The day the wolf had ripped Henry’s throat and his life emptied into the very same brook, Grayson had held onto his memories dearly. The way Henry had brushed it off when the boat broke up on the rocks. It didn’t matter. They could make another. It might have only been a grain, a kernel, but love was there. And Grayson had let him die.
The car rolled back into the clearing, and Grayson blinked. His mother’s footfalls were urgent as she slammed the truck door. His heart lifted, keys jangled in her skirts. A lock was clanking, groaning, and squealing on its hinges as it swung open. His eyeballs throbbed, hands covered his eyes as the light of the fluorescent tubing hummed and buzzed above him. He winced in pain. “Mother…”
Her shape filled the door; she was nothing but an outline. His eyes squinted in the glaring light. She dropped to her knees beside him, offering him a glass of water. Grayson necked it, feeling the particles swell and hydrate. It was intoxicating. It dripped down his chin, scorching his skin like an ice burn. She slunk away; only then did he see she was wearing one of his masks and a long, hooded cloak.
“It’s done,” she said, her voice low. He struggled to sit.
“What…have you done?”
Her boots were caked in mud and leaves hooked to the hem of his cloak. “The wolf is dead.”
“No!”
“Oh yes.” A smile slithered across her skeletal features. “I did what you should have done years ago.”
Win. If she had hurt her…he couldn’t stand it. He tried to heave to his feet, but his legs were too weak. “Why? Why can’t you leave them alone?”
Her eyes snapped open, fierce and furious. “They are an abomination. His kind has roamed this land for far too long. He needed to pay for what he did to me. And now he has.” When he stumbled to his knees, she laughed heartily. “You are so weak.”
“You didn’t hurt her?” he begged. “Tell me you didn’t hurt her.”
“She’s alive. But it won’t be for long, Grayson.”
“I won’t let you,” he sputtered. “I’ll kill you first.”
She sneered. “Like you killed Henry?”
Grayson’s eyes darkened. “I didn’t kill Henry.”
“You may as well have,” she spat. “It was your fault he was even there in the first place.”
“Henry was a twisted, sick bastard, and you know it,” Grayson growled. He had the tiniest satisfaction of seeing her falter, her nerve break, even if only for a moment. “Eventually, he would have killed me!”
“And wouldn’t I be better off for it!” she yelled, fury clouding her eyes; they were swimming with blackness.
Grayson gave a breathy, exhausted laugh. And that was really it, wasn’t it? All these years. She’d wished him dead, not her precious Henry.
She opened the door wide, catching it open with an iron hook. “You stink. Get yourself washed up. I’ll make your favorite dinner.”
I’ll choke on it first. He staggered after her, following her through the butchery room, eyeing the gleaming set of knives laid out on the cold metal table as he passed. He lifted his fingers, ready to curl his fingers around a hilt, but he let his hand drop away, too weak to do what was really needed.
Twenty Two
THE HEAT BROKE, and there came a storm. The driveway flooded, pools of water gathering like small lakes in the potholes. Lincoln Bridge was impassable, the town emptied, tourists, moving on to their next New England hot spot.
Win barely remembered getting home. It was a mass of fog and jagged memories, and her chest was so tight, she could hardly breathe. They’d carried him home, wrapping him in cloth and dragging him into the barn, a dry safe spot where he would be concealed.
None one spoke. Ella left, and Luke went with her. Rowan sat in the barn, sleeping by his body, her pain erupting in waves. Evan got blankets and slept beside her, her arms around the red head’s waist. Rowan wailed. It was horrible and gut-wrenching.
Win was grateful for the comfort Evan gave her sister, glad that she was here to hold her up when Win couldn’t even think straight. But a seed of doubt still nestled in the back of her mind, eating away at her. She knows more than she’s letting on. Win took the green cloak and shoved it in her closet, closing the door. Her face was hot and swollen, and when Ben burst into the room, her resolves melted, falling into his lap, sobbing. He stayed with her all night, holding her and crying with her.
When she woke in the morning, the fog in her head still hadn’t cleared. Her body was emptied of water. She’d dumped everything out. Her nerves were jangled and raw. Her father was in his room, she saw him through the crack in the door. He was on the edge of his bed, crying into his hands, the falcon perched beside him. Win was shocked. So he did know she was there. Win wondered if she was okay. Grief was strange, and sometimes, you had to do things your own way. Luke came home, showered, ate, and went to work. They didn’t speak.
Win spent the day watching the tree line from her window. Was Grayson out there watching her? How could he have done this? Her eyes welled again, her lids red and sore from salty tears. Her heart was wrenched, squeezed tight. Is this all my fault?
Another long night passed, and Rowan finally came out of the barn. Win fell asleep at her window, but she woke to find someone had tucked her into bed. When she lifted her weary chin, she saw Evan closing her door. Win didn’t go down for breakfast, and no one made the offer. She did emerge later when her stomach was so empty acid ate her insides. She made toast and nearly threw it up there and then. Plates and cutlery piled up in the sink, and glasses littered the worktop. Win ignored it and trudged back upstairs. Later, Luke’s car appeared in the drive, and when Win woke from her nap, she saw him sitting on the end of her bed. He smiled gently before leaving her alone, so she could fall back to sleep.
Win’s body was still sore and broken, the damage done to her in the light of the stone taking time to heal. She took painkillers and went to bed. Rowan went back to the barn.
The house was so quiet. There was no clanking of gears in the yard, no clanging of metal. His smell was gone, carried away on the breeze, scent of pine needles and fallen leaves. Win screamed into her pillow. Why had he been there at all? The arrow had been meant for her. She had never wanted him to suffer.
She listened for his footsteps in the hall, the way his bare feet slapped against the wooden floor. His laugh, which sounded more like a growl. Another long night passed, she had slept fitfully. She got up and went to the window. If Grayson had done this…I’ll kill him. It burned under her skin; she was hot and feverish. She’d rip him apart. But she wanted him. Why hadn’t he come? He should be here begging her forgiveness, shouldn’t he?
The morning melted into a stormy afternoon. Win tried to read, to distract from her chaotic thoughts. Rowan came in from the barn, and she’d heard her arguing with Evan down the hall. Evan’s car started in the drive.
“Get your coat on.” Her father was at the door of her bedroom. “We have to go out.”
Win pulled her knees up to her chest, letting her book slide down her legs and onto the covers. “Not likely,” she answered dully.
Ben grumbled. “I’m not asking,” he said. “Get your coat and meet me by the truck.”
Groaning, Win slipped her legs out of bed, feeling pinpricks on her toes as her feet met the floor. Her stomach gurgled loudly. She darted a quick look in a mirror, horrified by the mass of curls in disarray. She quickly brushed back her hair into a scruffy bun. She dressed in jeans and a shirt, catching a glimpse of Grayson’s coat nestled in the back of her closet. Taking a long breath, she slammed the closet door shut.
Downstairs, Rowan was slipping on her sandals, arms folded, as she met Win in the hallway. They hadn’t really spoken for two days, both of them too caught up in their own misery to seek out one another. Rowan managed a small smile when she saw her appear at the foot of the stairs. Rowan’s skin was blotchy, horrible grey marks under her eyes.
“You’re coming too?�
� she asked as they fell into step.
“Didn’t have much choice,” Win muttered as they dodged deep puddles in the drive. “Where are we going?”
Rowan shrugged. “No idea.”
Ben started the car. He made some remark about how the weather had turned. Was it chilly? All the rain had dissolved the stale humidity. The air was fresh and clean. He drove them out of town, toward Lincoln, more thunderous clouds approached. In the cab, he attempted to make small talk, even cracked a couple of jokes, but neither of his daughters had the strength to pretend to laugh.
The truck bumped along some country tracks, wide expanses of crop fields on either side of them. Ben had his smartphone on the dash; it jogged as they drove across potholes and uneven gravel. He narrowed his eyes, leaning forward to peer out of the windscreen.
“I think it should be here on the left.” He pointed to a row of houses, small red brick and hidden among overgrown bushes and brambles. “Number two.”
He pulled the truck onto a cracked paved driveway. Win leaned forward and looked up at the house, unremarkable and dilapidated, the windows boarded up and plants and weeds stretching up the brickwork. “Are you sure? It looks pretty empty.”
“No, there’s a light on.” Rowan gestured to a small round window on the second floor; a small amber light gleamed within. “Who lives here, Dad?”
Ben muttered as he swung his door open. “That’s what we are about to find out.”
A nervous flurry grew in the pit of her stomach; she remained close to the back of the small group, peeking around Rowan’s shoulder as Ben tapped on the front door, the paintwork chipping off under his knuckles. There was a long pause, Win was flooded with a sense of relief. When no one came, she thought they might be able to leave, but footsteps rustled on the other side of the door.
“Someone’s coming,” Rowan said, confirming what she heard. “But they are moving slowly.”
“Well, we’ve got time.” Ben smiled tightly.
The door opened, revealing a small, pale face peering through the crack. It was a man, a little, very elderly man. Curiously, Win peered around her sister, fascinated by his tiny, beady black eyes. He had glasses perched on the end of his nose; his skin was parchment yellow, stretched thinly over old bones. “Yes?” His voice was low, like he hadn’t talked to anyone in a long time.
Ben smiled, his easy, friendly demeanor giving the older man courage enough to open the door wider. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, sir,” he said. “But I was told you might be expecting us soon. We’re the Adlers. I’m Ben, and these are my daughters.” He paused and looked brightly at the two girls behind him. Win noticed the spark of pride in his voice; it had been a long time since he’d introduced both his girls to anyone. “This is Rowan and Winifred.”
The man’s mouth moved silently. He locked eyes with both girls, Win shivered. There was something familiar about those eyes, so deep and black. Ben was talking again. “Are you Willard? Willard Hickory?”
Win and Rowan exchanged worried looks. Willard Hickory?
The old man cleared his throat. “If you’re here, then John is dead,” the man said, lowering his eyes, his lips trembling. “We knew it was nearly his time.”
“He said you would help us? You would know what to do.” Ben filled in the gaps.
Willard opened the door wider, the smell of fresh coffee wafted out of the crack in the door, he eyed the sky nervously. “You better come in before the storm hits again.” He lifted a gnarled hand and beckoned them inside. “Look at the two of you girls, aren’t you the image of Alice?”
Ben smiled fondly as they followed him inside. The floor was rickety and uneven. Every room was dark and wood-paneled, drapes pulled shut, not a window open to let in clean air. Win wrinkled her nose, keeping close behind her sister as they walked into a tatty living room with a faded couch and a fireplace that needed sweeping. Despite its desperate need for a clean-up, it was cozy and charming. There were ornaments and framed pictures all over the place. Every spare inch of space had an object crammed in, an ashtray, binders, and newspapers. Willard motioned they cram onto the couch while he sat opposite them in a rocker.
“You know I’ve got your baby pictures somewhere.” Willard smiled, digging around in a box to his left. “Oh dear…I don’t know, though. It might take me all day to find them.”
Win and Rowan caught each other’s gaze warily. Willard leaned across and took each of their hands in his old, misshapen ones. “I’m so sorry, my dears. I’m so sorry about John.”
“How did you know him?” Rowan asked the question which had been lodged in Win’s throat since they’d arrived.
Willard cackled. “You mean you don’t know?”
“Why would you have our baby pictures?” Win blurted out.
He faltered, looking at Ben nervously. “I’ve got everything,” he answered simply. “I know everything about you.”
“Maybe you better explain.” Ben fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable. The light in the room was fading, it was growing stormy outside, and the only light in the room was a lamp in the corner on top of a pile of books.
“Well, there isn’t much to know…except I’m your great, great uncle. Willard Hickory. John was my nephew.”
“Our Grandpa was ninety-three years old,” Rowan thought aloud. This man would have to be ancient.
“Yes, we are an odd bunch, aren’t we?” he chortled, with a click of his tongue, an odd habit Win had noticed. “I’m older than I look.”
Ben slapped his knee, laughing. “Your mom was mature when she had you?”
“No,” Willard answered, his eyes brightening. They seemed to enlarge the darker the room got. “I’m just very, very old. But thank you. I’ll take it as a compliment. Good genes and all.”
“Tell us about you.” Rowan’s hands were clasped in her lap. “This is fascinating. I mean, I didn’t know we had any other relatives.”
“I’m the last one, I’m afraid. My father was Thomas John Hickory; we lived in your house. All the Hickory’s did. But I left; I wanted to have a life of my own. A quieter existence, shall we say? I wasn’t like my sister Winifred. She was John’s mother.”
Win blinked. “The White Wolf?”
“After she was shot and put on display, I left Cedar Wood. It didn’t have anything left for me anymore. John was the natural alpha of the family…not me.”
“Why?” Ben prodded. “Surely the home is yours by rights, isn’t it? You are a natural heir.”
Willard shook his bald head. “A technicality. But I’m not the type to protect a family home. And Hickory house has seen its fair share of trouble over the years. It needs a leader, a fighter…and it isn’t me.”
Win’s lips formed a small smile. “What are you?” she asked gently. Willard cracked a smile, thin lips pulling back to reveal blunt, yellow teeth. She cast her eyes around, the darkness, the pulled drapes. The boxes piled up around him like a cavern. “A mole?”
“She’s a bright one, isn’t she?” He laughed, a small tremor in his hands. “I was a town boy. I wanted to study, learn and graduate from university. Not that I had a lot of college choices, when your options are limited. But still, I did it.”
There were framed pictures on the wall, school certificates, and college diplomas. Rowan narrowed her eyes in the dark. “You practiced law?”
“Not for a long time, but it was the way I could help my family,” he said. “I have connections in Lincoln, Boston, and New York…now tell me…what have you done with the body?”
The abrupt tone change made Win slink back against the couch. Rowan’s shoulders slumped. “We have him in the barn,” Ben answered. “We don’t know what to do. How the hell can we bury a wolf in a cemetery?”
“Well, you can’t, can you?” Willard barked. “And how did he die? Shot? Skewered on a fence?”
Win swallowed. “Shot,” she said, not liking the way the conversation had turned. She blinked away the image of
the wolf slumping to the cold ground, the blood matted in his fur. Willard clicked his tongue.
“Thought as much. He was a wild card. But you haven’t announced the death?”
“As I said, sir,” Ben spoke. “That’s why we’re here. John told me to come to you. He gave me pretty clear instructions.”
“I can help,” Willard told them gravely. “I can make a call to the coroner's office. This will all go away. How do you think we’ve gotten away with it all these years? A funeral with empty coffins? I was the man on the inside. I can announce the death and arrange the burial on my end. But you need to take care of things at yours?” He looked sharply at Rowan. “You know what I’m talking about?”
Rowan sniffed, wiping away a tear tracking down her cheek. “We have to burn him.”
Willard leaned across in the rocker, clasping both his hands over hers. He moved rather quickly for a man his age. “You know it has to be done. You can’t leave him, can you?”
“What about your sister in the museum?” Win added, a thought springing into her mind. “Couldn’t you do something? Have her moved so you can set her free?”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried, my dear? All my life…after what that sick bastard did to her. Awful Riley family. He hounded her, not just in wolf form. He stalked her, watched her from the woods. The day she died was the day she vowed she would kill him. She was sick of him, threatening John and Iris. But he got her in the end.”
“I’m sorry,” Win mumbled. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset. I’ve cried all my tears…now you know what you have to do. But let me make you some coffee. It’s been such a long time since I had visitors!”
Ben was open-mouthed, mumbling something about having to get going, but the spritely old man was on his feet. He was gone for a few minutes before returning with a tray and a book under his arm. Win sniffed the coffee pot; it smelled stale. She declined politely, but her father didn’t have her nose for rancid aromas. Smirking wickedly, she watched him take a sip, trying to control his facial expression as he placed his cup back down. It was the first time she’d found something to laugh at in days, even if it was at her father’s expense.
Wild Spirit: Huntress Page 23
