"Oh, yeah? Good on them. I heard about her on the radio."
"What you wouldn't have heard about is the man I've got under observation with three cracked ribs and some nasty bruising around his chest. He claims he was rammed by a deer. But deer don't do that." She wrinkled up her nose. "It's all very strange."
"Indeed." I finished my glass and reached across the table for the bottle. "Another?"
4
After Kylie and I polished off both the tub of ice cream and the bottle of wine, I brushed my teeth, changed into an oversized t-shirt featuring the logo of my art-school boyfriend's black metal band, and crawled into bed. Miss Havisham curled up beside my feet, and soon she was snoring peacefully.
I, however, couldn't sleep. My thoughts kept drifting to those paintings locked in the wardrobe. I should have called Matthew and taken them into the museum. It was crazy of me to store them here, even for one night. What if Kylie decided she needed a midnight snack and accidentally burned the house down? What if mice ate through the wooden boxes and nibbled on the edges? What if the roof leaked during the night and soaked them through? If those paintings suffered so much as a scuff, both Matthew and Ryan Raynard would have my head, and that was not a fun prospect. I was rather attached to my head.
I'd arranged my room so the bed was pushed up against the back wall, directly underneath the window, with my easel and overflowing washing basket at the foot. I leaned over and pushed the window open, listening to the wind as it whistled through the trees, shaking the leaves and rubbing the bent oak branches up against the side of the flat. An owl hooted. I sucked in a deep breath of that fresh air. The forest always calmed me. Everything is going to be fine. You'll take the paintings into work tomorrow, Matthew will be pleased, and Belinda will have to wipe that smirk off her face–
Outside the window, a twig snapped.
My heart pounded. It's just a fox, or a deer. Don't worry about it.
Without thinking, my gaze fell on the locked wardrobe door, my thoughts flying to the priceless paintings hidden inside.
Another snap. I pulled back from the window, my heart pounding. Was it burglars? The exhibition was making headlines all over the world. It would be easy for someone to find my name in one of the articles and follow me when I left Halt. They would've seen me enter Raynard Hall and come out with the paintings. Given Ryan's reputation, these paintings would fetch a tidy sum on the black market. There could be any number of unscrupulous characters ready to take advantage of any weakness in our security. Why did I not think of this? Why didn't I call Matthew, like I should have?
Stupid. You're so stupid, Alex.
I forced my panic back down into my gut. I lay down on my stomach and used my elbows to pull my body closer to the window. I rested my head on the sill and leaned out, my eyes struggling to see in the dim moonlight.
Below me, in the garden, more twigs snapped. I heard a whispered voice. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Leaves crunched, and the branches beneath the window swayed as a black shadow darted across the garden. Someone was climbing up the oak tree against the back of the flat, the tree that led straight to my bedroom window. It looked like an animal the way it moved, but I knew no animal that large would come this close to the house, let alone try to climb the oak tree under my window.
I rolled away from the window, accidentally kicking Miss Havisham awake. She meowed in protest, lifted her head, sniffed the air, and raced off into the dark house. Cats are much smarter than humans.
Outside the window, a crow squawked…a carrion bird signalling my doom. I needed a weapon. There were knives in the kitchen, but could I get there in time? I doubted it.
I know! Kylie's boyfriend Ray was a medieval re-enactor, and he kept all his gear at our place since he didn't have room in his mum's basement, which was where he lived (yes, Ray was a real winner). I was forever tripping over his enormous broadsword on the way to the bathroom.
His broadsword. Perfect.
As silently as I could, I pulled myself out of the bed and crawled along the floor toward the door, thinking that they might not be able to see me through the window if I stayed low. I kept my bedroom door open a crack so Miss Havisham could come and go during the night. Now I pulled back the door open wide enough so I could crawl through. It let out a mighty creak, the sound like a gunshot in my ears. I held my breath. Please don't let them hear that.
I listened. Nothing inside the house or out. I dared to hope that maybe they'd gone. But then … in the void of darkness, I heard something downstairs … a click, and something metal sliding. Someone was pulling open one of the living room windows. They must have decided to abandon the tree.
My heart pounding in my chest, I crawled as silently as I could into the hallway, feeling in front of me with my hands for the bag of re-enactment gear Ray kept at the top of the stairs. My hand grasped something hard. A leather handle. Yes! Never again would I give Ray a hard time about being a Dungeons & Dragons freak.
I heard a thud from downstairs. Any second now, the burglars could come up to the bedrooms. I fumbled with the bag, pushing aside leather gauntlets, foam swords, and an Elven cloak, before my hand clasped the hilt of a long, heavy sword. I lifted it from the bag, pulled off the leather scabbard, and held it in front of me the way I'd seen Ray do it; both hands clasped on the hilt beside my hip, with the tip pointing upward toward my invisible opponent's face. The blade was blunt – designed for re-enactment – but it would still cause a great deal of pain. I pressed my back against the wall, my eyes on the dark stairwell, while Miss Havisham circled around my feet.
Now what? Did I wait up here for them to come up the stairs and around the corner, or did I go downstairs and make the first move? I saw a light flickering from the stairwell, and heard a glass shatter in the kitchen. A man swore. They certainly weren't being subtle. If they came up here in the dark, would I be able to hit them? Or would they – with their superior breaking and entering skills – simply overpower me? Would I be better to take them by surprise downstairs, where I might have a better shot at making the door if I got into trouble?
Miss Havisham, using cat logic to discern that anyone banging around in the kitchen in the middle of the night was obviously there to bring her a second dinner, bounded down the stairs. Right then, I guess I'm going down. Thank you, kitty.
I pressed my back against the wall and slid, inch after terrified inch, around the corner down the narrow staircase, the sword pointed across my body and the point at eye level for anyone trying to climb up. I heard cupboard doors being slammed, packages torn open, things being smashed against the floor.
And I heard something else … a low, mean growl. What? Did they bring a dog, too? This was just looking worse and worse.
I paused at the bottom of the stairs, the sword point peeking out into the front hall. I could hear footsteps in the living room, heavy breathing as someone rifled through the couch cushions. I needed to peek around the corner and see what was happening so that I could plan my move. I sucked in a breath, and stretched my neck out, straining to see around the corner without moving from my spot.
A tall man with jet-black hair that hung down to his shoulders, framing a gaunt, bony face and long hooked nose, bent over my coffee table, sifting through the empty crisp packets and trashy magazines obscuring the surface. His brow furrowed in concentration as he picked up each magazine or piece of trash and shook it, watching to see if something fell out. He tossed the empty ice cream tub into the corner in disgust. Before I could stop her, Miss Havisham raced from the stairs after it, mewling with delight.
The black-haired man looked up, and recoiled in disgust when he saw the cat streak across the floor in front of him. He backed around the other side of the sofa, closer to me, as he sought to put some distance between himself and Miss Havisham, who was oblivious to his presence as she tried to hook the ice cream tub out from under the tea trolley with her paw. The man made a clicking noise with his throat, almost like a bird in distress.
Anot
her man walked into the room from the kitchen, holding a raw chicken drumstick in his hand. He had sandy hair with a slight reddish tinge, and although he was shorter than his fellow felon, he was broader across the shoulders, his athletic frame completely blocking the kitchen doorway. He wore a tight black t-shirt that showed off every curve of his toned chest. He kicked at a magazine on the ground. "Don't bother, Edgar, it's not here. Ryan wouldn't have given it to her, and if he had, she wouldn't have thrown it amongst that junk. I've watched the girl – she's not an idiot."
The black-haired man held up the cover of a Cosmo magazine, and punched the page. "Are you sure about that, Marcus? This is what's she's reading."
The man in the kitchen took a bite out of the chicken leg … just tore a chunk of raw chicken off with his teeth, and chewed on it, smacking his lips together loudly. What was going on here?
"You're disgusting," The man named Edgar scowled.
"You're just jealous that you didn't find the freezer first," the man smirked, as he took another bite. "Shall we?" he gestured to the window.
"We haven't got what we came here for," Edgar frowned. "She'll have it in her bedroom. We should look there."
"And she could be keeping it on her person, if she's even got it. And how are we going to get it off her without hurting her? Ryan isn't an idiot. He won't have given it to her, not yet, anyway. Isengrim is wrong; this whole evening is a waste of our time. We've achieved what we came for. The place is a mess. She's going to know that it's important for her to stay away from him. If you want to really ensure she gets the message, we could kill the cat and write something atrocious like ‘stay away from Ryan Raynard' on the wall in its blood."
Edgar grinned manically. "Please?" he squawked, raising his hands and curling his fingers in the air. I saw he wore black nail polish on his long nails, each one sharpened to a point, like talons. I tightened my grip on the sword. They aren't going to touch my kitty. Not if I have anything to say about it. And why are they talking about Ryan as if they know him? It doesn't seem as though they're looking for the artwork.
"I'm not touching it," Marcus growled, the words coming from deep in his throat. He tossed the chicken leg into the corner. Miss Havisham leapt on it, and began licking at the frozen meat. Marcus lifted his chin and sniffed deeply, screwing up his face in a grotesque expression. "It's a cat. Its smell is repugnant to me–"
His words were cut off abruptly when a giant fox – at least the size of a large dog – leapt in through the open window and sank his teeth into Marcus's leg.
"Yeeow!" he cried, as the force of the attack sent him flying against the wall. He grabbed the fox around the neck and tried to pull it off his leg, but the animal hung on tenaciously, shaking Marcus's skin as it dug its teeth deeper. It was the largest fox I'd ever seen, its fine red coat shining in the dim light as it fought to keep its grip on the intruder, splattering blood across the linoleum. Its long, bushy tail lashed back and forth, knocking a stack of CDs and Kylie's decorated plate collection off the top of the cabinet. I don't know what had compelled it to jump into the house like that, but I wasn't going to waste this chance.
I hope it's not the rabid fox that's been biting people in the forest …
Not stopping to contemplate that thought further, I sprung from behind the stairs and rushed at Edgar, holding my sword out in front of me, point aimed at his face. He turned toward me and held up his hands, but I didn't falter. My blade collided with his face, hitting him in the cheekbone with all the force of my body behind it. He spun and collapsed against the sofa.
I lifted the blunt blade above my head, and brought it down as hard as I could on his back. I heard it crunch as it connected with bone, and he cried out and thrashed out his arms. "Get out of my house!" I screamed. "And don't you dare touch my cat!"
I raised the sword to hit him again, but when I brought it down, the man seemed to shrink back into his clothes, his arms and legs fading into nothing, leaving only empty jeans and his black t-shirt draped over the cushions.
Now I knew that wasn't normal. What was going on?
I picked up the corner of the t-shirt, but there was nothing underneath except air. Edgar was gone. Somewhere in my house was a naked intruder, probably on his way to my bedroom. The thought made me shudder. I whirled around, but couldn't see or hear anyone on the stairs.
Where had he gone? How did he do that?
I kicked the jeans to the ground. A big black raven flew out of them. It squawked angrily as it landed on my fingers, wings flapping madly as it clawed at my skin, trying to get through my hands to peck out my eyeballs. Its sharp talons dug into the palm of my hand.
"Argh!" I spun around and slammed the bird against the wall. It let go of my hand and dropped to the floor, dazed. I kicked at it, but it skittered out of the way, hopped through the living room and dived for the open window.
The bird now taken care of, I turned – clutching my injured, bleeding hand – to the man and fox crashing around the kitchen. But the man was no longer there. In his place, a giant, sandy-coloured fox fought against the other reddish one. On the floor between them lay the black t-shirt and jeans the sandy-haired intruder had worn.
OK, now this shit is out of control.
Plates crashed from the shelves as the red fox slammed the other against the oven, baring its teeth and snarling menacingly. The sandy one snapped back, raising a paw and swiping at the other's face, leaving a shallow scratch across the red fox's cheek. The red fox went for the neck, but a roasting dish slipped from the top of the oven and clattered on its head, momentarily dazing it.
Sensing his chance, the sandy fox slipped under the red fox's grip and dived for the window. The red fox sped after him, snapping at his hind legs, but he was still a little dazed, and the sandy fox scrambled free. The red fox turned to me, the large brown eyes giving me a look that said, "I'm sorry," and then he too leapt through the window.
Kylie came running down the stairs. "What happened?" she cried, casting her eyes around the mess. "I heard voices–"
"Shut the window!" I cried as I yanked open the front door and ran – barefoot, wearing only my ex-boyfriend's band t-shirt – into the night. My feet stung as they hit the cold concrete of our front walk, and my heart pounded against my chest as I pumped my arms and tried to pour on enough speed to catch up to the foxes. They ran down the centre of the deserted street, their lithe bodies silhouetted in the moonlight. Down the road, the red fox chased the sandy fox, leaping and snarling at its heels, at each step only inches from taking a bite.
Are they rabid? Please don't let them be rabid.
As they reached the end of the cul-de-sac, the sandy fox turned and faced its foe, pulling back its lips and baring its teeth as it snarled, deep and vicious. The red fox moved between the sandy fox and me, holding his ground, staring down the enemy. The sandy fox snarled again, and I raised my hands to my face, ready to turn and run if it became a blood bath. But then, the sandy fox turned and stalked off down a driveway, into the forest.
The red fox ran to the edge of the driveway, barking after its sandy-furred foe. Not wanting to be seen by a creature that might have rabies, I ducked into the nearest yard and peered through a bush, feeling in my gut that if I stayed up, I'd get to the bottom of this strange night.
As I stood behind the bush and watched, the giant red fox stared up at the moon, and barked once. At first, I thought I was imagining its snout decreasing, its hind legs lengthening, its tail shrinking back into its body. But then, as I watched in awe, the creature rose up on two legs, its torso stretching and reshaping and becoming something new. In a matter of seconds, there was no longer a fox standing in the centre of the cul-de-sac, but a tall, naked man with wavy red hair.
A man I recognised.
"Ryan?"
I clamped my hands over my mouth, but it was too late. He turned toward my voice, his face a mixture of fear and anger. It was no good hiding from him. I stepped out from behind the bush, and took a tentative step t
oward the very muscled, very tense, very naked figure of Ryan Raynard, his red hair almost glowing under the moonlight. His shoulders sagged ever so slightly. "You saw," he said. It wasn't a question.
"What's going on, Ryan? What are you doing here? Why were there men and animals in my house? How did you …?" I left the question hanging, unable to articulate just what I'd seen. I snapped my head around, staring intently at the neighbour's rose bushes, so I didn't have to stare at him.
How did you transform from a fox into a very hot, very naked man?
"I go for walks at night sometimes around Crookshollow." he said lamely. "I gather inspiration for my paintings while I'm unlikely to meet tourists or art groupies along the paths. I happened to be walking past your house when I saw those men enter, and I thought I'd better try to help. I didn't even realise it was your house, Alexandra. Unfortunately, by the time I had run into the street and called the police, that fox had chased them away."
"The police aren't coming, are they, Ryan?" I took a step backward, then another, wondering if I could get to the house before he caught me, unsure of what would happen when he did.
He shook his head.
I took another step, hoping Kylie wouldn't be far behind me, and that she'd had the presence of mind to pick up Ray's sword from the living room floor. "Why are you naked, Ryan? Do you just wander around the neighbourhood starkers?" I folded my arms. "I've met some pretty eccentric artists at Halt, but this really takes the prize."
"Alex, please … I promise I'll explain everything, but could we do it inside?"
"You want to come inside my house? After you show up here naked and …whatever you are. How do I know you aren't some kind of creepy stalker?"
He smirked, opening his arms wide. "If I was a creepy stalker, where would I keep my long-range camera? My night-vision goggles?"
Crookshollow foxes box set: The complete fox shapeshifter romance series Page 3