Bourn’s Edge (7 page)

“So, has anyone in the village argued with you about the results of the scarecrow contest yet?”

“To be honest,” said Tarian, “I’ve been avoiding them.”

Cassie laughed. “People are so competitive, aren’t they?”

“And another thing. Apparently the winner and runner up are supposed to receive certificates and rosettes.” She gave a helpless shrug.

“Didn’t the vicar leave you any?”

“No.” Tarian wondered if he had been too flustered to remember.

“Well, he’s back tomorrow, isn’t he? He can hand them out himself. Liz says you and he don’t see eye to eye.”

Tarian arched an eyebrow. “Does she?”

Cassie’s cheeks pinked. “I’ve been asking questions about you. I was curious. I’ve never met an artist before.”

Tarian sipped her wine and wondered whether to feel flattered or nervous at her obvious interest. “She’s right. The Reverend’s kind and mine don’t get on.”

Cassie blinked. “Vicars and artists, you mean?”

“Mm.” The wine must be going to her head, or maybe it was the company. She resolved to be more circumspect. “What do you do for a living?”

“Me? Oh.” Cassie fiddled with the stem of her glass. “I’m a librarian. I work in Birmingham.”

“What brings you to Bourn’s Edge? Apart from having to get your car repaired, I mean.” There, the question was out in the open at last.

The silence stretched as Cassie bit her lip and looked down. Tarian had resigned herself to not getting an answer when Cassie’s head came up, and she took a breath.

“This will seem unbelievable, but the truth is, I’m in hiding.”

Tarian leaned forward. “From who?”

“A man named Armitage. Or rather, his men. Armitage himself is in Winson Green prison.”

Tarian sat back. “You put him there?”
Of course you did
.

“In a way. I testified against him. He’s a property developer cum landlord, corrupt as they come.”

“And the police have given you no protection.” Tarian worked it out. “They think you’re exaggerating, but you aren’t. His men have made an attempt on your life already.”

Cassie gaped at her. “How—How did you know about that?”

Just then both dogs got to their feet, hackles rising, growling a low warning to Tarian in the back of their throats. She kicked back her chair and stood up.

“What is it?” Cassie looked at the dogs then at her.

She held up a hand for silence. The ward’s background buzz had risen to a shrill whine that was setting her teeth on edge. With a gesture she destroyed it—it had served its purpose. From the studio came the sound of glass breaking, followed by several dull thuds.

“Uninvited guests.”

At Tarian’s signal, the dogs bounded off to investigate. Moments later came sounds of snarling and scuffling, and a man’s voice raised in pain.

“Stay here.” Tarian went into the hall and reached for the boar spear and bow.

“Shouldn’t we call the police?” Cassie had followed her.

“It would take too long.” The snarling and scuffling intensified, then came what sounded like a shotgun blast. “Moon and stars!”

Her quiver over one shoulder, bow in one hand and spear in the other, Tarian set off along the hall. She had almost reached the studio when a figure spilled backwards through the open door. The man’s stocking mask couldn’t hide his terror, and even falling on his backside didn’t make him release his grip on a still smoking shotgun. The reason became apparent when a large brindled shape leaped through the doorway and sank its teeth into his throat. He let out a helpless gurgle.

Satisfied Anwar had the situation under control, Tarian leaped over the man’s weakly kicking legs and entered her studio. She took in the situation at a glance. Three masked intruders had cornered Drysi. From their bleeding hands, she had bitten them, but now she was trapped. They had used a chair, trestle table, and easel to pen her, and a gangly fellow was about to smash in her skull with a claw hammer.

Tarian pulled back her arm and threw. The boar spear cleared Drysi’s muzzle by a centimetre and took the dog’s attacker in the chest, pinning him to the wall like a butterfly. The hammer dropped from his slack fingers. His companions spat obscenities and turned to face Tarian. Drysi used the diversion to wriggle her way to freedom and returned to the attack.

As the wolfhound threw herself at his throat, the smaller of the men yelled, “Get this fucking dog off me!” Then he began to scream. His friend raised a wicked-looking hunting knife and went to his aid.

With the ease of long practice, Tarian pulled an arrow from her quiver, nocked it to her bowstring, aimed, and loosed. There was a surprised squawk and droplets of something hot spattered her cheek. The man dropped the knife, his hands reaching for the object now sprouting from either side of his neck. Then with a strangled, bubbling cry he collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. She wiped her face with the back of one hand, unsurprised when it came away bloody.

Drysi’s target had crumpled to the floor and lay unmoving in a pool of spreading crimson. The wolfhound spat out a gobbet of flesh and sneezed. It was silent in the studio apart from the padding of Anwar’s paws as he came to join them.

Tarian sat on her heels as both dogs, whining softly, pressed themselves against her. A quick examination reassured her that the blood on their coats wasn’t theirs.
So what damage did the shotgun do?
She scanned her surroundings and paused when she saw her work in progress lying on the floor, a huge hole blown in its centre.

“Good dogs.” She buried her face in Anwar’s rough coat. “Splendid dogs.”

A noise from the doorway made Tarian lift her head and turn to see what had caused it. Cassie stood there, eyes wide with horror and a hand covering her mouth.

CASSIE GAPED AT the carnage surrounding Tarian. How much force had it taken to pin a man to the wall with that ferocious spear?

“You killed them!”

Tarian straightened to her full height and looked at her. The red smears on her cheeks gave her a primal look, and Cassie took an involuntary step back.

Her heel banged against something—a shotgun. Her eyes tracked the arm holding it to the bloody mess that had been its owner’s throat then away again. Everywhere she looked were bodies, hands and limbs contorted in death, and blood—she could even smell it: a cloying, coppery tang. She was glad the stocking masks hid the faces. It was like a scene from a horror movie. She fought against the urge to be sick.

“You killed them,” she repeated, her voice a whisper. The ferocity, speed, and ruthlessness with which the artist and her dogs had despatched the intruders had left her stunned and afraid.

Tarian crossed to the studio’s enamel sink. She turned on the taps and washed her hands. The swirling water ran pink before disappearing down the plughole.

“You didn’t have to,” continued Cassie. “We could have run out the front door, got to safety, called the police.”

Tarian wiped her hands on a towel. “There was no time.” Her tone was cool.

Cassie had thought she was getting to know Tarian, but now she wasn’t so sure. She forced herself to step into the studio. “But to
kill
them, just like that.”
No normal woman could have done it, or been so calm about it afterwards. Who is she?
Her heart thumped.
What is she?

“They don’t deserve your pity, Cassie.” Pale blue eyes held her gaze. “They were warned off but they came back. They would have killed the dogs, then me, then you.”

“But how do you know they weren’t just burglars?”

Tarian crouched beside one of the men and pulled up the stocking mask. “Recognise him?”

Cassie shook her head.

Tarian searched the man’s pockets but came away empty. She rose and moved on to the next corpse. This time, when she pulled up the stocking mask, Cassie let out a gasp. The broken nose and heavy brows were familiar.

“You know him,” stated Tarian.

Cassie nodded. White van man would never smile that snaggle-toothed smile again.

Tarian went through his pockets and pulled out what looked like a photograph, folded in half. She smoothed it and handed it to Cassie.

There was a roaring in her ears as she found she was looking at herself. The photo had been taken a fortnight ago. She was coming out of Birmingham Crown Court. Someone had scribbled over it in magic marker: “This is the bitch. Get rid of her.” She forced herself to breathe, and the roaring faded.

“They came to kill you,” repeated Tarian.

Cassie licked her lips and looked up. “But I—But you—How—?” She didn’t know what to think. Relief that the men were no longer a threat warred with suspicion and disbelief. Something of her confusion must have shown, because Tarian’s expression gentled.

“Go home, Cassie. Let me take care of this.”

“But I’ll need to be here when the police come, won’t I?”

“I’m not going to call the police.”

Cassie’s fear returned, doubled. “What? But you have to. Someone will report them missing, and the trail will lead here.”

“I’ll make sure the trail goes cold.”

“Don’t be stupid. Forensics—”

“Will find nothing. Trust me.”

Ah, but that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? “How can I?” asked Cassie, after a long pause. “After what you and your dogs just did?” She shook her head. “I still can’t believe it. Are you”—an urge to giggle surfaced, and she clamped down on it; now was not the time for hysteria—“are you even human?”

Some emotion flickered across Tarian’s face—regret, sadness?—but when she spoke there was no hint of it in her voice. “It doesn’t matter. I’m no threat to you. You have my word.”

Her answer was like a dash of cold water. Deep down, Cassie had been expecting Tarian to ridicule her for asking such a preposterous question. The fact that she hadn’t . . . Certain things came into stark relief: Tarian’s height and exotic good looks, her wolfhounds, the old-fashioned and very lethal weaponry she kept on her wall.

“Oh my God!” She clapped a hand to her mouth. “You’re
not
human, are you?”

Tarian’s gaze was unfathomable. “Go back to Liz Hayward’s.”

Her tone was that of someone accustomed to having her orders obeyed, and Cassie found herself reacting to it and turning to leave. At the studio door she stopped herself and looked back.

“Will you be all right?”

The question seemed to surprise Tarian. She gave a stiff nod.

For a moment longer Cassie gazed at her, then she stepped over the shotgun and the dead hand still clutching it, grabbed her jacket from its peg, and made her way towards the front door.

Chapter 7

Tarian searched the dead mortals, but found little of interest. She retrieved her arrow and spear—it had gouged a deep hole in the studio wall—and dragged the bodies into the centre of the studio. She didn’t bother to remove the stocking masks, but straightened limbs, and laid out the bodies side by side. In the middle she piled the hunting knife, claw hammer, and shotgun.

The dogs hunkered down, watching her, as she traced a glyph, muttered the accompanying few words, and gestured. The bodies and weapons imploded, disappearing with a faint
pop
. The power drain caused by the powerful spell came a moment later. She staggered under its impact, and her head throbbed. “Moon and stars!” It took her a moment to get back her breath.

After wiping the sweat from her forehead, she set about tidying up. A combination of magic and physical effort soon returned the studio to some sort of order. She left the ruined painting alone, however, and as for the broken window, she would call a glazier in the morning—there were more important uses for her limited energy.

Satisfied no trace of the intruders’ presence remained, she went outside. Footprints led across the lawn to the road. A spell wiped them away. The dirty black car was parked a little way out of the village. Tracking and vanishing it used up the last of Tarian’s reserves.

The sun was rising when she closed the front door behind her, staggered up the stairs, and flung herself fully clothed onto her bed. She let her eyelids close, and slept the sleep of the exhausted.

A tongue licked her awake, and the smell of dog breath was strong in her nostrils. She let out an exclamation and pushed Anwar away. A glance at the alarm clock showed she had been asleep barely an hour. Belatedly her senses kicked in. If she hadn’t been so deeply asleep, the strong prickling sensation would have woken her.

Someone is at the back door. A Fae
.

She hurried downstairs, running a hand through dishevelled hair, and wondered if Einion had returned. It wasn’t her old friend standing on the doorstep, though. Tarian recognised the stern-faced woman in the simple blue gown with a girdle at her waist. Her heart sank. “Garan.”

The Fae bowed her head in greeting. “I bring a message from Queen Mab.”

A loud caw drew Tarian’s eyes to the top branch of the hawthorn. The crow was back. She narrowed her eyes at it before returning her attention to Garan. “What Mab says no longer interests me.”

Garan’s eyebrows rose. “Have the laws of hospitality been suspended? May the Queen’s messenger not come in and be made welcome?”

Tarian sighed and stepped back, allowing her visitor into the kitchen. Garan didn’t say anything as she took in her surroundings. The slight sniff, the disdainful glance said it all. Drysi and Anwar watched her from the door, their manner wary.

Garan pulled out a chair and sat down. Tarian joined her and drummed her fingers on the kitchen table.

“The message,” she prompted.

Garan’s gaze turned inwards and she recited from memory: “I, Queen Mab, sole ruler of Faerie, do hereby pardon Tarian daughter of Brangwen daughter of Eyslk for her past transgressions. Henceforth, her sentence of banishment is lifted. I command her to return to Faerie and assume the post of Royal Champion once more.”

Tarian stared at her. “What?”

Garan’s gaze shifted to her. “Was I unclear?”

“No.” Tarian kicked back her chair and stood up. “But we made a solemn and binding agreement, Mab and I. As far as I am concerned, it still holds.”