Hemlock Veils

by Davenport, Jennie

  “I didn’t ask Mr. Clayton,” she finally said. “It’s my house now and we agreed I was taking it in the condition it was, good or bad. It’s my responsibility, not his.”

  “See what I mean? I doubt he would have helped, even if you asked.”

  She folded her arm against herself, and her teeth chattered. “What’s your point, Brian?”

  “Just saying if you’re gonna be into anyone, be into a real man. You know, now that you’re staying and all…”

  “I’m not going to be into anyone. And this is hardly the time and place—”

  “Relax, all right?” Massaging her shoulder, he tilted his head as though a remarkable idea had struck him. “So, payment-wise…”

  She sighed, ripping her shoulder away from his hand. “Forget the pipe, Brian.”

  Even his laugh slurred. “You say you’re different than other women, but you’re all the same. No means yes, Beth. Trust me, I know. I can read the body language you’re putting off…” He pinched her ribs in a playful manner and she swatted his hand away, backing up.

  “Maybe it does with everyone else you’ve tried to sleep with, but I promise you I’m not one of those women. And reality check: most women aren’t those women.”

  Still he advanced, chuckling. “Tried and conquered,” he corrected, lifting a finger.

  Rolling her eyes, she tried moving around him again. When he took her umbrella, her hair immediately soaked through, and she held back a gasp. “Give it to me,” she demanded, peeved beyond comprehension. Yet somehow not surprised.

  He laughed as though she was playing with him. “Make me.”

  She sighed through her teeth, and her core heated almost hot enough to relieve her of her shivers. “This isn’t a game. Please give it back, Brian.” She backed him into the car, trying to get it from him, and he held it high out of her reach.

  “I love seeing you wet,” he said, his laugh fading into a wistful sort of sigh. “I guess this’ll be the closest I get to watching you shower.”

  With that, she slapped him in the face, her hand as taut as her nerves. It happened before she could talk herself out of it, but she didn’t regret it, even as he stared wide-eyed at her. She hadn’t hit many people in her life, but if there was anyone deserving of it, it was Brian. Backing away and still holding her bag, she folded her arms over herself, wanting to hide from his eyes and thoughts.

  His jaw stiffened and he threw her umbrella. By the time it stopped rolling it was twenty feet down the street, in a puddle pock-marked with continuous, rippling spots. “Get it if you want it,” he challenged.

  Startling her, he pitched his empty rum bottle, where it shattered against a tree at the forest’s edge behind her. In her shock, she had dropped her belongings. The silence following was harsher than the shatter itself. And her annoyance was quickly transforming into something she hadn’t felt in a long time, something she couldn’t even admit to herself she felt yet: fear.

  “Please leave.” Her voice wavered.

  A smile crept in, slow and mischievous, and he stepped closer. “See, Beth. When you’re saying that, all I hear is ‘come in.’” He took her arms and twisted around, pressing her against the car. He brought his face to hers, his breath against her mouth. “And you know what I think when you slap me?” he whispered.

  She recoiled from his mouth and he laughed, trying to kiss her. She pushed, but he pushed harder. With a low and gravelly grunt, he said, “I like this fight in you. I don’t usually get it.”

  “Get. Off,” she said, pushing him with all her strength. If she still had her keys in hand, she wouldn’t hesitate to use them, but they lay on the street, next to her bag.

  He grunted again, but this time it seemed to be out of anger, and like the flip of a switch, he became a monster far more dangerous than the one in the forest. His eyes, already glassy and bloodshot, appeared to swell from their sockets, and a Y-shaped vein bulged from his forehead. Even in the dark, she could see that his wet face reddened. “Go on and keep denying me, Beth!” He lifted her high in the air and slammed her into her car, making her back shudder with pain. “Tell me no one more time!”

  Her breath came with difficulty, but she lifted her feet, attempting to kick him off of her. He was too strong, however, had too powerful a hold on her, and though it felt futile, she fought with him. “Go to hell,” she managed, telling herself not to stop fighting.

  “Good,” he said, slamming her into the car again, harder than the first time. She exhaled sharply but tried to hide the pain, tried not to wince. “That’s good. Sometimes me and Nicki play it like that.”

  A deafening roar startled them both, breaking the static sound of rainfall just as she began to drown in hopelessness. With a jerk Brian looked behind him, but there was nothing. In his distraction, Elizabeth kneed him in the groin, making him drop her and buckle over. But before she could stand he grabbed her again, this time shoving her against the street and straddling her waist. Her spine was hardly chilled from the water beneath her, since she could focus only on the way it flooded her eyes, making her fight that much more difficult. He was strong too, much stronger than she would have guessed, and every time she thought she might get the upper hand, he didn’t allow it, eventually pinning her hands in the street, directly above her head.

  Through the whooshing of her own breath in her ears, she attempted to focus on the calming sound of rainfall, faithfully steady. But by the pale light of the rising sun, veiled with clouds that seemed miles-deep, Brian’s face appeared more ominous than anything she’d seen in Hemlock Veils. Her muscles trembled with strain, failing to move the mountain atop her. Breathe. Breathe, and fight.

  “Please,” she pled between breaths, tilting her face away from the rain. “Please, get off me.”

  He smiled, and she regretted her plea instantly, since it seemed to drive him. He brought his fist up and she closed her eyes, mentally preparing herself for his blow, but then he didn’t hit her. Instead he grunted—a sound of surprise—and in her own surprise she opened her eyes, just as he was thrown off of her and the sudden weightlessness above became the most exhilarating hope of any hope she’d ever felt. He landed a few feet away, rolling. When she pushed herself up, where she expected to see the beast she instead saw Mr. Clayton, just as drenched as she and Brian.

  Even stranger than his soaked figure—like he’d been out for hours, not minutes—were his bare feet. His unbuttoned white dress shirt revealed a torso so muscular that even in her current state of mind, her mouth hung open. His wet hair was disheveled and his face unshaven. His black slacks were only halfway zipped, too, the clasp and belt hanging low, and water trickled down his abdomen. His white shirt, transparent with water, only vaguely hid a dark spot on the skin beneath it, the size of a fist and just below his right collarbone.

  Before she could get a better look, he ripped Brian from the ground and threw him into her car, making it rock. When Brian fell to the ground beside her, moaning, her eyes fell upon the dent in her back door. Trapped between her car and Brian, she inched away from him until the back tire pressed against her spine.

  Mr. Clayton stared at her, his dripping hair the color of black coal. Crouching, she grasped her knees. She couldn’t speak, still shocked at seeing him here in the first place, and especially like this. As though he’d been in the middle of getting dressed and ran into the rain to save her.

  Brian grunted, rolling to his back and shielding his face, clearly confused. With a movement that appeared far too easy, Mr. Clayton lifted Brian to his feet by his collar, then punched him in the jaw. Brian fell back, but Mr. Clayton lifted him to his feet again, pulling his face close to his.

  “M—Mr. Clayton?” Brian asked.

  “You’ve made a big mistake, Mr. Dane, coming out here before sunrise.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t help but slump. Of course, this was about coming out here on his street before sunrise. She was a fool for thinking it had anything to do with defending her.

  �
��I—I was only—”

  “You were drinking, you idiot. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to tell you to stay in your own damn house when you get wasted. I will not have this kind of behavior in my town.”

  “Mr. Clayton, I was just coming here—”

  “I know what you were coming to do, Mr. Dane, and I should have you thrown in prison.” His low, growl-like voice emerged from clenched teeth.

  “There’s no need. Elizabeth and I were just talking—”

  Mr. Clayton punched him again, harder than the first, but let him fall to the street this time. He stood over him, chest heaving, as blood came from Brian’s nose. “If you so much as speak to her again, I will throw you in jail.”

  He crouched on the ground above Brian and grabbed his collar with one fist, lifting his head from the street. Where the sleeve of Mr. Clayton’s shirt was pushed up, tendons and muscles bulged in his forearm. “Look at me.”

  Brian did, removing his hand from his bleeding nose.

  “You leave Ms. Ashton out of your deranged, meaningless life. She’s better than the rest of the women who are stupid enough to fall for you.”

  “No disrespect, Mr. Clayton,” Brian said, his voice wavering, “but you told me once that my personal life is my business.”

  “That was before you started endangering someone else’s life. You and Ms. Eastwood, and all the others you bring into town, can do whatever the hell you want, as long as everyone consents and nobody gets hurt.” He pulled Brian’s head closer. “And Ms. Ashton did not consent, did she, Mr. Dane?”

  Brian didn’t answer and Mr. Clayton shook him, making him wince. With eyes still fastened on Brian, he asked Elizabeth, “Did you consent, Ms. Ashton?”

  “No,” she managed between teeth and tight lips, her core heating with a balance of injustice, humiliation, and self-loathing. She would die before she would let herself get taken advantage of. She swore to God, never again.

  “No, she didn’t,” Mr. Clayton said at Brian. “You’ve heard it from both of us, so you better learn how to recognize it. Because I promise, if you even look at her again the way you’ve been looking at her…” He trailed off, leaving a note of expectation hanging in the air.

  “I—I’ll go to prison,” Brian answered for him.

  “That’s right. And I’m not talking about the jailhouse here, Mr. Dane. I’ll have you ejected from town and thrown into a real prison, where you’ll suffer like you deserve.” He ground his teeth, making his wet temples pulsate. “Do you believe me?”

  “Yes, Mr. Clayton,” Brian said, flinching when Mr. Clayton again brought his head closer. “I believe you.”

  Mr. Clayton studied him before throwing him back to the ground and standing. It looked as though he was about to kick him, but then restrained himself. “Go,” he said. “And you are never to set foot on my street again, you understand me? Ever, night or day.”

  Brian stood with difficulty, and the movement spurred the chattering of Elizabeth’s teeth. Her limbs trembled with heat. It rolled, expanded—numbing her fingers—and vile thoughts began entering her mind, covering her like a dark blanket. Thoughts of retribution and revenge, and worse: fear. As Brian began to stiffly stumble away, Mr. Clayton called to him, “And Mr. Dane?” Brian turned, just barely—not daring to glance at Elizabeth who sat like a coward against her tire. “Remember what I said. You will suffer.”

  Brian nodded glumly, then limped away. After he’d rounded the bend, the broken glass from his bottle drew her attention. Her chest heaved as she studied the way it littered the street, glistening. Every surrounding noise faded into the background while her head drowned in the heat. The heat climaxed, turning her body into an oven and cooking her from the inside, burning away all reason. Before she knew it she was on her feet, clutching the largest piece of glass, every ounce of that dreadful fear taking over. It coursed through her blood rapidly, leaving her with the most savage urge to survive. With a hoarse scream that came from nowhere and deep in her gut at the same time, she threw the glass in the direction Brian had gone, wishing he was still there to catch the sharp edge, and hating herself for being too frightened to do it when he had still been here.

  It clattered on the street a distance away and she bent again, her fingers beyond feeling as she grabbed the next largest piece, a jagged triangle with a deadly tip. It took her mind over, joining the savage fear, and made her breaths frantic. Her mind drifted to thoughts of chasing after him, making her adrenaline pump. Surely, with such a weapon she could gain the upper hand.

  Before she could engage the idea, a firm, warm grasp surrounded her wrist and she jerked, jumping at the sight of Mr. Clayton so close to her. She backed up, her heart speeding, and tried freeing her wrist; but he held on, his eyes steady on hers, and shook his head. A warning. It was then she remembered he wasn’t the enemy. He had saved her from the enemy, because she’d been too weak to save herself.

  A sharp pain radiated from her thumb and she looked down to find her fingers clasped so tightly around the glass that it had drawn blood. Mr. Clayton’s eyes shifted to it before fixing firmly back on hers. Silently, he held out his other hand, demanding the weapon.

  Reluctantly, she dropped it into his hand. An exhalation escaped her, releasing all the energy adrenaline had stolen from her body, and her knees nearly buckled. Shame filled her to the tips of her ears, and she attempted to make her breaths less animalistic as she hesitantly met Mr. Clayton’s eyes.

  But they didn’t speak judgment, or even pity. His expression was unreadable and set in stone, but his eyes smoldered in the way they did every once in a while, when it seemed an invisible guard had been dropped. Only now, they radiated with some internal glow, coming from the inside out and making his irises appear more like melting caramel. Somehow, this man who lived a life of privilege and who demanded strict obedience understood the monster inside her. Somehow, condemnation was absent from his stare.

  He released her wrist, probably when he saw the forfeit in her eyes. As though he fought his own battle inside, his brow creased. She braced herself against the car, a tingling sensation beginning to work itself into her limbs, and she ignored the pain in her back and thumb as she closed her jacket over herself.

  She passed him a silent nod, since her tongue couldn’t conjure words, and he nodded in return. He began to leave, but paused. “Ms. Ashton, I’ll be over to repair your pipe after I return from Portland early this evening.” He seemed to hesitate, as though he wanted to say something else, but then turned away.

  She had no response as she watched him leave, punch a code into his lavish gate, and then disappear within it. When he was out of sight, she released a deep sigh and sank into her hands, leaning against her now dented car before sinking to the ground. Though she didn’t cry, her chest shook. Regardless of why Mr. Clayton had come to her rescue, and regardless of her shame, she was indebted to him, not just for saving her life but for preventing her from acting on the darkest impulse she’d ever had. She owed Mr. Clayton everything.

  She forced her limbs steady and picked herself up, afterward picking up her bag and keys. Her umbrella seemed too far away, but she picked that up too, even though she now found it useless. She shivered at the rivers flowing down her hair and into her clothing, and winced at the pain in her spine that bit from deep within when she bent over.

  No matter her pain, however, Brian’s was probably ten times worse, judging from the way the entire car had rocked when he’d hit it, one whole side nearly lifting from the ground. And for the first time that morning, satisfaction filled her being.

  She entered her car and closed the door, leaving her in silence so still her ears rang, and as she started the engine, she attempted to analyze her astonishing rescue. Mr. Clayton had appeared from nowhere. Where had he come from? If he’d come from his gate, she and Brian would have heard or seen it. Besides, the gate had been closed just now when Mr. Clayton had approached it. Wherever he’d come from, he hadn’t taken the time to fully
dress, so he wouldn’t have taken time to close the gate. That meant he hadn’t come from his house. And aside from the forest, there was nowhere else…

  Her thoughts stopped short and she lifted her head, remembering every exchange between her and Mr. Clayton from the moment they’d met. The memories took her breath away as they played on repeat, replacing the sight of steering wheel and drowning windshield. His brown eyes, the way he didn’t want her here, the way her fearlessness enraged him. His disappearance at night. And he knew about her pipes, like he’d been listening to her and Brian’s conversation just before Brian had attacked her.

  Oxygen came with difficulty.

  Of course, he’d been listening, right from the Beast’s forest. His forest.

  Chapter 15

  Plenty of daylight remained when Henry and Arne returned to Hemlock Veils. Water still covered the town, even with the sun’s cameo appearance, and the Maybach’s tires splashed through puddles. They passed Jean’s, with its windows dark and the sign flipped to Closed. He tried picturing Elizabeth’s first day of business. Had Brian been stupid enough to show up? With everything in him, Henry hoped he was smarter than that. Tension shot though his muscles at the thought of Brian and the way he’d displayed his true colors. Eustace used to say, years ago, that you could see the true character of a man through his drink. And Brian showed his that morning, ugly and despicable. It’d left Henry more enraged than he’d been in years, all Brian’s incessant pushing and touching.

  Worse, he’d felt more protective of Elizabeth than he’d ever felt of anyone, or anything. Instead of wondering why, he’d simmered in rage, waiting for Brian to finally leave Elizabeth alone, like she’d insisted. But he hadn’t. And the sun had risen at just the right time, giving him only long enough to find his clothes and half-dress himself.

  He’d wanted to do more than hit him. He wanted to do what he was sure Elizabeth had been contemplating. God knows Brian deserved worse. But Henry still considered himself, in most respects and at least in this form, a reputable human being.