by Vered Ehsani
So we huddled under the sodden blanket. Such proximity with another I hadn’t experienced since Mr. Timmons had carried me from the forest, and before that when he’d dragged me into a giant snake nest.
But previous to those interactions, the last time I’d been side by side with another was when I’d last been with Gideon, before his non-accidental demise.
And while I wasn’t exactly complaining about the warmth resulting from such close quarters, I was perturbed about it, precisely because I felt no urge to complain, protest or remove myself. Even had I not been at risk of suffocating under a deluge of raindrops, I would’ve been quite content to remain as I was.
As I pondered that predicament, the rain ceased and not with a gradual pitter pattering into a drizzle. One moment, the air was saturated; the next, it wasn’t.
“It’ll resume soon enough,” Mr. Timmons warned, peering up. “But we may have time to reach the village before then. It isn’t far.”
I shrugged off the blanket, its wet weight no longer welcome. My poor hat went with it, a bedraggled little mess of fabric and a solitary feather.
“At least that should slow Liam down a bit. If we’re lucky, he’ll even rust up,” I said and started to stand.
A quick intake of breath caused me to swivel on my seat to face Mr. Timmons. He was staring intently at me. Then, to my dismay, I realised it wasn’t exactly me he was staring at. Rather, it was my right ear.
My hand instinctively touched the lock of hair, only to discover it had been displaced by the awkward removal of my hat.
“An intriguing little scar,” he said pleasantly, his eyes as intently stormy as the sky above us.
I’m not one to blush, for that would require a more delicate nature than what I’m inclined to possess. But this particular scenario was one of those exceptions and my cheeks heated up.
“And it explains your eye colour,” he continued conversationally, unconcerned with my discomfiture.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked, willing my face to cool down, to remember the refreshing rain.
My eyes were unusual in colour, to be sure, a hazel so light as to be almost golden in certain lighting. But I was unclear how that related with my ear.
Mr. Timmons leaned back against the trunk of a tree, with a pose of absolute certainty bordering on smugness. He might’ve been seated on a throne rather than a log.
“Surely, normal humans have noted your difference,” he said.
I laughed without mirth. My entire childhood had been a series of such observations. “Well, Mrs. Steward’s aunt did inform us that if they still burned witches nowadays, I would be as sure a candidate for the stake as any.”
Given that my mother had apparently been a witch, the aunt’s statement was closer to accuracy than the speaker had known. I couldn’t help marvel that a person could come so close to the truth without actually knowing it. Sometimes the safest place to hide the truth was out in the open.
Mr. Timmons snorted, a mixture of humour and disgust. “Charming relatives you have.” Then his piercing storm-grey eyes fixed onto mine again, in that unnerving way of his.
“Were they always that colour?” he asked, his voice treacherously soft, yet disarmingly sincere.
I needn’t ask what he referred to, and he didn’t need my verbal response. For before I could muster a scathing retort, a memory surfaced, one that had been locked away, awaiting a key shaped in the form of that very question. His heavy exhale acknowledged my frozen answer.
“So. What bit you right before the colour altered?” he asked, still softly.
Displeased with the direction of the conversation, I responded with sharp and abrupt words, “A dog.” Just as abruptly, I stood, overwhelmed by a sense of suffocation, as if the dark clouds had made good their threat to smother all that lived beneath them.
He snatched at my hand, plucking it up with ease, as the kite had the little weaver bird. I felt just as trapped.
“Surely you must know it wasn’t a mere dog?” he murmured.
I shook my head, clinging to my remembered story, refusing to see what truth there might be before me, out in the open.
“My dear Mrs. Knight, that is no dog bite,” he said and startled me by gently brushing back the lock of hair. “It was clearly made by a werewolf.”
Chapter 25
“A werewolf?” I repeated, flabbergasted.
I slapped his hand away and glared at him. I was most sorely tempted to introduce his knee to my walking stick and his knee was spared only because the stick was just out of my reach.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “I think I would know. And as I don’t grow extra hair once a month that requires shears to shave it away, I can reassure you that it most certainly was not a werewolf, just some mangy mutt.”
Mr. Timmons smirked as he leaned back against the tree. “Denial doesn’t change the fact. Although it’s intriguing that you don’t shed copious amounts of fur on a regular basis. Most intriguing, not to mention highly unusual. Perhaps it’s connected to your sensory powers, or to your maternal heritage.”
“Or maybe it’s connected to the fact that a dog bit me, not a werewolf,” I grumbled as I tugged at my skirt, which was caught under Mr. Timmons’ thigh, and stood.
So Mr. Timmons knew about my mother. A pox on Mr. Elkhart, for he must have told Mr. Timmons. Did the man not know how to keep secrets? While I hadn’t requested his silence, still he should have some sense of discretion.
“Are we finished here?” I asked as I readjusted the hair over my ear and attempted to reshape my hat.
“Yes, quite.” Mr. Timmons led the horses out and we mounted up.
We rode briskly. I steadfastly refused to acknowledge his existence, which was childish on my part, of course, since the man clearly existed and may have been correct.
The horses’ hooves splashed up thin mud onto their undersides and our legs. Everything was coated in the sticky muck. A misty rain added to the misery, but none of that could approximate the dismal landscape within me.
While I had vehemently denied Mr. Timmons’ observations and was silently punishing him for making them, doubt had settled within my conviction; it viciously gnawed and stripped bits of confidence away. As I reluctantly exposed the memory of that dog to this doubt, I was forced to revise my earlier perception of the beast.
Behind the revision of my history lurked a greater conundrum: for if I had indeed been bitten by something more than a wild dog, then I was far less human than I had prided myself on being. Indeed, I was more akin to the very type of beasts that I had heretofore frowned down upon.
This theory of his would explain not only my odd eye colour, but also the wolf energy that continued to pop up at inconvenient moments. While I could (and did) blame Mr. Timmons for highlighting to me this humiliating truth, I couldn’t blame him for the truth itself. And hadn’t I always maintained a rigid adherence to honesty, particularly with myself?
So engrossed in my misery was I that I didn’t notice we’d arrived at the little village. Only when a fat hen ruffled her feathers imperiously and squawked at Nelly did I come back to the present.
We were entering a cluster of mud-walled, rounded huts covered in thatch. A few scrawny dogs eyed the chickens hungrily while small children screamed hysterically and pointed at us as we passed.
As I surveyed the scene, I wondered what Cilla would be doing here and more importantly, how would she react toward me? We hadn’t seen each other since that day I’d sorely offended her. Given the size of the camp population and surroundings, our lack of coincidental meetings must have involved some effort on her part, for with only the few stores and the small market, it was nothing short of miraculous that we hadn’t crossed paths.
These new melancholy imaginings preoccupied me and I failed to note the cessation of movement until Nelly shook herself fiercely and nearly unseated me.
Cilla was standing with a small group of women in front of a hut, her fair hair tucked u
nder a large sunhat, her pale face obscured by shadow. She was peering toward the hut’s entrance while the Kikuyu women chattered around her. While their language was incomprehensible to me, I could perceive their agitation well enough.
Mr. Timmons was already on the ground and manoeuvring between the women to reach Cilla. At a word from him, she spun about, pushed her hat back and grasped at his hands. Her face held an anxiety that was foreign to her.
Her godfather motioned to me with a nod of his head and she glanced over, a brief smile lighting her features. At that welcome sight, my shoulders loosened, releasing a tension I’d been carrying for a while. It seemed I was forgiven, for she called me to join them.
Upon my doing so, she clasped me to her. “Oh my dearest Bee,” she whispered, her arms quivering against mine. “Let us agree to never go separate ways with such harshness between us, for I’ve been bereft without your company.”
It was a proposal I readily agreed to. She waved away my apology and wiped under her eyes where moisture glistened.
“And may I belatedly extend my congratulations on your approaching engagement, whenever it may be confirmed?” I added. “Where is the fortunate man?”
Cilla smiled despite the strain on her features. “He’s in London still. He had some personal issues to attend to, but will join me here. Oh, Bee, you’ll adore him, I know you will. And you won’t have to be secretive with him because…” She broke off awkwardly.
I patted her hand, and couldn’t help but think of Drew and the beast that had attacked him, a beast that (I now admitted) had been a werewolf. Would it have been better had he survived? Would I have preferred a werewolf for a brother rather than an empty grave?
Despite my reluctance to accept my own mixed background, I knew the answer: I’d take my brother back, in whatever form.
Mr. Timmons cleared his throat loudly. “Cilla, what’s going on here?”
“Oh!” she gasped, as if she’d forgotten the situation. “Something utterly atrocious has occurred. I’m so grateful you’re both here, for I fear I’ve been implicated in a foul deed. But I’ve done nothing, save purchase some herbs from their healer.”
I couldn’t imagine Cilla involved with anything fouler than swatting a fly. Mr. Timmons seemed to feel similarly, for he placed an arm about her shoulders, his face severe. “I’m sure they will recognise your innocence soon enough.”
The tone of his voice, the rigidity of his body and the dark gleam of his eyes alarmed me, for I was at that moment entirely convinced he would drain the energy of every villager if he believed they posed any threat to Cilla.
“What exactly happened?” I asked, eager to distract Mr. Timmons before he wrecked havoc in his desire to protect his goddaughter.
“I was in the middle of selecting herbs when we heard the most devastatingly horrific scream. A lady…” Cilla gestured to one of the women – a squat, plump and distraught figure – and paused, a hand fluttering over her chest. “That lady came running out of this hut, wailing and weeping and carrying on so terribly.”
“Why?” I demanded when Cilla seemed unable to finish the story.
Before she could respond, there was a stirring about us. Mr. Timmons, who clearly anticipated violence – either his own or another’s – pulled at us and rolled his eyes toward the horses.
I was tempted to point out there were only two horses and a growing crowd of unhappy people between us and our mounts. I was saved the effort when a tall, broad shouldered figure stepped out of the hut.
“Kam,” I said, unsure if his being here was fortuitous or not.
While I had assisted in rescuing his shape-changing nieces from lion hunters not too long before, he had previous to that tried to serve me as a lion snack. And he had no kind regard for Mr. Timmons who had attempted to procure the powers of the twin girls through his identity-absorbing abilities.
Given Kam’s general distrust of the motivations of both Mr. Timmons and the Society, I hoped we wouldn’t all be considered guilty by association and thus condemned. This may be a colony of Her Majesty’s, but I was acutely aware of how far away we were from the rather short arm of British law and society.
Covering my misgivings with a slight nod of acknowledgement in his direction, I asked, “Kam, what happened?”
I wondered if I should remind him he still owed me for helping rescue his nieces. Then again, that assumed he felt indebted. Given the cool gaze I received from him, I feared not.
“A daughter is dead,” he said in his deep, gravelly voice.
The crowd about us had grown and jostled us further away from the horses and closer to the hut and Kam. Thunder rumbled overhead and lightning speared the air near the horizon.
“Talkative, aren’t you?” Mr. Timmons muttered.
I could sense his energy reach out and when I squinted, I could see it brush against those who stood between us and our freedom. Whoever his energetic tendrils touched seemed to wilt slightly, overcome by a lethargy that, if it continued, could degenerate into a fatal coma.
Between Kam, Mr. Timmons and the agitated crowd, Cilla was quite right to look so apprehensive.
“Miss Knight,” Kam said, “you are often where the trouble is.”
“Always here to assist, if I can,” I said, smiling while tightening my grip on my walking stick and mentally flicking through the list of tools it contained. In such close quarters, the blade might not be terribly useful, my sachet of powdered cinnamon even less so (unless everyone was allergic to the spice), but the set of throwing knives could be most effective.
Unimpressed by my indirect offer and not intimidated in the least by Mr. Timmons’ dark look, Kam said, “Come,” and returned into the hut, confident that his order would be followed.
The crowd shifted to allow me passage through their midst but closed in behind me, separating me from my companions. Despite my irritation at his werewolf comment, I felt Mr. Timmons’ absence by my side most acutely.
After the grey glare of outside, the hut was an abyss. With my eyes momentarily useless, my olfactory senses were further enhanced: wood smoke, sweet herbs, fresh milk, cow dung, goat hair and human sweat mingled in the darkness, but all of that symphony of smell was overpowered by the metallic scent of fresh blood.
There was one small window cut into the mud wall and a smoke hole above. As my eyes adjusted, I wished they hadn’t.
Fully aware of Kam’s studied gaze on me, I maintained a professional pose and a neutral expression. This was only possible from years of experience in similarly alarming scenes, plus a prior suspicion as to what I’d find in the hut.
Still, I’d rather hoped to be proven wrong.
A young lady, her skin blending into the shadows, lay upon the packed earth floor. In one limp hand was a small blade; in the other, a red flower. Across her body were the familiar shapes carved into her skin.
“She’s also smiling, just like the first one,” I murmured as I squatted by her side. “Although this one is cleaner. The carvings are more refined, more controlled…”
My voice faded at the implication. What had Mr. Elkhart said? That Mrs. Cricket was using her victims for practice, to ensure she was powerful enough to exert full control.
If that was the case, Mrs. Cricket had improved significantly. Would it be enough for her?
“They think it is you,” Kam interrupted my ruminations. “Or the other girl. You look alike.”
“We most certainly do not look alike,” I said.
The only thing Cilla and I had in common was our gender and skin colour, but that was of no consequence. I could feel the movement of the crowd behind me; if I cleared my mind, I could feel tendrils of energy brush by me, quivering with anxiety, hostility, fear.
“Do you think it was us?” I asked, my voice just as soft and controlled as his. I peered up at him, his energy a mystery.
He shook his head once, his eyes fixed on mine.
I rose up from my squat, my back particularly straight and rigid, as if
anticipating an attack. “Have you seen Liam nearby?”
“Is it him?” Kam asked and without altering his posture, he somehow subtly shifted from calmly alert to fight mode. Perhaps it was a tightening of muscles, the hardening of eyes.
“No,” I responded firmly, wondering where Mrs. Cricket would fly off to if her current vessel was destroyed. “Not exactly, that is.”
I hesitated, unsure how much I should reveal. Kam waited, remaining passively alert, an oxymoronic description yet aptly suited to him.
Kam and I weren’t friends; I wouldn’t even suggest we were colleagues. If he suspected I posed a threat to his people, I knew he wouldn’t hesitate to dispatch me to the next world (assuming I went straight there and didn’t linger). Given that I still had no understanding of his markings and no access to his energy, I couldn’t be certain of my chances of overpowering his efforts, but I intuited they were slim.
Somehow these mental meanderings reached a conclusion and I told Kam about Mrs. Cricket and Liam. I neglected to mention Gideon’s presence, as it was already a messy story. I finished with Mr. Elkhart’s theory.
Kam remained in a deep silence for a few minutes, absorbing and coming to his own conclusions. “These are for practise then?”
I nodded, realising how terrible that must sound, that the women in the village were little more than targets to be tested on. Then again, the women in London had likewise been treated that way.
“Then she is ready,” he said, no emotion revealing itself on the dark, hard surface of his face.
“I believe so,” I said, fairly confident that my own countenance was as equally unreadable. “And I believe she will attack Cilla, my cousin Lilly or me.”
My voice hitched slightly at the end. Would my energetic abilities, my mother’s witch blood and my apparent part-werewolf status protect me from such an attack? Would I be cognisant of it, my consciousness lingering in some corner of my mind, trapped and unable to control my body? Or would I be removed altogether?