Water, Circle, Moon

by Sally McBride

Laine would have laughed at any other time. She said, “I saw that man who was hassling you last night—you know, the tall guy. I wanted to slap him.” She didn’t mention their encounter last night.

  “Oh, that one,” said Mrs. Griffin, her face settling into a look Laine had thought reserved for mothers when gazing upon their rascally sons. “Arren’s a devil, that lad. But no harm in him . He was just in a flutter.”

  In a flutter. Okay. “Well, I thought he was being awfully rude, but if you know him . . . ”

  “Oh, I can’t say I know him, not really, but I know his kind.” Mrs. Griffin cocked her head and looked up into Laine’s eyes. Her eyelids lowered as if she was choosing her words. “Stubborn. Perhaps a wee bit too proud. I’m sure you’ve met his type before, in Canada, isn’t that right?”

  “No, I haven’t. I suspect he’s one of a kind.” She grinned and decided to drop the subject of Arren Tyrell. “I’m interested in this local legend stuff, though. Do you know anyone who could tell me more?”

  Mrs. Griffin’s eyes became shifty. She began to rearrange a collection of pewter candlesticks on a sideboard, stalling for time as she dreamed up a way of diverting her guest’s unwanted questions.

  “Well, I suppose you could try the local library . . . it’s small, just a nook in the church basement. You could ask dear Mr. Crane there for help.”

  “Okay. Good idea. I’ll try that.” Dear Mr. Crane might cough up some information, once she blew the dust off him.

  Mrs. Griffin started to turn away; then Laine had another thought. “I’ll be going out tonight and I might be back late. Will I need a key to get in the main door?”

  “Out? At night?” She looked alarmed, and almost guilty. “I wouldn’t advise it, dearie. I, I might have mentioned the troubles we’ve been having . . . ?”

  Well, no, you haven’t, thought Laine, but wouldn’t advertising local violence be bad for business? “I’ll be with my brother. Don’t worry.”

  “Your brother, eh? Well then. I’ll just give you a key for the front door . . . we generally lock up around eleven. Please remember to return it when you check out.” Her look had become sharp again, as if she were calculating exactly how long Miss Summerhill would be likely to stay and ask uncomfortable questions. She went to her desk and dug a big brass key out of a drawer. “There you are. You be careful now.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.” Laine pocketed the key and headed into the dining room to get herself a bite to eat, Innis’s surprise picnic having been cut short.

  She ordered a ham sandwich and salad, but ended up toying with her food and finally pushing it away. She couldn’t eat with her stomach in a knot and memories of the afternoon’s magic crowding close in her mind. Finally she signed the check and went outside to restlessly prowl the walkways waiting for Innis.

  The evening was still light. She wondered if the annoying Mr. Tyrell was nearby, watching to see if she got in trouble.

  She felt sure that he was the trouble.

  Chapter Six

  Laine stood outside the inn’s back door and called her mother. Thank goodness Martin’s company was paying for her phone; the roaming rates were horrendous. Since Bethea simply ignored text messages, this was the only way. Her call went directly to Bethea’s message service, as per usual. Both Bethea and Innis Summerhill had the same cavalier attitude toward communication. Which was: Do it if and when it suited them. “Sorry I can’t take your call. Please leave a message.”

  Laine chewed her lip, waited for the beep and blurted, “Mom, I need to talk to you. It’s about Innis. I’ve found him, he’s okay, but . . . he’s into something weird.” She paced in a circle as she talked. “You owe me a call.” She growled softly, almost hanging up right then, and reconsidered. “I love you. Bye.”

  So there. She put the phone back in her pocket, blowing out her cheeks. There had to be a lot more going on than anything Innis had shown or told her. Had it all started with Bethea?

  Bethea and a man named Jaird Fallon. Another half hour before Innis was due, and he’d undoubtedly be late.

  It was still so hot and humid that her skin stuck to itself when she crossed her arms. She looked longingly at the green grass of the lawn. It would feel so good on her feet . . . just to let her toes sink into the lush softness of the blades . . . The tiny, knife-like blades. They only looked soft and small, like Mrs. Griffin did. A shiver ran down her back despite the oppressive heat. Perhaps there would be another thunderstorm, something to release the electric energy she sensed all around.

  The thought of storms immediately brought her mind back to the black-haired, electrically charged Arren Tyrell. Not that he had ever been far away from her thoughts, except today when the moon had done its weird maneuver. How in heaven’s name had Innis made it do that?

  Of course, heaven had nothing to do with it. And maybe Innis hadn’t done it at all; maybe nothing had happened and she’d imagined the whole thing. Drugs in the sandwich? Even Innis wouldn’t do that, would he?

  Arren Tyrell watched Miss Laine Summerhill as she rubbed her arms, her long slim fingers stroking bare skin, kneading firm, tanned flesh as if she felt chilled in the moist evening air.

  She looked the same as when he’d seen her before in this garden, dressed simply and with her long brown hair tucked behind her ears. She was tall and long-legged, graceful as she warily avoided the inn’s grass. A quick learner, though it wouldn’t bother her now. It knew her. He smiled slightly.

  But she was also subtly different. So much could be learned by sniffing the night air . . . so much information floated invisibly all around. Arren’s nostrils flared as he sifted the air. Something about her had changed since last evening, and while he couldn’t put a finger on it, he knew she had undergone some sort of experience that had shocked her profoundly. Arren wondered if it had anything to do with the moon’s behavior. The Induction had been very apparent to him, though he doubted any normal mortal would have seen it.

  He looked at the back of her neck, pale in the golden evening light, half-hidden by her hair. He could walk up behind her so softly and quickly that she would have no time to run, he could take her shoulders in his hands, bend her supple body, and lower his mouth to her naked skin revealed so temptingly below dark tendrils . . .

  Arren made himself fade into the shadows, before she felt him and turned. He pinched the bridge of his nose, making his feelings sink back just as his body had, under cover.

  Not fast enough. She’d turned and spotted him. Damn. He felt a moment of panic; very strange. She was just a girl, just another girl foolish enough to want the very thing he hated and shunned. But there she was, her oval face serious as she looked at him, her brows drawn into a frown just as they had been this morning when they’d met in the village.

  “Mr. Tyrell,” she said coolly.

  “Miss Summerhill.”

  At least he’d remembered her name. “Hot, isn’t it?” she said. Immediately feeling silly for being so trite, Laine continued, “I don’t know why I pictured Britain being cool and rainy all the time. So far it’s been a lot like Toronto in summer.”

  “Ah, you’re Canadian,” he responded. “At least I know enough not to accuse you of being American.”

  She smiled. “Oh, we get all bent out of shape over that.” She paused, watching his face. Perhaps she could learn what his expressions meant by observation and deduction. The scientific method. “Right now I’m waiting for my brother to turn up. He’s taking me to meet someone.”

  “Your phantom brother . . . Well, don’t let me keep you.”

  There was that snotty look again. Damned if she was going to let that pass. “Look, I . . . overreacted before. Mrs. Griffin tells me you’re not an axe murderer.” She gave him a challenging look and was glad to see him turn his eyes away.

  He looked up at the sky, now thickening into orange as the sun neared the horizon, and said. “Nice of her. I don’t generally behave quite so badly, but . . . ”

  “Yes, I k
now. You’re sorting something out. Care to tell me exactly what is so important?”

  That got a reaction. He was looking down into her eyes with the intensity of a spelunker scoping out a cave entrance. Embarrassed, she was just about to say something flippant and get away, when he said, “Miss Summerhill—”

  “Call me Laine.”

  “Thanks. I’m Arren.” He shuffled his feet, looking as if he wanted to tip an imaginary hat, and said, “Laine, do you have a few minutes?” He gestured toward a stone bench and, intrigued, she walked to it with him and they sat down.

  She waited attentively. He sat on the edge of the bench, elbows on knees, staring out. He looked grim and hawk-like, as if he were studying the distance for his prey. As if he were ready to take it down and kill it with his teeth. He said, “My sister, whom I loved very much, died not long ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” Laine said carefully. His tone was soft and even, but his body language was screaming.

  “I was adopted into her family as a child, but I thought of her as my own sister. Circumstances of her death were suspicious. Although there was no real investigation, I’m certain she was murdered.”

  “Murdered! Oh my God.” Her words were cliché, inadequate. His expression tightened even more.

  “I think I know who, or what, did it.”

  “What did it? How do you mean?”

  He looked at her from under his black brows, the gravity in his blue eyes making her draw back. “Something that exists in this land, something evil and heartless that’s reared its head recently.”

  In this land. Did he mean this particular area, or this country, or in the soil itself? Or the water. Cabyll ushtey. “How did she die?” Laine shivered, already knowing.

  “Drowned. Or so they said. It was declared a suicide, but I believe she was deliberately taken into the water and killed. Killed savagely, I might add. How it could be ruled a suicide is beyond me.”

  Laine chewed her bottom lip and looked at him. A common, garden-variety killer might have done it, but she was sure that’s not what he thought.

  She said, “Have you heard the local legends of the water horses, the cabyll ushtey as they call them?”

  He rubbed his chin and looked away. “Of course. Very popular stuff around here, unless you try to get someone to confirm or deny their actions. It’s all fodder for the tourists, just like the Loch Ness monster.”

  “We have a few lake monsters in Canada—like Ogopogo in Lake Okanagan. People love to try to see him.”

  “Yeah. It’s fun, it’s fake, it’s like X-Files stuff. Except it’s not.” Arren tilted his head back, looking up at the evening sky. “I warned you against going about alone, and I meant it. Whether you choose to believe in the cabyll or not, it’s very unwise to ignore the danger.”

  “Oh, I won’t ignore it.” Laine longed to tell him about her experience with Innis that day on the island, but wasn’t ready to trust this man as much as that.

  Laine didn’t know whether she hoped Innis would show up, or wanted him to be late. It was difficult to keep her thoughts from scattering.

  What if she laid her hand on Arren’s arm, just a brief friendly touch of sympathy at his loss? Would that chilly, brittle reserve ever melt? Would his skin feel cool or warm?

  She found herself leaning closer to him and consciously straightened.

  “Well, as I totally expected, my brother is late.” She spread her hands and smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “His name is Innis; he’s almost twenty, going on forty. He ditched school to do the backpacking thing and ended up here.”

  Arren looked at her sharply. “Why here? Any particular reason?”

  Was that a loaded question? Considering that there was a reason, and she was going to meet the reason that very evening, it had better be taken as fully loaded. How much did this man know? She shrugged and looked back at him guilelessly. “Not sure. He does his own thing. He’s more headstrong than I am.”

  Arren snorted softly. “Really. I shudder to think.”

  “You’d like him. Most people do, even when he’s being a pain.” How to describe Innis without sounding like a doting older sister? “He kind of sends off . . . waves of fun. You know that kind of person? He . . . ” She waved a hand vaguely. “He can generate his own good luck.”

  “Good luck? Like how?”

  “Like he always gets good parking spots when he needs them, the leather jacket he covets turns out to be on sale and in his size, cops decide he doesn’t need a speeding ticket after all, that sort of thing.” Again she shrugged. It was just Innis.

  She, however, had to do things the hard way. Stay in school, slog her way through it though she’d much rather be outside running or kayaking or just about anything. Work for Martin and try to keep Mom from slitting her wrists. While young Innis was off in some magical land learning how to do crazy things with the moon. Whatever.

  It was hard to keep a smile on her face, but she did.

  After a pause, Arren said, “Delsie was like that. Like your brother, she made life fun. When I was in my teens she was just a kid, and she liked to hang around with me. I’d be going rock-climbing, say, and she’d be right there leaning over my shoulder. ‘May I try on your harness?’ ‘Can I climb too?’ Of course I let her come and watch, but by the time she was old enough to do it, she was off at school most of the time; then she started getting boyfriends. You know how it goes.”

  “Hmm. Yeah.” Though his voice was light, she could see his pain in the set of his shoulders and the way his fingers gripped the bench’s seat. “You came here to investigate her death,” she said. “How did she happen to be in this area?”

  “Simple. She was lured here.”

  “Lured? How?”

  “Internet contact, which we found out much too late. A girlfriend confessed she knew about it, after Delsie’d been missing a couple of days and the police were involved. She was meeting ‘this smashing man’ who was going to get her into a music video, of all the stupid things. I still can’t believe she fell for it.” He rubbed his temples savagely, and Laine’s heart went out to him.

  “I’ve known women old enough to know better get tangled up with a creep online. Nothing like this though. I’m so sorry.”

  She placed her hand on his arm. Feeling him flinch at the unexpected touch, she drew back, chastened, but he reached for her hand and took it in his. Laine’s whole arm began to tingle as if the blood in her veins had been injected with small, hot sparks. A circle of mist closed around her vision, narrowing it to just his hand holding hers.

  She took a deep, slow breath. This was more than mere attraction. Something was going on. Her mind was expanding. The night’s sounds became sharper, the scents of the trees and grass and earth took on layers of fascination. She listened to her own heart thudding fast.

  “Laine,” he said, kneading her fingers absently. How could he be unaware of her reaction? “This is none of your concern. It happened and there’s nothing anyone can do about it now.”

  She could barely pay attention to what he was saying. She tried to get her heart to stop racing and looked up at him. His lips had creases at the corners, as if in some other life he smiled a lot. “I want you to be careful,” he said. “Understand that these fields and forests are not so peaceful as they look.”

  He looked sternly at her until she nodded, about all she could manage.

  Then he leaned down and dropped a kiss on her forehead. Just a light, soft kiss, but it sent a ripple of fire across her skin.

  She was raising a hand to wind her free hand around the back of his neck and pull him close when she heard an ostentatious throat-clearing.

  “Hello, sister dear,” said Innis, striding out of the shadows.

  Laine knew she must look like a naughty schoolgirl. Innis smirked knowingly. “Sorry to break up your tryst. It’s time to go, Laine.” He tipped a lazy salute to Arren, who still had hold of her hand.

  Letting go, she stood up. The tingling ripple faded,
and her brain contracted to its usual size. Or possibly smaller. “Um. Innis.” She felt Arren behind her as he too stood, and felt a distinct urge to lean back into his arms and chest and get the electricity flowing again. “Arren Tyrell, this is my brother, Innis Summerhill. Innis, Arren.”

  The two men eyed each other warily, then briefly shook hands. Ah, civility. How delightful that instead of snapping and growling, men could simply shake hands and pretend to be cordial.

  “Evening.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  There, that was over with. Neither of them looked all that pleased. Moving to Innis’s side, she said, “Arren, it’s been nice talking with you. Thanks for . . . the advice.”

  Innis took her elbow firmly and steered her along the path around the inn to the parking area at the front. “You certainly didn’t waste any time getting a boyfriend, did you?”

  She shrugged off his hand. “Back off, Innis. Don’t tell me you haven’t got a few by now.”

  Innis flashed her a look. “You think? Look, you want to go or not?”

  She glared at him as she got in the car. “I’m ready for whatever you’ve got.”

  Innis revved the Morris’s engine, popped the clutch and headed out.

  Chapter Seven

  Arren watched them go, feeling as if the night air had lost half its volume. He sucked in air to try to catch Laine’s scent, but it had already faded.

  He stretched, raising his arms and rolling his shoulders back till they cracked, trying to release the tension and knowing no mere physical action could possibly do that. He and this woman, little more than a stranger to him and to this land, had melded somehow when they’d touched. A resonance had been there, strong and ready to grow. He’d recognized it but pushed it aside, denied it. If he let himself embrace that sparking power as he’d wanted to embrace her, there would be no going back. She had felt it too; it was apparent in the stunned feedback of heat she sent him.

  He didn’t want to think about it. He couldn’t let anything happen that might set the sparks flaring into fire.