The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(48)

“Towels and such are in the dresser,” Mrs. Spencer said briskly. “Bath’s at the end of the hall. I run a proper house, I’ll have you know. Quiet and tidy. I’ll thank you both to keep it that way.”

“Of course.” Frowning, Arthur nodded toward the third hallway door. “Are there any other guests at present?”

She shrugged. “Had a foreign gent in there. He took himself off two days past. A historian.” She frowned. “Odd ring he wore, too. He had a heavy accent—German, I think, or perhaps Russian. Not that I heard much of his voice. Wasn’t much for tongue wagging, that one.”

Mrs. Spencer’s tongue, by contrast, seemed to be finally warming. “Just the family in tonight. Myself, the mister, and our grandson, Jack.” She sighed. “Might as well tell you now, the lad’s brain’s not so quick. He’s never said more’n a word or two here and there from the day he was born. But he’s an angel otherwise,” she added with a stiff glare, as if to head off any protest. “Good natured and a fine worker. A fine worker.”

“I’m sure he is,” Cybele murmured.

Mrs. Spencer gave a decisive nod. “That’s that, then. I’ll leave you to get settled. Supper’s in an hour.” She bustled off down the stair.

Cybele advanced a couple steps into the room. “Looks clean, at least.”

“Cleaner than we are.” Arthur dropped the backpack on the floor. “Just where did you get all that money, anyway?”

“Stole it from Evander, of course. Switched out dollars for pounds at Heathrow. I reckoned glamour and illusion wouldn’t always be convenient.”

He smiled slightly. “Always planning.”

“Damn straight.”

Rounding the foot of the bed, he braced his hands on the sill of the room’s single window and peered out. Merlin’s Hill was a dark rise of land beyond an open field. Cybele came up behind him.

“We’ll find it,” she said. “The cave, and the staff.”

“Go ahead and shower first,” he said without turning. “I’ll wait.”

***

Cybele’s absence was welcome. Arthur was almost at the end of his rope as far as restraint was concerned. He needed her too much. Her scent lingered in the air, taunting him. He wanted desperately to lay her down on the shabby bedspread and make love to her. But he couldn’t risk having another blackout when she was near.

Restless, he left the room and tried the door to the second guestroom. Unlocked. The space was similar to the one they’d been given. The bed was smaller, however, allowing room for a desk and chair. Though the furnishings were old, the room scrupulously clean. Everything was in perfect order—there wasn’t so much as a wrinkle on the bed covering or a speck of dust on the desktop. The woodwork shone dully, as if recently polished. And yet Arthur couldn’t shake the feeling that something was out of place.

Frowning, he opened all the drawers in the dresser and desk. He even got down on the ground to peer under the bed. It was a waste of effort. He found nothing.

He went to the window. Across a graveled yard stood a barn and a smaller structure that might’ve been a chicken coop. He noted a wagon, a pickup truck, and a well pump. A dirt road ran from the near corner of the barn, passing alongside a pasture before disappearing into a tangle of vegetation. Through the branches, he could just make out the collapsed roof and crumbled stone walls of a much older structure.

A sudden spill of light caught Arthur’s attention. One half of the barn’s double door had opened. A teenaged lad emerged, holding a lantern. He closed the door behind him and turned to trudge toward the house. Just before he passed under the window, Arthur caught a glimpse of his face, strangely illuminated, almost as if from within. Arthur frowned. Light from the lantern? From the window? Or from something else?

“Arthur?”

He turned. Cybele stood in the doorway, wrapped in nothing but two thin towels—one around her body, the other, turban-style, around her head. His gaze took on her bruises—one on her right shoulder, another on her forearm, a third on her thigh. There were bite marks, too. More than a few.

His stomach turned.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Nothing.” He couldn’t lift his eyes from her long, damp legs. He imagined them open, draped over his shoulders.

She stepped past the door and into the room. Immediately, his lust was superseded by a deep feeling of wrongness. He didn’t want her in this room. Something wasn’t right. He backed her up into the hallway.

He shut the door behind him. “Don’t go in there.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not sure. Just...don’t.”

“All right,” she said slowly, eyeing the closed door. “If you say so.”

Once back in their own room, she unwound the towel from her head. Her hair fell, wet and snarled, to her waist. “Ugh,” she said. “I forgot conditioner. It’s going to take forever to comb out.”

Her bare shoulders, even despite the bruises, mesmerized. He went hard just from contemplating her collarbone. She half turned away. His gaze skimmed over the delicate lines of her shoulder blades. Only to freeze at the sight of three long red scratches, running diagonally across her back. Bloody hell.

His erection shriveled. Snatching up clean clothes, he mumbled a couple words and headed to the shower. When he returned, already dressed, it was to find Cybele sitting on the bed, cross-legged. She wore a flowery blouse and panties, and nothing else.