Boyett-Compo Charlotte - Wind Tales 01 (3 page)

Brownie barked once more, then suddenly lifted her massive golden-brown head and swung cinnamon

eyes to the doorway which led to the interior of the house. A low growl erupted from her throat and she

spun around, padding heavily through the doorway and out of sight.

He tried once more to move, to push himself up, but the effort was too great and already his teeth were

beginning to chatter. He had never been so cold in his life, and not even the thought of the warmth of that

fire blazing in his bed chamber hearth could give him the strength to get up. The bare floorboards, the

built-up dust of many months of neglect now streaked with melting snow, were cold to his cheek, but the

sensation felt good. His face felt as though it were close to a fire, although his body still shivered with the

sodden clothes clinging to it.

For one fleeting moment he thought he heard pounding on the door, someone calling out, but he

dismissed it. There was no one who cared whether he lived or died. A tiny smile stretched his cracked

lips. No, that wasn't exactly true. The entire village wanted him dead, but he doubted seriously if any of

them would come to see if his swim in the pond had produced that most devoutly wished state. And he

knew damned well Kullen wouldn't mention witnessing his plunge into the pond until the spring thaw.

The pounding came again and when, with supreme effort, he lifted his head to listen, he heard the

unmistakable command to: “Let us in!".

Who would dare to come to Holy Dale to see if, by some strange quirk of fate, the Lord and Master still

lived? No one he knew, that was for sure. A stranger, perhaps, lost in the blizzard, in need of help?

There could be no other explanation. Some passing fool who had heard his own cries for help as Kullen

watched him drowning, and whose conscience bid him come to a stranger's aide?

He struggled to get up, realizing his life might well depend on his finding out who was seeking entrance to

his home on such an afternoon. But no matter how hard he tried to raise himself up, his flagging energy

would not permit it and he slumped down once more, his fevered cheek pressed against the cold, wet

floor.

Brownie came lopping back into the servant's hall, her tail held low; her massive sharp teeth bared. A

menacing growl throbbed and the hackles on the golden back lifted.

“Easy, milady,” he calmed the animal as the mutt came to him and sat with its back to its master, its keen

eyes intent on the servant's entrance.

He saw the shadow peering in at the windows, tried to call out, but found his voice had deserted him. All

that came out was a wet, rattling croak, and murky, foul-tasting pond water bubbled out of his lungs, out

of his mouth, and spewed onto the dusty floored. Even as the door to the servant's quarters rattled, the

blackness was reaching up to claim him.

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What struck Nick as odd, other than the total silence and the intense cold, was the loneliness of the room

through which he stumbled. He knew the room was a library for he could smell the familiar odor of

bookbindings: an aroma Nicholas Cree had enjoyed since childhood.

But he could tell the place had not been used for many months, even years, for the stench of mold and

mildew and neglect wafted just under the pleasant smell of parchment and glue. As he bumped into what

appeared to be a desk, he could feel layers of dust come away on his palms and he hissed with disgust,

running his hands down the front of his coat.

It didn't take him long to find the right door out into the second floor hallway, despite opening two closet

doors and a third door into a small room that must have been a privy from the smell of it.

The hallway was equally silent, cold, and so dark Nick was almost afraid to step away from the wall to

which his hands were plastered for fear he'd go plummeting down an unseen staircase. He carefully put

one foot beside the other as he slid sideways down the hall, reaching out to feel with his toe for empty

space.

“Hello?” he called out. “Is there anybody here?"

What greeted him was the howling wind which screamed through the rafters and shook the loose panes

in the windows of the rooms he passed. When at last he came to the stairs, he felt the blasting chill of the

wind whirling up the staircase and grimaced, thinking if someone were living here, why hadn't they

boarded up the broken windows to keep out the draft?

He found it lighter below stairs and had no difficulty making his way to the kitchen. Light reflecting off the

snow outside cast the spacious room in paler shadows and he didn't once stumble into cabinet, table, or

counter on his way to the door. There was no furniture to stumble into: the place was devoid of

furnishings.

Gilly heard the bolt sliding back and was relieved to see her brother's face in the opening as the door

was pulled back. She hurried inside.

“If there's anyone here,” Nick told her as he reached out to take her arm, “I haven't found him, yet, and

he must have burned his furniture ‘cause there ain't none."

“The fire?” she asked, aching to warm her chilled body before the roaring flames.

Nick shrugged. “I haven't even seen the first glimmer of light. Maybe upstairs."

“Can we look for a lantern?” Gilly inquired. “A candle? Anything?"

Nick knew well his sister's fear of the dark and he nodded. “Let's look.” And when he had found

Lucifers and an oil lamp, he made quick work of lighting it.

The lamp cast eerie shadows on the bare walls, devoid of any kind of adornment, even curtains, and

filled the air with the scent of whale oil. Nick's face was cratered with dark hollows, his blue eyes glowing

with unearthly brightness.

“Which way?” Gilly asked, shivering badly now that she was out of the blasting chill of the wind.

He led her back the way he had come. Holding the lamp high as they ascended the stairs, he was

surprised to see paler shades of rectangles, ovals, and squares on the wall beside them.

“Looks as though all the fripperies and family portraits have been taken down or sold,” Nick

commented.

“Or stolen,” Gilly answered.

Nick nodded. If the mansion had been deserted for as long as he suspected, that was a logical

explanation as to why the place was bare of the usual accouterments. He looked at the long hallway

down which he had entered the mansion from the library and shuddered. Part of the balcony overlooking

the main hall had fallen away, a portion cocked at a dangerous angle as though someone had crashed

through the railing and plunged to the stone floor below. If he had not been so careful traversing that hall,

he might well have ended up doing the same thing.

The stairs leading to the third floor were at the far end of the hallway and he took hold of Gilly's arm and

pulled her close to the wall, not trusting the gaping hole in the balcony they passed.

“What could have happened?” his sister asked as she stared at the broken wood railings.

“Accident, maybe?” Nick surmised. “But long ago."

“How can you tell?” she asked.

“If it had just happened, the wood would be paler in color where the breaks are.” Nick took one last

look at the balcony and resolutely turned his head away.

As they climbed the stairs to the third floor, they could smell the tell-tale aroma of burning wood. Even

though there was no light at the top of the stairs, or along the balcony above their heads, the scent wafted

down to them on an errant draft.

“You stay here,” Nick said as they gained the third floor landing. He pushed her gently against the wall

and opened his coat, reaching his hand inside for the dagger that he always wore strapped to his thigh.

“Nick?” she questioned, suddenly afraid for his safety.

“Stay here,” he repeated. Easing carefully toward the first closed door on the landing, he opened it

slowly, to darkness. Shutting it again, he went to the next door, then the next, until finally he found the

right one.

Swinging the door to the bed chamber open slowly, Nick was greeted first with enough sufficient

warmth to make him draw in a deep, longing breath, inhaling the delicious aroma of coffee brewing.

Cautiously he entered the room, somewhat relieved to find it empty, and looked about him.

“Gilly?” he called.

The bed chamber was large, though sparsely furnished, with only a bed, a straight chair, small writing

table flanking the bed, a large built-in armoire, and one trunk taking up space. There was no settee, no

tub. There was no rug upon the floor nor draperies at the windows. No pictures hung on the walls,

although the same pale shadows gave silent proof that once there had hung adornments of some sort. In

one corner was a large wooden barrel filled with water.

“Gilly?” Nick called again turning to look toward the door. “It's all right. Come on in."

He walked to the bed and frowned, somewhat surprised to see only a sheet and thin blanket covering

the mattress, the blanket folded neatly back over the worn sheet. There was a single pillow, without

covering, feathers poking through the fabric. A small lamp sitting at the corner of the writing desk vied

with the blazing fire to light the room.

Logs were piled up beside the hearth in a neat pyramid; enough logs to last only a few hours in this kind

of weather. Inside the firepit, a coffee pot hung, its blue enamel surface glowing a dull red.

“Gilly?” Nick called, his eyes falling on a thick book, the only one in the room, lying on the writing desk.

He was about to open the book, when he realized his sister had yet to answer him or join him. He turned,

frowning heavily, and trod heavily to the door. “Gilly?"

She was right where he had left her. Her eyes were on the stairs, her body pressed so tightly to the wall

she might well have been one of the missing portraits.

“Didn't you hear me?” Nick challenged her as he stood in the bed chamber doorway, holding up the

lamp so he could see her. When his sister didn't answer, he took a step out of the room.

“No,” Gilly said in an urgent whisper.

Nick stopped, noticing for the first time the rigid way she was standing and the strained look on her face.

“What is it?” he asked. He took another careful step toward her.

“Nick, no!” she said. “Stay where you are!"

Then he heard it: the low, menacing growl coming from the direction of the stairs.

Nick began moving slowly down the hallway toward his sister. “Nice boy."

“It's a girl,” Gilly breathed. “A BIG girl, Nicky."

“Just don't move,” he told her. His hand went to the dagger at his belt and he carefully withdrew it.

Getting a good grip on the handle, he nearly dropped the weapon when a demanding bark shattered the

silence.

“Nick!” Gilly gasped. She was staring fixedly at the forty pounds of menace on the stairs.

“Stand still,” her brother ordered from between clenched teeth. As he continued toward her-feeling the

slight wetness that had stained his breeches when the animal had barked-he kept his own gaze on the

darkness below the stairs.

Brownie barked again, then thumped her thick tail on a step. Once, twice, three times. She shook her

mane of golden-brown fur then barked once more and took a deliberate step backwards.

“What's she doing?” Gillian whispered.

“I'll be sure to ask her when I get the chance!” Nick snapped. He could now see the massive animal

perched between two risers, tail swinging slowly from side to side. The dog's tongue was hanging out one

side of its large mouth. “Hey, girl.” Nick moved in front of his sister, shielding her. “Good girl."

The dog barked again, but the sound was different, almost playful; she took another step down the

stairwell.

“What did Papa say about a wagging tail?” Gilly asked quietly. “Something about a wagging tail means a

friendly wave from an animal."

“What you want, girl?” Nick asked, watching the dog retreat another step. He cautiously lifted his gaze

from the animal to peer into the darkness. “Is your master down there?"

Brownie barked excitedly, turned and leapt off the stairs. She stopped, spun around-facing Nick-then

sat down, her large tail making loud thumps on the uncarpeted floor. Once more she barked, swung her

head toward a doorway nearby, then looked back up at Nick.

“Is he in there, girl?” Nick asked, taking a step down the stairwell.

“Nick, be careful!” Gillian cautioned.

The dog barked again, then got up and trotted through the dark opening of the doorway.

“You stay put,” Nick ordered his sister as he continued on down the stairs. He still gripped the dagger

tightly in his free hand, the lantern held high in the other.

Gillian held her breath as Nick stepped gingerly down the stairs. Her heart was hammering wildly in her

chest, and she half-expected the beast to leap out of the darkness and attack her brother. But their

father's words came back to reassure her:

“If you happen to approach a strange dog, look to his rump, Gilly. If the tail is wagging, he's just waving

you a good morn. If the tail is tucked down between his legs, that's his way of saying keep away."

Nick's heart was none-too steady as he made his way to the last step. He flexed his fingers around the

dagger's grip and tried to crane his neck to look into the blackness beyond the door. “Hello? Is anyone

there?” A bark came in answer.

Gillian's brother glanced up at her, shrugged his thick shoulders, then ducked through the door. She put