Moonless

by Crystal Collier

  “A drink, Alexia?” Father retrieved a waiting glass from her bureau. She stared after him, recognizing the lace curtains and mounted mirror of her room.

  Her aunt leaned in. “Charles found you in the woods an hour ago. He said they scared someone off.”

  Her throat seized.

  Father slipped the cup into her hand and propped up her head. “You may speak with her later, Sarah.”

  Her near-sister glared. Father met Sarah’s fury with a clenched jaw. She rose begrudgingly and stomped away, slamming the door.

  His focus returned to Alexia. “What happened?”

  She shivered. It couldn’t have been—not what she remembered.

  “Please, Alexia, tell me.” His warmth astonished her. Did he comprehend that what had passed seemed ultimately impossible?

  “I went for a walk.” She swallowed.

  “And?”

  She bit down. She didn’t dare speak of the blue-eyed wonder—or menace—or about how certain she’d been of her death. How could she? She didn’t fully understand it herself.

  Father sat quietly, brows low, gaze fixed on her quilt. His shirt and waistcoat were wrinkled, his hunting boots muddying her floor. Deep lines cut beneath his tired eyes. He shook himself. “Are you hurt? Hungry? Sleepy?”

  “I am well, Father. You should rest.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but nodded instead. “I do not want you wandering alone out there. Not ever. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, eager to comply. Satisfied, he secured her inside her room with a candle burning.

  She climbed out of bed and paced back and forth. A plethora of questions burst upon her, and she couldn’t face them. She had no answers. The balcony exit reflected her frown, panes black around her gleaming countenance. She touched her smooth brow again and turned her arms over, but unbroken skin glistened back.

  The attack felt real. What had he done to her—if she wasn’t losing her mind altogether? Forced her to sleep and imagine her own demise? Maybe he wasn’t human. Perhaps he was a wraith with an insatiable appetite for others’ suffering.

  She crossed her arms and glared at the dark glass leading to the outside world.

  But then, why hadn’t he hurt her when he’d appeared in her room?

  The memory of him standing next to the mirror sapped the moisture from her mouth. Alexia hugged herself and willed the image to vanish. She closed her eyes, opening them quickly to be sure hers was the only presence.

  Lightning flashed. She fell back against the vanity, knocking several items to the floor.

  This was absurd. She’d survived! He must not want her dead. And yet she could not quiet the thundering of her heart.

  She bent to recover the treasures which had fallen from her vanity, telling herself how foolishly she had behaved. That . . . thing, whatever ran her down couldn’t possibly exist, because he . . . he was too fantastic to be real!

  Her fingers fell over a malformed card. They stilled.

  He did exist.

  She couldn’t deny that, and so did Northbend, Wilhamshire. So what terror would surface next? More death predictions? Hungry red-eyed beings?

  She leapt behind the vanity, shoving with all her might. The stubborn bureau groaned across the floor, scraping the wood’s finish, rattling in protest until it finally came to a halt.

  There. She stood back, pleased that it covered the majority of the balcony windows. She seized a blanket from the bed, threw it over the curtain rail and blotted out the storm. She sat, satisfied. Nothing and nobody would come through and seize her. Of that she was certain.

  She hoped.

  20

  Unwelcomed

  The hairs on the back of Charles’s neck prickled. He halted mid-step. The abandoned hall waited, dim in his candle’s glow. Darkness seemed to swell on the outskirts of light, shrinking the ring of safety.

  He straightened to his full height, eyes wide. Every muscle twitched with awareness, tensed to strike. He turned, slowly.

  A silhouette stood in the gloom, arms crossed.

  Charles’s nostrils flared. “What happened to her?”

  The visitor’s head bowed.

  Charles’s pulse sped, his breathing shallow and quick. “Was it you? Did you—” Eyes pierced into him. Even from the murk, their power weighted his tongue like a brick. His knees wobbled. He held himself still, unwilling to back down.

  “She is not safe here.” The words struck him like an axe. He stumbled backwards and hit the wall.

  He lifted a finger toward the man, shaking. “You brought this upon her.”

  No reply.

  Fury burned in his veins. “Get out! You leave my family alone!”

  The intruder stepped closer.

  Charles clasped the candle in both hands like a rapier. He blinked and the trespasser was gone.

  21

  Away

  When Alexia made it down to breakfast, an unusual amount of activity startled her—servants scurrying this way and that, the door hanging open as they carried supplies through.

  “Father?”

  He stood at the head of the dining table directing people as they entered to consult him. “Good morning, Alexia.”

  “What is happening here?”

  “You are going on holiday.”

  “What?”

  He settled her into a chair as Mother rose from the table and exited, meal barely touched. “Eat.”

  A platter landed before her and she hovered over it, eyeing him.

  He rubbed his hands together. “Sarah departs to visit a friend in Bath today, and I have decided it best that she not go alone.”

  “You are sending me away?”

  “No, Alexia. I am sending you with her.”

  “You are doing this because of what happened last night.”

  Sarah strutted into the room. She yawned and took a seat at her niece’s side. “Morning.” Traces of dark rings hung under her eyes. “So did we sort out where you ran off to?”

  Alexia cleared her throat.

  “Come now, Sarah. Let her eat.” Father frowned, brows lowered in warning.

  “Oh, Lexy, I can hardly wait.” Her aunt clapped and sat up straight. “But what I cannot believe is that you agreed to come with me. Not after yesterday.”

  She turned on Father. “Oh, I agreed?”

  He nodded firmly.

  “Of course I agreed.” How ironic that she could do so without having known the possibility existed.

  Breakfast ended. The servants goaded her into warm wear and shoved them out the door. The dreary day greeted Alexia as she climbed into the enclosed buggy and waved a farewell to her parents.

  A new thought hit her. “Sarah, might we away to Wilhamshire rather than Bath?”

  “Wilhamshire?” Her aunt’s brow quirked.

  She nodded.

  “Very well then.” Sarah knocked on the side of the carriage and stuck her head out to issue the new instructions.

  Alexia heaved a deep breath and stilled herself against the rising terror. Surely she was mistaken about what happened in the woods. The blue-eyed stranger did not really attempt to kill her, did he?

  It was long past time she found her answers.

  22

  Northbend, Wilhamshire

  Wilhamshire.

  Alexia swallowed her anxiety as she entered Sarah’s country home, an estate of beautiful blooming gardens and creeping vines, none too small, and none too large. Her room warmed delightfully under a wall of windows and cheerfully painted vases, modern and elegant. She couldn’t sense the distant Northbend while stationed a half day’s ride away.

  On the road, Sarah had laughed at her story of the woods, dismissing it as a vivid dream while her eyes glinted with fear. This only validated Alexia’s worry and cemented her determination to find answers. He was out there somewhere.

  Sarah’s refusal to talk left her desperate for a confidant.

  Rupert. She wrote a letter to him upon arrival, detaili
ng the strangeness of her experience and sealing it with the hope that their friendship remained intact.

  Throughout the week, she watched the woods beyond the gardens with apprehension, finally able to convince Sarah they should venture into Wilhamshire.

  They rattled through the settlement late in the day. Spending too much time considering hair barrettes for Mother’s birthday, they stepped out of a shop at dusk.

  “What lane is this?” Alexia questioned a passerby.

  “Northbend.”

  Her blood froze. The hazy outline of an ivory parchment flashed through her mind: House of Stark, Northbend, Wilhamshire.

  She sucked in a heavy breath, gaze following the chimneys down the road. Which one belonged to him?

  Her leather soles slapped the ground, echoing off the building fronts.

  “Lexy! What are you doing?” Sarah called from behind, chasing after her.

  Yes, what was she doing? Dashing to her death?

  “Alexia!”

  She scanned the houses, searching for Stark, any label or hint of Stark. The businesses bore crude signs, but no names.

  She reached the town’s edge and paused. Several homes hid in the trees beyond, up a hill, increasingly difficult to discern in the fading light.

  She grabbed a passing boy by the sleeve. “House of Stark?”

  His eyes widened. He lifted a trembling finger to the horizon.

  She squinted at what must be the roof of an estate on the outreaches. There he hid—he who would most likely prove to be a regular entity with servants and a garden, no one fantastic.

  She moved faster. Darkness thickened. An address on the first set of proper gates read Gables House. She hurried on. The thoroughfare grew more and more rural. The buildings she sped past became further apart, more lavish. Ashton House. Longlete Manor.

  A structure topped the hill, lit by a single lamp, gates black in the night. That had to be it!

  She panted to a halt reading hastily, “Stark.”

  Beyond thick bars crouched a neglected yard of drooping tree branches that masked the lower floors. The building stretched ominously toward the sky while a single light flickered in the uppermost chamber.

  Was he there? Up there writing a letter or reading, even possibly gazing out the window and wondering who stopped to view the night-strewn panorama?

  A thick chain looped about the gates, crusted in grime and laced by webs.

  That couldn’t be right, could it? If his post came here . . .

  “Alexia Dumont!” A hand landed on her shoulder. She flipped about, clutching her chest. Sarah panted, her long hair loose from the wild chase. “What on earth do you think you are doing?”

  Alexia grimaced. Sarah had scoffed at the notion of her near-death encounter. The last thing she needed was for her aunt to tease her over this too.

  Her eyes landed on Wilhamshire, a series of lights huddled a full couple miles below. Had they really come that far?

  She turned back to the house. He couldn’t possibly abide in so dismal a setting.

  “Are you going to tell me what this is about?” Sarah demanded, propping both fists on her hips.

  Alexia rounded and started trudging back.

  “Where are you going now?” Sarah growled.

  She stopped.

  . . . hissing, rippling, wheezing . . . like in the woods . . .

  She couldn’t separate it in her memory from Sarah’s voice, but it couldn’t be . . . Her pulse spiked.

  “Lexy?”

  She swallowed and clasped her trembling hands.

  “Are you listening? Alexia? Talk to me.”

  Straining her ears, she turned slowly on the street. The darkness threatened to swallow all but that candle burning brilliantly against the night.

  He’d come for her. He hadn’t succeeded in killing her the first time, and now . . .

  Her heart thudded. She turned and sprinted back toward town.

  “Slow down!” Sarah called.

  A deeper sense veered up from her heart, an unexplainable magnetism, like an invisible set of vibrations that spanned a mental spider web. He, or it, was close. She cursed her skirts and ran faster.

  “Alexia—oomph!” Sarah tripped.

  Alexia turned back and caught her aunt’s hand, pulling her up.

  Two forms huddled on the horizon, black, ragged. Two. Her heart thundered in her ears. Sarah glanced back and began to tremble, a sour tang lifting off her body.

  Alexia shoved her forward. A shriek filled their ears, a hungry wail. She knew their flight was pointless from the sensations tripping down her mental vertebrae. The things were too close.

  The terror of the woods poured over her—twisted branches, blinding pain, the loss of consciousness under the knowledge she would never again open her eyes.

  They would not take her this time!

  Her head began to throb. The wind whistling past her ears slowed to a low-pitched moan. She sucked in a breath, forcing the air to move like pulling at stubborn dough. Her clothes may as well have been made of lead. She glimpsed back over her shoulder.

  The beings glided after them in as though suspended in time, tattered cloaks furling like the death flag of an advancing ship. Glimmering red pupils seared into her.

  Heaven help us!

  Those wide crimson circles consumed her world, promising to devour all she was.

  A low rumble pulled Alexia forward. The pain in her skull died and thunder roared toward them, dust billowing up. A horse!

  Sarah’s eyes met hers, drawn in terror and wide with disbelief. Questions flitted behind them.

  The Clydesdale skidded to a halt several yards away, whinnying and prancing backward. His rider, an adolescent youth, tugged at the reins, struggling to keep the beast steady. He glared past the women.

  The air about them chilled. The breeze died. Moisture clung to them and froze as though the world were turning to ice.

  “Hurry!” the young man called, offering a hand.

  She reached for him. He caught her and she landed on the animal behind him, startled by his strength. The beast clapped the ground anxiously. Their assailants soared near.

  He hefted Sarah with the same ease, dropping her before him. “Hold on!” He kicked the steed. It leapt forward.

  Alexia grabbed about his lean form, her skirts slipping across his saddle. The horse’s flanks trembled so greatly, she feared it would collapse before they could reach safety. She glanced back as they jolted away, gaining momentum.

  The creatures dropped on all fours, picking up the pace.

  “Don’t look!” The youth pulled her around. “You’ll encourage them.” That he could do anything but hold on at this ridiculous pace surprised her. “Clear your mind.” She caught the beauty of his luscious baritone. “Think of daytime, happiness, something pleasant.”

  “What?” she asked. “Who are you?”

  “No one.”

  The cool wind returned her senses. They’d pulled ahead! She buckled down to take cover.

  Street lamps came into focus, buildings emerging from the mass of civilization. The echo of the horse’s hooves deafened her to all else as the town reared up beneath them, streets empty.

  Her limbs trembled. “Are they still out there?”

  “Always.” His head half turned.

  “How do you—?”

  “Stop talking.”

  She did.

  Framed buildings sheltered them when the young man tugged hard on the tethers, stopping before a crude tavern with windows fastened tight.

  He slid off the animal and offered a leather-gloved hand to help her down. She took it willingly and Sarah followed suit.

  He stood a full foot and a half taller than either of them, very pale. He lifted a finger to his lips, warning them again to silence and motioned them after him. Alexia followed. Sarah grabbed her arm, halting her. Her aunt shook her head. Alexia flushed. She didn’t know this young man, what he wanted with them, or why he would dare induce
two noble-born women to follow him into a common tavern. But she did know what was behind them.

  The youth rapped an odd rhythm on the heavy door and the reverberation echoed through the dead-silent street. Every window in sight had been boarded over. Not the slightest sliver of radiance penetrated their frames.

  Alexia shivered. They had no other resort.

  Sarah met her gaze, eyes wide. She seized Alexia’s hand as wood scraped on its brackets. The pub entry cracked open, spilling a splinter of welcoming light onto the gray cobbles. The door widened. A thick man in a sullied apron waved them in, eyes darting anxiously back and forth down the street.

  In they went.

  Four round tables crowded the room, each old and splintering, with matching chairs. Two somber-looking men stared into their tankards in the far corner. Another sat alone, gazing blankly into the fire. The lad followed Alexia through and the door shut. The tavern owner and young man hefted a heavy cross-beam into place, locking them in.

  The tavern owner straightened, wiping his greasy brow. “Any sight?”

  “Five,” the lad replied.

  The older man whistled. “Somethin’s got ‘em roused tonight.”

  “Begging pardon,” Sarah interrupted, “but to what are you referring? What are they?”

  The middle-aged man and youth shifted and glanced away. It wasn’t proper for either of them to address a lady—just as it wasn’t proper for either noble woman to be in this establishment. But what was proper after a night rescue from nightmare creatures?

  “No offense intended, ladies,” the elder lifted both hands in apology, “but you’ll not be steppin’ outside that door tonight.”

  They looked at one another.

  “There’s an old legend ‘bout these parts.” Their host sat his tired body down on a stool. “Dangers in the moonless night what’d make you shake in your skin.” He indicated the empty chairs across from himself and they took them willingly. “It’s said a hundred years back a wil-o’-the-wisp passed this way.”

  “Like a faerie?” Alexia suggested.

  “Oh sure,” he nodded, “only stronger. It liked our little town and settled down here. It aided people’s harvest, blessed our children with health, kept the cattle, stayed the plague.” He shifted. “A doctor on the hill housed the creature, fed it, took care of it and did its bidding on our behalf. Then one day he disappeared—he and his whole family.” He looked Alexia right in the eye. “A plague started upon us, things what appear on moonless nights and stealed away our children. There weren’t no more helps of a miraculous nature. Ones like this,” he pointed to the youth who’d saved them, “started popping up instead of the healthy pretty ones. No offense, lad.” The young man smiled a toothy grin. “It’s said the old man insulted the creature and earned its wrath. We been dealin’ with it ever since. Bein’ left to wander outdoors on a night such as this is as much a death sentence as hangin’.”