one that might result in Jet attacking her feet all night long, but she went with it anyway. ‘If you attack Luke, there will be no ham for a week. Or butter.’
Both eyes were open now. The cat stared at her with an expression of imperious outrage.
‘I like him,’ she said softly.
Esme couldn’t tell if this honesty had m
* * *
Luke Taylor could still smell the faintest odour of burning paper, which made no sense as Kate Foster hadn’t got as far as setting light to the petrol she had sloshed over the shop. If any scent was still lingering in the shop, it ought to be petrol, but between professional cleaners, sanded and refinished floorboards, and replacing the sodden stock, there wasn’t a trace of that. He assumed the scent had to be a figment of his imagination. He had dreamed of burning so many times since being hexed by a cursed book that now his senses were playing tricks on him.
He shelved the crime novel that Seren had returned to the shop that afternoon. She had swapped it for a romantic comedy which had daisies on the cover. ‘I’ve heard it's filthy,’ Seren had said cheerfully and Luke had looked everywhere, anywhere, except at her face. He had busied himself with writing down the details and willed the blood he could feel rushing to his cheeks to sod off. Swapping books was a perk for the islanders and Luke kept a careful note of them in the shop ledger that sat on the counter. There was another ledger that lived in the stockroom of the shop, but that was for the special collection of books and not for public view.
Rain was sheeting down the new front window, obscuring the world outside. The lights were glowing steadily and there was the faintest background hum that meant the shop was happy. He was getting to know the different ways the shop expressed itself and felt there was a growing trust. He had spent hours waxing and polishing the bookshelves and the old wooden counter, and he felt a sense of welcome when he walked back inside after going to the pub for a meal or to Esme’s. If it wasn’t for the concern over his twin brother, he would be utterly content.
After turning the sign in the window to ‘closed’ and locking the front door, Luke went upstairs to change his clothes and pick up the bottle of wine he had bought earlier. He and Esme were taking things slowly, and he was yet to spend the night, but he was happy to wait. He could feel a certainty about their relationship, a kind of fated ‘rightness’ that calmed his natural impatience to get as close as possible as quickly as possible. They had time.
* * *
Across the village, in the cluttered general store that served the islanders with everything from cheese to lightbulbs, Matteo was straightening tins of chickpeas and tomatoes on the shelves and trying not to think about Fiona. She was single now, which meant he could think about her. There was no reason he couldn’t. Except that it would be fruitless. Matteo had built a life for himself that insulated him from pain, but that was a side-effect. He had built a life to insulate others. He did not speak. He would not speak. He served the islanders and visitors and kept the shop clean and orderly. If somebody rushed in needing plasters and antiseptic for a cut finger, he could lay his hands on the supplies within moments. It might look like chaos, but he could find a jar of sun-dried tomatoes or packet of sewing needles, whatever was required, and there was a satisfaction to that. A job well done.
He didn’t deserve that satisfaction, he knew. And he certainly didn’t deserve a woman like Fiona. Even if, by some miracle, she was interested in him, he could not put himself in a situation where his guard might drop, even for a moment.
A memory flashed into his mind. A time from his past when he had lost control. The sickness that rolled through his gut was nothing to the block of black shame in his heart. So many times before that, he had hurt people, but that had been when he had not known the extent of his abilities. He did not like to think of those events and he felt bad, but he held a sliver of forgiveness for his younger self. He had not known. He had not been trained. He hadn’t any control.
But on that bad day, that very bad day, he had lost control. Let go of his control, he reminded himself, not allowing a moment of denial. He forced himself to see it clearly and not to prevaricate or cosset. He had been capable of keeping his words in check, of not speaking, and he had known the possible outcomes and still he had used his voice. His words. He was entirely culpable and he would never let himself forget it.
* * *
Hammer was not a happy man. He rested the oars of the boat in the rowlocks and let himself drift as he picked up his binoculars. There was definitely smoke coming from Àite Marbh, the islet that lay to the west of Unholy Island. Nobody should be there.
Late the previous night, he had thought he had seen a light. It had bobbed and flickered as if somebody was carrying it through some trees and then disappeared. He had waited, watching for another ten minutes to see if it reappeared. When it didn’t, he had convinced himself he had been mistaken. Now he knew he hadn’t.
Chapter Two
Tobias’s first hint that something was amiss was Winter’s sharp bark. His ears were pressed back against his skull and he let out a soft whine before another two short barks. They had been taking an early evening stroll along the coastal path that led from the castle to Coire Bay when Winter had pressed into Tobias’s legs and let out his warning.
Tobias scanned the gorse that lined the path, the rocks that led to the sea, and then the horizon. Àite Marbh was a dark mass against the red glow of the setting sun. Tobias wasn’t a superstitious man. Truth be known, he wasn’t a man at all, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have instincts. At this moment his were telling him that he wasn’t seeing everything that was there. He was used to seeing the layers of the world, past realities stacked upon each other, but the sense that there was something hidden amongst all these images was new.
* * *
Down at the shore, Hammer was hauling his boat onto the dry sand. He straightened and turned at Tobias’s approach, and Tobias saw instantly that the man was shaken.
‘There are lights,’ Hammer said without preamble. ‘Over there. I went to take a closer look.’
The islanders’ habit was to avoid saying the name of the islet. More superstition, but Tobias didn’t blame them. Human superstition was understandable. Their vision was so narrow, and he knew that deep in their subconscious they must constantly feel the press of the vast darkness stretching around their tiny flames. No wonder they clung to stories, searching for rules that would keep them safe. ‘Did you go ashore?’
Hammer shook his head. ‘Close enough to see some smoke. Someone has a fire.’
Tobias considered the possibilities. In the summer, a wildfire was possible. Unlikely, but possible. In the cold damp clutches of late February, it was inconceivable. Winter pressed against his side, not making any sound, but clearly picking up on his tension. ‘I need you to take me to Àite Marbh.’
Hammer crossed his arms. ‘It’s too dark.’
‘Tomorrow then. First light.’
‘I don’t know about that. No one goes there.’
‘You can stay in the boat. Just get me close enough to wade ashore.’ He felt bad, looking at the conflict drawn clearly on Hammer’s roughly hewn face, but the dead island had been quiet for centuries and he had to make sure it stayed that way.
* * *
After dinner, Luke got up to clear the plates. Esme watched him move around her kitchen, putting things away and starting on the dishes in the sink.
