“How are you doing, Liam?” he asked.

“Doing fine, boss.”

Stefan smiled at that. Twelve dives and the lad still called him boss.

“Right you are, lad,” he replied. He checked the remaining cable before continuing. “Looks like you’re down about fifty feet. Shouldn’t be far now.”

He checked his watch, the face glowing eerily in the darkness. They had plenty of time yet. He lit a cigarette and went back to checking the equipment.

What they were doing was not strictly legal, but he considered it to be a victimless crime. The things that they salvaged were already lost to the world–sunken boats corroding in their watery graves, cars whose drivers had spun them off the road and into the cold grasp of the water after one too many beers, the occasional piece of jewelry thrown overboard by a furious wife in a fit of pique. The insurance companies had already paid out for these losses, so what did it matter if certain items occasionally resurfaced?

“Boss?” Liam’s voice burst through the static of his headset.

“What is it?” he asked, looking into the water as if he might spot him down there in the depths. He checked the readings on the cable’s harness. Fifty-six feet.

“I’ve found it,” Liam said. “Just where you said it would be.”

“Research, lad,” Stefan replied. “I told you, nothing gets you further in this life than being fully prepared.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he replied, dismissing Stefan’s musings. “Anyway, I’ve found the van. God knows what he was doing to get it this far into the lake.”

“It’s not always as calm as this, you know,” Stefan explained, “and ten years is a long time for anything to stay in one place down there.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, his forehead slick with sweat in spite of the chill November air. “Just get into it, lad.”

“Um, boss?”

“Yeah?”

“Someone’s beaten us to it,” Liam said.

“What are you talking about?”

“The back of the van,” he explained. “The doors are already open.”

“Don’t worry,” Stefan said. “That’ll be the pressure equalizing when it sunk. Nobody’s been here before–I’d have heard about it.”

“I don’t know,” Liam said.

“That’s right, you don’t,” Stefan snapped. “Now shut up and get in there.”

Liam cut off radio contact–probably sulking, the temperamental little prick. Five minutes passed, then ten. Stefan was about to ask him what the hell he was up to when his headset burst into life.

“Jesus, Stefan, get me out of here!” Liam screamed.

“What? What is it?”

“Oh God, no! Get away from me!”

“Liam!” he barked. “Liam, what’s wrong?”

“You’re not real. You can’t be. Leave me a–”

The headset cut out. Stefan tried the rest of their preset channels, without success. The cable attached to Liam’s waist began to spin out on its reel as something dragged him deeper and deeper into the lake–sixty feet, eighty feet, a hundred.

As it reached its limit, it pulled the reel with it, splintering the side of The Archangel and threatening to capsize her. Stefan threw himself to the deck as the steel snapped, rocking the boat back on the still surface of the water.

Stefan looked over the side of the boat and saw nothing but darkness.

The voice floated inside Jamie’s head, an exotic blend of second-generation Scouse and a distinct Middle Eastern lilt. He could put a face to that voice, handsome and aquiline–the nose long and distinguished, the dark eyes two sparkling chips of onyx. The voice teased him, words dripping from narrow lips like honey, offering the promise of recognition.

We are not alone.

The voice was Kareem’s. The face, too–how could he have forgotten? He had spoken those words time and again, as part of a litany that that he revealed to Jamie as some great and hideous truth. They were his mantra against the darkness–we are not alone, keep an eye on your loved ones, do not trust the authorities, do not drink the water. Coming from anyone else, Jamie would have dismissed them as the delusions of a desperate paranoiac, but Kareem intoned those words with such conviction that he had found himself drawn into his madness.

In the darkness of their communal flat, Jamie knew that he had been right. The two of them had spent six weeks here as student and reluctant mentor. Six weeks spent in a nocturnal existence, thick curtains blocking out the natural light whilst they slept, the pair rising only as darkness fell. Jamie had learned quickly, sat cross-legged before his teacher, an eager supplicant at the altar of his knowledge. In the fetid confines of the flat, Kareem had elaborated upon his theories with such eloquence that he had swiftly accepted them as fact.

The water was his greatest concern. It was contaminated in some way that he had yet to figure out, but he would brook no argument against the idea. Jamie would not have dared. He loved Kareem; he adored him and trusted his word implicitly, but there was more to it than that.

He was terrified of him.

Those heavy-lidded eyes, so dark and serene, filled him with such wonder and such dread. His piercing gaze would strip him to his very core, as if he would read the innermost feelings of his soul. Kareem had revealed to him the mysteries of the world and all that he had asked for in return was his love, which he had submitted willingly.

Another pain. Another twist deep in the pit of his stomach and Jamie gritted his teeth to keep himself from screaming. He didn’t know how long it had been since Kareem had left–hours, perhaps; maybe days. In the perpetual darkness of the flat, he had no way of reckoning the passage of time.

Their cache of bottled water had been drained the day before yesterday and, though Kareem had not been affected, a crippling thirst had soon broken Jamie’s concentration. For the first time, the sweet nectar of Kareem’s wisdom had not been enough to sustain him and he had told him so in a cracked and tearful voice. Kareem had looked at him, his thoughts unreadable behind those dark eyes, and had left the flat without saying another word.

Jamie had still been able to hear Kareem’s footsteps echoing along the empty pavement outside the flat as he gulped down handfuls of tepid water from the bathroom tap. He didn’t know where he had gone and he didn’t know why he had not come back. It hardly seemed to matter.

There was something inside him. It had grown during these hours of solitude to the size of a cricket ball. Hot and sinuous, roped with muscle, it throbbed and trembled in his stomach.

A thin tendril extended from its center, puncturing his stomach wall. Jamie heaved up a thick puddle of blood and bile that burned his throat and stifled his screams. He shuddered on the floor, no energy left in him, that beautiful face with its terrible eyes a distant memory as the thing tore at his insides.

Kareem had been right.

He was not alone.

He tells us that we are islands of grace in a sea of iniquity.

He tells that our parents were undeserving of our love.

He tells us that no harm will reach us under his roof.

He stands an eternal vigil, his broad arms slick in the blood of the unworthy.

We call him father.

Her blond hair shone like silk, cascading across her pale shoulders. Her eyes shimmered like chips of tanzanite beneath delicate black lashes, reflected in the wan candlelight. Her slightly parted lips were red and full, unconsciously sensual and hinting at undisclosed pleasures yet to come.

Her neck was long and slender, as smooth as an alabaster column, and her arms lay like willowy branches by her side. Her hands, unadorned by anything as vulgar as jewelry, were small and slight, the fingers of each ending in immaculately manicured nails.

Jamie shifted his gaze from her hands up to her sweet, round breasts, noting the pleasing way that they swelled above her ribs. Her toned abdominal muscles were just visible through the translucent skin of her stomach and her beautiful legs seemed to stretch into an ecstatic infinity.

Hair, eyes and lips. Neck, arms and hands. Breasts, stomach and legs. Each was part of a perfect puzzle.

Jamie wiped the tears from his eyes with a hand that was spattered with blood.

He wondered how he would ever put her back together again.

My father is a clumsy man and refuses to dunk his biscuits, in case he should make a mess. My mother holds her cup in one hand, her pinky finger extended, to appear delicate and refined when, in truth, she is neither.

As for me, I always take my tea with my family. They haven’t moved for nearly three months and the smell is getting rather bad, but I still make them a fresh brew every morning.

I’m not sure what that says about me.

No more war.

No more poverty.

No more famine, now that the dust clouds had dispersed.

A fat bluebottle, buzzing through the still air, landed clumsily on a scorched human cheek.

It was the best of times.

He didn’t know how long he’d been out, only that his headache threatened to tear his skull apart. He closed his eyes, willing the pain away, and watched phantom lights dance against his eyelids. He remembered running–no, fleeing– from something huge, fast and hairy; he remembered tripping on something in the dark and then… nothing.

He reached out with one hand, feeling fresh soil and tree roots–some sort of natural depression in the forest floor. His blind fingers touched upon something else, something large and warm, with thick, coarse hairs.

In the darkness, something growled.

A breeze whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of sweat and fear. The beast passed through dense foliage, a ghost flitting between the ancient trunks, and panted with effort. A wound in its hindquarters glistened raw and red, a single point of searing agony that radiated through its being in throbbing ringlets. The beast pressed on through the wood, forcing the pain away, tracking the last of the creatures.

The first had been dispatched immediately, its throat removed in a black cloud of rage and pain. For an instant–only an instant–the beast had frozen, facing its two remaining tormentors. The creatures were too far apart to risk leaping at either one and, besides, it had never seen them or their like before. They were thin and pale, lacking even the most rudimentary covering of fur to combat the cold and damp of the forest. Their skin was stranger still, comprised of ungainly flaps and folds of varying hues and textures.

No sooner had it taken in the strange appearance of these creatures than one of them had bolted for the tree line and the beast, driven by adrenaline and fury, had ploughed through the woods in hot pursuit. This second creature had fallen into a ditch that the overgrown forest floor had artfully disguised and the beast had swiftly moved in and taken its life, gorging itself on the creature’s warm, red flesh.

Now, pacing through its black domain, its muscles ached and its back legs roared their pain as it tracked the panic and fear coursing from the pores of the third creature. The beast had no perception of the need for revenge, but it understood the concept of territory well enough to know that its own had been invaded.

Suddenly, it stopped in its tracks. There had been a subtle change in the nature of its prey’s scent. The familiar odor of terror was still there, ripe and pungent, but now it was mingled with something akin to relief. More than that, the smell was no longer carried tight through the narrow channel of the trees but had expanded beyond the claustrophobic darkness.

The creature had broken free of the woods.

Springing forwards, the beast ran with renewed energy, tracking this new scent that blossomed within its nostrils. As it broke through the final layer of cover, the beast felt the cold air and driving rain whip across the length of its body, stinging its wounded hindquarters and forcing a guttural snarl from its lips.

The creature was high up in the branches of the nearest tree, although the beast sensed its presence before it saw it, perched there like some ungainly bird. The fear was palpable in the small clearing and was reflected in the creature’s eyes as the beast ambled slowly towards its nesting place. Placing both forelegs on the trunk, it walked up its length, extending its body until its claws snagged a thin branch just shy of its prey. The bough gave way beneath the weight of the beast, sending it tumbling to the ground.

Lowering its head, the beast pushed with its muscular forelegs, ramming hard into the slender trunk, getting nothing for its labors beyond an impressive swaying of the tree and a cry of alarm from the creature that sheltered within.

Afflicted by pain at both ends of its body, the beast snarled in frustration as the creature looked down, its eyes wide and staring. It circled the tree, confused and enraged, as the creature followed its every movement until it settled itself at the base of the trunk and stared up into the branches.

The beast waited.

He told himself that he would be okay, as a whisper of wind flitted through the trees, mocking his optimism. His legs were numb and he felt the muscles tightening in his thighs, the survival instinct urging him to flee. He tried to calm his jittery nerves, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, insisting that he was alive and well and that he would make it through.

The others had not been so lucky. He might live another eighty years, but he would not forget seeing Neil’s throat torn out with enough force to nearly decapitate him. He hadn’t run at once; he had been too stunned for that and not from seeing his best friend’s life ripped from his body. His mind hadn’t believed what his eyes were seeing.

They had taken it for a bear, escaped from a zoo and long since lost to the wild, or so the local story went. Jack had raised his shotgun and fired a round into the head of their slumbering prey, whilst Neil stood ready to capture the execution of the legendary Black Beast on his mobile phone. Jack was an excellent shot but a poor zoologist. The shell had hit the beast, but the roar of surprise and pain had come from the other end of the animal.

It had risen with a speed that belied its great size and removed Neil’s larynx with a single swipe of its paw. This was no bear; its snout was too long and its jaw too heavy. It had glared at its tormentors, thick saliva pooling around malformed teeth and had uttered a chilling howl from deep inside its throat.

Jack had dropped his gun and immediately ran for the woods. The beast had launched itself with powerful hind legs and taken off in pursuit. Thomas had run in the opposite direction, feet digging into the sodden earth as his heart pounded in his chest. After a time he had no way of measuring, he heard a terrible, desperate scream in the distance and suspected he would not be seeing either friend again.

He had forced himself to slow down and suddenly, the woods were filled with muffled sounds of pursuit. He couldn’t see more than a few inches in front of his face as he paced his way carefully through the undergrowth and around the treacherous tree roots, until the forest thinned out, gently melting into a small clearing.

The relief he felt was short-lived, as he heard the heavy pad of feet approaching at speed. This time, he trusted those instincts buried in his twitching legs and ran towards a sturdy-looking tree. He pulled himself three feet from the ground, then six, then nine. As he tried to reach the next branch, his hand slipped on the wet wood, nearly tipping him to the floor and he decided to stay put.

The beast was a sight to behold as it entered the clearing. Heavily set and thickly muzzled, layers of muscle rolled sinuously beneath its shaggy hide. An angry wound on its hindquarters glistened in the pale light and was mirrored by the thick red smear across its dripping jaws. As it strode across the open ground, methodically and with purpose, Thomas was suddenly aware of three certainties.

He had been certain there was no Black Beast.

He had been certain that a shotgun would deal with anything he met in the woods.

He was certain that beasts couldn’t climb trees…