Water, Circle, Moon

publisher@masque-books.com

Chapter One

Laine knew she was in the right place when the lawn tried to kill her. If it hadn’t been so neatly trimmed, it might have done some damage.

She jumped back onto the flagstone path at the first tiny stab at her ankles, then leaned over and waved a hand above the grass. It strained upwards like a forest of tiny swords, circling in unison beneath her hand. Electricity zipped along her fingers and heated her skin. Damn, but that felt weird. The whole place prickled with strands and spikes of magic. It made her shiver, made matching prickles of glee run up her spine.

She’d been right to leave Toronto, right to ignore her mother’s vague fears and warnings, right to trust her instincts. Innis was in trouble.

And if she weren’t careful, she would be too.

Innis, who had run away from home at age sixteen, had pulled his life together enough in the past few years to entice her here with promises of lush English countryside and fun pub crawls with his friends. Innis spun a good tale about his new life here, but she didn’t trust him for one minute.

Laine looked up from the oddly menacing grass and rubbed her hands on her thighs, eyeing the stately stone mansion in front of her.

Apparently, to enter the Blackhorse Inn, Warwickshire, you had to follow the rules. No shortcuts across the lawn allowed. Innis had booked a room here for her, but of course her brother—younger than she by the eternity of five years—had given her no hint of what the rules might be. Little bugger was probably in the bushes snickering right now, just as he’d done when they were kids playing tricks on each other.

She pulled out her phone. Where are you? She pressed send.

After staring in frustration at the screen for a few seconds, she stuffed it back in her purse, growling. Laine could see ripples on the grass, as if a very organized breeze were blowing it into patterns, patterns that looked a lot like lightning bolts. She could take a hint.

Here she was, fresh off the redeye from Toronto, sweaty, hungry, and amazingly buoyant considering she’d had almost no sleep, stalemated outside a rustic country inn. Could she be afraid? After all her proclamations of acceptance and open-mindedness? Now she was chickening out?

She grabbed her bags out of the rental car and headed for the inn’s door.

It was the horses on the way, between Heathrow airport and the inn, that had spooked her. It was hard enough driving on the wrong side of the road, between stone walls and hedges that practically grabbed the mirrors. It was impossible to see where the hell you were going.

She had shrieked aloud as three horses plunged out of nowhere right in front of the car, leapt the stone wall into an adjoining field and galloped off, laughing. That’s what it sounded like, anyway: a bunch of drunk women giggling and guffawing.

She almost crashed the car. By the time she stopped hyperventilating, parked and jumped out, the horses had vanished. Fine, horses moved fast. But they did not laugh, they whinnied.

Were they evidence of magic? Or of her overwhelming desire to believe in magic? Pick one.

Laine leaned on the low stone wall, squinting at the enigmatic forest on the far side of the field, thinking about conversations she’d had with herself. She did believe in magic, she always had. But why? It’s foolish. It’s for children. Is not! Is so! Her inner self was argumentative and stubborn. And childish.

But she did know. It wasn’t foolish. It was why she was here now, why Innis ran away from home at the first legal moment, and why their mother, Bethea Summerhill, would forever stay on the other side of the Atlantic, drowning in booze.

The rental car, a red Ford Focus, ticked behind her, cooling as Laine contemplated her life.

Was it right to abandon Bethea in favor of Innis? Martin was there for her mother, of course, but he was pretty useless. As a stepdad he was all right, but handling Bethea was a job for a combination of Sigmund Freud and Superman.

Or Superwoman. Laine had become the responsible one, the daughter who was always there. It cut into her meager social life, which consisted mostly of hanging out with fellow runners or students. She didn’t have much going on outside of school and home, but should she let Bethea’s addiction take over? Was it time to let her mother tackle her demons by herself? Face it, Laine. Mom needs some tough love. Even during Laine’s temporary absence, Bethea still had a would-be savior in Martin. But what about Innis? He might need her more than her mother did. Her brother was annoying, egocentric, brilliant, and bratty, drawn to trouble like a bee to a flower. He was also funny as hell, intensely romantic, and prone to unexpected, extravagant gestures of love. Like the ivory horse.

The parcel he’d sent had started it all. The mailman had let her sign for it, though it was addressed to Bethea. Laine had become adept at intercepting potentially disturbing items or messages. Mom didn’t need the stress. Cutting open the parcel, she’d managed to nick herself with the scissors, getting blood on the brown paper wrapping.

Inside was a decrepit wooden box. She sucked her thumb and opened the lid to see a twisting flash of white, as if whatever was inside had been startled awake. She almost dropped the box.

It was a small, carved horse. It looked so old and fine that it couldn’t be simply a plastic made-in-China trinket. She got blood on the carving as soon as she’d lifted it out. Though it was only drops, a jolt of nausea hit, settled briefly in her stomach, then sank lower into a tingle almost like lust. She went to the sink to rinse the horse off, but in the stream of water it squirmed like a living thing. Shocked, she flung it away to clatter onto the countertop.

She almost let out a scream, and her brain was leaping and bouncing. Had Innis got hold of the real thing, after all their childhood dreaming and speculation?

Bethea’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. Is that you, Laine? What are you doing?

Damn. If Bethea saw evidence of Innis—and evidence of magic—she’d freak. Particularly something as weird as this carving. She grabbed a paper towel, gingerly plucked up the horse and stuffed it into its box. It didn’t squirm or fight, thank goodness. A crazy grin stretched her cheeks. Settle down, girl. It had just slipped. It wasn’t a magic horse.

And if it were? Then Bethea definitely did not need to see it. She was nuts enough already. Laine jammed the box and the scissors into a drawer, dried her hands on the paper towel and pulled on an innocent expression.

I thought I heard something drop. Bethea wandered in, clutching her robe up to her neck and yawning. Is there any coffee?

Laine’s stomach hurt as she judged her mother for sobriety. So far, so good. It was early. She glanced at her finger, which was still oozing blood. Of course there’s coffee. Sit down and I’ll pour you some.

Her mother dropped into a chair and began rubbing her eyes. Laine kept holding the paper towel to hide the blood and brought Bethea her coffee. Black, with three packets of Splenda. Disgusting.

Huddled over her cup, sipping with the dedication of a nun praying the rosary, Laine’s mother looked like an anorexic model, the kind seen in expensive magazines wearing insane clothing. Over the hill, hollow-eyed and pale as a corpse, but still lovely.

Coffee was getting her up and running. At least for now, until vodka took over in the afternoon. Her deep-set gray eyes focused on her daughter and grew suspicious. What’s that funny smell? She wrinkled her nose.

I don’t smell anything.

No, there’s something . . .  She frowned, her Botox-smooth brow wrinkling minutely. Smells like . . . sweetie, is it your time of month?

Laine rolled her eyes. Mother! It’s just meat scraps, something in the garbage. Laine yanked the half-full bag out of its container, tied it tight and hustled it out the door to the bin in the garage.

In the stuffy space, containing Bethea’s Lexus and Martin’s tools and lawn equipment, she stood for a moment, collecting her wits.

Bethea had come up with odd phobias and convictions over the years, but this was different; it was real. She had smelled Laine’s blood.

But it was such a tiny amount, mostly washed down the sink. Her finger had stopped bleeding already. How could anyone be that sensitive? Was it something to do with that carved horse? Or with Innis? Or both?

Or nothing. Damn.

But . . . blood. Elemental, life-giving . . .

When Laine got back, Bethea was standing at the bay window with her coffee, staring blankly out through the gauzy white sheers to the placid, sunbaked suburban street. Maple trees nodded their dusty August leaves in the heat. Bethea turned slowly, watching a minivan go by, and Laine got a glimpse of the thin white scars on her legs as her robe fluttered open.

She wanted to call Innis, tell him that Bethea was getting worse, that it was time for him to come home. Tell him about Martin, who was Innis’s father but not hers, traveling too much. Whine about how hard it was to find a job with only a bachelor’s degree, bitch about the politics of being a graduate student, moan about how her friends were all moving away or getting married. Poor me. Like he’d care.

Stealthily she retrieved the box, slipped upstairs to her room, and got online to search for a ticket to London.

Chapter Two

When Laine pulled open the door to the Blackhorse Inn, there were no creaks or groans, no strange sighs or drafts or any evidence of otherworldliness.

The foyer was a roomy rectangle paneled in golden oak and floored in gray and white stone squares. Small windows let in grudging daylight, and a fireplace was lit with a big bowl of red and yellow apples instead of flames.

Just as she reached the registration desk, a mass of tawny hair appeared like a cloud rising behind it. The hair, magnificently teased and permed, bobbed higher to reveal the person beneath it: a pink-cheeked older lady who couldn’t be more than four feet tall. The woman puffed as she clambered up onto her stool.

Uh, said Laine, I have a reservation. I think. My name’s Laine Summerhill.

Summerhill! Let’s have a look, dearie. The woman fired up an elderly computer and began to tap rapidly at the keyboard.

Laine watched her squint at her screen. Ah, here you are! A reservation made by a Mr. Summerhill. Hmph. She looked up sharply at Laine, seeming to measure her. Laine felt as if she should shuffle backward so the innkeeper could get a better look.

My brother. Is he here?

Sorry, no. The woman poked at the computer one last time. The screen obediently went black. That’s better. I cannot abide that thing staring at me. Her face dimpled into a smile. I’m Arabella Griffin, the manageress. Welcome to the Blackhorse Inn. Oh—Mr. Summerhill left you this. She reached under her desk. It’s a local map, dearie, nicely detailed.

Thanks, Laine replied, accepting the thick, folded paper. Did my brother say if he’d be—

The front door flew open, and a balding middle-aged man and a hearty-looking woman, both wearing khaki shorts, tramped in and headed for the stairs at the back of the foyer. At the same time, an elderly lady decked out in feathered hat, cane and copious jewelry started down the stairs. Everyone met halfway and got tangled up for a moment.

Hello, Tommy dear, bellowed the old lady as she stumped down another step. What are you still doing here, Margaret? Thought you were going north for a cricket match.

Leaving tomorrow, Lottie. The sporty, well-tanned woman grinned.

Oh, well then. Won’t you both join me for gin-and-tonics?

We will indeed. Just the thing in this heat, said the man called Tommy, fanning his pink face.

It was like a scene from a play. Laine looked back at Mrs. Griffin, who handed her a key. The regulars like to gather in the lounge. You’re welcome to use all the public rooms in the building, of course. The key was the old-fashioned metal kind, not a plastic card. You’re in number eight, up the stairs and all the way to the back. Lovely view of the gardens and stables.

Stables? Would they contain laughing horses? If she were a magic creature, would she allow herself to be shut up in a stable? Never.

The telephone rang, and the woman reached for it. Blackhorse Inn! Good evening!

Delicious smells were wafting from the dining room. Her stomach grumbled. She had to admit Innis had good taste in lodging. He’d insisted she come here, said it was the center. But of what?

Center of crazy weirdness. She expected nothing less. Hoisting her bags, she climbed the stairs.

Number eight looked as if it belonged to the sort of woman Laine had always wanted to be. She dropped her bags to the floor and tossed the map onto the dresser.

There was a shelf jammed with books, watercolor paintings of horses and dogs on the walls, two large windows admitting evening light. A small, immaculate bathroom, all white, with a miniature claw-footed tub.

Then she saw three potted plants arranged on a windowsill. Though the window was closed and the air still, their leaves were moving.

Laine, wide-eyed, watched the plants for a while, standing well back, until she grew accustomed to the motion. It was really kind of soothing. It’s amazing, she thought, what we humans can adapt to.

She sat on the bed, bouncing to test it. Big and puffy, and covered with a girly-girl pink and white rose-patterned comforter. It appealed to her inner twelve-year-old. So far, this whole place was a weird combination of stereotypical British scenes and characters and surprising jolts of what appeared to be magic.

Retrieving her oversized purse from the pile of luggage, she removed the wooden box from it. After dumping the ivory figurine onto the bed, she picked up the horse and held it to the window’s evening light. About the size of a robin, it fit her hand well, its ivory smooth as silk. Its tiny, angry eyes were picked out in something that looked like blood, dark red-brown. Its legs were broken off short, but its curling mane and tail flew as if it were running. An art dealer in Toronto had turned it in his hands, grunted, and told her it was carved from prehistoric ivory, maybe a mammoth tusk. When Innis had been small, and she only somewhat bigger, she’d let him ride her around like a pony. She had even pretended to pull up grass from the lawn with her teeth, just to make him laugh.

Though it had been meant for their mother, he’d sent just the right thing for her. Bethea didn’t need something like this, she needed peace and stability. What had Innis been thinking? Laine stroked the smooth ivory. Maybe he’d decided it was time to be found.

Just then, a horse whinnied. Laine went to the window, ignoring the moving plants, and looked down into the gathering dusk. There were horses here. Another whinny, sounding wild, an animal stuck inside when it yearned to be running.

Do you want out too? The ivory horse lay inert in her hand. She set it carefully on the windowsill between the plants, where its head was just high enough to see through the glass. Its broken legs were uneven, and it teetered, threatening to topple over. She found a crumpled receipt in a pocket and folded a prop for its leg. There. I’ve brought you home.

Tomorrow she would start investigating. Her urge for a brisk run had faded; as for now, she might as well check out that cute claw-footed bathtub.

Just after eight, refreshed and hungry, she dug out her finest attire: khaki capris and a sleeveless navy-blue shirt. Settling into the last remaining table in the rustic dining room, she ordered a meal of chicken, roast potatoes, and salad, and started with a glass of wine, feeling very grownup and worldly-wise. Toronto, university, and grant-hunting were far off now.

Here’s to me, she mouthed, raising her glass in a toast.

Drinking made her think of Bethea. She swirled the wine, feeling her mood dip. It would be so great if they could be here together, trying to guess what Innis was up to, planning ways to make him suffer for the worry he’d caused.

She sighed and sipped her wine. Such fantasies would never come true. Bethea had always worn a sort of stunned, withdrawn aura, as if she were haunted by something, but what that might be she had never confided to her daughter.

The inn turned out to be a popular local establishment, serving more than just the guests. Couples and groups chatted, silverware and crystal clinked convivially, and a skinny waitress who looked about her own age drifted around with a water pitcher. The girl hitched her too-big black pants higher and poured.

Was there any way she could figure all this out rationally? Horses who laughed, grass that stung, plants that moved of their own accord. An ancient carving that might or might not be alive . . .

Laine’s food came, and she dug in.

Just go with it. Innis would only laugh if he knew she was spooked by all this.

She was drinking a cup of deliciously strong coffee, knowing it would keep her awake, and texting Martin that she’d gotten here okay, when she heard the rumble of a motorcycle pulling into the parking area. A man came striding in, running a hand through his black hair. He glared around the dining room like a gunslinger hunting for someone to challenge.

Laine, her jet lag forgotten, watched him from over the rim of her coffee cup. He wore faded jeans and a brown leather jacket, which he removed to reveal a light gray, open-necked shirt. If he wasn’t so obviously in a bad mood, he’d be attractive in a scruffy kind of way. Big, bumpy nose, short spiky hair, but nice cheekbones. She wondered what color his eyes were. Blue would be nice, if she were ordering up a man.

Her corner table allowed her to spy on him, though she wasn’t close enough to check his eyes. He looked like an athlete; Laine had known plenty in Canada, from the women competing in track events along with her to male and female skydivers, rock climbers, soccer players and more. She sat up straighter.

Then she saw him waylay Mrs. Griffin, blocking her way to the kitchen. She scowled up at him. The man asked a question Laine couldn’t hear.

Mrs. Griffin snapped, He’s not here. And the kitchen is closed.

He glowered down at her. Arabella, damn it, he said, his voice loud enough now for Laine to hear, you know how important this is. He lowered his voice. If you won’t help me, at least sell me a sandwich.

Mrs. Griffin tossed her tawny head and looked for a moment as if she were going to whack him with her coffee pot, but settled for rolling her eyes. Laine watched with interest, ready to leap to Mrs. Griffin’s defense if necessary, when the man leaned down and whispered in her ear. The woman listened, and then sighed.

Oh, very well! You might as well sit, she said, and pointed to a recently vacated table. I’ll see what the kitchen has left.

Arabella Griffin bustled away, and the man stalked to the table and flung himself into a chair, slouching and rubbing his temples. He looked up and caught Laine staring. Their eyes locked. Blue, yes. And cold as a glacier.

Laine gave him a dirty look and pointedly took a sip of her coffee. What had he said to Mrs. Griffin to soften her up? Why was she letting him get away with his display of bad temper?

He looked right back at her, damn him. His expression wasn’t angry; rather, it held a kind of frosty boredom, as if he despised the very sight of her.

Laine found herself flushing and turned away. Resentment flared. How dare he look at her that way? Asshole.

Leaving Mrs. Griffin a substantial tip as a sign of solidarity, Laine got up, held her head high and marched out. She could feel his eyes on her.

Though the novel she’d found in the bookshelf was interesting, Laine read the same paragraph over and over without seeing it as she replayed the incident in the dining room in her mind. Mrs. Griffin must know the man, or surely she would have called someone—preferably a large, cleaver-wielding chef—to toss the jerk out.

Yet she’d trotted off to fetch him dinner. He must have some line of sweet talk to deflect that kind of righteous indignation. She bet he’d need to use it frequently.

Laine had not been able to resist glancing back as she left the dining room. She’d seen him drop his head into his hands and violently rub his eyes as if trying to force out demons, now looking more tired and frustrated than cold and arrogant.

What was she supposed to think?

Laine sat up and put the book away. This all had nothing to do with why she was here. She couldn’t let herself get sidetracked by tall, dark, bad-tempered strangers. If the staff here wanted him out, they could call the local police.

Speaking of calling . . . she tried Innis’s number once again, to get the message box full announcement. Didn’t the idiot ever answer his damn phone? She’d come all the way here, now where was he? She talked into the dead line anyway. Innis, damn it, where are you? I need to talk to you about . . . stuff. Weird stuff. Stuff I can’t tell anyone else, and you know it.

As the dial tone buzzed, she finished off with a few remarks about his character, stuffed the phone in a pocket and prowled the room, regretting the coffee. The combination of caffeine, jet lag and irritation was going to keep her up half the night.

Reaching gingerly over the potted plants, which were no longer moving, she eased the window open. The ivory horse ignored her, balanced on its uneven legs. Cool night air wafted in, its wild grassy scent pushing her restlessness over the top. She laced up a pair of sneakers, pulled on a sweatshirt and headed out.

Arren Tyrell could hardly wait to shovel down some food and get outside. When Arabella Griffin had finally returned with a plate of cold beef sandwiches and pickles, he’d bolted it all down, thrown his money on the table and left as fast as he could. Now he was out in the cool darkness of the inn’s back garden, trying to walk off indigestion and a good helping of anger.

Everything he saw tonight was in shades of gray, everything but the evil he felt around him. That was pure black.

What had made him decide to go to the Blackhorse Inn tonight anyway, besides being famished? The monster knew it was being hunted and wouldn’t show itself there, no matter how often Arren pestered the staff. He could have eaten at the pub in town, just five hundred yards down the road. With a pint or two to dull his fury.

Someday he’d find the devil who had murdered young Delsie. It shouldn’t have happened. His sister should be alive today, knee-deep in boyfriends, thinking of nothing more than friends, fun, and her classes at St. Jerome’s. Instead she was another statistic.

Death by accidental drowning. How simple, how easy, to proclaim such a verdict. An unfortunate accident, the coroner had said, with gashes and ripped limbs due to the river’s rocky bed. A facile, cowardly rationalization to cover her unwillingness to dig deeper. Or to accept what to her would be absurd superstition, or worse—pure insanity.

Arren stood hunched over the back of a stone bench under the concealing shadow of an ancient, spreading apple tree. If anyone were to see him, they’d probably think he looked like a damned vulture with its wings folded, dreaming of carrion.

Did the coroner even wonder at the number of suicides and accidental drownings she was forced to sign off on? Didn’t she, or the police—anyone—even care? It was all done so cleverly, so convincingly . . . but how? Someone was manipulating the truth.

Arren’s back was aching and his head throbbing. He’d been in and out of offices all day, in town after town, asking futile questions of blank-faced bureaucrats at parish records offices, or of uncooperative, equally blank-faced police. Having to strong-arm poor Arabella had done nothing to relax him. She was on his side, damn it.

He straightened up and stretched, feeling his vertebrae crack. The look that young woman had shot at him . . . just about withered his balls, that had. Of course he’d noticed her, she was obviously not a local girl. There was something about North Americans that made them stand out, and it wasn’t just her tan, her casual clothes, or the fact that she was sitting alone. He felt a totally unexpected jolt of lust at the memory of her bare arms in the low light, her brown eyes raking him scornfully. She’d looked remote and cold and yet somehow passionate.

She was just the sort of female the cabyll ushtey wanted.

An intense wave of longing made him tighten his fists. Longing for something he could never have: the love of a woman.

His lips twisted. Christ, he’d better sort himself out, and soon. Love of a woman, for God’s sake. How maudlin. Oh, he’d experienced lust, friendship, affection even; but could he ever expect true love? With the trust and the intimate knowledge that love demanded? It wasn’t for the likes of him.

No matter how attractive that girl had looked, he couldn’t afford to get distracted by a female now, when he was finally getting close to his target.

At the sound of footsteps, he went still. Someone was entering the garden from the inn’s back door.

It was her. She hadn’t seen him, and she wouldn’t unless he allowed it. She was wearing some kind of light, sweet perfume that he barely detected among all the natural smells of the outdoors. His nostrils flared as he drank in the thousands of intermingled scents that clamored for attention. Most of them meant nothing. Some of them might mean death if he lost his awareness of them.

He’d better find out her name, where she came from, who her people were. Before she became another statistic.

Chapter Three

Laine breathed in the softness of rain-washed air, air that felt