She glared at him. “Well? Am I one?”
He smiled thinly. “No. At least, not yet.”
“Not yet? I have no intention of letting myself be captured by one of them! D’you think I’m crazy?”
He leaned in again. “Laine, keep your voice down. Feelings against the shifters are running even higher than normal around here tonight.” His voice dropped to a deep growl that made goose-bumps rise on her arms. “I do know that if you spend much time with Jaird Fallon, whether he’s your father or not, you will have no choice. He will take you for his herd.”
In the hot, crowded pub she felt chilled. “I saw him again today,” she admitted. “I went for another run and there he was, in the middle of nowhere. He showed me . . . ” She shook her head.
“What?”
“A view of the past. I think. He . . . ”
He changed. I saw his true form, and it was beautiful. And terrible. She couldn’t tell Arren, not here. Not now, with buzzing villagers all around. “He frightened me. I ran back to the village and hid out in a church for a while. I haven’t seen him since.”
Arren closed his eyes for a moment, and Laine could see his muscles flex as if he were coiling up inside, ready to leap. Or fight. He’d gone pale around the lips, and when he opened his eyes they were blazing blue. “Laine . . . Laine who came across an ocean to seek magic—listen to me. Get away from here now. Go home before it’s too late.”
Laine opened her mouth to respond, but the waitress appeared and plunked down her plate of food. She’d lost her appetite. When the woman had left, she said, “I swear you’ve been talking with my mother.”
Go home? Now? When things were getting interesting? Not likely. Innis would laugh till he cried at her cowardice. “Look, Arren, don’t worry—I can avoid Jaird. And besides, I don’t think he wants to hurt me. He had the opportunity and didn’t take it.”
“Don’t let him get to you. Creatures such as he can be very subtle.” He looked around restlessly. “Laine, there are things you need to know. Are you going to eat your meal?”
She looked at her plate, broke off a morsel of the crispy battered fish and popped it in her mouth. It was very good. But one bite satisfied her desire for food. Now she needed her curiosity satisfied. “I’m done. Let’s go.”
Chapter Fifteen
When Arren saw Laine start to dig in her shoulder bag for money or her credit card, he quickly tossed bills on the table before she could pay. “I’m the one dragging you out of here; the least I can do is cover the meal you didn’t get to eat.”
“Thanks. I’ll buy you something not to eat next time.”
“Deal.”
He took her hand and led her out to the cool night air, feeling an exciting itch coming through from her touch.
Arren sucked in the night air and paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. This most recent death was the third in the area in just a month. First had been a teenager from Manchester found only five miles away, next his own Delsie, now this as-yet unidentified woman. People were frightened and angry; many of them were pushing for “something to be done.”
But did the townsfolk suspect what was doing the killing? Did they know, deep in their bones, that magic was loose? What could mere mortals do against magic?
Laine stood quietly beside him. He turned to watch the feeble light of a streetlamp turn her cheeks to pale bronze. The breeze stirred her hair, which had dried into mahogany waves down her back, and she lifted it to cool her neck. He could still taste her sweat, and almost see the trail of his finger behind her ear. It made him want to pull her close and bury his face in her fragrant hair, pull its long, loose strands around his neck and let them coil there, joining them in a deadly tangle.
An ethereal glow hovered on the eastern horizon. The moon was rising. Anything small, light or alive—hair, grass, vines, and the like—could start to become troublesome as the moon’s power washed over them. He was about to warn her when she pulled a band out of her bag and tied her hair into a tight, high ponytail that swung enticingly as she tested the air. Her nostrils flared appreciatively.
“Ah, the subtle odors of the night, mingling with the tantalizing smell of greasy pub food,” she said. “I wonder where Innis and Anya went?”
“I have a suspicion.”
She laughed. “I can’t help feeling protective. They’re so young.”
“From your elderly perspective? I believe Anya might be older than your brother.” Anya, he suspected, was a lot older than she looked. And the damned pup could take care of himself.
He offered an arm. Laine took it, and they strolled into the night’s dappled shadows, toward the bridge over the River Syn. Another glow was just visible downstream: the cordoned-off area where the dead woman had been found. Arren knew that the SOCOs had packed up there for the night and were concentrating their efforts upstream, but the scene still had to be protected.
Not that anyone was inclined to go near it. The townsfolk were happy that the police were on the job, and felt safe enough with investigators all over the countryside. Though the police had listened politely to a few locals who had put forth the theory that “pookas” had done it, they had no interest in following a fanciful line of inquiry. A normal, run-of-the-mill psychopath is what they hoped to catch. They’d be going over the same ground Arren had, but much more thoroughly. He hoped they would discover more.
“So,” said Laine, stopping at the top of the bridge’s arch, “you had things you wanted to tell me. About Jaird Fallon?”
He stared down at the flow of water, praying another corpse didn’t float by. “Yes. I know him by reputation, and it isn’t good, I’m afraid. A few years ago he was forced out of a northern herd and became a renegade.”
“Forced out? Why?”
“He was ambitious, resentful of the power and prestige his elders had. He challenged the leader at the time—the stallion—they fought and Jaird lost. The stallion merely injured him, and Jaird should have counted himself lucky. But he didn’t leave it there. Instead of simply settling down and obeying, or biding his time until he became stronger, he went berserk. It happens sometimes.”
Their shoulders were touching as they leaned on the bridge railing. “What did he do?”
“He killed the stallion’s lead mare and their newest foal. His wife and child, in their cabyll form. Then, apparently, Jaird was banished or fled, somehow made his way to Scotland where he hid out for several years, then gradually moved south into Britain, living alone partly as horse and partly as human, stealing or killing to survive and remain free.”
“My God.” She paused, her body tightening next to his as she digested this information. Did Laine understand how much danger she was in? Arren wanted to shake her until she rattled. “Wasn’t there an investigation? I mean, the cabyll have human lives, right? So from a police perspective—anyone’s perspective—it was murder.”
He grunted and looked down at the glimmering water. If he tried to sugarcoat the facts, Laine would never run home. Her curiosity could get her in serious trouble. Frightening her badly enough might do the trick. But her foolish, charming brother was involved, and that changed everything. She’d never leave now. “There was,” he said, “but it was primitive. It happened . . . a long time ago. Modern techniques of criminal investigation had not been developed.”
“How long?”
He couldn’t avoid the truth or explain it away with half-truths. She had to understand what she was up against. “It was sometime around 1920. Shortly after the first World War. Little attention was paid then to the death of a migrant worker or a shell-shocked ex-infantryman, or a Gypsy.”
“A Gypsy . . . ” She took a sharp breath and looked at him, her eyes grown large. “I just realized something. Mrs. Griffin . . . Arabella . . . she’s cabyll, isn’t she?”
Damn. Of course she’d figured it out. “Yes,” he admitted, “she is.” He gave in to temptation and put his arm around her shoulders. She didn’t resist; in fact
, she leaned into him. Arren helplessly felt his protective instincts flood high and let himself rest his cheek in her hair. She smelled wonderful. Women wore so many layers of scent they were rarely aware of: lotion, shampoo, makeup, deodorant; floral or musky or sharp to one who could pull apart the chemical shell and read the woman underneath. Laine smelled like flowers and grass.
She sighed softly. “Arabella was the pony I saw in the stables. I’m sure it was her. Amazing.” She shook her head.
“Arabella Griffin has kept her secret well over the years. Only a few friends, and those of her own kind, know. We must be careful not to give her away.”
“The first World War . . . that makes Jaird how old?”
“I don’t know, and I doubt he knows himself. Let’s just say he’s old and cunning and very wicked.”
“So Arabella must know Jaird, if they are both shapeshifters and have lived around here for years. Is she part of his herd?”
Arren cursed inwardly. Short of refusing to talk at all, he was going to have to simply tell her the truth. She’d winkle it out of him eventually; at least this way he could control how she heard it. “In a manner of speaking. These days, a stallion doesn’t have the total dominance he once would have had. She is in a sort of . . . thrall to him, an allegiance of necessity, but does not have to submit to him completely.”
“By completely, do you mean sexually?”
Typical plain-spoken North American. “Er . . . yes. Contact and secrecy are maintained, and personal loyalty and obedience are enforced.”
Laine stared at the water, frowning. “So . . . if his aim is to collect me for his herd, at least there wouldn’t be the sex thing happening.” He felt her shiver briefly. “Thank God for that. Hmm. Could it be a sort of feudal arrangement? Or more like a corporation or a club?” Her voice was low and introspective. Rather than fear, denial, or revulsion, he sensed a growing focus of interest. Scientific interest. This girl constantly surprised him.
Looking up at him again, she said, “You think Jaird is the murderer. Where does Innis fit in? Is he in danger?”
Far from it, he thought. Her brother was most likely learning his father’s ways and might be just as violent. But if he told her that, she’d just deny it.
He compromised by saying, “Innis would like to think I did it. Yet I don’t see him trying to stop me from spending time with you.”
“Hm,” she grunted. “Doesn’t mean a thing. He’s my baby brother. I’m the one who’s supposed to protect him.”
“You’re a good sister.” The damned boy didn’t deserve her. He pulled her closer. She turned to him, only slightly, but he decided it was a good idea to kiss her now. It was impulsive and perhaps futile. But nevertheless . . .
Her lips parted as if to gasp, then closed again. He almost drew back and let her go. But then her arms went around him, her mouth softened and he had to lean against the bridge’s stone edge to keep his balance.
A hot thrum of lust went right to his groin, and he pulled her tighter until he felt the entire length of her body against his, warm and strong and just the perfect fit.
Arren groaned and let his hands slide down her back to cup her bottom. His mind started to buzz as if the current between them were real and live and dangerous, and felt desire flood everything else away.
Laine retained enough brain power to feel Arren’s attention shift from her to the outside world. She realized he had gone on guard. He turned his head alertly, but it was only the pub door swinging open.
No more privacy. Several people started spilling out, lighting cigarettes, heading for home or simply seeking cooler air. One of the people was Arabella Griffin. She spotted them and hurried to join them on the bridge. Laine tried to pull herself together. She’d been about to drag Arren back to her room, shove him onto the bed and leap on him like a wildcat.
She smoothed her hair and gave a sheepish smile to Mrs. Griffin.
“Here you two are,” Arabella puffed, waddling over on her short legs. “I heard that you’d been in the pub, and your brother too.” Though she looked drawn and troubled, she managed a fondly maternal smirk, and a wink at Arren.
“Word gets around fast, doesn’t it?” Laine observed Arabella with interest. She looked so human . . . small and plump, dressed with no regard for taste or fashion in a bunchy flowered skirt and faded blouse. Did little people shop in children’s departments for clothes? Don’t ask stupid questions, Laine. And don’t mention anything about ponies. Yet she couldn’t resist saying, “Lovely evening, isn’t it? You can believe in magic on a night like this.”
Arabella eyed her dubiously. “Well, of course there’s magic about, dearie, but I try to pay no attention to it. I do know I’m glad to be away from folk in there.” She jerked a stubby thumb at the pub. “There are some as want to start burning up the forest.”
Arabella and Arren exchanged a look. Laine, intercepting it, pounced immediately. “Look, it’s no use trying to keep me in the dark. We all know what’s going on around here—it’s the cabyll ushtey. The villagers want to get their torches and pitchforks and go on a monster hunt, right?”
Arren’s eyes flashed blue. “Laine—”
But Arabella Griffin looked up calmly into Laine’s face, the worry in her eyes lessening as she began to smile. “Give it up, lad.” She reached for Laine’s hand, then Arren’s; now they were connected in a triangle. Laine gasped as a sensation of expansion laid itself on her, like a layer of clarity or sharpness somehow falling on her from the night. And something else . . . Her ears pricked. Arabella said, “This one already knows the magic.”
Laine blinked, feeling dizzy. Not only was she throbbing all over for want of Arren’s lips on hers, she was aware of colors and sounds and smells she’d not noticed before. And something else. A sound. The echo of a sound . . . of many voices, whispering. What was it? She listened hard, but the whispering faded.
She looked at the Gypsy woman with fascination and more than a little fear. There was power in her, a lot of it. Her tawny hair sparkled in the dim light, and Laine saw it start to move and twist in a misty halo around her head. She felt her own hair moving too, trying to get free of its bonds and circle her neck.
The three of them stood, linked hand to hand. But something else hovered nearby.
The moon was rising.
And the mist lifting from the river was coiling toward them in hungry spirals.
Arren said, “It’s time we got out of here.”
Chapter Sixteen
Arren led them straight to the stables. When they arrived, Petra looked up from her slumped position on an upturned water pail. Did the woman spend all her time here?
An overhead light by the stable door, circled by dozens of moths, cast heavy shadows under Petra’s cheekbones. She was holding something in her hand, glinting like metal. A pair of scissors. What . . . ?
Then Laine saw something black in her hands, like two cattails writhing in the dim light. She gasped. Petra had cut off her own hair. She dropped the slashed-off braids, standing defiantly and running her hands through the roughly shorn mess.
She looked drawn and miserable, and Laine could see tear-tracks shining on her cheeks. She wiped them off and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her low-slung jeans, now looking belligerent and wary. Laine tried to ignore the braids that lay twitching on the ground.
“What are you lot doing here?” Petra snapped.
Arabella stepped forward, hands outstretched. “Petra, love—we need to talk.”
Petra sneered. “Talk? About what? And why?” She laughed bitterly. “There’s nothing any of us can do.” She cast a scornful look at Arren and Laine and looked away again. Laine could see the fear in her behind the arrogance.
Of course. She was cabyll too.
Laine felt a cold shiver tremble through her body. She wouldn’t be surprised if everyone around here was a damned cabyll ushtey . . . with the possible exception of Arren. He showed no tendency toward morphing into a stallion.
In fact, he hated the shapeshifters.
Pity, she reflected, sliding a sidewise glance at him. He’d make a beautiful stallion. The moonlight caught itself on the strong planes of his forehead and jaw and laid a bronze glow on his skin. The short, black spikes of his hair were moving, just enough to notice.
But he didn’t hate Arabella Griffin—in fact, they formed a mutual admiration society. Not all cabyll were savage killers. Even evidence against Jaird Fallon was circumstantial; he’d had his chance today to capture and change her and hadn’t taken it. Perhaps he’d had enough fun just toying with her: a bully who liked to show off.
Arren could be lying to her, or simply be mistaken. There could be power struggles going on here of which she was unaware.
Silence stretched, then Petra snorted irritably. “What are you all staring at me for? I’m the last person to know what the hell’s going on. You might as well go to the police, who are a joke.” She kicked her hair into the shadows and jerked her head at Laine. “Why don’t you ask her brother?”
Laine’s brows snapped together. “Hey! Leave Innis out of this! And forget whatever the cops think—everyone knows these women are being killed by a shapeshifter.” She scowled at Petra. “Not my brother. So why don’t you just spit out what’s on your mind?”
The woman bared her teeth. Every muscle in her thin, wiry body was stretched tight.
“What’s on my mind, Laine, is that you had best go back where you came from and stop meddling. Things were fine around here until you and your damned brother arrived.”
Arabella reached for Petra’s hands again. “No, dear. They were not fine. Have not been fine for a long, long time, as you very well know. Laine and her brother are merely the catalysts.”
Petra jerked away from Arabella, spat out a curse and put her hands to her temples. She squeezed her eyes shut, then all at once her tense body slumped and she began to gasp. “Oh God. I can’t bear it, I can’t go back to that life.” Her eyes blazed open, desperate and wet with tears in the moonlight. Her short, ragged hair made her look pitiful.
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