Without answering, he sat down and showed me how to hold the wound together. “It’ll take only a few moments to set, but I need an extra pair of hands. Are you ready?”
“It’s so sad you know how to do this.” He lifted his left arm, resting his hand on my hip. I put my fingers on either side of his wound and pressed the edges together as tightly as I could.
“Nice work,” he said as he squeezed a long line of glue along the cut.
We remained very still, and every passing breath made me extremely aware of Michael’s hand on my hip. A lock of hair fell onto my face. Michael reached up and tucked it behind my ear with his other hand.
The tiny bathroom felt even smaller with Michael’s giant, muscular tattooed body in it. Too shy to look at his face, I took this opportunity to study his ink. He’d taken off his leather jacket and wore only a tight black short-sleeved t-shirt. A long row of block letters curved their way around his arm like a rope. Some had small hearts or symbols next to them.
“What are the hearts for? Old girlfriends?”
Michael smirked, and shook his head. “Friends. Family members, too. People killed by the Moktar.”
I couldn’t see all the way up his arm, but there were easily twenty sets of initials on his forearm. There was also a large flock of black birds. “And the birds?”
Michael’s lips curved up into a little half smile. “Dead Moktar. I killed those myself.”
“Looks like you’re winning. You can get another one for the Moktar you killed tonight.”
A sad shadow crossed over his eyes. “And one for Tad, too. He was only sixteen. He just started hunting a few months ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. That was the most Michael had ever said to me at one time, each word heavy with pain and loss. I started to think these emotions were a constant factor in his life.
“Thank you.” He touched the glue gingerly with his other hand. “It’s set now. You can let go.”
I did so gently, but didn’t move away. He still had his hand on my hip, and I stood right between his legs, my knee brushing his thigh. That position felt suddenly very intimate. I had a funny feeling deep in the pit of my stomach, and found it a little hard to breathe.
“You can let go, too,” I said.
He gave me a lazy, sexy smile and slowly slid his hand off my hip. The man was a menace, a walking, talking aphrodisiac.
I gave him a steady look. “Michael Nightingale. You’d better stop flirting with me unless you mean it or I might not help you the next time you need to be glued back together.”
He looked at me in astonishment and followed me back to my room. He leaned against the wall in the hallway, his bulging arms folded over his chest. “I wasn’t flirting with you.”
“Uh, huh. Sure.” Winking, I closed the door on him, and started to pull off my shirt, but immediately gagged at the stench of Moktar spit on my skin. Shuddering, I stuck my head out into the hallway.
“Do I have time to take a super quick shower?” I gave him my most pleading look. “I smell like Moktar.”
“Oh, that’s very attractive.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “Fine. Just hurry.”
I grabbed a change of clothes and scooted into the bathroom. “If you’re hungry, I made pasta. It’s in the kitchen. There are some brownies, too. Just try to be quiet. My roommate is sleeping.”
I slipped into the shower and scrubbed until my skin was pink and raw, wanting every last bit of Moktar erased. I washed my hair quickly and pulled it into a tight bun at the nape of my neck. I didn’t want to take the time to dry it. I put on a pair of black stretchy pants, a white long-sleeved t-shirt, and a gray hoodie with “Western Kentucky University” emblazoned on the front. A few sizes too big, it felt like a warm hug from my daddy.
In the kitchen, Michael wolfed down a heaping bowl of pasta. For some reason, the fact he liked my cooking made me feel absurdly proud. I filled a small bowl for myself, and wrote a note for Lucinda.
“What should I tell my roommate?” I handed Michael a beer, and opened one for me, too.
“Ta,” he said, raising his bottle in thanks. “Tell her as little as possible, but keep it close to the truth.”
“So nothing about the Moktar?” He froze with a fork full of pasta halfway to his mouth, and I grinned. “Just joshing you. I’ll tell her we hooked up. She’d believe that.”
He froze again. “She would?”
“Sometimes, Mr. Nightingale, your porch light is on, but nobody is home. Let’s just say it wouldn’t come as a surprise and leave it at that.”
My cheeks went from pink to red, but I kept my head down and wrote out a quick yet reassuring note to Lucinda. I stuck it on the fridge, and then brought Michael a brownie. He took a bite and groaned.
“Wonderful.”
I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt. The first compliment Michael had ever paid me.
He rolled his eyes at the expression on my face. “We really must go.”
I grabbed my passport, and made sure my journal and books were already inside my backpack as well. I was going to have a whole lot to write about before this night was through. I just knew it.
“Ready when you are,” I said, pulling on a jacket. Michael took my overnight bag from my hands.
“That’s what you think,” he murmured, almost under his breath.
We locked up the apartment and walked down the street in silence. Michael appeared on high alert, his muscles tensing at every sound. Clearly, he was stressed, but I’d moved beyond stressed to a weird state of calm. I’d seen too much for my brain to process. Finally, we reached the spot in The Shambles where I’d watched him disappear the first day I followed him.
“I know this place.”
“You should,” he said. “I can’t let you see the entrance, Emerson. Close your eyes.”
“Are you kidding me?” My mouth dropped open. He was completely serious. “But why?”
“Some secrets aren’t mine to tell.”
I wasn’t happy about it, but closed my eyes and began tapping my toe impatiently. “There you go, all cryptic again. Geez Louise. You’d think you’d trust me by now after I helped glue your danged arm together.”
“Keep your eyes shut.” Michael grabbed my hand and pulled me forward. “And keep your mouth shut, too.”
A hint of laughter colored his voice. I heard a soft creak and guessed it was some kind of door. As soon as it slammed shut behind us, everything grew completely silent and still.
“You can open your eyes now.”
Michael still held my hand. It took me a moment to adjust and realize we now stood in a dark hallway. Bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, but they were dim and sparsely placed.
“Where are we?”
He didn’t answer. He led me through an intricate maze of doors and up and down metal staircases. The walk was so dark and confusing I started to wish I’d brought breadcrumbs.
At last, he stopped in front of a large metal door and took a deep breath. “This is it,” he said softly. “The point of no return.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is. Are you sure this is what you want?” Michael gave my hand a gentle squeeze.
If circumstances had been different, I would have been really happy right now. Michael was talking to me, holding my hand, and bringing me home to meet his family. But the fact a Moktar wanted to kill me just took all the fun right out of it.
“Well, it’s stay here or die, right?”
“Yes. I’m sorry for what has already happened, and for what’s about to happen now.”
I frowned. “I’ve had enough surprises for one evening. What are you trying to tell me?”
When he looked at me, the world-weary expression on his face almost broke my heart. “Just forgive me,” he said, and turned the handle on the giant metal door, swinging it open.
I thought we’d enter a room, but instead we stepped into an outdoor courtyard filled with people and noise. Tall trees and grass graced the
area with caravans parked in even rows. Some of the caravans were old-fashioned, made of wood and painted in bright colors. Others were very modern and looked more like the campers or RVs back home.
The similarities to Kentucky ended there. Hanging from several of the trees were the bodies of Moktar in various stages of decomposition. I wasn’t keen on Moktar myself, but recoiled at the primitive gruesomeness of it. I’d imagined something a little different for my first date with Michael Nightingale. Dinner and a movie maybe. At least he still held my hand, which was a good thing.
We’d walked in as a group of men hung their latest Moktar trophy on a low branch near the doorway. People spit at the corpse, hitting it with sticks and poles. They were working themselves into a proper frenzy. I almost couldn’t hear Michael when he put his lips close to my ear and told me to follow him. As he began leading me into the center of the courtyard, the noise slowly died away. People stopped in mid swing, with shocked expressions on their faces, and soon, every eye was trained on me. The crowd had grown strangely and ominously silent.
Several people sat around a large bonfire. Michael tightened his grip on my hand and led me over to them. The crowd that had been beating the Moktar now assembled around us, the hostility in the air almost palpable.
Most of the men dressed like Michael in black and leather. The women, however, were a different story. They wore animal prints, sequins, sparkling gold lame, and bright colors. Their clothing was tight, sexy, and revealing. Piles of jewelry, lots of makeup, and very high-heeled shoes completed their looks. Even the little girls had on stilettos. I looked out of place in my hoody and yoga pants, not that I would have fit in any better with one of my wool skirts. Even my pageant dresses would have seemed subdued around these women.
Michael brought me to a man sitting in a chair in front of the fire. He was older, with graying hair and the same shockingly blue eyes Michael possessed.
“Da.” Michael greeted the man with a nod. I gave him a weak smile, which he ignored.
“Why have you brought her here, Mikey?”
“She’s being tracked.”
“Why would they bother tracking a Dweller?”
Michael shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Emerson Shaw, meet my father, Sampson.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir.” I was so nervous, I almost curtsied.
Everyone laughed, and my cheeks burned. “A well brought up young lady, I see. You’re an oddity around here for sure.”
Something softened in his eyes. “She’s your responsibility, Mikey. She stays with you and you alone will care for her. I mean that. You aren’t passing this off on anyone else. If anything happens to her, or because of her, it’s on you. Can you accept this?”
“I can.” Michael’s voice was firm and clear.
Some of the people assembled around us got bored with our conversation and went back to play the Traveller version of “Whack-A-Mole” with the Moktar carcass. Michael’s father turned to me with a smile. “Well, then, Emerson Shaw. Welcome to the bowels of hell. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
Chapter Seven
Well, ain’t he just the tomcat’s kitten?
~Grandma Sugar
Michael took me to his caravan. It sat on the end of one of the long rows of caravans, nestled under a large oak tree. Unlike many of the others, Michael’s was shiny, new, and made of a very modern-looking silver metal. We climbed some narrow steps to a small porch, then he opened the door and ushered me in.
The inside was much bigger than it looked from the outside, and very neat and tidy. The front room had a small kitchen and sitting room. I saw the back room through a door, and most of it seemed dominated by a large bed.
“It probably isn’t what you’re used to, but make yourself at home,” he said, looking a bit uncomfortable. When he began to walk out the door, I grabbed his arm.
“Where are you going?” I asked, terrified to be left alone.
He took my hand off his arm, giving it an awkward pat meant as reassuring, but he was obviously distracted. “I have to speak with Tad’s mother. I’ll be back shortly.”
As soon as he left, I pulled out my journal and curled up on his couch, pushing aside the curtain to glance out the window. A group of people huddled around a bonfire, holding each other and swaying. When they saw Michael, they drew him into their circle. A woman wailed, and tears pricked the backs of my eyes. Someone had lost a child tonight. I’d been so preoccupied with my own shock and horror I hadn’t really absorbed that fact. And Michael had spent the night taking care of me instead of mourning the loss of his friend.
I’m a stranger in a strange land. I put down my pen, too overwhelmed to write. I was at a point somewhere just beyond exhaustion fueled purely by adrenaline.
Unable to sit any longer, I looked around the caravan, feeling very nosy and not really caring. Behind a closet door was an extremely well organized collection of knifes, swords, and several other weapons. I closed the door, turning away. Normally, I liked looking at weapons, but I’d seen enough of that side of Michael’s life already.
The caravan was rather Spartan. The only photo was of Michael’s father as a much younger man standing next to a beautiful and delicate-looking woman with dark hair and eyes. She held a baby and beamed with pride.
“That was my Ma.”
Michael stood in the doorway, looking completely shattered, both physically and emotionally. He must have changed out of his bloodied clothes in someone else’s caravan and now wore a pair of sweats and a long sleeved blue t-shirt that stretched tightly across his chest. I’d never seen him in any color but black.
“Is the baby you?” He nodded, and I smiled at him. “How sweet.”
He held up the photo and stared at it like he saw something in it I couldn’t. “The Moktar…they got her a few days after this photo was taken. I can’t remember her at all.”
“Oh. I get it. I understand.” He gave me a look that told me he thought my statement highly doubtful. “Not the Moktar part, but the loss. My mama died when I was two.”
“How?” Michael’s voice was soft.
I swallowed hard, unable to look at him. “She committed suicide.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. That’s part of the reason I came to England. I hoped to find her family, or someone who knew her.” I yawned, swaying on my feet.
“You’re exhausted, Emerson. You should go to bed.”
I was exhausted and didn’t want to talk about his mother or my mother anymore. I wanted to shut my eyes and experience a few hours of mindless oblivion.
As I climbed into his bed, he watched me from the doorway. “I’ll be at my Da’s. It’s only a few doors down.”
I shook my head, panic setting in. “Don’t you dare leave me here alone, Michael.”
He glanced at the narrow couch in his front room. “I’ll stay, if that’s what you want. I’ll sleep out there.”
“You can’t possibly fit on that couch.”
He rested his head against the wall, like it was too heavy for him to hold it up anymore, his shoulders slouching in exhaustion. “Then I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“That’s ridiculous. Just come to bed.”
I thought he would continue to argue, but common sense won out. He nearly fell into bed next to me, on top of the covers. I reached for a blanket folded on the bottom of the bed and covered him with it.
“Thanks,” he murmured. “You were brave tonight, Emerson.”
I turned on my side to face him, and unrolled my hair from its bun. It was still damp, and spread over his pillow like a big curly fan. “I’m pretty good at making the best of things.”
He snorted. “That’s an understatement. I don’t think there are many beauty queens from Kentucky who could face a Moktar without swooning, let alone fight one off.”
“How did you know I was a beauty queen?”
He yawned. “Mrs. Burke, it turns out, was quite the wealth of information.”
In spite of everything, in spite of the horror and the death and the fear, a little bubble of joy sprang to life in my chest. Michael had been interested enough to ask Mrs. Burke about me. Maybe this obsession hadn’t been so one sided after all.
Michael’s eyelids grew heavy. “You’re an unusual girl, Emerson Jane Shaw.”
“Are you calling me weird?” I asked, but he didn’t answer. He just pulled me into the curve of his arms and held me close, like he wanted to protect me even in his sleep.
I woke up feeling completely and absolutely warm for the first time since I’d arrived in England. Michael must have climbed under the covers at some point during the night and now he spooned me, holding me close against his big warm body and covering me like a blanket. It was bliss, until I realized we’d just slept half the day away.
“Oh, crap.” I tried to sit up, but Michael pulled me back.
“Don’t,” he said, his eyes still closed.
I froze, seeing things a bit differently in the light of day. “Yesterday you didn’t even like me, and now you want to snuggle?”
He took a deep breath. “It had nothing to do with liking you. It was about safety. You had no idea monsters existed, or gypsies, and I preferred to keep it that way. Until yesterday, you were just an innocent student.”
Hearing the word “student,” I made a noise that sounded like a squeak. “I have to get up. I’m missing class.”
Michael yawned. “It’s Saturday.”
I turned toward him, his face only inches from mine. He really was beautiful, and a sleepy, cuddly Michael Nightingale was almost more than I could handle. He made me nervous, and chatty.
“Oh, thank goodness. I have a test coming up in my Shakespeare class, and my teacher wouldn’t have accepted getting attacked by Moktar and spending the night with gypsies as a valid excuse for missing it. No siree.”
“Good morning.” His voice was even deeper than usual as he snuggled my neck. “You smell wonderful.”
“Oh, crap,” I said again.
“Is that your usual morning greeting?” He pressed against me, and I realized he wasn’t just being friendly and hospitable to a stranger who’d wandered into his bed. He was turned on. Evidence of that now pressed right against my leg.
Traveller Page 5
