Something powerful is drawing Ward back to Devil's Island. Something he thought he had forgotten. He must evade vicious lighthouse keeper George Jaggles in order to rescue it, but Jaggles will soon be the least of his worries. Because an assassin is...
They had begun as he approached his thirteenth birthday. They were vivid dreams, but he barely remembered them upon waking. He recalled only darkness, and a great heat, and the sense that some alien intelligence was observing him through the thin membrane of sleep. He would flee sluggishly from its disinterested gaze, towards the gates of dawn, waking with a powerful, incomprehensible urge to see Devil's Island again. He could think of no reason why he should wish to return to the island – he certainly had no desire to catch up with Jaggles. The only thing he really missed was his books. So he interpreted this strange impulse as the desire to get his books back.
Ward couldn't help noticing that the first leg of Nick's voyage would pass right by Devil's Island. He mused on this for a long time, toying with the idea that had formed in his mind. And as the dreams had intensified, so had his desire to return to the island. It was such a simple thing, really. How could he not take advantage of the opportunity? Soon he wondered how he had ever considered not going.
He didn't offer to accompany Nick right away, for he feared it would look suspicious. Instead, he waited for Nick to ask him again. Sure enough, he did. Ward pretended to think about the offer for a few days, then agreed. Nick had been unable to disguise his delight.
Ward thought the dreams might go away then, but if anything they had intensified. His friends noticed the change in him. He had become distant, uncommunicative. He explained that he was having trouble sleeping. Mildew, who spent more time with him than the others, grew suspicious, but when she confronted him about it he had lashed out at her, and she had gone away stung. From that point on he had stayed clear of her, more out of shame at his treatment of her than anything else. Besides, if he apologised, she would want an explanation. But he couldn't explain what was happening to him. He barely knew himself. He told himself that he just wanted his books back – he said it out loud, as if by doing so it would justify his behaviour, and his decision. No, it was safer not to cross paths with her at all.
He waited until only a few days before the voyage to tell his friends he was leaving. They had reacted with shock and disappointment. Nevertheless they had all turned up at the wharf to see him off. He tried not to think of that last moment, watching his friends – the only real friends he had in the world – standing side-by-side on the wharf, their faces hurt and confused, as he sailed out of their lives. And as if he didn't feel bad enough already, they had each brought him a parting gift.
Mildew had given him a pocket knife called a chiv. It had a marvelous extra blade for jimmying open locked doors, should he ever renounce his life of honesty and take up a career in jimmying things open.
Slops gave him an invention of his father's, which he described as a decoy: a metal ball about the size of a hen's egg, which you supposedly threw at your enemies in order to escape. No, Slops had never seen the decoy in action. And no, he had no idea what happened when you threw it. He assured Ward, however, that where he was going he was certain to meet enemies, and would be sure to need it.
Carmen's gift was the best of all. It was a dore – a bush snokey. It was tame, having belonged to a sailor who had been lost at sea. A friend of the sailor, who didn't have the heart to set it loose, had given it to Sam Sung's on the condition that they sell it to a good home. In the matter of transactions Sam Sung's were trusted to keep their word, no matter how strange the request. So it was that Carmen had come to purchase the dore. Its name, for the friend of the drowned sailor had been explicit that it should be kept, was Fidelma. Ward had fallen in love with the little thing at first sight.
Now, as he crouched in the undergrowth and peered out at the storehouse, Fidelma shivered in his pocket. He reached down to stroke her fur. He had not let her run free on the ship in case one of the sailors mistook her for a snokey and killed her, but she had been given free rein in the cabin Ward shared with Nick. Nick had been mildly intolerant of her. He didn't say or do anything in particular, but Ward sensed a coldness from the man whenever he saw Ward with the little dore. It was like a draft from a window someone had forgotten to close. Whatever the case, Ward would not have left Fidelma alone in the cabin with Nick. She was the only thing he cared about now. Apart from the bag of course. The bag, and the books it contained.
Staying low, he crossed the stretch of lawn to the storehouse door. Jaggles had never locked it in the past, and it wasn't locked now. Ward let himself in and closed the door behind him. The storehouse was dark: the only light came from a window that opened out onto the faintly-lit cove. He found the rug with his bare feet, knelt, and rolled it back. Jaggles only ever locked the trapdoor when Ward was inside, but so much had gone right tonight that Ward was expecting at least one obstacle. No. The padlock was hooked through the catch, but had not been snapped shut. He removed it, opened the trapdoor, and descended into the cellar.
"Well, isn't this delicious," came a voice from above him. "Like a nine returning to its own vomit."
Ward whipped around, his heart leaping into his throat. He saw only a silhouette in the grey square of the trapdoor, but he would have known that voice anywhere. Jaggles.
The trapdoor slammed shut. He heard the padlock snap closed.
Ward raced back up the stairs and threw his shoulder against the door, but he knew from long experience it was useless.
There was a laugh from above his head. "Welcome home me boy!"
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