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Case Closed
Asher could barely feel his legs, running forward to pull Oliver from Charlie, falling to his knees on the rocky beach. So much blood—it was everywhere. He rolled the changeling over: a round black hole was centered in his forehead, his eyes open and glazed.
The beast from the loch lowered its head to mere inches from Charlie’s face. The world seemed to go eerily still, but for the sound of the animal’s breath. It nudged against Charlie’s cheek and then drew back.
Asher couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only repeat a supplication in his head: Please, please, please...
And then he saw Charlie blink. Her eyes were locked on the creature, and the look on her face was not one of fear, but of... wonder. Her hand slowly lifted off the ground and began inching toward the animal’s snout. It made a sound—not a growl, or snarl, but a gentle sort of purring. Charlie’s fingers brushed its nose. The beast made the sound again, its eyes closing, and then it tilted its head to press a large, scaly cheek into the palm of Charlie’s outstretched hand before backing away and slipping under the waves.
Asher’s whole body was trembling; he lifted a shaky hand and wiped at the blood spattered on Charlie’s cheeks, tracing his thumb along her mouth. He let out a breath; the knowledge that this was a bad idea only half-formed before he pulled her close, lips blindly seeking hers. Propriety and common sense protested and Asher told both to go hang, just for this moment. Charlie was alive and in his arms and he cared about nothing else.
His mind repeated it like a litany. She was alive—she was whole—she was in his arms and he couldn’t—he didn’t— Asher lifted his head, searching her face, trying to think, to realize... But it was no good, he needed to take her mouth more than he needed to take a breath. “Charlie,” he muttered against her lips. “I thought—I was afraid—”
“Asher,” she whispered, his name little more than a throaty gasp, and then her lips pressed against his again. Warm fingers slid up his chest, his shoulders, and then wove through his hair. She made a sound, hungry and desperate, and it cut straight to Asher’s core. She was leaning against him, and the world narrowed to the sensation of her body pressed close to his.
A sound from behind them broke through the haze of desperation and longing: a moan from one of the thralls lying on the ground. “What—what have I—oh God, the old man in the cave—”
Asher jerked his head back as he suddenly realized what he was doing. “I’m sorry—I—” he stammered, reality crashing down around him, and leaving him horrified at his lack of self-control. He pulled away from Charlie, rapidly scanning the scene. Oliver lay dead nearby, and his father in a similar condition across the clearing. The men who had been under Oliver’s thrall lay unconscious or at least incapacitated. The first man moaned again, and Asher scrambled to his feet.
Another of the thralls was coming to, keening as though in pain. “Where am I—what—what did he make us do?”
“What man in the cave?” Asher asked the first one urgently. “Where?”
The emaciated man pointed toward the cave where Oliver had held Charlie for a brief time.
Charlie was on her feet in an instant. She hiked up her skirt and ran toward the opening. “Uncle Elias?”
Asher sprinted after her. “Charlie—wait! You don’t know what you’ll find—”
But if she’d heard his call she’d decided to ignore it. Charlie reached the mouth of the cavern and vanished into the dark. Asher could hear her voice echoing off the rocks, growing further from the entrance.
A string of oaths came from his mouth as he too plunged into the cave. “Charlie! Damn it, Charlie, where are you?”
As he neared the back wall Asher saw a small tunnel to the left. It curved slightly, obscuring his view, but a soft orange glow was barely visible at the bend. The sound of Charlie’s footsteps was bouncing off the rocky walls and then came to an abrupt stop.
His longer stride meant that he was only a heartbeat behind her, and he nearly bowled her over when he burst into the passage. “Of all the bloody stupid,” he began, “foolhardy, reckless—”
“What on earth is that?” They were standing at the opening of a small, round chamber. Charlie’s eyes were fixed on the far wall, she pointed at something in the flickering light of a single torch.
There was a large object attached to the far wall, roughly the height and width of a grown man. It seemed to be made of millions of whitish strands that glimmered strangely. The object moved slightly, swelling and receding in a slow, steady rhythm. It was lumpy, and occasionally one of the lumps would bulge outward.
A muscle in Asher’s jaw ticked and he grasped Charlie by the upper arms. “Stand over here,” he instructed, “and do not come any closer unless I tell you it’s all right. And be ready to run.” He was furious with her for her earlier heedlessness, but knew better than to let it show. “I’m serious, Miss Whitfield. Will you do as I say?”
The use of ‘Miss Whitfield’ seemed to catch her attention. Charlie blinked and tore her eyes from the... whatever it was, looking at Asher with a little frown before she nodded. “Of course.”
He studied her a moment longer before giving a nod. “Stay there,” he repeated, and approached the chrysalis-like construction. One of the lumps under the surface moved again, and Asher peered at it: roughly the size and shape of a—of a man’s fist—
Without further consideration he plunged his fingers into the morass of fibers, tearing at them to reveal a gnarled and elderly hand. Asher let out a succinct curse and ran his hands over the mass to where he thought the head might be, steeled himself, and began to shred the material.
A familiar face emerged. “Elias,” he breathed, and set to work freeing his old friend.
“Is he—is he alive?” Charlie called, she started to take a step and then stopped herself, apparently remembering his instructions. “Uncle Elias?”
Asher felt the side of the old man’s neck and found a pulse: thready, but definitely there. “He’s alive.” Asher glanced back over his shoulder. “Can you go back to the inn, send for the police?”
Charlie shook her head. “I want to see him first. I need to see him, Asher.”
Asher gave a nod and made short work of the rest of the cocoon, and at last Elias fell forward limply into the younger man’s arms. “I’ve got him—let’s get him out of this place.”
He heard Charlie sniffle and then she was at his side, her hands stroking her uncle’s face. “He’s so pale,” she whispered as Asher started to carry Elias to the exit.
The missing man shifted and murmured when they got him into the sunlight. “Charlie?” he rasped weakly, squinting up at her. “Charlie, my dear child.”
“I’m here,” she whispered gently, taking a few quick steps so that he could see her more clearly even as she reached for his hand. “You’re safe now, uncle. You’re going to be all right.”
Elias gave his niece a watery smile. “I knew you wouldn’t give up on me.” His eyes fluttered closed, and then blinked open again. “I saw it, Charlie—the creature. It’s real.”
Charlie sniffled a second time, dashing at the tears that were streaming down her cheeks. “I know, uncle. I know.” She swallowed and Asher could see her pushing past the emotions, focusing on what needed to be done. “Is it safe to take him back to the inn? What should I tell the police?”
“The Shaws are dead,” he told her, “so I think any threat from that quarter is ended. If you could meet the police, bring them back here—and tell them to bring a doctor.”
Charlie cast another look at her uncle, gently touched his cheek and then took off at a run.
The dash back to the inn was a blur. Charlie burst into the lobby and hurried directly to the front desk, barely noticing the people who stopped to stare at her. She managed to relay enough information to convince the concierge to send for the police and the town doctor, and he did so immediately.
A maid asked if there was anything else that could be done, but there was a strange sort of buzzing in Charlie’s head, and the only thing she could focus on was the task of waiting for the police to arrive. When they finally did, she led them to the bluff, ready to return to her uncle’s side, but was stopped and pulled back to the inn before she could set foot on the path.
A woman of middling years in a crisp nurse’s uniform held her by the arm, helping her back through the lobby. “Come, dear—let the men see to that and I’ll see to you.” She peered at Charlie’s face. “Did someone strike you?”
The buzzing continued. Charlie blinked at the other woman for a second or two in confusion. “Strike me?” She lifted her hand to touch where the changeling had hit her temple. “Um, yes, it—he,” she corrected herself, “he hit me, here. I need to go to my uncle.”
“They’re bringing him here, I believe—you’ll see him as soon as the doctor has finished his work.” The nurse led her into a private parlor and urged her to sit down. “Come, Miss, let’s get you comfortable and out of those dirty things.”
“No—where’s Ash—Mr. Burton?” Charlie started to stand up, but her legs were shaking and she immediately lowered herself back into the chair. She looked down at herself. “This was my best dress.” It was a ridiculous sort of observation, Charlie thought rather distantly.
“I’m sorry, dear, but I don’t think it’s salvageable,” the nurse murmured. “Now—I apologize but I must ask, my dear, what exactly happened to you? Who hit you? Did he... harm you in any other way?”
Charlie looked at the nurse’s kind expression and the fog cleared a little. “No, he didn’t... He said something about—but he didn’t...” She cleared her throat and closed her eyes, summoning what little calm she could muster. “Oliver Shaw hit me, here.” Charlie repeated her earlier statement, pointing to her temple. She stopped and lowered her hand to stare at her wrist. Dark red marks shaped like fingers marred the pale skin, the color already deepening to an angry purple. “He grabbed me, pulled me to the loch.” The changeling’s words reverberated in her mind, his savagery and complete lack of compassion sapping all the heat from the room. Charlie’s entire body started to shake.
“Poor child. All right, lassie.” The nurse’s voice was gentle. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
The process of changing and cleaning the blood from her face and hair took longer than Charlie expected, though it might have been mere minutes—time felt like it was passing in bursts, and then it would suddenly seem to stop until she focused on her surroundings again. Eventually, she was reasonably clean and dressed in a loose-fitting plain woolen gown from the church’s poor-box, modest enough for her to be seen by the police. Her wrist was well-daubed with arnica and had a bandage around it; her hair had been combed gently and was braided simply down her back, though one stubborn piece that had been cut too short for the style kept coming loose.
The injured men were being seen to, she was told, and after a moment of confusion Charlie realized the nurse was referring to the ones under Oliver’s spell. Elias was to spend the night in the local infirmary, so he could be observed before releasing him to go home. The police took a comprehensive statement from her, surprisingly gently, and finally the nightmare seemed to be over—with one glaring exception: Asher was nowhere to be seen.
The very sergeant who’d been so dismissive of her at the start of things was headed for the door. He was just about to close it behind him when Charlie called out. “Wait, please. No one has told me what’s become of Mr. Burton. Is he all right? Where is he?”
The sergeant actually chuckled. “Oh, he’s all right, I reckon. Them kind of men always seem to land on their feet.”
A deep frown creased Charlie’s brow. She’d expected to see Asher by now. At the very least she thought that he would check to see that she was all right. “Thank you for telling me, sergeant,” she managed when she realized the man was waiting for her to say something else. “But where is Mr. Burton now?”
“Here in the inn, fillin’ out reports and such. No one would credit the paperwork we have to do, servin’ the Law,” the sergeant supplied, his tone aggrieved. “His partner’s coming to retrieve him on the train. He took a room so he could rest a while before leaving.”
Charlie opened her mouth to ask which room Asher was in, but realized that the question might engender gossip. “I know it is not your duty to convey messages, but I wonder—or rather, would you be so kind as to let Mr. Burton know that I would like to speak with him?” Charlie bit her lower lip, hoping the request did not sound as desperate as it felt. “I owe him my thanks for everything he’s done to bring my uncle home safely,” she clarified.
“Of course, Miss.” The sergeant ducked his head. “I’ll pass it along. He’s just down the hall here—room 14.”
She nodded her thanks and waited for the man to leave. When the door closed behind him she hurried to press her ear to it, listening for his footsteps. They echoed down the hall, then paused for a few minutes before coming back toward the room, and then past. Charlie popped her head into the corridor, and when she saw that it was clear she quietly made her way toward the guest rooms.
Room 14 was not far, but Charlie found herself hesitating at the threshold. No doubt the entire town knew of the confrontation at the lakeshore by now, and more attention than she liked would be turned in her direction. If she were seen doing this, that attention would increase exponentially. And yet—there were words left unspoken between them, and she could not bear the silence any longer. Slowly, Charlie reached up and tapped on the door.
She could hear footsteps within; after a moment the door opened. Asher shook his head. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“You saved my life. My uncle’s life as well.” Charlie blinked at the cool abruptness of this greeting, feeling tears pricking at her eyes despite her best effort to hold them at bay. There was a distance here, and it made her chest ache. “Where else should I be?”
His lips twitched. “Oh, Charlie.” Asher glanced up and down the hall, much as she had done. “Come in, then.” He stepped back to let her slip past.
Alone in the cottage, nothing had ever felt strained or improper with Asher, though they’d been more alone there with the nearest neighbor over a mile away. This, however, felt strangely inappropriate and uncomfortable. She looked around the room as he shut the door behind her, hardly knowing where to begin. What she wanted was for him to wrap his arms around her, to tell her everything would be well again. She wanted to feel his lips against hers, to taste him as she’d done at the lakeside.
Instead, she settled for the obvious. “You are not returning to the farm, then?”
The smile he offered her was tight. “No need. My job is done, and I’m called back to London. I do apologize for not being able to help you put the farm to rights.”
“You needn’t apologize, Asher,” Charlie replied quickly, finally looking him in the eye. He’d apologized after their kiss too, and it was that, she realized, that she was referring to. However, that felt like uncertain ground. “What about your belongings?”
“I’ve a friend coming to get me,” he replied easily. “He’ll go pick up my things while I finish up here, get them out of your way.”
Charlie felt her heart starting to crack, and despite herself she could feel the sting of tears in her eyes. “Will you be coming with him?”
Summer-blue eyes met hers over the top of his spectacles. “I don't think that’s a very good idea.” He let out a breath. “I’m sorry, Charlie. Miss Whitfield. I never meant—” He broke off and tried again. “This is who I am. I don’t... know how to be anyone else.”
“I know who you are, Asher,” Charlie replied, unable to address him so formally. His use of ‘Miss Whitfield’ stung deeply, but perhaps it was only the setting. “Then is this...” she bit her lip, shaking her head a little. “Is this where we part ways?”
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them with a sigh. “I think that’s best, don’t you?” He held out his hand. “Thank you for everything—you were a superlative partner in helping to crack this case, and I believe you saved my life as well, down on the lakeshore.” His gaze was shadowed. “I won’t forget our time together. I hope the future brings you everything you want and more—you deserve it.”
Charlie looked away from him and exhaled slowly but couldn’t bring herself to take his hand, and after a moment he let it drop to his side. She nodded, and moved for the door. “Thank you, Mr. Burton. That was all I came to say.” She stopped at the door, her hand on the knob, but couldn’t quite bring herself to turn it. After another slow breath she mustered the will to open the door. “I must go see to the farm now. Nan will be waiting for her evening milking. I’ll see that your things are ready when your friend arrives.”
“Goodbye, Charlie,” he said, so softly she nearly missed it. “Be well.”
“Goodbye,” she managed quickly, before rushing through the door. Charlie took a few slow steps down the hall, and then started to run. It wasn’t until she was in the drive that she remembered that they’d ridden there together on Whiskey’s back. Tears started to roll down Charlie’s cheeks. She knew someone would offer her a horse if she asked, but speaking to anyone else was not an option. And so Charlie began the walk home.
The journey was a long and cold one, but Charlie did not care about the chill. Even so, by the time she returned to the farm she was shaking from head to toe again, and it seemed of little consequence. The house was as still and quiet as it had been after her uncle’s disappearance, and that pierced so deeply that Charlie could barely breathe. She closed the door behind her and set to the task of putting things in order, hoping that focusing on the practical would keep the ache from overwhelming her.
Asher’s things were arranged neatly in Elias' room, taking very little space. It was no more than the work of a few minutes to collect it all and put it in the entry. When she was done and she realized that he’d left so little imprint in her life after all, Charlie’s heart shattered. She managed to make it to her room and settle on the bed before the tears began. Charlie surrendered completely to the hard, body-wracking sobs, knowing that they were caused by anger as much as pain, though she couldn’t say whether she was angrier with Asher or herself. After a few minutes she curled up on her side and pulled the quilt around herself, still weeping, but the rapids had eased to a steady and quiet stream.
Eventually the tears stopped entirely, but left emptiness in their wake. Charlie sat up again, exhaling slowly. The animals needed care, and Asher’s friend would be there for his things at some point, and Charlie would not have him report back to Asher that she’d been red-faced and tear-stained.
As expected, there was a knock on the door that evening, after she’d had a chance to look after the livestock and changed into her own clothes. She opened it to find a handsome, dark-haired man—but not the one she longed for.
“Quinn Rutherford,” he said with a smile, holding out his hand. “I’m a friend of Asher’s—I hope you were expecting me?”
Expecting, yes. Happy he was alone? No, though Asher had said goodbye, and made it clear he meant it to be a final parting. Hope could be a cruel mistress indeed, Charlie thought rather bitterly. “I was. Mr. Burton informed me you would be coming.” She stepped aside to allow him entrance. “I have his things gathered in the hall.”
“Excellent.” Mr. Rutherford moved past her and picked up Asher’s bag. “Miss Whitfield,” he began after a moment, “my partner has told me some of what you went through, and I wanted to ask—do you feel safe staying here on your own? I can have some men sent up to look after the farm until your uncle is back on his feet. Perhaps there is a neighbor you could stay with for a little while?”
Charlie lifted her chin a little and offered Mr. Rutherford a small smile. “I’m well enough on my own. After so many days of acting as hostess, a bit of solitude and quiet would be restful.” It was a lie, but the idea of being anywhere but home was uncomfortable. “Oh, I nearly forgot,” she said, hurrying into the kitchen and grabbing the sketch Asher had drawn during the storm. She returned to the hall and held it out for Mr. Rutherford. “Mr. Burton forgot to put this with his things. It would only get lost in the shuffle around here.”
He took it, looking at the sketch with interest and then shifting his regard back to her. “I see. Thank you.” He studied her for a moment longer, then smiled. “Well—I expect you’ll be glad to put a period at the end of all this. We’ll be taking the evening train, ourselves. I thought, myself, it might be nice to have a look at the loch in the daylight,” he added genially, “to see if I could catch a glimpse of the mythical creature. But Asher is insisting, and no doubt you’ve had a taste of his stubbornness, though hopefully not his temper. He’s like a bear with a sore paw.”
“Never his temper,” Charlie replied softly, thinking back on all of the kindnesses he’d shown her. She smiled a little despite herself, and then felt the pang of his absence just a quickly. “I hope his mood improves quickly. Do tell him I send my—I wish you both save travels.”
“I’ve no doubt it will.” Quinn chuckled, though Charlie had the oddest feeling he was still observing her. “Honestly, one would almost think he didn’t want to go.” He tucked the sketch in his coat pocket and bowed. “Your servant, Miss.” With that he mounted his horse—Whiskey, Charlie noted with another pang—and wheeled around, cantering back toward town.