Water, Circle, Moon

by Sally McBride

  “No, I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this. You were ready to drown me last night rather than let me go.”

  He paced up and down, tree shadows occluding the gold of his hide, then revealing it. “That wouldn’t have happened. I don’t want to hurt you, Laine, believe it or not.”

  “But you wanted to force me to join Jaird’s harem of females.”

  “Too late for him now, isn’t it?” The velvet of his muzzle moved into an almost-human expression, exposing those sharp teeth briefly. She read it as a wry combination of fear and regret, perhaps a fatalistic sense of his own failure. Laine had found her mate, and it wasn’t Jaird. Was Jaird planning to punish his son for that failure? Was Innis playing some kind of endgame to consolidate his shaky position as Jaird’s heir apparent? And was Anya maiden in distress or femme fatale?

  For all she knew of the woman, she was just as bad as Jaird. And with her teeth firmly set in Innis’s heart.

  Laine shook her head, feeling her mane stir and its long hairs stroke her neck. The feeling was mildly soothing, and she used the brief respite to focus her will. She was putting emotions into this conversation that didn’t belong there. How could she know what her brother felt or thought or planned? Be careful.

  “You know Jaird better than I do,” she said, watching him. “Is he likely to kill Arren?”

  “What do you think? Of course he will, unless Arren manages to make himself vanish off the face of the earth. You don’t get between Jaird and what he wants.”

  Oh, yes you do. “Is there any way we can stop him, short of killing him?”

  He stepped back at that, his hooves leaving marks as they disturbed the layer of dew on the grass. He was trembling again. “Don’t ask me to be on your side. Don’t expect me to help you, or your lover.” His voice held desperation. “Don’t ask me for anything. I can’t give it! Why do you think Anya—”

  The back door squeaked open behind them. Laine, jumpy as a cat, wheeled to see Arabella rubbing sleep from her eyes. She wore a frilly nightgown, and her hair was tied up in a scarf, making her look like someone from a previous century. “What’s all the noise?” She blinked at Laine. “Why, dearie! Look at you!”

  “Arabella! Thank God—I need your help. Jaird’s got Arren stuck up a tree!”

  “Up a tree? Ah—he’s still human, then.”

  “Yeah, he is now. We . . . we, uh . . . ” What should she tell this woman, who had become a friend? Laine’s embarrassment waned as she realized Arabella could easily deduce what had happened by the mere fact that Laine was here now, begging for help. Not dead and floating down the river, nor in thrall to Jaird Fallon. “Arabella, you’ve got to help us! We have to get Jaird away from Arren. There must be something you know to do!”

  Laine realized her forehooves were dancing in place. If she were in human form, she’d be wringing her hands. Cabyll body language was something she’d have to learn, if she got the chance. “Plus, I have no idea how to change back. I can’t help him like this—I don’t know what to do!”

  “Oh, my dear . . . ” Arabella, looking stricken, shuffled forward in her fuzzy slippers. “If Jaird has him . . . ”

  “Arabella, please! We can get Tommy, Petra, anyone—”

  Innis shoved the woman back toward the door with one shoulder. “Arabella, stay out of this, and keep the others out too! If you know what’s good for you, you’ll go back to bed.”

  Arabella Griffin pushed back at him, ludicrous in her nightgown, but fierce. “You!” She pointed a finger. “I know your kind, boy. I had a cousin just like you. He was dazzled, bewitched by the power, with no idea of what it meant. You’re just like him: an arrogant know-nothing, and you’ll come to a bad end just like he did! Don’t you tell me what to do!” Her face was flushed, her small chin thrust out.

  Innis sidled toward her menacingly. She avoided him adroitly and gave him a hearty swat across the muzzle, having to jump to reach him. Her show of defiance was ridiculous, and Laine felt a stab of fear for her. Innis huffed a sharp breath at the insignificant blow, and bared his teeth, but at the look in her eye he backed away. “Just stay out of it,” he growled, “and you won’t get hurt. My father doesn’t have anything against you.”

  “Ah, but I have something against him.” Her eyes flashed. “That creature killed my mate. Didn’t tell you that, did he, when he was seducing you to his ways.” She spat on the ground right at Innis’s feet. It was a Gypsy thing to do, crude, earthy, defiant.

  He got the message. His eyes showed white all around, and he snarled at Arabella. She did not fall back.

  “Innis, stop it! Arabella—don’t you dare spit at my brother! We’re all just playing into Jaird’s hands!” There had to be some way to snap Innis out of this. All the times she’d intervened when Mother had been drunk, stumbling around crying and breaking things, the times Martin slammed out of the house cursing: she’d sheltered Innis from all that. She loved him. He must remember the love; it must mean something!

  A cry came from the darkness, and all three of them turned in unison. Someone was staggering up the path from the stables.

  Petra. Something was wrong with her. She limped toward them, whimpering as she cradled one arm. Seeing Laine in her new shape, she groaned louder.

  Forgetting Innis, Arabella ran to her. “What’s happened, love? Devla! You’re bleeding.”

  Laine watched Arabella lead the weeping Petra to the bench and sit her down, wishing desperately that she could figure out how to become human again. She wanted to be normal, dressed in clothes and shoes, able to do something. Anything. Being a horse was wonderful until you had to do something useful.

  Arabella hoisted herself up onto the bench. Her feet swung well off the ground, like a child’s. She began examining Petra’s arm. “Tell me what happened.”

  Petra moaned, looking beseechingly at the three of them. Her nose was bleeding, and one eye was swollen almost shut. “He, he beat me. I think my arm is broken . . . my ribs . . . help me, please help me . . . ” She gasped shallowly and bent over, groaning.

  She wasn’t faking it, Laine saw. Blood had congealed, soaking her sleeve and trickling down her wrist. The sight of it, moving like a slow, black river, made her stomach turn.

  “Who beat you?”

  A scraping sound came from above. “What the hell’s going on down there?” Tommy Cardew thrust his head out the window he’d opened. His sparse hair wisped out in all directions.

  “Tommy! Just the thing. Wake Lottie, she can drive Petra to hospital. Go on, hurry!” Tommy gaped for a moment at Arabella and Petra, then obediently popped his head back inside and went off. “Lottie’s Bentley has a huge backseat, perfect to get you to hospital, dearie.”

  Laine said, “But who beat you like that, Petra?” Jaird, of course.

  Petra gulped for air, tears streaming down her face. Laine saw a muscle twitch in her cheek, drawing one side of her mouth up in a horrible half smile. “Who do you think? That stranger . . . Arren . . . Arren Tyrell.”

  “What? That’s impossible!”

  “I tell you it’s true. I never trusted him. I was out walking, he got me alone, tried to rape me—”

  Innis, watching avidly, shook his head.

  “He did no such thing.” Laine felt a growl start deep in her chest. “He was with me until half an hour ago.”

  “It—it just happened,” she muttered. “Not far from here.”

  “You lie!”

  The muscle in Petra’s cheek began to twitch harder. “No! He’s violent, out of control! You have to believe me!”

  Laine clamped her mouth shut. Bitch. Arabella was still holding Petra, but had turned to look her in the face, not buying this story any more than Laine did.

  Arabella, her voice suddenly sharp, uttered a string of words that Laine couldn’t understand. Romany phrases, sounding like harsh music. The anger on her small, round face was plain to see. She laid two fingers on Petra’s forehead and pressed down hard, drawing a tight
circle around and around. With the other hand, Arabella crossed herself. Quickly. Twice. “Who did this? The truth, child.”

  Petra twisted away convulsively and tried to run.

  “The truth!”

  She got a few steps, then fell and lay sobbing. Laine saw fresh blood trickle from her mouth. She must have bitten her tongue. There was a pale, reflective circle on her forehead where Arabella had touched her. “It was J-Jaird . . . ”

  “You sought him out, didn’t you?” cried Laine. “To try and save yourself. Coward!”

  Arabella shot her a look, and Laine subsided angrily. Petra was useless, a liar; nothing she said could be trusted. She glanced at Innis, but couldn’t read his equine face. His eyes looked shuttered, as if his mind churned distant thoughts.

  Arabella hopped down from the bench and stood over Petra as she curled into a fetal position on the ground. Bending, she stroked Petra’s brow as if to soothe the circle of truth she’d drawn.

  Petra sobbed, “I . . . I just wanted to t-talk to him, just talk, I swear . . . ”

  “You were trying to make a deal. Trying to promote yourself. Ah, poor stupid girl.” Arabella regarded Petra with pity as well as disdain. Laine felt no pity. Her heart had hardened the moment Petra had tried to implicate Arren.

  Petra uncurled and lay limply on the ground, her eyes wet. She let her head fall onto the flagstones. “I thought . . . I thought he’d care for me. I did everything he asked . . . then you came along.” She shot a look of hatred at Laine.

  Another reason to go after Jaird Fallon. He’d taken this woman, a weakling, but one who deserved more than domination and beatings, and used her like a tool. His tool had broken. He wouldn’t forgive her for that.

  Tommy’s head appeared at the window again. “Aunt Lottie’s not . . . feeling well.” He flipped his hand. “One too many martinis and out like a light, I’m afraid. Sorry. Found her keys, anyway.” He brandished them, a huge bunch of assorted keys and dangly charms clanking together.

  “You’re not her keeper. Let her sleep.” Arabella tapped her foot, looking like a very small general on the field of battle. “This has gone on long enough,” she muttered. “Heaven help me.” Again she crossed herself. “Tommy, you’ll have to drive Petra to hospital. That monster car of Lottie’s is much too big for me to drive. Sorry, dear; you know I’d rather have you with us.”

  Tommy scowled. “Why can’t we call for an ambulance? Faster, don’t you think?”

  Arabella cast him a look. “And have police and EMTs crawling all over? Asking questions?” She slashed her hand down. “Absolutely not. You know they’re after their serial killer. We’d never get out of here, and I for one don’t want delay or a lot of stupid questions.”

  Tommy’s eyebrows arched up; he nodded once and vanished again, presumably to change out of his pajamas.

  Arabella stared down at Petra, her brows drawn together and her mouth in a grim line. She said, “Listen to me, you foolish child. You’ve picked the wrong side in this—and you’ve succeeded in reducing our ranks. Perhaps your master will forgive you. I hope you can live with yourself. In whatever form you choose.”

  Then she turned, apparently dismissing Petra from her thoughts. Petra collapsed back onto the ground and lay there, her shoulders heaving.

  Next Arabella turned on Innis. “And where were you when this was going on? I don’t like you, boy, and if it wasn’t for Laine I’d run you off.”

  Laine didn’t doubt she could do it, tiny though she was. There was more in her Gypsy soul than making tea and telling stories. Instinctively she leapt to her brother’s defense. “We left Jaird and Arren together, and Innis has been with me ever since.” But where had Innis been before he’d shown up in the clearing?

  She was going to go crazy if something didn’t happen soon. “Innis, you’ve got to go wake Mother. I can’t climb stairs like this.” She stamped her hooves, rearing in place. “She’s in my room, number eight. I want you to change right now, wake her up, and get her down here.”

  “What the hell good will she do—she’s a lush!”

  “Just do it!”

  After an evil glare at her, he bent his head in concentration and began to shift. Laine watched, fascinated, trying to see what he was doing. He just . . . changed. Like molten gold, he flowed into a new shape. It made her eyes swim and lose their focus, he did it so fast. A twist in the air, a glimmer like moonlight on water and he was a man again.

  A naked man. He didn’t seem to care. “You have more faith in her than I do.”

  “Innis, she’s our mother. She found the strength to come here, and I think it was for us.” She prayed it was for them, and not for her lover.

  He sneered his contempt at all three of them, turned and vanished inside.

  Arren was thoroughly sick of the self-satisfied rumble of Jaird’s voice. He’d been pacing round the tree talking in his oh-so-cultured voice, which betrayed a working-class accent every time he swore, telling Arren just what he’d be doing to him soon. Very soon. As soon as Arren obeyed and came down to get his reward: life as a slave if he was smart, a slow and humiliating death if he was not.

  “I guess I’m bloody stupid, then,” bellowed Arren.

  His theory that Jaird would get bored and leave wasn’t panning out. Seeing he was involved in a stalemate, Jaird should have decided to abandon a battle that he could only win by waiting.

  The hell-born creature had more patience than Arren had anticipated.

  “May I point out,” Arren snarled, “that you are an anachronism? The world is passing you by. You’ve gotten away with murder—but for how much longer?”

  Jaird’s response was to rear up like a bear and rake the tree with his forelegs. His considerable weight pounding the trunk felt like a car ramming it. Arren clung tight, his teeth rattling, wishing he’d picked a bigger tree.

  He was starting to seriously worry when the pummeling stopped.

  He craned his neck and looked down. Jaird was standing perfectly still, a gleaming ebony statue, his heavy head raised. He was sniffing the air, or rather he was huffing it, sucking in great draughts and blowing them out again as if he couldn’t get enough of whatever it was he scented.

  He lowered his head and pawed the ground, tearing the turf with a sound like a shovel cutting into it. Then, with a sinuous motion, he arched his neck and savored another great lungful, as if to make sure. He kicked out his hind legs in a ponderous bucking motion, a mad laugh bubbling in his chest. Then he looked up, straight at Arren.

  “You are safe for now, little squirrel,” he said, his voice thick with excitement. “But not forever.” Alert, distracted, he turned away, his ears pricked forward and his nostrils flared. “I’ll find you wherever you run.” Then he gave a leap and vanished like black smoke into the forest.

  Prudently Arren clung to his branch and listened for several minutes. Silence.

  “It’s now or never,” he muttered, and scrambled down, dropping the last few feet to land on his toes. Not a sound came from the trees around him, not even normal night sounds. Everything living nearby must have fled. Just as he was about to do. He found his clothes and quickly skinned into them, ignoring his scrapes and bruises.

  It took some thinking to remember how he and Laine had got here. A lot had happened between the time he’d hidden his motorcycle and now, and at the thought of it he felt a heavy flood of lust straight to his groin. God, but sex with Laine as a cabyll was amazing. Arren had always been slightly repulsed by the idea of sex in animal form, but with Laine it had been transcendent. Illuminating. Incandescent . . . no words could frame the depth of it, the brilliant satisfaction of it . . . No wonder old Melved Gibbs had gone misty-eyed when he’d told him what was in store.

  And Laine was his. Lust turned to a primitive swelling of sheer possessive pride, and he felt vaguely ashamed. It was never right to possess a woman, now or in the past. But, he reflected with equal pride, he was hers just as much, he knew it. Bonded for life.
/>   Unless someone stole that life.

  Focus. He forced himself to stand still, look around him, and deduce where the damned road was. A few minutes of blundering along wishing for a torch and he burst through the thick curtain of vegetation onto the moonlit roadway; a few more and he was on his motorcycle, roaring back toward the inn.

  “You have to disconnect your brain from your body, dear,” Arabella told Laine, frowning. “It isn’t hard. You just sort of . . . do it.” She twiddled her fingers vaguely.

  “Easy for you to say. You’ve shifted hundreds of times.” Laine concentrated on not thinking of her large, four-legged horse body, or wondering how much she weighed right now. It was very hard to do. Instead, she tried thinking of herself as a small, slim, two-legged woman. No tail, no hooves, no big white carnivorous teeth . . . small, bipedal, tailless . . . she felt a tremor along her spine, and a sense that her body was trying to assert its ability to shift but was blocked somehow. She groaned.

  “You’re thinking about it too much,” advised Arabella. “Imagine yourself doing something human . . . I don’t know, brushing your teeth. Walking along looking at shops. Pulling your jumper over your head.”

  Laine formed a picture in her mind of herself tying up a pair of running shoes, straightening, adjusting her shorts over her tailless bottom and preparing to do some two-legged running. Nothing happened for a moment, and she fought down panic. Then she felt an odd sensation of collapsing, as if she were an expanded version of herself that was simply folding into a smaller space. Her skin shivered all over, and her sight wavered and sparked as it had when she’d changed the other way. She saw the hard substance of her hooves soften and separate into fingers and toes, felt a lurch of nausea and went down on her knees with a soft grunt of surprise.

  “Shrinking . . . like Alice in Wonderland,” she gasped. “When she sipped the ‘drink me’ bottle.”