Moonshadow (Moonshadow #1)(14)

All she had to do was reach the village. Paul, the solicitor in charge of overseeing the old entailed estate, had said Westmarch had a pub with rooms for rent, where she could get a hot meal and spend the night before she bought supplies and headed to the gatekeeper’s cottage in the morning.

That idea had appealed, so he had called ahead to reserve a room for her. Once she reached the village, someone could come back for the car and the rest of her things in the morning.

She still wore the skirt and blouse that she had worn to the solicitor’s office. Moving quickly, she opened the boot, rummaged through one of her suitcases, and pulled out jeans, a black T-shirt, a jean jacket, and black Doc Martens boots, which would be comfortable and sturdy for walking. Or running, if need be.

Last, she fingercombed her dark, curling hair back and snapped a band around it. Instinctively she reached to check for her Glock before she remembered she didn’t have it with her.

She’d had no problem leaving her apartment or notifying the precinct she would be taking an extended break. The most difficulty she’d had in leaving was when she had said good-bye to Rodrigo. When she had told him the news, she had reached out to hug him in the same moment he had reached for her.

Somehow the good-bye hug had turned into a tight clench, and they clung to each other for a long moment before letting go. They’d always worked well together and over the last couple of years had become good friends. Now they were the only two survivors of a confrontation nobody had expected to turn fatal.

After that, she had left LA without a backward glance, but she missed her gun with a passionate intensity that some felt over losing a best friend or a lover. Despite the array of offensive and defensive spells in her repertoire, she felt naked without her gun.

The Glock was streamlined and understated, and unlike her taste in the guys she’d dated or her curse with electronics, the gun was utterly reliable. It had saved her ass more times than she could count.

She would fucking marry that gun if she could.

Instead, she’d had to pack it away with the rest of her possessions in order to make this trip. Her California concealed-carry permit meant nothing in the UK, where handguns, semiautomatics, and pump-action rifles were prohibited for most citizens. Sophie had a better chance of contracting malaria here than obtaining a firearm certificate.

As she changed, she kept a wary eye on the secluded Shropshire countryside, but nobody showed up to offer her a ride.

Naturally.

Because if they had, it would have made this too fucking easy. Fuck.

Finally she settled her bag across her body, messenger-style, grabbed a water bottle from the front passenger seat, and forced herself to put two of the small packages of nuts and crisps into the pocket of her jacket.

After she took a long pull of water from the bottle, she wiped her mouth with the back of one hand, then locked the car. Then she swung into a walk that would eat through the miles at an easy pace that her body could handle, heading down the road.

The tight ache in her right thigh eased as tired muscles loosened. Soon her stride turned loose and flowing, and the surrounding quiet began to sink in. The heat of the day had fled, leaving behind the growing chill of a cool summer evening. She felt almost as if she were swimming in pure, ageless golden sunlight.

She began to understand why Kathryn had said the Welsh Marches, or the area that bordered Wales and England, was some of the most mystical land in the world. Land magic wrapped around her, archaic and untamed. Crossover passages to Other lands existed somewhere nearby. Maybe several of them. Maybe even a lot of them.

Soaking it in, walking steadily, Sophie fell into a trance until what looked like the head of a dark mop trundled onto the road several yards ahead.

It just so happened, her trajectory along the edge of the road brought her closer to the wandering object. At first she thought it might be a badger, but when she drew closer, she discovered that wasn’t the case.

Huh. It really did look like the head of a dark mop, sort of all poufy and puffy, and roughly the same size.

It meandered down the middle of the road at a slow enough pace that she caught up with it without really wanting to or trying.

She wanted to ignore it and pass on by. She didn’t want to pay attention. That ambulatory mophead was a what the fuck she didn’t need to jot onto her list.

Angling out her jaw, she paused to look, first down the road in one direction, then behind her. Still no vehicle in sight—but that didn’t mean it would stay that way. This was deep country, and there weren’t any streetlamps. The road would get very dark after sunset.

The mophead was dark too. It wouldn’t show up well in a vehicle’s headlights. Her imagination did the rest.

“Shoo,” she told it. “Get off the road.”

One end of the mop appeared to lift up and turn in her direction. It approached unhurriedly.

Crossing her arms, she waited. When it got close enough, the starch in her knees gave out. In spite of herself, she squatted.

A small, bizarre face like a miniature Ewok’s blinked up at her from a mane of dirty, tangled hair. It had huge, bulbous eyes, one decidedly off-kilter, and a small, black button nose.

It was a walleyed Ewok.

It was… Was it a dog? Maybe it was a Pekinese or a Shih Tzu mix. It had dreadlocks embedded in hair that fell down to the ground. The matting was so pronounced she ground her teeth.

She held out her hand to it. “Don’t bite me,” she warned. “Or I’ll walk away from you without a second glance.”