The Hiding

by Alethea Lyons, Elizabeth Leggett, MJ Pankey, Stephanie Ellis

Genres: Dark Fantasy; Gothic

Synopsis

“On its face, The Hiding is an enthralling adventure of demons, spirits, witches and their hunters. Within its secret rooms, it’s an examination of identity and community and the very real magic therein.”
—Rae Knowles, Author of The Stradivarius & Merciless Waters

“A delightful weave of supernatural mystery and family drama, balanced against a tale of found family and pain.”
—Alexander James, Author of The Woodkin

Arcane archivist Harper has always been plagued by dreams of grotesque creatures and bloody deaths. When she bumps into a ghostwalker in the Shambles and has a visceral experience of his execution, she knows it’s a foretelling. Yet fear of the Queen’s Guard stops her speaking out. When her vision indeed comes true, the unusual markings on the ghostwalker’s corpse, combined with his neatly excised vocal cords, send a ripple of terror through York.

The witch hunt is on. As the body count rises, Harper knows her magic is the only way to find the killer – if she can avoid being hanged as a witch. To protect both human and supernatural, Harper walks the thin line between their worlds. She and her demonhunter foster-sister form a multi-faith team with a forensic scientist, a spirit Harper accidentally summoned, and a techno-witch, to catch the killer before more people die.

 

Read more

Release date: March 5, 2024

Publisher: Brigids Gate Press, LLC

Print pages: 347

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

York was famous for its ghosts, but Harper had seen too many demons to fear rumours and trickery. Yet, as mist trickled down the cobbled street of the Shambles, curled up the sides of wonky buildings and flowed over her feet, that certainty wavered. The hairs on her bare arms prickled despite the lingering summer warmth. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but she did believe in human evil.

She rubbed the back of her neck, casting a sideways glance at two men in long overcoats who leant against the railing of Saint Crux Church. No badges, no uniforms, but an air of threat so thick it polluted the air more than the noxious fumes of passing cars.

Queen’s Guard.

They were always there, guarding the entrance to the most haunted street in England, but it seemed recently, there had been more sullen strangers in long, tan coats prowling the ginnels of York. One of the men returned her look, his eyes narrowing. His thumb tapped against the end of a black baton hanging from his waist.

Harper turned away to study the window of the shop opposite. She rolled her shoulders, resisting the urge to check the reflection and see if he still watched her. Tourists and shoppers scurried around her. The old glass warped their reflections, lengthened faces, rippled bodies, as though Harper observed them through water. The crowd hurried past the two men and didn’t slow until they were under the twisted eaves of the Shambles shops.

Squaring her shoulders, Harper turned away from the Guardsmen and entered the Shambles. The uneven paving made each footstep unique as she wove through the milling crowds. Her sneakers curved over the cobbles in the centre of the row and each crack in the flagstone pavement grabbed at her toes. It was tempting to close her eyes, to walk it blind and see if her soles would recognise the well-worn path.

The further she progressed down the Shambles, the further back in time she fell. Buildings arched over the path like lovers leaning in to kiss. Hanging baskets of flowers brightened the monochrome Tudor architecture. Warped wooden signs adorned the walls. Harper stooped to see through panes barely larger than her head. Each shop dazzled, selling everything from jewellery to paper, from antiques to modern art.

The twisting ginnels and alleyways branching from the street promised portals to dark adventures in other realms. Magic seemed to fizz like static in the air. Shoppers disappeared around corners, or possibly were whisked off to faraway queendoms.

Harper could almost hear Grace’s sceptical disapproval. York city centre was night-safe. The Veil was strong, and the Queen’s Guard lurked at either end of the supposedly ‘magical’ street. There was nothing special about it being the autumnal equinox. She wouldn’t meet anything supernatural in the Shambles. The arcane atmosphere was merely a ruse to bring in tourists. Then again, I’m here ...

Harper’s head twitched with the urge to look back at the two Guardsmen, even though she wouldn’t be able to see them so far up the street.

The constant tinkle of shop bells reminded Harper of fairy laughter, high-pitched and secretive, almost drowned out by the chatter of tourists and the rustle of bags. Harper paused outside a shop of glittering figurines. She tugged her braid over her shoulder, worrying loose hairs, as she watched the door out of the corner of her eye. Maybe if I catch the light right, I’ll see them. The thought brought a smile to her face. She flicked her hair away again, its red ribbon fluttering in the breeze.

The scent of sugar wafted down from the sweet shop: on the edge of saccharine, cut through with hibiscus and bergamot from the tea shop. Their windows stood open, inviting passers-by to sample the fragrant delights. Signs in Gothic fonts advertised wares from forbidden lands: green tea from Japan and American candy. Harper rubbed her hands together, remembering why she came to the Shambles.

She was here for a purpose, one even Grace couldn’t object to. With a frisson of glee stirring deep in her chest, Harper dodged a family with sugar-hyped children to head into the fudge shop.

Intent on keeping the bright blues and sunny yellows of her patchwork jacket away from sticky-fingered kids, Harper didn’t notice the rise in the pavement. Her foot twisted beneath her. She half-turned, half-stumbled, books scattering from her satchel. A strong hand gripped her elbow, an arm secured her waist. Harper looked up into concerned eyes, green as fir trees and as deep as the forest. The wind blew hair the colour of bark across them.

“Got your balance now?” the stranger asked.

When Harper nodded, the man released her and took a step back. He held his arms toward her as though waiting for her to fall again or shielding her from the flow of people.

She gave him a shy smile as she held out her hand. “I’m Harper Ashbury, she/her. Thanks

for catching me.”

“Theodore Edwards, he/him, at your service, Ms Ashbury.” The warmth of his hand sent tingles up her arm. As she took a step toward him, pain lanced up her leg and she inhaled sharply.

His narrowed eyes flicked up and down. “Sit on this step for a sec. Let me take a look at your ankle.”

“It’s fine. Really. I stepped funny—”

“It’ll only take a moment. Don’t worry, I’m a nurse.”

Hand on her elbow, he guided her to the uneven stone steps of a shop entrance, seeming not to care about the patrons clattering in and out. The heat rose in Harper’s cheeks as he pushed back the hem of her skirt and probed her right ankle with gentle fingers.

“Honestly, Mr. Edwards. I’m fine.” A twisted ankle was nothing. Pain took her mind back to family holidays hunting el mohán, mula retinta, and other supernaturals. Even training with Grace’s two older brothers carried the risk of greater injury than this. Fingers lingered on her ankle, warm, delicate. The flush in her face deepened and Harper wiggled her foot away, tugging her ankle-length skirt back down.

The young man started, then gave a small shrug. “Please, call me Theo. I don’t think you’ve done any serious damage, but you should probably stay off it for a while. Are you going far? I’ve got a little time to spare if you need help.”

“Thanks. You’ve been more than helpful already.” Harper leant toward the fallen book closest to her, hoping he wouldn’t see how red her cheeks were. He beat her to it. Their fingers brushed, and heat surged through her again. She yanked her hand back, too flustered to stop him from retrieving her other fallen tomes.

“The Woman at the Well. Exorcisms and Other Evictions. The Divination of John Dee.” As he read each title, the frown on his face deepened. Harper snatched the books out of his hands and stuffed them back in her satchel. She fumbled the buckle as she cinched it shut. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Theo, certain he’d run. People came to the Shambles for a small thrill of the otherworldly, not to discuss exorcisms and illegal magic, despite the uptick in rumours of supernatural incursions. Upon discovering her job and Grace’s family’s notoriety as demonhunters, most people fled.

If he bolted for the safety of the Queen’s Guard, she could justify having the books but probably not without a trip to the police precinct and a call to the

archbishop. The Guard weren’t always willing to accept the credentials of those who worked for the Council of Faiths.

Theo’s eyes glazed over, shifting back and forth, but he made no move to leave. As he leant closer, eyes focused on hers, Harper wasn’t sure if her heart throbbed from fear or because of the tingle in her lips.

“I can explain.” She grabbed his arm. Muscle quivered through the thin cotton.

“Explain?” There was an edge of panic to his voice. Familiar. Harper’s stomach sank. It always went like this.

“I work at the cathedral. I’m an archivist there. I help them keep dangerous books out of the public eye and research ways to protect people from the supernatural.” Harper pulled a business card out of her bag and tucked it into his hand. On one side it showed the arms of the Archbishop of York, two keys forming an ‘X’ under a golden cross. On the other side was Grace’s family crest, a blooming orchid with a halo.

Her rescuer studied it, flipping it between his fingers. “De Santos? I thought you said your name was Ashbury.”

Harper winced at his accusatory tone. So much for asking if she could buy him a drink. “They’re my foster family. They took me in after an accident,” she explained. It was close enough to the truth. Reality would have sent him scurrying to the Guard for sure. “Grace, my foster sister that is, she and I don’t fight supernaturals like the rest of the family. We’re very safe, I promise. She’s a vet. I research books and stuff. I was here to buy her some fudge. It’s been a tough week. A normal tough week. Not a demon tough week.” Harper was still clinging to his shirt, rambling. She let go and twisted her fingers through her hair instead. “I better be going. I’m going to be late for work. Thanks again for your help.”

She retreated up the Shambles, teeth gritted against the pain in her ankle. She wanted to get away. The fudge could wait. Theo still wore the dazed expression

Harper had seen too frequently in her life.

“Mind where you’re walking.”

The voice thudded in her ears, cold and unyielding as a tombstone.

Cold cascaded over Harper like she’d stepped through a waterfall. She spun and was confronted with a Dickensian apparition. A tall, black hat; a gaunt face; a swirling cloak; skin with the pallor of a corpse. It was the most vivid vision to afflict her in years. She gasped and icy water poured into her mouth, flooded her lungs, stopped her heart. Clutching her chest, she doubled over, fighting for air. The world seemed to tip and slide. Lack of oxygen scattered her thoughts as they fought the visceral omen. The soft flesh inside her throat was so cold it burned. Airways closed. Panic swelled in her chest, tight and unforgiving.

“Never scream ...”

A tangled medley of disembodied whispers, all saying the same two words, over and over.

“Never scream ...”

This time there was no one to save her as she lurched backwards. She clawed at her throat, desperate for air. A stolen scream needled like a thousand millipedes crawling under her skin. Harper fell against the stone wall behind her, the impact knocking the last breath from her body. It shook loose the ice blocking her throat, and she could inhale again. She gulped down air. As the cold trickled from her body, the spectre solidified into a real man, his back to her as he posed for tourists and hawked his ghost tours. His funereal appearance was nothing more than a costume.

“Just a ghostwalker,” she muttered. A normal man, making a living. Not a ghost. Not a spirit.

Despite the reassuring thought, Harper couldn’t quite believe it. The pent-up scream set her teeth on edge, static at the base of her skull. It had been years since she’d experienced anything stronger than the odd flicker of a vision during her waking hours. Not since the exorcism. There was screaming then too. Her own and someone else’s; she never worked out whose. She scrunched her eyes closed, burying the memory deep. The banished screams of the exorcism mingled with the waiting

scream in her head. Their soundwaves clashed, then cancelled each other out. The remnants of the exorcism still worked within her, cleansing, scorching.

Harper wrapped her trembling fingers around the strap of her bag, grasped to her chest like a shield. If it was a vision, a particularly visceral vision, she had no idea what it meant. As she shuffled out of the Shambles, Harper cast a last look back down the street. The young man who helped her was nowhere to be seen. The ghostwalkers menaced a teenage girl who squeaked in fake terror. At the end of the street were two men who could have been clones of the ones at the other end of the Shambles by Saint Crux. Harper hurried on before she drew their attention, headed for the safety of the cathedral.

As she limped away, a breeze wafted out from the Shambles.

“Never scream ...” 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

As the sun set, Usa watched a crowd of humans gather at the foot of Lendal Bridge. A medieval watchtower loomed over them, blanketing them in shadow. Its twin on the opposite bank could barely be seen through the mist. Usa had already been old when the towers were built, hauled up the river, brick by brick. A chain had been strung between them, black and glistening as it dipped into the water. It had caused her people such anguish as they dashed against it, denied entry to the city by human spite and technology.

Even now, hundreds of years later, humans patrolled the great wall surrounding York, always vigilant against incursion from those they called ‘supernatural.’ They came armed with fire and iron, dill and mint, silver crucifixes and blood red hamsa. The core materials changed little over the centuries, honed by each generation to destroy.

In her head, a cacophony of voices urged her on.

Usa, hide us.

Usa, protect us.

Usa, save us.

The pleas of her people echoed through her like the patter of rain wearing down stone. It was time. Mabon. The quarter day. The autumnal equinox. A time when light and dark balanced. A time when the Veil was so thin, the faerie realm lapped at the shores of the human world. A time of power.

Usa ... Usa ...

Usa feared no human. She had been there long before they walked this land, and she would remain when their civilisation was no more than dust on the wind. The same could not be said for those she was sworn to protect.

It wasn’t bullets or protective herbs Usa’s kin feared. It wasn’t the religious symbols of loving gods. They feared hearts hardened by prejudice, unwilling to accept that what was different was not necessarily evil. They feared the eyes, always watching atop those towers, which forced them into hiding. They feared the whispered stories teaching subsequent generations of humans to hate.

One such human spoke now. He led the pack who congregated in the shadow of Lendal Tower. In a small pool of light, hounded by darkness all around, he stood without fear.

He was tall, over a head taller than anyone else in the group, his stovepipe hat making him like a giant of old. He was as lean and pale as the crescent moon, his garments black as the river. Humans called his kind ‘ghostwalkers,’ and Usa often observed them leading groups of frightened sheep like these.

The ghostwalkers told the history of York, of the many deaths that plagued it and the myriad ghosts said to haunt it still. Their compelling tone and fanciful language dragged many a gasp and scream from the throats of the humans who followed them. The ghostwalkers spread terror and ensured humans rarely went out after sunset or ventured into the mists. Their tales kept humans vigilant and quick to turn on anything deemed ‘abnormal.’

Tonight, he told a tale Usa hadn’t heard before. His voice filled her mind with images,

and she could almost remember the ill-fated day he described. It was the tale of a witch. To humans, these aberrant people were as much to be despised as any of Usa’s kin. She had seen many of them during the Purge, strung out in a line from the cathedral down to the river. Hanged by the minions of the human queen just as she commanded the slaughter of Usa’s kin.

The ghostwalker’s voice was crackling and low, a smouldering ember in the dark night, and the humans huddled close to him. “The witch stood before him, her bloody wand pointed unerringly toward his heart, and the lord knew he was about to die. In fear of his eternal soul, he snatched the wand from her hand. Snapping it in twain, he threw it in the river and her spell was broken.

“She screamed, a roar of no true maiden but the demonic beast she really was. Her nails stretched into claws, her teeth like fangs as she lunged for him. He tried to draw his sword, but it was too late. Both witch and lord tumbled into the river, locked together in a deathly parody of their lovemaking the night before.

“Hours later, in that fleeting time ’twixt night and day, a fisherman rowed out hoping for an early catch. He saw a bedraggled young man standing under the bridge, searching the ground forlornly. Up close, the fisherman noted the richness of the young man’s clothes and the bejewelled sword at his hip.

“ ‘Have you lost something?’ the fisherman called.

“‘I have lost that which was most dear to me,’ the young man replied, his voice full of mourning. ‘All I was is gone; a piece of my soul lost to the devil.’

“Then the young man looked up. Where once his eyes had been, now rested only pools of darkness. Then the sun hit his face and he vanished. The fisherman went home as fast as he was able and told all he knew of the horror he had witnessed.

“As to the witch, she was never seen in York again. Did her demonic master preserve her to serve him anew in some other ill-fated town? Did the river swallow her whole, never to see daylight again? I cannot say.

“Many have seen the lord’s ghost, although he has spoken to none since the fisherman. The doomed young man still walks the banks of the Ouse, forever searching for the piece of his soul stolen by the devil and by a witch.”

A chill hung in the air as the ghostwalker finished his tale, and the mist thickened. Usa lingered in its embrace, hidden from human sight, had any looked. But their wide eyes remained riveted on the ghostwalker, their mouths agape.

The ghostwalker removed his hat and bowed low. “Do not linger,” he cautioned his audience. “The night draws close and the mists rise. Death still walks the streets of York. Ghosts, witches, and demons watch from the shadows. No matter how many lies those in power tell, nowhere is truly night-safe. Be careful it is not your tale I tell on future nights. The bridge here is the fastest way back to your cars. Do not stray from the path, for where the ghosts do not walk, the Queen’s Guard surely will, and innocence is harder to prove than guilt.” His eyes flicked to the tower where a solitary light bobbed in the darkness as its owner paced. Always watching.

With a final bow, the ghostwalker stepped back, his dark cloak swirling around him as he left the sanctuary of the streetlight. The crowd dispersed like leaves falling on water. Most entwined together, swept away in clumps. Soon, they would clog into metal contraptions and disappear beyond Usa’s ken.

When the other humans vanished, the sounds of their voices muffled by stone and fog, the ghostwalker left the sanctuary of the shadow and headed downstream. His head turned, back and forth like an oar, but he did not see her. For millennia, Usa lived among the people of York and none ever truly saw her. Her brethren, less powerful than she, were not so fortunate. Hunted, tortured, killed by humans. Humans who listened to stories like this one and believed all the Folk evil.

Usa studied the ghostwalker as he passed. For many years, she watched him wander this same path home. Different stories on different nights, but always

the same off-key tune grated in his throat. The mists parted before him, and Usa trailed in his wake.

The calls of her kin grew more insistent with every step.

Usa, hide us.

Usa, protect us.

Usa, save us.

Their plaintive cries drove her on. They were hers. She ruled them. She served them. The duty of the Hiding fell to her. The honour. The shame.

Usa, hide us.

She followed the ghostwalker into the deepening night, her eyes hard and clear as diamonds. Frost filled her. She was a harpoon, a knife, nothing more. A small piece of a ritual more powerful than the ocean.

As Usa approached him, the ghostwalker’s steps faltered and he turned to look behind. The world was silent save for his humming and the soft lap of waves against the shore. His gaze swept over her without perceiving. He tugged his cloak tighter around him as he resumed his walk, his pace quickened, head bowed. When he reached the end of the path, he paused again to search the surrounding trees. His eyes passed through Usa as though she were glass.

Usa, protect us.

She stretched out her hand to touch him, then hesitated. The voices cascaded through her, but she stopped, centimetres from his trembling throat. This wasn’t natural.

He hurried on again, not taking the bridge to safety as she expected. Instead, he descended the few steps to stand at the edge of the path, where the Foss paid its tribute and flowed into the Ouse. As he watched the twin rivers, he was one with the night, as though he became less human, more of her Folk.

Usa, save us.

But he was not of the Folk. He was a threat. Usa hardened herself, cold and unfeeling as Morimaru, mockingly called ‘the North Sea’ by irreverent humans. She would do her duty.

The moment she touched him, he froze as though ice bloomed. Reality bent to her will and her hand phased through his skin, his spine, the cartilage of his neck. His larynx and vocal cords vibrated as he struggled to speak. The life drained out of him and into her. A scream died in his throat.

Usa, save us.

She wrenched her hand free and his lifeless husk fell to the ground.

The Hiding’s first victim. Her first victim.

Usa stood over him, eyes dark as the new moon, face still as a doll’s. The only colour was the bloody mess of cartilage and muscle dripping from her closed fist.

The crumpled body at her feet held no more value. Taking his organs had been like fishing, the skin as undisturbed as water closing over a sinking hook. She had done what was demanded of her.

Yet she could not leave.

She crouched next to him to arrange his body as she had seen humans arranged before, their corpses laid along this same path, row by row by row, driven into the water to drown, rejected and pushed back to the shore in death.

For a while, she observed the soulless form, still as a prayer. Then she washed her hands in the river and released the stolen vocal cords into the dark water.

She stayed by his side until the sun rose, then forsook her human form and retreated as the bells rang and humans stirred. When they found his shell, they screamed and water leaked down their faces. Then more shouting, sirens wailing, more humans. Other humans shied away from the newcomers, whose auras buzzed with dark energy. They took him away, the man she killed.

None who came saw her for what she truly was.

As the sun rose high, she withdrew, until all that remained was the lapping of the river against the shore and a whisper dissipating on the autumn breeze.

“Never scream ...”

 

CHAPTER THREE

The bells of Saint Peter’s Cathedral resonated through the streets of York, destroying the stillness and scattering the mists. The sun peeked over the buildings; its feeble autumn rays cool yet bright enough to give the Ouse a dress of golden sequins.

Harper leant against the railing on Lendal Bridge to watch the spectacle and listen to the bells. ...