SARA SNOW
CONTENTS
1. Cyrus
2. Elinor
3. Elinor
4. Elinor
5. Elinor
6. Will
7. Elinor
8. Skye
9. Elinor
10. Elinor
11. Elinor
12. Elinor
13. Elinor
14. Elinor
15. Elinor
16. Elinor
17. Elinor
18. Ione
19. Elinor
20. Faelen
21. Elinor
22. Elinor
23. Elinor
24. Will The Bloodmoon Wars Continues…
Also By Sara Snow
Enjoy This Book? I would love to hear from you… About the Author
In a fight, even the smallest distractions could cost you your life—or the life of someone you cared about. Leaving Elinor and Darian alone to battle the vampires and reanimated supernaturals damn near killed me, but as long as Skye was in danger, I knew I’d never be able to think straight.
I could feel Skye’s worried eyes following me from the town below as I flew away to return to where I’d left Elinor and Darian fighting.
Although they were more than capable of looking after themselves, I wasn't sure how many more vampires were on our tail. And with the reanimated supernatural creatures in the mix . . . Well, they might have some trouble.
The sky was bright with a thousand stars, but I had no time to admire them. My eyes darted back and forth as I tried to see through the dense foliage of the trees. Elinor and Darien might have moved from where I’d left them.
But I didn’t have to search for long.
A clap of thunder had me dipping closer towards the trees, and even though I was in the sky, I could hear the earth moaning.
Elinor .
When a bolt of lightning pierced through the clouds up ahead, I pushed myself to fly faster. Another followed, and then another.
“Shit.”
Witches created lightning bolts from the energy within their bodies, but Elinor’s magic used natural bolts, so I knew this was all her. I could see a bright light in the trees ahead, and when I finally arrived, I spotted Darian hunched down behind a tree trunk. When it was also struck by lightning, he rushed to another tree for cover.
I landed but had to shield my eyes.
Elinor was in her human form, but her body sizzled with electricity, making it hard to look directly at her. The electricity acted almost like a shield, protecting her.
Then I looked to my left and saw Will unconscious on the forest floor, the front of his shirt torn away to reveal a substantial burn mark covering the expanse of his stomach and chest.
Whendidhegethere?Andwhatthehellisgoingon?
Though I couldn’t imagine why, from the look of Will’s wound, Elinor must have hurt him. Even with the extra boost from the resurrection marks, the resurrected witches’ lightning bolts couldn’t have inflicted that kind of damage on someone as powerful as Will.
Elinor's pained moan met my ears, and I turned my attention back to her. "Elinor! Elinor, can you hear me?” I squinted and dropped my gaze, trying to look directly at her, though I couldn’t maintain it for long. "It's Cyrus!"
“C-Cyrus, I can’t stop it! I trusted him!”
I glanced at Will, guessing she discovered something else he’d been keeping from her. It was the only thing I could think of that would explain her losing control like this.
The ground around Elinor was littered with ugly scorch marks. Lightning bolts repeatedly struck the ground and bounced off, flying in all directions like arrows and incinerating the bodies of the Bleeders and resurrected supernaturals who had attacked. When I had left Elinor and Darien to take Skye to safety, they’d only just found us. Now, there was nothing left of them but charred corpses.
The rumbling beneath our feet intensified, and massive cracks split the earth, some large enough for the bodies to tumble into. Red and orange flames crackled in the trees and underbrush around us. I knew I had to do something or she'd burn down the whole forest— and the nearby town with it.
I opened my palms and allowed blue flames to flow from them like water. Using my blue flames could be dangerous if I lost control, but it was the only idea I had. All I needed to do was stay focused. If this worked, my flames would trap Elinor’s magic and prevent it from doing any more damage.
There was nothing I could do about her earth magic, though. Hopefully, once she calmed down, the earth would, too. This new ability was a shock, but it really shouldn't have been. To use lightning the way she did took a lot of power.
I commanded the flames to circle Elinor, Will, and myself and poured my energy into them, urging them to rise like a wall. The strain on my body felt almost unbearable, and I prayed I had enough strength and control to survive it.
“Elinor! I need you to focus on me and nothing else. Just listen to my voice. Okay?" The moment the flames were high enough, I stopped. Unfortunately, I’d used so much of my power that focusing while talking Elinor down proved to be a struggle. “Can you hear me?”
"Yes," she whimpered, and despite not being able to look at her, I decided I needed to get closer. I could hear her crying, but her soft sobs soon turned to pained moans. "It burns, Cyrus."
That was all the warning I had. I dove as bolts came at me left and right, then surrounded myself in blue flames. I wasn't sure what I was going to do when I got close to her. Maybe I'd grab her and engulf her in my flames, accepting whatever burns I'd receive.
"You can control what's happening right now, Elinor! You're letting your power run wild because you think you can't control it! Focus on its center inside you and grab onto that. That is your power. That is how you’ll learn control!”
"I can't do it!" she screamed, and my jaws clenched with frustration.
"Then you are going to burn yourself alive, then me, then Will, then the forest and a town close by! Jackson isn't here to stop you this time, so what now? Will you give up and sentence everyone to death?” Thunder rumbled above us, and I continued walking closer. "I'll help you, okay? I can help you focus."
I released a cloud of black smoke that engulfed us both. I could feel jolts of electricity striking my body, but it wasn't as painful with my flames protecting me. My eyes were closed, though, so I couldn't see.
"I don't want to hurt you, Cyrus. You need to stop."
"And you need to do as I say. You're not hurting me, see? But I can't keep this up for long, so you need to calm down."
“Elinor?”
A surge of power burst from Elinor at the sound of Will’s voice. A bolt of lightning slammed into my shoulder, breaking through my flames and sending me flying backward. I had been so close. . . . So close!
“Elinor, I’m sorry.”
I opened my eyes and watched as the electricity sizzling around Elinor sank into her skin. As she slowly got ahold of her power, I no longer had to shield my eyes, but I was still stunned at how powerful she was.
"I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear. But if you continue like this, you'll kill innocent people, including your best friend."
Elinor looked my way, her eyes darting to my burned shoulder, and I listened as her pounding heart slowed. Her arms were burned and parts of her legs, too. Right now, her power was too intense for her to handle, and I had a sick feeling that she would kill herself if she continued on like this.
"I was engaged to her, but I’m not anymore. I called it off, and that's why she's angry." Will sat up, wincing as blood gushed from his wound, then fell back. "She means nothing to me. She never did."
His wound wasn't healing, and when he coughed up blood that ran down the sides of his mouth, the earth stopped rumbling. Elinor walked forward to stand over Will, and I sighed in relief.
“I'm . . . sorry,” he whispered as she fell to her knees beside him. “Your divinity . . .” He choked. “It’s the reason I’m not healing.”
At first, her face was void of emotion, and I’d wondered if Elinor was truly herself or if something else had taken control of her again. But when a tear slid down her face, I knew it was her.
I watched in wonder as she reached for him with a glowing hand. When she placed her hand on his chest, his body absorbed the light. It vanished, and within a few seconds, his wound did more than just heal. The blood he’d lost actually slid back inside him, leaving not a drop behind. Will and I looked at each other, our eyes wide. He brushed his fingers across his now unmarred chest, then stared at Elinor, who seemed a little surprised as well.
“How did you do that?” I asked, and she looked down at her hands.
When she looked up at me again, I saw her eyes were still as white as snow, and she lifted her hand in my direction. Even though I wasn't directly in front of her, an odd sensation flowed into my arm like warmth from a fireplace, and my wound vanished as if nothing had happened.
Will sat up, but Elinor moved away from him.
Her eyes slowly reverted to green, and her self-inflicted burns healed as well. Now I could truly see her—the pain in her eyes, the look of betrayal—and I wondered even more about what had happened after I left with Skye.
"Thank you," Will said, but she quickly rose to her feet as if his words had been a slap to her face.
She staggered, her eyes closing, but Will moved quickly, vanishing in a second to catch her before she could fall. She pushed him away, and her face twisted with disgust. “Don't . . . touch me."
"What the hell happened?" I asked, but neither of them looked my way.
They only stared at each other—Will with regretful eyes, Elinor with angry ones. I exhaled heavily and pinched the bridge of my nose. Whatever was going on, they’d have to work it out. The wall of flames I had erected around us came down and vanished, and I fell onto my ass, exhausted.
“Elinor?”
"No," she said to Will. "No more apologizing. You just have a lot to explain, Will. A lot."
A threatening growl stole our attention. We looked over to find Darian slowly advancing, his shoulders hunched forward defensively.
He glared at Will, and I jumped to my feet when his hazel eyes shifted to black.
He growled again, deep this time, as a warning to Will, who didn't step away from Elinor.
"Darian, don't. You don't know what's going on," I said to him. Although he stopped moving in Will's direction, Darien's eyes remained black. He wasn't backing down yet.
Neither Elinor nor Will said anything, but I really wasn't in the mood to stop another fight. I readied myself just in case Darian attacked or Will and Elinor picked up where they left off. And this time, I would allow my flames to burn to keep them separated.
All the supernaturals and Bleeders were dead, but the night was still young. More could be on the way.
I wasn't as confused as Darian looked right now, but I still didn't know what had happened between Will and Elinor for her to have lost control the way she had. From the sound of it, though, Will had been engaged.
But she had been, too . . .
"We don't have time for this," I said to no one in particular. "I left Skye at a town nearby, and we need to leave. We don't know if more supernaturals are coming. Okay? So, Darian, you need to chill."
He sent a foul look my way that didn't bother me in the least. He bared his fangs at me, and I allowed my flames to engulf my arms.
"This time, they'll burn. I'm exhausted and actually pretty pissed right now, so go ahead, start a fight so I can finish it.”
Darian growled low before roughly scratching at the shaved side of his head. He and Elinor locked eyes, and she sighed, knowing what was coming.
Will walked away, vanishing into the forest, and my flames died away as Darian approached Elinor. His eyes were still black and his jaws were clenched. “Elinor, I think you’re the one with a lot of explaining to do.”
When we got to town, Will was already there, waiting for us by the tree line. Darian walked on beside Cyrus while Will remained on my right, his hood pulled over his head.
His scent was masked, but I assumed he still wanted his face hidden.
Considering I felt like kicking him where it would hurt, I wasn't thrilled to have him walking beside me. In my peripheral vision, I could see him watching me, but I refused to look back at him. I was so sick of the ‘three steps forward and nine steps back’ routine in our relationship. It was exhausting, and I was over it.
People stepped out of our way as we walked through the town. Maybe they did it because we were strangers, or perhaps it was because Darian was still growling under his breath.
Darian broke away from us when he spotted two Werewolf Guards, and Cyrus finally dropped his guard. Throughout the trip to the town, he had been alert, ready to act at any moment if Darian attacked Will. Considering I was pissed off at Will, explaining who he was to Darian—his ability to walk in the sun, as well as our relationship—while we walked here wasn’t easy for me. But I definitely didn’t want to have such a sensitive conversation in town where others might overhear.
As we’d walked and talked, Darian’s anger had only intensified. He’d told me—in no uncertain terms—that I was making a huge mistake. His response was what I’d expected, so I didn't argue with
him about it. Honestly, I didn't have the strength. My head was pounding. Within the span of a few hours, I’d met my boyfriend’s secret fiancée; I’d taken out multiple vampires and reanimated supernaturals, almost killing my boyfriend in the process; and I’d nearly burned down the forest and the entire town. Of course, I had a headache.
Even though I’d given myself to Will, referring to him as my boyfriend still felt odd. We were together, but we’d never spoken of each other with labels before. Well, nothing beyond “friend,” anyway.
Keeping the details minimal, I told Darian how we met and grew close and that Will had saved my life as well as Skye’s. All the while, Will didn't speak, and I wasn’t mad about that. I didn’t want to hear his voice right now.
Skye rushed out of a building and came running towards us.
“Are you guys okay?” She noticed Will and paused. “Um, Will? What are you doing here? What’s going on? Where’s Darian?”
Cyrus pointed behind him at Darian, who was instructing the Guards to keep watch tonight. Will walked past Skye, vanishing into the building she’d emerged from. Skye watched him go, then looked at me with questioning eyes.
“Um, I got us a room inside—there was only one available. But first, can someone explain to me what the hell’s going on?”
“Inside,” Cyrus grumbled, opening the door to the inn.
I sighed and closed my eyes, holding back tears.
“Darian met Will?”
"Yup, and it went as expected," I replied. "But Cyrus stopped the fight before it could begin. Are you okay?"
She nodded, then took my hand to lead me inside. “I’m fine. Are you? That was you, wasn’t it? The earthquake?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
As we walked, I could hear the townspeople whispering, wondering if they had just experienced an earthquake. Some were speculating about the lightning they’d seen, wondering whether the Resurrected were coming for them.
“The Resurrected?” I asked Skye. She pulled me closer as we climbed up the stairs beside a small bar to where the rooms were.
“That’s what they’ve been calling them,” she whispered. “But it’s probably best if they don’t learn it was you.”
I was more than okay with that. Stories of the white wolf were already spreading. People would have questions that I couldn’t answer if they knew that the white wolf was me. I could smell the accumulation of fear in the air as people scattered to lock themselves away in their homes.
We all gathered in a large room, with Darian standing by the door, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes watching Will’s every movement. Will, however, only stared out the window on the other end of the room. I couldn’t help wondering what was going through his mind.
Ishethinkingabouther?Vivian?
I didn't know what to believe. My thoughts were so warped. I didn't want to regret giving myself to him. Even now, though I wanted to punch him in the face, I still loved him. But my chest was aching because I did.
“My brother won’t be following us,” he finally said.
Darian growled. “Brother? So you’re a General?” Darian looked at me with a mixture of disbelief and disappointment.
“He is,” I answered. “But he had no idea the Queen was planning to wage war on supernaturals and humans. Whether you like him or not, he’s on our side, okay? And we have a plan to defeat her.”
Darian swallowed hard as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Trust a vampire and a General, at that . . . You want me to trust a vampire that he's on our side? Have you lost your mind, Elinor? When your father finds out about this, he’s—”
"He already knows," I said curtly.
Darian's eyes widened. “What?”
“He knows about Will helping us. Will was there the night the pack was attacked. He protected Jackson.”
Darian looked Will's way, but his eyes hardened. “But does the Alpha know you’re in a relationship with this vampire? Hmm?” I didn't answer, and he shook his head. "That's what I thought."
“I have a feeling he does, okay? We just didn't get to that part of the conversation. Listen, hate him all you want; you're entitled to
your opinion. But he warned us tonight about Cain, his brother, just before he attacked."
“How do you know he didn’t set the whole thing up just to gain your trust? He’s a vampire, Elinor! And you're a firstborn to an Alpha. Am I the only person who sees how bad this is?” He looked at Will. “Are you sure he’s even a vampire? How can he walk in the sun?”
"We need to keep it down," Cyrus grumbled, and the room grew silent.
I rubbed at my forehead as my head throbbed even harder.
"Do you need something? I can see about getting you some tea," Skye offered.
Will turned to me, his lips parting to speak, and Darian growled at him.
Abruptly, Darian turned and left, slamming the door behind him, and I sighed. Skye and Cyrus looked at each other, but I averted my eyes. We didn't have time for this.
I understood why Darian was struggling to digest this. He was someone who held our beliefs and traditions dear. In his eyes, my relationship with Will was disrespectful at best. And if I was wrong about Will, it could end up costing not only my life but also the lives of any others who trusted him because of me. I couldn’t blame him for that. His reaction was the same as everyone else’s would be once this was all over and I left the pack. I glanced at Will, and a memory of Vivian flashed through my mind.
I'd still be leaving the pack. But right now, with the way I felt, maybe I wouldn’t be going with him.
“It took years for him to accept Cyrus,” Skye started, her voice cutting through the silence. “He’s not the easiest guy to deal with.”
"I don't care about that," Will replied calmly. "It doesn't bother me that he hates me—many people do. His reaction is expected. I don't need his approval, and I don't care if he believes me that I mean Elinor no harm." He looked at me, but I looked away. "We all want the same thing—to see an end to this, and that's what matters."
“What happened with your brother?” Cyrus inquired, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees.
Even if he wasn't behaving as badly as Darian was, I knew he was still skeptical of Will. I groaned inwardly, reminding myself that right now, I shouldn't care.
Will didn’t respond right away, but I could feel his eyes on me. "We argued and then fought each other. And finally, I found out a crucial piece of information—my mother doesn’t want Elinor dead.”
“Then what does she want?” Cyrus sat up. “Elinor has enough divinity to kill her. Your mother clearly knows that, since she sent Cain after her.”
“That’s not why she sent him. She wants Elinor alive because she intends to turn her,” Will said, and Cyrus got to his feet, scraping his chair on the wooden floor. “She knows Elinor’s a threat, but she also knows Elinor will be an incredibly powerful vampire if turned. Vampire Enchanteds don’t lose their power like witches or other supernaturals. If Elinor is turned—and turned by the Queen—she’ll be even more powerful.”
I leaned forward and covered my face. I wasn't sure which was worse—the Queen hunting me to kill me or to turn me into a vampire. But neither was going to happen.
"When white wolves were plentiful centuries ago, a vampire King tried to turn one," Will said, turning his back to us as he gazed out the window. "He succeeded, but the wolf killed him. When a vampire turns a human or supernatural, that human or supernatural becomes bound to that vampire. They're unable to hurt them or disobey them, though that only lasts for a few years until the newborn can break the connection or until their maker releases them. Still, there’s a bond that often lasts for centuries.
"But the white wolf that was turned was different,” Will continued. “He wasn’t bound to his maker or in any way submissive. He killed the King and then himself, but not before murdering several royals.”
When Cyrus began pacing, Will turned to face us.
"After that, the act of turning a white wolf was forbidden. But my mother must think she’ll be able to control Elinor in some way. The old council would have been able to stop her, but all the other royals are dead.”
“I won’t be controlled by anyone,” I growled. “But since I know she wants me, maybe that can work in our favor. She'll welcome me if I go to her."
“No,” Will and Cyrus said simultaneously. I rolled my eyes. "Obviously, I meant after I’ve received the training I need to fight her. I’d never make it if I went to her as I am now.”
“We stick to our plan,” Will said sternly, and I held back the snarl I wanted to send his way.
"What plan?" Skye asked. I explained to her and Cyrus what Will and I had spoken about, revealing that his venom was poisonous to other vampires, including his mother, the Queen. He’d fight alongside me and Cyrus, and with his venom, he’d hopefully manage to weaken the Queen.
Cyrus stopped pacing and sat down, his gray eyes narrowed at the ground thoughtfully. “That’s not a bad idea. If her power is diminished, we’ll have a better chance of defeating her. Have you ever used your venom on her to know if it works? She might be different than other vampires.”
“It works.” Will's reply was vague, but Cyrus didn't push it.
Typical. Secretivelittlebastard.
"Transparency, Will. I think that's something you need to learn in order for people to trust you," I grumbled, and I saw the side of his mouth twitch. I waited for his response, but he said nothing. "So, where is your brother?” I asked next. “Is he dead?”
He shook his head, and a few long strands of black hair fell over his shoulder. “No, he’s not dead. We fought about our . . . differences, but I didn’t kill him. If he dies, my mother will respond by immediately calling me back to her side. If I were to refuse, she’d grow suspicious.”
“But your fiancée got away. Isn’t she going to tell the Queen?”
His eyes flashed red for only a second, but it didn't go unnoticed by me, and I doubted Cyrus and Skye missed it either. I knew I was acting petty, but I was finding it hard to even look at him. I couldn't stop imagining him kissing Vivian the way he’d kissed me.
I thought about the time we had shared together at the little cabin in the woods just a few hours ago and how he had probably done the same thing with her, and my wolf whimpered. Sure, I’d been engaged too at one point, but I told Will about it and explained that my father had been intent on marrying me off. And even then, Elijah and I never even held hands.
“She won’t tell the Queen. Vivian knows my mother’s penchant for punishing messengers who deliver bad news. Besides, Vivian is probably trying to figure out a way to use this to blackmail me." He stepped forward, and I stood up. "And she's not my fiancée."
I turned and walked out of the room, and even though I could hear him following me, I kept walking. I made it halfway down the hall before I felt his hand on my elbow, and I pulled away as I turned to face him.
"I'm going to find Darian, okay? I need to speak to him," I protested.
"I need to speak to you, Elinor. We need to talk about this." He stepped closer, forcing me to tilt my head back to look up at him. "She's not my fiancée anymore. We were barely even friends."
“I don't care if you were enemies. Don't you get it? You were engaged. Engaged." I pressed a finger to my temple and glanced at the door beside us. "We can’t talk about this here.”
I turned to walk away again, and he grabbed my arm again. This time I didn't pull away because I knew he'd only keep stopping me. "Okay, you said she's not your fiancée anymore . . . But when were you going to tell me about her, huh? Am I not an understanding person, Will? Did I not tell you about my engagement?" I sighed loudly, suddenly feeling exhausted. “At this point, you can't blame me for wondering what else you might be hiding from me.”
“There is nothing else.”
I shook my head slowly. I gazed into his eyes, searching for any other secrets they might contain. “I can’t know that, Will, and honestly, I don't believe you. I'm tired of this. I'm tired of the back and forth with us. This isn’t what relationships should be like.”
My eyes blurred with tears, and I looked down, allowing my hair to fall forward and shield my face from his view.
"All relationships have their issues, Elinor. I know I've hurt you, but I swear, I never had with her what I have with you.”
“I know that no relationship is perfect. Skye and Cyrus have the same kind of difficulties you and I do. But they don't argue like we do. Everyone is entitled to have their secrets. But if you can't see that the secrets you keep are too big . . .” I looked up at him, my eyes blurry with tears. “If you can’t see that your secrets are the reason we keep falling apart like this, then maybe we shouldn’t . . .”
He dropped his hand as my words trailed off. “Maybe we shouldn’t what?”
I looked away.
“Look at me, Elinor. Maybe we shouldn’t what?”
I turned and walked away, wiping the tears that now ran down my cheeks. “We can’t talk about this here.”
“We’re going to talk about it now!” he yelled. I stopped in my tracks. I didn’t turn around and he didn’t step forward.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be together? Is that what you were going to say?”
“And what if it was?” My lips tightened.
“Maybe you should ask Skye if she threatens to leave Cyrus every time she argues with him. Is it so easy for you to be done with me?” When I didn’t answer, he hissed, “Fine.”
A gust of wind blew my hair forward, and when I turned around, he was gone.
It took a few minutes for me to find Darian at the tree line leading into the forest. We stood together in silence for a moment as we listened to the night creatures calling to each other.
"I know you're disappointed in me," I said, and he took a deep breath. "I know you're judging me hard right now, but—” “You have no idea what I’m thinking about, Elinor.”
I bit down on my lip at his words.
After another minute, he turned to me. "But if you want to know what I'm thinking, I'll tell you. I'm wondering how you could be foolish enough to have allowed a vampire to get close to you. You once wanted to be a Werewolf Guard. You probably still do. Well, Guards don't befriend predators. We kill them. How in the world can you trust him?"
"The same way our Alpha trusted a demon enough to welcome him into our pack." I tilted my head to the side. "So are you calling our Alpha foolish for trusting Cyrus?"
Darian exhaled heavily through his nostrils and shook his head, causing his locs to dance behind him. “It isn’t the same thing.”
"Isn't it, though?"
He started laughing, the sound a humorless rumble. "It's funny that you're standing here defending the vampire when you just found out he had a fiancée while . . . dating you. That's what you were doing, right? Dating? Or are you a full-fledged couple? Either
way, you must be in love if you’re still defending him, even though somewhere out there, your true mate is waiting for you.”
He laughed again, but it was a dull sound.
I swallowed the hurt I felt at his words and turned to stare into the darkness of the forest. Arguing with him about this was a waste of time. Darian wasn’t going to let go of his beliefs—beliefs I once shared. But I wasn't bound to them anymore. I believed everyone had a right to love whomever they wanted to love, even if they weren’t from the same species. Besides, I knew Darian had been with many she-wolves, none of whom were his mate.
"Spare me, Darian. Everyone else might let you get away with that hypocritical bullshit, but this is me you’re talking to. I came out here to explain things to you, but I'm not going to sit here while you feed me that 'your mate is out there waiting for you' crap." He looked at me with surprise, and I held his stare. "Whoever my mate is, he's not out there waiting on me. He's living his life and doing Goddess knows what. You're not mated, and I know you haven't been sitting home all alone waiting for her. So give me a break, will you?"
“We’re different, Elinor. You’re the daughter of an Alpha . . .” He looked around to make sure we were alone. “And you’re dating a vampire, for Goddess’s sake! And a General at that! If the Queen were not already waging war, the moment she or your father found out about this, there would be one."
"Don't you think I know that?" I argued. "I know, okay. I didn't go searching for Will, and he didn't come looking for me. We met, he saved my life, and we grew close. That's what happened. Fuck!"
His brows rose at my foul language, and I sighed and closed my eyes. It seemed I’d picked up a few of Will’s favorite choice words in our year alone together.
He took a few breaths, then cleared his throat. "You're not at all what a firstborn female should be—or a female Alpha-born, for that matter."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
He chuckled, and this time, his eyes twinkled with humor. "Calm down. I meant it as a compliment. Believe it or not, I've always liked
that you were rebellious."
"And yet you hated the idea of me becoming a Guard," I grumbled.
He grew serious once more. “Like your father, and literally everyone else, I just thought you should pick a career path that would not put your life at risk."
I looked up at the starry sky and thought of all the supernaturals and humans that had lost their lives lately.
"We could die at any moment, Darian. At least I'd go down fighting." I inhaled the fresh night air. "Look at me now. I’m not a Werewolf Guard, yet my life is in danger anyway. You say you liked that I was rebellious, but me dating a vampire is a little too much rebellion for you, huh?"
"A lot too much," he grumbled, and I couldn’t help smiling.
“I apologize for cursing. My head’s killing me. But we still need to talk about my plan.”
He walked further into the forest, and I followed. "There’s no need. I overheard everything. I was outside the door."
Couldn'tstandbeingaroundWill,huh?
"Then what do you think?”
He didn't answer, and I tugged on his arm to stop him.
"You don't have to agree with my decision to be with Will. I'm pissed at Will right now myself—don't think I'm not. But we need his help if we're going to defeat the Queen. We need him."
"It's a good plan, okay?" The words left his lips through clenched teeth. "But be smart about it and come up with a plan B, and even a plan C as well. Nothing ever goes the way it's supposed to. And I don't say that because I can't stand the vampire. I’ve learned from experience."
"Yeah, okay," I grumbled and released his arm.
I pressed my fingers into my eyes and then rubbed at my temples. I loved how quiet it was here in the forest, with only a few supernaturals and humans wandering about closer to the village.
From the outside, the town looked peaceful. But inside it, I knew the townspeople were consumed by fear.
“You need to take something for that headache.”
I shook my head. “It’s fine. I just need to rest a little.” I held my hands up, remembering the burn marks that had been there. “What’s inside me is a little too much for me to handle right now. I know that.”
"That's why we’re doing this—to get you some help with your control." He turned his back to the town to face the forest, and I knew that even though we were talking, his eyes and ears were working, listening and looking for any signs that Bleeders or the Resurrected were coming.
“Where are we going? Tell me.”
He snorted and shook his head. "You'll know when we get there. But the plan wasn't to take a vampire with us."
"Then consider this plan B. Things never go the way they're supposed to, right? Someone told me that once.”
Darian looked at me from the side but said nothing.
"We don't have a choice. Like I said, we need him. Besides, he'd only follow me, anyway."
He turned to me, frowning as he looked me up and down. Darian was a gorgeous man, I could admit that, but he wasn't someone I'd want to be with. He was too grumpy, too headstrong. And too often, he behaved like an ass. But underneath that, he was strong, a fighter, and I knew he only cared about my well-being.
Right now, though, I wanted to know what the hell he was looking at. "What are you staring at?"
“Did he feed on you?”
His question caught me off guard, and my pulse quickened. Even though I said nothing, he obviously figured out the answer himself because his face dropped. Something flashed within his eyes, but it was gone before I could examine it.
“That’s none of your business,” I mumbled and walked back in the direction of the town.
"I know it's not. But just so you know . . .” he called after me, and I paused without looking around. "Tracking you will be easy for him if your blood is in his system. He'll always know where you are at all times. Did he tell you that, or was that something else he forgot to mention?"
I bit down until it felt like my teeth would shatter. Then I walked away.
I wasn't bothered by the fact that he could find me whenever he wanted to. He had said he’d follow me wherever I went, and I believed that about him if nothing else. With or without my blood, Will would always find me. A bittersweet smile grew on my lips at that thought. I knew deep down that he loved me. I knew it. But his secrets would ruin us.
He kept things from me. Things that concerned me—or would in the future; things I needed to know about. I didn't consider myself the judgmental type. If he’d told me he was engaged and explained the situation, I’m sure I would have understood.
I abruptly stopped walking and looked up. And then it hit me.
Back when I’d been engaged to Elijah, I had intended to end things with Will. Ultimately, I couldn’t do it, but I’d planned to. So, if I had known Will was committed to someone else back then, would that have been enough for me to end our relationship? Probably. Could I really be angry at him for failing to tell me about it back when I would’ve left him over it?
When I’d been engaged to Elijah, I’d hated the thought of losing Will—especially to marry a werewolf I barely knew. It had nearly killed me to tell Will I was engaged and we'd never be able to see each other again. We had seen each other again, of course, but I’d tried to keep him at arm’s length because I knew I had to do what was right.
I pulled my cloak tight around me and continued walking. A sudden need to fall into a bed and sleep for all eternity took hold of me, and I made my way back to the room.
When I got there, Skye was already asleep, and Cyrus and Will were gone.
I climbed into the bed beside Skye. Then I turned onto my side, pulling my knees up to my chest. And there I stayed, crying softly until I fell asleep.
Sometimes, I really wished I was someone else.
Irolled onto my back and growled as someone poked my shoulder. “It’s okay, I don’t need sleep. I’m fully capable of surviving without it.” I opened my eyes to find Skye sitting up, leaning against the headboard. She looked sad, and I immediately sat up as well. "What's wrong?"
It was still dark outside, and as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I noticed my headache was finally gone . . . and we were the only ones in the room. “Where are the guys?”
"Other rooms became available, so they're sleeping elsewhere," she answered with a small yawn.
I guessed that was for the best. I couldn’t see Darian staying in the same room as Will.
We sat in silence as I waited for her to say what was on her mind. Outside, the world was still asleep. Come morning, we'd continue on our way. I wasn't looking forward to the journey with the tension between Will and Darian, but I couldn’t do much about it. I'd just have to ignore them.
What was more important, at this moment, was my need to learn how to control my ability. Back in the forest, my power had overwhelmed me, burning my flesh. I’d been afraid that I was going to die by my own hand.
"I don't want to be weak," Skye said after a moment, and my brows furrowed.
"What? You're not weak. What are you talking about?"
She held her head back to stare up at the ceiling. Despite the darkness, I could see that her brown eyes were rimmed with tears. "Then why does Cyrus always immediately whisk me off to safety whenever there is danger? I can tell you why. It's because I'm weak. If I stay, you'll both be too distracted worrying about my safety to fight.” She inhaled deeply. “I know I’m not completely incompetent, but I’m nowhere near as skilled as the rest of you.”
I wasn’t sure what to say, and I didn't want to say the wrong thing. Skye was a werewolf, which meant she was born with incredible strength, but she didn't have the training that Cyrus and I had. Yes, we were more skilled than she was, but I hated that she thought of herself like this.
“Listen, you’ve dedicated your life to becoming a pack doctor, which is one of the most important jobs in a werewolf pack. Learning to fight the way Cyrus and I do wasn’t something you needed. You shouldn't feel bad about that." I took her hand and squeezed it gently. “Circumstances have changed for us all. If none of this had happened, you'd still be studying medicine, not being taken to some secret location Darian refuses to tell us.”
“I know," she sighed. "But I'm tired of being the weakest link, of being spirited away while others fight. Yes, my knowledge of herbs is valuable, but this fight is mine too, and I want to be a part of it. I already shift quickly. I want to learn how to defend myself.”
She had a point. “You’re right. I don’t think there is a wolf in our pack that shifts faster than you do.”
Skye wasn't just tagging along with us. She was a part of this like I was. And if possible, she was even more invested. She’d been the one who’d been kidnapped and forced to watch as her mother was brutally murdered. She shared the same driving need that I did—to put an end to what the Vampire Queen was doing, any way we could.
"I'm going to ask Cyrus to train me," she said, turning onto her side and facing me. "When we get to wherever it is Darian is taking us, you'll be training. I want to do the same."
“Sure, I bet Cyrus will be thrilled to hear you want to be on the front line.”
She laughed and reached up to touch her thick, curly hair, the part that was slightly shorter than the rest. The chunk of her hair that had been ripped out when she’d been abducted hadn't taken long to regrow, but from time to time, I'd noticed her touching the spot.
She bore no physical scars, but her soul was scarred. The things that had happened to her were never going to leave her.
"Yeah, I can just imagine his grumpy face when I ask him.” Her hand fell to her lap. “He’s going to do his best to warn me against it, but it won’t work. He'll just have to deal with it.”
She shuffled down in the bed to lie on her back, and I did the same. “I know he loves me and just wants to keep me safe,” she said. “And I appreciate that. But I need to be able to defend myself, you know? Cyrus can't always be there to protect me, and neither can you."
“I know,” I answered. "But don’t worry. He'll teach you. He'll argue about it, but he won't be able to say no."
Her head fell to the side, and I looked over to find her staring at me. I knew what was coming from the look in her eyes.
"Are you okay?"
"I am," I answered but looked away because, honestly, I wasn't. "Okay, I'm not."
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I took a deep breath. “I gave myself to him.”
Skye sat up, her eyes wide with shock. “Y-You . . .” She looked up and down my body, and a smile grew on her lips. “Really? You had sex with Will?”
I nodded as her excitement washed away the sadness I had begun to associate with a memory that should have only brought me happiness. I couldn't help it, though. Even though Will had told me he’d broken things off with Vivian, I couldn't stop imagining them sharing a bed the way Will and I had.
He had made me the other woman.
“I did,” I answered with a weak smile. “It was . . . like nothing I've ever felt before. It was perfect. Even now, I don't regret that it
happened. But I can't help feeling upset that things were ruined so soon afterwards."
“I get it,” she said, lying on her side. “And anyone would be livid if they found out that the man they loved was engaged and kept it a secret. At least you told him about Elijah. But it was as if he wanted the best of both worlds—you and that woman."
“Vivian,” I growled. “That’s what he called her.”
Despite her beautiful face, there had been darkness in Vivian’s eyes, a reflection of her nonexistent soul. Before I lost control, while I was trying to understand what was happening, I could see that she did, indeed, love Will, although clearly in a twisted way.
And I understood her pain. Because I, too, had discovered that Will had been seeing someone else.
That had been the moment I had lost control. I’d blacked out, allowing my power to take control of my mind and body. When I came to, Will was on the ground, burned by my hand, and she was gone. But I would see her again, I was sure of it.
"I know he loves you, though," Skye began, and I closed my eyes. “You know it, too. And I know you love him as well. Luck just doesn’t seem to be on your side in this relationship, but you both still try to hold onto each other."
“Will and his secrets are tearing us apart. Maybe it's all a sign that we shouldn't be together."
"How many times have you said that now? Every time something pops up and you two fight, you take it as a sign. And yet, you can't stay away from each other."
I rolled onto my stomach and pressed my face into the pillow. "The thought of him being with her is killing me, Skye. I was the other woman, and I want to strangle him for that."
"I'm not saying what he did wasn't wrong and that you shouldn't be mad at him, but at this point, you should know that hearing him out is probably the best move. Don't you want to know what was really going on with him and Vivian? He said he broke the engagement off, but when did he do that?"
A part of me didn't want to know anything about the things he had done with her, sexually or otherwise. It would be too painful to
hear. However, the rest of me was curious to know if the relationship they’d had was like ours.
If it had been so great, why did he leave her?
I rested my cheek on the pillow and looked at Skye. “What would you do if you found out Cyrus had a fiancée?”
"First, I'd slap his ass into next week, but then I'd want him to tell me everything, from start to finish. He’d better have a damn good explanation if he wanted me to stay with him. If he kept secrets and lied to me, I’d lose all respect for him. But if he told me the truth, then our relationship might be salvaged."
"Since when did you become a relationship expert?" I teased.
She grinned smugly. "I'm a girlfriend now. I've been learning on the job."
"Yes, while I'm failing miserably."
She patted my back. “You’re not failing. You and Will are different than Cyrus and me. The two of you have more obstacles to overcome than we do.”
The feeling of something pushing against my mind had me rolling over to sit up. My eyes darted around the around the room frantically.
Skye sat up as well. “Elinor, what’s going on? Your eyes are white.”
“Elinor?" A voice called in my head, and I turned to look at Skye.
“Yes?” I answered out loud. “Faelen, is that you?"
“Yes,” Faelen answered. Her voice was so clear, it was as if she was sitting right beside me.
I sighed. “I’m okay, Skye; it’s just Faelen.”
“I never knew a mind-link was possible from such a distance." Skye looked impressed. "I thought a mind-link through dreams was easier to do from far away.”
“We’ve arrived.” Faelen’s voice echoed in my head. “Where are you? Are you all okay?”
“Were you attacked?” I probed as I stared at the wall across the room.
"No, we arrived safely, and I'm looking at your father's grumpy face as we speak. He wants to know if you're okay."
Another random document with no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Ten minute stories
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Ten minute stories
Author: Algernon Blackwood
Release date: February 11, 2024 [eBook #72928]
Language: English
Original publication: London: John Murray, 1914
Credits: Emmanuel Ackerman, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TEN MINUTE STORIES ***
TEN MINUTE STORIES
CONTENTS
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
TEN MINUTE STORIES
B ALGERNON BLACKWOOD
AUTHOR OF “JOHN SILENCE” ETC.
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
F E February 1914 Reprinted February 1914
All rights reserved
PREFATORY NOTE
T Author wishes to thank the Editors of the Morning Post, the Westminster Gazette, and Country Life for permission to reprint in this volume stories originally published in their papers.
ACCESSORY BEFORE THE FACT
A the moorland cross-roads Martin stood examining the sign-post for several minutes in some bewilderment. The names on the four arms were not what he expected, distances were not given, and his map, he concluded with impatience, must be hopelessly out of date. Spreading it against the post, he stooped to study it more closely. The wind blew the corners flapping against his face. The small print was almost indecipherable in the fading light. It appeared, however—as well as he could make out—that two miles back he must have taken the wrong turning.
He remembered that turning. The path had looked inviting; he had hesitated a moment, then followed it, caught by the usual lure of walkers that it “might prove a short cut.” The short-cut snare is old as human nature. For some minutes he studied the sign-post and the map alternately. Dusk was falling, and his knapsack had grown heavy. He could not make the two guides tally, however, and a feeling of uncertainty crept over his mind. He felt oddly baffled, frustrated. His thought grew thick. Decision was most difficult. “I’m muddled,” he thought; “I must be tired,” as at length he chose the most likely arm. “Sooner or later it will bring me to an inn, though not the one I intended.” He accepted his walker’s luck, and started briskly. The arm read, “Over Litacy Hill” in small, fine letters that danced and shifted every time he looked at them; but the name was not discoverable on the map. It was, however, inviting like the short cut. A similar impulse again directed his choice. Only this time it seemed more insistent, almost urgent.
And he became aware, then, of the exceeding loneliness of the country about him. The road for a hundred yards went straight, then curved like a white river running into space; the deep blue-green of heather lined the banks, spreading upwards through the twilight; and occasional small pines stood solitary here and there, all unexplained. The curious adjective, having made its appearance, haunted him. So many things that afternoon were similarly—unexplained: the short cut, the darkened map, the names on the sign-post, his own erratic impulses, and the growing strange confusion that crept upon his spirit. The entire country-side needed explanation, though
perhaps “interpretation” was the truer word. Those little lonely trees had made him see it. Why had he lost his way so easily? Why did he suffer vague impressions to influence his direction? Why was he here—exactly here? And why did he go now “over Litacy Hill”?
Then, by a green field that shone like a thought of daylight amid the darkness of the moor, he saw a figure lying in the grass. It was a blot upon the landscape, a mere huddled patch of dirty rags, yet with a certain horrid picturesqueness too; and his mind—though his German was of the schoolroom order—at once picked out the German equivalents as against the English. Lump and Lumpen flashed across his brain most oddly. They seemed in that moment right, and so expressive, almost like onomatopœic words, if that were possible of sight. Neither “rags” nor “rascal” would have fitted what he saw. The adequate description was in German.
Here was a clue tossed up by the part of him that did not reason. But it seems he missed it. And the next minute the tramp rose to a sitting posture and asked the time of evening. In German he asked it. And Martin, answering without a second’s hesitation, gave it, also in German, “halb sieben”—half-past six. The instinctive guess was accurate. A glance at his watch when he looked a moment later proved it. He heard the man say, with the covert insolence of tramps, “T’ank you; much opliged.” For Martin had not shown his watch—another intuition subconsciously obeyed.
He quickened his pace along that lonely road, a curious jumble of thoughts and feelings surging through him. He had somehow known the question would come, and come in German. Yet it flustered and dismayed him. Another thing had also flustered and dismayed him. He had expected it in the same queer fashion: it was right. For when the ragged brown thing rose to ask the question, a part of it remained lying on the grass—another brown, dirty thing. There were two tramps. And he saw both faces clearly. Behind the untidy beards, and below the old slouch hats, he caught the look of unpleasant, clever faces that watched him closely while he passed. The eyes followed him. For a second he looked straight into those eyes, so that he could not fail to know them. And he understood, quite horridly, that both faces were too sleek, refined, and cunning for those of ordinary tramps. The men were not really tramps at all. They were disguised.
“How covertly they watched me!” was his thought, as he hurried along the darkening road, aware in dead earnestness now of the loneliness and
desolation of the moorland all about him.
Uneasy and distressed, he increased his pace. Midway in thinking what an unnecessarily clanking noise his nailed boots made upon the hard white road, there came upon him with a rush together the company of these things that haunted him as “unexplained.” They brought a single definite message: That all this business was not really meant for him at all, and hence his confusion and bewilderment; that he had intruded into someone else’s scenery, and was trespassing upon another’s map of life. By some wrong inner turning he had interpolated his person into a group of foreign forces which operated in the little world of someone else. Unwittingly, somewhere, he had crossed the threshold, and now was fairly in—a trespasser, an eavesdropper, a Peeping Tom. He was listening, peeping; overhearing things he had no right to know, because they were intended for another. Like a ship at sea he was intercepting wireless messages he could not properly interpret, because his Receiver was not accurately tuned to their reception. And more—these messages were warnings!
Then fear dropped upon him like the night. He was caught in a net of delicate, deep forces he could not manage, knowing neither their origin nor purpose. He had walked into some huge psychic trap elaborately planned and baited, yet calculated for another than himself. Something had lured him in, something in the landscape, the time of day, his mood. Owing to some undiscovered weakness in himself he had been easily caught. His fear slipped easily into terror.
What happened next happened with such speed and concentration that it all seemed crammed into a moment. At once and in a heap it happened. It was quite inevitable. Down the white road to meet him a man came swaying from side to side in drunkenness quite obviously feigned—a tramp; and while Martin made room for him to pass, the lurch changed in a second to attack, and the fellow was upon him. The blow was sudden and terrific, yet even while it fell Martin was aware that behind him rushed a second man, who caught his legs from under him and bore him with a thud and crash to the ground. Blows rained then; he saw a gleam of something shining; a sudden deadly nausea plunged him into utter weakness where resistance was impossible. Something of fire entered his throat, and from his mouth poured a thick sweet thing that choked him. The world sank far away into darkness.... Yet through all the horror and confusion ran the trail of two clear thoughts: he realised that the first tramp had sneaked at a fast
double through the heather and so come down to meet him; and that something heavy was torn from fastenings that clipped it tight and close beneath his clothes against his body....
Abruptly then the darkness lifted, passed utterly away. He found himself peering into the map against the sign-post. The wind was flapping the corners against his cheek, and he was poring over names that now he saw quite clear. Upon the arms of the sign-post above were those he had expected to find, and the map recorded them quite faithfully. All was accurate again and as it should be. He read the name of the village he had meant to make—it was plainly visible in the dusk, two miles the distance given. Bewildered, shaken, unable to think of anything, he stuffed the map into his pocket unfolded, and hurried forward like a man who has just wakened from an awful dream that had compressed into a single second all the detailed misery of some prolonged, oppressive nightmare.
He broke into a steady trot that soon became a run; the perspiration poured from him; his legs felt weak, and his breath was difficult to manage. He was only conscious of the overpowering desire to get away as fast as possible from the sign-post at the cross-roads where the dreadful vision had flashed upon him. For Martin, accountant on a holiday, had never dreamed of any world of psychic possibilities. The entire thing was torture. It was worse than a “cooked” balance of the books that some conspiracy of clerks and directors proved at his innocent door. He raced as though the countryside ran crying at his heels. And always still ran with him the incredible conviction that none of this was really meant for himself at all. He had overheard the secrets of another. He had taken the warning for another into himself, and so altered its direction. He had thereby prevented its right delivery. It all shocked him beyond words. It dislocated the machinery of his just and accurate soul. The warning was intended for another, who could not—would not—now receive it.
The physical exertion, however, brought at length a more comfortable reaction and some measure of composure. With the lights in sight, he slowed down and entered the village at a reasonable pace. The inn was reached, a bedroom inspected and engaged, and supper ordered with the solid comfort of a large Bass to satisfy an unholy thirst and complete the restoration of balance. The unusual sensations largely passed away, and the odd feeling that anything in his simple, wholesome world required explanation was no longer present. Still with a vague uneasiness about him,
though actual fear quite gone, he went into the bar to smoke an after-supper pipe and chat with the natives, as his pleasure was upon a holiday, and so saw two men leaning upon the counter at the far end with their backs towards him. He saw their faces instantly in the glass, and the pipe nearly slipped from between his teeth. Clean-shaven, sleek, clever faces—and he caught a word or two as they talked over their drinks—German words. Well dressed they were, both men, with nothing about them calling for particular attention; they might have been two tourists holiday-making like himself in tweeds and walking-boots. And they presently paid for their drinks and went out. He never saw them face to face at all; but the sweat broke out afresh all over him, a feverish rush of heat and ice together ran about his body; beyond question he recognised the two tramps, this time not disguised—not yet disguised.
He remained in his corner without moving, puffing violently at an extinguished pipe, gripped helplessly by the return of that first vile terror. It came again to him with an absolute clarity of certainty that it was not with himself they had to do, these men, and, further, that he had no right in the world to interfere. He had no locus standi at all; it would be immoral ... even if the opportunity came. And the opportunity, he felt, would come. He had been an eavesdropper, and had come upon private information of a secret kind that he had no right to make use of, even that good might come —even to save life. He sat on in his corner, terrified and silent, waiting for the thing that should happen next.
But night came without explanation. Nothing happened. He slept soundly. There was no other guest at the inn but an elderly man, apparently a tourist like himself. He wore gold-rimmed glasses, and in the morning Martin overheard him asking the landlord what direction he should take for Litacy Hill. His teeth began then to chatter and a weakness came into his knees. “You turn to the left at the cross-roads,” Martin broke in before the landlord could reply; “you’ll see the sign-post about two miles from here, and after that it’s a matter of four miles more.” How in the world did he know, flashed horribly through him. “I’m going that way myself,” he was saying next; “I’ll go with you for a bit—if you don’t mind!” The words came out impulsively and ill-considered; of their own accord they came. For his own direction was exactly opposite. He did not want the man to go alone. The stranger, however, easily evaded his offer of companionship. He thanked him with the remark that he was starting later in the day.... They
were standing, all three, beside the horse-trough in front of the inn, when at that very moment a tramp, slouching along the road, looked up and asked the time of day. And it was the man with the gold-rimmed glasses who told him.
“T’ank you; much opliged,” the tramp replied, passing on with his slow, slouching gait, while the landlord, a talkative fellow, proceeded to remark upon the number of Germans that lived in England and were ready to swell the Teutonic invasion which he, for his part, deemed imminent.
But Martin heard it not. Before he had gone a mile upon his way he went into the woods to fight his conscience all alone. His feebleness, his cowardice, were surely criminal. Real anguish tortured him. A dozen times he decided to go back upon his steps, and a dozen times the singular authority that whispered he had no right to interfere prevented him. How could he act upon knowledge gained by eavesdropping? How interfere in the private business of another’s hidden life merely because he had overheard, as at the telephone, its secret dangers? Some inner confusion prevented straight thinking altogether. The stranger would merely think him mad. He had no “fact” to go upon.... He smothered a hundred impulses ... and finally went on his way with a shaking, troubled heart.
The last two days of his holiday were ruined by doubts and questions and alarms—all justified later when he read of the murder of a tourist upon Litacy Hill. The man wore gold-rimmed glasses, and carried in a belt about his person a large sum of money. His throat was cut. And the police were hard upon the trail of a mysterious pair of tramps, said to be—Germans.
THE DEFERRED APPOINTMENT
T little “Photographic Studio” in the side-street beyond Shepherd’s Bush had done no business all day, for the light had been uninviting to even the vainest sitter, and the murky sky that foreboded snow had hung over London without a break since dawn. Pedestrians went hurrying and shivering along the pavements, disappearing into the gloom of countless ugly little houses the moment they passed beyond the glare of the big electric standards that lit the thundering motor-buses in the main street. The first flakes of snow, indeed, were already falling slowly, as though they shrank from settling in the grime. The wind moaned and sang dismally, catching the ears and lifting the shabby coat-tails of Mr. Mortimer Jenkyn, “Photographic Artist,” as he stood outside and put the shutters up with his own cold hands in despair of further trade. It was five minutes to six.
With a lingering glance at the enlarged portrait of a fat man in masonic regalia who was the pride and glory of his window-front, he fixed the last hook of the shutter, and turned to go indoors. There was developing and framing to be done upstairs, not very remunerative work, but better, at any rate, than waiting in an empty studio for customers who did not come— wasting the heat of two oil-stoves into the bargain. And it was then, in the act of closing the street-door behind him, that he saw a man standing in the shadows of the narrow passage, staring fixedly into his face.
Mr. Jenkyn admits that he jumped. The man was so very close, yet he had not seen him come in; and in the eyes was such a curiously sad and appealing expression. He had already sent his assistant home, and there was no other occupant of the little two-storey house. The man must have slipped past him from the dark street while his back was turned. Who in the world could he be, and what could he want? Was he beggar, customer, or rogue?
“Good evening,” Mr. Jenkyn said, washing his hands, but using only half the oily politeness of tone with which he favoured sitters. He was just going to add “sir,” feeling it wiser to be on the safe side, when the stranger shifted his position so that the light fell directly upon his face, and Mr. Jenkyn was
aware that he—recognised him. Unless he was greatly mistaken, it was the second-hand bookseller in the main street.
“Ah, it’s you, Mr. Wilson!” he stammered, making half a question of it, as though not quite convinced. “Pardon me; I did not quite catch your face —er—I was just shutting up.” The other bowed his head in reply. “Won’t you come in? Do, please.”
Mr. Jenkyn led the way. He wondered what was the matter. The visitor was not among his customers; indeed, he could hardly claim to know him, having only seen him occasionally when calling at the shop for slight purchases of paper and what not. The man, he now realised, looked fearfully ill and wasted, his face pale and haggard. It upset him rather, this sudden, abrupt call. He felt sorry, pained. He felt uneasy.
Into the studio they passed, the visitor going first as though he knew the way, Mr. Jenkyn noticing through his flurry that he was in his “Sunday best.” Evidently he had come with a definite purpose. It was odd. Still without speaking, he moved straight across the room and posed himself in front of the dingy background of painted trees, facing the camera. The studio was brightly lit. He seated himself in the faded arm-chair, crossed his legs, drew up the little round table with the artificial roses upon it in a tall, thin vase, and struck an attitude. He meant to be photographed. His eyes, staring straight into the lens, draped as it was with the black velvet curtain, seemed, however, to take no account of the Photographic Artist. But Mr. Jenkyn, standing still beside the door, felt a cold air playing over his face that was not merely the winter cold from the street. He felt his hair rise. A slight shiver ran down his back. In that pale, drawn face, and in those staring eyes across the room that gazed so fixedly into the draped camera, he read the signature of illness that no longer knows hope. It was Death that he saw.
In a flash the impression came and went—less than a second. The whole business, indeed, had not occupied two minutes. Mr. Jenkyn pulled himself together with a strong effort, dismissed his foolish obsession, and came sharply to practical considerations. “Forgive me,” he said, a trifle thickly, confusedly, “but I—er—did not quite realise. You desire to sit for your portrait, of course. I’ve had such a busy day, and—’ardly looked for a customer so late.” The clock, as he spoke, struck six. But he did not notice the sound. Through his mind ran another reflection: “A man shouldn’t ’ave
his picture taken when he’s ill and next door to dying. Lord! He’ll want a lot of touching-up and finishin’, too!”
He began discussing the size, price, and length—the usual rigmarole of his “profession,” and the other, sitting there, still vouchsafed no comment or reply. He simply made the impression of a man in a great hurry, who wished to finish a disagreeable business without unnecessary talk. Many men, reflected the photographer, were the same; being photographed was worse to them than going to the dentist. Mr. Jenkyn filled the pauses with his professional running talk and patter, while the sitter, fixed and motionless, kept his first position and stared at the camera. The photographer rather prided himself upon his ability to make sitters look bright and pleasant; but this man was hopeless. It was only afterwards Mr. Jenkyn recalled the singular fact that he never once touched him—that, in fact, something connected possibly with his frail appearance of deadly illness had prevented his going close to arrange the details of the hastily assumed pose.
“It must be a flashlight, of course, Mr. Wilson,” he said, fidgeting at length with the camera-stand, shifting it slightly nearer; while the other moved his head gently yet impatiently in agreement. Mr. Jenkyn longed to suggest his coming another time when he looked better, to speak with sympathy of his illness; to say something, in fact, that might establish a personal relation. But his tongue in this respect seemed utterly tied. It was just this personal relation which seemed impossible of approach— absolutely and peremptorily impossible. There seemed a barrier between the two. He could only chatter the usual professional commonplaces. To tell the truth, Mr. Jenkyn thinks he felt a little dazed the whole time—not quite his usual self. And, meanwhile, his uneasiness oddly increased. He hurried. He, too, wanted the matter done with and his visitor gone.
At length everything was ready, only the flashlight waiting to be turned on, when, stooping, he covered his head with the velvet cloth and peered through the lens—at no one! When he says “at no one,” however, he qualifies it thus: “There was a quick flash of brilliant white light and a face in the middle of it—my gracious Heaven! But such a face—’im, yet not ’im —like a sudden rushing glory of a face! It shot off like lightning out of the camera’s field of vision. It left me blinded, I assure you, ’alf blinded, and that’s a fac’. It was sheer dazzling!”
It seems Mr. Jenkyn remained entangled a moment in the cloth, eyes closed, breath coming in gasps, for when he got clear and straightened up again, staring once more at his customer over the top of the camera, he stared for the second time at—no one. And the cap that he held in his left hand he clapped feverishly over the uncovered lens. Mr. Jenkyn staggered ... looked hurriedly round the empty studio, then ran, knocking a chair over as he went, into the passage. The hall was deserted, the front door closed. His visitor had disappeared “almost as though he hadn’t never been there at all”—thus he described it to himself in a terrified whisper. And again he felt the hair rise on his scalp; his skin crawled a little, and something put back the ice against his spine.
After a moment he returned to the studio and somewhat feverishly examined it. There stood the chair against the dingy background of trees; and there, close beside it, was the round table with the flower vase. Less than a minute ago Mr. Thomas Wilson, looking like death, had been sitting in that very chair. “It wasn’t all a sort of dreamin’, then,” ran through his disordered and frightened mind. “I did see something ...!” He remembered vaguely stories he had read in the newspapers, stories of queer warnings that saved people from disasters, apparitions, faces seen in dream, and so forth. “Maybe,” he thought with confusion, “something’s going to ’appen to me!” Further than that he could not get for some little time, as he stood there staring about him, almost expecting that Mr. Wilson might reappear as strangely as he had disappeared. He went over the whole scene again and again, reconstructing it in minutest detail. And only then, for the first time, did he plainly realise two things which somehow or other he had not thought strange before, but now thought very strange. For his visitor, he remembered, had not uttered a single word, nor had he, Mr. Jenkyn, once touched his person.... And, thereupon, without more ado, he put on his hat and coat and went round to the little shop in the main street to buy some ink and stationery which he did not in the least require.
The shop seemed all as usual, though Mr. Wilson himself was not visible behind the littered desk. A tall gentleman was talking in low tones to the partner. Mr. Jenkyn bowed as he went in, then stood examining a case of cheap stylographic pens, waiting for the others to finish. It was impossible to avoid overhearing. Besides, the little shop had distinguished customers sometimes, he had heard, and this evidently was one of them. He only understood part of the conversation, but he remembers all of it. “Singular,
yes, these last words of dying men,” the tall man was saying, “very singular. You remember Newman’s: ‘More light,’ wasn’t it?” The bookseller nodded. “Fine,” he said, “fine, that!” There was a pause. Mr. Jenkyn stooped lower over the pens. “This, too, was fine in its way,” the gentleman added, straightening up to go; “the old promise, you see, unfulfilled but not forgotten. Cropped up suddenly out of the delirium. Curious, very curious! A good, conscientious man to the last. In all the twenty years I’ve known him he never broke his word....”
A motor-bus drowned a sentence, and then was heard in the bookseller’s voice, as he moved towards the door: “...You see, he was half-way down the stairs before they found him, always repeating the same thing, ‘I promised the wife, I promised the wife.’ And it was a job, I’m told, getting him back again ... he struggled so. That’s what finished him so quick, I suppose. Fifteen minutes later he was gone, and his last words were always the same, ‘I promised the wife’....”
The tall man was gone, and Mr. Jenkyn forgot about his purchases. “When did it ’appen?” he heard himself asking in a voice he hardly recognised as his own. And the reply roared and thundered in his ears as he went down the street a minute later to his house: “Close on six o’clock—a few minutes before the hour. Been ill for weeks, yes. Caught him out of bed with high fever on his way to your place, Mr. Jenkyn, calling at the top of his voice that he’d forgotten to see you about his picture being taken. Yes, very sad, very sad indeed.”
But Mr. Jenkyn did not return to his studio. He left the light burning there all night. He went to the little room where he slept out, and next day gave the plate to be developed by his assistant. “Defective plate, sir,” was the report in due course; “shows nothing but a flash of light—uncommonly brilliant.” “Make a print of it all the same,” was the reply. Six months later, when he examined the plate and print, Mr. Jenkyn found that the singular streaks of light had disappeared from both. The uncommon brilliance had faded out completely as though it had never been there.
THE PRAYER
T was a glitter in the eye of O’Malley when they met. “I’ve got it!” he said under his breath, holding out a tiny phial with the ominous red label.
“Got what?” asked Jones, as though he didn’t know. Both were medical students; both of a speculative and adventurous turn of mind as well; the Irishman, however, ever the leader in mischief.
“The stuff!” was the reply. “The recipe the Hindu gave me. Your night’s free, isn’t it? Mine, too. We’ll try it. Eh?”
They eyed the little bottle with its shouting label—Poison. Jones took it up, fingered it, drew the cork, sniffed it. “Ugh!” he exclaimed, “it’s got an awful smell. Don’t think I could swallow that!”
“You don’t swallow it,” answered O’Malley impatiently. “You sniff it up through the nose—just a drop. It goes down the throat that way.”
“Irish swallowing, eh?” laughed Jones uneasily. “It looks wicked to me.” He played with the bottle, till the other snatched it away.
“Look out, man! Begad, there’s enough there to kill a Cabinet Minister, or a horse. It’s the real stuff, I tell you. I told him it was for a psychical experiment. You remember the talk we had that night——”
“Oh, I remember well enough. But it’s not worth while in my opinion. It will only make us sick.” He said it almost angrily. “Besides, we’ve got enough hallucinations in life already without inducing others——”
O’Malley glanced up quickly. “Nothing of the sort,” he snapped. “You’re backing out. You swore you’d try it with me if I got it. The effect——”
“Well, what is the effect?”
The Irishman looked keenly at him. He answered very low. Evidently he said something he really believed. There was gravity, almost solemnity, in his voice and manner.
“Opens the inner sight,” he whispered darkly. “Makes you sensitive to thoughts and thoughtforces.” He paused a moment, staring hard into the other’s eyes. “For instance,” he added slowly, earnestly, “if somebody’s thinking hard about you, I should twig it. See? I should see the thought-
