Wildwood (YA Paranormal Mystery) (4 page)

Shaun yawned and scrubbed a hand across his face. "Forget it. This is way too heavy a subject before breakfast."

Shaun led Todd through a door into the studio at the back. Even this early in the day, the sun streaming through the glass walls of the conservatory made it hot and—Todd wrinkled his nose—smelly. The floor tiles were barely visible beneath heaps of balled-up paper, discarded beer cans, empty crisp bags, and chocolate milk cartons.

Shaun kicked some rubbish aside and straightened a chair. "Take a pew."

Dropping down on an old chair with dirty foam protruding through its split seams, Shaun stared at the canvas on his easel—an unfinished painting of a church nestled between rolling green hills. "I'm fed up with this already. Want something to eat?"

Nosing through the rubbish, Picasso turned over a chocolate milk carton and licked up the spilled drips on the tiles. Todd grimaced. "No. I'm good, thanks." He picked up a pair of binoculars from the windowsill and scanned the fishermen in the harbor, then followed the coast path. At the highest point of the cliff, on the far side of the bay, he saw Marigold, hat in hand, her hair fluttering behind her like a golden cape.

"What you looking at?"

The air burst out of Todd's lungs, and he realized he'd been holding his breath. Heat crawled up his neck.

With a grin, Shaun stood up. "Bet you've got Marigold in your sights. Give us a look."

Wordlessly, Todd handed over the binoculars. Shaun fiddled with the focus for a second then whistled. "Oh, man. I would love to paint that chick. She'd make a cool mermaid draped across some rocks."

"You like her?" Todd asked.

Shaun watched Marigold for a few seconds longer, then pushed the binoculars back in Todd's hand. "Don't you?"

"I suppose. Been out with her?"

With a rueful laugh, Shaun settled behind his easel before grabbing a handful of crisps from a bag. "Not freakin' likely. She's jailbait, man. I'm twenty-one. Old witch Turpin would skin me alive if I went anywhere near her daughter."

"Old witch Turpin? My grandpa says Marigold's mother looks like her."

"I don't mean Ruby Turpin looks like a witch. She's pretty hot for an older woman. No, she's the 'double, double toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble' sort of witch."

Todd leaned back against the windowsill waiting for the punch line of the joke. It didn't come. "You're serious?"

Shaun shrugged and stuffed more crisps in his mouth. He answered, spluttering crumbs. "Nah. Ruby's scary, though. There's something strange about Marigold, too." He scratched the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. "I feel sorry for her with old witch Turpin for a mother. Someone should rescue her." He dabbed a brush at his painting. "How old are you, seventeen?"

"Fifteen." Todd suppressed a smile.

"Holiday project for you then, Mr. Hunter, rescue the cute babe from her evil witch mother." Shaun winked. "Could be fun, if you know what I mean."

Todd's impulsive grin was chased away by a chill of unease. First Grandpa, now Shaun, both suggesting he get friendly with Marigold. Todd turned away and stared out to sea. His senses thrummed in warning, but he didn't know why.

Time to change the subject.

"Do you know Andrew Bishop?"

Shaun's hand stilled in the act of putting brush to canvas, and he gave Todd an odd look. "Why d'you ask?"

Todd shrugged, wondering at Shaun's reaction. "Just asking."

Shaun's lips thinned. "He's trouble. He keyed my dad's car a few days ago."

"You mean the Mercedes sports car?"

With a nod, Shaun resumed dabbing green paint on his canvas.

"That was the day I arrived. Was your dad the guy in the suit?"

"Yeah, my dad's enough of a pain without Andrew making him worse. The old man wants me to chuck this in and go to medical school. Says I'm frittering my life away and I should get a proper job."

Shaun laughed derisively. "Course, he's got a wonderful job. Want to know what he does?" Todd nodded as Shaun seemed to want a response. "Sews silicone boobs onto bored housewives with more money than sense."

Shaun tossed his paintbrush down onto his palette with a muttered curse and shoved his easel away. Todd decided it was time to leave. "I'm off for a run. I'll check out the ancient woodland on the hill and see what sort of vibes I get from it." Picasso got to his feet, his claws skidding on the tiles as he followed Todd to the door.

"Hey, Casso. Stay here, you daft old thing," Shaun called.

"Can I take him with me?" Todd patted Picasso's head. He loved dogs. He'd wanted to keep his father's dog, Bella, but wouldn't you know it, Philippe was allergic to animal fur.

"Good idea. I took him for a walk first thing, but it won't hurt him to go again. He needs to be on a diet and get more exercise." Shaun tossed Todd a blue dog leash.

"I'll be a couple of hours."

"Don't run so fast you give my dog a heart attack." Shaun waved his brush cheerfully, his bad mood seeming to have passed as quickly as it came. "Tell that cutie, Marigold, I said hi."

Once clear of the busy street, Todd let Picasso off his leash and ran along the coast path with the dog at his heels. Todd's trainers pounded the dry dirt path. The steep gradient up the cliff raised his heart rate and made him puff enough to give him the burn of satisfaction he always felt when he pushed himself.

Hawthorn bushes and brambles grew in green waves along the inland edge of the path. On the other side, wiry grass dotted with clumps of pink sea thrift covered the top of the cliff. In a few places, the cliff top had eroded, leaving only a few feet of bare rock beside the path before the sheer drop down to the sea.

To the left, the vast expanse of the churning, gunmetal-gray Atlantic stretched to the horizon. Small white triangles in the distance marked out yachts that had sailed early with the tide. One of the fishing boats from Porthallow rocked gently on the waves about half a mile out to sea while herring gulls circled hopefully as the fisherman pulled up crab pots from the seabed.

After about a mile, Todd neared the edge of the ancient oak woodland. A thin spiral of smoke drifted up from behind the tops of the nearest trees. He slowed, glanced behind to make sure Picasso had kept up, and then peered between the branches for the source of the fire.

A small thatched cottage surrounded by a colorful flower garden nestled among the trees a short distance away. Todd pulled up. Picasso stopped behind him, tongue lolling, panting damp doggy breath on the back of Todd's legs.

The place looked like something out of a fairy tale. Golden honeysuckle covered the walls surrounding the garden. Deep pink and yellow rambling roses draped the front of the cottage, framing a blue wooden door. Boxes bursting with scarlet and white geraniums hung beneath each of the four windows, while the garden itself was so stuffed full of flowers, he doubted anyone could get in between the beds to weed. A horseshoe hung over the front door and shells threaded on string dangled from the corners of the porch, filling the morning air with strange, jingling music. He could easily imagine a witch inside bent over a caldron whispering a spell. It must be the Turpins' cottage. He'd like to stop and see if Marigold was there, but after what Shaun had said he wasn't sure he wanted to meet her mother.

A chicken wandered onto the path ten feet in front of him, clucking and scratching the dirt. Picasso's ears pricked. He woofed, spraying Todd's leg with dribble. "Shush, boy." Todd grabbed the dog's collar, holding him for the next few paces until they reached a gate in the hedge. Once they'd turned off and the chicken was out of sight, Picasso relaxed.

Keeping a wary eye on the cottage and its back garden, Todd ran along the edge of a small grassy field beside the woods until he found a narrow path that led between the trees. The temperature dropped immediately as he ran beneath the leafy canopy.

Todd slowed to a walk to let poor, exhausted Picasso catch up, and surveyed the forest. The ancient oaks were like no trees he'd seen before; the trunks gnarled by time and bowed landward by centuries of southwesterly winds beating off the Atlantic. Scattered between the oaks was an understory of shiny green holly, rowan, and hazel. The ground beneath was covered with a tangled mass of brown, red and green, bilberry, ivy, and brambles.

He paused for a moment, visualized the woodland clearing from his father's paintings, and opened his senses. The air hummed in his ears and he knew which way to go. Following his instincts he walked on for twenty feet before taking a small turning to the right. From when he was a little kid, he'd always been able to do things other people couldn't: find things that were lost, sense animals, move silently, find his way without ever getting lost, and know the exact time of day without needing a watch.

From the undergrowth, a blackbird chirruped its distinctive song, while all around came the melodic calls of chiffchaffs and wood warblers. Todd walked on silent feet, but, apart from the birds, he didn't see any of the forest creatures that nipped at his awareness. Unfortunately, Picasso crashed through the undergrowth like an elephant and frightened the rest of the woodland inhabitants away. Much as Todd liked the dog, the next time he explored, he'd come alone.

After a few minutes, the trees thinned, and he stepped into an open area. But the small clearing he found wasn't the one from Dad's paintings—in the middle of this clearing stood three ancient granite megaliths.

Chapter Four

An unnatural silence hung in the clearing. The birds had fallen silent. Even the wind had dropped and the clouds decorating the patch of blue sky above were still. Todd circled the standing stones, listening, watching, his head angled in concentration. A presence brushed the edge of his awareness, not an animal, but something subtler, something self-aware and guarded. Something that felt both strange and familiar. A prickle of warning raced up Todd's spine. He scanned the fringe of trees, searching for anyone or anything that could be the source of the feeling.

All he saw was Picasso lying in the shade licking his paw. Todd flexed his tense shoulders and started examining the megaliths again. On the inside of the third standing stone at head height was a carving of a Green Man very similar to the one over the doorway of Grandpa's shop, only much bigger. A beautifully detailed circle of twisted ivy had been hewn into the rock. From within the circle the same spooky man's face stared out, eyes hollow, lips drawn back to reveal two rows of even teeth that looked too big for the mouth.

While Todd stared at the face, a sound whispered on the edge of perception, softly spoken words caught on the wind. He reached out tentatively, brushed his fingers over the face. The words grew louder inside his head. He squeezed his eyes closed, concentrated,
wish...will
...he could almost hear it.

Picasso barked. A pheasant burst from the undergrowth, flapping and squawking. The silent tension snapped. Suddenly birds sang once more, and leaves fluttered in the breeze.

Todd clenched his fist against the megalith, gritting his teeth in frustration. He stared into the hollow eyes of the carved face. "Did you speak to me?" he whispered.

He needed to do some research, find out what the images of the Green Man meant, who they represented. And work out how they were connected to his dad, because instinct told him they were.

Now Picasso was rested, Todd picked up the pace as he ran back along the woodland path. Surprisingly, he got turned around somewhere in the forest and hit the coast path farther away from the village than he expected, on the far side of the Turpins' cottage.

As soon as they reached the coast path, Picasso started barking, a deep rumble of warning trailing at the end of each woof. Todd's hunter's senses vibrated in warning. Deep in the trees behind the Turpins' cottage, he thought he saw movement, two guys ducking out of sight. Could they be the two he'd seen the day he arrived? He swallowed the sudden tightness in his throat. He didn't want to bump into possible bullies in a deserted place like this.

Then a flash of gold winked among the green leaves. Todd crouched, peering through the undergrowth. There it was again—movement, a pale shape darting between the trees. Todd walked closer to the Turpins' cottage and hid behind a tree trunk to keep watch. After a few moments, Marigold ran out of the woods. She unlatched the gate at the bottom of the back garden, cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, then ran towards the cottage.

What was Marigold doing with guys like that, if that's who she'd been with? While Todd leaned against the tree thinking, Picasso snuffled around, following a scent trail to the cliff's edge. Todd grabbed the dog's collar and dragged him back. The last thing he wanted was for the poor old mutt to chase his nose over the cliff. Picasso resisted, pulling surprisingly hard to get back to the edge.