Page 92 of The Clifftop Cottage

Gabriel slipped through one of the passageways between two squat cottages, where the lane narrowed into little more than a single footpath, slick with fallen leaves.

And then the town fell away.

The sea lay ahead.

Or rather, the suggestion of it.

A thick mist had rolled in, swallowing the horizon. What should have been open expanse was now a wall of grey. It clung to the rocks and dunes, shifting like breath over the bay.

Gabriel stopped.

He knew the sea was there. Knew its sound. That low, constant roar of it, steady as something sleeping, even if he couldn’t see it.

That unsettled him more than he expected.

The wind picked up, cool and indecisive. It was one of those November days that couldn’t decide whether to rain or simply haunt you.

He stepped closer despite himself, boots scraping stone.

It felt like something. An omen?

No. Just weather.

Still, the hairs along his forearms lifted.

The Sluagh.

Restless souls borne on the wind. The unquiet dead, riding the air, searching for the living.

He shifted his weight and rubbed his hands together, as if the cold was the only thing getting under his skin.

Old stories, perhaps, but not stories told lightly. Not here. Not in this season.

A few boats bobbed somewhere beyond the mist, their lights faint and blurred. Stubborn men, or foolish ones? Hard to tell the difference.

He remembered being told, as a boy, not to stare too long at the sea when it wore its ghost face. Not during Samhain or the full moon.

He frowned.

Was it a full moon tonight?

He couldn’t remember. But the thought lingered.

The moon tugged at tides. At blood. At tempers. Every firefighter and paramedic in the Highlands would swear full moons meant more calls, more madness, more fire.

He exhaled slowly. He was on call tonight.

There would be something. There usually was when the air felt like this – charged and thin. A chimney gone wrong. A car wrapped round a bend. A flare of temper. Always something needing put right.

A low bark snapped him back.

Chep stood rigid, ears forward.

Gabriel blinked and crouched, resting a hand on the dog’s head. Solid. Warm. Real.

“No swimming today, boy,” he muttered.

He straightened, turning away from the hidden sea. He’d check the sheep instead. With the weather shifting, he might bring them down to the lower field, bring them closer to the house, where he could see them from the window.