"If we had more light I could read your palm."
She curled up his fingers and examined his father's stag's-head ring. He waited for her to comment, but all she did was cast him a thoughtful glance, then run her fingers around his wrist. He closed his eyes at the sensation.
"Who gave you the bracelet?"
Dragging himself back from his pleasant haze, Todd glanced at his wrist. He'd nearly forgotten the leather bracelet. "My sister."
Marigold slid the leather around counting the knots. "Seven knots of protection." She frowned. "She must have thought you'd be in danger. Did she say what sort of danger?"
"No."
"Is your sister a witch? Does she have the sight?"
Todd pulled his hand back and sat up, the pleasant mood shattered. He was always careful not to tell people about Emma's strange dreams. "Em's not a witch."
"Mum's a witch, and she makes bracelets like this for people." Marigold bit her lip. "I'm a witch too, sort of. Sometimes I have visions, but I don't know what they mean till they come true. Then it's too late." She glanced at Todd's bracelet again. "It's strange. I haven't had any visions about you."
Todd had hoped Shaun was joking when he said Mrs. Turpin was a witch. But what was more disturbing was that Marigold's visions sounded similar to Emma's dreams. Surely that wasn't witchcraft?
"What sort of stuff do you see in these visions?"
Marigold sucked in a breath. "Horrible things usually, like Andrew's death and the fire that killed the Cochrans."
Todd's heart jumped. "You saw who killed Andrew?"
She shook her head. "The visions don't work like that."
"How do they work?"
"I only get visions about people I have a connection with."
"And you had a connection with Andrew." The moment the words were out of his mouth Todd regretted them. She wouldn't want to be reminded what connection she had with Andrew. Marigold stood, walked to the edge overlooking the sea, and wrapped her arms around her body.
"Shaun told me how he got his black eye," Todd said softly.
"You mustn't tell your grandpa," she added, turning to look down at him. "Promise you won't."
"Did he hurt you?" Todd felt as though he was wading out of his depth and the unfamiliar emotions might drown him.
She shook her head.
"What did your mum say?"
"Not to tell anyone. Please promise me you won't."
She sounded so spooked, he agreed to keep her secret. Although surely her mum should have told Andrew's mum what happened. But then perhaps she had.
"You mentioned the Cochrans?"
"I had a vision of the fire at Hendra farm a week before it happened, but I couldn't see where the fire was. I kept seeing Josie's face in the window so I thought it must be at their parents' house."
"Who's Josie?"
"Josie Cochran was their little sister, but she didn't live with the two boys. She lived with their parents. I must have had a vision of the fire because she was my best friend."
"I'm sorry," he whispered, starting to understand why her happiness seemed so fragile. "But fires happen. It must have just been bad luck."
"Good luck for your grandfather, though. Hendra farm was his before Mr. Cochran bought it for his sons. A few months earlier and it would have been your grandfather who died in the fire."
A cold lump settled in Todd's belly. Had there been something wrong with the farmhouse? Is that why Grandpa didn't want him digging into the story? "Did the police investigate?"
"They say rats chewed the wiring and it set fire to the thatched roof."
The anguish on her face whispered a chill across his skin. "What do you think?"
Her lips trembled. "I don't know who set the fire, but I'm sure they were murdered."
A murder made to look like an accident. Just like Andrew's death. Both happened near Lords Wood, where the vagrant lived. And the old man had said they all deserved to die.
Todd left Marigold at her door and walked home along the dark coast path. Waves crashed against the rocks on his right and the ancient woodland beat against his senses, a dark brooding presence on his left. He let his hunter's radar expand, feeling the quality of the night. Dad had rarely taken him hunting in the dark, but the mysterious pulse of nocturnal life resonated inside Todd. His blood hummed and his nerves sang as though part of him belonged to the night. It disturbed him.
When he neared the village, he stopped and stared back at Lords Wood, puzzling over the four deaths that seemed to be linked to that windswept patch of trees. In the field on the edge of the forest, where earlier today Marigold had found him sleeping, a red deer stag stood in a sliver of moonlight, head held high, scenting the air. Todd watched, mesmerized by the proud beast crowned with its branches of antlers. His fingers went to his ring, grazed across the stag's-head motif. The beast turned its head suddenly as if scenting a predator, and stared in his direction.
For long minutes, they watched each other. Then the beast struck out, pawing the ground with its hoof, and bucking its antlers. Todd dashed home and burst through the shop door to find Grandpa counting money. "Quick, come and look."
The older man followed Todd into the street and stared up at the hill where Todd pointed. The moonlight had faded and the stag was gone.
Todd's breath burst out in frustration. "You missed it. There was a red deer stag in the field beside the woodland."
With a frown, Grandpa shook his head. "Must be mistaken, lad. There's been no deer in these parts for five years."
"I know a stag when I see one," Todd replied indignantly.
Grandpa stared at Todd, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "You're certain?"
"Positive."
Wide-eyed, the old man gazed back towards Lords Wood, swallowing audibly. "Well, it's gone now."
Todd followed his grandpa inside. "Dad painted the red deer stag in the clearing in the forest. He must have seen deer."
Grandpa put a hand on Todd's shoulder and squeezed so tightly it almost hurt. "I know, but do me a favor, lad. Stay out of the forest for a while."
***
By the time Todd went to bed that night, thick clouds had blown in from the sea, obscuring the moon and stars. The temperature dropped, the air heavy with the threat of an approaching storm.
Strange images disturbed Todd's sleep. He stood in the woodland glade in his father's painting. At first, the grassy circle within the trees was empty of everything except hazy twilight, then he sensed a presence behind him. He turned to find a red deer stag, head held high, nostrils flared. The beast studied him, velvety brown eyes gleaming with the knowledge of ancient secrets. The stag stepped closer, tossing its head. Sharp antlers raked the air inches from Todd's chest.
Todd backed into a rough tree trunk. He blinked and his father stood where the deer had, gray eyes glowing in the moonlight. His father opened his mouth, and the same ancient Celtic words written in the books came from his mouth.
His father reached out a hand and his fingers were green. Todd tried to sidestep, but branches snagged his clothes, held him like a fly in a web.
The green fingers reached for him, lengthening into creepers that wound around Todd's legs and body. He stared into his father's face, but now the hollow-eyed mask of the Green Man stared back at him. Vines spewed from the mouth, wrapping and writhing around the man's body like green snakes. Todd struggled, tore at the vines holding him captive, but then his own hands turned green.
Todd woke gasping for breath, a scream on his lips. He shoved away the bed covers and held up his hands. When he couldn't see in the dark, he fumbled to switch on the bedside light. His fingers appeared normal. He frantically ran them over his body, checked the color of his skin. Sweat cooled beneath his arms while his heart rate calmed. The dream had been so real.
He cursed with a word that would make Mum send him to his room.
A crashing rumble of thunder overhead shook the house. Rain battered the windows, drumming
so hard against the conservatory downstairs it sounded like a thousand beating fists. Somewhere below, a window or door banged in the wind.
After he'd taken a few minutes to catch his breath and shake off the nightmare, he slipped out of bed. Lightning flashed through the crack between the curtains and thunder crashed overhead.
His hunter's radar jumped and sparked with the storm's energy. Was his nightmare due to the disturbance of the storm? Or had Mrs. Turpin put something strange in the stew? Whatever the cause, his mind had muddled up some of the things he'd read in the Green Man books with the vision he'd had after drinking the vagrant's brew.
Something crashed shut downstairs. Todd left his room and knocked on Grandpa's door. After a second knock with no answer, Todd cracked open the door. The bed was empty. The bathroom door stood open, so the old man must be below securing the house against the storm. Todd went down the stairs. The kitchen and living room were dark, which seemed strange if Grandpa was down here. Todd clicked on the light and gazed around.
He heard the bang again and found a window in the conservatory had slipped its catch to flap in the wind. He fastened it and made sure the other windows were properly latched as well. The lights flickered, went out, then blinked on again. Todd rubbed his arms against the chilly wind penetrating through cracks and keyholes.
By the eerie blue glow from the freezers, Todd searched the shop for his grandpa. He tried the main door and found it securely locked from the inside. If Grandpa hadn't gone out via the shop door and wasn't inside, where was he?
Todd checked the storeroom. The delivery door out to the road was locked, but the key Grandpa kept hanging on a nail inside the door was gone.
Another crash of thunder shook the house while wind whistled through the cracks around the door. Todd returned upstairs and took another look in Grandpa's bedroom to check the older man definitely was not there. This time he noticed Grandpa's pajamas lying on the bed beside a clear plastic garment bag. Why would Grandpa get up in the middle of the night, during a storm, and put on a suit? Inside the plastic case he found a length of black silk cord with a tassel at each end, similar to the curtain tiebacks his mum used in the living room at home. Why did Grandpa keep a curtain tieback with his suit?
Another thunderous boom drew Todd to Grandpa's window overlooking the harbor. Jagged flashes of lightning slashed across the sky, momentarily illuminating the boiling purple storm clouds and the heaving sea below.
During a flash of light, Todd thought he saw the silhouettes of people walking up the coast path. He stared into the darkness where he thought he'd seen them, but next time the lightning flashed, the path was empty. Who would be out on the coast path on a night like this?
Could one of the figures he'd seen be Grandpa?
Todd rushed back to his room to check if he could see anyone on the street. The light above the gift shop door glowed through the torrential curtain of rain. Could Kelvin or Mrs. Bishop be out with Grandpa? A trickle of unease ran down Todd's spine.
Chapter Eleven
The smell of frying bacon pulled Todd from his dreams. Grandpa must be home. Among his mixed emotions, he couldn't deny feeling relieved. Todd stood and stretched out the kinks from sleeping curled up in a chair by the window overlooking the street. He'd fallen asleep when he'd intended to keep watch. Now he would never know which of the villagers had been out in the storm.
Grandpa was whistling tunelessly through his teeth as Todd descended the stairs. He looked up and smiled. "You hear the storm last night? Says in the newspaper the winds gusted up to seventy miles an hour in places."
"Yeah, it was loud." Should he ask Grandpa where he'd been during the night? He decided to wait to see if he mentioned it himself. If he didn't, that would confirm he was up to something strange. "Any damage?" Todd asked.
"My shop's fine. Nothing damaged in the street that I can see. The only trouble I know of is a fishing boat that got blown against the rocks in the harbor. It'll need a few boards replacing, that's all. You could walk up the hill to make sure Ruby and Marigold are all right. Although I'm sure we'd have heard if they had a problem."
"So nothing happened last night?" Todd asked, still hoping there had been a normal explanation for Grandpa to be out.
The old man gave Todd a curious sideways glance. "Only the storm, lad. I think that's enough for one night, don't you?"
After Todd finished breakfast and washed up, he paced restlessly in front of the shops, wondering whether to go and bounce ideas off Shaun, or try to speak with Mrs. Bishop.
He stopped outside the gallery to pet Picasso. While he stroked the dog, Kelvin hurried out of the gift shop and strode up the hill towards the residents' parking area at the top. Kelvin backed out his car before accelerating away from the village.
Todd wouldn't have a better chance to speak to Mrs. Bishop alone. He stood, braced his shoulders, and walked across the road.
Mrs. Bishop was bending down behind the counter when Todd walked in. He flexed his fingers to ease the tension in his muscles and walked forward. "Hello, Mrs. Bishop." Her head jerked up, startled. At the flash of wariness in her eyes, he hurried on. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry about what happened to Andrew."
"You're the boy who found him." A leaflet in her hand dropped to the counter, forgotten. "What made you look over the cliff at that exact spot?"
Todd wasn't sure what he'd expected her to say, but not this. He frowned, unsure himself for a moment. "I had Picasso with me. You know—" he pointed at the art gallery "—Shaun's dog."
"I know the dog."
"He was the one who really found Andrew." He stopped, worried that saying Andrew's name too many times might upset her.
She leaned forward, resting her hands on the counter. "You told the police Kelvin went after him." She glanced towards Grandpa's shop. "Your bedroom looks out over the road, doesn't it?"
"I only told them what I saw."
"Did you see anyone else out that night? Anyone at all?"
He shook his head. Did she suspect someone else? "Are you sure Kelvin came back in five minutes? Could he have been gone longer?"
Her cheeks reddened and tears filled her eyes. "Kelvin did not kill my son." A sob caught in her throat, and she turned away.
"I'm sorry," Todd mumbled. He winced and rubbed a hand through his hair. Now what should he do?
"It must have been an accident. Nobody would have pushed him. They couldn't..." She pulled a tissue from a box beneath the counter and wiped her eyes. "Unless it was... No. It can't have been."
Todd backed up a few steps. "Sorry. I didn't mean—"
She blew her nose. Todd mumbled more apologies and headed for the door. He sprinted between the traffic to reach the other side of the road. When he looked back through the gift shop window, Mrs. Bishop was huddled behind the counter at the back of the shop with her hands over her face.
He leaned his forehead against the wall, a sick feeling in his gut. Tourists meandered past him, looking in the shop windows—all so normal. While Todd felt anything but normal. He felt crumpled and dirty inside for making Mrs. Bishop cry.
Finally, he pulled himself together and headed to the art gallery. He dropped down on the step and wrapped his arms around Picasso, burying his face in the warm, silky fur on the dog's neck, losing himself in the simple affection of the dog's companionship.
Dogs didn't judge you or criticize you or think you should be different or better. They accepted you as you were. He missed his dad's dog Bella even after all these years.
He could hear Shaun singing to himself in the studio, but Todd didn't want to talk to anyone right now. He closed his eyes, soaked up the sun, and enjoyed the way Picasso's quiet presence soothed his hunter's senses.
"Todd!" A while later, Grandpa's shout boomed across the street, breaking into Todd's sleepy trance.
Grandpa had obviously visited the gift shop. He marched across the street, hands on hips, face livid. "Home, young man. Now!"
When they reache
d the living quarters behind the shop, Grandpa slammed the door and rounded on Todd. "I told you not to ask any more questions," he shouted. "So what do you do?" He stabbed a finger in the direction of the street. "You waltz into the gift shop and grill Pat about her son's death. The poor woman is grieving, Todd. Grieving. You are not—I repeat not—to ask her any more questions."
Todd looked down at his feet. He didn't need Grandpa to tell him off. He felt bad enough already. The older man sighed. "I'm wasting my breath, aren't I? Just like your father, you'll take no notice of me. You're grounded for the rest of the day. You can come and stock shelves in the shop."
"I won't upset Mrs. Bishop again," Todd mumbled. And he meant it. But he couldn't stop searching for Andrew's killer, especially after what she had said. She had been certain Kelvin wasn't to blame, and Todd was starting to think he'd been wrong about that. But her questions had suggested she thought someone else might have followed Andrew. Could Andrew's death have anything to do with the people he'd seen on the night of the storm? And why were they going to Lords Wood in the middle of a stormy night? The ancient Celtic words Todd had heard in the clearing by the standing stones echoed back through his mind—the same words Dad had written in the Green Man books.
***
The following morning, Todd copied out the ancient Celtic phrase from his father's book and shoved the scrap of paper in his pocket, then he headed to Shaun's.
He cast a wary glance at the gift shop as he hurried past. For a change, Picasso wasn't on the gallery step, tripping everyone up. When Todd reached the door to the inner studio, he saw the dog lying across Shaun's feet, his large dark eyes solemn.
"Hey," Todd said.
"Hey yourself." Shaun spared him a brief glance, then went back to his painting. Todd dropped into the ratty armchair he'd started to think of as his own and waited for Picasso to come and greet him. The dog put his paw over his face and whined.
"What's wrong with Casso?"
Pausing with his brush in midair, Shaun looked down at his dog. "Daft thing." He scratched behind Picasso's ears and sighed. "He's picking up on my mood, I expect. The old man rang first thing. Mum's been paying my rent here because I don't earn enough selling paintings to afford it. Dad found out and cut me off. I'm paid up for another week, then I'm homeless."
Wildwood (YA Paranormal Mystery) Page 9