“He gets toast?”
“He doesn’t get a whole piece,” Sebastian replied, sounding defensive. “He’s little. He has to share.”
Glorianna glanced at the covered cage that sat at one end of the dining table. Then she followed Sebastian to the counter, where he’d set out the bag of koffea beans and the grinder. “You don’t think he’ll get spoiled by getting a treat every morning?”
Sebastian snorted. “It’s just toast. It’s not like he gets butter or jelly on his part of it.”
“Of course. How silly of me not to see the difference.”
He gave her a long look, then said, “Grind the beans.”
She had to admit that Sebastian and Bop put on an entertaining show, especially when the bird made it clear that he was not used to having his treat dumped in the food dish and expected it to be held so he could sit on Sebastian’s fingers and eat his toast properly. Bop’s training was a little iffy, since it seemed to consist of the bird learning what he wanted to learn. However, Sebastian’s training as playmate and servant to a little feathered tyrant was coming along quite nicely.
The glow of amusement that filled her when she left the cottage stayed with her for the rest of the day.
Chapter Two
two weeks earlier
Erinn shoved her hands in her coat pockets as she stopped beneath one of the lit streetlamps. What had Tommy Lamplighter been thinking to be lighting every fourth lamp? Granted, it wasn’t a busy street since there was nothing on one side but the back entrances of the shops that ran along Dunberry’s main street, and the other side had little row houses that belonged to working folk who couldn’t afford better. But it was still early enough that people would be making their way home from an evening out, and they shouldn’t have to be walking in the dark.
Which you wouldn’t be, Erinn Mary, if you’d taken the main street like you’d promised Kaelie’s father you would. Or you should have taken him up on his offer to hitch up the horse and drive you home. There have been enough bad-luck things happening around the village lately to make anyone uneasy, not to mention the two boys who went missing last week.
But walking down the main street would have taken her past Donovan’s Pub, and she hadn’t wanted Torry or his friends to see her and think she’d passed by to check up on him.
A sudden gust of wind made her coat flap around her, and there was now a sharp bite of winter hidden within the unseasonably crisp autumn night—as if the wind itself was urging folks to get indoors.
A fanciful thought, to be sure. But fanciful or not, the thought made her shiver.
Erinn hurried toward the next lit streetlamp.
When next she saw Tommy Lamplighter, she’d give him a piece of her mind—and maybe a thump on the head to go with it. Dunberry was big enough to need more than one lamplighter, but each man had his assigned streets, and their wages came from the taxes that were collected for the village’s upkeep, so Tommy shouldn’t be neglecting his duty.
Just like Torry shouldn’t be neglecting his duty. No. It should never be duty. He should want to spend time with the woman he was going to marry at the end of harvest. But he was down at the pub, drinking ale with his friends and playing darts….
And flirting with the girls? a soft voice whispered in her head.
No. Torry didn’t flirt. Not much anyway. Just enough to be friendly. And he certainly wouldn’t be flirting with other girls now, not after she and Torry had…
Why not? the voice asked. How much pleasure could he have gotten with a girl who can’t say what she’s done, not even in her own head?
Sex. They’d had sex, Erinn thought fiercely as she stopped beneath the next lit streetlamp. It had been nice enough after the first time, and Torry had said it would get better as they got to know each other in that sense, so he had nothing to complain about.
Not complaining doesn’t mean he wasn’t disappointed, isn’t wondering what other girls will offer that you can’t—or won’t. And how does he know it will get better unless he’s already done these things with another girl? A girl he left behind. Just like he’ll leave you.
No. Torry wasn’t like that.
A glass of ale and time with his friends. Are you sure that’s all he wanted at the pub? Maybe he was looking for something more. Or someone like…
Shauna? Everyone knew Shauna was a bit wild, and willing to give the lads more than a few kisses. And she’d had her eye on Torry, even though he’d never noticed.
Oh, he noticed. You’re the one who can’t see.
A dark, bitter feeling rolled through Erinn, followed by a shivery pleasure at the thought of scratching Shauna’s pretty face. No, better than that. She’d scratch the bitch’s eyes out. Then Shauna wouldn’t look so pretty. Then the bitch wouldn’t be casting out lures and spoiling things for decent girls. Then…
Gasping for air, Erinn shook her head. Why was she thinking these things? It was like someone else was inside her head, whispering every uneasy thought that had lodged in her heart since feelings had overruled prudence and she’d let Torry talk her into doing the man-and-woman part of the wedding before making the husband-and-wife vows.
But she loved Torry. And he loved her. And she wasn’t going to listen to these foolish whispers anymore.
Erinn’s hands lifted, closing into fists that gripped the front of her coat as she stared at the dark street. No more streetlamps were lit. There were no lights on in the houses. There was nothing but the dark, which suddenly felt thick, almost smothering—and aware of her.
Nearby, a dog began barking, startling her. Maybe it had caught her scent. The wind was in the right direction.
Or maybe it had caught the scent of something else.
She looked to her right. A service way ran between the buildings. Not wide enough for wagons or carriages, it still provided a cut-through for delivery boys on bicycles and for people who didn’t want to go the long way round in order to reach the main street to do their shopping and such.
Donovan’s Pub wasn’t far from there. She’d go in and ask Torry to walk her home. She didn’t care if he thought she’d come to check up on him. She didn’t care if he thought she was foolish to be afraid of the dark when she’d never been afraid before. Tonight, she was afraid of the dark.
Taking a deep breath that shuddered out of her in something close to a sob, she entered the service way and hurried toward the light at the other end, whispering, “Ladies of the White Isle, hold me in the Light. Ladies of the White Isle, hold me in the Light.”
Halfway through the service way, just beyond the lamplight’s reach, she heard something move. Before she could run, before she could scream, something grabbed her, swung her around, and pinned her against the brick wall of the building. A hand clamped over her mouth.
A fast movement. A ripping sound followed by the feel of chilly air where the coat had suddenly parted. Followed by an odd, shivery feeling as the skin and muscles in her side opened up.
Lady of Light, protect me. Help me.
In the few seconds it took for her body to recognize pain, the knife had moved. Was now resting on her cheekbone, its tip pricking just beneath her left eye.
“Scream,” a smooth voice whispered, “and I’ll take your eye. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll let you keep your pretty face.”
The hand clamped over her mouth moved. Curled around her throat.
“Please don’t hurt me,” Erinn said, too afraid to do more than whisper.
A man. She could tell that much, but there wasn’t enough light for her to see his face.
“Tell me what you whispered,” he said. “About the White Isle. About the Light.”
“Please let me go. Please don’t—”
“Tell me.”
“T-the White Isle is the Light’s haven. All the Light that keeps Elandar safe from the Dark has its roots there.”
“And where is the White Isle?”
She hesitated a moment—and felt the knife prick the tend
er skin beneath her eye. “N-north. It’s an island off the eastern coast. Up north.”
The hand around her throat loosened. The knife caressed her cheek but didn’t cut her as he took a step back.
“Who are you?” Foolish question. The less she could tell anyone about him, the safer she would be.
He smiled. She still couldn’t see his face, but she knew he smiled.
“The Eater of the World.”
So he wasn’t going to tell her. That was good. He would go away, and she would be safe. She was hurt bad. She knew that. But it was only one step, maybe two, and she’d be in the light, the glorious light. Her legs felt cold and weak, but she could get to the end of the service way, could get to the main street. Someone would see her and help her. Someone would fetch Torry, and everything would be all right. They would be married at the end of harvest and—
She saw him raise the knife. And she screamed.
Then he rammed the knife into her chest, cutting off the scream. Cutting off hope. Cutting off life.
Voices shouted and boots pounded the cobblestones as men ran toward the service way.
The Eater of the World shifted to Its natural form and flowed beneath the stones, nothing more than a rippling shadow moving toward the main street. One man stumbled as It flowed beneath his feet, and It left a stain on his heart as It passed.
Then It paused as the first man to reach the girl screamed, “Erinn! No!”
Following the channel cut deep into the man’s heart by grief and the shock of seeing his hands covered in the girl’s blood, It stretched out a mental tentacle, slipped into the man’s mind, and whispered, She was here in the service way because of you. This happened because of you.
“No!” But there was something—a tiny seed of doubt, a hint of innocent guilt. Just enough soil for the planting.
Yes, It whispered, putting all of Its dark conviction into the word. This happened because of you.
It retreated, certain Its words would take root and fester, dimming the man’s Light, maybe curdling that Light enough that it would never fully bloom again, scarring the heart enough that the man would never fully love again.
And the Dark currents that flowed in this village would become a little stronger because of that—just as the Dark currents had grown stronger every day since those two boys disappeared. There had been so many hearts eager to hear Its whispers about the boys going into the woods with a man they knew well enough not to fear.
Until the seasons changed, Its death rollers would remain in the sun-warmed river of their own landscape rather than hunt in the cold water of the pond located at the edge of the village’s common pasture. By the time Its creatures came to this landscape, no one would remember the story those boys were telling about a big log that had come alive and pulled a half-grown steer into the water. And by the time the next boy, or man, wandered too close to the pond and died, the fear that lived in these people would be that much riper, that much sweeter. Would resonate with Itself that much better.
It flowed beneath the main street, heading out of the village. People shuddered as It passed unseen, unrecognized for what It was. Its resonance would lodge in their hearts as uneasiness and distrust, making them wonder which of their neighbors had been the person who had held the knife. When they found the body of the lamplighter…
It had been so satisfying to change into a shape with jaws powerful enough to crush bone. So It had crushed the lamplighter, piece by piece. When It tired of playing with Its prey, It had dragged the body into a dark space and fed while the flesh was still succulent…and alive.
Of course, by the time the other humans found the body, the rats would have had their feast as well.
It would return to this place called Dunberry, and when It did, the people would be even more vulnerable to the whispers and seeds It would plant in the dark side of the human heart—the same side that had brought It into being so long ago.
But first, It needed to reach the sea and head north. The hunting in this landscape would be sweeter once It destroyed the Place of Light.
Chapter Three
present
Michael paused outside the door of Shaney’s Tavern and fiercely wished he’d already downed a long glass of whiskey.
The music was out of tune here. Off rhythm. Wrong. Not as bad as Dunberry, but…
Dunberry. What had gone wrong there? All right, so he’d done a little ill-wishing the last time he’d passed through, but the ripe bastard had been cheating at cards and deserved to have some bad luck. It wasn’t as if he’d prospered from it. He just didn’t think it was fair for Torry to lose his stake simply because the boy had had the poor judgment to try to plump up his wedding purse by playing a few hands of cards. And didn’t Torry find a small bag of gold a few days later—gold his grandfather had hidden in the barn and forgotten years ago? That bit of luck-bringing had balanced out the ill-wishing, hadn’t it?
But the girl Torry was going to marry…Stabbed to death, wasn’t she, and so close to help that Torry and his friends had heard her scream.
He’d heard about it fast enough when he came into the village. Just as he heard what wasn’t quite being said. Not about the girl, Erinn, but about two boys who disappeared a few days before she was killed. Someone had seen them going off with a man who wasn’t from Dunberry but was familiar enough to be trusted. What would a man be doing with two young boys that they would need to disappear after he was done with them?
He hadn’t been in Dunberry for weeks, but sooner or later someone would put his face or his clothes on that “familiar enough” man, and it wouldn’t matter that he’d been in another village when those boys had disappeared. Once the villagers decided he was the man, he wouldn’t survive long enough to get a formal hearing.
So he’d snuck away in the wee hours of the morning, putting as much distance between himself and Dunberry as he could before the people began to stir.
He no longer fit the tune of that village. It had turned dark, sharp-edged, sour.
That’s how he heard places and people. They were melodies, harmonies, songs that fit together and gave a village a certain texture and sound. When he fit in with a place, he was another melody, another harmony. And he was the drum that settled the rhythm, fixed the beat.
But not in Dunberry. Not anymore.
The bang of a door or a shutter made him jump, which jangled the pots and pans tied to the outside of his heavy backpack. The sounds scraped nerves that were already raw, and his pounding heart was another thumping rhythm he was sure could be heard by…whatever was out there.
Tucking his walking stick under the arm holding the lantern, he wrapped his fingers around the handle on the tavern’s door. Then he twisted around to look at the thick fog that had turned familiar land into some unnatural place that had no beginning or end.
Didn’t matter if the music was wrong here. He’d beg or barter whatever he had to in order to get out of that fog for a few hours.
Giving the door a tug, he went inside the tavern, pulling off his brown, shapeless hat as he strode to the bar. The pots and pans clattered with each step. Normally he found it a comforting sound, but when he’d been walking toward the village that lay in the center of Foggy Downs, a lantern in one hand and his walking stick in the other, feeling his way like a blind man…The ordinary sound had seemed too loud in that gray world, as if he were calling something toward him that he did not want to see.
“Well, look what stumbled out of the forsaken land,” Shaney said, bracing his hands on the bar.
“Lady of Light,” Michael muttered as he set his hat and lantern on the bar. “I’ve seen fog roll in thick before, but never as bad as this.” Leaning his walking stick against the bar, he shrugged off the straps of the pack, glad to be rid of the weight.
Then he looked around the empty tavern. He could barely make out the tables on the other side of the room since Shaney hadn’t lit any of the lamps except around the bar.
“Is everyone la
ying low until this blows past?” he asked, rubbing his hand over one bristly cheek. If business was slow and the rooms Shaney rented to travelers were empty, maybe he could barter his way to a bath, or at least enough hot water for a good wash and a shave, as well as a bed for the night.
Shaney put two whiskey glasses on the bar, then reached for a bottle. He poured two shots.
Michael looked at the whiskey, craving the fire that would ease the chill in his bones. But he shook his head. “Since I’m hoping for a meal and a bed tonight, whiskey is a little too rich for my pocket just now.”
“On the house,” Shaney said, sounding as gloomy as the fog. “And you’re welcome to a bed and a share of whatever the Missus is making for the evening meal.”
“That’s generous of you, Shaney,” Michael said, knowing he should be grateful but feeling as if the ground had suddenly turned soft under his feet and a wrong step would sink him.
“Well, maybe you’d be willing to play a bit this evening. I could spread the word that you’re here.”
Picking up a glass of whiskey, Michael took a sip. “I’m flattered you think so highly of my music, but do you really expect people to come out in this for a drink and a few tunes?”
“They’ll come to play a few tunes with you.”
A chill went through him. The music is wrong here, Michael, my lad. Don’t be forgetting that, or what you are, and lower your guard.
He’d been shy of seventeen the first time he’d come to Foggy Downs, and had been on the road and making his own way for almost a year. Over the years since, he’d come to depend on this being a friendly, safe place to stay. If people realized what he was, Foggy Downs would no longer be as safe—or as friendly.
Shaney downed his whiskey, then pulled a rag from under the bar and began polishing the wood. “Do you remember old Bridie?”
Michael rubbed a finger around the rim of his glass. “I remember her. She smoked a pipe, had a laugh that could put sparkle on the sun, and, even at her age, could dance the legs off any man.”