The Nightingale Legacy (Legacy 2)

A black roiling cloud crashed against another, and the two of them covered the moon. It was terrifying, that complete, utter blackness. It seemed colder, the wind seemed louder. She could clearly hear the maddened waves crashing against the rocks at the base of St. Agnes Head, sending their freezing spray upward nearly halfway to the top of the cliff.

Move, dammit. She sawed faster. She felt stickiness and knew it was her blood. At least she felt it. That was something. She was breathless, with the pain from her hands, with the cold, piercing sharpness in her lungs. It hurt to breathe. She stopped a moment, drew a deep breath, and gently tugged at the rope.

It was loose.

She wanted to weep with the relief of it, the hope of it.

She went back to work. Soon the rope snapped and she was free. She brought her hands in front of her and stared down at them. They were red, abraded, and the outline of the rope was clear on her wrists. It didn’t matter. She was free and she was still alive. She quickly freed her ankles. When she scrambled to her feet she promptly collapsed.

Weak, she thought, she was too cold and too weak. She frantically rubbed her legs, her feet. Sharp stabs of pain shot through her legs. She ignored it as best she could.

She rose again, more slowly this time, hanging on to the rock. She didn’t fall this time. She took a step, then another, and another.

It was then she heard a horse coming. Actually, she felt the pounding of the horse’s hooves rather than heard it. He’d come for her. She wouldn’t just stand here and watch him come.

The cliffs were barren. What to do?

The beach, she thought, and picked up her cloak and skirts and ran northward along the cliff edge toward the beach path, only another fifty or so feet ahead. She would find a weapon on the beach, a rock or a piece of heavy driftwood. She would be able to hide against the base of the cliff at the back of the beach. The killer would have to walk down the steep path and that would give her time to plan, time to find a weapon, the chance to see who he was. Perhaps she would be able to take him by surprise.

She heard a shout. She heard a cry of sheer fury, then a string of curses, wafted away in the wind, that same wind that was deep inside her now, for she was gasping for breath, a stitch in her side, doubling her over. But she was nearly there, nearly to the cliff path.

The horse was coming closer. She could hear the shouts now, the curses, hear them blur and become indistinct. The wind was becoming stronger. No wonder there were no trees here. They would never survive this wind.

Her babe. Her hands went to her belly, as if holding her hands there would protect the child. She nearly lost her balance, flung her arms out to steady herself, then nea

rly plummeted down the cliff path. She caught herself, skidding to a stop sideways, sending a spay of rocks and dirt flying from beneath her feet.

She righted herself, stood there a moment, panting, listening. The horse was coming closer. Soon the man would be just above her, looking down, then climbing down after her. She had to hurry.

She skidded, ran, several times nearly going headfirst, but she had to be reckless, she had to or she could just sit down on the path and wait to die. Who was the man?

She stumbled and flew forward. She flung her arms out, breaking her fall, then rolled to the bottom of the path. She lay there just an instant, hoping she hadn’t broken a leg, then she rose. She looked back to see the cloaked man at the top of the path, looking down at her. Then he was coming down, as fast and recklessly as she had, his black cloak billowing about him, making him look like he was flying, looking like the Devil himself.

She ran as fast as she could over the wet clinging sand, looking wildly for a weapon, anything really, and she saw it then, a thick branch, but not too thick for her to grasp firmly. She grabbed it up, never breaking stride, and headed for the back of the beach. There were overhanging layers of shale sandstone, thick slabs of it, the porous rock cut away over the centuries deeply back under the cliff.

She would be trapped, she thought, stopping just a moment, her breath harsh in her ears, ripping pain through her chest. What to do? Then she knew that it was dark under that cutaway cliff and that would give her protection. But he would come for her and he was stronger. She would have to surprise him.

The black clouds suddenly cleared overhead and the moon shone down. She even heard a lone kestrel as it hovered. It was then she saw the vague indentations going upward beside the overhang. North had never mentioned this, nor had she noticed the outlines that surely would allow a person to climb upward. She didn’t question why the outlines, which were really actual footholds and handholds, were there or who fashioned them there. She didn’t think further, but raced to the first outline and hoisted herself upward.

Her foot fit quite nicely into the foothold. She grabbed a rock, surely a handhold there to aid the climber, and pulled herself up to the next foothold when she realized she couldn’t climb and carry the branch at the same time. She turned, saw the man below her, and threw the branch down at him with all her strength. She didn’t have much leverage, but she did the best she could. No, her chance lay in getting up there, before he did, perhaps she could get to his horse.

She heard him curse when the branch struck him, not hard enough, but it slowed him for just a moment.

She found a handhold and dragged herself upward to each foothold. Up and up she went until she was a good thirty feet above the beach. If she fell from here she’d surely die.

She stopped just a moment to catch her breath. She looked down to see him coming, sure and fast. She had to hurry. She looked up. Only about twenty more feet to the top. She just had to keep climbing and she would beat him. She’d have time to get his horse and ride away.

Suddenly there were no more handholds, no more footholds. They simply disappeared, or they’d never been there in the first place. She felt betrayed by the ancient people who had carved this upward climb. Why had they stopped? It made no sense. She looked about frantically, her bloody hands digging into the dirt around the jagged rocks, searching, searching.

To her right, yes, just to her right and straight beside her there was a foothold, but it would take all her strength to drag herself over to it.

Suddenly she heard a shout from above her, a man’s shout, and it was familiar. She felt a wild spurt of hope. Then she heard the report of a gun from below her. There was nothing else from above, not a whimper, nothing.

The man below her had shot her rescuer. North? Oh God, she couldn’t bear to think about that. She stretched as far as she could to her right, then heaved herself sideways, her hands frantically clutching at jagged rocks that seemed just beyond her reach, pulling herself until her feet found a hold. Then there was another, and it too was going sideways, back in nearly a straight line across the cliff edge. It made no sense, but she didn’t care. She just kept going, not thinking now, just making herself move.

She heard the man beneath her. She knew that he’d reached the end of the vertical handholds and footholds, knew that he wouldn’t have to take the time to discover they turned sharply sideways, going back along the face of the cliff.

Then, without warning, her foot slipped and she was hanging there, clinging to the rocks above her head, her legs dangling now, trying desperately to get a foothold but not finding one. Then he was there beside her, not more than six feet away from her, and she knew he was laughing because she would fall and she would die. Her hand slipped. She was flailing wildly but it was no use. She lost her remaining grip and fell, her scream of failure hurtling into the howling wind.