Water, Circle, Moon

by Sally McBride

  That Laine and Innis were related was plain to see in their brown eyes, their expressive faces, and in the way they moved. Less so in much of anything else. Their looks were opposites: brunette versus fair, tall versus compact; and there was something about their personalities that struck Arren visually, a kind of hard glitter in the boy versus a deep golden glow in his sister.

  Arren hoped that their differences outweighed the one thing they had in common, the one thing that bound them together beyond parentage, beyond blood, beyond sanity.

  He had felt the shock of another cabyll in his fingers, where Innis “Summerhill” had touched him. The secret was out.

  Laine’s brother, despite going by another man’s name, was Innis Fallon, son of Jaird Fallon. Until this moment, Arren had never met either of them. He had observed Innis in his cabyll shape, though only from a distance and in the dimness of moonlight. The handshake confirmed what he was.

  As for Jaird . . . the ancient creature was much too wary and seasoned a cabyll to be observed unless he wanted to be.

  But there was something far more sinister about Innis than the hot-blooded posturing of a young cabyll ushtey: the herd leader’s scent on him harsh as pain and loud as a shout. Jaird Fallon had his boy in thrall. Not just father—Jaird was master, and would not hesitate to use the boy in whatever way he desired.

  Was the arrival of the boy in his territory the impetus that had reawakened his bloodlust? After decades of quiescence, Jaird had only recently reverted to savagery. It was very likely that the arrival of his son, and the potential capture of the boy’s beautiful sister, had set him off.

  Innis and Laine were born of the same mother—the dam just as important as the sire. Had the woman abandoned her children to their fate so easily?

  Laine was the kind of female a cabyll stallion desired. And Innis was taking her to him. The boy had to know the danger he was taking her into.

  Arren, you idiot. You let her go.

  He ran a few steps after the car, faltered to a stop. It was long gone.

  Too late to track them. Their scent had faded fast, lost in the competing odors of car exhaust, road dust, other cars and people and animals.

  Arren cursed himself. The memory of Laine’s touch still heated his skin and clouded his thinking, already sluggish from exhaustion. This was exactly why he couldn’t let himself lust after her.

  He rubbed his eyes harshly, trying to force some semblance of alertness into his tired brain. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours since parting from his grieving family, and yet he had nothing to tell his adoptive parents other than what the police had already revealed. He needed to sleep if he was going to accomplish anything; obsessing over a girl he’d barely met was not helping him track a killer.

  The killer’s style was to take a lone girl with no local connection. Laine had her brother to look out for her . . . assuming the brother wasn’t as bloodthirsty as his sire.

  Damn!

  He could do nothing now but hope she’d be all right.

  The night air through the open window whipped Laine’s hair. Her grip on the door tightened with every curve.

  She figured Innis thought his driving was scaring her, but it wasn’t. Laine bared her teeth to the wind. A smattering of rain through the window hit her face, and she laughed at the cool sting.

  Innis glanced over at her, then quickly back at the road in front of him. “So who’s this guy that’s got you all hot and bothered?”

  She stuck her tongue out at him. Her reaction to Arren was not something she wanted to discuss with her baby brother. She could barely deal with it herself. “None of your business. And watch where you’re going.”

  He grinned. “Don’t worry. I’m an excellent driver. But really, who is he? Where’d you meet him?” He shifted down for a corner, then gunned the engine up again and pounded into a straight stretch. “He looks . . . familiar.”

  “How am I supposed to know who you’ve met? You never tell me anything.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Oh, I believe that. Busy learning magic tricks.” Though she kept her tone light, Laine felt her voice quaver. What Innis had done that afternoon was no trick. Trying to convince herself it was a hallucination brought on by hot weather and bad sandwiches was futile. “You changed into a damned horse, Innis. How the hell did you do that?”

  He didn’t even look at her. They were ripping along a quiet, leafy country lane with nothing to distinguish it from any other stretch of countryside except a tendency toward overhanging branches that slapped the car wetly. Then Innis braked hard, backed up, and nosed the tiny Morris into a hidden drive that wound under cover of huge, ancient oaks and a lush undergrowth of ferns and shrubs. The track finally petered out in a weedy circular drive. She could see no sign of a building. A dilapidated van was parked under a tree.

  Innis parked next to it, and they got out. The rain had stopped. Laine sniffed the air, drinking in the spicy scent of bracken. “This is it?” she asked, peering around dubiously for a sign of habitation.

  “There’s a path—see it? Come on.”

  “I don’t suppose you brought a flashlight,” grumped Laine. It wasn’t darkness that bothered her, it was what waited at the end of the path. Innis led her on eagerly, evidently able to see well. Or perhaps he was familiar with this route. Laine warded off eye-level branches, getting wetter and wetter and feeling her feet sink with a moist squelch into loamy soil. She was spending a lot of time being dragged hither and yon by her brother. Why couldn’t she meet this alleged father of his in a nice dry pub?

  They emerged into a small meadow. Laine could see the last russet glow of sunset behind thinning clouds, and a few stars to the east. The storm system was moving off, leaving fresh, cooler air in its wake.

  At the edge of the meadow crouched a cottage, furred round with sable-black pine branches. Innis headed straight for it through the tall grass, still holding her hand as if afraid she might try to bolt. Laine watched the grass for signs of lethal intent, but all it did was part obediently for them, then close up behind them as if combed straight. There was no light from the small, diamond-paned windows, nor smoke from the chimney. The thatch-roofed cottage was built of rough stone blocks up to shoulder level, then of thick, mortared planks. The windows glittered dimly as they approached, reflecting the dying light.

  Innis strode to the door and boldly knocked, then stood bouncing on the balls of his feet.

  A light flicked on inside. Aha. The place had electricity. Not exactly a forlorn wizard’s nest in the enchanted forest. Laine’s imagination pictured the door opening to reveal a high-tech pad complete with flat-screen TV and well-equipped bar. A bar would be good.

  Footsteps, and the glimpse of a tawny brown eye peering out the door’s small octagonal window. An eye exactly the color of Innis’s eyes.

  The door opened and everyone stood for a moment, scrutinizing one another.

  Laine saw a powerfully built, stocky man only slightly taller than Innis, carrying most of his bulk in his shoulders. He looked like a weightlifter, hard and fit. He wore corduroy trousers in olive green, and a tan shirt fraying at the collar and cuffs. His feet were bare. She judged him to be in his mid-fifties, though it was hard to tell. His face was deeply tanned, his nose prominent and rather crooked, as if it had been broken at some time. A thick head of brown hair swept back from a high, broad forehead above straight, equally thick brows. He could be called handsome, in a rough-hewn, longshoreman kind of way.

  He looked nothing at all like blond, slender Innis, except for the eyes. Somehow she’d pictured an ascetic, a pale and mystical keeper of arcane secrets. Not this sturdy, virile male.

  He stepped back and gestured for them to enter. “So, you’ve brought her.”

  “I have, just as you asked,” Innis replied, flinging his head back and flaring his nostrils as if he’d smelled something sharp. His voice sounded brittle to Laine, and he wouldn’t look at her. “Laine, this is my father, Jaird Fa
llon. Father, Laine Summerhill.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, put his head down and started to stalk about the small cottage, which, from what Laine could tell, consisted of one room with a sleeping loft overhead.

  Laine nodded at Jaird. “Glad to meet you.”

  She looked around, seeing a space crowded with clunky, old-fashioned furniture. Stacks of books on tables and floor. A dusty brass sextant perched on a column of crudely carved wood. Candles flickered on the mantelpiece, their feeble light overtaken now with the electric lights that cast their yellow cones. The sound of music from somewhere—a delicate, fast piano piece. The smell of leather and whisky and woodsmoke.

  She shivered. Jaird Fallon was nothing like Martin Summerhill. Martin was good, kind, ordinary. The long-suffering husband of a difficult wife, blessed with a handsome, healthy son—who now was to be stripped away. Another man had planted his seed.

  Jaird abruptly reached out, pulled her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. His lips were soft and warm, nuzzling briefly. An almost electric shock ran up Laine’s arm and made her gasp. She snatched her hand back, feeling as if she’d been turned on like one of the lights. So weirdly different from the feel of Arren’s touch. With him, such intimacy would be exciting; with Jaird Fallon it was presumptuous and wrong.

  This son of a bitch seduced Mother. And now he was trying to seduce her too. Creep.

  Fully alert now, Laine stepped back from the man as his eyes boldly assessed her. Could she understand, now, Bethea’s fall from grace? Imagine this man twenty years ago, in his prime. What temptations had he shown the wayward housewife?

  And why had Mother, pregnant, run home to the unsuspecting Martin Summerhill? Did Martin know the son he raised as his own was another man’s?

  “Please, sit down.” Jaird gestured toward a ratty sofa and a couple of sagging leather chairs.

  Innis threw himself into one of the chairs with the ease of familiarity. She lowered herself into the other. Jaird sprawled on the sofa, his arms wide and his legs spread.

  Laine felt as if she were trapped in the den of a wild animal, a musky hole full of blood and death. Her heart stared to race. Could she possibly get Innis to take her back to the inn, right now? Without looking like an idiot?

  But she was here for a reason. She had to find the courage to interrogate this man. Innis was her baby brother—what if he were being corrupted by lies, seduced by dark magic?

  She forced a smile and said, “What an interesting home you have. Secluded. Rustic.”

  Jaird’s glittering brown eyes were like an animal’s, alert and soulless. He inhabited his lair as a wolverine would a cave. “Thank you. Innis tells me you are a geographer, and that you live in Canada.” He was speaking softly, his voice like velvet. The wolverine was a cultured gentleman. But would he remain so if she challenged him?

  She felt a blush warm her face. Unaccountably, an urge to placate this man was skewing her thoughts. Careful. “I’m still working on my master’s in geology. Few job prospects right now, unfortunately. But yes, I’m Canadian.”

  “Ah. A country I have never visited.” He jumped up and padded barefoot to a side table laden with decanters and a stack of glasses looking none too clean. “Drink?”

  Absolutely. “All right.”

  Without asking, he poured three fingers of something golden into a glass and handed it to her, then poured for Innis and himself.

  She sniffed gingerly, anticipating an ancient Scotch, smelling of peat-smoke and ready to burn her throat out. But the smooth sweetness of cream sherry warmed her tongue.

  Her initial stab of primal fear was waning. Anger and suspicion were taking over. As Jaird sat again, she surveyed the space again. A bachelor’s dwelling, cluttered, dim and dusty. She detected a stale smell from the direction of the tiny kitchen nook and spotted the soft blue glow of an old-style computer monitor in a corner. She wondered if he got internet service out here. Smashing man.

  Innis and Jaird clinked glasses. “I’ve been bragging about my beautiful sister—now you see I wasn’t exaggerating.” He sipped his drink. “She has a lot of questions.”

  Laine suppressed a laugh. Damned right I do. Where to start? She had to hold her temper, watch for verbal traps and obfuscations. And she had to watch out for that urge to please—something Innis had, willingly or not, given in to. It was sickening, seeing him so subservient.

  Innis’s eyes never left Jaird’s face.

  Mentally girding her loins, she faced the man and said, “My brother tells me you are his biological father. I’d like to hear the story of how you and our mother met.”

  “Ah. Bethea.” He held her gaze and sipped his sherry as if pondering her request. Then he shrugged his heavy shoulders and tossed the rest of the sweet wine back in one gulp. Turning back to the table, he chose a bottle of whisky and sloshed a lot of it into his glass. “Bethea,” he said again, his voice still soft. He turned to Laine, waggling the bottle and raising his brows.

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll have a drop,” piped up Innis, quickly draining his sherry. Jaird stepped to Innis’s chair and poured. At barely over the legal drinking age here in Britain, Innis had already developed a taste for the strong stuff. Was he destined to have a drinking problem like Bethea?

  Alcoholic consumption aside, a strange interplay was going on here, and she wanted to understand it. She waited as Jaird sprawled again on the sofa and stretched his legs out.

  He looked up at them from under his brows. Laine couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or calculating. “I met Bethea Waters in the summer of 1990. She was traveling with a group of young people, I can’t remember any of them. Just some girls and boys with their backpacks and marijuana.” He took a gulp of his whisky. “But I will never forget her. Bethea . . . she was absolutely perfect. We were inseparable for a month.”

  Laine cocked her head. 1990. Jaird Fallon had met Mother in 1990. And she’d been born in the spring of 1991, twenty-three on her last birthday. Go ahead, do the math.

  “But . . . ” She looked at Innis. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. Innis had the same guilty look on his face he’d had when he was ten years old and he’d tried to blame her for setting a neighbor’s shed on fire. She looked back at Jaird. “But that’s years before Innis was born. How . . . ?” Her voice sounded thin in her ears.

  She put it all together. Jaird’s hair, his eyes, the timing. The proprietary way he looked at her. And Innis’s attitude. Brittle, knowing, and somehow embarrassed. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  Jaird Fallon was her father too.

  Chapter Eight

  Laine felt as if she’d smacked into a tree. Shocked, stunned. Then intensely skeptical. But it all made a kind of gut-wrenching sense.

  She shot her brother a glare of pure hatred, which he ignored. Innis had known the facts all along. Why couldn’t he have just spat it out?

  Because it was all a game to him. She closed her eyes until her anger was under control.

  When she opened them, Jaird was contemplating his glass, smiling to himself. Smug bastard.

  So much for her childhood fantasies of her mother in a secret marriage to a famous artist, or a rock star, or any other kind of romantic idiocy. Stupid me. If only she had a real dad . . . her own true father who would care for her, love her, protect her . . . But she had something better than a fantasy, she had Martin. A surge of love and gratitude for him rose in her. Martin was the one who had cared for her, loved her, protected her.

  She should have seen this coming. She’d asked questions when she was old enough to be curious, but all Mother had given her were vague, unsatisfying references to a “man I met overseas; we were in love, but it was impossible for us to be together . . . ”

  Bethea had found Martin Summerhill long before Laine was old enough to notice anything lacking in her life. Martin was Dad, always had been, and mother and daughter had taken his name. Flighty, ethereal Bethea had grabbed hold of the solid young man and sunk deep into him, as i
f he were a big comfy couch.

  Martin was her father, not this wild barefoot seducer who screwed with tourist girls and then abandoned them.

  But . . . it was Mother who left him. Ran home to Canada and a new man.

  Then, years after Laine’s birth, she’d left her supposedly happy home and met her lover for a tryst. And along came Innis.

  Jaird was watching her now, his hooded eyes enigmatic. Bitterly, she examined him. What did they have in common? Hair and eye color, yes. Cheekbones, perhaps. Body shape, thoroughly different. Inconclusive evidence.

  She remembered then what he was: a creature of magic, a cabyll ushtey. Innis had said he could answer all her questions.

  Would he give her the truth?

  “How did it happen? Very simple . . . we took one look at each other. I couldn’t resist her, nor she me. Bethea was beautiful, free and innocent—not innocent of love, but innocent of the world and the dangers she might encounter.”

  “You being one of the dangers.”

  He looked right at her and said, “Yes, I was.”

  He made no attempt at all to soften his declaration. She looked at Innis, who hadn’t moved and didn’t seem to be about to. See, his sly smirk said. Told you he was special.

  Jaird crossed one bare foot over the other, letting his legs stretch out. She could see the tendons strung tight under the wiry hairs on his ankles, the yellow lamplight outlining the hard edges of bone under his tanned skin.

  “I didn’t want to hurt her,” he reminisced. “I made love to her and begged her to stay with me. I begged even harder when she became pregnant with you.” He took a sip from his glass, and shrugged. “She wanted to go home. I tried to . . . induce her to stay. She wouldn’t listen.”

  She wouldn’t obey. Laine could read between the lines. This wasn’t just a man who fell in love and got dumped, no matter how gentle and hurt he might appear now. “How did she happen to meet you?”

  “Here, in this village.” He gave her a half smile, one side of his generous mouth curling up. “We had a few weeks of happiness.” He sighed and looked mournfully into his whisky.