Laine looked around at the black, thrashing trees, impervious to the agony in the clearing. The moon looked down, cold and heartless, as driven by instinct as any animal. All traces of pity or disdain for her mother, nurtured by years of watching her destroy herself with drink, vanished, leaving only love and awe. With her velvet horse lips, Laine nibbled Bethea’s ear. “You were right. I should never have come here. Nor should you.”
“Innis—” gritted Bethea “—and now you. I tried to stop it happening again . . . with you . . . ”
What the hell were they going to do? She could hear Arren out in the trees, crashing around cursing and demanding Jaird show himself. Why didn’t he shut up? If what he wanted was a fight, he was going to get it soon enough. She could hear nothing of Arabella.
Bethea hadn’t reacted to Laine’s kiss. Her harsh, painful panting continued. But then she spoke. “Innis . . . he was here . . . with Jaird.”
Laine savagely held back a cry of anger. Innis had been right here, watching Jaird do his dirty work. The damned liar, the useless, selfish, cowardly . . . “I saw him just an hour ago, at the inn.” They had not one enemy, but two. Laine knew what Jaird was capable of, but her brother? His urge to trick, to tease, to drive a person crazy and then make it all better with a laugh and a sideways kiss—it was part of his charm. So she had always thought. But boyish charm and tricks had twisted into true cruelty.
Laine didn’t know which hurt worse: her mother’s pain or her brother’s betrayal.
Bethea stirred, groaning. “I tried to protect you. I . . . I thought I could. But all those years . . . I did nothing.”
Laine felt herself wanting to excuse her mother, tell her it was all right, that she was a good mom and everything would be okay. Lies. She held her tongue.
So, they did nothing and they said nothing. And nothing changed. Jaird won.
He’d be there soon and he would devour them; he would eat their souls and then their flesh.
“Arren!” Her voice echoed back blankly. The ice of fear crystallized in her heart, but she heard a crashing and there he was, snorting and stamping, breaking the painful stasis that ruled the clearing.
Hard behind him came Innis, a flash of gold bursting from the black forest. She leapt to her feet to join Arren, who halted and turned to face his pursuer.
Arren beside her like a steel wall, she braced herself for what Innis might do. Bethea raised her head and looked at her son. She hissed, but Laine couldn’t tell if it was in anger or pain.
“Jesus, Laine, what the hell are you doing?” Innis crashed to a halt in front of the three of them. “Leave her! You have to get away! He’ll be back any second—”
She reared and tried to rake him with her forehooves, but he dodged back. “Leave her?” she cried. “Look what that bastard has done to her! And you were right there helping, you piece of—”
“It was his right to do it!” His eyes weren’t focusing. He couldn’t control the churning of his feet. “You still don’t understand. She deserves anything he—”
“Shut up! She’s our mother! You can’t excuse what he’s done!” She was so furious she whirled in place and kicked at him with her hind legs, and it was wonderful, strong and balanced and she knew somehow just how to aim those sharp, hard hooves—
He dodged again, cursing. But she knew she’d landed a blow. “She belongs to him. He has the right to kill her if he wants.” He leapt away from another kick. “There’s nothing I can do! Shit, Laine, stop it—he’ll be here any second. Get out while you can!”
“I’m not leaving her!”
“You’re an idiot. You’re all idiots!” Innis circled his mother where she lay, and her suffering eyes followed him.
“He’s right.” Bethea sighed. “Leave me.”
At a crackling from the forest, they all turned. Arabella galloped in as if a pack of hunting dogs were after her, but it was worse. Jaird Fallon was literally nipping at her heels.
As if whisked by a broom, Arabella whirled into place in the circle they’d formed and stood trembling, her teeth bared at him. Jaird laughed. “Now I’ve collected you all. How pleasant.” His voice—his wonderful, rich, chocolaty voice—almost made Laine sink to the ground and surrender
She could feel the power vibrating the earth, rumbling in him like a heavy bulldozer ready to rev up and flatten everything in its path.
“You murdered my man,” cried Arabella, who Laine could see was not trembling in fear but shaking like a chained dog who saw a fox, wanting so badly to be free to chase. And kill. “May you rot in hell, you—” And then came a vicious string of words in Romany. Whatever they were, Jaird merely laughed.
“It was easy to kill that doddering old fellow. I feel ashamed, I truly do.”
If Arabella’s invisible chain were to break, she’d be at Jaird’s throat. Laine wondered what it would take to overcome that instinctive obedience.
Innis strode stiffly toward his father, tossing his head in a good imitation of arrogance. “You’ve got your females. And the new male too. Now may I go?”
Jaird didn’t even look at him. “No, you may not.”
Innis stood trembling, his head still high. “You promised me—”
“You will fight at my side! You are my son, never forget it. You belong to me.”
Laine could see Innis’s chest heaving with anger. He’d have to obey like a dog, just as Arabella had to.
Jaird had Anya somewhere. Had he broken her legs too? Laine wondered: would she forsake her brother and mother to save her mate if it were Arren locked somewhere behind cold iron?
Arren shouldered forward, stopping a cautious distance from Jaird. “You’ve had your fun. Get out of here and let us help the woman.”
“Oh, but there’s more amusement to come.” Jaird’s voice rumbled, almost soothing. Laine remembered his warm brown eyes upon her in his cottage. How he’d assured her of a cabyll’s gentle nature while pouring the sherry. How he’d taunted her, pounding his hooves next to her ears until she screamed and crawled and ran.
He gazed almost benignly at Arren. “I’ll take you one by one, and I think I shall start with you. You have the smell of defeat on you.”
Arren snarled and lunged for Jaird, his teeth bare and ears laid back. Jaird danced away laughing. Arren wheeled and tried again, earning only a slash of Jaird’s teeth on his neck. He grunted with pain, then backed away, watching for his next chance. Laine watched too, for any opening the wily devil might provide. Arren was sorely outmatched, and his anger wasn’t helping.
Jaird went to Bethea, who cowered before him, her head bent to the ground. He sniffed her, nudged her roughly with his muzzle. She made no sound.
Laine met Arren’s gaze and understood: it was two against two. Arabella was blocked, and Innis would have to fight alongside his sire. Perhaps it was his fate to do so, entangled as it was by cabyll magic; his doom to fight, even die, by a monster’s side. And their poor, broken mother had to watch it all.
But then Laine’s withers twitched involuntarily, as if a fly had landed there. A cold, light touch on her skin. Something else had entered the fight.
There was a presence clinging to her neck like a weightless jockey, and it was speaking to her.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Hear me.
The voice was thin and small, no more than a mosquito’s thread of song.
Hear me!
Louder now. She felt as well as heard it. A ghost rode her, its cold fingers winding tightly in her mane, its filmy presence settling on her like frost.
Listen to me!
“What are you?” Laine bucked once, then controlled herself. The dead had offered their help . . . and here it was. Her heart pounded, and she felt an intense desire to shake the frigid thing off. A better question: “Who . . . were you?”
My name was Rose. That black one killed me . . . I don’t remember when. He took me into the river . . .
Hysteria threatened to take Laine in its jaws and shake h
er sanity loose. Shapeshifters, Gypsies, and ghosts, oh my. Instead, she quavered, “Rose . . . can you help us? Will you help us?”
Yes, we can. We shall.
We. Rose had companions. Had all Jaird’s victims gathered here? Laine didn’t know whether to be appalled or hopeful.
She looked at Arabella, whose eyes were wide and white-rimmed. Curlicues of frost laid a blanket of pale lace on her back.
Laine felt a crawling sensation, as if a parasitic plant were growing on her. Was her back webbed with ice too? And Arren’s?
Yes. The iron of his hide was threaded with fast-growing frost flowers, like a tapestry woven with cryptic messages. Jaird, occupied with Bethea, didn’t seem to notice. Or to be affected.
Arren moved quietly to her side; his voice was full of wonder, “It’s Delsie. She’s speaking to me. She says they want to help. I . . . think it would be wise to let them.”
“I don’t think we can stop them.”
Arabella’s small body was trembling all over, her shoulders twitching. Her small, sharp teeth flashed, and she laughed. It was an eerie sound, part delight and part anguish. With a large dose of evil glee. “Einar! Einar, my love, it’s you! Oh, my dear man . . . ” Her eyes closed for a precious moment, and tears leaked. Then they opened. “It’s about bloody time.”
Like a dog set loose of its leash, Arabella shook herself all over. Laine wondered if Einar knew what he was getting into. If he’d loved his wild Romany wife all those years, he must be ready for any sort of mayhem.
“I’m free,” she crowed. “Free! My mate is with me.” The frosty lace upon her back had spread down and around her neck, looking remarkably like icy arms embracing her. Her eyes flashed, and her tail whipped and sparked in the moonlight. She danced toward Jaird. “You own me no more, Jaird Fallon!”
He looked up. “But I can kill you just as I killed your mate, little one.” He feinted toward her.
The balance of power had shifted, but not by much. Unfazed by Jaird’s threat, she stepped sideways, avoiding him neatly, her laugh a trill of excitement.
Arren circled warily, eyeing Jaird with the speculation of an ill-equipped hunter toward a lion. Flakes of frost peeled off his body as his muscles flexed, sifting to the ground in a shower of white. Laine’s own hide crackled and stung, and ghost voices whispered in her brain. Jaird swung his head back and forth, watching with amusement as Arren tried to anticipate an opening. There would be none.
Innis, who had been shadowing his sire, began to buck and scream. They all, even Jaird, turned to stare at him.
The golden stallion was stumbling in circles, shaking his head. He started to back away as any ordinary horse would from a frightening or unfamiliar object—a barking dog or a roaring machine.
Or a ghost.
“Stop it!” he screamed, pawing at the ground. His eyes were staring at something invisible, darting back and forth, squeezing shut and then helplessly opening again. “I didn’t do it!” He reared, legs flailing, and Laine could see his muscles writhe.
The presence on her back—Rose—spoke into her mind. We are showing him what the black one did to us.
The moist summer air froze and fell around them. The moon contracted into a diamond-bright jewel. Innis’s hide sparkled with crystalline frost, turning him into a glittering snowstorm as he fought what he was seeing. Ice crusted over his eyes, locking him into his inner vision. What were the ghosts showing him? Dismembered women, torn and bleeding. His own father, ripping his victims to pieces. Eating them alive.
Laine could spare no pity for Innis now. His frantic movements slowed as the cold invaded. The nightmare visions were accomplishing what she needed: keeping him out of the fight.
“Arren,” she cried. “Now! Arabella!” She charged at Jaird. Would any of the ghosts be brave enough to ride the neck of the one who had murdered them?
Arren was on Jaird instantly, like a huge steel-gray dog, his powerful haunches rolling and his head stretched forward to tear Jaird’s throat. He got one slash in; then Jaird raked him with both hooves. Arren grunted, snarled and lunged again. The two stallions reared and locked together, biting savagely at one another. Now Laine could see the difference between normal horses and the cabyll ushtey: the teeth, the muscles, the supple joints that let them bend and contort in ways more feline than equine.
They moved too fast for her to follow. She couldn’t try kicking Jaird for fear of hitting Arren instead. Despair weakened her for a split second; then Rose snarled in her mind. The black one must die. If your mate fails, you will die too. Or be enslaved.
That didn’t help. The stallions split apart, panting and snorting. Both were bloodied, circling each other as they caught their second winds. She felt every laceration Arren had suffered from his brief clash with Jaird, and like him shook the minor pain off. Cuts and bruises were nothing. There would be worse to come.
She knew Jaird was still just toying with them.
Bethea cowered, her eyes rolling wildly, twisting as if there was something on her back too. Could a ghostly spirit be clinging there? But why? The poor broken creature could do nothing.
Laine saw Arabella go in low, her carnivore teeth snapping at anything she could reach while Jaird was distracted by Arren. He turned and cursed, kicking at her. He missed; the tiny cabyll mare scampered around him too fast for his big body to follow.
Laine, close behind Arabella, reared, kicked out and felt one hoof connect with a brick wall. Got him! She stumbled and twisted, trying to kick again.
Jump now!
Like a jockey laying on the whip, Rose commanded and Laine obeyed. Jump! Again! She sprang ahead blindly, heard Jaird’s forelegs whistle past her head, so close.
“Father!” Innis screamed, still battling his invisible tormentors. “Make it stop!” Blindly he circled, his ice-encrusted eyes weeping.
“Useless fool!” roared Jaird, foam flying from his mouth. “Spirits cannot hurt you!” He lunged for Laine again, but Arren slammed into him and knocked him sideways. Jaird recovered and thundered away, harried by Arabella, nipping at his testicles.
Laine’s blood was boiling with warrior-woman fervor. Jaird turned and headed right for her. She found herself shrieking like a banshee, Rose screaming silently with her. Turn, kick! Again! Now fall and roll!
Laine obeyed, lashing out, rolling out of reach, then scrambling to her feet. The trampled grass reeked and glowed with the scent of blood. She wuffed her nostrils clear and tried to follow the action. Jaird was on Arren now, who was fighting like a wild mustang. She felt a swell of wild pride, fought it back to savor later. If there was a later.
A faint voice plucked at her attention. A bird in a hurricane. Bethea.
Not now! Arren, wheeling away from Jaird’s punishing hooves, stumbled into her, but she didn’t fall. The contact jolted her and then was gone.
Another determined whimper, sounding more of frustration than pain. What was Bethea doing? She was craning her head back as if trying to bite herself.
Then Laine saw what clung to her mother’s long, twisting mane: not a ghost. Something small and solid.
Caught in the pale tangles was the ivory horse. It was almost invisible in the throbbing moonlight.
She sprang to her mother’s side. Bethea was trying desperately to pull the carving from her mane with her teeth, but each movement, each twist of her neck, forced out another cry of pain.
“Laine . . . the carving . . . I must have it!” She panted harshly and gnashed her teeth, her white-ringed eyes begging her daughter’s help. “I tied it in my hair before I shifted, to keep it with me. Now I can’t get it!”
Laine stared at her for a moment, bewildered. Why the hell did she want the ivory horse now?
“Laine, please!” Her voice was barely audible.
“All right! You’re insane. This is all insane!” She ripped hairs out with her teeth, fumbling at the carving with her lips. If only I could shift my hands . . .
It came free, fell to the groun
d and lay thrashing and kicking on its broken-off legs. Laine knew that if it could, it would run. To Jaird? She shied back from the horrid thing, feeling her skin crawl.
Jaird caught sight of what she was doing and thundered across the clearing. He pulled up in a spray of earth and leaves, opened his mouth and snapped at it, a split second too late.
Bethea had caught it in her mouth and crunched down hard. Laine could hear it snapping to shards. Then she swallowed it.
Laine watched, stomach turning. It’s her, Innis had said. It holds her soul.
And now she had it back.
And Jaird knew it. He backed away, his eyes on her warily. The balance of power had shifted once again.
Time suspended itself. The moon fattened and hung like a lantern, watching as they all watched. That bitch-queen moon loves this, thought Laine, shivering.
As if every vein were being filled with the elixir of life, Bethea Summerhill . . . grew. Her legs straightened, the bloody gashes in her flesh knit up. Her breathing calmed, her skin glimmered like pearl. Then she raised her head to the moon. Laine saw her throat working as she swallowed what must be the last crumbled shards of ivory.
Jaird was watching her as a man would watch another man load a rifle. He was fascinated, rooted to the spot by the spectacle of his victim—a weak, broken, stunted being—regaining her power. His look at her was avid, fearful, and somehow lustful. Laine could almost read his mind. Bethea would be his again. Whole, beautiful, free. For him to capture, punish, and break once more. What sport it would be!
He’d love it.
Then Arren, who had been sucking in air and collecting his remaining strength, broke the spell. He charged at Jaird, but Jaird sensed him coming and whirled around. The two stallions clashed together like cars colliding, rising to their hind legs as they pawed and slashed and bit. The bloodied ground drummed with their pounding hooves. Arabella tore her eyes from Bethea and darted in, applying her teeth and heels where she could. Her mouth was red and dripping. Laine dove for Jaird and got a mouthful of someone’s mane and the intoxicating scent of blood in her nostrils. Lust for battle almost made her forget why they were fighting.
Water, Circle, Moon Page 27