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Four hours earlier.
North Atlantic.
Hebrides Islands.
Northernmost archipelago of Scotland. One of the most desolate waters on Earth.
Churning waves. Empty beaches. Sheer cliffs. Wilderness in every direction.
Nearest city: Dranberg, over a hundred kilometers away.
In King Arthur's time, that city was a prison for exiles. During the Age of Discovery, the pirate Drake made it his hideout. Under George I, it became a slave-trade port.
Now? Just a fishing village. A hundred people. They survived on herring.
Besides seabirds and fish, nothing else bothered with this place.
But now, an old diesel fishing boat cut through the cliff-lined waters at high speed.
Four people aboard.
The captain's name was Terry. Typical Caucasianâbig nose, thin lips, thick beard.
Worn jeans. Knee-high rubber boots. Grimy fishing cap. Rough hands, rough build. He looked like every other herring fisherman in these waters.
But he wasn't a fisherman. Not anymore.
Before twenty, Terry fished with his father. Then WWI happened. He survived, came home, and couldn't stomach the dead-end work anymore.
Twenty years of hustling in these waters earned him something more profitable.
Smuggling.
Human smuggling.
The Hebrides connected Scotland, Denmark, Iceland, Norway.
Since WWI, stowaways never stopped coming. The desolate environment made it perfect. Foreign drifters used Scotland as a landing point, hoping to reach England and find work.
Terry knew better. Pipe dreams. After layers of exploitation, most ended up dead in foreign lands.
Twenty yearsâhe'd seen every type. But this time?
These three were unprecedented.
Through the salt-smeared mirror, he watched them sit ramrod-straight on the deck. Identical posture. Sea wind and spray hit them like rocks.
Terry recognized that bearing. Only soldiers sat that straight.
But calling them soldiers felt wrong. All three wore oversized robes hiding their features, topped with tall pointed hoods.
Not ragged stowaway robes. Pure black. Brand new. Belted with scaled leather. Even in fierce wind, they didn't flutter.
He'd seen plenty of units in WWI. None dressed like this.
Only identifying mark: a red "D" symbol on each arm.
Vaguely familiar. He'd seen it in newspapers lately. Some German workers' organization, maybe.
But he wasn't sure. Newspaper people didn't dress like this.
The boat lurched through a wave.
"Your morning passengerâwhich direction did he go?"
The tallest figure spoke.
He sat motionless. Like his ass was welded to the deck.
"Uh..." Terry was caught off guard. They hadn't spoken since boarding. He'd assumed they didn't speak English.
"What?"
"Which direction did your morning passenger go?"
"Sorry. Don't know what you're talking about."
Terry deflected. He was a smuggler, but smugglers had rules. Forty years taught him one thing: stay out of conflicts.
"Is that so? He paid you well."
The tall man's voice was soft. Strange magnetism. Put people at ease.
Terry's wary eyes glazed over.
"Oh, that generous short guy? Yeah. Paid me a lot."
"Which direction?"
"Handa Island. Went south along the Tay River into inland Scotland. Nothing out there. People get lost. Some never come back. I wouldn't goâ"
Splash!
The boat crashed through another wave. Terry snapped back.
He felt like he'd just said a lot. But what? He couldn't remember.
In the mirror, the three sat like stones. No expression change.
"Bloody hell..."
Terry muttered and increased speed. He wanted this weird job finished.
Soon, the boat reached shore. Lichen and moss everywhere. Mottled cliffs. Jagged stones. Bird droppings covered everything.
Two burly men stood on shore, smoking and waving.
Terry relaxed. Those were his cousins. Partners in smuggling. Completely reliable.
Terry docked. One cousin hammered down a rusty spike. The other tied the line.
"This is your stop. Forty-five pounds. I'll discount itâforty." Terry stood at the edge, hands on hips. "Need transport? Walk thirty kilometers east along the coast."
His cousins flanked him. Ready for trouble.
The three stood. The tall man asked quietly, "The short man disembarked here too?"
"Yeah. Stop asking. Pay up and go. Coast guards patrol here." Terry's voice turned anxious.
Ignoring him, the tall man turned. "ĂberprĂŒfen."
The other two disembarked silently and spread out. One pulled out a black stick and waved it around.
Terry's eyes narrowed. He slowly lifted his damp shirt. Revealed the wooden grip of a revolver.
His cousins saw his expression. Exchanged glances. Slipped hands into pocketsâtwo thick knife handles.
Terry had blood on his hands. Twenty yearsânobody got the better of them.
Then something shocking happened.
The tall man's chest bulged. A silver monkey head emerged. Long silver fur. Huge eyes.
It climbed onto his shoulder, looked at Terry with sympathy, closed its eyes, and swayed its head.
Terry had never seen this kind of monkey. Never.
His cousins were dumbfounded.
The silver monkey opened its eyes. Pointed in a direction. Chattered loudly.
The tall man nodded. The other two put away their sticks.
All three walked in the direction indicated. No intention of paying.
Terry's anger flared. He drew his revolver with a click.
"Hey! Stop! What the hell are you?"
His cousins yanked out machetes.
The three kept walking. Steady steps. Didn't stop. Didn't acknowledge the shout.
Terry's finger moved to the trigger. Killing didn't bother him.
Then something fluttered down. Landed on his shoulder.
He thought it was a seabird. Turned his head.
Jaw dropped.
A creature he'd never seen. Butterfly-like body. Large as a hawk. Entirely green. Purple bony protrusions on fleshy wings. Cold red eyes. Sharp hooked claws.
Terry stared.
The creature opened its mouth. Sharp teeth. Purple forked tongue.
It shrieked. Lunged at his face. Terry panickedâclawed frantically.
"Help me!!"
His cousins froze. Forgot the three men. Scrambled to help.
The thing clung tight. Even a grown man's strength was useless. It opened its mouth. The tongue drilled through Terry's skull.
"AAAGH!!"
Terry screamed. All his memories raced away. Emotions. Reason. Everything.
His cousins panicked. Tore at it desperately.
Two more creatures dropped from the sky. Landed on the cousins' shoulders.
The men locked eyes. Terror consumed them.
They bolted.
Didn't get far. Collapsed. Writhed on the ground.
Terry couldn't remember his own name. In desperation, he squeezed the trigger wildly.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Gunsmoke cleared. The beach fell silent.
Terry lay motionless. His cousins too.
Green-purple wings wrapped around Terry's face. A teeth-grinding sucking sound echoed. Half the creature's body burrowed into his head.
Finally, it stopped.
The creature pulled out. Shook off blood. Spread wings. Chased after the distant menânow tiny dots.
Soon, the other two finished feeding. Took off after their master.
Three bodies lay on the beach. Each had a bowl-sized hole through the forehead. Empty inside.
When the tide came in, waves rolled the bodies across the rocks.
They vanished without a trace.
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