But the stables were empty. No Petra, and the wild young horse was gone too.
The stall was empty, its floor neatly raked, just a few wisps of hay in the corners.
As she left the building, Laine wondered if Petra would materialize out of the shadows and grab her again. She could swear her ears were pricked like a cat’s in a quest for sounds.
But the enigmatic woman didn’t appear.
Laine made her way up the stone steps to the inn’s back garden, wondering if the chestnut filly had been shipped home, too wild to live at the Blackhorse Inn. She had been a pretty, delicate creature, ideal for a young girl to ride if she was ever tamed.
Too small for me, she thought. She had a memory flash of herself on horseback, years ago. She must have been fifteen. Her horse-mad phase had pretty much run its course, but she and some girlfriends had gone on a Saturday trail ride along the back roads of King County, north of Toronto among rolling hills, woodlots full of maples in fading fall color, and estates bordered by snowy-white horse fences. The October air was cold; fallen leaves rimed with frost crunched under the horses’ hooves. A big golden cock pheasant had unexpectedly blasted from the underbrush, flapping skyward and spooking her mount into an awkward sideways canter.
She’d instinctively tightened her knees and gathered in the reins, exhilarated at the thought of a runaway—leaping fences, dazzling her friends with her riding skills—but the horse had calmed quickly, too lazy to run. She’d dug her heels into his fat sides and prayed for more pheasants. Even a barking dog might have enlivened the jaded creature.
Laine felt the same kind of restless frustration now.
She had so many questions, but had no idea when she might see Jaird Fallon again. No way was she going to try to visit him without her brother.
Innis had tantalized her sense of awe and wonder with his transformation. And scared her shitless. The Induction. Jaird had tried to explain it, but still it sounded crazy, and her mind kept bouncing off the memory. The sheer terror was easy to recall.
She was at the inn’s back door when she stopped, alerted by a slight movement in the periphery of her vision. Though it was a very small movement, she reacted as her long-ago horse had and shied sideways.
Then she saw that it was only Arren Tyrell, slouched on the shadowed bench where they’d sat talking earlier. Had he been there all along? He looked like he had just wakened from a nightmare: stark, regretful, as if someone he loved had forsaken him.
He stared up at her, his eyes gone brilliant in the moonlight. Then he jumped up, crossed the lawn and grabbed her around the shoulders. She heard herself emit a tiny squeak of panic. Before she knew it he’d hoisted her up, hugged her close, then set her down again with a bump. He was grinning like a maniac.
He’d lifted her as if she weighed nothing. “Well,” she said, regaining her balance, “it’s good to see you too, Mr. Tyrell.”
“Er,” he said, his face losing all its joy. “I must have been . . . dreaming.” He shrugged and jammed his hands into his pockets, now looking like a gangly teenage boy who’d just done something geeky in front of the head cheerleader.
“Some dream.”
He looked at her long and hard and sniffed the air. Testing it. “Yes, it was.” Then he grinned disarmingly again, and Laine cocked her head at him. She was tall, but Arren was taller, and he looked all black and white in the garden. The sweet flowers spread their scent into the cooling air.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he offered.
She narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, I noticed.”
“I was worried.” Again he shrugged, and the movement of his shoulders made the moonlight slide across his collarbones. She wanted to undo some of his buttons and let the light slide lower.
“Well, I’m fine. No worries. I know it’s late, but I’m not at all sleepy.” She stepped to the bench he’d just vacated and sat, narrowly restraining herself from patting the stone beside her as if encouraging a pet. A big, thundery, sexy pet. Who might answer some questions. “Sit with me?”
He pondered for several long seconds, then came to her side. Laine felt as though she had achieved something difficult. They had gone from being on the verge of a kiss to this awkward formality, all because of stupid Innis barging in. I’ll pay you back someday, you jerk.
She said, “I’ve just met the strangest man. Interesting guy, all fairy-tale and weird.”
“Oh?”
“Innis got to know him somehow and took me to meet him. Jaird Fallon is his name.”
“Hm,” he said, looking away.
Was he even listening? “He claims to be one of the cabyll ushtey.” She realized that she didn’t feel silly in the slightest for saying such a thing. Not here, not tonight, not after what she’d seen. The moon, the grass, her own hair around her neck . . . she instinctively touched the braid at her neck. Secure. She pulled her feet up onto the bench.
“Ah.”
Reaching out a hand, she lightly rested her fingers on his forearm. He didn’t flinch. A good sign. “Look,” she said, tired of his one-syllable responses. “I think this is important. I want to talk about it, and you’ve told me you know about these creatures.”
“Not as much as I should.”
“It’s got to be more than I know. Come on, tell me everything.” She forced a smile, though she was ready to shake him, and hoped she didn’t just look as if she was trying to flirt. Laine could tell he’d had second thoughts about his physical outburst when he’d first seen her. Who had he been dreaming of? Someone he loved?
She forced herself to sit still and be patient, until he’d come to a decision. He hitched himself around to face her.
“All right,” he said, his voice pitched low. “This is what I know or have been told: the cabyll ushtey have been indigenous to the British Isles for over two thousand years. Where they came from before that is not known. Or at least I don’t know. Some say they split off naturally from the selkie, the seal people of Scotland; others that they warred with the other shapeshifters and left, or were forced out of, the ocean and evolved to live on land.
“There have always been folktales about such creatures—wild spirits that could change into horses, goats, or dogs. Some are evil, some benign, some merely capricious.”
Laine hugged her knees. Oh, Innis . . . is this what you are?
Arren continued. “Somehow the cabyll managed to hang on as civilization progressed and more and more wild forests were tamed or leveled for farms and towns. They became adept at living double lives. As you can imagine, a horse would be very noticeable if it were running loose anywhere other than a fenced field.”
“I’ll bet,” she said, remembering the laughing horses. “A dog or even a goat would have a better chance. So, by double life, what do you mean?”
“Well, since they can’t exist solely as horses without risking capture, most cabyll set up lives as humans, complete with jobs, homes, plausible backgrounds.”
“I guess life as a horse would be awful if you had a human mind. You’d be fed and cared for but expected to die after fifteen or twenty years. Plus, you might be mistreated—whipped, castrated.” Even a valued steed, pampered and well fed in a clean stable, would have a life that was mind-numbingly boring.
“Yes. Intolerable except for the most shy and fearful. There are more than a few cabyll existing among natural horses, eking out a minimal sad life.”
She had a thought. “What’s it like, I wonder, for a cabyll ushtey to be around real horses? Are they related?”
“Only as wine is related to the soil from which the grapevines grow.” He smiled at her, a slight curl of his lip, but it was accompanied by a look that connected them somehow, as if he felt she understood him and the things he was telling her. Unbelievable things, yet she did believe. She’d seen what Innis had done, and this was corroborating what Jaird had touched on. That intimate look started her blood fizzing.
She remembered something then, the remark Innis had made about the cabyll ushtey. Pray you don’t meet one in the water.
“Not all of them are shy and invisible. They can be savage. They can kill.”
“Oh, yes.” He assessed her as if gauging her strength. Laine lifted her chin. He said, “There are four herds I know of in this part of England, living in a radius of about fifty miles from here, each guarding its territory from incursion by another. Usually things are peaceful, individuals and groups maintaining their cover and not interacting with others unless absolutely necessary. I have managed to meet with representatives of two of those herds, and part of my reason for being here is to meet with the others.”
“One of them being Jaird Fallon?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Do you suspect him, or someone in his herd, of killing your cousin?”
“Frankly, I do. Fallon in particular.”
“Do you have evidence to support this?”
He shook his head. “I have hardly any evidence at all. Delsie’s body was found in the river that borders two herds and passes through land controlled by another. Streams and tributaries wind all over, one of the reasons the cabyll live here. No way to know where she entered the water.”
“And no one is stepping forward to confess. Or point the finger.”
He smiled coldly. “Hardly. My . . . instinct, I suppose, leads me to put one of the herds on the back burner. Narrows it down somewhat.”
“Why is that?”
“The leader is one of the shy and invisible types—fearful to the point of paranoia in fact—and he encourages his folk to live quietly and simply, not changing any more than absolutely necessary.”
“So . . . it’s necessary to change into horse form?”
“Yes and no. If a cabyll tries to deny his or her nature forever, insanity can result.”
Her stomach clenched painfully. So, even if she could somehow convince Innis never to change again, he’d risk madness. She knew him—he’d never give up such a wondrous ability, no matter how close it took him to capture or death.
“Is it inevitable?”
“Jury’s still out on that one,” he said, his voice sounding suspiciously brisk. Perhaps sensing her fear, he looked at her with concern. “You okay? I’m not the ultimate authority on things cabyll, you know. There’s lots of variation within the different groups and individuals.”
She nodded, getting control again. After all, she reflected wryly, who could tell whether or not Innis was crazy already? More seriously, she realized that Arren must suspect Innis of being cabyll. How could she convince this vengeful man that her brother was not a killer?
She asked, “Just how many cabyll are we talking about?”
“Not many at all. Each herd is led by one stallion, the alpha male, and consists of about two dozen or so females, youngsters, and subordinate males. They are set up sort of like extended families, or close friends, or co-workers. The area I’m searching contains fewer than a hundred.”
“And you’ve eliminated many of those because they’re the shy ones.” At his nod, she continued. “But couldn’t their desire to remain invisible lead to killing in self-defense?”
“It could. But this killing was not self-defense. Delsie was fifteen. She couldn’t have frightened a kitten. It was premeditated, planned, and bloody.”
Laine bit her lip unhappily. There might be no way to absolve Innis from Arren’s suspicions. Jaird she didn’t care about. He was on his own.
Arren shifted, drawing slightly away from her. Gone was the intimacy of earlier that night, when their bodies had touched and electricity had flowed. He was trying to maintain emotional as well as physical distance, she understood. Who could blame him? He was on a mission, and she might be in the enemy camp.
She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to center herself. She needed to know more about just what it meant to be cabyll ushtey.
Was it magic or was it death?
Or did this sort of magic lead inevitably to death? If so, no matter how tempting it was, she didn’t want it for herself or for Innis.
Arren shifted again restlessly and said, “You were at Jaird Fallon’s cottage. Can you remember where it is, how you got there?” His voice was soft but with an edge of urgency.
She opened her eyes. Think with your brain, not your body. “Innis drove us there.” She waved a hand vaguely in the air. “I had my eyes closed most of the time—my brother is a maniac behind the wheel.” She produced a small, carefree laugh, hoping it would cover the tension she felt. In truth, she doubted that she could find the place on her own anyway.
He rubbed the bump on his nose. “Hmm. I’ve been trying to meet with the man, but he’s damnably hard to find. I know the general area he lives in, I’ve even gone on that Earth-from-orbit website trying to spot signs of habitation, but the view is hazy. No detail gets through.”
“That happened to me when I tried to see the Blackhorse Inn. Google Earth just won’t focus.”
“And when I tramp around the area, those damnable streams and copses move around like stage scenery. I end up following myself in a circle.”
“I know how that feels.” She thought about it. “I can ask Innis if he’ll set up a meeting. I don’t guarantee he’ll go for it.”
“I’d be surprised if he did.” Arren sighed and stretched again.
She was deciding she’d better wish him good night and head for bed when he changed the subject. “Laine, you were coming up from the stables when I . . . ”
“Pounced on me?” She looked at him sideways, half-smiling.
“Well, yes. Sorry about that.”
I’m not. “Don’t worry about it. Yes, I’d just been to see a new filly they had to sedate last night. But she’s not there.”
He looked at her sharply. “Not there?”
“I assume they had to send the horse back. Petra said she was too wild.”
Arren’s face went blank, but his body stiffened.
She said, “Do you know anything about it?”
“Nothing.” He stood up abruptly and favored her with a wide, unconvincing smile. “It’s late. I’d better be going.”
“What? But—”
“I’ll walk you round to the door.” He took her firmly by the elbow and steered her out of the garden. She was about to dig in her heels when he said, “Let’s get together tomorrow and compare notes. I’d like to hear more about you, not just your new friend Mr. Fallon.”
Well, that was nice, she thought. If he meant it. “All right. What about joining me for breakfast? I’m going for a run first, so how about nine o’clock?”
He watched her key open the door and said, “Sounds perfect. See you then.” He tipped her a brief salute and was gone. The sound of his motorcycle kicked up, then receded.
Laine locked the door behind her and set the key on Mrs. Griffin’s lobby desk. Home safe.
Feeling the day land on her like physical weight, she climbed the stairs to her room and got ready for bed. While the bath was running, she picked up the ivory horse and stroked its wavy mane with one finger. “What do you know about all this?” she asked it. She looked into its tiny, fierce eyes. “Tell me.” No response. Thank goodness for that. She’d had about enough for one day. But caressing its smooth coolness calmed her, the feel of Arren’s touch lingering but becoming less demanding.
The man was as much a mystery as everything else around here.