Curse of the Nandi (Society for Paranormals Book 5) (8 page)

“At the first indication of disturbance, all the sheep hide away,” Mr. Timmons sneered, once again detecting the course of my thoughts with eerie precision.

“I can’t say I blame them,” I replied, roused by a need to defend the unarmed, untrained and non-paranormal population. “And besides, few people actually reside on this street. Come sunset, everyone goes home.”

I didn’t add that I wholeheartedly concurred with the sentiment to retreat into the relative safety and warmth of four solid walls and a sturdy roof. Without a doubt, African nights were the domain of the carnivores; as the sun lost its strength, the meat eaters gained theirs. Lounging lions that would not so much as flick their tails at you at high noon would, come dusk, transform into lethal hunters, their playful daytime cavorting replaced by stealthy stalking. In the morning, all we would find were the tracks of lions and hyenas in and around town.

And they weren’t even the most dangerous of the nocturnal predators.

Mr. Timmons was in no mood for conciliatory remarks, for he grunted and began to speak, but his words were cut off by a shrill scream from up ahead.

Chapter 11

His tentacles of energy whipping about him, Mr. Timmons raced ahead as he roared out his niece’s name. Normally I’m not one to rush into a scene from which a scream has been uttered; I preferred to adhere to the sage advice of my former mentor Prof Runal, who fervently claimed that running blindly toward a scream was a certain way to lose a limb or other such inconveniences.

However, having recognized the pitch of the scream as belonging to one of my dearest friends, I abandoned reason and prudence, and urged Nelly forward.

With a world-weary shake of her head, unperturbed by the setting or the urgency of the moment, the nag picked up her hooves and performed a leisurely gallop, easily passing Mr. Timmons in the process, much to his consternation. I notched an arrow in readiness as shadow and light passed over me, the small buildings on either side of the street dark and unwelcoming.

At the base of the next street lamp, a form huddled, a halo of soft light illuminating her. I pulled Nelly to a stop, allowing Mr. Timmons to reach her first while I cast about for any indication of peril. Whatever had alarmed her had since vacated the scene.

“Cilla, you foolish girl,” Mr. Timmons cried, grabbing her up and shaking her a bit. Then, thinking better of it, he caught hold of his emotions and hugged her while murmuring soothing words. For her part, all she could do was sob.

I waited a few moments, fervently hoping that she would pull herself together in that time, before pressing her for answers. “What was it, Cilla? Was it a Kerit?”

“She won’t know what that is,” Mr. Timmons reminded me, his mood much improved now that his fear had been alleviated. “Cilla, did you see a creature like a hyena? Or was it an Adze?”

“An African vampire,” I added.

She shook her head and looked up at me. Her face was blotchy, her eyes swollen and her lips continued to quiver. “Men.”

“Men?” I repeated, dumbfounded that any man could inspire such terror. Then again, Cilla was a gentle creature, unaccustomed to the rigors and violence I had endured.

“Warriors,” she amended, as if detecting my dismay at her frail heart. “With painted faces. Oh, and weapons. So many.”

I frowned as I dismounted, for I was certain that the creatures I saw attacking the camp weren’t human, or even humanoid. Then again, I hadn’t been in the vicinity to verify what they were, or if they were paranormal or merely men dressed up as beasts.

“They said this was in revenge for the deeds done against them,” she continued, her words barely audible between her sniffing, shivering and sobbing. “And that we would all be cursed.”

Mr. Timmons appeared less than impressed, thus mirroring my sentiments, for neither of us were particularly vulnerable to threats of curses and whatnot. “Did they proffer their names?” he asked with a hint of disdain. “Perhaps leave a calling card?”

Cilla was too overwhelmed to detect the sarcasm in her uncle’s rich voice, for she nodded and said, “Yes. Yes, they did. They said they were the Nandi, and they will send their curse again.”

Mr. Timmons glanced about as if in anticipation of observing a curse strolling out of the shadows and into the weak puddle of oil-scented light. My bow softly creaked as I drew back an arrow against the bowstring but we remained the sole occupants of a deserted town center.

Mr. Timmons continued to hold Cilla to him, patting her back as he cast about for a target on which he could vent his ire. As none conveniently presented itself, he turned to me.

“What do you make of this?” he asked, although in a tone that suggested he meant, “Shall we follow those men and obliterate their existence from the face of the planet?”

“Dr. Spurrier mentioned the Nandi were rabble-rousing,” I mused, still studying the darkness crowding around the frail globe of light. A flower-scented breeze stroked my cheeks, as if to reassure me that all was well. “And their monster story. The Nandi Bear.”

“Otherwise known as the Kerit?” Mr. Timmons queried.

I nodded. “Jonas can confirm this, but I suspect so. I think it preferable that Cilla stays with us tonight.”

With a nod of acquiescence, Mr. Timmons, his features calm yet alert, guided Cilla to Nelly and assisted her to mount. Apart from the soft crunch of feet against the drought-baked earth, our breathing, Nelly’s snoring and a distant murmur from the far edge of camp, the world was hushed. It was the silence of fearful anticipation. The wildlife of the Savannah always seemed to know when danger lurked nearby, when an attack was imminent, and their retreat into soundlessness excited an apprehension in me that I couldn’t fully quell.

Once Cilla was seated, I jingled the bridle, wincing at the loudness of it. “Nelly, wake up,” I whispered.

The little horse’s sides heaved heavily against the demands placed upon her and, her eyes barely open, she plodded alongside me.

“I’m sorry to be such an inconvenience, Bee,” Cilla whispered, her countenance the manifestation of misery.

“It’s not your fault,” I soothed.

“Bloody well is,” Mr. Timmons muttered.

I cleared my throat and narrowed my eyes at him but to no avail as his surly gaze was fixed on the next street lamp. Wordlessly, we drifted from light to darkness and back, and that is a most poetic description of what was yet to come.

Chapter 12

While normally an early riser, I found myself still lounging in bed long after the yellow weaver birds had launched their incessant, day-long twittering. The little beasts resided in a thorn tree inconveniently located outside the bedroom window. While I’d often admired the weavers’ intricately created grass nests, that morning I’d have preferred to evict the lot of them for the sake of a few more minutes of precious slumber.

I would’ve been quite content to remain thus — minus the cacophony of the bird colony — except there was a Steward luncheon to attend and a good friend to assist. With a weary sigh, I prepared myself for the day.

Mr. Timmons had long since departed, having to receive a shipment of construction materials. I exited our room, collected the embossed, metal teapot that Jonas had left for me on a tray in the kitchen, and drifted into the living area.

There I found Cilla seated on a pillow on the zebra skin carpet and facing the empty fireplace, a cup of untouched tea in one hand, a crumpled slip of yellow paper in the other. I recognized the paper for what it was: a telegraph. Thus far, any telegraphs I’d ever received had communicated only dismal, if not abysmal, news. Therefore, I eyed the one in her hand with suspicion and not a little trepidation.

After a moment’s inspection, I noticed that Cilla was gazing morosely into the dark space before her, her energy quite depleted. In all the time I’d known her, I had never had cause to describe her or her behavior as ‘morose’. She barely acknowledged my greeting while stuffing the telegraph into a skirt pocket.

I pondered what to do as the tealeaves released their flavor into my teapot. In reality, all the pondering in the world was useless, for I had yet to imbibe my morning cup of fortification, without which my mind could barely function beyond minimal survival.

Placing the tray onto a small side table, I poured a cup of tea and, praying for inspiration, I fluffed up another pillow and joined Cilla on the floor. She didn’t turn to me; her rosy, plump cheeks remained slack and expressionless, and her dark blue eyes had lost their cheerful sparkle.

“Cilla, what happened last night is not at all your fault,” I said in way of assurance. “Your uncle was terribly worried about you, and he spoke without thought or consideration as to the impact of his words.”

At that, Cilla burst into tears and covered her face with her quivering hands. I was all astonishment, for this was utterly out of character for her. More critically, I’d had little experience with consoling one in such a circumstance. As for myself, I’d never been one for hysterics, and the few tears that had leaked from my golden, werewolf eyes had been dealt with promptly.

My cousin Lilly with whom I had grown up had never had cause to cry during childhood, apart from the occasional dramatic protestations at not receiving specific gifts she’d wanted. As of late, she had developed quite a formidable character; I couldn’t imagine her breaking down and causing such a scene.

I was thus at a loss as to how to proceed. With a certain degree of apprehension, I laid my right hand (my left hand being made of cold metal) on Cilla’s shoulder and patted her in a conciliatory fashion.

“It’s not that,” she blubbered in between body-wrenching sobs. “It’s just… I just… It’s everything.” She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

My confusion transformed into alarm, for if a person was incapable of distinguishing between ‘everything’ and ‘nothing’, there was a cause for concern, but I was still befuddled as to the origin of this outburst.

Before I could prod her for elaboration, Mr. Timmons flung open the front door. As abruptly, Cilla ceased her crying and hastily dried her face on her shirt sleeve, while she bestowed on me an imploring look that I interpreted as an appeal to say nothing of what had transpired.

That was an easy request for me as I wasn’t sure what actually had occurred. Mr. Timmons, none the wiser, greeted us both in an ebullient fashion, from which I could deduce that his business had been successful and the previous evening’s events a forgotten piece of history.

Shortly thereafter, we were bundled into our creaky, two-wheeled wagon. Mr. Timmons had replaced the horses with two oxen, which were in all fairness far better equipped to handle the weight and the terrain. Jonas in particular appreciated the change, for he enthusiastically took up the reins and we trundled off to the Steward residence.

As we crunched over the patch of ground that passed as the garden, Mrs. Steward exited the house and beamed benevolently at me as Mr. Timmons assisted me from the wagon. She was less than thrilled to see Jonas hop down beside me.

“Welcome, Mrs. Timmons,” she shrilled as she enveloped me in a lavender-scented embrace. “And Mr. Timmons. Oh, and I see you brought Miss White.” She nodded at Cilla and glanced at Jonas with a disapproving frown before continuing to address me. “Do you know, Beatrice — forgive me, but I can’t think of calling you anything but that — I’m so pleased with you. You are now a source of pride, for you have settled very well into the position of lady of the house, a most distinguished Englishwoman.”