Water, Circle, Moon

by Sally McBride

  “Well, since they can’t exist solely as horses without risking capture, most cabyll set up lives as humans, complete with jobs, homes, plausible backgrounds.”

  “I guess life as a horse would be awful if you had a human mind. You’d be fed and cared for but expected to die after fifteen or twenty years. Plus, you might be mistreated—whipped, castrated.” Even a valued steed, pampered and well fed in a clean stable, would have a life that was mind-numbingly boring.

  “Yes. Intolerable except for the most shy and fearful. There are more than a few cabyll existing among natural horses, eking out a minimal sad life.”

  She had a thought. “What’s it like, I wonder, for a cabyll ushtey to be around real horses? Are they related?”

  “Only as wine is related to the soil from which the grapevines grow.” He smiled at her, a slight curl of his lip, but it was accompanied by a look that connected them somehow, as if he felt she understood him and the things he was telling her. Unbelievable things, yet she did believe. She’d seen what Innis had done, and this was corroborating what Jaird had touched on. That intimate look started her blood fizzing.

  She remembered something then, the remark Innis had made about the cabyll ushtey. Pray you don’t meet one in the water.

  “Not all of them are shy and invisible. They can be savage. They can kill.”

  “Oh, yes.” He assessed her as if gauging her strength. Laine lifted her chin. He said, “There are four herds I know of in this part of England, living in a radius of about fifty miles from here, each guarding its territory from incursion by another. Usually things are peaceful, individuals and groups maintaining their cover and not interacting with others unless absolutely necessary. I have managed to meet with representatives of two of those herds, and part of my reason for being here is to meet with the others.”

  “One of them being Jaird Fallon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? Do you suspect him, or someone in his herd, of killing your cousin?”

  “Frankly, I do. Fallon in particular.”

  “Do you have evidence to support this?”

  He shook his head. “I have hardly any evidence at all. Delsie’s body was found in the river that borders two herds and passes through land controlled by another. Streams and tributaries wind all over, one of the reasons the cabyll live here. No way to know where she entered the water.”

  “And no one is stepping forward to confess. Or point the finger.”

  He smiled coldly. “Hardly. My . . . instinct, I suppose, leads me to put one of the herds on the back burner. Narrows it down somewhat.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The leader is one of the shy and invisible types—fearful to the point of paranoia in fact—and he encourages his folk to live quietly and simply, not changing any more than absolutely necessary.”

  “So . . . it’s necessary to change into horse form?”

  “Yes and no. If a cabyll tries to deny his or her nature forever, insanity can result.”

  Her stomach clenched painfully. So, even if she could somehow convince Innis never to change again, he’d risk madness. She knew him—he’d never give up such a wondrous ability, no matter how close it took him to capture or death.

  “Is it inevitable?”

  “Jury’s still out on that one,” he said, his voice sounding suspiciously brisk. Perhaps sensing her fear, he looked at her with concern. “You okay? I’m not the ultimate authority on things cabyll, you know. There’s lots of variation within the different groups and individuals.”

  She nodded, getting control again. After all, she reflected wryly, who could tell whether or not Innis was crazy already? More seriously, she realized that Arren must suspect Innis of being cabyll. How could she convince this vengeful man that her brother was not a killer?

  She asked, “Just how many cabyll are we talking about?”

  “Not many at all. Each herd is led by one stallion, the alpha male, and consists of about two dozen or so females, youngsters, and subordinate males. They are set up sort of like extended families, or close friends, or co-workers. The area I’m searching contains fewer than a hundred.”

  “And you’ve eliminated many of those because they’re the shy ones.” At his nod, she continued. “But couldn’t their desire to remain invisible lead to killing in self-defense?”

  “It could. But this killing was not self-defense. Delsie was fifteen. She couldn’t have frightened a kitten. It was premeditated, planned, and bloody.”

  Laine bit her lip unhappily. There might be no way to absolve Innis from Arren’s suspicions. Jaird she didn’t care about. He was on his own.

  Arren shifted, drawing slightly away from her. Gone was the intimacy of earlier that night, when their bodies had touched and electricity had flowed. He was trying to maintain emotional as well as physical distance, she understood. Who could blame him? He was on a mission, and she might be in the enemy camp.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to center herself. She needed to know more about just what it meant to be cabyll ushtey.

  Was it magic or was it death?

  Or did this sort of magic lead inevitably to death? If so, no matter how tempting it was, she didn’t want it for herself or for Innis.

  Arren shifted again restlessly and said, “You were at Jaird Fallon’s cottage. Can you remember where it is, how you got there?” His voice was soft but with an edge of urgency.

  She opened her eyes. Think with your brain, not your body. “Innis drove us there.” She waved a hand vaguely in the air. “I had my eyes closed most of the time—my brother is a maniac behind the wheel.” She produced a small, carefree laugh, hoping it would cover the tension she felt. In truth, she doubted that she could find the place on her own anyway.

  He rubbed the bump on his nose. “Hmm. I’ve been trying to meet with the man, but he’s damnably hard to find. I know the general area he lives in, I’ve even gone on that Earth-from-orbit website trying to spot signs of habitation, but the view is hazy. No detail gets through.”

  “That happened to me when I tried to see the Blackhorse Inn. Google Earth just won’t focus.”

  “And when I tramp around the area, those damnable streams and copses move around like stage scenery. I end up following myself in a circle.”

  “I know how that feels.” She thought about it. “I can ask Innis if he’ll set up a meeting. I don’t guarantee he’ll go for it.”

  “I’d be surprised if he did.” Arren sighed and stretched again.

  She was deciding she’d better wish him good night and head for bed when he changed the subject. “Laine, you were coming up from the stables when I . . . ”

  “Pounced on me?” She looked at him sideways, half-smiling.

  “Well, yes. Sorry about that.”

  I’m not. “Don’t worry about it. Yes, I’d just been to see a new filly they had to sedate last night. But she’s not there.”

  He looked at her sharply. “Not there?”

  “I assume they had to send the horse back. Petra said she was too wild.”

  Arren’s face went blank, but his body stiffened.

  She said, “Do you know anything about it?”

  “Nothing.” He stood up abruptly and favored her with a wide, unconvincing smile. “It’s late. I’d better be going.”

  “What? But—”

  “I’ll walk you round to the door.” He took her firmly by the elbow and steered her out of the garden. She was about to dig in her heels when he said, “Let’s get together tomorrow and compare notes. I’d like to hear more about you, not just your new friend Mr. Fallon.”

  Well, that was nice, she thought. If he meant it. “All right. What about joining me for breakfast? I’m going for a run first, so how about nine o’clock?”

  He watched her key open the door and said, “Sounds perfect. See you then.” He tipped her a brief salute and was gone. The sound of his motorcycle kicked up, then receded.

  Laine locked the door behind h
er and set the key on Mrs. Griffin’s lobby desk. Home safe.

  Feeling the day land on her like physical weight, she climbed the stairs to her room and got ready for bed. While the bath was running, she picked up the ivory horse and stroked its wavy mane with one finger. “What do you know about all this?” she asked it. She looked into its tiny, fierce eyes. “Tell me.” No response. Thank goodness for that. She’d had about enough for one day. But caressing its smooth coolness calmed her, the feel of Arren’s touch lingering but becoming less demanding.

  The man was as much a mystery as everything else around here.

  Chapter Ten

  Laine opened her eyes at six-thirty the next morning, exactly as planned. She had always been able to set her internal clock and wake at the time she wanted. It was simple—she closed her eyes, pictured a clock’s hands whirling around hour after hour and then stopping at the time she needed to rise. If she concentrated, it never failed to work. Besides, she had had to learn the trick to avoid being late to school, since her mother never got up in time to wake her and the alarm clock had let her down all too often. As Martin said, you gotta rely on yourself, sweetie.

  She was out the inn’s door by seven, in shorts, tank top, and running shoes, her hair in its usual ponytail. She left her MP3 player behind, the better to think and observe.

  She ducked under the bridge and followed a well-packed dirt trail on the west side of the Syn. The air was cool, though the sun was already starting to penetrate the early-morning mist.

  Her body on automatic, she jogged along a flat stretch under willow trees whose long yellow branches hung down like a damsel’s tresses. They bent to follow her as she passed, then swung back to dip their ends into the water.

  She had already seen more magical phenomena than she had ever dreamed of. Every moment drew her farther from normal reality. It was exactly what she’d always wanted . . . but what about Innis? Did she have a chance of slowing his headlong plunge into a world of dangerous magic?

  Did she want to stop him . . . or join him?

  She’d gone a scant few hundred yards downstream when a flash of something moving caught her eye out in the river. Jogging in place, she peered out over the smooth-flowing water. Was someone waving to her? There was a small sandbar in the middle of the river about thirty feet away, with a thin tuft of reeds and shrubs clinging to it. A shape that looked suspiciously human had washed up onto the shallows.

  The willow branches overhead began to probe her shoulders and neck. Impatiently she shrugged them off, unimpressed by such feeble daylight magic, and pushed her way through thick reeds to the river’s edge, staring at the shape that sprawled half in and half out of the water.

  It was human. A woman. Laine could see light auburn hair, tangled and streaming, and a pale arm sticking out of the water at an unnatural angle. Not waving. Flopping eerily back and forth as the water pulled at it.

  Laine ripped off her shoes and waded in, squelching through soft mud into deeper water. She didn’t stop to think, wishing only that she’d brought her phone. Though the river wasn’t more than waist-deep here, the rocks and mud were treacherous underfoot. Before she’d made it halfway there, she felt like throwing up. The current dragged at her feet, threatening to knock her over. She felt a horror of being immersed and swept away.

  By the time she reached the sandbar, she was gasping and scrambled gratefully to land, shivering convulsively. It was almost as if the water had been trying to drown her. The river was playing its tricks again.

  Cautiously she approached the body, which looked remarkably dead. It was a young woman, pale as the ivory horse, her head arched back and bobbing horribly along with her arm as the current tugged at her hair. She was naked, and her slim body was mutilated by gashes as if something had been tearing at her flesh.

  Laine stood panting, unable to look away. She had no idea what to do. Should she check for a pulse? Swim back across and run for help? Nausea rose, but it wasn’t for the dead body: it was for the river. She did not want to get back in the water.

  “Hi!” called a voice from shore. Laine jerked around, startled. “What’re you doing out there? Are you all right?”

  A stout middle-aged woman dressed in baggy pants, purple sweatshirt, and floppy hat had pushed her way to the water’s edge. Her small white dog bounced around her feet. Laine wiped water from her eyes, shivering. “It’s . . . it’s a woman. I think she’s dead.”

  Laine looked back at the body. Of course she’s dead. Empty green eyes stared at the sky as if shocked by its pureness and clarity, as if she knew how very awful she looked. Her long chestnut hair was a tangled mass among the branches. Laine’s vision started to go white around the edges and she sat on a rock, putting her head between her knees.

  “What’s that you say? Dead?”

  Laine nodded, hoping the woman could see the gesture. Apparently she did, for she called, “Hang on. I’ll call for help.” When Laine looked up, she saw the woman speaking urgently into her phone, her dog tucked under one arm.

  Laine’s watch told her that only nine minutes passed before the first cop showed up, though it seemed much longer. Her sopping clothes made her shiver, or maybe it was the corpse she sat by. Or maybe it was the river sliding by, its green coils calling her.

  The constable parked his car, hurried to the riverbank and immediately splashed in, floundering across. “Are you all right, miss?” She nodded wordlessly. “What’s your name, please?” She told him. He asked her to move aside and spent some time examining the woman without touching her, speaking rapidly into his phone. Meanwhile, a fire truck, an ambulance and emergency medical team arrived, pulling up next to the police vehicle on the road’s verge. One of the EMTs joined them on the sandbar and quickly pronounced death. Not that there could be any doubt.

  The crime must have happened somewhere upstream, the body tossed into the river to cover the murderer’s tracks. If it was a murder, and not an animal attack, which was what it looked like. For a moment Laine clung to the idea that it might have been a dog attack. But then why was the woman naked?

  Forget the dog theory. The cabyll ushtey had done this.

  She shivered. Seeing this, the officer said, “Let’s get you to the other side again, eh miss? And we’ll need to take a statement.” He escorted her across to the mainland before she could object. She was glad of his strong arm to steady her, but this time the water was easier to move through and did not set off nausea. Soon he was joined by an Inspector and several Scene of Crime Officers—SOCOs—who deployed an inflatable dinghy. It did brisk duty shuttling people back and forth, a husky constable manning the oars.

  In no time there was a line of cars and pedestrians gawking and taking pictures.

  Laine, who had been given a blanket and a brief examination by one of the firemen, caught the attention of the medical technician as he returned from the sandbar, holding his bag high and dry as he stepped out of the dinghy. “Can you tell me how she died? Was it an animal attack?”

  “Sorry, miss. I report to the police and the coroner, or in this case deputy coroner.” She followed him to his vehicle, where he packed away his equipment neatly. “I’ll hand off to the DC when she shows up,” he said. “She shouldn’t be long, she’s just over to Wasperton for a suicide.”

  “But she’ll be here soon?”

  “Soon as she can, luv,” said the fresh-faced, ruddy-skinned man.

  He wasn’t going to spill anything. The corpse still sprawled exactly where Laine had found it, now surrounded by officers cordoning off the site and performing their rituals of recording the death of a human being.

  Laine eyed the crowd of locals as she crouched on a patch of grass, warming up under her blanket. Could one of them be the killer, here to enjoy the show? She recognized the portly middle-aged man she’d seen on the inn’s stairs, dressed as before in walking shorts, chatting animatedly with a group of townspeople; also Petra, who stood apart, arms crossed as she morosely observed the scene. Laine clos
ed her eyes, praying that what Arren had implied last night was not true. Jaird couldn’t have done it, could he? Innis certainly not. Although, from a legal point of view, she supposed it was possible. She rejected the idea immediately, but it chilled her.

  I hope Innis has a nice fat alibi.

  And what about Arren Tyrell? He should have shown up by now, attracted like the townsfolk by the activity; at least he should be wondering why she hadn’t joined him for breakfast. Arren didn’t strike her as the sort of person who would foolishly shove his victim into the local river where it was sure to be found. That would be sloppy and arrogant. Arren might be arrogant, but she was sure he wasn’t sloppy. She groaned, then opened her eyes at the sound of footsteps. A fiftyish man in a suit and tie, large rubber boots on his feet and a look on his square, clean-shaven face that made Laine stand up and get ready for business.

  The man stuck out his hand. “Detective Inspector Ted Watley, Miss . . . ?”

  His hand was wonderfully warm. She hated to let it go. “Summerhill. Laine Summerhill.”

  “How d’ye do. So you spotted this poor young lady, did you?” His smile was gentle, but his eyes were piercing. “You were out for a wee run by the looks of it.”

  “Er, yes. I’m staying at the Blackhorse Inn. I saw her as I ran along the path, and thought maybe I could help. I . . . I didn’t realize she was dead till I got out there.”

  “And when was this, approximately?”

  “Shortly after seven . . . maybe seven-twenty.” Her thin shorts and top were almost dry. She shucked off the itchy woolen blanket and rubbed her shoulders. “I’m a visitor here, I have no idea who she is . . . ” She stopped talking. Of course she knew.

  She hoped Detective Inspector Watley wouldn’t assume that clamming up was a sign of guilt. Who else could the woman be but the horse locked in the stable, reverted to human form and then savagely killed?

  She covered her eyes for a moment. It couldn’t be. It was too crazy. Petra had told her what happened. The horse had been sent home. Or . . . shifted back to human form and killed as punishment for fighting against her fate.