Potions Are for Pushovers

by Tamara Berry

  I spent hours this evening searching my cottage for that blasted notebook, but it wasn’t in any of my usual hiding places. I can hardly go running to Inspector Piper without that proof in hand, and even if I did have it, I don’t know what it would be proof of.

  That Sarah Blackthorne was a terrible person, yes, but everyone already knew that. That one of the villagers on that list is responsible for the murder, sure, but which one?

  Nicholas’s arm is around my waist before I have a chance to voice any of this aloud. By the time I’ve managed a single bat of my eyelashes, he’s swooped me down into an expert dip, my body held aloft only by the grace of his strength. I’m completely at his mercy, a fact he uses to his unabashed advantage by determinedly not kissing me.

  “I’m not such a bad dancer, either,” he murmurs, his gray eyes flashing down into mine. “Well, my dear? Are you going to tell me why you’re skulking out under the cover of night, or will I have to tail you and find out the hard way?”

  “You don’t have to make it sound so suspicious. I just didn’t want to bother you after that stint at Oona’s office, that’s all.”

  “You’re not a bother to me, Eleanor.” His reply is vehement—almost overwhelmingly so—but it’s softened by the kiss I’ve been waiting for.

  There’s something about being so wholly trapped by this man’s embrace that makes the touch of our lips that much more electric. He’s deceptively strong, my Nicholas. And deceptively passionate. If he truly let himself go, the havoc he’d wreak on me—mind, body, and soul—would be devastating.

  But the kiss doesn’t last, and neither does the moment. Which is just as well, I suppose, seeing as how the sun has almost finished its own suave dip below the horizon. Nicholas sets me back on my feet.

  “There,” he says, triumphant at having thus unsettled me. “Now can I come with you? I promise to feign as many illnesses as you need to get the job done, but I feel I should warn you that Oona MacDougal is no fool. She knows you were up to something.”

  There’s nothing for it but to give in. I’d hoped to discharge this particular errand alone, but there’s no denying it will help to have an extra pair of eyes.

  “Did you happen to bring a flashlight?” I ask.

  “Alas, I left it in my other trousers. If you’d told me we were going werewolf hunting, however, I’d have brought a whole arsenal.”

  I glance sharply at him. “I never said we were werewolf hunting.” Then, because he’s not too far off the mark, I add, “To be honest, what we’re actually hunting is a cat.”

  “A cat?” he echoes.

  I nod, my chest grown suddenly tight. “It’s Beast. She’s gone—has been gone for several days now. I thought at first it might be a fluke and that she’d come home on her own, but animals have been going missing around here since before this whole investigation began.”

  I don’t mention the part about my sister also being gone, but I don’t need to. “One of them showed up dead on my hillside a few nights ago, but I was afraid to mention it. I think . . . I know it sounds paranoid, but I think the werewolf left it there on purpose. To warn me, maybe? To let me know that Beast is next?”

  It says a lot about Nicholas that my confession doesn’t elicit the bat of a single eyelash. “Oh, Ellie,” he says. His arms are around me and holding me close before I know what’s happening. It’s one of the things he’s best at, moving from inertia to action faster than it takes most people to breathe, his languid indolence a mask for how alert he is to everything going on around him.

  He’s also quite good at hugging, though you wouldn’t think it to look at him. When a man is as stiff and starched as this one, it’s easy to assume that his embrace would be wooden, that he’d always hold a piece of himself back. Neither of these things is true. His hands are warm and strong, holding me fast and tangling in the intricate coils of my hair. If anything, I’m the one who shows reserve, still unsure of myself after all this time.

  “She can’t have gone far,” he murmurs, the words spoken into the side of my neck. His breath is a warm whisper across my skin. “I’m sure she’s just enjoying a bit of freedom, that’s all.”

  When I don’t respond except to sniffle into the pristine front of his shirt, he drops a soft kiss on my hairline. “And even if it were the werewolf, I’d lay odds for that cat against any supernatural being in existence. She’s terrifying.”

  I release a reluctant—and watery—laugh. “You’re just saying that to be nice.”

  “I can count the number of things that scare me on two fingers. One of them is that cat.” His hand lifts to my chin, his forefinger propped underneath and forcing my gaze up. His eyes are serious but warm, and they don’t shift as he drops a soft kiss on my lips. “The other, my dear, is you.”

  Scaring fully grown, extravagantly wealthy men isn’t new to me. The ability to terrify all mortals is a necessary tool for psychics, mediums, witches, and anyone else who thrives on the mysterious. A scared man will believe a lot. A scared man will pay even more.

  Somehow, however, I doubt that’s what Nicholas means.

  “Nicholas, I—” I begin, but a low howl sounds from somewhere in the distance.

  Confirmation of a werewolf on the loose is the last thing I want right now, but I am grateful for the interruption, if only because I don’t know what I want to say next. That I’m grateful for his support, yes, but also that I’m just as scared of him—of the things he represents, of the things he makes me feel.

  “Maybe I should head back to the castle and grab those flashlights after all,” he says, more amused than alarmed at that sound. Probably because I haven’t told him about the blackmail yet.

  “There’s no need. I have lots of candles.”

  “I’m sure you do, but I doubt they’ll be much use if we’re creeping over rocks and through forests in the dead of night. My cell phone has plenty of battery left. We’ll use that.”

  I agree without further dissent. Considering what a difficult time Penny and I had quelling her bonfire, I’m more than happy to avoid open flames for the rest of the day.

  “It was my plan to stick to the main road for a spell and then turn off toward the evergreen crossroads,” I say as we head out. Nicholas doesn’t have nearly as many layers on as I do, but living in the castle has made him impervious to the cold. “Those crossroads have more to do with this whole thing than they should. I think it’s because they tie Mr. Worthington’s farm to the rest of the village.”

  “And I think we should head in the direction of the old stables,” he says as he takes me by the hand. His other hand is held out in front of him, a wide arc of light emitting from his phone as he leads us out into the twilight. “It’s not in use for equine residents anymore, but it does tend to fill up with newborn mice and birds this time of year. If I were a cat, that’s the first place I’d go.”

  I dig in my heels. “Wait—you think Beast abandoned me for no reason other than to fatten up on poor, defenseless babies?”

  “Undoubtedly,” he replies.

  “That’s terrible.”

  “That’s a cat.”

  “It’s no excuse,” I maintain. “She could at least hunt the creatures that have a chance to fight back.”

  “The females who live in this cottage have a tendency to prey on the weak, I’m afraid,” he says with a gentle tsk. “If you think the cat is bad, you should see what the woman who owns her can do. Fully grown men, scampering across the countryside at her bidding. It’s scary.”

  “I wanted to go on the road,” I point out.

  Despite the lighthearted conversation, we move quickly past the grounds outside my cottage toward the relative direction of Castle Hartford. I think I know the stables Nicholas is talking about, since I’ve passed them a few times on my ramblings over the land. I’d always assumed they were a barn of some kind, but it makes more sense that they’d have been used to house the vast number of horses required to keep Hartfords of centuries past at the top of
the social food chain.

  “Here, kitty, kitty!” I call. “Come out, kitty, kitty. Beast of my heart, where are you?”

  “Beast of your heart?” Nicholas asks in a slightly strangled voice. “I thought she hated you.”

  “She does,” I say. “But we’re kindred spirits. She just refuses to admit it.”

  “And what, if you don’t mind my asking, makes one’s spirit kindred with another?”

  As is almost always the case with this man, I’m not sure if he’s genuinely interested in the answer or if he’s mocking me. When we first met, I’d assumed it was the latter—always the latter. He’s a cynic and a skeptic, like me, but my willingness to believe in the extraordinary for the sake of a buck gave him a slight edge in that department.

  But he’s here, and he’s holding my hand, and for reasons I haven’t yet worked out, he seems to want to stick around doing just that.

  “Do you want the Anne of Green Gables definition or the Wuthering Heights one?” I ask.

  “I was hoping for yours.”

  “I don’t have one. All of my ideas are stolen from the literary greats.”

  He takes his eyes from our surroundings long enough to cast me a sideways glance. “Which definition do you prefer?”

  “The Wuthering Heights one, naturally. Whatever souls are made of, hers and mine are the same.”

  “Yours and a cat’s?”

  I nod. It’s a strange thing to admit, I know, but we’re tied, Beast and I. We have been since the moment we met. Some relationships—deep and inborn, burned into the flesh—defy explanation.

  “What about yours and mine?” he asks.

  I trip on a rock. I’ve been so focused on scanning the horizon, searching for signs of a sleek black animal laughing from afar, that I haven’t been paying attention to where I step.

  Fortunately, Nicholas has. He’s there to catch me before I even realize I’m falling. As his phone falls to the ground and plunges us both into darkness, his arms are around my waist, his entire weight bracing mine. I’m not sure if my sudden breathlessness is the result of my stumble or because of the fierceness of his grip, but I’m glad to have Nicholas there either way.

  That overwhelming gladness is why I immediately right myself and step away. For almost twelve years, I’ve done everything on my own, carried the weight of the world on my shoulders and my shoulders alone. It would be so easy to start shifting that burden to this tall, rich, handsome god of a man.

  Easy and dangerous. Once you manage to unload a burden like that, it’s almost impossible to start carrying it again.

  “Yours and mine?” I echo.

  He doesn’t respond, content to stand there and stare at me, his eyes boring holes into mine. My mouth goes dry, my confession caught in the dry landscape of my tongue. But it’s there all the same.

  Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

  Grabbing him by the shirt collar, I yank him down to the ground, the pair of us falling flat on the earth in a tangle of limbs. Because of our respective positions, he lands on top of me, but not uncomfortably.

  “Well, well,” he says in a low rumble, his lips hovering over mine. “I suppose that’s one way of answering.”

  I slap my hand over his mouth before he says anything more. His lips feel soft against my palm, but I don’t have time to appreciate the sensation. With a gentle nudge, I turn his head in the opposite direction. “Shh. There’s something over there. Look.”

  A heavy sigh escapes his lips. “Of course there is,” he says, but he obliges me by looking.

  Sure enough, a dark, shadowy figure moves furtively over a hill to our right. The figure is slightly hunched and moving at a careful pace, almost as though he’s more animal than man.

  “The werewolf is back,” I say on a gasp.

  “You know, I’m starting to believe my mother was right when she forbade us from mentioning that creature in her presence.”

  “Be quiet,” I hiss. “You’ll scare him away.”

  Without his phone illuminating our path, it’s difficult to see the details of the creature ambling over the rocks, but the clouds part just enough to allow a ray of moonlight to slip through. It’s a well-timed—if eerie—burst of light, and even Nicholas is intrigued enough to stop talking long enough to watch where he goes.

  “He’s heading toward the crossroads,” I whisper, thinking of Regina. . . . And of Beast. “We have to follow him.”

  “You want to follow a werewolf into the darkness in order to save your cat from being ripped open and devoured?” Nicholas asks. The question must be a rhetorical one because he sits up and begins brushing off his sleeves. “You’re probably right. Let’s go.”

  I barely manage to subdue my shout of appreciation in time. Nicholas might be stiff and starchy, but he’s always game for an adventure.

  “Wait.” I still him with a hand on his arm. “Did you bring any kind of weapon with you?”

  “My gun is in the trousers with the flashlight. Will my fists do instead?”

  “It’s no laughing matter,” I warn, thinking of the last time I saw Lewis King, his erratic driving and even more erratic behavior. “Someone killed Mrs. Blackthorne and something is out killing animals. I’d rather not run into either one without some kind of protection in place.”

  “You do have protection,” he says and pulls me to my feet. At my look of inquiry, he adds, “You have me.”

  There’s nothing for it after a declaration like that but to follow him into the darkness. The figure is moving in such an ambling, awkward way that we’re able to catch up within seconds; in fact, we have to slow our pace to a near crawl to avoid drawing too close. Wherever he’s headed, the creature isn’t in a hurry to get there. He pauses and looks around, occasionally raising his head as if sniffing the air.

  “He’s hunting,” I say on a breath.

  “No,” Nicholas says grimly and points to the ground. “He’s already hunted.”

  A glint of red winks up from the rock below. I crouch and lay my hand there, even though I already know what I’ll find. My palm comes away slick with blood. Upon closer examination, I find that the pool at our feet is just one of several that follow the same trail the creature has been taking.

  I have no way of determining what kind of blood it is, but a deep sense of foreboding tells me it’s feline. Beast.

  “We have to stop him,” I say, my throat raw. “I don’t care if we have a weapon or not. He’s not getting away with this.”

  “Eleanor, you can’t—” Nicholas begins, but it’s too late. I’m already off and running, determined to close the gap between me and that monster.

  The creature recognizes the signs of chase almost immediately. As soon as I draw close enough to make out that the build is a masculine one, a howl escapes his lips, breaking the silence and the panting sound of my mad flight over the rocks. Nicholas is right behind me, but I’m smaller and faster than him. I’m also more determined, since I have such a personal stake in his capture.

  The werewolf moves with a determination that feels almost impossible, coming as it does on the heels of that stumbling, exploratory gait. However, it takes me only a few seconds to realize that it’s not speed propelling him so much as an intense familiarity with the landscape. While I stagger over the uneven ground and pick my way through the occasional scrubby bush, my prey seems to know exactly where to step to avoid stumbling.

  Even Nicholas, who spent the bulk of his childhood rambling over these lands, is unable to match him step for step. By the time the clouds close like a curtain, drawing darkness back over the night, we’re well on our way to having lost the trail.

  Never one to give up easily, I continue my pursuit despite my deep, labored breaths and the growing hitch in my side.

  “Eleanor, stop,” Nicholas calls from somewhere behind me.

  I don’t heed him. I can still hear the snuffing, shuffling sounds of the creature’s escape. There’s still time to catch him.
>
  “Eleanor,” he calls again. “For God’s sake, stop.”

  I do, but only because I’m hit with a flying weight tackling me from behind. It hits my legs and sends me to the ground in a thump. My knees bang painfully onto the hard earth, my palms hitting the ground in a whirl of loose rocks and debris. Neither of those pains register, however, once my head slams into the ground. With a dizzying whir, the world slides and tilts around me, causing my stomach to slide and tilt with it.

  Even with the slipping and sliding of the world around me, however, Nicholas’s familiar voice assails my ear. “I’m so sorry,” he says. His hands move gently over my head and neck, checking me as if to ensure himself that I’m still fully intact. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, but it was the only way.”

  “The only way to what?” I ask, my voice thick.

  I get my answer a few seconds later as my vision clears and I’m able to take stock of my surroundings. In the direction the creature ran, a mere foot to my left, there’s nothing but the hard edge of a ravine—a ravine that drops several hundred feet to a rocky outcropping below. An overpowering sensation of vertigo takes over at the sight of it.

  One more step in that direction, and I would have learned all the mysteries of the universe at once. One more step in that direction, and I would have died.

  And the werewolf knew it. He was leading me there with just that end in mind.

  Chapter 15

  “You’ll have a nasty headache for a few days, and I’ll need to give you a tetanus shot before I leave, but you’ll live.” Dr. MacDougal whips her stethoscope back around her neck and stares hard at me. “I also strongly suggest you keep the nocturnal wanderings to a minimum until you’re more familiar with this area. There are hundreds of places to slip and fall around here—many of them dangerous, as you almost discovered for yourself.”

  “Thanks,” I say weakly. “I’ll remember that.”