Amy bit back her longing for those early days, and her longing to see Connie right here and now. Instead she busied herself around the studio, setting up the paper she’d stretched the night before now that it had dried and was tight as a drum. She reviewed the devil’s club sketches she and Leone had singled out for the insets.
Just thinking of Leone made Amy’s heart bloom, vibrant, happy, and certain in its choice. She was content with the choices she made last night, for both of them. It surprised her, this clarity to her emotions. She could see right into herself, to what she was feeling, as crystal clear as cool, reflective water.
Her intellect was more hesitant. It cautioned her to tread carefully. Reminding her she had crossed the minefield of loving Leone Garoul once before and had been blown to bits.
Amy deliberately turned her mind back to the job in hand— scaling down. Her field book was the European A4 standard she preferred working with. However, the insets were an irregular size. They had to be one eighth of the overall page to fit with the text. She would have to make a grid to reduce the scale and keep the perspective. It was the only way to make the transition between her sketch and the actual artwork correct.
The grid calculation to get the aspect ratio was a basic math formula. As Amy concentrated on the measurements, the figures began to loop in her head. She looked at her roughly penciled calculations. Déjà vu oozed up from the scrap paper she’d scribbled on. Amy frowned and studied the numbers again. They resonated somewhere in the back of her mind. She had seen these figures recently. She knew she had. Lists of numbers—Figures of?… Figures for?—The potions! The recipes! The weird measurements on her scrap paper matched the grams in Marie’s brews.
Amy leapt to her feet and hurried to the almanacs. It was true. The crazy dosages in the recipes related exactly in to the grid measurements for the strange page sizes. Amy stared at the ash-filled hearth. For several long minutes she sat and thought it through over and over, casting sums around her head until her logic finally concurred with her guts.
“Oh, my God, I think I found the key.”
The page grid is the key? Amy sat perplexed. She had made several grids on acetate plastic using Marie’s strange recipe amounts as scaling measurements. Much to her excitement she found each grid fit exactly over the marks in the illustrations. A grid made to the recipe measurements for sweet cicely had every strange little squiggle in the painting falling perfectly into the center of a grid square. It was the same for every weird plant illustration and recipe Amy could find. She knew there were untold ciphers she would never find. The almanacs went back over the years, almost forever. Lord knew how many were archived away.
Now what? She had all these squiggles sitting inside her grids… So what the hell did it mean?
Well, this is just rubbish! I thought the grid would show me words or something? She sat back and frowned. There had to be another key—one that made sense of the grid, one that told her how to use it. Typical of the sneaky Garouls not to make their code nice and easy. She knew how to get the marks off the page and onto the grid, but not how to make the grid tell her something.
Amy set the books aside in disappointment, and stood and stretched. One door opened, and another slammed shut in her face. Enough! She needed to work. Codes and witchcraft—between the two, the Garouls were eating up too much of her time. But something was nagging her.
Leone and Marie had lied about the marks in Connie’s work. Leone had lied about her bloody clothes. And Claude was very evasive about the vandalized cabin.
Amy didn’t feel she could trust the Garouls anymore. Tiredness and disillusion drained every ounce of vitality from her. She had never felt so isolated in her life. Was she wrong to doubt these people? After all, they were like a second family to her. Her only real family after Connie.
That worried her, too. Connie was in their care at some mysterious retreat up north. What had really happened to her? The Garouls were definitely keeping all sorts of secrets from her. Had they a right to? Why?
The weight of the world lay heavy on her shoulders. Amy wondered if she had been too hasty in sleeping with Leone. Her common sense berated her for her emotional weakness. Had she been too carried away by cozy couches and soppy memories of teenage love? Not to mention the sharp sexual frizzante that still sparkled between them. A vintage that unfortunately only seemed to improve with age.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Late into the afternoon Amy concentrated hard on finishing the final details on her insets, though for once she was not totally immersed in her art. Her mind was caught up with her latest discovery, and constantly swirled away like the colors off her brush in the water jar. It was probably this sliver of inattentiveness, of not being wholly inside her other world that made her aware something was wrong. A sustained rustling outside the studio made her sit up sharply.
She sat motionless, alert. There it was again—more than a rustling of leaves, more than the rattle of rain on the skylight, or the tapping of twigs on the shingles, more…of what?
When the prolonged screech came Amy jerked in shock, jarring the table. Water spilled over the workbench and brushes clattered onto the floor. The noise of slowly splintering wood was excruciating. It dragged on, inch by inch, like chalk on blackboard, like locomotive breaks, like agony. All along the outside of the studio.
Amy slid off her stool onto trembling legs, wide-eyed in horror. She could trace it, feel it, the length of the western wall of the studio. From one end to the other it was subjected to a slow, savage ripping. The small of her back was rammed tight against the workbench. She could follow the malicious trajectory right into the far corner—then it ceased as suddenly as it started.
Thick silence filled the air around her. Thicker and heavier than the lump in her throat. For a long time she stood frozen, waiting for whatever came next. Whatever horror could possibly come on the heels of that noise? That insane tearing? Finally, she shook herself into action, and slowly backed toward the living room door, her eyes never leaving the corner of the studio where she was certain something stood, waiting to see her reaction. Carefully, one step after another, she backed— A hard rattle came from the skylight directly above her. Amy gave a startled cry. Her head whipped up, her gaze darting across the ceiling. It was on the roof! It was trying to get in.
Amy lunged for the door. A quick fearful glance over her shoulder slowed her retreat. A branch tapped on the glass, not a creature. The wind had risen and tree branches were lashing the wooden cabin. Amy had always felt secure in this sturdy cabin, now it felt as fragile as a matchbox. Her protection was being slowly and systematically ripped to ribbons.
This had happened when Connie was here. Amy knew it beyond all doubt. It all fit together. She knew what Connie had gone through, the stalking, the attacks on her home. The terror. No wonder she had guns, no wonder she’d collapsed.
Amy turned and fled for the small dresser by the door. She pulled the drawer right out of its runners, spilling scarves and gloves out onto the floor. The Ruger shook in her hands. It felt heavy, and evil, not at all comforting.
Is it loaded? Can I shoot a bear? Or a wolf? Can I even shoot a gun? Like Connie, Amy considered herself a fisherman, not a hunter. She had never wanted to learn to shoot. In Britain there was a totally different attitude to gun ownership and it had solidified her ambivalence toward them. Weapons were not necessary in her life. But then she seldom had rabid animals trying to claw their way into her home in southwest London. Amy fumbled with the box of bullets and scattered them all over the floor.
“Shit! Shit, shit, shit…shit!” She scrabbled on her knees trying to scoop them up. “Shit.”
In the rising wind, every creak and groan of the wooden cabin freaked her out. Whatever was out there could claw through the walls at any moment. Could explode through them for all she knew.
“Yoo hoo. Anyone home?”
Her hands stilled. She hadn’t expected that.
Amy peeked out the window and d
id a double take. Virgil Bloomsy stood before the porch steps carrying a plastic shopping bag. The wind whipped his waterproof slicker around his skinny body. He seemed unconcerned that there was a marauding man-eater out there with him.
Quickly stuffing pistol, bullets, and her hysteria back into the drawer, Amy took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Mr. Bloomsy? Virgil. What on earth are you doing all the way out here?” She knew damn well what the snoopy old duffer was up to. But it didn’t matter; he was there and the thing was gone. Maybe his approach scared it away. It seemed only Amy and Connie had shared the luxury of its presence.
“I really hope you don’t mind. After I lock up I like to go bird-watching. I know it’s private land, but so far no one has grabbed me for trespassing. And this valley is full of the most wonderful birds. Did you know there’s a taiga merlin’s nest up by the logging road?” He flushed with excitement at his disclosure.
“Wow, a merlin?” Aquick scan over his shoulder and Amy knew the coast was clear. All her senses told her the creature, whatever it was, had gone.
“Yes. A pair of them. How rare is that? These two didn’t migrate,” Virgil said. “Of course, it was Connie who told me about them. Otherwise I’d never have known. Oh, that’s why I’m here.” He reached out the carrier bag. “The book she ordered came in late yesterday afternoon. I forgot to give it to you earlier. I hope you don’t mind a private delivery, but as I was in the neighborhood, so to speak…”
Amy took the parcel and indicated he should follow her indoors. “No, not at all. Would you care for a coffee? Or there’s juice, if you’d prefer.”
“You know, I’d rather have a glass of cold water if that’s all right with you.”
Amy led him into the cabin, momentarily amused at the way his hungry stare ate up the erudite coziness of Connie’s home. He fixed on the bookshelves, a ravenous glint in his eye. This was obviously his first visit here, despite his protestations at being Connie’s good friend.
“My, look at this collection. It’s a nature lover’s paradise. So much knowledge, and so beautifully presented.”
Amy smiled indulgently as she filled a glass with ice water from the fridge.
“It’s a lesson to us all. Collect every book you can about the subjects you love, and care for them as if they were your babies.” She brought his drink over. “And before you know it you’ll have a literary summation of who and what you are.”
He hadn’t moved, still standing transfixed before the shelves. “If I lived here I’d never go outside again.”
“Maybe that’s why Connie has a reputation as a recluse. And who can blame her? She’s got that beautiful valley just outside her door, and this wonderful world lining her living room. I’d never want to leave either.”
“How is she?” He turned to face her now.
“Mmm, fine. She’s not here. Recuperating elsewhere.”
He nodded. “I suspected as much. I’m sorry. It’s not my business to pry. Just…just give her my regards, please.”
“I will.”
He set the empty glass down on the side table beside the almanacs. The plastic grids lay askew across their covers.
“Oh. I see you’re still plowing on with the ciphers?”
“Not so much now that I’ve begun to paint. Like I said, it’s just a puzzle to while away the evenings.” Amy moved toward the door to try to lure him away from her study material. He took the hint and reluctantly followed.
“I think the weather turned in your favor,” she said. The wind had died down allowing a little heat for the last few hours of the day.
“Yes. I better make the most of it. Thanks for the drink.”
“Thank you for delivering the book.” She waved good-bye as he trudged off.
Back in the cabin Amy unwrapped the parcel he had delivered. She frowned at the book cover. It was the autobiography of a contemporary of Connie’s, a man she discreetly disliked. It looked familiar. Amy wandered over to the shelves, and after a minute found Connie’s copy. It was a signed gift from the artist. Why the hell would she order a book she already had, about a man she didn’t even like? It was obviously a prefabricated excuse for Virgil to call in person. Which meant he knew already that Connie wasn’t here.
Amy’s initial annoyance at Virgil’s nosiness now became alarm. What the hell is he up to, and why is he so fascinated with Connie and that goddamned code? Just what I need, another freakin’ joker in the pack.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
You’ve got to let her go.” Her mother’s voice was hard, her eyes cold. Leone glared back, hot and overloaded with emotion. “We’re going to be okay. We’re older, wiser.”
“You’ll hurt her.”
“I’d never hurt her. I’ll be careful—”
“You were meant to protect her, and you slept with her instead. How’s that being careful?” Her mother’s harsh question cut deep. “She’s still safe. I’ll keep her safe.”
“She’s not safe. You’ve tainted her. She’s like Connie.” Each was coiled tight with tension in this standoff in Marie’s kitchen. On the stove one of her potions bubbled in noisy readiness.
“Here.” Her mother turned and distilled the simmering brew into a flask. Leone could smell the disappointment oozing from her every pore. Her mother was tired and upset, and didn’t need any more worries. A part of Leone felt guilty about bringing more stress onto her. Another, bigger part, knew Marie was wrong. This was the right time. Maybe the only time Leone would ever have.
“Take this down to the cabin.” She handed Leone the flask. Leone took it and turned to go. “Leone,” she called after her, pulling her up short at the door. “You’ve got to let her go. Or they’ll kill her.”
Back in the studio Amy mopped the water from the floor and tidied the mess on her workbench. Luckily, her work had escaped unharmed. She needed the mindless cleaning chore to steady her nerves and focus her mind.
Finally, she faced up to the inevitable and ventured outside to see what damage had been done to the studio wall. She had barely gone two steps outside the door when she saw Paulie farther up the trail. He was scanning the ground and then raising his face to the air. He didn’t even notice her, he was so engrossed in whatever he was doing. She stood and quietly watched his curious behavior until he moved away, taking the same path Virgil had followed earlier.
The sight of a friendly face rallied Amy’s morbid thoughts. There was always a Garoul nearby if she ran into trouble this close to home. Fortified with that thought, she trudged around to the rear of the cabin to investigate.
The wall was deeply gouged in four parallel lines. Undoubtedly claws, but whatever they belonged to had Amy flummoxed. These were not any marks she knew of. Not that she was overly experienced. There was something weird out there. Something had shadowed her in the woods, too wily to be seen, but bold enough to allow her to notice its presence. It played games with her—the fish, the stalking, and now vandalizing the studio. It was big. Far too large to be wolves or wild cats. And it was not a bear, either. Definitely not a bear. So what the hell was it?
The trees deep in the forest had been shredded. And the Garouls knew about it. Something had been locked in that cabin. Something had torn it apart trying to get out. And the Garouls knew about that, too.
Amy examined the older scars on the walls, remembering with a shudder her horror at that terrible screeching. Now she was appalled at the flimsiness of the structure between her and whatever did this. The cabin had withstood a lot of damage. How much more could it take?
Norman Johnston’s bitter words rang in her ears. “There’s a creature in that valley, and you all know it.” Was what he said true?
Connie had endured this…this creature, time after time. The cabin walls were testimony to that. The Garouls knew this. The Garouls knew far too much. She was sure they did. And they told me she had a breakdown over her work? Bastards!
“Tell me the truth.” Amy stood in Marie’s kitchen; her hands sh
ook where they rested on the countertop.
“About what?” Marie shook her head, confused. Her eyes were worried, but guarded.
“Connie. Is she really all right? I know it wasn’t a work-related breakdown. I know she was victimized, by some sort of beast.”
“Amy, I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” Marie began making a pot of herbal tea. “Please calm down and tell me exactly what you mean—”
“I mean her studio being practically flayed open. I was in there this afternoon and something came and used it for a scratching post. It was terrifying.”
“Oh my God. Did you see what did it?”
“No. Virgil Bloomsy came along and it slid off. Good thing, too. I had Connie’s gun and if I’d have seen it, it would have lead fillings in its teeth.”
“What? Hold on. You had a gun? And do you mean Virgil Bloomsy the librarian? Amy, here, sip this. Let’s sit down and you can start from the beginning, okay?”
Amy settled onto the couch, determined to get to the bottom of it all. Marie sat beside her, seemingly mystified at Amy’s whirlwind of information. Amy sipped her tea. The fragrant warmth was calming, and she drank a little more.
“First off, is Mr. Bloomsy as big a friend of Connie’s as he claims? I mean, much as I appreciated his unscheduled visit this afternoon, he sort of creeps me out.” Amy needed to know more about the man.
“I’ve never actually met him. Connie’s the one with the library card. He’s not a friend as far as I know.” Marie shrugged. “Connie is an acclaimed, well-respected artist. Lots of people try to worm in close, or try to violate her privacy. One arts magazine even called her a recluse because she wouldn’t be interviewed.”
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