Dominion.

by Nick Walters.

Acknowledgements

Steve Cole endless thanks for this wonderful opportunity!

Jac Rayner for support at the eleventh hour, and tireless efforts in sending me the proofs of the excellent cover.

Paul Leonard for read-through duty, continuity notes (Fitz's hair!), and for believing in me.

Paul Vearncombe read-through duty, and invaluable help in conceptualising the Ruin and other creatures. And for helping me maintain a reasonable level of sanity throughout a difficult time. And for spotting Fitz's bear before it did any damage.

Jon Blum and Kate Orman for sending me Unnatural History Unnatural History (wow!). (wow!).

Mum and Dad.

Brian and Vicky Elliott for the most alcoholic holiday I have ever experienced. Oh sunny Isle of Wight, how I yearn to return.

Richard Everson for the sofa.

Bristol Fiction Writers: Christina Lake, Simon Lake, Paul Leonard, Mark Leyland, Innes Newman read-through duty and support.

Bristol SF Group Christina and Simon again, Paul Leonard again, Doug, Richard, Tina, Nathan, Tim, Brian, Jane, Sue.

Jane Hilton best wishes for Baby Jane.

Naiem Iqbal IT expertise, without which this book would never have been finished.

Jim Mortimore inspiration.

Ian Morris always take Pride.

Mark Phippen and Helen Fayle for not hating my 'Sad Professor'!

Andrew Shattock discussions on which is the best Cardigans alb.u.m, boozy nights past and inevitably to come.

David Tee move to Bristol! You know you want to!

Jonathan Way for Cosmic Fugue 2 and the joy of hearing Colin and Lis read my stories.

Book One

Loss

Chapter One.

The Lake at Midnight.

Beneath the surface of the lake Kerstin's world was a deep, blurry blue, and the pressure sounded as a roaring in her ears. She loved the way the water caressed her body, leaving no part of her untouched. The way she had no weight, as if she were floating in s.p.a.ce. She liked to see how long she could stay under, her chest bursting with the effort, until a sudden thrill of need would make her kick her feet and haul herself to the surface, gasping, treading water, her heart pounding, limbs tingling as her lungs filled with air.

Although it was nearly midnight, Kerstin could see the cabin clearly. Beyond, the land rose in a shallow incline to the dark ma.s.s of forest that surrounded the lake. Under that dense canopy it would truly be night, dark and humid.

Kerstin floated on her back, staring up at the starless sky. It wouldn't get any darker. She enjoyed the long, light summer nights. At this time of year in Stockholm or Eskilstuna it was perfectly possible to read a book outdoors at midnight, without artificial light.

She heard a splash from over by the cabin, followed by precise, cutting strokes.

Johan.

She slipped down into the water, so that her eyes peeped across the gently rippling surface.

His purposeful shape arrowed towards her. He would soon join her and start fooling about.

But he had to catch her first.

Kerstin struck off for the middle of the lake, enjoying the game, pulling herself along with powerful strokes. She prided herself on her high level of physical fitness. No point having a well-trained mind and carrying it around in a flabby frame. Kerstin was tall, with well-muscled legs, strong arms and small b.r.e.a.s.t.s a swimmer's body.

Johan was even more of a fitness fanatic. Even on holiday, he still worked for several hours a day on the farm, helping old Bjorn do the things he couldn't do any more. Leaving her alone to study, daydream and think about her life. She was twenty-one now, they both were, both about to complete their final year at Uppsala. And after that?

She swam harder, exorcising the feeling of self-doubt. Johan was catching up. Time for a change of tactic. She dived deep down, then surfaced, shaking water from her short blonde hair, blinking. Had she lost him?

Hands grabbed her ankles. No such luck!

She wriggled free and bobbed up to face him. He was laughing, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, chin dipping up and down as he trod water. He had dark eyes, an angular face. People said he always looked rather morose. But, when he smiled, his whole face lit up.

He was waiting for her to say it. Every night, the same thing. Their ritual.

She flicked water at him. 'Race you to the sh.o.r.e!'

It was a close-run thing but Johan won. She watched him splash out of the lake, his body pale, statuesque. She followed in a more leisurely fashion, trotting up the narrow beach to the cabin. Although the air was warm, she shivered as the water dried on her skin. Moths fluttered around the outside light. She could hear the fierce hiss of the shower from inside. He couldn't wait to soap his muscles, wiping the condensation from the body-length mirror so he could admire himself. Always did love himself. She didn't let it get to her no, she enjoyed his body almost as much as he did. And he said he loved her, every night. Usually afterwards, sometimes during, often before. But did she love him? That was the big question. And she was putting it off, which wasn't fair on both of them.

She joined him in the shower, and then the sauna, and forgot her doubts for a while.

But later that night they returned, as doubts always do, bigger, stronger and with their older brothers in tow. Kerstin lay awake on the rumpled sheets of their bed, thinking about another man, another lover, from another country. James, who never exercised and couldn't swim. Not for the first time, she wondered what he was doing now, whether he had found someone else, or if he still thought of her.

Next to her, Johan stirred, bringing her back to the undecided, hazy present.

'Are you hungry?' he said. 'There's lots in the fridge. Sausages, smoked fish. Brie and beetroot.' He embraced her again, his hands delving down her stomach, whispering across her skin.

She pushed them away, troubled.

He sat up, leaning on his elbow 'What's wrong?'

Kerstin turned over. 'Nothing.'

She heard him sigh, and squeezed her eyes shut. Not an argument, not now, not tonight.

'What are you thinking?' he said, his voice light, apparently unconcerned.

I'm thinking about whether or not to dump you. I'm thinking about what to do when I pa.s.s my finals. I'm thinking about moving to England. 'Nothing.'

She heard him slump back.

She swung out of bed, suddenly irritated with him, and even more irritated with herself. Something had soured, in the hot evening air. She stomped out of the bedroom.

'Where are you going?'

'To get food,' she called back.

The wooden two-storey holiday home was like a thousand others in southern Sweden. The bedroom, small and functional like all the rest of the place, took up the front half of the ground floor, with the shower, sauna and a second, smaller, bedroom behind. Over the front bedroom was a lounge with great views of the lake, and behind that the kitchen with its chipped mugs, stout saucepans and an old but serviceable electric stove. It was Kerstin's parents' cabin and this was the second year she and Johan had stayed there. Kerstin loved its remoteness, its silence.

Kerstin padded up the stairs to the kitchen and started towards the fridge. She never got there. There was a huge, deafening crunch a thunderclap? right inside the house, deafening her, throwing her across the kitchen to land in a heap on the floor.

She shook her head, trying to clear the ringing in her ears. What the h.e.l.l? She got to her feet, turned round, and It just wasn't possible. Where the living room had been...

Kerstin closed her eyes, took a deep breath, opened them again. The whole front of the house was... just gone, completely vanished. Where the outer wall had been, there was nothing but a view of the still, silent lake. Splinters of wood were falling from the exposed timbers in the roof and raining down below like falling leaves on What about Johan?

She ran to the edge, looked down to where their bed should be.

There was nothing, only a crater in the earth.

The stairs were listing, ready to break away from their supports. Kerstin picked her way down. Impossible, all impossible! But she was standing on the brink of it a circular crater about six metres across.

That thunderclap it must have been an explosion. But that made no sense: an explosion large enough to destroy half the cabin would surely have killed her. Perhaps this was some force of nature a freak lightning effect? That didn't make sense either. Kerstin stumbled outside, and walked around to what had been the front of the cabin. It had all gone the veranda, the balcony outside their bedroom, gone.

As she circled round, bare feet scuffing the short stubby gra.s.s, she realised that this could not have been any conventional explosion. There was no wreckage no wood littering the gra.s.s, no sign of the missing walls at all. And, as she approached tentatively, she could see that the wooden wall of the cabin had been somehow torn torn. Not charred, but torn. The missing section was roughly spherical; the remaining walls had a concave profile in line with the crater that had been their bedroom.

Shivering, Kerstin turned and looked out over the lake. What had once been a peaceful, comforting landscape now seemed like the arena of a nightmare. The smooth lake, its waves lapping the sh.o.r.e, the dark line of forest, the pale sky, all seemed to be watching her. She began to feel an odd dislocation from reality a floating sensation, as though she were deep inside the lake again.

And then she thought of Johan, and collapsed on to the gra.s.s, choking back tears. She was going to ask herself if she loved him, she remembered. Now he was gone, she knew the answer. She let herself cry until her chest hurt. And then she stood up, unsteadily, and walked on shaking legs towards the cabin.

What should she do? Call the police? But the phone had been in the lounge, and the lounge was gone. Get dressed? Most of her clothes had been in the wardrobe in the bedroom, and those were gone too. Of course, there was a bag of spare stuff in her car. Mechanically, she walked past the cabin towards her little red car such a normal, cheery sight that she began to cry again.

She tried to open the door, and then remembered that her keys were in the cabin. She felt a crushing feeling in her chest. That was the last place she wanted to go.

Steeling herself, she ran back into the cabin, up the teetering stairs. One stroke of luck the keys were on the kitchen unit next to the kettle, where she'd thrown them last night. She grabbed them and ran back outside. She opened the boot. Johan's sports bag nestled next to her rucksack. Controlling herself with an effort, she took out a T shirt and a pair of shorts. She dressed, stumbling on the dry ground, and then sat in the driver's seat, composing her thoughts. What to do? She could go to the farm, wake Bjorn. But she didn't like the melancholy old farmer, and he'd probably be drunk. Cold comfort in this crisis.

No, it had to be the police.

Kerstin fumbled the keys into place and started the engine, and drove away from the cabin.

Behind her, the lake remained placid and calm.

Bjorn Andersson woke abruptly, gasping, blinking away the remnants of a dream. He hated waking up in the small hours. Never could get back to sleep again. He swung out of bed, moving his large frame with difficulty, wincing as familiar aches and pains a.s.serted themselves. He grunted as he knocked over a bottle of whisky. Empty, he noticed. Again. There was a gla.s.s on the carpet next to it, also empty.

He glanced absently around. He'd forgotten to draw the blinds, so the small room was washed in sickly, pale light. The ornate wardrobe, Nina's dressing table, and above that the framed photographs on the wall opposite the bed he could make them all out clearly. Bjorn didn't like the lightness of the summer nights. He preferred the depths of winter. Easier to sleep in total darkness.

He sat on the edge of his bed. No point trying to sleep again. Perhaps a gla.s.s of water and some bread, read a book. Or perhaps go over the plans for the new barn. Plans he knew would never become reality. He felt his mood sinking. Why had he woken? Then he remembered. The generator wasn't working, and he'd been trying to fix it. He'd lost his temper, and started on the whisky. He glanced ruefully at the bottle, and then at the clock on the wall. Three in the morning. Might as well get up now.

He went to the wardrobe, fishing out a denim shirt and canvas trousers. He put his hoots on, puffing as he bent to tie them. He left the bedroom and went down the narrow staircase to the kitchen, his boots clumping on the wooden stairs.

He stepped out into the cool night. The farmhouse was a square, wooden building, with three rooms downstairs, and three upstairs. The doorway opened on to a gla.s.s conservatory, cluttered with boots and rakes and an old lawn mower, which gave on to a long curving drive which ran down to a rickety gate. The farm overlooked an arm of forest which hid the lake from view.

Bjorn walked down towards the gate, breathing in the fresh air, feeling the muzziness in his head clear a little. The gate gave on to a concrete yard, surrounded on three sides by farm buildings. On the right was the tractor shed and equipment store, his old truck parked outside. Facing the gate was an arch-shaped building under which the track ran out to join the road to Strangnas. Here Bjorn kept timber and sawing equipment. On the left was the long, low livestock enclosure.

He frowned. Something was wrong. He opened the gate and walked down the path. He could hear a noise. A screaming, coming from within the pen. The pigs were screaming.

What in G.o.d's name was happening?

Scared, Bjorn ran back to the house, stumbled into the kitchen. He opened the case bolted to the wall, and heaved down the shotgun. It was still new used only once, on tin cans perched on a bale of straw as a test. Every time he touched it, he recalled what had happened as vividly as a photograph. Touching this new shotgun made him feel sick, physically sick.

But something was in there, with the pigs. He couldn't just leave them.

He ran back outside, down the path and to the enclosure, panting with exertion. He keyed in the combination and hauled the heavy door open. The familiar musty animal smell hit him as he stepped inside. Light from the doorway cast a knife shape on the straw-strewn concrete floor. The squealing was louder now, a terrible sound which quickened his heartbeat.

He reached round for the light switch. Nothing happened. Of course he hadn't fixed the generator. Next to the light switch was a torch on a hook. Bjorn took it down. Encased in rubber, it was rea.s.suringly big and heavy. He clicked it on, sending the bright white beam up and down the rows of pens. The pens were waist-high and built of breeze blocks. They were s.p.a.cious and clean. Bjorn took good care of his livestock.

The screaming was coming from one of the far pens.

Bjorn walked down the central aisle, sending the torchlight before him. There was another sound, a low growling. A wolf? But how? There was simply no other way in apart from the entrance door he'd come in through, and the wide barn doors at the other end. Both operated by electronic locks to which only he knew the entry code.

Bjorn shone his torch in the nearest pen, and shouted in anger. This pen had contained a large sow and her litter of twelve. Now the jerky movements of his torch picked out a ma.s.s of torn flesh, and blood, blood everywhere, over the walls of the pen, over the floor. He couldn't make out anything recognisable.

He staggered backwards, almost dropping the torch. No animal he knew of was so vicious, so wasteful.

Then he saw a movement, and turned to see something leaping over the wall of the pens at the far end of the barn, landing to crouch in the shadows. He squinted. That humped shape was no wolf. They just didn't move like that. As he watched it shuffled closer.