by Alicia Hope
‘Mrs De—’
‘Get out,’ she snarled, pointing an imperious, manicured finger toward the exit. ‘And don’t come near my son again.’
In the face of the other woman’s distress and almost palpable animosity, Claire-Rose could do nothing but meekly bow her head and leave. She had no come-back. She could barely look Mrs De Voss in the eye. In their relationship Kris had been the one who’d cared most, and Claire-Rose had acted like a thoughtless child. That realisation had smacked her in the face as she stood watching him roar away in his sports car after their big blow-up.
Stumbling her way across the hospital car park, shaking and squinting through the tears stinging her eyes, Claire-Rose had replayed the agonising scene in her mind, and pieced together what she’d been told about the accident.
When he’d left her place, Kris had been photographed by a speed camera as he raced along the road, heading for the livery stable. Turning into its driveway with a squeal of tyres, no doubt with the argument playing in a continuous loop in his mind, he’d parked his car carelessly across two bays, earning himself dark looks from a few patrons milling around. After getting out of the car and slamming the door, he’d stomped into the tack room, ignoring a groom’s friendly greeting along the way, and wrenched down his saddle, bridle and saddle cloth from where they hung against the wall.
Knowing Kris as she did, Claire-Rose could imagine him thinking activity was what he needed to expel his angst – fiery, hard, anger-venting activity. And working his spirited young gelding would do the trick....
Shaking off the painful memories, Claire-Rose glanced at her watch. She had time for an afternoon nap to recharge her batteries. With Topaz at her heels she went into the bedroom and flopped onto the bed. When Topaz leaped up to snuggle beside her, purring, she sighed and fell asleep.
And dreamed….
This time she was herself in the dream, standing in front of a bathroom mirror. When she glanced into it, she took a double-take at the sight of fog billowing and rising from the floor behind her. Shivering, she rubbed her arms briskly, and then gasped as the vapour crawled over her shoulders to cloud the mirror, bringing a damp chill into the small room.
And a distinct smell slithered into her nostrils.
Cheroot smoke.
She gave a yelp from deep in her throat and backed away from the mirror.
Oh no, no....
Another, fey breath stirred the fog, creating visible eddies. Her skin prickled and the hairs on her neck stood rigid. Twisting around, she saw a pair of grey, bony hands take shape from within the thickening mist and move toward her throat. Water and flesh dripped from the malevolent fingers, and the bent and jagged nails at their tips resembled claws. Behind them a grisly countenance emerged from the foul haze, and she glimpsed dark holes where eyes and a mouth should have been.
A ghastly whisper assaulted her ears, chilling her to the core. ‘How dare you meddle in my affairs.’ This was followed by a ragged, whistling breath. ‘I will not have your interfering presence sullying my home.’ The whisper became a dull roar. ‘Begone, damn you!’
Cringing, she threw up an arm to protect her face and throat. As she backed herself hard up against the vanity, another sound reached her ears. A baleful growl, followed by a menacing hiss, from the floor at her feet. It was Topaz, standing between her and the sinister apparition, his fur on end and his back arched threateningly. She watched with breath held tightly in her chest as the cat advanced, stiff-legged, toward the spectre.
It retreated a step with a harsh cry of, ‘Away, foul beast!’
But Topaz merely hissed and crouched low, bunching himself into a catapult – Claire-Rose was to recall the pun later – before leaping into the fog, claws extended and ears flattened against his tabby skull. The two entities screeched discordantly as they collided in mid-air with a harsh sound not unlike a whip-crack, before vaporising and creating a whirlpool in their wake that drained the remaining fog from the room.
Claire-Rose stood for a few seconds, stunned motionless, before whispering through trembling lips, ‘T-Topaz?’ An impenetrable silence greeted her. ‘T-Topaz?’, she repeated, and then, with her voice rising, ‘TOPAZ!’
The hysterical pitch of her own voice made her jerk awake with a gasp. ‘Oh!’ Shaking her head and blinking, she saw her tabby saviour gazing at her from the end of the bed, ears pricked with interest. When she reached down to scoop him into her arms, he snuggled against her chest. ‘Oh, Topaz, what a dream.’ She sighed and hugged him closer, resting her cheek on his furry head. ‘My hero, that’s what you are.’
Later, as she was getting ready for her dinner date with Byron, a thud close by made Claire-Rose jump, and she dropped her hair brush into the bathroom basin.
‘Damn!’
Why am I so nervy all of a sudden? I’m turning into a drama queen, making myself twitchy over nothing. And after telling Byron what a braveheart I am!
She retrieved the brush and poked her head around the doorway. Topaz stared at her from the mat by the front door. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she breathed. He threw her a feline smile and hunched, tail twitching, as though on a hunt. ‘Keep the noise down, hey?’
There must be a mouse or some other critter around, she mused, turning to the mirror and switching on the light. The cloud cover was making the early evening darker than normal. When she glanced into the mirror again, her eyes widened and she gave a yelp from deep in her throat.
A huge, hairy, black spider had dropped from a thread of web hanging from the vent in the ceiling, and was crawling about on her shoulder.
Oh no, NO! Not a spider. My one phobia!
Jamming her eyes shut, she willed herself not to panic.
Just hurry up and flick the thing off your shoulder!
But as she was reaching up to do just that, she felt the light touch of one of the spider’s legs on the bare skin of her neck, and all her sensible intentions flew out the window.
With a screech, she flicked a desperate hand at the spider. The brief touch of its hairy body against her fingers and the sound of her hysterical cry mobilised her. Stumbling frantically out of the bathroom, scratching her arm against a hook on the wall as she went, she wrenched open her unit’s front door and launched herself into the corridor outside.
And ran straight into Byron, who gave a startled grunt before grabbing her.
‘What’s wrong? I heard you scream?’
She gasped, ‘Is it on me? Is it on me?’ and whirled around, frantically trying to see if the spider had maintained his hold despite her wild-fingered flick.
Byron grasped her by an arm. ‘Is what on you?’
‘Spider! B-big spider!’
‘Hold still, I’ll check.’ He ran a hand over her back. ‘No, there’s nothing on you.’
‘Ohh….’ She let out a shuddering breath and sank against him.
He wrapped his arms around her. ‘Are you alright now?’
She nodded against his shoulder.
‘Want to tell me what happened?’ His smile was quizzical.
‘Spider … in my bathroom.’
He felt a tremor run through her.
‘A big, black, hairy s-spider,’ she gulped, ‘on my shoulder.’ She shuddered again.
‘You don’t believe in ghosts but you’re afraid of spiders?’ The amusement in his voice made her stiffen and pull away.
Running an unsteady hand over her hair, she lifted her chin. ‘That’s right. I’m not too proud to admit it. I have a phobia about spiders.’
He gave a bark of laughter. ‘Well then, I suppose I’d better rescue the damsel in distress and kill the dragon.’
She grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t kill it, just take it outside somewhere.’ With a wry grin she added, ‘But make it a long way away.’
Chuckling, Byron went inside her unit. She heard him moving around, and then he re-appeared in the doorway.
‘No sign of a spider anywhere. Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?’
She gl
ared at him, hands on hips. ‘Positive.’
‘Well, it’s gone.’
‘Oh.’ She winced. ‘That means it could be anywhere inside. In my clothes, hiding under the bed … anywhere.’
‘’Fraid so.’
At her pleading look, he sighed. ‘Do you want me to do a full house search? That’ll take a while, and dinner will get cold.’ His eyes were drawn to a dribble of blood on her arm. ‘Hey, you’ve hurt yourself.’
She glanced at the oozing scratch. ‘Yeah, I got too close to a hook on the bathroom wall when making my escape.’
‘That needs a dressing.’ He handed her a clean handkerchief. ‘Put this on it for now. C’mon, I’ve got a first aid kit at my place.’
Relief flooded into her at the thought of putting distance between herself and the spider. But this was followed by a raw feeling of vulnerability at the prospect of returning to her room later that night, not knowing if the arachnid still lurked there … waiting to slip down his web again and drop onto her sleeping form.
Her whole body quivered. ‘Hang on. Could you check my overnight bag, the little blue one on the shelf? And if it’s spider-free, bring it along with us, please? I think I’ll take you up on the offer of your guest room for tonight. I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep here, thinking at any moment I might be crawled over by that horrible thing.’ Her body convulsed again as he eyed her intently.
‘Right-ho. Wait here. I won’t be long.’
The lounge room was softly lit by the glow of a small fire in the fireplace. Claire-Rose ran her eyes around the room. Byron’s cottage smelled old, but in a nice way, she decided. Overtones of his trademark aftershave hung in the air along with a hint of spice from the dinner he’d prepared for them. And apart from a few cobwebs in some of the leadlight windows, his home was neat and clean.
She sat on his battered but comfortable sofa, legs tucked beneath her, a glass of wine in her hand and a fresh dressing covering the angry-looking scratch on her arm. From a nearby recliner, Byron watched her through hooded eyes.
‘I hope I’m not imposing…,’ she began, and then took a sip from her glass.
He gave a deep chuckle. ‘Not at all.’ They both grinned and he studied her face. ‘You were awfully frightened. Do spiders always have that effect on you?’
‘It wasn’t just the spider….’ She hesitated to tell him about her spooky dream, but being terrified of spiders seemed so … pedestrian, somehow.
‘Did something else scare you?’
‘I had an afternoon nap, and dreamed—’
‘Don’t tell me you fell prey to the spooky dream syndrome?’ Byron stared at her disbelievingly and she bristled.
‘Anyone can have a bad dream.’
‘Yeah, true.’ He took a mouthful of wine from his glass. ‘I’ve had them myself.’
‘And getting back to the spider, I thought New Zealand didn’t have them?’
His lips twitched. ‘Maybe it was an illegal immigrant.’
‘Oh!’ She rolled her eyes.
‘Yeah, from Australia.’ His mouth widened into a wicked grin. ‘Stowed away in your suitcase where it waited for the right time to crawl out and set a trap for its unwary victim—’
‘Byron, enough already!’
The mirth dancing around his lips undermined his attempts at a contrite expression. ‘Alright,’ he chuckled, ‘enough said. Now I’d better serve dinner while it’s still worth eating.’
‘Want me to set the table? Not that you deserve any help.’ She threw him a teasing half-smile.
‘Nah, it’s all done. You just sit there and relax.’
Taking another sip of wine, she listened to the comforting sounds of Byron in the kitchen, preparing their meal, and the background music of John Butler Trio floating from his iPod. It wasn’t long before he returned carrying two plates loaded with a fragrant chicken curry and basmati rice.
‘Dinner is served.’
A delicious aroma wafted her way, making her suddenly ravenous.
‘That was a delicious meal.’
They were once again sitting in the lounge, lingering over hot drinks.
‘Glad you enjoyed it.’ His eyes were warm as he watched her place her empty mug on the coffee table.
‘I did, very much. And that hot chocolate finished it off nicely. Thanks.’
Seeing her stifle a yawn, Byron finished the last of his coffee and rose to his feet. ‘It’s getting late. Guess I should show you the guest’s quarters.’
Chapter Fifteen
The Reading
Fear rose in her belly, clawing its way through her chest before sliding into her throat. To her terrified eyes belligerent shapes formed in the room’s dark corners, some of them eight-legged and hairy, and others like clutching bony hands. And all creeping toward her.
She cried out in her sleep.
In the room next door, Byron sat bolt upright. When he heard another cry, he sprang to his feet and rushed into Claire-Rose’s room. She was asleep, but was tossing and whimpering. He reached down to shake her by a shoulder.
‘Claire-Rose. Wake up. You’re having a bad dream.’
She inhaled sharply and her eyes sprang open. ‘Wha—?’
‘It’s OK,’ he soothed, ‘you’re alright.’
‘Oh….’ She exhaled and sank back against the pillows. When her breathing returned to normal, she winced up at him. ‘Sorry I woke you.’
‘I wasn’t asleep.’ It was true, he’d been lying on his bed, too aware of the person in the room next door to fall asleep. He sat beside her and brushed the hair from her forehead with a hand. When she rested her cheek against his palm, his heart swelled in his chest.
She gazed up at him, gratitude glistening in her eyes. ‘I’ll be OK now, thanks. Was just a silly dream.’
When she gave a smiling nod to his softly-spoken, ‘Sure?’ he rose to his feet, saying firmly, ‘Alright. But no more bad dreams, Claire-Rosa.’ Studiously ignoring General Testosterone’s strident voice in his head, Byron left, closing the door behind him.
When she awoke, Claire-Rose became immediately aware of two things; that she was in a strange bed, and that delicious smells of toast and frying bacon were wafting into the room. And then a third fact invaded her thoughts and she winced.
I fell victim to the fright fest, drats! And that’s why I’m here, in Byron’s cottage.
With a groan she slumped back against the pillows, just as a tap came on the door.
‘Yes?’
Byron poked in his head. His hair was still damp from the shower and a fresh scent of soap preceded him into the room. When he pushed the door open and came in, she took in his fashionably scruffy blue jeans and white tee shirt that clung to his well-rounded chest and arms.
‘Hey, sleepyhead. How are you feeling this morning?’
Sitting up with a wan smile, she said in a croaky, first-thing-in-the-morning voice, ‘I’m fine, but I feel like a bit of a twit.’
He grinned. ‘Don’t worry about it. The after-effects of an arachnid encounter are well documented, you were wise to take precautions. Look at what happened to Peter Parker.’
She chuckled. ‘Yeah, right. And the world doesn’t need a “Spidergirl”.’
His grin widened. ‘Well, while you’ve been catching up on your beauty sleep I’ve been a busy boy with the guests’ breakfasts. Sam the cook wasn’t too happy when I said I’d have to leave the rest of the breakfasts to him, but he’ll get over it. Our brekkie isn’t far off, by the way, but I’ll bring your tea in first.’ He went back into the kitchen and Claire-Rose heard a clatter of crockery, and a kettle singing on the hob.
She ran her eyes around the bedroom, seeing it properly for the first time. Though sparsely furnished, the room felt warm and welcoming, like a father’s hug. The tall, old-fashioned wrought iron bed was comfortable, and its sheets and quilt smelled clean and were soft against her skin. She blushed at the recollection of Byron coming in to soothe her after she’d cried out in her sleep.
<
br /> Considerate of him, she acknowledged, pursing her lips thoughtfully, and he didn’t take advantage of the situation either, which is another mark in his favour. Not that I’m keeping score or anything....
Her gaze fell on a group of framed photographs on the solid but age-shabbied timber dressing table. Pushing aside the bedclothes, she swung her feet onto the floor and padded across the well-trodden rug to take a closer look at the pictures. They were mostly family shots, taken when Emma and Byron were young. But there was one of a grown-up Byron standing beside the shiny new Ducati, with a man Claire-Rose assumed was his father. She picked up the frame and examined the subjects in the photo. They wore the same grin, but Byron’s father was taller, rangy, and more sinewed than his proud-looking son.
When she peered into the older man’s face, she saw more similarities, but also differences. Where Byron’s frank gaze held self-assuredness, intelligence and amusement, his father’s was more secretive, and there was an innate restlessness in his body language. That was in keeping with what Byron had told her about him, she mused.
Another photo, toward the back, caught her eye. The four McAlisters were in it, standing close together on a windy point overlooking a beach. She recognised Ponaho Whatu in the background, and realised the shot was taken at Witchcliffe Bay. Kathryn was laughing up at her husband, and he gazed fondly back at her with one arm possessively around her waist, while the other hugged a younger Emma and Byron close against him. They all appeared candidly relaxed and happy, so much so that Emma was barely recognisable.
Claire-Rose could feel the love glowing out of the picture.
It’s no wonder the bay is a special place to Byron.
‘They were all taken in the good old days, before there was any talk of castles,’ he muttered dryly from the doorway.
She hastily replaced the photo before turning to face him. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t snooping, just....’
