If you’ve yet to acquaint yourself with T.L. Huchu’s Edinburgh Nights series of books, then you need to rectify that as soon as possible! And especially if you like ghost hunting, mysterious organisations, family dynamics, futuristic Edinburgh and rollicking plots. Here is an extract from the fourth book, The Legacy of Arniston House.

The Legacy of Arniston House
By T.L. Huchu
Published by Tor

We’ve journeyed past Cameron Toll, and through Liberton, where you can barely find a tree standing on the roadside, since they’ve all been chopped down for firewood. Once we’re past the bypass, which arcs around the south of the city from Gogar to Old Craighall, we’re safely away from the barren wastelands of Gilmerton, with Briggs still urging the horses on.

This is a dangerous route. It’s best not to venture outside the city limits these days. Modern highwaymen ply their trade in the unlit wilds of Dalkeith. The news says they operate in gangs of five or more, some of them teenagers in hoodies, snoods covering their faces and budget Diadora sneakers on their feet. I feel a sense of panic as the carriage slows down, until Briggs halts it completely. I touch Cruickshank, my scarf, and then reach for my dagger.

‘What are you doing?’ Lord Samarasinghe asks, an amused expression on his face.

Before I can reply, Briggs calls in his broad Yorkshire accent from outside the carriage, ‘Milord, it appears we’ve hit a roadblock.’ The highwaymen often lay a log in the road to ambush their victims. ‘Would you like me to deal with it?’ The carriage sways and Briggs’s boots make a loud noise as he lands on the tar.

‘That’s quite alright, Briggs. I need to stretch my legs a bit. Ropa, will you be a dear and take this from me.’ Lord Samarasinghe hands me his cup and saucer, then winks.

The carriage door opens. Lord S never does this himself – not when he has us servants to hand. He takes his pocket watch out, checks the time, then puts it back, before stepping out with his cane.

‘This shouldn’t take long,’ he says.

Briggs shuts the door. I’m about to peek outside when the curtains on the carriage windows draw themselves shut sharply.

I don’t understand why we have to stop – this coach can fly. That’s how we journeyed from the Isle of Skye back to Edinburgh a few weeks ago, and it seems like the Sorcerer Royal can do this when he’s travelling long-distance. I’m sure tonight could have been an exception too. I try to open the door, only to find it’s locked. Fucksake, I don’t like being confined. I do the breathing exercises my psychomagician has taught me. In through the nose, out though the mouth. Repeat. Repeat. Until I start to calm down.

I hear the loud tapping of Lord Samarasinghe’s cane on the road, indicating he’s walking forward.

‘God save the king,’ the Sorcerer Royal says.

‘Bollocks. The king is dead,’ a man says, then he hocks loudly and spits. ‘The new queen of Scots reigns in these parts and she’s collecting tolls tonight.’

Coarse guffaws from his gang boost the highwayman’s words.

‘Gentlemen, you are blocking the king’s road. Would you be so kind as to remove this obstacle impeding my progress?’

Lord Samarasinghe’s voice is firm but cordial. ‘I would be most grateful.’

Rough laughter responds to his request.

‘You hear that, lads? This posh English wanker’s come all the way over here to tell us what to do,’ another man’s voice says.

‘Right, you better empty your pockets quick. And we’ll be taking whatever’s in that coach too. Come on, help them remove their stuff,’ someone who sounds like their leader says. It’s a female voice.

This isn’t good. We should just give them what they want. From what I’ve heard, the highwaymen patrolling the A7 are real savages, given to bludgeoning, mauling, stabbing, scalping, impaling, and all sorts of unsavoury stuff. And if the leader’s a woman, then it could only be Dirty Davina, the most notorious of the lot. Cruel fucker, who likes torturing her victims in the medieval style, so I’ve heard. Like, she apparently sucked the eyeballs out of one guy’s head and left him to wander the countryside blind. ‘Davina’s kiss’, they called it – I’ll take the Glasgow kiss over that any given Sunday. There’s a bounty on her head and all. But I thought she worked way out near the Borders. This is one of the rare moments in my life I find myself wishing the cops were here. There’ve been reports of cannibalism by her gang too . . . I really hope that was made up.

There’s an awful quiet outside.

Someone tries to open the carriage door. They rattle it roughly and then tap on the window. ‘Open up!’ I grab my dagger tightly, ready to stab whoever comes in. One of the horses neighs.

‘I don’t think you understand the situation you’re in. Shall we teach them a lesson, lads?’ Dirty Davina says.

‘We’re trying to be reasonable, guv,’ another replies. ‘Maybe the big fella in the greatcoat can talk sense to his master. We’re all working men here, after all.’

‘No skin off my nose,’ Briggs replies nonchalantly. He has that ex-military stoicism which can be intimidating to most, but probably means nothing to the highwaymen.

‘Look at Mr Posh Twat taking out his pocket watch as if we’re wasting his time,’ says Dirty Davina. ‘That’s enough of that. Get ’em, lads!’

A disconcerting stillness follows, punctuated by boots walking towards a certain point. I’m proper bricking it now. No use playing cool when there’s bampots ready to bash your noggin in. I feel the build-up of immense pressure, kinda like the weather changing. Then there’s a terrible sound, like a drum beat perforating my entire being.

‘What’s he doing, guv?’

‘I don’t care, smash his brains in,’ Davina orders.

The earth rumbles underneath the carriage. I sense an almighty entropic shift, as if the world is bending beneath the marching boots of an awesome army. And then it comes, the most horren- dous cracking noise, like all the demons in hell chattering. I double over in my seat and cover my ears from this drilling, but I can’t stop it coming through. My eardrums are going to burst.

Panicked voices coming from outside the carriage inter-mingle with the horrific sound.

The pressure builds up and I fall to my side in the seat, foetal-like.

The sound intensifies.

The horses stomp and snort like they might bolt.

And then the screams start. Terror. I’ve never heard anyone cry out like this.

‘It’s eating me!’ ‘Please help—’

‘God, no, no, no, no.’

‘It’s inside me. Arrrrrrrrrrrrgh.’ ‘We’re so-so-sorry.’

Their desperate pleas chill me to the bone. I find I’m trembling, goosebumps prickling up all over my skin. Sickening noises come through, like slabs of meat being torn apart. And still the horrible chattering continues, as if some incredible beast with multiple rows of teeth is setting upon them.

Then it all goes quiet again. Very quiet.

The Legacy of Arniston House by T.L. Huchu is published by Tor, priced £18.99.