The Bride of Time (27 page)

Tessa lurched on the wagon seat. “Can it be done?” she begged.

“We shall see,” said the Gypsy, climbing down. “But first we get through one more full moon to give us time to see, eh?”

They had reached a place in the copse where woodbine creepers, dead vines and fallen branches tethered to two ancient oak trees had formed a snarled bower ahead. The tunnel-like tangle of branch and vine was wide and deep enough to accommodate the wagon easily, but the horse refused to enter, and the Gypsy had to lead the animal. It would make the perfect shelter from the sort of storm Moraiva described, Tessa thought.
The arch of petrified debris seemed impenetrable. Once the wagon was secured, Moraiva unhitched the horse, tethered him instead to one of the oaks, and covered him with what looked to Tessa like leather armor.

“To protect him from the gale,” the Gypsy explained.

But Tessa’s mind was occupied with far graver and more urgent thoughts. “And…if we cannot cancel the curse?” she asked the Gypsy. She was terrified of the answer, but she had to know.

The Gypsy gave a start. “Trust a
Gadje
to ask such a question,” she said, wagging her head.

“What is a
Gadje
?”

“One who is not Roma,” Moraiva said. “We Gypsies take a positive stand. It helps the magic work. If I were you, daughter, I would not give such thoughts room in that pretty head. Right now, we must be more cunning than the wolf that soon stalks you. Lend your energies to that.”

Tessa hesitated. Should she confide what she’d learned, what she’d seen with her own eyes? It seemed only fair to share the knowledge, since the woman was trying to help her.

“He will not kill me to night,” she said. “I saw how it will end.”

“Eh?” the Gypsy grunted.

“When you came upon me sitting on the stile by the lane in that other time, and brought me back here…surely you saw the Abbey.”

The Gypsy nodded. “So?”

“Before you came upon me, I spoke with the caretaker of the place. He said the child set the fire. He said the boy ran away, that Giles was thought to have done him in until he returned. It is shortly after he comes back that the fire is said to have destroyed the Abbey with Giles and myself inside. So, you see, it is not my
time. I will be quite safe until the boy returns, and once he does…What is it? My God, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”

“Longworth found the boy in London,” Moraiva said. “He brought him home a month ago.”

Giles paced the length of the Aubusson carpet in his study, brandy snifter in hand. He’d consumed half the bottle but had yet to feel the numbing effects he sought.

Storm clouds robbed the daylight early. Though it was barely mid-afternoon, the sky had darkened so severely that Evers and Rigby had lit the candles in their hall sconces. All other able hands were lending themselves to the chore of fastening shutters and battening down for the flaw. All hands, that is, except Foster’s. The task of locking Master Monty in the attic chamber early in view of the storm had been assigned to the valet. Consequently, it was some time and several knocks before anyone was near enough to answer the pounding upon the Abbey doors. That chore fell to Evers, and Giles was lighting the candles on the drum table when the footman announced himself.

“ ’Tis Mr. Henry Forsythe from the Watch, sir,” the footman said, hovering on the threshold.

“What the devil does Forsythe want?” Giles snapped. “I had the boy to him the moment we returned—took him straight to the gudgeon’s home to prove I hadn’t done for him.”

“I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” Evers said.

“All right, all right, show the nodcock in,” Giles grumbled. “I shall receive him here.”

The footman scurried off, and Giles refilled his snifter. Whatever the guard wanted, he would have to be rid of him quickly. He could already feel the pull of the wolf inside, and with the clouds obscuring the moon
he would not be able to gauge his time before the transformation, which was why he’d had Foster secure the child early.

He heard the echo of the guard’s heavy boot heels clacking on the terrazzo floor outside long before the footman announced the man and showed him into the study. The sound held a hint of agitation, and Giles tossed back the contents of his snifter before addressing the man.

“What brings you here on such a day with a flaw looming, Forsythe?” he asked.

The guard forced his breath through flared nostrils and offered a nod. “Longworth,” he greeted. “I told ya I’d be comin’ back ’round ta check on the lad.”

“The lad is fine, Forsythe,” Giles told him. “You’ve wasted the trip.”

“Good! Then you won’t mind my havin’ a look-see for myself,” the guard returned.

“Actually, I would mind,” Giles snapped. “He’s been sent to bed early due to the storm. I see no need to disturb him.”

“Well, I do,” the guard came back. “Look here, Longworth, I’m no fool. Something untoward is afoot here, and I mean to know what it is. You’ve got that poor lad locked up in here. I have it on good authority—”

“Whose authority?” Giles interrupted, his eyes flashing.

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

It had to be someone in the house, one of the servants trading in
on-dits
again. By God, he would put a stop to that, but first he needed to get rid of the guard before the moon rose, or there would really be something to gossip about.

“That tale had to have come from one of the servants in this house,” he said steadily. “They are simple folk, Forsythe, and like as not have half the tale. Master
Monty has a penchant for destroying valuable property. When such moods come upon him, he is confined to quarters as punishment. You saw the boy when I first returned. Was there a mark on him?”

“Oh, now,” the guard warbled. “How was I to tell with him so plastered thick with soot? Methinks ya might have brought him to me thus a-purpose. The good Lord knows what I would have seen if you’d have cleaned him up first. He’s clean enough now, I’ll wager, and I ain’t leavin’ here till I see for myself.”

Giles stomped to the bell rope and gave it a vicious yank to summon Foster. “My valet will bring him,” he said. “It may be a while. We are understaffed here, and those few servants we do have are busy battening down for the storm. Even my stabler has been pressed into service at that. This is a large house, Forsythe.”

“I can wait.”

“You might want to have a seat, then.”

“I’ll stand, thank you,” said the guard.

“Brandy?” Giles offered, exhibiting his snifter. Where was Foster? It was full dark now, he prayed from storm clouds and not the sunset. Inside, the wolf was clawing at his guts, reminding him that it would soon be let free.

“No thank ye,” said the guard. “I’m on official business, don’t ya know; can’t be fogged with spirits.”

“Have you no other citizens to harass, then, no other mysteries to solve?” Giles asked, speaking the last with not a little drama.

The guard shrugged. “More sheep were slaughtered over at Jonathan Crabtree’s place. Funny how it only seems ta happen at the full moon. Some folks say ’tis a werewolf. Some say ’tis
you
—since others ’round here have died in like manner, your poor wife included. And you do live a…peculiar sort of life out here. What do ya have ta say about that, Longworth?”

Giles laughed. “I say you’ve gone as simpleminded as the rest around here if you mean to hang that upon me.”

“Folks say your new lady wife has disappeared, too,” said the guard. “They say you never brought her back from London.”

“My wife returns tomorrow, Forsythe. Why don’t you come back then?”

“Oh, I will. You can bet your blunt upon it.”

Giles was just about to evict the guard when Foster appeared in the doorway.

“You rang, sir?” the valet said.

“Yes, Foster. Bring Master Monty, please, so Forsythe here can satisfy himself that I haven’t killed the boy.”

“Killed the boy, sir?” Foster breathed. “I’ve never heard anything so preposterous. The boy has retired. Can Mr. Forsythe not return in the morning? It was a difficult task getting young master to bed. He’s in another of his moods, sir.”

“No, Foster,” Giles said. “I’m afraid it must be now. He’s coming back tomorrow to see that I haven’t murdered my wife. We don’t want to overtax the poor man with too many coils to unwind in one day. But I fear we may have done that already. He thinks I’m the werewolf that’s been savaging the sheep hereabouts.”

“Werewolf?” Foster said. “Surely you jest, sir. There are no such things…are there?”

“All right, you two,” Forsythe spoke up. “Fetch the boy and have done. I’m not leaving till you do.”

“Yes, Foster, do fetch him. It will be night soon, the full moon will rise, and we wouldn’t want our esteemed guard from the Watch blundering into a werewolf when he takes his leave.”

Giles hoped he had spoken the last with enough emphasis to warn the valet that time was of the essence. The guard would see his werewolf in the flesh if much more time was wasted. Judging from the valet’s response
in rushing to carry out his orders, Giles drew a ragged breath of relief and sloshed more brandy into his snifter.

“Ya think you’re clever,” the guard said. “Artist to the Prince Regent himself. Like that gives you license to defy the law.”

“No, I don’t think I’m clever. I think you’re a bufflehead, sniffing around here, when there are sheep being savaged and objects d’art being stolen. I would have pressed charges against the slag who stole my snuff box if I knew you needed something to do.”

“Hold on now, Longworth, there’s no need to get testy.”

“
Testy?
Ohhh, you haven’t begun to see ‘testy,’ my good man. I am this close”—he illustrated with pinched fingers—“to rushing you out of here by the seat of your shiny breeches. Coming in here with trumped-up accusations and nothing to back them up! I would be totally within my rights to—”

“Here we are, then, sir,” Foster interrupted him, ushering the boy into the study with a firm hand clamped to the back of his neck. “Master Monty.”

The guard bent down, extending his hand. “There now, Master Monty,” he said. “A mite cleaner than you were the last time we met, eh?”

The boy dosed the guard with a rage-bitten stare, and Giles let loose a lighthearted drunken laugh.

Foster’s fingers tightened against the back of the boy’s neck until the flesh beneath turned white around his fingertips; Giles noticed but hoped Forsythe did not. “Take the guard’s hand, Master Monty,” he charged. “Show him what a little gentleman you are, then. There’s a good boy.”

“Do you want me to strip him?” Giles asked, earning himself a deadly glower from the child.

“That won’t be necessary,” Forsythe said. “But you haven’t seen the last of me, Longworth. I’ll be back
tomorrow for a little talk with that wife of yours. You married her in something of a rush, so I’m told.”

“Since when is there a law against that?” Giles returned.

“You aren’t fooling me, Longworth. Something is not as it seems here, and I mean to get to the bottom of it.”

“You do that, Forsythe,” Giles shot back. His humor dissolved, he slapped the brandy snifter down on the drum table, squared his posture and advanced upon the guard. “Now get out of here before I forget I am a gentleman and show you out personally.”

“I don’t want to go back to that room!” the boy whined pitifully.

“Get him
out
of here,” Giles seethed through clenched teeth, addressing the valet, who quickly steered the boy into the corridor. Foster’s hand remained clamped to the back of the child’s neck, keeping him out of biting range.

Transformation was imminent. Foster was in danger, and so was Forsythe, Giles knew, from both the boy and himself. He’d broken out in a cold sweat; his brow was running with it as he continued to back the guard along the corridor.

“Out!” he thundered, driving the guard out with long-legged strides. “Out—out—out!”

The guard fled on spindly legs, leaving the door flung wide to the wind. The rain had started falling, hard, on a horizontal slant out of the southwest. Giles narrowed his eyes to the gusts that ruffled his hair and billowed his poet’s blouse. It was going to be a screamer, and he was on the verge of changing. The wolf inside was gnawing at his body and his reason.

Suddenly, Foster’s agonized cry rang out in concert with a thud as the valet hit the second-floor landing. He hadn’t made it to the upper chamber before the boy shape-shifted into a full-grown wolf and knocked him down, but at least he hadn’t attacked him. Instead, he
soared through the air and streaked past Giles out into the storm, disappearing in the direction the guard had taken.

There was no time for Giles to see to Foster, else he put him to a far worse hazard than Monty had. The wolf in him would no longer be denied. Tearing at his clothes, flinging them into the wind as he ran, Giles the man gave way to the great black wolf inside him. Human sinew and muscle, flesh and bone became lupine jowl, fur, and fang, and he hit the ground running on all fours, sped off to disappear in the ink-black maelstrom of flesh-flaying wind and horizontal rain.

Chapter Twenty-two

Hail and rain pelted down over the little copse where the Gypsy’s wagon stood beneath that tangled bower of vine and branch. Locked inside the wagon, Moraiva sat nursing the wound on her arm with herbs and salves and holy water that she knew would do no good. It was hard to gauge time deep in the copse, unable to see the moonrise for the storm, and she hadn’t gotten Tessa tethered in time. She’d completed the task, but not before the wolf had bitten her in the process.

“Aiiieeee!” the Gypsy cried, plastering salve on the jagged wound, which she held in place with a fallen oak leaf secured with a length of honeysuckle vine. “You got me good, daughter,” she breathed, addressing the wolf tethered with chains at the back of the wagon. “Now I have become what you are, eh? That is twice this lifetime such as this has happened to me, and this was through no fault of your own. I knew the danger.”

Across the way, the she-wolf whined as if it understood. Outside the wind howled like a banshee through the tangled snarl of undergrowth, lifting dead leaves and mulch into the air and slamming them into the barrel-shaped wagon with force enough to pierce it
through. Low-hanging branches grazed the canopy above, driving vine and bough, nettle and thorn into the wood like nails as the wagon rocked with the gusts. Over it all bled the sound of howling wolves, and the old Gypsy pricked up her ears at the sound.