Indigo Moon (20 page)

Tears pricked the back of her eyelids, tears of humiliation and anger. She wanted to howl with rage. A flicker of movement in the shadows freaked her out. She threw herself off the quad and skittered into the brush, not caring if it was a loose leaf, a nocturnal scavenger, or worse. The stench from the skinning hole was strong, but she slithered toward it. The smell would disguise her scent. Her instincts told her this, but she had no time to think about these newfound survival skills. She part slid, part ran down the steep path to the hollow below. At least from here she could orient herself. The farm lay to the northeast, toward the top of the valley. She knew where the home track ran, but she dared not walk along it. They could be out looking for her.

Isabelle would follow a parallel path. Somehow, she’d scrabble through the woods back to the farmyard. From there she could find her way to the Tearfell and with luck find the back road to Black Knife Lake, and maybe another route out. There was no soul-searching this time, and no wrestling with the facts or skewing the truth to how she would like it to be. She had to save herself, not wallow in self-pity over another twisted relationship.

It took her hours to make her way back to the farm. With every stumbling step she worried she was doing the wrong thing. But where else could she go? She wasn’t going back to Big Tree now that it was being used for ceremonial witchcraft.

The Black Knife track that forked from the hatchery station was the only other option she knew of. What she needed was a vehicle to take her down to the hatchery station and then on to Black Knife Lake. She had gone in circles and was right back to the car key dilemma.
One problem at a time. Get back to the farm first, and then worry about keys.

Her approach brought her in by the far side of the barn. The yard and outbuildings lay quiet in the gray predawn. Isabelle stood motionless in the shadow of the barn wall, her legs shaking from the long hike. She watched and listened for several minutes. Everything was still. Not even the morning birds had begun to sing. She had just screwed up enough courage to dart across the yard when she heard a truck approach from the river.

Panicked, she darted into the barn and stepped back into the warm, dry darkness. The truck came to a standstill outside, and its door slammed shut with a bang.

“Hey, Ren. How’d it go?” she heard Patrick call and then the crunch of footsteps as the two met to talk. She hadn’t noticed Patrick lurking—he must have been out there all along. Isabelle shuddered to think what would have happened if she’d taken another step toward the parked vehicles.

“A fine filly.” Ren sounded upbeat. “Old Man Williams was so pleased he paid on the spot.”

“Good job. I made some coffee, want some?”

“No, thanks. I’m going up to the cabin and check on Isabelle. How are the others?”

“All tucked up snoozing. It was a great night. Pity you had to go on to Williams’s place in the middle of it.”

“Tonight will be even better. Isabelle will be there…” Their footsteps receded as they moved out of earshot.

Isabelle stood in the barn, completely indecisive. What she had overheard had not terrified her. She had detected no horrifying consequences for her in Ren’s voice. And she was attuned to that voice. She could make it do things, like roar and purr. Ren’s tone with Patrick had been so casual, so matter-of-fact, so…so un-sinister? She was dithering again and it annoyed her. A part of her just didn’t want to go. Leaving the valley was like pulling off skin.

Footsteps warned her of Patrick’s return. He was making straight for the barn. She slid farther along the wall into the deepest shadows. This was awful. If he came in here, she could end up trapped. Why couldn’t he go back to the cookhouse and his coffee? Isabelle looked around her in a panic. She contemplated her chances of bashing Patrick on the head and making a run for it. She even lifted a shovel and hefted its weight in her hands. Could she do that to him? How would she know what was a good debilitating thump compared to a whack that might kill him?
She didn’t want to hurt him.

Patrick’s footsteps stopped by the barn door and her dilemma was forgotten. She waited with bated breath. What was he doing? She could hear the rustle of clothing. Was he undressing? Then he began to groan in pain. Deep, guttural growls and keening that unnerved Isabelle until she dropped her shovel and pressed against the rough-planked walls. What the hell was happening? Did he have an animal out there with him?

She sidled farther into the barn looking for somewhere better to hide. The old Case 400 sat between her and the door. She slipped under it. No. It wouldn’t do. She was too exposed. She slithered out. Above her head was a storage ledge about a yard deep. It ran along the barn length nearly eight feet off the ground. It had probably been used to store excess bales but now lay empty and neglected.

Outside, the grunts had stopped and the ensuing silence gave her no clue to Patrick’s intentions. Perhaps he had gone? Perhaps she should sneak out now while the coast was clear and—

The barn door creaked on its hinges and opened a crack wider. Pale morning light spilled across the floor. Without hesitation Isabelle placed a foot on the rim of the tractor tire and the other on the hood, grabbed for the ledge, and hoisted herself up out of sight.

Flat on her belly she peeped over the ledge and watched in dismay as a huge beast slipped into the barn. It was taller than a bear, and it had a broader chest and shoulders than a bear. The creature walked upright with an awkward slouching gait and was covered in a thick brown pelt. Its face was thankfully turned away from her, but she could still make out a short, stubby muzzle and long, nasty teeth. It passed by her ledge unaware of her presence and moved toward the back of the barn.

Isabelle craned her neck and watched its progress, fascinated and at the same time repelled. It went to the straw bales, to the exact spot where she had found Mouse. Mouse’s hidey-hole was occupied. Several more of these creatures lay tangled in a tight ball, all fast asleep. Dust motes danced over their coarse fur. Soft snores and heavy breathing broke the quiet at the back of the barn.

As she watched, the newcomer stepped carefully into the nest and sank down into the huddle. The others twitched and growled sleepily, making room for the addition to their litter, for that’s what they were—Ren’s litter. Isabelle looked down on the sleeping forms from her perch and could make out each individual. The black pelt of Noah curled around the smaller form of Jenna. Joey, huge and golden red. Great gashes covered his furry underbelly where he lay spread-eagled, flat on his back. And Mouse, little dun brown Mouse, lay sprawled across them all, snuffling in her sleep. Her ears twitched as she dreamed, and Isabelle remembered that same small, squashed face spying on her through Ren’s bedroom window.

Patrick had settled and was asleep already. She knew him now, from before. From her nightmare. Just as she remembered the red-gold flash of Joey rolling over her car hood, howling in agony. Patrick had been the sly face at her driver window. He had started the attack that threw her into such a terrified panic she had crashed her car. She had interrupted a deer hunt; it was as simple as that. And had somehow ended up back here, at Ren’s farm. Ren, who had apparently known Isabelle from before. Ren, who nurtured these creatures. Isabelle had been brought here, her car destroyed, her clothes shredded, and her papers either burned or hidden.

Isabelle slid from the ledge and sneaked from the barn. She stumbled out into the early light in a daze of disbelief. She could not grasp the enormity of what she had just witnessed. What she was forced to conclude—

“Isabelle!”

The call came from Ren’s cabin. She had been discovered missing. The call was not an alarm, it was merely inquisitive. Perhaps Ren thought she was taking a walk. That she was outside enjoying the dawn forest and the morning light on the mountaintops—impervious to the monsters she was living among.

Ren? What was she? Isabelle remembered the heat of Ren’s skin as they rolled in glorious, sticky union across the bed. The muted growls of pleasure, the graze of teeth across Isabelle’s sweaty flesh. And the bite.

The gash on her shoulder itched. Isabelle’s blood ran cold, and for one dizzying moment she thought her legs would fail her. She ran for the nearest truck. It was Ren’s and the keys dangled from the ignition. She jumped in and took off toward Big Tree and the logging road at full speed, raising dust and spitting grit behind her.

“Domestic or European?” Hope stood before the cooler cabinet.

“Domestic, of course. Always domestic.” Godfrey looked over her shoulder at the rows of glistening wine bottles. “Why are you even asking?”

“Because it’s not really champagne unless it comes from Champagne.” Hope tutted at the vast range of sparkling wines before her. It was a hard choice.

“Is this extravagance for you and Jolie only, or will others be invited to partake?” he asked, lifting a Pinot Noir to examine the label. “Because if I’m having some, then get the Louis Roederer Cristal 2002. Top left-hand shelf, third along.”

“That’s nearly three hundred dollars! And this is just for Jolie and me.”

“Oh, please. As long as you’re on the end of the glass Jolie won’t give a damn if it’s champagne or Seven-Up.”

“It’s not the expense, it’s the occasion.”

“What occasion? You mean ‘Happy homecoming, darling. Let’s lick this off me’?”

“No, Mister Too Much Information. I don’t need to know how you greet Andre after an absence.”

“Well, it’s hardly a business trip. I still think we could have gone with them. They’re just handshaking a lot of Greek werewolves.”

“Shush.” Hope glanced around the wine boutique, making sure no one had overheard.

“Oh, please. Who would eavesdrop on an attractive, witty couple like us.” Godfrey set his wine down and joined Hope by the cooler.

“The champagne is for something else.” Her decision made, Hope snatched up a bottle of Taittinger Comtes de Champagne 1998. It was going to be the real McCoy for her special news.

Godfrey gasped. “You’re pregnant!”

“Idiot boy. Of course not.” Hope gave a loud guffaw that did attract unwanted attention. A woman with straggly blond hair, wearing a padded jacket much too heavy for the mild weather outside, glared at them through the shop shelving.

“Whew. I’m not ready to be the favorite uncle just yet. What then? What are you celebrating?”

“Do you know that woman?” Hope murmured, moving slightly to afford Godfrey a view. “She keeps staring at us.”

“Where?”

“Don’t gawk. Over there.”

“Nope. Don’t know her. She’s staring because we’re witty and attractive, as I pointed out earlier. So tell me, what are you celebrating?”

Hope remained mysteriously silent as she paid for her purchase and waited for Godfrey to have his wine wrapped.

“Thanks, Sam.” With a flirty grin for the sales assistant, he followed her outside, where her cryptic moment evaporated.

“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me right now or I’ll sulk all the way home.”

“Okay, but you’re the first to know, so please, please, keep it to yourself. Don’t go blurting it out to Andre. He’s useless with secrets. He’ll only crumble in front of Jolie, and I want to tell her myself when she gets back.”

“Tell her what, for God’s sake?”

“Cross your heart and promise.”

“I can do better than that.” He raised three fingers solemnly. “On my honor, I will try to help old people all the time and live by the Girl Scout law.”

“The Girl Scout oath? Where did you learn that?”

“I Wikied it.”

“Well, you Wikied it wrong.”

“Oh, shut up and tell me.”

They reached Hope’s car and put their shopping on the backseat. Hope looked over the car roof. “I’ve got the all-clear,” she said.

“What! When was this?”

“I went for the MRI the day after Jolie and Andre flew out. I didn’t tell her because I knew she wouldn’t go, and I wanted to do this by myself. Just in case it was bad news. I called my doctor this morning and he said my blood tests were clear. I’m cancer free, Godfrey. I’m in remission.” She could hardly believe it.

“Oh, my God.” He ran around the car to hug her. “I should have gone with you. I’m your BFF, after all. You should have called me. You should have.” He hugged her tighter. “Oh, Hope, I’m so happy. I’m so…so…”

“Are you crying, you big Girl Scout?”

“These are manly tears of joy.” He snuffled into a fresh linen handkerchief that had materialized from his pants pocket. “To celebrate, I’m taking you to lunch, missy. Better loosen that belt.” A final eye dab and he was done.

As they pulled away from the parking lot Godfrey said, “There she is again. Our little friend.”

Hope glanced over and this time met full-on the haunted stare of the gaunt woman from the wine shop. Her hair hung in lank strands around thin shoulders. Her face was sharp and angular, and her hollow cheeks held deep shadows that matched those around her eyes. Whoever she was, she looked exhausted and miserable.

Now there’s one tormented soul.
The thought popped into Hope’s head as they swung out onto Woodstock and headed over to Milwaukee Avenue for lunch.