Demon on a Distant Shore (12 page)

The shadows were empty.

I held Royal’s hand as we went back inside via the backdoor. The chill faded, the air again felt heavy, warm and moist.

“Did you see it?”

His hand tightened on mine. “No, but I definitely felt something.”

“I think it was a demon.”

He made a
humph
noise. “Then we did not feel the same thing. It was no Gelpha.”

I slowly shook my head with my mouth hanging slightly open. I imagine a look which could be described as wonder transfixed my face, because that’s what I felt. “I don’t mean Gelpha. It was small and ugly and it had horns. It was a demon.”

I described the little creature in as much detail as I could remember as we climbed the stairs and went inside our room. Royal stood with chin in fingers, wearing his thoughtful look.

“Is there something special about Little Barrow?” I wondered aloud as I looked down at the courtyard. I wanted to see the demon again, so I could quit trying to persuade myself my eyes and mind had played tricks on me.

“Not that I know of.”

“What I got . . . it was once a lot bigger. Not its physical size, its. . . . I don’t know. But it grew smaller over the years. Over many, many years. And we’re responsible.”

Shit
. I had a massive problem putting what I felt into words.

“By
we,
you mean human beings?”

I nodded at the window. Still nothing down there. Maybe we did imagine the whole thing.
No we did not!

Royal sat in the only chair. “I got a feeling of distress. No, more than that. Hopelessness.”

“This place, this area, it was driven here. This is the demon’s haven. It had more territory until that became . . . spoiled? Soiled?”

“Spoiled?” The chair’s springs creaked as he stood. “The land. It is tied to the land.”

I twisted to see him. “Land?”

“Little Barrow. The local landowner and villages on his estate practice organic farming. No chemicals, no pesticides.”

I caught his fervor. “But the other landowners. . . .”

“They use chemicals in the soil for a higher yield.” He reached for my hands, excitement making his face glow. “Tiff, I do not know what your demon is, but I think it is tied to Little Barrow. As the land lost its purity, the creature ended up here, penned in on all sides. What else did you get from it?”

I thought for a minute. “Blood being spilled. I don’t think it meant blood actually polluting the ground - this is England, the whole freaking island’s knee deep in blood and gore. And it made me know it has happened countless times before but . . . it’s so much weaker now and each
assault
diminishes it.”

“What if it considers this area
and
the inhabitants its property? What if by
blood,
it means death?”

“As well as the rape of the land, the death of every person would somehow lessen it, leach its power. Royal, if this land is sanctuary to the demon, suited to it by way of being somehow purer than elsewhere. . . .”

“Then the
land
is not the problem, which leaves the people who live on it.”

“A loss, a needless death.” I closed my eyes. “Murder. It meant murder.”

“Johnny Marsh.”

I opened my eyes as a shiver ran down my spine. “Maybe.”

As you can imagine, I spend a lot of time reading about supernatural stuff, and something I read popped into my mind. “If it’s tied to the land, could it be an Elemental? Would an Elemental care about murder in its territory?”

“If Elementals do exist, we do not have a real idea of what they are. They are myth, and the thing with myth is it could be a tale made up by someone from way back, or based on some inexplicable event or sighting.” He brought me in closer. “And there is the hypothesis myth is fact not yet proven.”

The idea of Elementals came from the Greek concept of the four elements: earth represented by gnomes, water by undines, air by sylphs and fire by salamanders. All four elements balance one another. Elements have been portrayed as anything from mischievous, to harmless, to vengeful. People in medieval times imbued them with godlike qualities and powers, and blamed many a natural catastrophe on them.

“It makes sense,” I said.

Warmth briefly washed over my skin. It felt comforting, but alarming, and I stared at Royal with wide eyes. “Did you feel that?”

His eyes reflected wonder. “Yes. It felt like . . . encouragement”

I didn’t like the ease with which the little creature invaded my mind, and apparently also my senses. I shuddered.

“So we’re on the right track. I wonder if more of these things were here hundreds of years ago. Maybe they were visible to some people. People like me.” I paused thoughtfully, chewing on my lower lip, then met his eyes as the answer came to me. “It’s what we are. My ability isn’t confined to seeing the dead; I can see what other people can’t, what conventional minds say shouldn’t be here. And your Gelpha sensitivity let you feel it.”

We didn’t have a convenient book of the arcane to leaf through and find a picture of our Elemental with accompanying information. Royal did browse the web, because not everything on there concerning the mythical is rubbish. Some
is
information taken from ancient texts. But he didn’t find anything like the little creature which drew us outside and projected its feelings.

Feelings. I did not doubt what the Elemental put in my head with feelings as clear as the spoken word, and I didn’t doubt what I sensed now. Something in Little Barrow stank to high heaven and it was not the landowner’s organic manure.

I studied Royal as he talked on his cell. A wishy-washy sun came through the window, enough to enhance his copper and gold hair into glowing metallic fibers which lay over smooth, pale copper skin. Muscles rolled as he shifted on the edge of the bed. Fairly mesmerized, my mouth went dry, probably because it hung open.

I gave myself a mental shake. There should be a whole lot on my mind which did not include lusting after Royal. Like, would I see anything else on the supernatural side? Shades of the dead, beings from another dimension, mythical creatures - my life was already way too bizarre.

“Hello? This is Paul Norton. We moved two weeks ago and I cannot locate some of our things.”

Pause.

“Oh. I must have the wrong place. Sorry to have bothered you.”

As easy as that: a few words and an English accent, and Royal did a good English accent. The trick to getting information over the phone is to keep the exchange simple and not ask too many questions, let them assume what you are going to say. It works nine times out of ten. Getting someone on the phone who recognized Paul Norton’s voice was unlikely, and if they did, we probably had the right place.

Being careful not to shift around too much and cause a mattress eruption, I lay on the bed while Royal called five more companies. I wanted lunch by the time he finished.

The girl who served us seemed edgy. She held a pen so tightly, her fingers looked almost bloodless and she dropped her pad when she fumbled it from her pocket. Maybe I was hypersensitive, but I didn’t think so. Her hand shook as she poured my coffee and some slopped over the side of the cup into the saucer. She bustled off and returned with a fresh cup, but by then I’d mopped my saucer with the paper napkin. Perhaps she was just tired.

Or she put a note under our door.

Tall and plump, verging on hefty, with carrot-red hair lopped off just below her ears, she kept her eyelids half-lowered over pale-green eyes, all but hiding them, and she had the tendency to bob. You know, the
yes’m
, bob;
no, sir,
bob. A little tag on her snowy white apron identified her as Meagan.

“Do you live here, Meagan?” I asked with a smile.

Bob
. “Yes’m. I have lived in Little Barrow for five years.” She spoke with the same soft, lilting tones as the Shorts.

“Are you related to Greg and Sally Short?”

Bob
. “Yes’m. We are cousins. I expect you recognize the accent.”

“You have beautiful accents. From Wales, I believe?”

She smiled back, but tentatively. “Thank you, ma’am. I was born and raised in Llandudno.”

“Like it here, do you?” Stupid question - what could she say,
no, I hate the place
?

Bob.
“Yes’m. I doubt you could find a nicer little place in the whole of Wiltshire.”

I had to stop following her with my eyes else I got queasy. I itched to question her, and knew I couldn’t risk it.

God, this was so frustrating! Knowing someone was up to something, but not being able to identify that someone, not daring to make inquiries lest we rouse suspicions.

Meagan went to the kitchen, but came out two minutes later with our lunch. “Gammon and chips?”

We moseyed down to the church at noon. The village looked lovely, maybe because the sun actually shone; pale, struggling to escape the clouds, but there for a change. The little lane looked prettier today.

Johnny nodded at me as we passed him.

“Hey, Johnny. How’s it going?”

“Oh, you know me, just ‘anging round.”

The poor kid didn’t have a choice. He would be here for a good many years if Royal and I couldn’t find evidence to finger his killer.

A four-foot flint and mortar wall breasted the church, with two cars parked outside. From the sound of voices raised in song, more people were in there than could ride in those cars, so I assumed some of the villagers walked here.

On a green mound, surrounded by a small enclosed graveyard, Saint Thomas appeared to sit on an island. Truly, the place gave me an eerie feeling. A double iron gate crooked on its hinges made a break in the low stone wall, access to a pebbled path which led to the porch, then split to wind behind the church. The stone wall faced the lane and wound around to the south. A brick retaining wall topped by low privet hedges, dropping down to a deep ditch, bound the other two sides. A square steeple with pointed spire rose from one end of the small rectangular structure, one third from the ground up built of roughly quarried stone, the rest old brick. The deep stone porch protected big oak double doors hidden in shadow.

It seemed a cold and lonely place with a desolate air, despite organ music and voices echoing from the small gray structure and sunlight spackling the grass through beech leaves. I shivered, and decided I would not like to visit at night or the dusk of evening.

We couldn’t miss the Bentley, a black Vintage monster, and oh joy, with one of those big old grilles.

I kept watch while Royal got down on hands and knees. “I spy with my little eye. . . .”

I kicked him gently on the sole of his foot. “Where do you come up with these phrases?”

“I see a few dents. Minor, but definitely dents. He probably thinks they will escape notice.”

The singing in the church stopped and a man’s voice spoke up. Royal rose to a squat. “I need something with a blade.”

“Would a nail file work?”

He smiled at me over his shoulder. “Perfect.”

I pulled my little nail clippers from my pocket, unfolded the nail file and handed it to him. I watched the church door as he poked in the grill and scraped. “What you got?”