It looked like it was going to be easy—or at least possible—until the moment Wycherly tried to put weight on his left foot. The pain made him lose his balance; his feet slid out from under him and he fell back to the ground, jarring the bad ankle painfully.
"I can't stand up." His voice sounded bewildered and childish, even to him. Wycherly gritted his teeth angrily. It wasn't so much that he wanted to impress her, as that he didn't think his response would be entirely rational if she laughed at him. He tried to get to his feet again with even less success. All the muscles still hurt from the crash yesterday, and overriding all those aches was the bright, hot pain in his left ankle.
"I think it's sprained," he said evenly.
To distract himself he took a closer look at his rescuer. Not a local. She looked . . . expensive. Wide grey eyes and shoulder length pale brown hair—no, light brown was too ordinary a description; it was actually a
ruddier color than that, with streaks of red and gold in it, like an autumn forest. She was dressed in a softly stonewashed denim shirt embroidered with Indian patterns, a pair of white cotton jeans, and Mephisto trekking boots. Small white stones glittered in her double-pierced ears. The whole look was one of more sophistication and money than Wycherly had seen in all the rest of Morton's Fork.
"It looks like it," the woman—Sinah?—said in a neutral voice. "I think you'd better get that shoe off before someone has to cut it off."
Wycherly studied her warily, wondering if he knew her, if she'd been sent to bring him back. But no. She was someone he would like to know, certainly—at least if she wouldn't nag him—but not anyone he knew. Although there was something very familiar about her face. . . .
"Do I know you?" he asked suddenly.
Her fingers were cool on his ankle, pushing up his pant leg and pulling at his shoe.
"Ouch!"
"I'm sorry—does that hurt?" she asked.
"Of course it hurts!" Wycherly snarled, instantly out of patience. "The damned thing's broken!"
"I don't think so," she said. "It would be a lot more swollen if it were."
How the hell do you know? "Do you want to debate it?" Wycherly snapped, losing his hold on his better self. His head hurt, and he felt nauseated by the dank, rotting smell of the river.
Sinah pulled his leather deck shoe free, and Wycherly unwarily wiggled his toes. It was a mistake. He gritted his teeth. He wanted a drink— or two—or ten —and though he knew it was ridiculous, he could not keep himself from watching the surface of the river to make sure nothing came up out of it. Nothing white, and sinuous, with huge dark eyes and pointed teeth—
"—all right?" she said. "Wycherly?"
"I'm fine," he grunted. A blackout—a small one. He had to get away from this woman before the beast came back.
Sinah ran a hand over her forehead, brushing her hair back. Sunlight sparkled off a sudden dew of perspiration on her skin.
"I don't think it's broken," she said. Repeated? "But you can't very well walk out on it—or stay here until it mends."
Wycherly darted a wary glance at the river. It was stupid to be afraid
of a little water, but he couldn't shake the irrational conviction that it was after him somehow, impossible as that was.
Or was it? What if Camilla climbed out of it while Sinah was here? That was something to think about. No, better not.
His head hurt.
"What is it you suggest that I do?" he asked, enunciating with venomous clarity. "Or do you just go wandering through the woods addressing oblivious homilies to helpless strangers?"
"I could just leave—and let you try to find your way out of this by yourself," Sinah shot back tartly.
"Go ahead," Wycherly suggested, glaring at her coldly.
There was a long pause while the two of them locked gazes. Wycherly tried to shift to a more comfortable position, and was rewarded with a new jab of pain. A flicker of distaste crossed Sinah s features. She looked away.
"I believe you think I would," she said after a pause.
"Why not? I'm sure you know that what makes most people behave according to the dictates of society is the fear that they're being watched."
Vm being watched.
"Aren't we?" Sinah asked, looking around.
Coming for him, sliding up out of the dark water — She was cruel, cruel to tease him this way. Wycherly firmly shut visions of undines out of his mind. "No. And if you can't think of anything else to do, why don't you be a good girl and go down to the general store and—"
He stopped. She wasn't listening to him. She was looking back over his shoulder, up the mountain, and on her face was the purest expression of terror that Wycherly had ever seen.
"Smoke." Her voice was high with strain, flattening out from her carefully educated vowels into an Appalachian drawl. "Don't you smell the smoke? Something's burning."
"Nothing's burning."
Sinah heard the words only faintly, but his hands on her wrists were like an anchor, his pain and anger keeping her from being drawn in as swiftly as she had been the first time. This time, the flames receded, and Sinah was outside the walls of an enormous yet strangely familiar build-
ing, seeking to gain entrance. She felt dread and a need to hurry. There was a stored wealth of information cached tantalizingly out of reach, if she could only merge with it she could gain all of the answers she sought, but her hands were chained with fetters of red-hot iron—
She felt herself being shaken, felt her mind fill with the selfish fear of being abandoned here, injured and sick, unable to get away to hide before the shakes began and the need for a drink—
The impact of the slap knocked her sprawling, wiping the traces of that strange possession from her mind. Her cheek stung; she put her hand to it as she backed away on hands and knees.
"Nothing's burning," Wycherly said hoarsely.
Sinah got to her feet and looked at him. He was kneeling awkwardly, clutching at a bush for support. She could feel the suffering that radiated from him in waves, but somehow it was distant, as impersonal as a news report.
"Don't ever hit me again," she said evenly.
He stared at her, frustration and guilt written so plainly on his face that it didn't take a mind reader to see it. She was far close enough to him to hear his undervoice plainly: What else was I supposed to do?
What had she done to provoke that reaction from him? Had he seen the fire, too?
"Sorry," Wycherly said briefly.
He collapsed to a sitting position again with a groan of effort, and closed both hands over his injured ankle, squeezing it as if he could crush away the damage and make it do what he wanted. It showed a streak of ruthlessness that seemed oddly inconsistent with the whipped-dog flinching and snarling of his surface personality. But the surface of most people's minds were a lie they told themselves. That was the first thing someone, who was cursed the way Sinah was, learned.
The fiery vision was fading, sliding off into her unconscious mind again. Each time it came it was less frightening and seemed to give her more room to manipulate it. But once she had control of this new manifestation . . . what then?
What would be next—and would it kill her?
"The first thing we need to do is get you back to civilization," Sinah said, standing up.
No/ He'll tell — "Doctor . . . ?" Wycherly groaned. Pills — drugs — make it all go away —
"Well, the nearest one's probably in Pharaoh," Sinah said, trying to ignore his conflicting emotions. "I've got a car. I'll be happy to drive you there—but I've got to get you down the mountain first. Wait right here."
Wycherly's sudden flash of murderous rage was enough to make Sinah step backward hastily. A moment later she'd taken to her heels and was fleeing down the mountain.
There were old trails leading from the Little Heller to practically everywhere on this side of the mountain, and after living shunned here for a month Sinah knew them all. It was an easy matter for her to grab some emergen
cy medical supplies, throw them into the back of the Cherokee, and head back up the hill.
"This is stupid," Wycherly said when she reached him. He eyed the Jeep parked a few yards away.
"Would you like to walk?" Sinah answered. "Take the pills."
Wycherly looked at the bottle of over-the-counter Tylenol she'd handed him with the bottle of spring water. He flung it into the river in eloquent silence, and began rummaging through his jacket.
He produced a brown pharmacy bottle at last and shook several pills into his hand. As Sinah watched—calmly, because her gift told her exactly what they were and his tolerance for them—he tossed them back and followed them with a few reluctant swallows of water.
Without waiting for further permission, Sinah got out the Ace bandage she'd brought with her and began wrapping his swelling ankle tightly. The important thing, whether Mr. North Shore Redhead realized it or not, was to get him out of the sun before it finished cooking him. She didn't think the ankle was badly sprained, and he'd probably be able to walk on it after a day or so if he was careful. And somehow, after the reaction to her offer to drive him into Pharaoh, she didn't think he was going to be any too keen on seeing a doctor.
"Okay, you're as ready as you'll ever be. Think you can make it to the car?"
She felt the swirl of his thoughts as he assessed the possibility. He thought he could.
"No," Wycherly said.
Sinah gritted her teeth. "March or die, my friend," she said with a wholly spurious cheerfulness. "C'mon, now. You can lean on me."
With no resistance—but no particular help, either—Sinah got Wycherly to his feet. She pulled his arm around her neck, and slowly they made their hobbling progress toward the car.
His body pressed against hers filled Sinah's mind with Wycherly's sensations, emotions, and scattered thoughts, until she was living his life and could not be certain which of them was running away. She had never wanted a drink so badly in her life.
Sinah had never been even a social drinker. She didn't like the taste, and feared the loss of control—and the premature aging it brought to skin and face was something no actress could afford. But now she found herself longing for the scouring bite of straight whiskey, the burn and the half-nauseated exhilaration of slugging it back as if it were water, the insulation it would put between her and daily life. All her problems would vanish, any new ones that appeared she could outrun with enough liquor. . . .
Only long practice—a distrust of every feeling that seemed to be hers—enabled her to deny the craving. You are truly messed up, my friend, Sinah thought, and was not sure which of them she meant.
Axe-murderer or saint, though, there was very little Wycherly could do hampered by a bad ankle—and Sinah knew exactly how much pain he was in. She thought she could trust him.
Conditionally.
The ride was bumpy, but Wycherly braced himself in his corner of the front seat and endured it silently. The sun was angling westward, and automatically he glanced at his watch. Two o'clock. A hell of a way to spend an afternoon.
The Jeep stopped.
"We're here," Sinah said unnecessarily. "Now, do you want to come inside, or do you want me to drive you on down to Pharaoh?"
She reminded him of his sister, Wycherly thought to himself: his bossy, arrogant, take-charge sister Winter, who had to be perfect at everything she did, even being imperfect—like all the people who had perfectly planned lives with all the accessories. And this slumming silver-spoon bimbo seemed to be struck from the same die.
His head hurt. His foot hurt. He wanted desperately to be uncon-
scious. There was a bottle in his cabin that would be enough for tonight at the very least, and if he was lucky, tomorrow would never come.
"Never mind. Thanks for all your help. I'm going home," he said, as civilly as he could manage.
"I don't think I want to drive you all the way to Long Island," Sinah answered.
Wycherly's head snapped up. She did know him! He knew he'd seen her before—she must be one of Mother's candidates, paraded before him like mares in heat in the hope he'd take the plunge into suitable matrimony. Which would, so his father said, make a man out of him, though it didn't seem to have done as much for Kenny Jr.
She seemed to recoil under the impact of his baleful glare.
"It's ... I mean, it's in your voice. The Island accent," she faltered. "It's in your voice. I know about regional accents. I have to be able to mimic them. I'm an actress."
"An actress," Wycherly echoed derisively.
Maybe not one of Mother's candidates. Mother only approved of older male actors, possibly with a Tony or Oscar to their credit. But the woman was so familiar. . . .
"Come inside," she said pleadingly. "We can discuss it there, okay?"
"No. Take me home. I'll show you the way," Wycherly said brusquely. He felt awful, and knew he looked worse—sweaty, shaking, and greenish. More than anything, he wanted to be alone—the beast had its claws into him now, and things were only going to get worse. He thought longingly of oblivion—he wanted oblivion, and the liquor kindly gave it to him: Things got fuzzy, then disappeared entirely, long before he passed out.
He recanted his decision to dry out. Fervently. Only now the blackouts were invading what he thought of as his nondrinking life. It had to stop. Wycherly rubbed his jaw—the skin felt stiff and tender—and thought of the bottle in his cabin.
"Are you sure?" Sinah said.
My God, woman, do you want me throwing up on your rug? "Yes. Please. If you would be so kind," Wycherly said.
Old Miss Rahab's cottage stood amidst its guardian trees in the afternoon sun. No smoke came from the chimney, and Wycherly hoped that Luned had already gone home. The presence of the woman beside him was
growing intolerable, and Luned's proprietary sunniness would be the final straw.
The Jeep Cherokee was parked as close as Sinah could get it to Wycherly's ramshackle rented cottage, but the young saplings made it impossible to get very close. Had he left here only this morning on his ill-considered ramble? That had been one of his worst ideas in a lifetime that contained no good ones.
"Are you sure? I could—"
"I don't need—"
"—a woman's help?" Sinah finished for him angrily. She turned to look at him. Wycherly thought she looked like safety, sanity, and hope. None of which were for him; not for Wycherly Musgrave.
"A person's help. Any person," Wycherly said. He shoved open the passenger-side door. It banged into a tree, but he didn't care; it opened far enough for him to swing his right leg out, and gingerly lift the left one after it. He stood, hanging onto the door.
"You are the stubbornest man I ever met," Sinah exclaimed, glaring at him in half-amused exasperation.
"You should get out more," Wycherly told her with a death's-head grin. Clinging to the door for support, he groped for one of the tree trunks and clung to it in a death grip. "I'm fine. Go away."
"I'll check on you tomorrow," Sinah said. She reached across the passenger seat of the Jeep Cherokee and pulled the door shut.
"Go to the devil," Wycherly invited her. He made the mistake of testing his bad ankle to see if it would support him.
Sinah winced empathically at the bright flare of pain. But there was no sound or outcry that she could legitimately use as an excuse to ask if he was all right, and she already knew Wycherly Musgrave well enough to know that he wasn't the sort of man who accepted help gracefully. As she watched helplessly, he dragged himself from tree to tree and finally through the door of the cabin. She saw him hesitate upon the threshold as he searched for another handhold, and then the door swung closed behind him.
Sinah leaned forward, resting her forehead on the Jeep's steering wheel for a moment. Let him go. Selfishness was the first law of self-preservation for something like her—but how much longer could she bear to purchase her own survival at that high a price?
"Oh, Wycherly," Sinah said softly. "Everybody needs help someti
me." The question was, where could a person get it whose problems were more than human ones?
Wycherly clung to the back of the chair, listening to the sound of the engine fading in the distance. He'd half expected Luned still to be here, waiting for him just the way Camilla did, but the cabin seemed to be deserted. His ankle ached like a broken tooth. Sinah had suggested that he pack it in ice to ease the pain; he hadn't told her that his cabin had no electricity.
At least there was still daylight.
Dragging the chair with him like a bulky, recalcitrant crutch, Wycherly groped his way over to the sink. He was thirsty; so thirsty that he didn't care whether what he drank was alcoholic or not. In the background, the sound of the Jeep's engine persisted.
No, that wasn't it.
He glanced at the dirty, chipped door of the refrigerator suspiciously. Unbelievably, it was running; from the sound of it, it might take off or explode at any moment.
Clutching at the sink for support, Wycherly pulled open the refrigerator door. The handle vibrated beneath his fingers, and the air inside was perceptibly cooler than that in the cabin.
The refrigerator was filled with six-packs of beer in half a dozen brands; last night's soup had been removed to make room for them.
Wycherly let out a sob of relief. He dragged the chair around and sat down in front of the open door, yanking the nearest six-pack toward him. Hastily, as though it were life-giving medicine, he popped the tab on the first can and chugged the still-warm foamy liquid down, gulping and dribbling in his haste. A second can followed the first, then another. He felt bloated, and not in the least drunk, but it had taken the edge off. . . .
His addiction.
He winced. He might have suffered less if he could deny it, but unfortunately, he'd never lied to himself. He'd driven Sinah away because he'd wanted to be alone with a six-pack of cheap beer and a bottle of Scotch. Driven her off so she wouldn't see him—though a part of him knew that he wouldn't have cared, so long as he could feed the beast. Nothing mattered except feeding the beast, so that it would grant him oblivion and keep Camilla away.
An odd, uncomfortable feeling pressed outward on his chest. It was a little like fear, a little like anger. It made him restless, uncomfortable. It grew stronger, and cautiously, disbelievingly, he identified it.
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