Page 10 of The Deadliest Candidate

“Official business, Miss,” he said. “Nothing to concern yourself with unless the ostary wishes to speak with you.”

Fern recoiled slightly within the woollen confines of her coat. She had only dealt with an ostary once, and never wished to do so again.

The constable, without waiting for her to say anything else, pointed to his right.

“Head down there, past the church and up Isauld Road, overlooking the piers. You’ll find the inn there. You can’t miss it, it’ll be the biggest building you see after the church. Stay there, Addie’ll look after you until you’re allowed to leave.”

Fern nodded and turned to set off. As she walked away from the constable, he called after her, his voice echoing off the wet cobblestones through the wreathing mist.

“Better stay indoors until light, Miss. Who knows what lurks out in the dark these days.”

The inn, when shereached it, seemed no less intimidating to Fern than the darkness itself. Its exterior was a haphazard amalgamation of architectural styles, crumbling stone walls patched up with rusting metal fixtures and weather-beaten woodwork.

A flickering lamp above the entrance faintly lit the faded sign indicating this was The Squidshead Inn.

Inside, the place was slightly more hospitable. The main hall, a wide, low chamber, was dominated by an imposing hearth of time-smoothed rock. A generous fire crackled there, illuminating the mismatched furniture and dusty nautical instruments adorning the walls. The air was thick with the scent of sea spray, damp wood, and the acridity of aged tobacco.

An enormous bar lined one side of the hall, a thick slab of polished wood with fittings of brass. Behind it, shelves of murky liquor in dirty bottles formed a mosaic of greenand amber glass. Though the hall itself was occupied by several patrons, nobody seemed to be tending the bar.

With her suitcase and wicker carrier in hand, Fern walked up to the bar and peered around the corner, where an open doorway seemed to lead into the smokey recesses of a kitchen. Behind her, a voice spoke.

“And who is it the mist’s spat out at my door now?”

She turned. An old woman sat by the fire, a small crowd gathered around her like a queen and her court. She wore a dress of plain wool and sturdy boots, and in her long bony fingers she held a pipe, a single ribbon of smoke curling from the end. The woman was old, thin and plain, but there was a sharpness to her ice-chip eyes, which were fixed on Fern.

“Fern Sullivan.” She gave the old woman a nod. “The constable sent me here, said you might have a room for me.”

“Addie’s telling a story,” said a little boy who sat on a stool by the fire, sharpening a set of crude kitchen knives with a whetstone.

“Oh?” Fern’s interest was piqued. Shewasa librarian, after all. “What story?”

“A story about sea-monsters and old gods,” the little boy answered.

“It’s a story about power and the cost of it,” said Addie herself, standing from her chair like a prophetess rising from amongst her flock of devotees.

“Like most stories,” said Fern with a slight smile.

“Mm.” Addie’s face seemed somehow too hard and weather-worn to smile, but there was a light in her eyes. “And yet we never learn. Come.”

Fern followed Addie up a set of steep stairs that creaked and groaned with every step they took. By the time they reached the top floor of the building, Fern was out of breath, but Addie, despite her age, seemed completely unaffected. She walked to the end of a narrow corridor and opened the last door, leading Fern into a small bedroom tucked beneath the slanted rafters of the inn rooftop.

Despite the cold and wind outside, the room was warm and comfortable enough, furnished with a bed, a table, a chair and a wardrobe, a potbelly stove tucked in the corner near the foot of the bed.

“Bathroom’s behind this door,” Addie said, pointing. “There’s kindling in the basket over there, and I’ll send the boy up with some bread and soup.”

She turned to go, but Fern hastened to ask, “Do you know how long I’m likely to be kept in East Hemwick?”

Addie shrugged.

“Not long, I should wager. They can’t even identify the body, and no wonder. I’ve never seen one this damaged before—even the ostary’s eyes can’t see past what was done to that man.”

“Body?” said Fern.

Sothiswas why an ostary had been sent here. Their eyes, as it was said, were sacrificed to god and enhanced by magic. They could not see what human eyes saw, but they could see far beyond.

“It washed up on shore two days ago,” said Addie. Her tone was blunt and devoid of emotion, as though this mysterious corpse were more of a nuisance than anything else. “The ostary arrived last night, but it’ll leave soon. It won’t have a choice: there’ll beno answer to his questions. Dead men can’t talk.” She gave Fern a smile that was more a baring of the teeth than anything else. “It would love to get its hands on your lot, of course, but you’re already in the grip of some greater predator.”

And with a cackle like the cracking of burning wood, she left, closing the door firmly behind her.

---