With a feeling of relief, Cassie parked outside the front gate. She undid her seat belt and was about to get out when a thought struck her. A quick check of her watch confirmed it was much too early to knock at the front door and ask for a room. So with a sigh, she pushed back the driver’s seat as far as it would go, made herself comfortable, and closed her eyes.
Adrenalin wouldn’t let her sleep. She tried to calm her thoughts, but images of the white van growing larger in her rear-view window kept surfacing. Frustrated, she took several calming breaths and focussed instead on that instant when the rising sun had breathed life and colour into the wooded slopes around her. And moments later, she was asleep.
THE PRISON GUARD checked he was unobserved before stepping into the cell. “Here you are, Mr Armitage,” he murmured. “Make sure you hide these somewhere safe.” He handed Armitage a mobile phone and a charger.
Armitage accepted them with a grin. All phone calls were supposed to be monitored by the prison authorities, but with this he could bypass them. “Good man.”
“Anything else I can do for you?” The guard’s eyes were greedy. Evidently the taste of money had left him wanting more.
Armitage glanced round the cramped cell, with its basin, toilet, and modesty screen, tiny TV, and electric kettle with a loose connection. Of the two narrow beds, only one showed signs of use. In a prison filled to bursting point, with two beds crammed into cells designed for one, sole occupation was an unheard of luxury. But Armitage had soon persuaded the other inmate round to his way of thinking—he was now an in-patient in the Health Care Centre.
“I suppose getting me out of here’s out of the question?”
“’Fraid so.” The guard’s grin became rueful.
“Pity. Well then. I’ll let you know.”
“Righto, Mr. Armitage.”
When the guard had gone, locking the cell door behind him, Armitage dialled his mistress. There was no reply.
He checked his watch. She should be up by now. Maybe she stayed somewhere else last night. Bitch! If she thinks she can start seeing someone else . . .
He rang another number he knew off by heart. A muffled voice answered. From the sound of it, Rigby was in the middle of breakfast.
“Rigby? No, don’t talk. I’m paying.” Armitage intended to keep the conversation short but not sweet. “Listen. Get someone round to Tracey’s pronto. She’s not answering her phone. I expect her to be there, waiting. Give her a good slapping to make the point, okay?”
He shifted to the next item on his mental agenda. “Now, the Lewis girl. What’s the news?” His grin of anticipation faded. “What?” He listened to Rigby’s excuses with growing disbelief. “The van’s a write-off? What am I, made of money?” Rigby didn’t seem to know an answer wasn’t required. He promised to do better next time. “You’d damned well better.”
Armitage thought for a moment. “You’ve got her home address?” The answer was in the affirmative, but it seemed Rigby had already been there and found signs that she’d fled. “Fuck!” The little bitch must know he was after her. Would she go to the police? It wouldn’t do her much good. And her fear would make the chase all the sweeter.
Rigby asked if he was still there.
“Yeah. Just thinking. Find out who her friends and family are, then give Parsons their details.” The request to bring in the Private Detective puzzled Rigby. Armitage rolled his eyes. “Use your bloody loaf, man. He’s got contacts at all the phone companies. She’s bound to ring people sooner or later, and when she does we’ve got her.”
Sounds of comprehension met this, and he grunted. “I’ll ring you in a couple of days for an update. In the meantime, don’t contact me on this number. Okay?”
But this was Rigby they were talking about. So after he had rung off, Armitage switched off the phone, just to be sure.
Chapter 3
Tarian thrust her sword up under her opponent’s ribcage and guided it towards his heart. As his sword fell to the grassy sward, he stared at her with shocked eyes. She gave the blade one final twist and withdrew it. Clasping his abdomen with both hands, he slumped to his knees, then on to his face.
She held her bloody blade high. “Take heed, enemies of the Queen,” she roared “Or this will be your fate too.”
The watching nobles let out a cheer, then Mab herself thrust them aside and strolled towards Tarian.
“Well done, as always, my champion,” she called, her smile lascivious. A kill always excited the Queen of the Fae. “We must celebrate your victory. The rest of you, leave me.” She waved a lazy hand in dismissal.
Servants flung the corpse into a cart and drove it away for healing. Chattering nobles mounted their horses and rode off after it. Only Tarian and Mab’s mounts remained, tethered to a tree. Tarian’s mare nickered, dropped its head, and began to crop the grass.
Mab halted in front of Tarian and, careless of her blood-spattered tunic, pulled her close. She kissed Tarian hard enough to bruise her lips and pulled her down onto the grass . . .
Tarian gasped, opened her eyes, and sat up. Her heart slowed as she took in the familiar surroundings of her bedroom.
When she had first bought the house on the edge of Bourn Forest, the roof was in need of repair, and what little furniture it contained was riddled with worm. She had saved what she could and burned the rest, before refurbishing and refurnishing the place. Most of the furniture came from a local auction house, and none of the pieces matched. It was a far cry from Mab’s palace, where the bedroom assigned to the Queen’s champion sported luxurious wall hangings, ornately carved furnishings, and a four-poster bed fit for the Queen to share whenever the whim took her.
Tarian much preferred her new abode, the result of hard work not magic, if you discounted the money she’d used to buy it in the first place.
It was nine a.m.
That’s what happens when you hunt late at night. You oversleep and dream of Faerie.
She washed, dressed, and went downstairs. After a boisterous greeting from Anwar and Drysi, she unlocked the back door. While they bounded round the back garden and relieved themselves, she set about making breakfast. The dogs could finish off the last of the venison, which was past its best. For herself she made porridge.
She ate while reading the local free paper and planned her day. She would have to scald and scrape the boar today, then joint it—an arduous task but one that could not be shirked. As for painting . . . She glanced out the kitchen window. The light was good this morning. She would work on the painting she had started yesterday.
Something snagged her attention, and she stood and went to the window. A hawthorn tree overlooked her back garden, and a huge black bird was sitting on the top branch, its gaze fixed on her house. It couldn’t be coincidence that the same crow had been watching her three days in a row, could it?
She extended her senses and found, as she had feared, that the big black bird was much more than that. One of Mab’s creatures.
Tarian went through to the hall, took down the short bow and quiver of arrows that hung on the wall, and carried them out into the back garden. The crow watched her, a gleam in its beady eyes, its head cocked to one side.
“Are you spying on me?” she shouted.
It cawed, a harsh mocking sound that set her teeth on edge, then fluffed its feathers and let them settle.
She nocked an arrow on her bowstring. “Has Mab told you of my prowess at archery?” The bird danced along the branch a little way before settling again. “I see that she has.”
It cawed at her again and began to preen.
“Tell your mistress,” called Tarian, “that I don’t take kindly to being spied upon.” She raised the bow, which was deceptively powerful for its size, and drew it to its full extent. “Remind her that she promised not to meddle in my affairs as long as I stayed out of Faerie. Spying counts as meddling.”
With that, she released her arrow. It sped through the spot where a second before the crow had perched. Frust
rated, she searched for it and found it sitting on a lower branch, eyes alight with mischief. She reached for another arrow.
This time the crow didn’t wait for Tarian to shoot. It launched itself off the branch and flapped towards her. She half expected it to try to peck out her eyes but it circled above her, wings flapping, dipping lazily until it was almost within her grasp before soaring skywards again. It was taunting her.
Enough of this.
In one smooth motion, Tarian nocked the arrow, drew, and shot. But the crow had already wheeled away and was heading towards the trees, and her arrow fell short.
“I will give her your message,” came its guttural croak. Then it vanished into the forest.
“THIS WOULD BE your room.” The landlady, a middle-aged, motherly woman with brown curls, laughter lines, and a smudge of flour on her right cheek, stepped aside to allow Cassie past. “Toilet and shower are through there.”
She pointed to a door, and Cassie put down her travel bag and popped her head round it. The little lemon-scented bathroom was spotless, the white towels on the handrail freshly laundered. She withdrew and gave the bedroom the once over.
It was a bit on the small side, the double bed taking up most of the space, and a small armchair hogging what remained, but from what she could see there was sufficient storage space for her needs. A shelf housed an electric kettle and some cups, saucers, and sachets of instant coffee, creamer, and sugar. And on one of the two occasional tables sat a TV/DVD player.
“It’s very nice, Mrs. Hayward. I’ll take it.”
“Good.” The lines round the landlady’s eyes deepened as she smiled. “Call me Liz.” She held out a hand.
“Cassie Lewis. Call me Cassie.”
They shook hands. Liz had a powerful grip. Cassie could picture her making her Victoria Sponges the old-fashioned way.
“As it’s April, you get my out of season rate,” continued Liz, straightening the duvet, which sported cheerful scarlet poppies. “Stay three nights in a row, I throw in the fourth night free. You get your own front door key. There are only two house rules: no pets and no smoking. If you need any more supplies,” she pointed to the sachets, “just ask.” She turned to face Cassie. “How long are you planning on staying?”
“Um.” Cassie shifted. “I’m not sure. Could we start off with a week? Would that be all right?”
“Fine with me, dear.” Liz gave her a reassuring smile. “Full English breakfast included, of course.” She paused and looked a question. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” Cassie shook her head. “Will you be wanting supper? I do a main course and dessert for twelve pounds.”
“Please.”
“Plain cooking, I’m afraid. If you want wine, you’ll have to provide your own.”
“That’s okay.”
“I can do you a packed lunch too, if you’d like. A sandwich, crisps, cake, and fruit. Three pounds fifty I charge for that.”
Cassie considered. Her cash would only stretch so far. “No thanks. I’ll get myself something from the shop. There’s a post office store further along the road, isn’t there?”
“Yes. But don’t leave it too late. Today’s early closing.”
Do they still do that? wondered Cassie. Evidently in Bourn’s Edge they did.
It became Liz’s turn to look awkward. “I’m afraid I’ll need a cash deposit.” She fiddled with her thumbnail. “£70 should be enough.”
“Of course. My money’s in my luggage. Will it be all right if I bring it down when I’ve unpacked?”
Liz nodded. “I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready. I’m baking.” That explained the flour. “I’ll leave you to get settled then.” With a last smile, Liz closed the door behind her.
Cassie sat on the bed and gave it an experimental bounce, then leaned back against the headboard and let her shoulders relax. She yawned. Her eyes felt gritty, her mouth stale. Still, she had a roof over her head and main meals for a week. It was a start.
She unpacked, put away her things, and stuffed the landlady’s deposit in the back pocket of her jeans. Then she wandered over to the window. From this angle, the top of the scarecrow’s head was visible. His ears stuck out, and he had a bald patch. Odd thing to have in your front garden. She’d have to ask Liz about it.
Cassie’s eyes tracked the short path to the front gate and to the car parked outside. Daylight revealed the full extent of the damage. She made a mental note to ask Liz for the whereabouts of the nearest garage. Later, though. She didn’t feel up to that at the moment. She didn’t feel up to ringing the police either, though she must. In fact she didn’t feel up to anything much except gazing out, first at the houses on the other side of the road, then at the backdrop formed by the hills on the far side of the valley. It was beautiful here, quiet, and unreal.
Am I safe? Time would tell.
She leaned her back against the windowsill and studied the room that would be hers for the next few days. The bed looked inviting, so she crossed to it, lay down on its red poppies, and closed her eyes.
Just for a little while.
Cassie woke from a nightmare in which a white van had just shunted her car off the edge of a ravine, and she was plummeting to her death. Her skin felt clammy and a headache threatened. She cursed herself for dozing off during the day—it never suited her.
With a groan, she went into the bathroom. She splashed her face with water, combed the tangles from her hair, and filled the kettle from the cold tap. Once the water had boiled, she sat in the little armchair sipping instant coffee. The caffeine kicked in, making her feel more human, and she set down the empty cup and saucer with a sigh of relief.
Outside, the light had shifted and brightened. A glance at her watch showed her two hours had elapsed. She got to her feet and patted her pocket to make sure the roll of banknotes was still there. Liz Hayward would be wondering what had happened to her money. She set off downstairs to give it to her.
TARIAN FLUNG DOWN her palette and paintbrush and stepped back from the easel. Everything that could go wrong this morning had. She’d run out of retarder medium, and the half-gallon jar of cobalt blue was almost empty. How could she have let her supplies run so low without noticing? She scowled at the canvas. Her usual delicacy of touch had deserted her. She couldn’t get the right effect, no matter what she tried. The forest scene refused to come to life and the horses looked like something a child might have drawn. Drysi could have done better with a paintbrush strapped to her paw.
Ever since she’d chased off the crow she had felt on edge, the way she sometimes did before a thunderstorm. But the patch of sky visible through her studio window was a clear blue. She tried to discount the feeling of pressure and unease, but deep down, she knew what it was. Something, or someone, was coming. Something that would turn her life upside down.
The knock at her back door was loud enough to be audible in the studio. It set off the dogs, who started whining and yelping. They must know the caller, whoever it was. She put her brush to soak in a jar of water and hurried through to the kitchen.
“Stop that.”
The dogs quietened and sank to their haunches.
The knock came again. Anyone from the village would have used her front door. She extended her senses and felt the unmistakeable presence of one of the Fae. Bracing herself, she lifted the latch.
“Einion.” It was the last person she had expected. He wore his hair tied back in a ponytail now. “You’ve changed your hair.”
“You’ve changed your clothes” He gestured at her sweatshirt and jeans. For a moment they grinned at one another, then he continued, “Are you going to invite me in?”
She glanced past him to the hawthorn tree, below which his horse was tethered, but there was no sign of the crow. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether Mab sent you.”
He looked amused rather than offended. Both knew his loyalty lay with the Queen and always would. “I’m here as a friend.”
> “Come in, friend.” She stepped back.
Ducking his head to avoid the lintel—the forester’s house had been built for mortals and while Tarian had few problems, Einion was a head taller than she was—he stepped inside. While the dogs greeted him, tails wagging, he took in the shabby kitchen with a glance and a raised eyebrow but made no other comment. He took off his gloves and petted the dogs. They responded by licking his fingers. After a few seconds, Tarian called them off and sent them to their baskets.
Einion straightened, pocketed his gloves, and turned to her, his expression serious. “What made you think Mab had sent me?”
“Her spies have been watching me for three days in a row.”
“Then the news I bring will come as no surprise.”
Her heart sank. “Go on.” She gestured to one of the kitchen chairs and took another herself.
Chair legs scraped on the tiles as he sat. “Mab’s bored with her current champion. She wants a change.”
Tarian snorted. “I’m surprised Cadel held her interest as long. There’s not much between his ears.”
“What’s between his legs makes up for it,” said Einion. “Or so they tell me.”
Tarian grunted. “And?”
“She wants you back.”
“Ah.”
The only sound in the kitchen was the panting of the dogs and an occasional soft crackle from the boar roasting in the Aga’s oven. From the back garden came the trill of a blackbird.
“What are you going to do?” asked Einion at last.
“Nothing. Mab gave me her word. I haven’t broken our agreement, and neither will she.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure.”
She stood up, irritated. “Moon and stars! I thought we’d been through all this, Einion. She knows I no longer desire to be her champion. She exiled me for it.”
“Since when has anyone else’s desire concerned Mab?” Loyalty had never blinded him to the Queen’s shortcomings.
Bourn’s Edge Page 2
