Laine had been christened into the Anglican church, though she rarely attended other than for weddings and funerals. She felt a twinge of guilt at seeking solace now.
Solace and maybe some answers.
The word of Christ ruled here, in this modest house of worship, but did it hold any sway over the shifting forests and magic creatures she had encountered?
She licked her dry lips and squeezed her eyes shut. “If anyone is listening, can You tell me what the hell—sorry—is going on?”
She opened her eyes, peered self-consciously around the empty church, then settled back in the pew and tried to focus her mind. Laine had made her share of sarcastic remarks about the hypocrisy of organized religion over the years in her sophomoric assurance that rational beings didn’t need imaginary father-figures in some floating heaven. Particularly deities that threw such parties as the Spanish Inquisition. Obedience to some ancient goat-herders’ idea of truth was for credulous children. But now, with rationality pretty much eliminated, it was time to open her mind.
In fact, Laine reflected, didn’t the presence of magic and magic beings imply that there was a God? For if there was evil—if there was a Devil, there must be a God.
If she could believe in cabyll ushtey, then why not believe in God?
In fact, perhaps she had better. In a case of good versus evil, Laine would like to know she had someone to rely on in the ‘good’ category.
She shivered and clenched her hands tightly. The small, ancient church was constructed of gray stone that rose into peaked arches overhead. It was decorated sparsely with candles, an embroidered green altar cloth and two tall bronze stands supporting vases of wilting gladiolus. Laine acknowledged a deep sense of confusion. She had resisted believing in God partly because she was afraid there wasn’t one. To be without a deity was to be alone in the Universe, a meaningless speck with no purpose other than live, reproduce, and die.
Yet to believe in God was to abandon faith in the sweep and power of time, the relentless urge of human life to strive and grow and create. If all our accomplishments are credited to God, then do we truly owe him our souls? It would seem so.
And did a creature that could change from man to horse and back again have a soul?
Laine had a chilling thought. What if these shapeshifters were akin to the Devil?
Or perhaps they were a human-animal hybrid. But surely that would be physically impossible. Laine found belief in a spirit world easier than a wholesale ransacking of Darwin’s theory.
This was starting to get much too complicated.
She had to deal with this somehow, not sit in futile speculation. Could there be a way to tame and civilize the cabyll? Introduce them, in their horse form for all to see, to normal society? She suspected it would be impossible, like trying to tie down a hurricane. And what would “normal society” do with them? Besides fear and shun them, or capture and dissect them?
Somehow she had to enter the inner circle of knowledge and magic. But did she have the strength and courage to approach the fire and not be burned?
“Oh, Mother,” whispered Laine. “Can I run home and join you in your vodka bottle?” Her chin quivered at the memory of Bethea, hiding behind walls, her spirit quenched by alcohol and fear. Had Jaird lied when he proclaimed her willingness?
Laine let her head fall forward onto her clasped hands. The pew’s satiny old wood was cool and soothing; it had surely felt the tears of many a parishioner begging for salvation. What did she want?
If she could ask God for one thing, what would that be?
Safety? Forgetfulness? Answers?
Her brain kept going around in circles. All she could see was Jaird’s feet changing into the hooves of a stallion. Had he killed the girl in the river? She was horribly certain he had.
She knitted her fingers together desperately. She wasn’t praying. Well, perhaps just a bit . . .
Laine opened her eyes and stood up, itching with frustration. No one, not Christ or his Father, or even the local rector, was going to come and give her a reasonable explanation for all this. She turned to leave, seeing a small black and white cat sitting as if on guard at the door. Its yellow eyes stared directly into hers; then it hissed, fluffed its tail and bolted for cover.
No help there. She might as well head back to her room at the inn for a shower.
A lovely shower to wash the mud and the cold sweat of fear away, and then dinner out where there were lots of ordinary, friendly people. Yes. Her longing for the normal and ordinary made her spirit stiffen.
She needed reality.
She thought she knew just the place to find a nice warm part of it.
Chapter Fourteen
Laine heard the noise from the pub long before she got there. The place was jammed to the rafters, and for a long moment she seriously considered not even trying to get in, never mind getting a beer and some fish and chips.
Every able-bodied man and woman in town—and a few not so able, augmented by canes and walkers—must be here tonight, and all of them were gabbling about the woman in the river.
Laine ran a hand over her slicked-back hair, still damp from her shower. She was dressed in one of her last remaining clean outfits, a cream-colored skirt and a pale green tank-top. She had to find a laundry soon, or learn to pound her clothes clean on river rocks. She had even put on earrings. Could it be that she was hoping to see Thundercloud Man here tonight?
Yes, damn it.
What did that man know that she didn’t? And how could she make him tell her?
Then, miraculously, she spotted Innis. Might have known he’d be in the middle of things. He was crowded close to the bar and had his arm around a thin, angry-looking blonde. A female, by God. Judging by her scowl, the blonde was about to give Innis a piece of her mind and march out. Laine suppressed a smirk and walked forward, weaving between the locals who parted for her grudgingly.
An elderly gent winked at her and nudged his companion, another whiskery oldster. “Eh! Here’s the lass found the poor lady in the water.” Both of them looked her up and down. “Can we treat you to a pint, me dear?”
Laine smiled and shook her head. “Thanks, but another time, okay?” With smiles and nods at all the curious eyes upon her—some friendly, many suspicious—she avoided more conversation and shoved her way toward Innis. She wanted to scope out the girlfriend before she got away.
So, Innis was into girls. Not that it was important . . . girls or boys, it was all love, but someday she wanted to be an aunt.
Laine intercepted an evil look from Innis’s blonde, who became possessive now that another female was closing in. On a devilish impulse, Laine cruised up to Innis, took him by the shoulders and planted a lingering kiss on his left ear. Ah, payback. Innis sputtered and almost spilled his drink, which smelled like rum and coke.
The blonde snarled, “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” and bared her teeth.
“Oh, for God’s sake, she’s my sister,” snapped Innis. “Laine, try to behave. Anya, love, this is my older—quite old, really elderly—sister Laine. She’s just visiting and will soon be gone.”
Anya’s pale eyebrows went up. “Oh. Sorry.” She cast Innis an evil look, but extended a hand to Laine. “Glad to meet you.”
Anya was small, with creamy skin that followed every contour of a body devoid of fat. Like a long-distance runner or a competitive bike-racer, she was pared down and concentrated into a nubbin of strength. Her face was narrow and angular but very pretty, her large green eyes bright with curiosity as she studied Laine.
Anya smiled and turned to Innis, lifting her empty glass. Finally she dug her elbow into Innis’s ribs.
“What? Oh, right.” He rolled his eyes. “Allow me to buy you charming ladies a drink. Laine, what do you want?”
“Whatever Anya is having.”
“Dubonnet and soda, coming up.” He plunged into the sea of people surrounding the bar, most of whom were taller than him. Yet he managed to get the attention of the
bartender, shouted his drink order and stood tapping his foot impatiently.
Laine turned to Anya, glad of a moment alone with her. “So, you two are . . . ?”
Anya heaved a sigh and rolled her wiry shoulders as if to release painful kinks. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. At times I wish he’d just vanish off the face of the earth.”
Laine laughed. “I understand, believe me.” She spotted a table open up as an elderly couple left, grabbed Anya and hustled her over to grab it before anyone else did.
“Oh, well done!” Anya climbed aboard a stool and snagged another one for Innis, who waved at them and gave a thumbs-up. “So Laine, you must be visiting from Canada?”
“Yes. Got here just in time for the . . . ” Laine hesitated. She couldn’t say “for the death,” it would sound awful.
But Anya picked up on it right away. Her face grew serious. “The woman in the river. Yes. That’s what your brother and I were fighting about—he wants to pack me off home to Mum and Dad in London, and I don’t want to go.”
“Funny, I have a guy who’s trying that on me, too.” Laine looked around hopefully. “Kind of thought I might see him here tonight.”
“Well, it’s a small village—I spend a lot of time around here and know just about everyone. What’s his name?”
“Arren Tyrell. He’s tall, dark, and grumpy.”
Anya nodded. “Ah. I do know him. New in town. Bit of a chilly drink of water, but there’s no accounting for taste.” She grinned.
“Well,” countered Laine, “here you are with my delightful brother. Who’s got questionable taste now?”
“Touché.” She looked up as Innis approached, her lips curling in a smile.
Innis could certainly do worse, thought Laine, already feeling a sense of female solidarity with Anya. Not that she’d ever take sides against Innis. If Anya broke his heart, she’d track the woman down and kill her. Or at least pull out a few hanks of that silky white-blond hair. It was more likely, though, that Innis would be the one doing the damage.
“Thanks, love,” purred Anya, plucking her glass from Innis’s full hands. She’d got over her anger, or perhaps was merely waiting for later to resume the argument. Innis had got himself a refill too. He sat sideways, one foot tapping the floor, the other hooked around the stool’s leg, and began fidgeting, flicking his hair, drumming his fingers and pushing drops of liquid around on the glossy table top. He scanned the room critically.
“Look at this lot,” he sneered. “Gathered here to gloat over another death.”
“Here we go,” drawled Anya.
Laine jumped in. “Innis, they’re not gloating! People are naturally concerned and worried. You’re such a phony cynic sometimes.”
He gave her a hooded look and Laine braced for a counterattack, but then his eyes shifted and his lips curled. “Well, look who’s here. Laine, sit up straight and stick your tits out, it’s your boyfriend.”
With an immense effort of will, Laine prevented herself from looking around, and from pushing Innis’s drink into his lap.
Arren spotted them, commandeered a lone vacant stool in passing and plunked it down between Laine and Anya. He and Innis traded curt nods, and Arren said, “Hello, Anya. Nice to see you.”
Anya calmly sipped her drink and batted her eyes at Arren while snuggling up to Innis’s shoulder.
Arren was dressed in faded jeans that fit his ass perfectly, a soft white broadcloth shirt that looked like a well-worn favorite, and a lightweight gray jacket. He looked tired, but alert.
Innis squinted at Arren, a nasty gleam in his eye. He was looking for trouble somewhere, and if Anya and Laine wouldn’t give it to him he’d stir it up elsewhere. Laine tried to think of a conversational gambit that didn’t involve drowning, death, or cabyll ushtey. Nothing came.
Innis leaned forward, smiled charmingly and said, “So, Tyrell—that’s right, isn’t it? Tyrell? What’s your take on this killing? Any idea who might have done it?”
Arren gave Innis a chilly stare, then abruptly stood up. “I’ll get us some menus. And I’d better catch up with you drunkards before I start naming suspects. Laine, can I get you another?”
“I think I’m okay.” Someone had better keep a cool head around here.
Anya gave Innis a warning look, but all he did was grab her hand and kiss it. When he started to go up her arm, she yanked it away, unable to keep from laughing. “Stop it! What will people think?”
“People be damned.” He glared at Arren’s back. In a theatrical whisper, he stated, “I think Tyrell’s our man. Laine, don’t you think he’s got a . . . wild streak?”
She knew what he meant by that, but knowing Arren’s hatred of cabyll she discounted it. She wondered if Anya knew what Innis was. “Shut up,” she snapped. “I like him and I want you to stop being such a prick.”
“I can be more of a prick, you know.” He drained his drink and smiled evilly. “How’s this: your boyfriend is a shapeshifter and he’s out of control—”
Anya clacked her half-full glass down and slid off her stool. “That’s enough! Innis, I’m leaving—are you coming with me?” Her voice was hard but her body language held a promise of sensuality that had Innis’s attention at once.
“Christ, Anya, the night’s just getting started.” With a transparent show of reluctance he got to his feet and dug in a pocket for a tip, which he tossed onto the damp table. Together they threaded their way out.
Arren returned with menus and a pint in time to see them go. “Something I said?”
Laine shook her head. “No. Just my brother being a pr— jerk. I liked Anya—do you know her well? I have to keep tabs on the wee lad, you understand.”
“I’ve seen her around. Her family lives in London and has a country house nearby, I believe.”
Innis had got himself an upper-crust girl. Well, good on him. Laine pursed her lips, wanting details, then decided to let Innis and his love life go for the night. She leaned back, watching Arren. He looked distracted, but then he almost always looked distracted. “Actually, it’s you I’d like to know more about.”
He gave her a look she couldn’t interpret. Impatient? Wary? “What would you like to know?”
She widened her eyes disarmingly. “Like, where are you from, do you have brothers or sisters, read any good books lately, that kind of thing.” Her plan being to ease him into conversation with safe topics, then tell him about what she had seen today.
But it wasn’t working. Arren’s brows had drawn together, and he buried himself in the menu for a while. Then he put it down. “I guess I’m just not hungry,” he admitted, looking at Laine. “Please go ahead and order something. The fish is good here.”
“Thanks, I will. I’m starving.” She perused the list of specials. Steak-and-kidney pie. Plaice with chips and mushy peas. Hearty bean soup. She’d be willing to bet they weren’t selling much hot soup on a sweltering night like this. “So, what are mushy peas, anyway?”
He chuckled and seemed to loosen up. “Overcooked, artificially green squashed peas in a cup. Nasty.”
“Maybe if I beg I can get them to ditch the peas and just give me the fish and chips.”
“I’m sure if you merely smiled, you could get whatever you wanted.”
Laine allowed a Mona Lisa smile to touch her lips. “And yet you’re still not telling me anything about yourself.”
He rearranged his long, jean-clad legs under the wee round table and acknowledged her point. “Well, if you insist.” The red-cheeked waitress hurried by and he ordered the fish for Laine. “Right. All about me. I was born 29 years ago—to whom it’s not clear—on the Isle of Man, spent some months in an orphanage, and was adopted into a very nice family in the Lake Country north of here. I don’t have any biological brothers or sisters that I know of. I’ve told you about my sister, Delsie. I also have a younger brother, Kevin. As to books, I don’t get a lot of time to read anything but government documents and dry-as-dust scientific papers, unfortunately.”
“And your biological father? Do you have a good relationship with him? If I’m being impertinent, please stop me.”
“No, you’re not.” She gnawed on a fingernail for a moment, thinking. “That’s . . . that’s something I was hoping to ask you about. You remember I said my brother had introduced me to an interesting friend of his? Jaird Fallon?”
Arren nodded, his expression carefully shuttered.
“Turns out this guy claims to be Innis’s father.” Arren didn’t react. So far, so good. Laine considered her next words, leaning closer to Arren’s ear. “He’s one of them, a cabyll ushtey,” she muttered. “Which explains a lot about Innis.” Arren’s face gave away nothing, damn him. Oh, hell. Just say it. “He said he’s my father too.”
“Did he indeed.” Arren leaned forward, closing the short distance between them, and looked deeply into her eyes. Then he reached out a finger, ran it lightly along the curve behind her left ear, picking up the thin film of sweat there, then brought his finger to his tongue and tasted it.
Laine tingled right down to her toes. She clapped a hand to her ear as her mouth dropped open, but words failed her.
“Forgive me,” said Arren. “But I can generally tell if someone is cabyll. There’s a chemical change that can be detected if you know what you’re looking for.” He reached for his drink and took a sip, contemplating her mildly.
The trail his finger had left behind her ear was making her want to throw her head back and offer her neck to him. Jesus. Had her panic this afternoon turned her utterly primitive? “I’d know if I was changing into a horse.”
“You might not know it. You might just have experienced things that were . . . unexplainable.”
“Well, I haven’t.” Liar.
He nodded, acquiescing gracefully, though she could tell what he must be thinking.
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