Baffled, she headed back to the office to tidy up. She could do no more here. She had used all the secret marks she knew of in Connie’s work and had not even a paragraph to show for it. Once she’d straightened up, she decided to head back to Connie’s cabin. She needed to stop and think. She was so close…she could feel it. But close to what?
The heavy overcast weather had not lightened any. In fact, it looked like a storm was approaching fast. At least the rain had ceased, making the walk back a little easier.
Halfway home, and deep in the forest, a mournful howl rang out, rooting her to the spot. Its echo ricocheted through the trees, giving her no idea where it originated from, except that it was close by.
The hackles on the back of her neck rose and the blood drained from her face down to her toes, rooting her to the spot. Was the prowler back? She looked around anxiously, but all was quiet. Eerily quiet. Amy quickened her pace, wishing home were closer. A second stricken howl curdled her stomach. This one was filled with pain. With no hesitation, Amy broke into a steady jog.
The last curve in the track opened up onto the small clearing before Connie’s cabin. There she skidded to a halt. Blood was splashed over the porch steps. Her door lying wide open. A trail of wet crimson led into the cabin.
“Oh, crap.” Cautiously, she approached; the only other option was to run away into a forest filled with howling wolves. It was best to get indoors and quickly, providing indoors was safe. And there was only one way to find out.
She slowly mounted the porch and peered with trepidation into the gloomy interior. There was a lot of blood. This was not a small creature. She thought of the elk hanging gutted in the tree, and the snake burrowed in her bed. Had something decided this was now its pantry and left a tasty morsel for her to find?
A moan from inside made her jump back a few feet. Then she surged forward; it was a human cry. It was Paulie!
“Paulie! Oh God, Paulie. What’s happened?” She fell on her knees beside the naked youth. He was semiconscious and his body was shaking, she assumed from shock and blood loss. He was covered in blood. She dragged a blanket off the couch to cover him, to keep him warm, and scrabbled to remember her first aid lessons.
She had to get help. A series of howls sang out the length and breadth of the valley. More cries than she could ever recall hearing. How many wolves were out there? It creeped her out. Amy didn’t want to leave Paulie here like this, but how was she going to get help? She needed to draw attention to the cabin.
She grabbed the revolver from the mantel and checked that the chamber was loaded. She ran out to her front porch. Aiming in the air, she pulled the trigger. Shots rang out sharply into the darkening sky, making their own echo down the valley. That had to get the attention of any Garoul in the vicinity. The howling immediately ceased. That unnerved her, too.
Back in the room she knelt beside Paulie. He had passed out. With a handful of soaked dish towels, she washed the blood off his face and body, trying to see what damage was underneath. His face was unhurt. Most of the blood must be from his other wounds. She cleaned his shoulder. It had a nasty series of slashes. His hands were unharmed, just very bloody. She wiped them clean. In fact, apart from the wounds on his shoulder, he was relatively unharmed. So where had all the blood come from?
Ashadow filled the open doorway. She looked up to see Claude. She was relieved he had arrived so soon.
He knelt beside her, examining Paulie with deft efficiency.
“It’s his shoulder. It looks bad, but I don’t think it’s all his blood. His wound is just seeping now,” Amy said. Claude nodded and wrapped the blanket tighter around Paulie, easily lifting him into his arms. Paulie moaned, starting to come around.
“It’s okay, son. You did good,” Claude murmured. Turning to Amy, he said, “Yeah, you’re right. It is superficial. I’m taking him to Marie. She has all the stuff I need to fix him up.”
Amy stood, ready to go with them. “Aren’t you going to get a doctor?”
“Marie and I can see to this.”
“But he’s been attacked. We need to get him to a hospital.”
“Marie’s a doctor, remember? She may not practice anymore, but she can look after Paulie.” Claude was adamant.
Amy was confused. This was important. Paulie was hurt. Marie had given up medicine years ago to take over the Garoul Press from her own mother, just as Leone had taken over from her. Surely Marie would want Paulie to go to the hospital?
“But—”
“Amy. Let it be.” Claude was turning away with Paulie in his arms. “I know what I’m doing. It’s just shock. His body is in overload and has shut down. I have to go now, okay?”
Amy silently held the door open for him to pass through. Now was not the time to ask more questions about overloads and shutdowns, but she was hurt at being excluded.
She watched him disappear down the track. The Garouls always closed ranks on her: first over Connie, then the code, and now Paulie. But then Amy had always been the outsider; even as a child she had been aware of it. She used to put it down to the fact she came and went every vacation. Or that she wasn’t really blood kin. But most of the younger Garouls came and went for the summer months, too. And Marie was Connie’s partner, and had been like an adopted aunt to Amy.
Amy knew her excuses were threadbare. On some deep, unfathomable level she had been kept on the outer edges of this family and its secrets. The real question was how could she feel so connected lying in Leone’s arms, yet so isolated in the real world of this valley?
Amy filled a pail with soapsuds and sluiced down her floor and porch steps. She was incredibly upset. She liked Paulie and was distressed he had been hurt. The wounds in his shoulder had been jagged and vicious. Deep, lacerating claw marks that reminded her of the marks on the trees, and on the studio wall. And that made her shudder.
It was late afternoon when she finally curled up on her couch with her piece of paper and its curious drift of letters and half-formed foreign words. The day had taken its toll and she was listless and defeated. The dancing flames in the fireplace mesmerized her, so much so that she had to physically shake herself to get up and actually do something before the day slid away.
Instead of heading for the studio as she half expected to, she found herself pulling the passkey book from the shelf. She returned to the couch and began a painstaking search for her partially completed words in the langue d’oc dictionary. Slowly, she translated her marks and squiggles, guessing at some of the words and crude lettering. She worked for hours until finally she could do no more.
Then she sat back in the mellow glow of her reading lamp, and with disbelieving eyes read, over and over, her half-formed sentences.
You are Garoul. Honored are you in the sacred groves of Gaul. Feared by Rome, the voices of Celtica sing your name…
O Keeper of the Beast within…
…the moon is in thine eye and all shall…
Long may you hunt…and…the mountain. Long may you walk among man.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Keeper of the Beast? She read the words over and over until her eyes swam. A beast? Of course there was a beast. She knew that. She’d known all along, but was just too stupid to actually accept it.
The Garouls locked it away in the old storage shack—except for the times it broke free and ran amok in the valley, ripping up trees, and elk, and Paulie? Her eyes widened as she thought about the claw marks on Paulie’s shoulder.
At the storage cabin she had been aghast at the destruction. The door hanging off its hinges, furniture broken and strewn across the floor. But the curious cutesy curtains? Was that an attempt to give a prison some comfort?
Amy jolted. The cherry candy on the windowsill? Connie had been in that cabin. Connie had known!
What had she known? She must have been trying to break the code, too. Had she stumbled across it during her work for the Garouls and investigated the beast for herself? Was that why they had taken her away? Or had it atta
cked her like it had attacked Paulie?
Amy leapt to her feet in panic. Connie had realized her work was part of an elaborate code. And being Connie, she had set out to break it. Amy recalled Virgil; the prim librarian had sidled up to her every time she looked at the code books on his shelves. His interest bordered on downright nosiness. Had he really been a puzzle buddy to Connie all along? A secret ally she had kept from the Garouls?
Was he helping her with the code? It all made sense. Someone had left the langue d’oc book as a clue for her. And it appeared after Virgil’s visit.
Connie had disappeared, and Virgil didn’t know who he could trust anymore. He had to find out if Amy was friend or foe. That’s why he was always snooping around. Could Virgil tell her what had really happened to Connie? He must have some idea what was going on.
Certain in her course of action, Amy grabbed her jacket and headed out the door. It was late, but if she gunned it she might get to Lost Creek before the library closed. She jogged down to the parking lot and made straight for Claude’s truck. Thankfully, his keys were tucked under the visor where she’d left them, Amy took the turn for Lost Creek and sped along the dirt track as fast as she was able, throwing up plumes of dust and grit. It was a single-track road with frequent cut-outs for a vehicle to pull over and let another pass, and coming toward her was Leone’s truck. She could clearly see Leone and Marie in the front seat, returning from their larder run, looking back at her in surprise. Amy kept up her speed. She knew if she capitulated first and pulled up into a passing bay Leone would stop alongside her to snoop, and then doubtless interfere and try to boss her around.
Determined, Amy hogged the road ahead in a bizarre game of chicken, not slowing down at all. With confused faces Leone and Marie pulled over and Amy blew by without so much as a glance, eyes fixed firmly ahead. She could feel Leone’s glare burning into her, but she drove past, relieved the little confrontation had so easily gone her way. By the time Leone had driven Marie to the compound and found out about Paulie, Amy would be in Lost Creek getting her answers at last.
There was a light on in the office window when Amy skidded to a halt outside the library. Frantically, she rapped on the door. A dim light lit the hallway, and a bolt slid with a loud metallic snap. A few more rattles and clicks followed before Virgil Bloomsy opened the door a crack and squinted out.
“Amy?” he said in sharp surprise.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but can I come in?” Her request was so urgent he didn’t hesitate to open and let her enter. Deftly he locked it behind her in a reverse series of clunks and clicks. He seemed very nervous.
“Are you okay, Virgil?” Amy picked up on his twitchiness.
“Yes, thank you. A little stiff with all this rain.” He indicated the barred door. “I’m just security conscious. I like everything locked up nice and tight.” He smiled weakly.
I bet you do. She thought he looked tired and pale, but decided not to comment on his discomfort. After all, he had no idea who or what she represented as far as the Garouls were concerned. He was probably taking a real risk letting her in at all.
“I’m sorry to call so late. I know you’re heading home for the night, but I needed to talk to someone.” She moved to the reception desk. Virgil followed. He moved stiffly and was watching her warily. “Actually, I needed to talk to you.”
“What’s the matter, Amy? You sound very upset.”
“I broke the code. I know what it means—well, some of it. Just a few lines, to be exact.”
He stood in stunned silence.
“I’m guessing you and Connie were working on it together when suddenly she just disappeared. Am I right?” she said.
“You broke the code?” Virgil was still digesting this news. He gave a small, mystified shake of his head.
“It wasn’t that difficult once I figured out the keys. There were three of them, so it was a little more complex. It’s like a combination, each key points to the next, and all three unlock the code.”
“Three keys.”
“Yes, the almanac illustrations that Connie already knew about. The langue d’oc book that you had. I guessed it was you who left it for me. I knew I had outside help. And I figured out the third by myself—the Bosch painting.”
“Bosch?”
“The Garden of Earthly Delights.” Amy nodded, impatient to get to her point. “I need to know what happened to Connie. I know they have a beast hidden away in the valley. Some sort of monster.” She hoped he would trust her. “Virgil, tell me everything you now about Connie, right up to her disappearance.”
She could see the shadows flit over his face. He was still hiding something, holding back. Unsure. They stood in silence for a second while he thought things through and Amy silently pleaded with him to trust her. To tell her the truth.
Then sighing so deeply his shoulders sank, he said, “I killed her.”
Amy watched his lips curl into a thin, cold smile. His words sounded as if they came from underwater, spoken to her in slow motion. Her body went numb. She floated out the top of her head and watched herself…and him, from a distant point somewhere in the library rafters. Connie was dead. Connie was dead. Connie was dead.
“…and after the wolf eats grandma, silly Little Red Riding Hood arrives. Talk about life echoing fiction.” He was still talking. Always talking, always sounding so smug.
Her Connie was dead. He’d killed her. And now he was standing before her talking about nursery stories?
“Beware false prophets who come amongst you in sheep’s clothing, for inwardly they are ravening wolves.” Virgil had moved on to sermons now. Amy pulled back her fist and with all her anger punched him square on the nose.
It popped under her knuckles with a satisfying crunch. Blood spurted over his chin and shirt. He screamed in pain and surprise. Amy took another wild roundhouse swing for his head. He ducked, but she managed to cuff his ear. Then she faltered. His sharp cry had mutated into something else, something feral that froze her. He snarled—a nasty, sly snarl.
His eyes gleamed eerily up at her from his defensive crouch. His hands holding his bleeding nose looked hooked and horrible.
“Bitch!” he spat through a mouthful of blood. “I’m going to mail you to Leone Garoul, piece by piece. Starting with your cunt.”
Amy stumbled back, startled at the poison pouring from his mouth. He was clawing at his clothes, wrestling them off as if they were on fire. She could see bloodstained, badly wrapped bandages across his scrawny chest. He’d been hurt. His chest was wet from the nosebleed she had given him, and he was slobbering copiously in thick, oily cords. And rank—he smelled rank. Werewolf. The Beast was a werewolf. And it was Virgil Bloomsy. Connie had found him out! Her mind screamed at her to run, but her feet were glued to the floor.
Amy recoiled at his slow, ugly mutation. His face distorted and twisted. His jaw thickened and elongated in wretched crunches and creaks. Teeth tore at his lips, much too sharp, all wrong for the shape of his human mouth. Except it wasn’t quite a human mouth anymore, it was pulling and twisting all out of shape. Cheek skin stretched like rubber, close to tearing. His head shook and shook, as if full of bees; his spittle and bloody mucus flew like water off a dog’s pelt, spattering her face—and waking her out of her horrified trance.
She ran for the door, but it was barred with bolts and chains, and slides and locks. She had little time. Whatever it was he was turning into he was nearly all of it. This was his only moment of weakness. These were perhaps her last moments on earth and she wanted to make them count. Amy threw all her body weight on the nearest section of shelves and pushed them over onto Virgil’s crouched, convulsing body with an enormous clattering crash.
Lightweight as they were, they still hurt when they hit him. His bellowing roar was little satisfaction. She changed course and ran to the rear of the library where she knew the fire exit was probably her only chance. Behind her came loud bangs and thuds. She glanced back to see the bookshelf cast aside l
ike broken twigs. He was free of it. On the wall opposite, his shadow rose from crouch to full standing. He was vile in silhouette, with a stooped, shivering back and a stubby, twisted muzzle. His sloping forehead ran up into low pointed ears. His whole body pulsed with excited savagery, quivering with bloodlust, like a dog on the scent of an easy kill. Amy knew in her gut all his kills were easy. His whole posture screamed to her of a craven coward wrapped in the body of a malicious bully. She would not let him win; she would never let him win. Not after Connie. She would fight him to her dying breath. She would hurt him before she died.
“I can smell you. I can smell Garoul all over you. Whore. Like Connie—a Garoul whore.” His voice was dry and raspy. He moved slowly, limping. Amy realized he had not fully changed. Perhaps he was too weak from his earlier fight. She had no doubt he was responsible for Paulie’s injuries, and that Paulie had landed some telling blows of his own. She also realized this was another advantage. Virgil was prowling, threatening and taunting her because he couldn’t chase after her and tear her to shreds.
He would try to corner her, to terrify and intimidate her, but he had overlooked one thing. Her hatred for him. He had killed Connie and she hated him more than she cared to live.
“Do you go down all fours? Does she mount you from behind—”
Her answer was to elbow the fire alarm glass, the smash setting off a shrill bell. Low emergency lighting flickered, casting an eerie green glow over the darkened aisles. It was a risk. There were two alarm buttons in the library—which one would he turn to? And could she slink away in time if he chose hers? It was worth it, though, because now he knew a bright blue light was flashing on the front of the building and the county fire department had been alerted.
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