Warped (3 page)

She stretched out slim, silk-clad legs and let out a faint sigh. Had anyone been sitting nearby, they would have wondered that such an old, creaky sound could have come from such beautiful lips. Lila Gerome often made odd noises. On some occasions it had been amusing for her to let others hear them. For instance, she recalled a brief period of time—when was it? Oh yes, the 1970s. She had performed as the rock singer Belinda. She had rocketed to fame on her unique vocalizations and crooning ballads. And then, just as suddenly as her bright flame of stardom had flared, it was tragically snuffed out. Drug overdose. So sad.

To this day there were some fans who insisted on playing her vinyl records backward, listening for a prayer to Satan. Lila’s laugh rattled deep in her throat.

She’d had many different lives, different names, over the years. Such was the burden and the delight of immortality.

Having to keep moving was a bitch, though. It was an inconvenience she suffered through every twenty-five years or so. Remain in one place too long and the neighbors would begin to wonder. Why does Lila Gerome never seem to age? For the years went by and still she kept the face and figure that would have been beyond the skills of Park Avenue’s most adept plastic surgeons. So she had to move, disappear and reappear somewhere else. Always youthful, always beautiful.

She adjusted a heavy silver ring on one hand. It was a distinctive piece, with a lustrous yellow stone set in its center.

Across the narrow aisle she caught a glimpse of her countenance in the stainless steel galley. Silver-blond hair, perfectly sculpted features and luscious red lips. Her real self was perhaps revealed only in her eyes, which, though beautifully shaped, were somewhat small and strangely flat. Sometimes she wondered if anyone could glimpse her real self peeking out. Certainly no one would ever compare her to the shabby old weaver woman she had once been, so long ago. No, never.

It was truly delicious to be Lila Gerome. She could
be
whatever she wanted,
have
whatever she wanted. As long as she had the tapestry and the threads. And why not? She had worked hard enough, had paid enough. A long time ago she had paid the ultimate price.

The tapestry was snugly packed for shipping to her new home, wherever she decided that would be. She had seen to it herself before she had left the New York house. It was safe, along with the book. Lila smiled.

Her phone rang as they landed. She glanced at it and gave an irritated sigh as she flipped it open with a bloodred fingernail. “What is it, Moncrieff?”

“It’s about the auction.” Her assistant’s voice was tense. “I—I think there may have been a mix-up. The chest in the master bedroom. It’s gone, and I—”

“What!” Lila snapped. She lurched forward and champagne sloshed from her glass.

“I—I believe the auctioneer saw the book and thought it went with the others from the library. The book and the tapestry . . . are gone.”

Her tapestry. Her unicorn. For a moment two feelings Lila had not felt in a very long time gripped her. One was fear. The other was helplessness, which was far worse.

With an effort, she quieted her mind. There was no need to panic. No one could do anything with the tapestry.
She
was the only one who could use it. Only she had the skill to control the threads. But to have it out of her reach was intolerable.

She spoke very quietly. “Moncrieff. Can you hear me? Get it back.” She fumbled in the pocket of her linen jacket and her fingers found something there. A thread. Her fingers wound the thread, and pulled. “Get it back quickly, Moncrieff. Or else. Can you feel this?”

There was a choked gagging sound on the other end of the phone.

“If you don’t find it,” she said in a harsh rasp, “I’m afraid you’re going to swallow your tongue.”

Chapter 4

T
essa stood on a chair and held the unicorn tapestry up to her bedroom wall. It seemed like an outrageous splash of color against the plain, spare décor of her room. She frowned as she eyed the upper edge. She hated things to be uneven.

She turned to Pie, who sat on her bed. The cat watched Tessa with an expression of utter feline boredom. “Is this straight?” Tessa asked. Pie responded by flopping onto his side and swishing his tail back and forth. “You’re never any help,” Tessa remarked with a grin.

Turning to face the tapestry again, she saw the blurred mesh of the woven threads. There were lush greens and midnight blacks and, from the center, the glow of the unicorn in luminescent tones of milk and cream. She blinked. It was odd; up close there seemed to be other layers, other colors, shimmering beneath the surface of the tapestry. And there were more details in the background too. A snake with yellow eyes lay coiled at the edge of the clearing, nearly hidden by a cluster of flowers and grass. Tessa narrowed her eyes, trying to focus on the threads, but they seemed to fade away. It must have been a trick of the dim lighting, but it almost seemed as if other creatures were moving, disappearing into the shadows of the forest. Strange.

She tacked up the corners and stepped down.

There was a hiss behind her. Tessa whirled to see Pie’s bared teeth. His eyes were dilated black moons and his orange tabby fur stood up like it was electrified. He yowled at her, spat another hiss and sprang off the bed.

“O-kaaay,” Tessa remarked. The sound of Pie’s claws as he skittered down the hall trailed away.

Her cat was so weird.

Tessa glanced at the time. She had about fifteen minutes before Hunter would be there. But instead of getting ready, she turned back to the tapestry. Something about it mesmerized her. It was the unicorn. Once more she noticed the droplets of blood stitched along its cheek. It was bleeding, poor thing. She reached out and ran her fingers over the smooth, white surface of its neck.

This time when the rushing blackness took her, Tessa couldn’t even cry out. In an instant she was flung through the dark. When the fog cleared, she was surrounded by brightness and the smell of fresh grass.

She was running.

HARTESCROSS VILLAGE

CORNWALL, ENGLAND

1511

There was a pebble in her shoe. The girl ignored it and kept running across the meadow’s wet timothy grass, kicking out her skirts with each stride of her long legs. She dared to glance behind her. No sign of them yet. Still, she wouldn’t stop for such a trifle. In fact, the little stone chafing her foot, the itch of the wool from damp, muddy stockings, even the bite of a mayfly in her ear, all these were nothing compared to the irritation this day had caused her.

A husband!

She was but ten and seven years of age, but to hear her aunt’s chatter you would have thought she was a warty old crone.

“It’s time you chose a husband. Or are you too good for anyone in the village?” Her aunt had sniffed. “Lam Doddle, for instance. He’s a fine lad.”

The girl vaulted over a clump of bracken and picked up her pace as if the hounds of Hell were behind her.

Lam Doddle. A beefy ox of a boy with wet, droopy lips and a lazy eye. Her aunt thought him a catch. His father was the village cooper, a respected tradesman. Lam had all the makings of a dependable barrel-maker too, she thought. He already resembled one.

She lengthened her stride and raced down the hill, ignoring the hampering weight of her skirts. Her aunt seemed suddenly determined to marry her off, and today’s planting festival in the village had apparently fit in with her scheme. Even the games had conspired against her.

“Who’s for Hare and Hounds?” The shouted question had been followed by a resounding cheer. Numerous mugs of small beer had already been quaffed and a mound of quince tarts devoured. Everyone was ready for sport.

“You’ll be the hare,” Lam announced, leering at her. At least, she thought he was leering. One never knew for sure. One of his blue eyes always seemed to be looking somewhere else altogether.

But she agreed to play. She loved to run; she was the fastest runner in the village. And she was quite sure she could outrun Lam Doddle with rabbit snares tied to her legs.

She was sometimes proud, as her aunt frequently observed. A feature that ill became a poor young maiden. Pride was sinful, and yet she felt sure she was meant for something better than warming a barrel-maker’s bed. But what? What did she want? Whatever it was, somehow she didn’t think she would find it in Hartescross.

Her breath puffed against the cool spring air. Her limbs felt warm and wonderfully loose. She could run forever. As the hare, she’d been given a one-hundred-count head start before the hounds gave chase. Lam wouldn’t wait that long. Everyone knew that the only point of the stupid game was to get caught and be kissed. As if she wanted Lam Doddle to kiss her. Ugh!

She slowed her steps, catching a lock of her hair and twisting it around one finger. She was supposed to leave a trail for the others to follow. From the pocket of her apron she pulled a clump of knotty gray wool, cast off from this morning’s spinning and too matted to be useful. She glanced around impatiently, and spotting a shrub of prickly pear, she pulled off a bit of wool and stuffed it underneath. There! Let the great oaf follow
that
for a trail.

Satisfied, she turned, only to find that her hair was caught on a thorny branch. It took but a moment for her to disentangle her long black locks, but she could scarcely afford the delay; she could hear shouts and laughter in the distance. Her passionate language as she freed herself was probably also ill suited to a fresh young maiden. It was a blessing no one was there to hear it.

Once she was free, her gaze traveled ahead of her to the deep green of the northern woods. She was surprised to see that she’d run this far. Her steps slowed and led her closer to the forest. The shelter and secrecy looked so tempting. But she shouldn’t go in. Those woods belonged to the Earl of Umbric. They were to be used expressly for his pleasure in hunting. No one was to trespass.

Carelessly she dropped another bit of wool onto the grass. She was at the edge of the forest now, and could see the deep shadows beneath the oaks and chestnuts. A draft of cool, wood-scented air washed over her skin, reviving her like a tonic. Lam Doddle would never look for her in there, she thought. He wouldn’t think her brave enough to dare it. Indeed, it would be completely imprudent. Unmaidenly, even. Ha! She picked up her skirts, imagining as she did the clucks of disapproval that the village women would make if they saw her. She ran between the trees and stopped, turning to peer out at the meadow. She froze.

A rider on horseback stood motionless on the rise of the hill. The girl narrowed her blue eyes, taking in the tall form that sat with an easy grace atop a huge black horse. William de Chaucy, the earl’s youngest son.

The girl let loose a startled curse and stepped back, deeper into shadow.

What was he doing? Why wasn’t he off studying, as usual? Everyone knew he fancied himself a scholar. The talk in the village was that William de Chaucy spent half of his time with his face buried in dusty books. Which was a pity, all agreed, because it was a handsome face. Clean-hewn, with a strong nose, and lips sculpted like a taut bow. And his eyes were a tawny golden brown, fringed with dark lashes. It was the sort of face, the girl thought, that made the village maidens stare.

But
she
didn’t like to be made to do anything. So she didn’t stare. In fact, the only looks she ever gave to Will de Chaucy were scowls. Not that he ever noticed.

For they were worlds apart.

Had he seen her? He would ruin everything. If she was caught in these woods, she could be punished as a poacher. A twist of nausea rose from her belly to her throat. Poachers had a thumb branded, or perhaps a hot nail pushed through their ear for their crime. Which would be worse? It hardly bore imagining. She peeked out again.

Another rider had joined William de Chaucy. By his short, square build he looked to be Hugh, the elder de Chaucy brother.

He
must
have seen her. Perhaps even now he was telling his brother he’d spotted someone sneaking into the woods. What if they came after her?

She had no choice. She had to hide. Turning, she ran deeper into the darkness of the forest.

Tessa woke up. Well, not exactly
woke;
she was pretty sure she hadn’t been sleeping. And not exactly
up;
she lay sprawled on the floor. She raised a hand to the back of her head. No lump. Nothing hurt. What had happened? She gazed around her room. The time glowed 6:46 p.m. on the clock radio. She hadn’t been out for more than a few seconds. And she couldn’t have fallen very hard or her father would have barreled in to see what was wrong.

She’d been dreaming. Images and sensations flooded back: of sunlight and shadows and the sweet smell of grass. Someone had been chasing her. Yes, a really vivid dream. A daydream. The details were disappearing . . . .She frowned, trying to remember. But it was like trying to grab a puff of smoke. The memories slipped through her fingers.

Weavyr let out a gasp. “Did you see that? Just now?”

“What?” replied Spyn, startled. She clutched a diaphanous golden cloud that was half spun and hurriedly twined it together with a brilliant black thread. Twins.

“There was a disturbance in the Wyrd. Here.” Weavyr pointed to a fine blue filament. “This one. It folded back on itself. It’s not supposed to do that.” She smoothed the thread back into place.

“What does it mean?” asked Spyn.

“How should I know?” snapped Weavyr. “It’s never happened before!”

Scytha floated up behind them like a draft of cold night air. “Show me,” she intoned.

Weavyr traced the path the errant thread had taken.

“Back in time. Five hundred years,” said Scytha. “To when the missing threads disappeared. Interesting.”

“I’m glad you think so,” muttered Weavyr.

“It is no coincidence,” said Scytha. “There must be some connection to the stolen threads.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” snarled Weavyr. “Nobody listens to me. And mark my words,” she added with a grim sort of satisfaction, “this isn’t the last of it. Something is very wrong.”