Water, Circle, Moon

by Sally McBride

  Her corner table allowed her to spy on him, though she wasn’t close enough to check his eyes. He looked like an athlete; Laine had known plenty in Canada, from the women competing in track events along with her to male and female skydivers, rock climbers, soccer players and more. She sat up straighter.

  Then she saw him waylay Mrs. Griffin, blocking her way to the kitchen. She scowled up at him. The man asked a question Laine couldn’t hear.

  Mrs. Griffin snapped, “He’s not here. And the kitchen is closed.”

  He glowered down at her. “Arabella, damn it,” he said, his voice loud enough now for Laine to hear, “you know how important this is.” He lowered his voice. “If you won’t help me, at least sell me a sandwich.”

  Mrs. Griffin tossed her tawny head and looked for a moment as if she were going to whack him with her coffee pot, but settled for rolling her eyes. Laine watched with interest, ready to leap to Mrs. Griffin’s defense if necessary, when the man leaned down and whispered in her ear. The woman listened, and then sighed.

  “Oh, very well! You might as well sit,” she said, and pointed to a recently vacated table. “I’ll see what the kitchen has left.”

  Arabella Griffin bustled away, and the man stalked to the table and flung himself into a chair, slouching and rubbing his temples. He looked up and caught Laine staring. Their eyes locked. Blue, yes. And cold as a glacier.

  Laine gave him a dirty look and pointedly took a sip of her coffee. What had he said to Mrs. Griffin to soften her up? Why was she letting him get away with his display of bad temper?

  He looked right back at her, damn him. His expression wasn’t angry; rather, it held a kind of frosty boredom, as if he despised the very sight of her.

  Laine found herself flushing and turned away. Resentment flared. How dare he look at her that way? Asshole.

  Leaving Mrs. Griffin a substantial tip as a sign of solidarity, Laine got up, held her head high and marched out. She could feel his eyes on her.

  Though the novel she’d found in the bookshelf was interesting, Laine read the same paragraph over and over without seeing it as she replayed the incident in the dining room in her mind. Mrs. Griffin must know the man, or surely she would have called someone—preferably a large, cleaver-wielding chef—to toss the jerk out.

  Yet she’d trotted off to fetch him dinner. He must have some line of sweet talk to deflect that kind of righteous indignation. She bet he’d need to use it frequently.

  Laine had not been able to resist glancing back as she left the dining room. She’d seen him drop his head into his hands and violently rub his eyes as if trying to force out demons, now looking more tired and frustrated than cold and arrogant.

  What was she supposed to think?

  Laine sat up and put the book away. This all had nothing to do with why she was here. She couldn’t let herself get sidetracked by tall, dark, bad-tempered strangers. If the staff here wanted him out, they could call the local police.

  Speaking of calling . . . she tried Innis’s number once again, to get the “message box full” announcement. Didn’t the idiot ever answer his damn phone? She’d come all the way here, now where was he? She talked into the dead line anyway. “Innis, damn it, where are you? I need to talk to you about . . . stuff. Weird stuff. Stuff I can’t tell anyone else, and you know it.”

  As the dial tone buzzed, she finished off with a few remarks about his character, stuffed the phone in a pocket and prowled the room, regretting the coffee. The combination of caffeine, jet lag and irritation was going to keep her up half the night.

  Reaching gingerly over the potted plants, which were no longer moving, she eased the window open. The ivory horse ignored her, balanced on its uneven legs. Cool night air wafted in, its wild grassy scent pushing her restlessness over the top. She laced up a pair of sneakers, pulled on a sweatshirt and headed out.

  Arren Tyrell could hardly wait to shovel down some food and get outside. When Arabella Griffin had finally returned with a plate of cold beef sandwiches and pickles, he’d bolted it all down, thrown his money on the table and left as fast as he could. Now he was out in the cool darkness of the inn’s back garden, trying to walk off indigestion and a good helping of anger.

  Everything he saw tonight was in shades of gray, everything but the evil he felt around him. That was pure black.

  What had made him decide to go to the Blackhorse Inn tonight anyway, besides being famished? The monster knew it was being hunted and wouldn’t show itself there, no matter how often Arren pestered the staff. He could have eaten at the pub in town, just five hundred yards down the road. With a pint or two to dull his fury.

  Someday he’d find the devil who had murdered young Delsie. It shouldn’t have happened. His sister should be alive today, knee-deep in boyfriends, thinking of nothing more than friends, fun, and her classes at St. Jerome’s. Instead she was another statistic.

  Death by accidental drowning. How simple, how easy, to proclaim such a verdict. An unfortunate accident, the coroner had said, with gashes and ripped limbs due to the river’s rocky bed. A facile, cowardly rationalization to cover her unwillingness to dig deeper. Or to accept what to her would be absurd superstition, or worse—pure insanity.

  Arren stood hunched over the back of a stone bench under the concealing shadow of an ancient, spreading apple tree. If anyone were to see him, they’d probably think he looked like a damned vulture with its wings folded, dreaming of carrion.

  Did the coroner even wonder at the number of “suicides” and accidental drownings she was forced to sign off on? Didn’t she, or the police—anyone—even care? It was all done so cleverly, so convincingly . . . but how? Someone was manipulating the truth.

  Arren’s back was aching and his head throbbing. He’d been in and out of offices all day, in town after town, asking futile questions of blank-faced bureaucrats at parish records offices, or of uncooperative, equally blank-faced police. Having to strong-arm poor Arabella had done nothing to relax him. She was on his side, damn it.

  He straightened up and stretched, feeling his vertebrae crack. The look that young woman had shot at him . . . just about withered his balls, that had. Of course he’d noticed her, she was obviously not a local girl. There was something about North Americans that made them stand out, and it wasn’t just her tan, her casual clothes, or the fact that she was sitting alone. He felt a totally unexpected jolt of lust at the memory of her bare arms in the low light, her brown eyes raking him scornfully. She’d looked remote and cold and yet somehow passionate.

  She was just the sort of female the cabyll ushtey wanted.

  An intense wave of longing made him tighten his fists. Longing for something he could never have: the love of a woman.

  His lips twisted. Christ, he’d better sort himself out, and soon. Love of a woman, for God’s sake. How maudlin. Oh, he’d experienced lust, friendship, affection even; but could he ever expect true love? With the trust and the intimate knowledge that love demanded? It wasn’t for the likes of him.

  No matter how attractive that girl had looked, he couldn’t afford to get distracted by a female now, when he was finally getting close to his target.

  At the sound of footsteps, he went still. Someone was entering the garden from the inn’s back door.

  It was her. She hadn’t seen him, and she wouldn’t unless he allowed it. She was wearing some kind of light, sweet perfume that he barely detected among all the natural smells of the outdoors. His nostrils flared as he drank in the thousands of intermingled scents that clamored for attention. Most of them meant nothing. Some of them might mean death if he lost his awareness of them.

  He’d better find out her name, where she came from, who her people were. Before she became another statistic.

  Chapter Three

  Laine breathed in the softness of rain-washed air, air that felt like silk, like slippery darkness layering the garden in mystery.

  It brought up the image she used to try to expand her consciousness—a garden
with wildness at its far end. She had never penetrated it. She let her eyes adjust, listening to the small night sounds of insects and rustling leaves, a far-off car horn and, somewhere across the river, a horse neighing.

  It was good to be outside, especially with so many glittering crystal stars overhead. Plus, the moon was almost full.

  The sight of it gave her a shiver, and she looked down before its brightness captured her eyes. She could see pretty well, and found herself drifting down a flagstone path toward some white flowers that glowed like miniature ghosts under the shrubs.

  The fact that Innis wasn’t here shouldn’t be so annoying. He’d turn up when he wanted to, likely at the least convenient moment.

  She bent to inhale the white flowers’ vanilla sweetness. No doubt her mother would know what they were, and if they were good for anything. Or possibly if they were poisonous. It’s surprising, Bethea had told her, how many deadly things wait in plain sight for you to take a nibble. The flowers bent toward her, their leaves arching forward like grasping hands. She pulled back, taking care to stay on the stone path.

  Laine sensed movement before she heard or saw it. Her ears twitched. Someone was emerging from under the trees, looking like a moving shadow stepping out into the moonlight. Oh, God. The man from the dining room. Indignation and intense curiosity mingled, and she felt light-headed. It might be smart to zip back inside.

  He stopped on the path a few feet away, and seemed to be trying for a pleasant demeanor. Laine kept her face blank.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice was clipped, abrupt, his accent not like the locals she’d heard, but a kind of smoky-peat mix of Scotland and London. He was definitely a few octane levels above the guys she was used to.

  “You didn’t startle me. It’s just—” Just what, exactly? Just that she should turn on her heel and march back inside, not stand under the moon looking at his mouth? “I didn’t expect anyone else to be out here,” she finished lamely.

  He had his hands in his pockets, perhaps to try to soften a threatening image. In the hotel, he’d looked thin, too tall for his weight, but now she could see he had a taut, sinewy strength.

  “I suppose I caused a scene in there.” His voice didn’t sound very contrite, and she narrowed her eyes. What will you say now to convince me of your pure heart? She waited, and he continued, “I’m trying to sort something out, and I need information from these people.” These people. He looked back at her, coming up with a wry smile. “They are apparently immune to my charms.”

  Laine bit her tongue. What charms? “It’s none of my business,” she said, beginning to walk away. Before she had taken two steps, his hand was on her arm, his fingers sliding down her bare skin to encircle her wrist and pull her toward him. She froze, feeling her heart kick into high gear. Don’t stand here like a ninny! Scream, push him away, something! But her voice stalled in her throat.

  “A word of advice,” he said, not letting go. “Don’t wander alone around here, especially at night. I can tell by your accent that you’re a tourist, so you’d be unlikely to know, but there have been several attacks in the area. Young women like you.”

  She jerked her arm away. “Next you’ll tell me that I’m perfectly safe with you.”

  The man was like a thundercloud. Electric, dangerous. She’d have a hell of a fight if he decided to hurt her.

  Without a trace of irony, he said, “You’re safe right now. I can’t guarantee tomorrow.”

  Laine’s fear turned to anger. Was he trying to frighten her just for sport, just to show her what an ignorant newcomer she was? He could be lying. She’d find out from Mrs. Griffin just what was up. “Why don’t you go in and harass the staff?” she snapped. “They must be used to it.”

  Again he smiled, a brief thinning of his lips that made her seethe with fury. He stepped back and spread his hands, bowing to her in mock courtliness. “Ah, but I’d much rather harass a beautiful woman.”

  That comment was best ignored. He waited a beat, nodded and turned to go.

  Then he turned back. “My name’s Arren Tyrell, by the way. Just in case you have the slightest interest in knowing it.”

  Laine’s training kicked in before she could think of a saucy reply. “Laine Summerhill.” After a second’s thought, she added, “I’m waiting for my brother. He should be here any moment.” Perhaps he’d buy that and leave. My big nasty brother.

  “Will you remember what I said, Miss Summerhill?”

  “Of course I will.”

  Apparently satisfied, he turned and vanished into the night.

  Well, thought Laine, as her heart slowed to its normal pace, that certainly was odd.

  Could he be the one attacking young women, simply afraid to try anything so close to the inn? Somehow she doubted it. It would have been easy for him to silence her and do what he liked, though she’d bet she could outrun him. At least with him lurking around in the bushes, the regular rapists would have to take the night off.

  She rubbed her wrist where he’d held her, feeling an electric tingle, as if he’d been full of whatever it was that storm clouds are made of. Charged air looking for release, lightning setting fire to the helpless earth.

  She didn’t think of herself as helpless.

  Where am I? she wondered, as the electric tingle faded. Geographically, temporally, spiritually? Though it looked like a respectable, middle-class lodging in cozy old England, this building and its land were different: they were alive with the cold fire of the moon and stars, throbbing with magic as if ancient blood ran through it all, as if the crazy lawn were made of thick, green fur; as if under it lay the beating heart of an animal. She could feel it, like the movement of her own blood.

  And under that lay a silver net of power, borne by water deep underground, catching energy as a fisherman’s net catches fish.

  She searched her heart for fear and found wild exhilaration instead. But . . . it would be stupid to prowl around in the middle of the night all by herself. What if there really was an attacker on the loose?

  Laine was reluctantly heading back inside when she heard a voice.

  Innis’s voice. She was sure of it.

  Right down the path that led under gnarled old fruit trees toward the stable area. What on earth was he doing down there? He’d never been interested in horses. She couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it was his voice, sounding older and deeper than the last time she’d heard it. Someone else was there too, laughing.

  “Innis?” Treading carefully on the stone path and steps, she headed down. “Innis, is that you?” Her hand brushed a plant, which whipped back on its stem as if startled, showering dozens of petals in a spiral spray. She heard herself give a small shriek and watched as the petals flipped in crazed circles on the stones, like fish glittering in the moonlight.

  She heard laughter again and stilled herself, listening hard. Oh, let it be the horses again . . .

  “Innis!” It was probably just stable hands, or the horses’ owners. Horses did not laugh.

  The petals had stopped moving. She stepped over them and brushed a tickle away from her neck. It returned annoyingly. Her hair was swirling very slowly around her neck, gently, tighter and tighter. The long, brown strands knit themselves like fingers stealthily getting ready to strangle her.

  Circles. The moon circling, her hair obeying, grass and petals performing their own tiny orbits.

  She pulled her hair back and, fingers shaking and clumsy, dug in a pocket for a hair-tie and wound her hair into a tight knot.

  The night air burned cold on her skin. Hardly daring to blink, she crept forward, her toes in her sneakers feeling for the steps. The moon didn’t help at all. Shining slashes of pale light made it hard to focus, and squeaks and rustlings in the bushes made her heart leap and tremble. She longed intensely for Innis at her side right now. Innis believed in aliens, ghosts, vampires: any kind of magic. He was there for it, and he’d be there for her, teasing courage into her hea
rt.

  The sounds from below had stopped.

  Perhaps she’d only imagined his voice. Go back, you idiot.

  But now she was at the stable, smelling the familiar warm odor of horse and hay and manure, almost as intoxicating as the flowers. Fear retreated, pushed aside by memories of happy hours spent hanging around horses and mucking out stalls for a chance to ride.

  There was no light, and no one seemed to be around. You’d think there would be a motion sensor to trigger lights. She stood still, listening hard. Damn. Either she’d been fooled by her own imagination, or whoever it was had left.

  The stable loomed over her, big enough to hold a dozen horses and their feed and tack. She groped along the wall to the wide double door, which stood open, though a large metal padlock dangled open from its clasp. As she examined the lock, she saw it gleam briefly copper, then blacken into iron. Holding it made her fingers throb with cold as if it were made of ice. The damned thing was as magical as the guardian grass.

  She let it go and looked into the stable; a central walkway divided two rows of roomy box stalls. Enough moonlight filtered in through skylights to see by. She stepped inside, her careful feet making nothing more than a soft shuffling on the concrete floor. The sweet scent of bran mash enticed her like candy. All the stalls she looked into were empty, their doors open to show straw bedding, dribbles of spilled grain, buckets of water held by brackets at easy drinking height for a horse.

  Disappointed, she turned to leave, but then she heard a whicker and the rustle of straw. There was one animal here, in the farthest stall. She could see the gleam of its large, liquid eyes and the white blaze on its nose as the horse thrust its head between the iron bars that formed the door’s top half. When it saw her, the animal went mad.

  Rearing and whinnying, it began to beat frantically with its hooves at the stall door, bucking and kicking. Laine stepped back, murmuring, “Easy . . . easy . . . I’m not going to touch you . . . ” She retreated, hoping the horse would calm down when it could no longer see or smell her.