Sleepwalker (Harbinger #1)

Prologue

At midnight, the child’s eyes opened wide in her darkened bedroom. Ice-blue and unseeing, her glassy pupils shone—and yet reflected nothing. She climbed out of bed to stand before the floor-length window, her lips pressed together in a hard, determined line. Her thin arms rose as though in silent command, and a gust of something ancient and primal crept across the room as though unsure if it had really been invoked by something so small. The lock on the window opened, witnessed only by the shadows enveloping the room. The window slowly creaked open, allowing the sharp winter wind to invade.

Bare-footed, her tiny form climbed out of the window before sliding down the drain-pipe without hesitation, friction leaving burns on her palms and knees that she wouldn’t feel until morning. Unseen, she strode across the landscaped garden at the back of her home, the wind whipping at her pale legs as she crushed a solitary budding snowdrop beneath her feet.

The moon broke through the clouds for an instant, highlighting the messy white-blond pair of plaits that hung down her back and almost reached her waist. The child kept walking, steady against the battering wind that threatened to knock her over. Dampened by smatterings of rain, her pink nightdress clung to her body, the faded print still valiantly displaying a unicorn that smiled eerily in the darkness.

Leaving her home behind, she walked along the road toward her destination, no street-lamps guiding her way through the suffocating darkness. Fearless, the child followed a path she had taken before—a well-trodden farmer’s track through a frost-covered field, and then another less-taken path through the woods. The wind howled, and brittle twigs snapped underfoot, but nocturnal animals fell silent as she passed, disturbed by her presence. Nature knew she was there and wanted no part of it.

She came out of the woods at a graveyard, and it was there that her determined stride finally slowed. The girl reached the church gates where she reverently waited as they swung open in welcome. The aching hinges creaked louder than the wailing wind which, come morning, would have been transformed by the superstitious into a story of the banshee’s warning.

The girl stepped onto hallowed ground, and her shoulders visibly relaxed. Her arms swung as though her body had been uplifted with joy. She walked past row after row of headstones until she reached a fresh mound of dirt. There, she sank to her knees, her fingers reaching into the soil. Finally.

Margo! a woman’s voice frantically screamed, the word almost lost to the wind.

The child heard nothing but the hypnotic call of her heritage.

A man and woman raced through the graveyard toward the little girl. After tripping over a headstone, the woman fell to her knees then drew her daughter onto her lap. The man caught up, shrugging off his coat. He wrapped it around them both.

Oh, Margo, not again, the woman murmured, holding the girl to her chest. She looked up at her husband. She’s ice-cold.

She’s always cold. Let’s take her home. He cast a surreptitious glance toward the village. Before someone sees.

"How did she see? How does she make it all the way here in the dark?"

An old question, one he was sick of trying to answer. I don’t know. He knelt to rub the child’s feet, brushing away dirt and who knew what else. She’s bleeding.

He helped his wife up, but the child mewled like a kitten, her hands reaching for the grave.

The woman shivered as she battled with her daughter, trying in vain to warm her up. The girl’s struggle grew frenzied, knocking the coat away. The man gripped her hands and shushed his daughter.

It’s time to go home, Margo, he said, his words faltering as she gazed at nothing over his shoulder.

She was lost in her own world, and he would never be allowed to enter. He refused to look at the grave, refused to see how far his tiny daughter had gone this time. She’d never been like other children, and he knew people were talking. Her night-time adventures had to end before he lost her forever. He lifted her into his arms along with the coat, holding her as tight as possible. She kicked ineffectually, unable to free herself. Soon, she would be too strong to restrain, but this episode was almost over, and that was all he could focus on.

The couple snuck their daughter out of the graveyard, ducking behind a wall as the glare from a passing car’s headlights almost blinded them.

He blew hot air onto his daughter’s hands as they waited for the car to drive out of sight. She smelled like damp earth, and his heart cracked as she fought him off without even looking in his direction. She half-leapt out of his arms, but his wife caught her before she dashed back to the grave. She refused to let her go again.

And he stared out into the darkness and ignored the lump in his throat.

They’re gone, he said at last. Let’s get home.

Why does she keep doing this? His wife’s voice broke. "Why?"

She’s sleepwalking. He firmly guided his family away from the graveyard, avoiding the child’s shortcuts. She wasn’t treated well before we found her. Maybe this is related to some kind of, I don’t know, latent trauma from the orphanage. We’ll likely never know for sure.

But why here, of all places? I told you we should have kept her in our room tonight. There was a funeral yesterday. It happens every time.

I thought I locked the windows. He frowned, digging into his pocket to find the tiny key he knew he had hidden there. I can’t figure out how she opens them without this.

And her eyes? she whispered. "Changing colour like that? What’s wrong with them?"

It’s something to do with the sleepwalking, he said reassuringly. And the darkness. It’s an illusion. A trick of the light.

Every inch of me goes cold when I see her eyes like that.

Hon, it isn’t her fault. She won’t remember in the morning. It’ll be over. We have to keep doing what the therapist said. We’ll get through this.

I know it’s not her fault. She ran her hand lovingly over her daughter’s hair, holding her closer. I just wish we could help her.

We will, he said. Right now, all we can do is love her. But maybe it’s time we considered something other than therapy.

As the graveyard fell out of sight, the child stretched her hand out to the darkness, desperate to find what she had been looking for.

The boy curled up into a ball as a frenzy of blows rained down on his back. His head pounded, and his heart raced, but he didn’t dare lift his head. He didn’t understand the words shouted at him, but it never mattered. He existed to feel pain, to bear the brunt of everything that went wrong.

One of the girls giggled from the corner. He wet himself!

The caretaker made a sound of rage. She kicked the back of his head until he grew dizzy. She was old; she’d tire soon. The secret wolf inside would protect him for a little while longer, and then everyone would be safe for a few days.

Half-conscious, he was barely aware of the door opening and the presence of new people, unfamiliar scents.

A man’s voice raised in anger. A slammed door. A cry of fear. The boy slowly realised that the beating had stopped, and his wolf had retreated back into its hiding place. He opened his eyes, or at least, one of them. The other was too swollen.

The old woman was cowering in the corner, trying to look as small and vulnerable as possible. He froze. Somebody worse had come. Maybe the pain would stop for good this time. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

But gentle hands lifted him and gathered him against a firm chest. He shivered and shook, terrified of doing the wrong thing. Sometimes his fear was what they wanted; sometimes even that wasn’t enough.

Hey, a soft voice said. Look at me. The stranger spoke in unbroken English, something the old woman would struggle to understand. That would make her angry if she wasn’t so scared.

Trained to obey, the boy lifted his gaze to the one holding him. For the first time he could remember, he made full eye contact and was met with a pair of brown eyes. Kind eyes filled with things he didn’t understand.

Are you all right? The kind eyes belonged to the soft voice. There was no trickery in the words, no anger, only concern.

The boy shook for a new reason now; he didn’t understand compassion, having never experienced it. He felt odd in his tummy, as though insects crawled inside him, but not the kind he usually felt, the ones that threatened to eat him from the inside out. This was different. This was new. The wolf was buried deep again, well away from those who would strike at the sight of it, but even it whimpered. The angry voice seemed so far off now.

What’s your name? Again, words spoken confusingly gently.

What was his name? Worthless? Good-for-nothing? Were those names?

He doesn’t have a name, the girl who’d laughed said in a breathless sort of voice. That was odd. She never feared anything. He’s nobody.

The kind eyes glistened with a familiar fierceness. That made the boy relax. He understood anger.

He’s somebody, the man said gruffly.

Maybe he had died already because nothing made sense anymore.

The angry voice came closer. Almost a dozen this time. How can they live like this after everything they’ve been offered?

They don’t know any better, but I never imagined it would be like this. I’m taking this one with me, the kind voice said. I think his leg is broken.

We’re supposed to be looking for werewolves, not children.

The boy couldn’t look away from the kind man’s face to see the other. He had to study the first, to remember him for always.

Any of them could turn wolf when they’re old enough. Besides, this one is different. Even if he wasn’t, we can’t just leave him here. This is a dumping ground.

It’s a mess. I’ll deal with it, but it’ll take time to organise.

Which is why I need to act now.

The angry one sighed. Looks like he’s been badly abused, but the others are in much better condition. Maybe that means something.

Something like Amelia?

"Perhaps. I have to take care of things here. If you take him, you’ll be responsible for him. Are you sure you want to do this? Will she?"

Kindness looked down on the boy and smiled. I’m not leaving him behind. Angry voice melted away along with the sounds of crying and pleading in the background. It’s okay, kid. You’re safe now. I promise. I’m taking you home.

Hot tears rolled down the boy’s cheeks, but oddly enough, the shaking finally stopped.

Chapter 1

Margo

I only realised I was staring into space when a teenage boy loudly cleared his throat right next to me. Practically jumping right out of my skin, I promptly dropped my bag of groceries then watched in dismay as the contents spilled onto the road.

Damn it. I bent to save a loaf of bread from being squashed by a car. You scared the crap out of me.

Sorry. He knelt next to me on the street. I’ll pick them up.

I glanced at him. He looked close to my age, his cheeks naturally flushed and covered with freckles from being outside. And people back home thought Dubliners never left their houses. Thanks, but I have it.

He stopped reaching for the milk that thankfully hadn’t exploded and leaned back to watch me scramble for the rest of the food. The corners of his light brown eyes crinkled with humour, but there was wariness there, too. I was used to that, lately. You know, there are better things to look at around here.

I shot a quick glance at the empty field I had been ogling. Embarrassingly, I had no idea how long I had zoned out. Even worse, I had less of a clue where I was. What kind of idiot got lost on the way back from the local shop?

I’m sure there is. I straightened, desperately trying to remember how I had gotten to the field.

The boy stood, too, staring at me as though he were trying to figure something out. Unnervingly, he didn’t even try to hide the fact he was gaping at me. That, I wasn’t used to.

I pulled my beanie lower over my left ear just to give my free hand something to do. Um, any idea where Hazelwood Avenue is?

He pointed across the road. Second turn left, then take the next right. Just after Hazelwood Drive. He grinned, and I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me. If you hit Hazelwood Terrace, you’ve gone too far.

Thanks. I looked back at the field and narrowed my eyes. If I could just figure out what triggered my little dazes…

You can’t go over there, the boy said gruffly.

I looked at him in surprise before realising I had taken a few steps toward the field without even noticing. Rattled, I took a step toward the boy instead. He automatically took two steps back. Right. Because you say so? I said more harshly than I intended.

He folded his arms across his chest, an odd look on his face. Because it’s private property.

My cheeks warmed. Of course that’s what he meant. Second left then a right. Got it. I sprinted across the road, earning myself a beep from a passing car.

Wait! the boy called out. Do you live around here?

Just moved in! I waved, desperate to get away. Without my best friend doing all the talking, I was apparently incapable of even holding a conversation with another human being.

Then again, I had bigger problems. Figuring out where I now lived being one of them.

The road I had just crossed was large enough to be one of the main routes out of town, but I had been outside a tiny corner shop on a narrow road—I checked my watch—thirty minutes ago. Probably not long enough for my parents to worry, but still a scary amount of time to mentally check out.

See you around! the boy shouted.

His accent was odd. Definitely not Irish, never mind from Dublin. His wasn’t the first voice that had stood out to me all day. Maybe my strong Wexford accent wouldn’t be so noticeable in my new school. I took one final glance over my shoulder. He was standing there, staring at the empty field, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Maybe there wasn’t anything better to look at after all.

I followed his directions and tried to place myself, wondering if he had been joking when each turn I took led me to what looked like the exact same row of houses. But finally, I caught sight of the familiar moving van parked outside our new house. I hurried over then stepped through the hip-sized gate—and the tiny square of grass that apparently qualified as a garden—and gazed up at our ugly new house in disgust.

My parents came outside, laughing together as they made another furniture run. They looked like two halves of a whole, fitting together perfectly because they knew each other’s steps so well. Mam’s dark brown curls kept flying in front of her glasses. Dad’s hair was speckled grey, the brown rapidly losing the fight to age, but it somehow suited him. Their fingers were entwined, and a different kind of regret seeped into my chest. They put on a good show, but if it weren’t for me, they’d still be in their old comfortable lives, secure in the knowledge they had permanent work and friends to fall back on. I had ruined everything, and if I didn’t figure out what the hell was wrong with me soon, then I’d probably do it again.

Mam caught me looking miserable and let go of Dad to pull me into a hug. I had been taller than her since my thirteenth birthday, and had outgrown Dad by half an inch by my sixteenth, but her favourite citrus scent reminded me of home, so I leaned into her like a small child seeking comfort.

Margo, it’s not so bad. She pulled back to take a good look at my face. I know you’ll miss home, but you’ll have everything you need here. And I promise you that it’s quiet, not exactly bustling.

There are ten houses squashed into the space of our old garden, I said wryly.

That didn’t blow the wind out of her sails for long. Right, but! There’s a hospital and a brand new shopping centre not far from here. And a cinema with more than one screen! We don’t even really need a car with all of the buses in and out. And the school’s not so much bigger than your old one when you really think about it. And even if it is, look at it this way, you’ll have so many more friends to choose from.

Wishful thinking. I couldn’t even get directions without alienating people. But the garden is tiny. I bit on my lip. Our old garden had been my dad’s pride and joy. I hated the thought of somebody else digging around in it, ruining his work. And we didn’t even have anything to replace it with. What was he going to do now?

It’ll be less work, Dad, ever the optimist, said with a wink, passing us to get to the moving van.

I gazed after him, wondering if he resented me deep down. Most of the houses look exactly the same. If I hadn’t seen the moving van outside, I wouldn’t have found my way back from the corner shop. I decided not to mention I actually got lost and instead held up the shopping bag full of bread, deli meat, butter, milk, and teabags. But at least they were open.

See? Mam said. Convenience. She checked her watch. Back home, the shop would have been closed for the day already.

Wow, I said. "You found one pro."

She kissed my cheek then moved on.

How was your walk? Dad asked as he carried a trunk toward the house.

I followed him with the shopping. Well, at the shop, a little girl screamed that I was a ghost, and a Neanderthal of a teenage boy tried to call me an albino but managed to make up a brand new word instead. I’m pretty sure they have more than their fair share of idiot in the gene pool here.

See? Dad said with a grin. You’re already meeting new people. That wouldn’t have happened back home.

I headed into the kitchen and shouted over my shoulder, That’s a bit hard when you’ve already met everyone.

And I didn’t know how to make friends with people I hadn’t known since playschool. Even back in our tiny village where everyone knew each other’s business, I’d had few friends. Less now.

I put on the kettle and started on tea and sandwiches for my parents and myself. The house was fine. The area was fine. And apart from some idiots, I was sure the people were fine. But it wasn’t home, and that was all on me.

Making a fresh start wasn’t as easy as it sounded. I’d always stood out in the wrong ways—even the leader of my drama group had done his best to put me in the back to avoid notice, but I’d grown taller than everyone. With hair so blond, it was almost white, eyes such a pale grey, they were almost colourless, and parents who looked nothing like me, I had never fit in a comfortable box for anyone. But I could have outlasted the rumours. I was used to people whispering behind my back. It was when they started in on my parents that it grew harder to stomach.

Mam stepped into the kitchen, wiping her brow. Her hair had been tied back in a messy bun. I noticed a couple of new silver strands at the sides. Oh, great, you already started. I’m parched. She stretched. And exhausted.

You have too much stuff, I remarked. Clutter queen.

She grinned. It’s hard to know what I’ll want to keep. Imagine if I look for something in ten years and then remember we threw it out when we moved.

I stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea. I can guarantee you it won’t be a Christmas decoration I made out of an egg carton at the age of four.

Then you don’t know me at all. She patted my back. I’ll finish up. You go make your father take a break. He might actually listen to you.

I found Dad in my new bedroom, trying in vain to install my old lampshade. My peach-chested lovebirds squawked angrily in the corner, irritated by all of the disruption. They were super into each other’s company, and they had just become my only friends.

It’s not going to fit, I said from the doorway. Nothing fits here.

Dad looked at me, his façade dropping momentarily. I know you’re not happy, Margo, but this was for the best. We needed a fresh start.

The unfairness of it all burned in my chest. Dad, I swear I did nothing wrong.

"I know you didn’t." He gave up on the lampshade and stepped off the stool.

I looked away. Even the therapist they’d sent me to claimed I was attention-seeking. He had to doubt sometimes.

"Margo, look at me. There is nothing wrong with you. Your mother and I aren’t blaming you for any of it."

Then why am I being punished? I heard the whine in my voice and cringed. Inside my head, I had words that sounded reasonable and mature, but as soon as I opened my mouth, a four-year-old started crying.

The last thing we’re trying to do is punish you. He squeezed my shoulder. You know what people are like. How they push. They got at you until you snapped. Everything would have kept escalating. You screaming at your principal in front of the entire school was about as far as I was willing to watch it go.

"I know I overheard her badmouthing you," I began, but he held up his hand to stop me.

"You don’t have to fight our battles for us. Think of it this