Free Electric Light (Blair Dubh Trilogy #3) by Heather Atkinson Page A

this do you wee man?” he said in his deep, hard voice that sounded like nails being shaken around in a tin can.
    He slunk backwards, away from him, cowering against one of the solid, sturdy legs of the table. His eyes remained locked on the end of the barrel as it was raised and pointed at his face. It looked huge, two massive yawning holes as empty as Malcolm’s eyes. Any second he expected to hear a bang, to fall to the floor, knocked over by the brute force of the weapon, to be wracked with intense pain as the shot tore his childish body apart.              
    But that didn’t happen.
    Voices just outside the house drew Malcolm’s attention from him. The gun vanished as Malcolm got to his feet, heavy boots rushing towards the back door. There was a howl of wind as the door opened, cut off when it slammed shut behind him.
    He was torn - hide under the table or poke his head out and see what was happening?
    Curiosity got the better of him. He scrambled out from under the table, experiencing a strange sense of floating, of being out of his body and looking down on himself. His father’s body lay to his left, his mother’s past that in the small corridor that linked the kitchen to the living room. Although he couldn’t see her he knew his sister was lying dead in the front room. She’d been the closest to the front door when Malcolm had burst through it, brandishing the shotgun. He’d heard her screams before the massive blast that had silenced them forever.
    He forced himself not to look that way as he walked across the kitchen floor, trainers slipping and sliding on the warm, congealing blood of his father. He tried not to think about the danger, tried not think about the fact that his entire family was dead as he rushed to the window. For some indefinable reason it was incredibly important to him that he witness what was about to happen.
    The back door hadn’t been shut properly and the wind banged it about in the frame, the sound drowned out by the loud clap of thunder overhead. Cautiously he peered out of the window, the lightning raging overhead, illuminating the scene.
    He saw three men all armed with shotguns, again all men he’d known his whole life. This was a farming community so practically every household owned a gun. They were all yelling at Malcolm, pointing their weapons at him. He in turn had his own shotgun pointed right back at them. He remained calm and unafraid, facing his potential death with equanimity. This was the decimator of his family but he still experienced a curious sense of admiration. He seemed so strong, so fearless. To a little boy who suddenly felt incredibly weak and powerless it was exhilarating.
    He couldn’t hear what they were saying, the ferocious thunder was too loud but he could see the three men screaming at Malcolm to put the gun down. When he didn’t they shot him. The roar of the guns all firing in unison was even louder than the tempestuous weather. Huge holes appeared in Malcolm’s body as the hungry shot ate its way through him, his limbs agitated by the force, body dancing like a puppet on strings. The spray of blood was black in what little light there was. The deafening noise seemed to go on and on but he refused to cover his ears, refused to look away.
    When the noise died down Malcolm was splayed on his back in the mud. The giant had been felled. His slayers stood over him, one poking at his leg with the toe of his boot. They took his gun from him and threw it far away into the mud.
    The lightning crackled around them, raising the hairs on his arms. He was in the centre of something incredibly primal, nature at its most primitive - the violence of humanity and the violence of the natural world as one. The men weren’t sorry he was dead. They would be later when the shock finally hit, but as yet they were just glad he was gone and they were glorying in the kill. Unlike Malcolm’s dead eyes theirs were bright, almost frenzied, reflecting the