Authors: Joshua Winning
Ruins
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J
OSHUA
W
INNING, A FREELANCE JOURNALIST
and
author, was born in Cambridge. He studied film and communications at Anglia Ruskin University before moving to London to become a journalist. When he’s not daydreaming about monsters, Joshua is contributing editor at
Total Film
, and also regularly writes for
Digital Spy
and
Grolsch Film Works
.
Visit:
www.joshuawinning.com
Follow: @
JoshWinning
Visit:
www.thesentineltrilogy.com
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SentinelTrilogy
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facebook.com/SentinelTrilogy
“Fast paced, surprising, and madly compelling.”
Rosie Fletcher, Total Film
“A great, imaginative, gripping read…”
Nev Pierce, Editor-at-Large, Empire
“Joshua Winning could well be on to a winner with this unsettling but entertaining icebreaker; hopefully Nicholas and this trilogy will mature nicely together.”
Claire Nicholls, SciFiNow Magazine
“Don’t think you’ve read this before in the Harry Potter books, Sentinel sets a darker, grittier tone. The action is fast and violent, the monsters, including a seductive vampiress, are memorable.”
John Wyatt, The Sun
“Written poetically, with carefully-drawn characters, this is an extremely promising YA debut by a young author.”
Kate Whiting, Press Association
“Winning’s eminently readable style, coupled with some strong characters and a pace that nicely rounds out the book make this a cut above the vast majority of the young-adult fiction market that tries the same approach.”
Daniel Benson, HorrorTalk
“One for fans of Terry Pratchett, Edgar Allan Poe and Tolkien. Joshua Winning’s Sentinel has everything fantasy readers could want: action, mystery, gore, magic and an orphan with wacky relatives.”
Lizzy Fry, Culture Fly
“Adventure, twists, demons and mystery abound in this spellbinding tale of a hidden earthly underworld.”
David Estes, author of The Moon Dwellers
“Sentinel first hooks you with a cadre of compelling and appealing characters, then before you know it, you’re trapped in a nightmare of intangible forces that become more and more threatening, more and more clever, more and more inescapable. You definitely reach a point where you can’t put the book down.”
D.A. Metrov, author of Falcon Lord
“A well-crafted, sharply honed novel that creeps into your subconscious, settling deep before springing a few surprises upon the unsuspecting reader. You won’t want to put it down, and you probably don’t want to read it on your own in an empty house!”
Sarah McMullan, The 13th Floor
First published in 2015 by
Peridot Press
12 Deben Mill Business Centre, Melton,
Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 1BL
Copyright © Joshua Winning 2015
The right of Joshua Winning to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher
Set and designed by Theoria Design
Visit:
www.thesentineltrilogy.com
Follow:
@SentinelTrilogy
Like:
facebook.com/SentinelTrilogy
Rules for survival
- Don’t make friends
- Don’t talk about your past
- Don’t tell anybody what you can do
- Don’t show weakness
- Don’t let the monsters see you
- Anon.
PROLOGUE
T
EN YEARS AGO
S
IRENS WAILED IN THE NIGHT AND
the sky was a blood-red inferno of fire and ash. People gathered in the street to stare. They huddled in slippers and dressing gowns, transfixed by the burning house. Some offered reassuring murmurs. Others scrutinised the shadows, fearful that whoever had done this was still nearby.
“It was her. She did it.”
“Keep your voice down.”
The girl hugged her knees, teetering on the edge of the kerb. She was only five years old, but her scowl made her look older. The fire danced in her eyes and her pink pyjamas were flecked with cinders.
Across the street, smoke belched from a house torn apart. The building had been bisected and the girl could see her bedroom through a smouldering fissure. It was blackened and burnt. A nest of broken memories.
Her foster parents stood with their backs to her, arm in arm, watching the blaze. Her foster mother glanced over her shoulder and the girl trembled, caught in the woman’s accusatory glare.
“What are we going to do?”
“Let’s wait for the authorities to arrive.”
“What are we going to do about
her
.”
The girl screwed up her fists and shuddered at the keening of the approaching sirens. Her heartbeat quickened. Nobody was watching her anymore. She got to her feet, her eyes trained on her foster parents’ backs.
As she turned to run, arms snapped around her and she was hoisted from the ground.
“Don’t go anywhere,” her foster father warned in her ear.
The girl thrashed and growled and angry energy flushed through her. The air shimmered with heat and her foster father dragged her into a neighbour’s garden.
“Stop it,” he said. “Breathe.”
He crouched down, holding her at arm’s length, his forehead creased with concern.
She couldn’t. Her insides churned. The garden wall trembled and the grass rustled as if disturbed by the wind. She’d dreamed the house was collapsing around her, and when she’d woken up, the dream hadn’t ended. She wanted to sob, but she didn’t. She bit the emotion down, clenched her fists until they hurt. And still the rage roiled inside, causing sweat to trickle down her temples.
Across the garden, a tree erupted in flames.
Her foster father jumped and squinted fearfully at her.
Through the dreadful churning in her belly, she heard the pad of determined footsteps behind her.
“Elizabeth, no–” her foster father began.
Something struck her in the back of the head and the girl felt the grass whisper against her cheek.
The last thing she saw was fire and ash in the night sky, and she knew it was all her fault.
CHAPTER ONE
The Festival Of Fire
P
RESENT DAY
“
Y
OU’VE BEEN OUT HUNTING AGAIN, HAVEN’T YOU?
”
Sam Wilkins sucked his cheeks and gave the doctor as much of a surprised look as he could muster.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grunted, hearing the falseness in his tone. At seventy-one years old, he really should be able to come up with a decent little white lie. He had one of those honest faces, though. Everyone told him that. The nervous smile and hooded eyes always gave him away. He ran a hand through his thinning silver hair as Dr Geraldine Adams glared at him over the rim of her glasses.
“Your blood pressure’s not so much through the roof as swooping about with the sparrows,” she said sternly. She was in her early sixties, crinkled around the edges, but fiercer than ever. She had been a savage Sentinel in her day, wily and ruthless as a coyote, but like many older Sentinels, she had forgone hunting in favour of her day job. A loss, Sam thought, but at least he could still rely on her in a pinch. And she remained formidable; spectacles magnified her eyes and they were inescapable.
