Page 117 of The Other Side

When the pain settled enough for him to think, he stopped staring upwards and forced himself to study the walls properly. In the growing daylight he noticed things he’d missed before. Narrow seams cut through the rock. Some widened into shallow cracks. Tree roots, no thicker than string, poked through from above, searching blindly for water. If roots could reach this far, then the surface couldn’t be impossibly distant.

He wiped the blood from his palms onto his trousers.

“I’ll get out,” he said aloud, as though speaking it might make it true.

No one answered.

~~~

By the time Osian reached Pine Cottage, the sun was already high, bleaching the lane with hard white light. He’d retrieved his phone from where he’d hidden it beside the gate and called Drum on the walk back, but the call had rung out. He’d told himself Drum was busy, that he’d return the call as soon as he could.

There had been no call.

As Osian came up the path, he saw the front door stood ajar. He stopped so abruptly, he almost tripped. Drum would never leave it like that. Not ever. His pulse lurched into a gallop. He crossed the garden in three quick strides and slipped inside.

Silence. Not the peaceful silence of an empty cottage, but something heavier. Something wrong.

“Drum?”

There was no answer. His gaze snagged on the shattered French doors, glass glittering on the floor like broken ice. Oh gods.

Then he saw the blood. Dark stains had soaked into the rug beside the sofa. For a heartbeat he couldn’t move. Then his knees gave way, striking the floor. His stomach twisted so violently he thought he might be sick.

Had Belem had him taken? But when could he have given the order, if he was already in prison? No. Ashford. It had to be. I never should have left him.

He pressed a hand against the floor until the wave of panic eased enough for him to think. Drum would have fought back. He wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be dead. Osian would have felt it. The thought came unbidden, bringing little comfort. He and Drum weren’t bonded in any mystical way. Love didn’t give him second sight, but he refused to accept that Drum was dead. He searched the cottage room by room, forcing himself to notice everything. A chair knocked sideways. A mug smashed in the kitchen. The bedroom untouched. No note. No phones. No sign of Drum.

He rang Drum again and heard his phone ring out. Osian found it under the couch. Oh fuck. Outside, a siren wailed and his head snapped up. The police were coming. Panic surged again. If they found him here, there’d be questions he couldn’t answer. He turned off Drum’s phone, pushed it into his pocket, then darted through the broken French doors. He vaulted the low wall at the bottom of the garden and ran until the cottage disappeared behind the hedgerow. Only then did he stop. His hands shook so badly he almost dropped his phone as he made the call.

“Hi, Osian,” Will said. “You okay?”

“No.” The single word came out rough. “I need your help.”

“What do you need?”

“Can you bring your car to the crossroads on the east side of Hayden?”

“I’ll leave now.”

The line went dead. Osian let out a slow breath. He loved that about Will. No interrogation. No panic. Just I’ll leave now.

Keeping to the field margins, Osian cut across the farmland towards the crossroads. Every distant engine made him flinch. Every movement among the hedges looked like someone watching. He didn’t believe Drum was dead. But Ashford needed to silence him. Why would he leave him alive? His head ached as he tried to think it through.

By the time Will’s adapted hatchback rolled into view, sweat clung to Osian’s back despite the warm breeze. He climbed in.

“Where to?” Will asked as he pulled away.

“Sparlow.”

Will looked at him so sharply the car drifted towards the verge before he corrected it. “Seriously?”

“As close as you can get.”

Will frowned but turned onto the main road. For several minutes they drove in silence.

Finally, he asked, “What’s happened?”

Osian stared out of the window. “Drum’s missing.”