Blood Moon (3 page)

Oh, inventory . . . I can do that. It reminds me of working at Livia’s Corner Closet with Jana, where she and I stocked clothing and checked inventory all the time. The brief thought of Jana makes me homesick, though. I wonder what she, Blake, and the others are doing at this exact moment.

You can’t think like that, Candra,
Ben says, interrupting my thoughts.
Whatever happens in the future depends on us and what we find out within the next few weeks or so. But we have to play our cards carefully.

Ignoring Ben, I tell Fiona, “I’ll be happy to help with the inventory.” She raises an eyebrow inquiringly. “I helped at another . . . fabric store in my old town, so I have experience.”

“Well, that settles it, then. And ye?” She pointedly eyes Ben. “What are ye good at?”

“Uh,” Ben falters, “I can sweep the floors, I guess.”

“’Tis not a man’s job to clean, ye know,” Fiona explains. She narrows her eyes. “Word on the street is the two of ye are not from around here. Thy clothes are unlike anything I have seen before. Is this”—she gestures toward our attire—“a new fashion elsewhere?”

“You could say that,” I respond.

She steps closer to me, observing my face suspiciously. “And thy language is unique, as well. Also naught I am familiar with.”

Ben clears his throat. “Well, that’s just how we speak back home.”

Fiona turns her attention to Ben. “And where is thy home?”

He and I exchange a cautious glance. We can easily step on peoples’ toes around here and get caught. That’s not something which needs to happen. Like Ben said before, we have to play our cards carefully.

Ben replies, “Connecticut.”

Fiona ponders his response, then says, “My ears have not heard of thy land. ’Tis near England?”

Shaking his head, Ben answers, “No, our land is far, far away.”

“I see,” says Fiona. “Then, how did the two of ye arrive here?”

“We just sort of . . . dropped in for a visit. We heard England is a nice place. I hope Colchester’s citizens will prove this to be true,” I say, wishing this woman will end her grilling. I’m sure all of Colchester is
dying
to know who we are and where we originated from, but the less they know, the better. We can’t have these people submerging their noses in our business; it’s too risky.

“Aye, of course we will. Ye shall see our kindness thyself, just ye wait,” Fiona says eventually. “Allow me to gather thy measurements first, and then ye can proceed with tidying this place up.”

True to her word, Fiona takes Ben and me into a back room of the charming boutique and calculates our sizes. I have no idea what mine is, especially in this day and age, but I’m willing to bet it’s nothing like the size I sport in my world. The strange part will be when Ben and I have to actually
wear
these new clothes. Let’s get one thing straight: I know nothing about corsets and skirts. I haven’t worn dresses since my mom used me as her personal baby doll when I was, like, five or six. Once I had a mind of my own, I was dead-set on being the neighborhood tomboy.

“That should do,” Fiona says, as she finishes with Ben. “Candra, ye can stay here and I shall show ye the inventory. Benjamin, the broom is in the front of the shop, alongside the entrance.”

“Thank you for doing this. You didn’t have to,” I tell her.

Her cheeks actually flush a rosy red. “’Tis the least I could do since ye are destitute travelers. I will say, I am envious ye are able to traverse different countries. It has always been my dream.”

“Well, maybe one day you’ll see your dream come true,” I say. “And maybe somebody out there in the world will be as kindhearted to you as you have been to us. You know, good karma and all that.”

Fiona’s eyebrows crumple together. “Karma?”

Ben pipes up. “It’s the universe making sure people get what they deserve, which means you’ll have something nice happen to you for helping the two of us.”

Fiona considers this for a moment, then smiles. “That sounds lovely.”

Counting inventory and sweeping the entire boutique doesn’t take long for Ben and me. As a matter of fact, we complete our jobs and then some before the day is finished. In the meantime, Fiona and her helpers labor intensively in the back room over our new clothing, certain they will have the project finished by tomorrow.

As the sun sets on another day, I realize Ben and I haven’t made much progress toward our ultimate goal—finding Alaric, Ulric, and Daciana, and stopping the curse. Should we encounter another witchy werewolf in the near future, though, I’m not entirely sure I
want
to find our ancestors. Not only is it creepy, it’s just downright bizarre. Since when does a person go from transforming into a werewolf to transforming into birds? If I had a power like that, I’d definitely screw it up, possibly turning myself into a flock of geese rather than sinister crows.

And if what Ben said is true, if the abilities used are far greater than anything his family conjured back in Hartford, we’re royally screwed. We can’t even begin to comprehend magic this dark, let alone try to stop it from ever happening. There’s only one option to take at this point: blend in with the rest of Colchester and see if we can find anything abnormal. Maybe we can locate Alaric and the others, follow them to wherever they live, unearth whoever is using the magic, and then figure out a way to stop them from ever causing this curse.

Before we end their practices, though, Ben and I need to figure out a way to get back home. I’m afraid they’re powerful enough to revoke our magical capabilities, and if they do, they’ll revoke all access to the past, present, and future. Which means Ben and I are stuck in the sixteenth century until we’re dead, and that’s undeniably
not
something I wish to think about.

Fiona’s employees have left for the evening, and Ben and I join Fiona as she locks up her shop. She turns around to face us, seemingly happy with the day’s work.

“Ye toiled with many chores today, and ye went beyond what I asked,” says Fiona. “Gratitude for thy help.”

“We’ll be back tomorrow,” Ben says. “If you need anything repaired, or need anything else cleaned, let us know.”

Fiona smiles and nods, but then her features shift into serious mode. “I do not mean to trouble ye, but where are ye staying? A room at Murdock’s, perhaps?”

Ben and I exchange glances. This isn’t something we discussed, should we be asked.

“Um,” I begin, deciding that, since I gave a lecture about karma, it’s best to speak the truth, “we’re sleeping in a barn near the forest.” I point toward the horizon, where the countryside meets the densely-wooded area.

Fiona gasps, but collects herself, holding one hand atop her heart. “Nobody goes into the dark forest.”

Talk about theatrics! This lady can pass as an actress.

“And why not?” I try not to smirk, but this melodramatic performance is making it very hard not to be amused.

Expressionless, she says, “Because nobody comes out alive.”

Okay, seriously? If I hadn’t experienced the crazy witch-wolf last night, I wouldn’t believe her. This reminds me of those creepy movies where everybody tells the newcomers not to enter a specific vicinity, and then they do it anyway, only to discover they should’ve listened. Except, in mine and Ben’s case, we already know the dangers that lurk behind the wall of trees. Still, I pretend I have no idea what Fiona’s talking about.

I feign shock: eyes widen, mouth slackens, my hand mimics Fiona’s, which remains on her chest. “They all just . . .
die
? What, exactly, is in there?”

Cute, Princess. Really freaking cute,
says Ben.

Shut it! She’s been nice to us so far, and she’s our only chance at surviving this place, so unless you have a better idea . . .

“The two of ye should join me for supper. I shall explain everything over hot fare—and we can get ye washed up. Come,” she says, using one hand to gently press between my shoulder blades and push me toward her home.

See,
I enlighten Ben,
she wants to help us. HOT FOOD, Ben, hot food! I’m so hungry and my stomach has been growling all day and . . . and . . .

All right, Candra, I get it. Mine has, too. The berries obviously weren’t enough.

Say it, then. Say, “You were right and I was wrong.”

No.

Ben!

“—are ye betrothed? Married?” Fiona says, yanking me out of my mental conversation with Mr. Sore Loser over here.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The two of ye,” Fiona repeats, “are ye betrothed? Or are ye married?”

Before I can respond, Ben blurts, “We’re married.”

I jerk my head around to face him. He shrugs.

“As I believed,” says Fiona. “I have an extra room the two of ye can share, until ye decide to continue thy travels.”

“We’d be very grateful for that,” Ben says. “Thank you.”

Suppressing my inner thoughts about mine and Ben’s fake marriage, I attempt to see the lighter side of things, like how we’ll have a warm bed to sleep in and a hot meal to eat. I’ll take anything I can get at the moment; it’s better than sleeping with horses. And it’s definitely better than sleeping near the same forest where strange events have occurred. I shudder when reflecting on the crow lady.

“Oh, dear,” Fiona says, “are ye cold? I shall have a bath made for ye after suppertime.”

I can already feel my muscles relaxing. “That sounds wonderful.”

Fiona’s home is on the other side of town, far away from the forest, and the barn Ben and I were sleeping in only the night before. The roof is made of what looks like hay, and the entire structure is composed of stones and wood. Inside, we’re immediately greeted by a table, a fireplace, and wooden shelves used for storing pots, pans, and tableware. Off to our left, three rooms are snugly joined; one straight ahead, the other two on the right, facing the front of the house.

“’Tis not much, but ’tis home. I want ye to meet my daughter.” Fiona beams affectionately. “Francine, dear! Come meet our guests.”

Fiona and Francine, how cute.

I wonder if she was named after France,
Ben says.

Oh, my God. No. Just . . . stop while you’re ahead.

What? It’s not out of the realm of possibility. Fiona wants to travel, so she names her daughter after a nearby country.

A young girl of about fourteen emerges from the second room closest to the back. Her fingers are entwined and rest on her apron. Her eyes are downcast. This girl looks anything but happy to see us—not that she’s actually looked up and seen our faces. She comes to a halt at Fiona’s side, and Fiona reaches out to tenderly pet her hair.

“What do ye say?” Fiona squeezes Francine’s shoulder.

“Hello,” Francine says.

“Is she afraid of us?” I inquire.

Fiona seems confused by this statement, but then her features relax. “Ye mean, why will she not look at ye?” I nod, so Fiona continues, “She was born without sight.”

Well, now I feel like a shithead.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “If you need any help . . .”

Fiona smiles genuinely, adding, “’Tis all right. We have managed well thus far. Now, Francine, show our guests their room while I fetch the water from the well.”

Francine nods and begins walking down the short hallway. Her hand reaches out, grazing the wall, until she stops in front of the first room. “This is thy room,” she murmurs, her voice so soft I can barely hear it.

“Thank you, Francine,” I say. She doesn’t reply. Instead, she continues walking, disappearing into her bedroom.

Ben and I enter the small space. There’s a single bed in the corner, a brass-colored tub on the opposite wall, and a chest of drawers directly to our right. Three candle holders with white candlesticks balance out the quarters; one sits atop the chest of drawers, one near a small table beside the bed, and the other rests on the windowsill.

“I can’t wait to sleep,” says Ben.

“I can’t wait to take a bath and eat some food,” I counter.

We plop down on the feathered mattress. A handmade quilt is folded at the foot, and several down pillows are at the head. I’ve never craved slumber so much in my life.

Fiona appears at the doorway. “Supper shall be ready soon. I am sure ye are weary from thy travels, so I made additional portions.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I say. “You didn’t have to do this, you know, but we’re grateful.”

“
Very
grateful,” Ben adds.

Fiona smiles warmly, and her cheeks flush. “I shall just . . .” she trails off, pointing toward the kitchen in the next room. Her heels click on the floorboards as she walks the short distance to the hearth.

My stomach growls just thinking about a hot meal, and I rub it gingerly. “I’m so damn hungry,” I mumble.

“At least we don’t have to wait awhile before eating,” says Ben. He wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me tightly against him.

“Supper is ready!” Fiona calls. Francine passes by our room, her fingers trailing against the wall.

“I feel bad about what I said,” I tell Ben. “About Francine, I mean.”

“Don’t be. You had no way of knowing.”

“Sometimes my mouth just says whatever’s on my mind, like I don’t have a filter.”

Ben cuts me a deadpan glare. “Sometimes? How about
all
the time?”

“Yeah, okay. You know what I mean.”

We make our way to the dining-room-slash-kitchen area and sit down at the small table, which only has four chairs. Fiona scoops large spoonfuls of piping-hot stew into wooden bowls and places them before us, along with wooden spoons. Francine sits across from me, unblinking. Somehow, I wish there was a way to chat with her, to let her know we’re trustworthy. I have a feeling she’s quiet all the time, though.

“My hope is that ’tis sufficient,” Fiona says, as she takes her seat next to Francine.

Taking my first bite, I assure her it’s perfect. The broth warms my mouth, and I feel it slide all the way to my stomach. I haven’t tasted anything so hearty since we left Hartford behind—and Beth’s cooking.