“There you go.”
There was no pain, and this surprised her. Years of watching horror movies had made her anticipate some screaming. But this was no movie special effect; it was really happening.
She shrank and flowed; her hearing shifted into a new register, and her eyes swam as they started to pick out color again, not the hard-edged flatness of a black-and-white, metallic shapeshifter world. Everything was dimmer, quieter. The night smelled different too: washed out and insipid. She blinked and shivered on the cold, damp grass, and at its warning prickle on her skin, she sprang to her feet and made for the flagstones.
Petra watched through her swollen eyes. She’d struggled to a sitting position as they waited for Tommy Cardew. “I remember my first time,” she murmured unhappily. “Seems like centuries ago.”
“There, there,” said Arabella absently, watching Laine with approval. “You’ve got it now. You had best get yourself upstairs and put something on, dearie. The others will be down in a moment; then we’ll figure out what’s best to do.” Her small, soft face looked bleakly determined, and Laine knew she wasn’t talking about Petra. She meant what to do about Jaird.
First they had to get him away from Arren. How the hell were she and Arabella going to do that? She had to assume that Innis and Mother would be no help.
They were wild cards. Unpredictable, selfish, and with hearts that beat hot or cold depending on what was in it for them.
Laine ran upstairs to her room, not pausing to cover herself. Being naked was the least of her worries. She paused at the door, wondering if Innis needed help rousing their mother. Hearing nothing, she opened it and dodged in. She saw rumpled bedclothes and got a glimpse of Innis, in a pair of her track sweatpants, on his knees rummaging under the bed.
“What the hell are you doing? Lose something?” she hissed. “Shut your eyes while I find some clothes.”
She grabbed the first things she saw, jeans and T-shirt, and dashed for the bathroom, where she quickly threw some water on her face and pulled on the clothes. When she emerged, Innis was standing in the middle of the room, looking like a small blond bomb about to go off. “Where is it?” he snapped.
“Where’s what?”
“You know bloody well what. The horse!”
She ignored him. Mother hadn’t been in the bathroom and wasn’t in bed. “Where’s Bethea? You were supposed to be fetching her.” She went to the bed and whipped back the covers, as if Bethea’s slight form might be nestled there. She muttered a curse. Definitely gone, but where?
“Where’s the damn horse, Laine?”
She yanked open the drawer of the bedside table and rummaged for it, ready to throw it in Innis’s face. It was gone. Its absence was a white hole in her mind. There was only one deduction: Mother had found and taken it.
She turned on him accusingly. “Where’s Mother?”
“How the hell should I know? She was gone when I got here.”
“Shit.” Laine felt panic surge again. She’d been counting on Bethea working some kind of magic on Jaird. Right now, the cabyll beast could be ripping Arren into shreds and eating him. With Mother cheering him on. Why had she imagined Bethea might be any good at all at a time like this?
“She must have taken the carving.”
Innis gnawed at a knuckle. She could see his rib cage expand and contract as he tried to control his breathing. “Jesus. Laine, we have to find her. That ivory horse has power, and if Jaird gets hold of it again . . . Mom’s nuts, she could be up to anything.”
“I have the feeling she knows where she’s going.” Straight to Jaird’s cottage. She tried to think. Arren would be safe up in his tree, wouldn’t he? As long as he didn’t try any stupid heroics. The urge to run to him was overwhelming, but she had to tamp it down until she had help. Alone, she was worse than useless.
The ivory horse was important somehow. Its absence was distressing her in a physical way, an internal itch. It was out there somewhere, up to no good, just like Mother was. “Innis, why would she take it? What’s it to her?”
He ran his hands through his hair, making it stand up. He looked like an elf, pale and bare-chested, a beautiful boy in trouble out of his depth. He needed help as much as Arren did. But would he betray her? She pushed the fear aside, hard.
“Mother took it because it’s her.”
“It’s hers?”
“No. It’s her—it’s got part of her soul in it. I don’t think Jaird remembered he had it.” Innis’s eyes looked lost. She could smell his fear. “I . . . I was looking round his place, and I found it, forgotten in a dusty old trunk. I could tell what it was. I could feel its power . . . I sent it to her. You shouldn’t have got it. Did you take it, Laine? You live with her and Martin, right? She’d know you had it.”
“I know she sensed something when it arrived, but I thought . . . ” She shook her head. Thought it was the cut on her finger. But was it her daughter’s blood she’d sensed, or her own? That damned little horse was alive in some creepy way. “I didn’t want her even to see it, Innis. You don’t know just how bad a shape Bethea’s in.”
He started to laugh, his eyes looking crazier than ever. “She’s going to be in worse shape if dear old Dad gets hold of her.”
“But he said he loves her. When he talked about her, he sounded rational, calm. Why would he hurt her after all this time?”
“Smarten up, sis. She left him. She left him twice.”
“She’s obsessed with him, but I believe she’s finding strength inside, somewhere under all the pills and booze. She’s trying to clean up. She just needs to get some kind of, I don’t know, closure.”
He scoffed at the word, and she felt her cheeks get hot. “Fine. She needs to get his poison out of her system. Whatever. Are you on his side or mine? What do you want, Innis?”
He hesitated long enough to almost make her scream, or grab him round the neck and throttle an answer out of him. “Innis, damn it—”
“I want my freedom. I want out. Jesus, Laine, can’t you understand that? I don’t know if I’ll ever be me again.” He was shaking. He began to bite at his fingernails, tearing at them with the same fury she’d seen in him years ago, when he was thirteen, too small and pretty a boy to survive the school day without taunting and beatings. There had been nothing she could do that wouldn’t make it worse for him. He’d been grappling with too many changes. Changes! So he hurt himself instead of hurting others, and her heart went out to him.
But only so far. He was still a conniving, self-centered prick at the core, wasn’t he? Yet he’d risked Jaird’s wrath to steal back Bethea’s soul. If that’s what the horse was. “Innis, stop it.” She grabbed his trembling hand, pulled it close and held it tight. “Listen to me. You can help. Has Bethea gone to find Jaird? And what do you know about the ivory horse? You’d better tell me before it’s too late.”
He stared at her sullenly and jerked his hand free. He looked like a lost boy, there in her navy sweatpants hanging low on his narrow hips, his fingertips bleeding. But he was listening.
“It’s time to man up. We have to stop Jaird before he kills again.” And it might be Arren he was killing, right this moment. But that would cut no ice with Innis. “What if it’s Mother this time? If she’s wandering around in the middle of the night, looking for him—”
“He’ll either kill her or get her back in his control again, this time for good,” he snapped. “What the hell do you think I can do about it? And if you think I’m going against Jaird for your boyfriend, you are mistaken. I told you I wanted out, not dead.”
“I know you don’t give a shit about Arren, but what about our mother? Don’t you care about her?”
His look was stony, though his hands still jerked and trembled. Laine wanted to cry. Her brother was moving farther and farther away from her, nevermore the sweet boy who used to trail her around playing tricks, eager for her attention and affection. They’d always had each other when he came home with a black eye, or when Bethea
went off to rehab, or when Martin spent more time at work than at home. Had Martin guessed by now that Innis wasn’t his?
“We’re wasting time,” she said harshly. Innis cared nothing about the past. She might as well just go. “If you won’t help, just stay out of the way.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Arren sped up to the inn and braked in a scattering of gravel.
He was just in time to witness Petra crawling into the back of Lottie Cardew’s gorgeous old Bentley. He’d seen Lottie come and go in it, and had been longing to drive the gleaming relic of another age, but had had no time to sweet-talk the old girl into letting him. She was nowhere to be seen; it was just Tommy behind the wheel, drumming his fingers, and Arabella tucking Petra into the cavernous backseat.
He strode over. “What’s going on? Has anyone seen Laine?”
Arabella slammed the door and turned to him. “Petra’s been roughed up by you-know-who. Tommy’s taking her to Emergency.” The car purred off into the tunnel of brightness made by its huge headlamps, turned onto the road and disappeared.
“Damn it, Arabella—where’s Laine?”
She shoved a lock of tangled ginger hair back under her kerchief and peered up at him. “Upstairs.”
“Upstairs. Ah.” She was human again, and safe. He felt the oddest sensation of liquid expansion. Must be relief. He headed for the door.
“Innis is with her.”
“Shit! That boy’s up to no good.” Arren lengthened his stride, but before he reached the door, Laine shot out at a run.
He caught her in his arms, and she let out a yelp before realizing it was him. Then she plastered her body against his in a most satisfactory manner and pulled his head down to hers.
The warmth of her lips was like a shot of whisky. He pulled her even closer to kiss her back. He didn’t care if people were watching.
“Arren, how’d you get away from Jaird?” She let go long enough to gaze up at him, eyes wet, and cup his face in both hands. It was just for a second, but the gesture was so filled with tenderness that he had to steel himself against weakening. Tossing everything away to hold her here, forever. The whisper-thin bond he’d felt between them before was a chorus of song now that they’d been united as shifters. He wanted so badly to drag her upstairs, lock the door and throw her onto the bed.
“I got lucky,” he muttered. “Bastard took off all of a sudden.”
“He knows Bethea is here. He must have sensed her.” She squeezed her eyes closed for a second. “He’ll find her, or she’ll find him. And then—”
He could imagine what would happen. Things would go from bad to worse, fast. “We’ll find her first. Somehow.”
Arren’s eye was distracted by a movement. Innis, slinking out of the inn after his sister. In human form. Instinctively Arren stepped in front of Laine, not bothering to suppress a sneer at the boy. “Keeping an eye on things for your boss?”
Innis bared his small white teeth, strode up to him and stopped inches away, thrusting his chin out. A bantam rooster. Arren didn’t doubt the fellow could do some damage despite their difference in size. He looked half mad.
“Fuck you, Tyrell. Go back where you came from and leave us alone.”
“Or what?”
“Or you’ll end up dead.”
Laine watched as Arren looked her brother in the eye and said, “At this point, death doesn’t scare me.”
She felt like cheering.
Innis let out a maniacal laugh, stripped out of her sweatpants and began to shift.
Laine would never get tired of witnessing the magic of a shifter morphing from one form to another. In only a few seconds, he’d gone from being a rather handsome, fairly muscular young man to a magnificent, gleaming creature of such beauty that it hurt her eyes. And her pride.
Laine had to admit that her own cabyll form was nothing compared to her brother’s. What she’d noted of herself during her brief time spent in horse form looked drab next to this golden, living statue. She’d thought herself splendid at the time. She sighed, and her lips curled in a wry smile. He’d always been the pretty one.
Arren, however . . . Arren had been heart- stopping in his steely strength. There’d been nothing pretty about him. Like something smelted, wrought and hammered out of titanium and steel, his cabyll body had been entirely masculine. While the image in Laine’s mind of Innis was of a supple, pale snake able to strike like lightning, her image of Arren was of a powerful athlete, sleek and tight, every corded muscle formed to run. And fight. And win.
But what of the mind inside? The human brain and heart? She contemplated the man, the human, in all his frailty. Though Arren was tall, strong and fit, he was still a product of the modern day. Was he willing to wield the weapon that was this new body of his?
And was she? In fact, could either of them even figure out how to shift again into those intoxicating new shapes? Jaird and Innis were seasoned cabyll, experienced in every aspect of their double life, from the smallest twitch of a muscle to the coordination of running, jumping and fighting. From swiftly adopting their alternate form to remaining hidden from normal humans while wearing it; from the brute force of their hooves and teeth to the cleverness of their speech.
And they were very clever. They had to be. A stupid or lazy intellect would never make it in the cabyll ushtey world. Jaird had tried his best to convince her he was a gentle, cultured being, hoping merely to exist without interference from human society. He’d almost had her believing him.
But she knew the truth. He was a killer and always had been. His goal was to eliminate Arren as a rival, secure his grip on Innis, and capture her for his pleasure.
And now he had a new goal: reclaim Bethea Summerhill as his mate.
Arren had serious doubts about this whole enterprise, though he would never reveal them to Laine. Not only did he question his own nascent abilities at shapeshifting, he truly did not want to challenge the royal triumvirate he foresaw uniting to rule: Jaird as king, Bethea as queen, and Innis as Crown Prince.
Of course, Innis could turn out to be the joker in the pack. The boy loved his sister, despite the hostility and sarcasm of his nature, but what would he do when the crunch came? For come it would. Tonight was going to settle a lot of scores.
At that, Arren felt something unanticipated wash through him. Calm. A focused, eager sense of calm assurance—the last thing he’d expected. For some unknown reason, certainty settled into his chest that whatever happened tonight was necessary. Inevitable. And whatever the outcome, life would forever change. Not just his, should he forfeit that life. Not only Laine’s should she die or be captured: but the lives of all the shapeshifters.
If Jaird could be bested, one last chain linking them to the savage old ways would be broken.
And if he couldn’t? Despite an ugly premonition of defeat, Arren’s center of calm expanded. The other cabyll ushtey would see the possibility of freedom. If they could unite to dethrone a rogue once, they could do it again.
He exchanged a look with Arabella. She amazed him more and more. So tiny but so formidable. He’d thought she was just a bit player, past her prime. Wrong. He said, “Are we ready for this?”
She looked up at him, her expression grim. But the next moment she laughed and tossed her scarf-wrapped head. A few tendrils escaped and were dancing around her cheeks. “Probably not.”
Laine gripped his hand. “We have to be. My mother needs saving.”
“Yes. And the women Jaird murdered need avenging.” He brought Laine’s hand to his lips and kissed it.
Arabella said, “And my man, my Einar. I will never forget and never forgive.” She looked up at them both. “I’ve felt him nearby now and then, you know . . . I’d have killed Jaird years ago if I’d had allies like you two.” Arren could swear he saw her eyes glow red.
Perhaps they had a chance.
Laine was young and strong, fit as the racer she was, and she had a mission too. She thought her mother was worth salvaging, tho
ugh he had his doubts that she could be saved. He had seen the naked longing in Bethea’s face when she’d talked of Jaird, mingled sickeningly with disgust and fear. Over polite tea and scones, it had come across as a wild, uncivilized set of emotions, shockingly out of place. He was very much afraid that she was still Jaird’s, now that he knew the strength of a cabyll’s sexual bond.
Laine’s grip on his hand tightened. “Okay. It’s now or never. Should we make some kind of plan?”
Arren said, “Yes. Find Jaird. Kill him.”
“That’s all you’ve got?”
“Seems pretty straightforward.”
Arabella nodded, understanding that any plan they made would become worthless as soon as battle was engaged. Strategy: what you want to accomplish. Tactics: how you plan to do it. In the tactics department, they were sorely lacking.
Laine gave him an exasperated look.
“You two,” Arabella said, “need to be brought up to speed. There are so many things you should know, I wish we had weeks and weeks.” She transferred her gaze to Laine. “However, many of those things you don’t need now—you can pick them up later.”
“If there is a later,” Laine muttered.
Arabella tsked. She pointed a stubby finger upwards. “I’ll teach you all about life as a cabyll ushtey, love. But not now. Tonight, remember this above all: Jaird can only have you if you let him. You belong to Arren’s herd now.”
“A herd of one,” Arren pointed out hollowly.
“In my opinion, that’s how it should be,” she snapped. “We may have horse’s bodies, but we have the minds and should have the morals of God-fearing men and women.” She fluffed up like a hen. “But some of us are more beast than human, and what’s human of them is of the Devil. Oh, li’ha’eer, I want to put that wicked creature’s eyes out, cut his tongue from his mouth! God forgive me.”
She rubbed her eyes and continued more softly. “It’s like this. Jaird gets you by default if he kills Arren. If he succeeds only in injuring him or driving him off, it will be up to you.”
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