Laine opened her eyes at six-thirty the next morning, exactly as planned. She had always been able to set her internal clock and wake at the time she wanted. It was simple—she closed her eyes, pictured a clock’s hands whirling around hour after hour and then stopping at the time she needed to rise. If she concentrated, it never failed to work. Besides, she had had to learn the trick to avoid being late to school, since her mother never got up in time to wake her and the alarm clock had let her down all too often. As Martin said, you gotta rely on yourself, sweetie.
She was out the inn’s door by seven, in shorts, tank top, and running shoes, her hair in its usual ponytail. She left her MP3 player behind, the better to think and observe.
She ducked under the bridge and followed a well-packed dirt trail on the west side of the Syn. The air was cool, though the sun was already starting to penetrate the early-morning mist.
Her body on automatic, she jogged along a flat stretch under willow trees whose long yellow branches hung down like a damsel’s tresses. They bent to follow her as she passed, then swung back to dip their ends into the water.
She had already seen more magical phenomena than she had ever dreamed of. Every moment drew her farther from normal reality. It was exactly what she’d always wanted . . . but what about Innis? Did she have a chance of slowing his headlong plunge into a world of dangerous magic?
Did she want to stop him . . . or join him?
She’d gone a scant few hundred yards downstream when a flash of something moving caught her eye out in the river. Jogging in place, she peered out over the smooth-flowing water. Was someone waving to her? There was a small sandbar in the middle of the river about thirty feet away, with a thin tuft of reeds and shrubs clinging to it. A shape that looked suspiciously human had washed up onto the shallows.
The willow branches overhead began to probe her shoulders and neck. Impatiently she shrugged them off, unimpressed by such feeble daylight magic, and pushed her way through thick reeds to the river’s edge, staring at the shape that sprawled half in and half out of the water.
It was human. A woman. Laine could see light auburn hair, tangled and streaming, and a pale arm sticking out of the water at an unnatural angle. Not waving. Flopping eerily back and forth as the water pulled at it.
Laine ripped off her shoes and waded in, squelching through soft mud into deeper water. She didn’t stop to think, wishing only that she’d brought her phone. Though the river wasn’t more than waist-deep here, the rocks and mud were treacherous underfoot. Before she’d made it halfway there, she felt like throwing up. The current dragged at her feet, threatening to knock her over. She felt a horror of being immersed and swept away.
By the time she reached the sandbar, she was gasping and scrambled gratefully to land, shivering convulsively. It was almost as if the water had been trying to drown her. The river was playing its tricks again.
Cautiously she approached the body, which looked remarkably dead. It was a young woman, pale as the ivory horse, her head arched back and bobbing horribly along with her arm as the current tugged at her hair. She was naked, and her slim body was mutilated by gashes as if something had been tearing at her flesh.
Laine stood panting, unable to look away. She had no idea what to do. Should she check for a pulse? Swim back across and run for help? Nausea rose, but it wasn’t for the dead body: it was for the river. She did not want to get back in the water.
“Hi!” called a voice from shore. Laine jerked around, startled. “What’re you doing out there? Are you all right?”
A stout middle-aged woman dressed in baggy pants, purple sweatshirt, and floppy hat had pushed her way to the water’s edge. Her small white dog bounced around her feet. Laine wiped water from her eyes, shivering. “It’s . . . it’s a woman. I think she’s dead.”
Laine looked back at the body. Of course she’s dead. Empty green eyes stared at the sky as if shocked by its pureness and clarity, as if she knew how very awful she looked. Her long chestnut hair was a tangled mass among the branches. Laine’s vision started to go white around the edges and she sat on a rock, putting her head between her knees.
“What’s that you say? Dead?”
Laine nodded, hoping the woman could see the gesture. Apparently she did, for she called, “Hang on. I’ll call for help.” When Laine looked up, she saw the woman speaking urgently into her phone, her dog tucked under one arm.
Laine’s watch told her that only nine minutes passed before the first cop showed up, though it seemed much longer. Her sopping clothes made her shiver, or maybe it was the corpse she sat by. Or maybe it was the river sliding by, its green coils calling her.
The constable parked his car, hurried to the riverbank and immediately splashed in, floundering across. “Are you all right, miss?” She nodded wordlessly. “What’s your name, please?” She told him. He asked her to move aside and spent some time examining the woman without touching her, speaking rapidly into his phone. Meanwhile, a fire truck, an ambulance and emergency medical team arrived, pulling up next to the police vehicle on the road’s verge. One of the EMTs joined them on the sandbar and quickly pronounced death. Not that there could be any doubt.
The crime must have happened somewhere upstream, the body tossed into the river to cover the murderer’s tracks. If it was a murder, and not an animal attack, which was what it looked like. For a moment Laine clung to the idea that it might have been a dog attack. But then why was the woman naked?
Forget the dog theory. The cabyll ushtey had done this.
She shivered. Seeing this, the officer said, “Let’s get you to the other side again, eh miss? And we’ll need to take a statement.” He escorted her across to the mainland before she could object. She was glad of his strong arm to steady her, but this time the water was easier to move through and did not set off nausea. Soon he was joined by an Inspector and several Scene of Crime Officers—SOCOs—who deployed an inflatable dinghy. It did brisk duty shuttling people back and forth, a husky constable manning the oars.
In no time there was a line of cars and pedestrians gawking and taking pictures.
Laine, who had been given a blanket and a brief examination by one of the firemen, caught the attention of the medical technician as he returned from the sandbar, holding his bag high and dry as he stepped out of the dinghy. “Can you tell me how she died? Was it an animal attack?”
“Sorry, miss. I report to the police and the coroner, or in this case deputy coroner.” She followed him to his vehicle, where he packed away his equipment neatly. “I’ll hand off to the DC when she shows up,” he said. “She shouldn’t be long, she’s just over to Wasperton for a suicide.”
“But she’ll be here soon?”
“Soon as she can, luv,” said the fresh-faced, ruddy-skinned man.
He wasn’t going to spill anything. The corpse still sprawled exactly where Laine had found it, now surrounded by officers cordoning off the site and performing their rituals of recording the death of a human being.
Laine eyed the crowd of locals as she crouched on a patch of grass, warming up under her blanket. Could one of them be the killer, here to enjoy the show? She recognized the portly middle-aged man she’d seen on the inn’s stairs, dressed as before in walking shorts, chatting animatedly with a group of townspeople; also Petra, who stood apart, arms crossed as she morosely observed the scene. Laine closed her eyes, praying that what Arren had implied last night was not true. Jaird couldn’t have done it, could he? Innis certainly not. Although, from a legal point of view, she supposed it was possible. She rejected the idea immediately, but it chilled her.
I hope Innis has a nice fat alibi.
And what about Arren Tyrell? He should have shown up by now, attracted like the townsfolk by the activity; at least he should be wondering why she hadn’t joined him for breakfast. Arren didn’t strike her as the sort of person who would foolishly shove his victim into the local river where it was sure to be found. That would be sloppy and arrogant. Arren might be arrogant, but she was sure he wasn’t sloppy. She groaned, then opened her eyes at the sound of footsteps. A fiftyish man in a suit and tie, large rubber boots on his feet and a look on his square, clean-shaven face that made Laine stand up and get ready for business.
The man stuck out his hand. “Detective Inspector Ted Watley, Miss . . . ?”
His hand was wonderfully warm. She hated to let it go. “Summerhill. Laine Summerhill.”
“How d’ye do. So you spotted this poor young lady, did you?” His smile was gentle, but his eyes were piercing. “You were out for a wee run by the looks of it.”
“Er, yes. I’m staying at the Blackhorse Inn. I saw her as I ran along the path, and thought maybe I could help. I . . . I didn’t realize she was dead till I got out there.”
“And when was this, approximately?”
“Shortly after seven . . . maybe seven-twenty.” Her thin shorts and top were almost dry. She shucked off the itchy woolen blanket and rubbed her shoulders. “I’m a visitor here, I have no idea who she is . . . ” She stopped talking. Of course she knew.
She hoped Detective Inspector Watley wouldn’t assume that clamming up was a sign of guilt. Who else could the woman be but the horse locked in the stable, reverted to human form and then savagely killed?
She covered her eyes for a moment. It couldn’t be. It was too crazy. Petra had told her what happened. The horse had been sent home. Or . . . shifted back to human form and killed as punishment for fighting against her fate.
Petra knew all about it. Petra might even have done it. When she looked for her again, the woman was gone.
All at once Laine felt very alone. She was among strangers, any of whom could be a killer, or a changeling horse spirit, or both. She swallowed carefully, forcing down a wave of nausea.
She said, “Look, I’m really freaked out by this. Can I go?”
“Just a few more details first, miss. We’ll find out who she is, don’t you worry.” DI Watley beckoned a constable over and directed him to take Laine’s information and a brief statement. Laine suspected it was woefully incoherent. At least Watley had chosen to ignore her case of nerves, and assumed her pallor was normal at a time like this. “I must ask you to stay in the area, Miss Summerhill. Just until we get this sorted out.” His voice was comfortable, reassuring.
Laine did not feel at all reassured.
She promised to bring her passport to the station as soon as possible, then was allowed to head to the inn for a nice hot bath and something to eat. Part of her light-headedness was simple lack of coffee, she realized.
An hour later, feeling much better in dry clothes, she was in the inn’s dining room, which by now had filled up with chattering people enjoying tea and crumpets while speculating on the death. News traveled fast. Laine looked in vain for a table, until Mrs. Griffin spotted her and bustled over. “Oh, dearie—there you are—” She puffed and stalled in front of Laine like a small steam engine, pushed back her flyaway hair and said, “I’ll find you a spot, never fear. You’re one of us now, aren’t you then!” Taking Laine’s hand in hers, she pulled her to a corner, unfolded a small side-table and yanked an unused chair from a neighboring table. “There you are. Coffee? I know how you Americans like your coffee!”
Not bothering to correct the woman—which would be churlish considering her effort—Laine said, “Oh, yes, please.” She sat gratefully and then felt herself shrink, overwhelmed by what she’d seen. She wiped away some regretful tears. If she was right and that woman had been the horse, locked in the stable and frantically trying to get free, she had lost the chance to rescue her.
Mrs. Griffin came back with two cups of coffee, placed them on the table and pulled up a stool onto which she climbed nimbly. With a direct look, she leaned close to Laine and whispered, “Tell me everything.”
Laine doctored up her coffee until it was good and sweet. Mrs. Griffin did the same. It took only minutes to recount exactly what she’d experienced that morning, leaving out her personal fears. And her odd reaction to the water. Mrs. Griffin held a hand to her heart, listening hard. Her mouth turned down when Laine described the woman, and she crossed herself, muttering a few words in a language Laine did not understand. It sounded like Te merel amaro kuro o lasho. Not Latin; she would have recognized that.
When Laine asked her, she said, “I’m Romnichal—Romany is the term most people know. Though I’ve been away from the life for years, still the old words come back.” She shook her head. “That poor girl.”
Romany? Mrs. Griffin, the first “little person” she’d ever met, was a Gypsy? Another first. Laine cocked her head, her interest piqued. Visions of fortunetellers and pickpockets came to mind. “What do the words mean?”
The woman looked away and crossed herself again. The motion was fast and natural, as if performed for years, which no doubt it had been. Laine had read most of the Traveler folk were Catholic. “Just a phrase, dearie. Literally it means May our favorite stallion die.” She licked her lips, watching Laine. “It’s a sarcastic saying, meant to ward off the anger of vengeful sprites. Like knocking on wood or spilling salt. It’s all a rakli like you need know.”
“Rakli . . . ?” Laine’s tongue stumbled over the word.
“Non-Gypsy girl, dearie.” Mrs. Griffin tossed her head in her characteristic gesture and slid off the stool. “Some of us have work to do,” she said with a smile, and bustled off.
Fortified by the coffee, Laine got herself a heaping plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and marmalade from the buffet table and wolfed it all down hungrily. Despite what she’d seen that morning, she was famished. She felt significantly better afterwards.
And significantly more suspicious. Mrs. Griffin knew more than she was saying, even couched enigmatically in the Romany tongue, and for some reason she wanted Laine to understand this. Why else would she have said what she did? Our favorite stallion. It couldn’t have been a simple slip; she could have easily lied about the words’ meaning.
Laine wondered how long the woman had been away from the Gypsy life, and how long she had been living here at Blackhorse Inn. Mrs. Griffin was well entrenched in the local society of landholders, shopkeepers, and commuters, that was apparent. She must know a lot of secrets. Perhaps she wouldn’t mind sharing a few: for instance, about just who was doing the shape-shifting around here.
She needed some hard data, but Mrs. Griffin had no time to chat now. The woman had work to do. Was her job cover for another life? Laine rubbed her temples in frustration. She needed to see Innis, look into his eyes and demand the truth. Laine was pretty sure she could read her brother’s expressions well enough to know if he were lying about something so serious as murder.
She also wanted very much to see Arren, but had no illusions about her ability to read him. He was unlike anyone she had met in her old life. She had wasted her time naively searching for evidence of magic, studying old books, and traipsing around in the woods of Ontario. That life was far away now and meaningless as a dream of childhood.
She’d wanted magic, but not like this. Savage magic that killed.
Arren didn’t appear. He must have forgotten their plan to meet. She hoped it was as simple as that.