The estate car fishtailed slightly as Rhys wrenched the wheel, the tyres finding purchase on the slick asphalt of the river road. Rain lashed against the windscreen, blurring the red glow of the taillights ahead. Cormac Rhystyd, a silhouette against the garish streetlight, remained unmoving in the wing mirror until Rhys rounded the bend, losing sight of the archive alley. Gwyllgi whined softly from the footwell, a low rumble of discomfort. Rhys reached down, scratching the hound behind the ears, his fingers coming away damp with mire and rainwater. “Easy, boy,” he murmured, the collarbone where the tin box had grazed throbbing dully. He pressed the heel of his hand against it, the cheap plastic of the steering wheel cool beneath his other palm. The adrenaline still hummed, a discordant note beneath the fatigue. He needed a place to regroup, a place utterly devoid of official scrutiny, where a man with a stolen police file and a bruised jaw might blend in. Only one place came to mind. He drove for twenty minutes, the city lights fading into a sodden blur, until the car pulled into the gravel car park of Y Ci Bach – a pub known less for its ale and more for its boisterous clientele of Glas-Hound breeders. The air inside hit him like a physical presence: a cacophony of barking, the rich scent of damp wool and spilled ale, and the faint, underlying aroma of wet dog. A dozen Glas-Hounds, ranging from scruffy pups to magnificent specimens with matted grey coats, roamed freely, dodging boots and wagging tails. Rhys found a vacant table in a dimly lit corner, pushing aside a stack of dog show pamphlets. “Stay,” he instructed Gwyllgi, who, despite his usual obedience, looked as though he might spontaneously combust from joy. The hound’s tail thumped a frantic rhythm against the floorboards, eyes wide with the promise of canine companionship. Rhys ordered a pint of dark ale and a plate of sausages, the grease-stained menu promising ‘Rhys’s Famous Ribs and Roasts’. He pulled out Dai’s folder, the damp paper crinkling as he spread it open on the table. The notes were dense, scrawled in Dai’s almost illegible hand, a mix of neat copperplate and frantic shorthand. Dates and locations, names of minor occult scholars, obscure references to ancient Aberddu folklore. Rhys sipped his ale, the bitter liquid doing little to cut through the dryness in his throat. He watched Gwyllgi, who, having been given permission to mingle, was already causing delightful chaos. The hound, with a sausage liberated from an unattended plate, was engaged in a playful tug-of-war with a much smaller, fluffier Terrier. He then abandoned the sausage to press his nose against the flank of a regal, white-muzzled Glas-Hound female, her eyes holding a placid amusement as she accepted his clumsy advances. Rhys focused back on the notes. Dai had been looking into a spate of disappearances in the Mire district, decades ago. Unsolved. The names of the missing were circled, alongside a recurring annotation: 'Tidal Rites – Aberddu Variation?'. Beneath one entry, Dai had written, in thick, angry strokes: 'Not binding. Consuming. Why the secrecy? Who benefits?' Rhys felt a cold knot tighten in his gut. Dai hadn’t just stumbled onto the binding ritual; he’d seen its true, insidious purpose. He’d seen the hunger at its core. He’d suspected foul play, not just some ancient superstition gone awry, but a deliberate act of exploitation, a calculated use of the rites for someone’s dark gain. The implication chilled him to the marrow. His old partner had been closer to the truth than anyone knew, and it had cost him everything. The thought of Dai, stubborn and uncompromising to the end, pulled Rhys taut. He was about to turn to another page when a shadow fell across the table. He looked up, his hand instinctively reaching for the folder, the blood dropping from his face. Chief Inspector Geraint Evans stood there, a formidable figure even in the dim light, his presence cutting through the pub’s lively din like a sharp blade. His expression was unreadable, his eyes, usually narrowed in perpetual disapproval, seemed to hold a flicker of something akin to weariness. “Llewellyn,” Evans said, his voice a low rumble that managed to carry over the barking. “I heard you were making a mess.” Rhys braced himself. Arrest. Disciplinary action. The end of everything. He kept his mouth shut, refusing to offer an excuse. He had nothing to say that wouldn’t implicate him further. He expected the clink of handcuffs, the heavy hand on his shoulder. Instead, Evans reached into his pocket. He didn’t produce a warrant, or even a sneer. His hand, thick-fingered and calloused, slid a small, tarnished brass key across the scarred tabletop. It spun once, catching the weak light, before coming to rest directly in front of Rhys. Rhys stared at it, bewildered. It was an old key, the kind that might open a forgotten chest or a dusty, locked drawer. “This,” Evans said, his voice barely above a whisper, “is for Dai Maddox’s evidence locker. The one in the old precinct basement. You remember it, don’t you?” Rhys remembered. It was a place where Dai had stashed his most sensitive, unorthodox findings, away from official prying eyes. A place only Dai had access to, a sanctuary for his most dangerous theories. Evans leaned closer, his scent of stale pipe tobacco and damp wool filling Rhys’s space. “Morwenna Idris called me. She said… she said you might find something important there. Something about the Tidal Rites. Said it might be the only way to… to stop it.” His gaze, usually so hard, softened almost imperceptibly. “I don’t understand half of what she was babbling about, but the woman sounded genuinely scared. And she mentioned you. Said you were the only one who might listen.” Rhys’s mind reeled. Morwenna? After everything? He thought of the locket, the argument by the river, her desperate plea for Ffion to leave. He thought of her sending Rhystyd after him just hours ago. What had changed? What had truly terrified her enough to reach out to the chief, to offer this lifeline? It made no sense, yet the key sat there, undeniably real. Evans straightened up, his gaze sweeping the chaotic pub before settling back on Rhys. “You’ve got until the tide turns, Llewellyn. Until the Thirteenth Tide. Make it count.” He paused, a strange, almost paternal look in his eyes. “Don’t make me regret this.” With that, the Chief Inspector turned and strode out of Y Ci Bach, leaving Rhys alone with the brass key, the cryptic notes, and the sudden, chilling realization that if Morwenna was genuinely afraid, if she was finally reaching out, then the true horror of the Thirteenth Tide must be far greater than he had ever imagined.

Comic Relief in the Rain