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The rain had turned to sleet, and the traffic was heavy, which meant the journey took longer than Angel had anticipated. She tried to keep in high spirits, though, putting her playlist of Christmas songs on and singing loudly to the tunes as she continued to head northeast.
It was a loooong way. She came off the M6 at Carlisle and took the A69 to Newcastle, then headed north on the A1, the gray North Sea churning off to her right whenever she neared the coast. By the time she approached the turnoff to Holy Island, it had been dark for some time, she was knackered, starving hungry, and thoroughly sick of Christmas songs.
She paused the car at the beginning of the causeway and looked at her guide book, which had a list of safe crossing times for the month. Apparently, it was safe to cross until 7:40 p.m. She looked at the clock. It read 8.05 p.m.
Leaning forward, she rested her forehead on the steering wheel. If she didn’t cross tonight, she’d have to return to Alnwick and try to find a hotel or B&B that had an available room. She didn’t want to do that. She wanted to get to her cottage and settle in. She sat back and gritted her teeth. Johnny Mathis was singing It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas, and she made herself think about a roaring log fire and the pack of microwaveable Christmas puddings she’d brought with her that she’d been planning to eat over the course of the week.
There was a sign in front of her, “Do Not Proceed When Water Reaches This Causeway.” The road gleamed in the light of the full moon that peeked out from behind the rainclouds. There was no sign of water covering the tarmac. For heaven’s sake, the people who made these instructions were always over-cautious with their estimates. It would probably be safe to cross until about 9 p.m. There was no way the tide would come in within thirty minutes.
To her right, she thought she could see the line of poles marking the Pilgrim’s Way, an ancient footpath across the sand. She’d planned to make the walk one day as a kind of pilgrimage. Her heart beat a little faster. She was here! She’d made the journey, and she wasn’t going to stop now. She’d go a little way, and if she met any deep water, she’d just turn back.
She put the car in gear, revved the engine, then set off along the road toward the island.
Earlier that week, she’d done her research and looked at Google Maps. The Holy Island of Lindisfarne in Northumbria off the northeast coast of England was only three miles from east to west and one-and-a-half miles from north to south. The causeway ran for about a mile from the mainland to the tip of the island, then snaked along its coast for another few miles until it reached the little town. It wouldn’t take long to get there.
She drove slowly, her heart racing. The moonlight glinted on the black sea to either side of the road. Waves lapped at the tarmac like fingers crawling toward the car. Dean Martin serenaded her with her favorite version of Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer, but the sleigh bells sounded oddly eerie in the dark night. She shivered, then braked as, before her, she saw a dark pool of water across the road. Ahead, a bridge arced across a lower-lying piece of the road. She only had to get through the small pool to reach the bridge.
She drove into the pool, water spraying up the sides of the car. Keeping the revs high, she inched forward. It was a little deeper than she’d thought, but it only took a few minutes and she was through and onto the bridge.
With relief, she drove slowly, looking up as she passed a refuge hut for stranded drivers jutting out of the water. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be needing it! She slowed the car as the moon went behind a cloud. There were no streetlights, and the only light came from the car lamps.
She came to the end of the bridge and stopped the car.
Ahead of her, water covered the tarmac. She could still see the white lines marking the middle of the road, so it could only be an inch or two thick, but the water glinted as far as the car lights stretched into the darkness. It was raining again, too, the lights showing thousands of yellow needles plunging into the sea.
Well, she couldn’t stay here. She was about halfway, so there was no point in turning back. She’d have to go on.
Setting her jaw, she edged the car forward off the bridge and onto the road.
Immediately, she knew the water was deeper than she’d thought. She could feel the drag of it on the wheels, the spray of it up the sides of the car. Heart racing, she went a little faster, fear fighting with the part of her brain that insisted she take it slowly. There were waves now, real waves washing over the road. The road dipped a little, and water sprayed across the front of the car. To her horror, the engine coughed. She revved up and pressed forward, and then the car shifted beneath her.
“Fuck!” She braked, which was the absolute worst thing she could have done, because water must immediately have flooded the tailpipe, and the engine died.
“Jesus.” Her heart banged on her ribs. She pressed the button to restart the engine, but although it turned over, it refused to fire. Still, she kept trying, because she had no option—the sea was all around her now, a foot up the side of the car, and she could feel the vehicle lifting every time the waves raced in. OhmyGod, what had she done? How could she have been so stupid?
Realizing the car wasn’t going to start again, she stopped pressing the button and put her face in her hands.
She took a couple of deep breaths, trying to stay calm, knowing she couldn’t afford to panic. She was going to have to make her way back to the refuge hut. It wasn’t far, maybe twenty feet, and the sea was only a foot deep. She could do this.
Suddenly, Dean Martin stopped singing, and then the car lights went out.
Angel couldn’t help herself—she screamed. Immediately, she clamped a hand over her mouth and scolded herself. She was a shield maiden! Shield maidens didn’t scream like five-year-olds. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed her bag and pulled the strap over her head so it hung across her body, then picked up her phone and pressed the button to use it as a flashlight. Well, she’d said she was tired of people saving her. Nobody was going to come to her rescue tonight.
She shifted in the seat, and then stopped, pulse racing. Her boots had splashed in water. It was coming into the car.
“OhmyGod, ohmyGod, ohmyGod...”
Her voice trailed off, and an odd sense of calm settled over her.
It would be so easy to stay there. To let the dark sea sweep over her and take her away. The place was deserted. It would just be her and the ocean, and then all the pain would be over.
Her eyes filled with tears. Life was too hard. She wanted the suffering to stop. She was tired of getting up every day, breathing in and out, and dragging herself through the hours until she could go to bed and fade to black.
Then she thought of Lesa. Her sister would be devastated if she knew how she was feeling. Jackie would be so disappointed in her. And was this what her friends and family wanted?
More importantly, was this what she wanted?
For the first time, she let her mind think about the main reason she’d come to the island. About Eoin, and how he’d broken her heart.
The previous December, when he’d left her, it had nearly destroyed her. But she was stronger now. She’d learned to fight, and Jackie had taught her that she didn’t need a man, or her sister, or her mother, or indeed anyone else—even though they thought they were being helpful—to make her complete. She was a shield maiden. The analogy wasn’t just a lighthearted choice; she’d picked the Viking warrior woman as a symbol for a reason.
She didn’t need saving—she could do this on her own, and she wasn’t going to give in to her depression anymore. The black dog could go fuck itself.
Energy swelled inside her at the thought that she was going to win the battle. She bent to pick up her coat, but it was already soaking, so she dropped it again. Quickly now, she pulled the door handle. For a moment, the door refused to open, the pressure of the ocean outside too great, but as more water rushed in, she managed to push it, gasping as the cold black sea flooded the interior. She got out, finding herself almost knee-deep. There was no point in trying to get her luggage out of the back—she wouldn’t be able to carry it, and she was now worried about making it to the refuge hut safely.
Carrying just her bag, she began to make her way back to the bridge. It was like wading through black treacle. The sea sucked at her boots, and it was hard to keep her footing. Waves washed over the road, and it was difficult to see which way to go. She trod on a rock, turned over her ankle, stumbled, and then suddenly she was on her hands and knees, icy cold water soaking into her jeans and the sleeves of her sweatshirt. Her phone plunged into the sea, skittering away from her, and the light went out.
“Fuck it!” She yelled the words and shoved herself to her feet, squealing as pain shot through her leg. Jesus, this was an absolute disaster. She was freezing, and she hadn’t known night could ever be this black. Her heart pounded, and she stood there for a moment in complete panic. It was okay to decide not to give in, but what the hell was she going to do?
Then one foggy Christmas Eve, Santa came to say... The song echoed in her head, and she frowned, puzzled, her brain searching for the reason for its appearance... and then she remembered. The reindeer pen!
Scrabbling frantically in her bag, she found it at the bottom, pulled it out, and switched it on. Rudolph’s nose immediately glowed a bright red. It wasn’t as good as having a white flashlight, but it was better than nothing, and she almost sobbed with relief at having some light.
Holding it up, she saw the brief glimmer of the white line in the center of the road off to her right, and corrected her angle. Wading through the water as quickly as she could, she kept going straight until she found the bridge.
The water here was a little shallower, and she sloshed through to the bottom of the refuge hut. She had no phone, and no way of calling for help, so she’d have to climb up the ladder into the hut, and stay there until the tide turned sometime after midnight. What would she do then? Walk the remaining few miles in the dark or wait until dawn? She’d have to work it out later.
She hadn’t climbed a ladder since gym class when she was thirteen, and the bottom rung was broken. Her soaking wet clothes weighed a ton, but she hauled herself up the rungs until she practically fell into the hut.
It was just a square box, and it didn’t have a roof, so she had no shelter from the sleet that had started to hammer down again. But at least she was safe.
Shivering violently, she huddled in the corner of the hut, flicking the Rudolph pen on and off as a protection against the dark night, and started to sing Christmas carols to herself, the chattering of her teeth almost as loud as the sleet bouncing off the wooden floor.
She wasn’t going to cry. She was a shield maiden, dammit.
Her cheeks were only wet because of the rain.
