Wildwood (YA Paranormal Mystery) (14 page)

Todd backed up a few steps. "Sorry. I didn't mean—"

She blew her nose. Todd mumbled more apologies and headed for the door. He sprinted between the traffic to reach the other side of the road. When he looked back through the gift shop window, Mrs. Bishop was huddled behind the counter at the back of the shop with her hands over her face.

He leaned his forehead against the wall, a sick feeling in his gut. Tourists meandered past him, looking in the shop windows—all so normal. While Todd felt anything but normal. He felt crumpled and dirty inside for making Mrs. Bishop cry.

Finally, he pulled himself together and headed to the art gallery. He dropped down on the step and wrapped his arms around Picasso, burying his face in the warm, silky fur on the dog's neck, losing himself in the simple affection of the dog's companionship.

Dogs didn't judge you or criticize you or think you should be different or better. They accepted you as you were. He missed his dad's dog Bella even after all these years.

He could hear Shaun singing to himself in the studio, but Todd didn't want to talk to anyone right now. He closed his eyes, soaked up the sun, and enjoyed the way Picasso's quiet presence soothed his hunter's senses.

"Todd!" A while later, Grandpa's shout boomed across the street, breaking into Todd's sleepy trance.

Grandpa had obviously visited the gift shop. He marched across the street, hands on hips, face livid. "Home, young man. Now!"

When they reached the living quarters behind the shop, Grandpa slammed the door and rounded on Todd. "I told you
not
to ask any more questions," he shouted. "So what do you do?" He stabbed a finger in the direction of the street. "You waltz into the gift shop and grill Pat about her son's death. The poor woman is grieving, Todd.
Grieving
. You are not—I repeat not—to ask her any more questions."

Todd looked down at his feet. He didn't need Grandpa to tell him off. He felt bad enough already. The older man sighed. "I'm wasting my breath, aren't I? Just like your father, you'll take no notice of me. You're grounded for the rest of the day. You can come and stock shelves in the shop."

"I won't upset Mrs. Bishop again," Todd mumbled. And he meant it. But he couldn't stop searching for Andrew's killer, especially after what she had said. She had been certain Kelvin wasn't to blame, and Todd was starting to think he'd been wrong about that. But her questions had suggested she thought someone else might have followed Andrew. Could Andrew's death have anything to do with the people he'd seen on the night of the storm? And why were they going to Lords Wood in the middle of a stormy night? The ancient Celtic words Todd had heard in the clearing by the standing stones echoed back through his mind—the same words Dad had written in the Green Man books.

***

The following morning, Todd copied out the ancient Celtic phrase from his father's book and shoved the scrap of paper in his pocket, then he headed to Shaun's.

He cast a wary glance at the gift shop as he hurried past. For a change, Picasso wasn't on the gallery step, tripping everyone up. When Todd reached the door to the inner studio, he saw the dog lying across Shaun's feet, his large dark eyes solemn.

"Hey," Todd said.

"Hey yourself." Shaun spared him a brief glance, then went back to his painting. Todd dropped into the ratty armchair he'd started to think of as his own and waited for Picasso to come and greet him. The dog put his paw over his face and whined.

"What's wrong with Casso?"

Pausing with his brush in midair, Shaun looked down at his dog. "Daft thing." He scratched behind Picasso's ears and sighed. "He's picking up on my mood, I expect. The old man rang first thing. Mum's been paying my rent here because I don't earn enough selling paintings to afford it. Dad found out and cut me off. I'm paid up for another week, then I'm homeless."

"Where will you go?" Porthallow would be a lot more boring without Shaun and Picasso.

Shaun put down his brush and leaned back, staring into the distance. "I've got a list of places I want to paint: Paris, Venice, Rome, and lots of other European cities that fascinate me. But I can't go and leave this old mutt behind." He stroked the top of Picasso's head. "The old man is still pushing me to go to med school. With his connections, he could probably get me a place to start in September."

"You gonna cave and do what he wants?"

"Nope." Shaun grabbed his brush and started painting with renewed vigor. "I'll find somewhere cheaper to rent. Maybe I'll go to Plymouth or Bristol." Todd admired his friend's determination to go his own way. Perhaps he should do the same thing—leave school once his exams were over next summer, and move out of his mum's house, get away from Philippe. The idea had potential.

"Did the storm wake you the other night?" Todd asked.

Shaun grinned, a touch of his usual humor returning. "Man, when I sleep, I'm unconscious. House would have to fall down on me before I woke up."

"So you didn't look out during the storm?"

"Did I miss something interesting?"

Todd stood and stared out the window at the cliff path, a trail of dusty gravel meandering up the hill between the cliff and the hedge. "I thought I saw people going up the hill in the storm."

"In the middle of the night?"

"Grandpa was missing. I think he might have been with them."

Shaun stopped painting and joined Todd at the window. "You sure you saw people?"

Rubbing the back of his neck, Todd grimaced. He had thought he was sure. Now the memory seemed hazy.

"Your grandpa might have been out visiting his girlfriend." Shaun chuckled. "You did say he liked Ruby Turpin."

"Oh, gross." Todd shoved Shaun in the shoulder. "Ruby was my dad's girlfriend."

"So?" Shaun shoved Todd back and they wrestled for a bit, trampling the chocolate milk cartons and crisp packets on the floor.

After a few minutes, they both fell into their chairs laughing and rested their feet on the windowsill.

Shaun grinned. "Was poor little Toddy scared all on his own in the storm?"

"Shut up." Todd flicked a stale crisp he found down the side of the chair. Shaun ducked. Picasso skidded around the chair and wolfed down the crisp, making them both laugh. "If you want to go abroad to paint, you could always leave Casso with me."

"Won't your mum mind?"

Todd shrugged. If he wanted to look after Picasso, he would. Philippe would have to put up with the dog or get lost. He sighed, knowing that wouldn't be how things worked out. The idea of having his own place was starting to sound better and better. But first, he'd have to get a job, and jobs as wildlife wardens were hard to come by, which left gardening. With a sigh, he turned his thoughts back to the present. "Can I use your computer?"

"Go for it."

Todd sat on the stool by the small desk wedged in the corner behind Shaun's chair and twitched the mouse to wake the machine up. He took the opportunity to check in on Facebook and look at his emails.

He deleted unread all the emails except the one from Em. She described Philippe's family home where they were staying in the Loire Valley. She had a way with words, and the huge house and grounds sounded fascinating with mature gardens, a river, and caves. Todd almost wished he'd gone with them. In her final paragraph, she begged him to be careful because she'd had another dream about him being in danger. He shifted uneasily on the stool. Since Marigold had told him about her visions, Todd had decided he should take Emma's warnings more seriously.

When he pulled his note of the Celtic words from his pocket, something fell out and rolled along the floor. He bent and retrieved the tiny gold hoop earring he'd found in the woods. He leaned around Shaun's chair and opened his hand. "Ever seen this before?"

Shaun took the earring and turned it over. "Might be mine. I lost one a few days ago." He ran upstairs, and returned with a matching ring. He placed them side by side on his palm. "Yep, it's mine. Where'd you find it?"

A chill of caution washed over Todd. "Where do you think you lost it?"

"I don't know. What is this, twenty questions?"

"It was up in the woodland."

"Wow, what a coincidence you picked it up. Thanks, man." He stuffed both rings in his pocket and went back to his painting.

Todd turned back to the computer and stared at the screen, but stayed lost in his thoughts. Despite some incriminating evidence, Todd had been certain Shaun couldn't be Andrew's killer. But little things kept pointing to Shaun: his fight with Andrew, his having Andrew's binoculars, and now Shaun's earring in the place where he admitted picking up the binoculars. What if Shaun had found Andrew in the woods, argued with him again, and got into a fight. Shaun certainly had a temper; he'd witnessed that when he argued with his dad.

Todd rubbed a hand over his face. This wasn't where he wanted the clues to lead.

He put it out of his mind and searched for information on the Green Man. There were many websites showing images of Cernunnos, the Celtic god mentioned in his father's books. He appeared in paintings, on tarot cards, molded into fancy candles, fashioned out of wood, metal, and plastic. Why did so many people in the modern world want images of an ancient pagan god? In every depiction, Cernunnos had stag's horns. Todd's mind went back to the red deer stag on the hill by the woods, illuminated by moonlight, majestic, almost supernatural. Perhaps Grandpa had been spooked by the stag showing up unexpectedly because it was associated with the Wild Lord.

Some websites run by groups that worshiped the Wild Lord listed the dates of special ceremonies along with chants and prayers.

When Todd finished reading a prayer to the god, a weird sensation crept along his fingers. He flexed them, curled them, and pressed them flat on the cool desktop. The feeling spread up his arms, not painful, more an awareness of blood and bone and muscle as though he'd never really noticed the stuff beneath his skin before. The sensation reached his shoulder, swelled in his joints, stepped down his spine, slipped along his ribs, expanded into his chest and belly. He squeezed his eyes closed while it circled his neck with invisible fingers, prickling the hair on his scalp. Every cell in his body hummed and sparked as though he might explode. His hunter's radar thrummed, spinning like a weather vane in a storm.

He gripped the edge of the desk while colors pulsed behind his eyelids. Was he going to have a heart attack? He'd heard of teenagers who seemed healthy suddenly dropping dead. After the way Dad had disappeared, nothing would surprise Todd.

Gradually the weight lifted as if a presence had passed through him and moved on. He didn't know how long he sat still, eyes closed, concentrating on his breathing. Finally he felt normal again and released a breath loaded with relief.

He didn't remember clicking the mouse, but when he opened his eyes the display on the screen had changed. The website now showed ancient Celtic words and the phrase his father had written in his books was in the center of the page, translated to modern English.

"The Master of Eternity is watching."

He whispered the words aloud. With an ancient understanding rooted in the memory of every cell in his body, he knew the words were true.

Chapter Twelve

Grandpa was too busy in the store to stop for lunch so Todd ate alone in the small conservatory among the plants. He picked the ham out of his sandwich and fed tiny pieces to a Venus flytrap while a rabble of herring gulls squabbled over the crusts he'd thrown outside. He didn't have much of an appetite because he was still spooked over the weird feeling he'd had after reading the prayer to the Wild Lord. And the thought Shaun would soon be gone depressed him.

After lunch, he wandered out into the street dragging his feet. He couldn't put it off any longer; he needed to talk to the two guys he'd seen the day he arrived. There was a chance they'd been in the woodland the morning he found Andrew's body, and they might have seen something. He squinted up the hill towards the oak tree. Relief and apprehension warred inside him when he saw two figures on the bench.

Outside the art gallery, he paused to fondle Picasso's ears, putting off the confrontation. After ten minutes, he sucked in a breath and continued up the hill.

As he approached, the air felt thick and cold in his lungs and seemed to cling to his skin. He tried to pick up the mood of the boys on his radar, but strangely he couldn't sense them at all. It was almost as if they weren't there, but he could see them. They both wore leather boots with dirty jeans and although the sun was blazing down with only a whisper of breeze, they had on old waterproof jackets. Shaun and Grandpa had suggested the guys might be staying at a campsite, but they didn't look like tourists. They looked as though they'd spent a hard day working on the land.