Blue Moon (6 page)

When she moved here, her first book had just started to sell. It hadn't been enough to pay for the renovations but at least it gave her provable income enough to substantiate a loan. That, and the house as collateral. She thanked God everyday the loan was paid off. She hated debt, because if she lost this place she'd have nowhere else to go.

She'd had her bedroom and bathroom windows boarded up and supports built around the remaining windows to allow her to have heavy iron shutters. Sabin and his friends would never touch iron. She'd blocked, barricaded and barred every place she could think of, taken every precaution. Still, it was only when daylight came and she could see the defenses untried that she felt as if she could breathe again. When Dashiel ran around looking happy, Libby was happy.

It was another beautiful day, she thought, though it could be the last now that winter was coming. She ran her hands down the stalks of the forget-me-nots, harvesting some late, clinging seeds. She put them in a baggie she kept in her jacket pocket. She double-checked to see if she'd locked the door then headed down the driveway.

She was constantly aware of her surroundings as she walked. She had a few things strung in trees here and there or hidden along the path that were, according to old books, supposed to tell her if one of the fae had been through though, to be honest, she really wasn't sure what type of creature Sabin was. Some of the wards were meant to detect brownies and dryads and other members of the fae; one was even supposed to detect ghosts. Not that Sabin would fall for such petty hedge witchery and woodsman's lore, but it never hurt to try.

So far, they had never done anything to prove or disprove their worth; one, made of horsehair, was looking particularly worn as birds stole the strands for their nests.

She circled around to the back of her house, checking, looking, feeling the area. Everything seemed to be as it should, until she reached the back porch.

Five apples were stacked neatly at the top of the steps. They were red, perfect, store-bought. A couple of pears, the same ones she hadn't picked from her own orchard, rested next to them. The top apple had a large, jagged bite out of it.

It was as she feared. He had walked unchallenged right through her alarm systems.

"Dashiel?” she called softly, a strand of fear wrapping around her heart. The apple's inner flesh was still perfectly white, a little teardrop of juice still clung to the ruby skin.

He never comes during the day, she thought. Day is safe.

"Dashiel! Come here!” Distantly, she heard him barking. Just some prank, she thought, looking at the apples. Or someone had put the apples and pears on her porch, and an animal had chewed on it and was scared away by her approach. She desperately hoped this was so, for no amount of preparation had readied her to face him again.

She ran to the front of the house. Dashiel wasn't coming; he stood just out of sight, barking like he was trying very hard to communicate something extremely important.

"Alright, boy,” she said with a shaky voice. “I hope to God you know what you're doing."

She gathered her courage, and followed him into the woods.

If you asked Alex how he came to be tied to the train tracks, he would have told you he had no idea.

He had a long time to think on it. He remembered double-checking the door to the hotel room, showering for a very long time, watching TV while he drank some soda then crawling gratefully into bed. That was it. An exciting life, to be sure, but nothing meriting this kind of treatment.

The whole situation had a surreal quality to the point where he now expected to see melting alarm clocks, and birds made out of fire. To his knowledge, only virtuous young women in frilly white dresses ended up in this situation, not boring young men in faded striped pajamas.

He blinked at the sky, trying to figure out what the constellations were above him. He struggled against his bonds, more to warm up a little and pass the time than because he thought it would help. The ropes and duct tape that bound him were thick and tight, and he had very little room to move.

After a while, his new favorite time-passer became trying not to think of how badly he needed to pee.

Alright, he told himself. I need to think my way through this, be rational.

He studied the tracks, which went for a ways before disappearing around a bend. He was not happy to note that they were shiny from use, nor could he make out any skeletons of weeds growing up between the ties. He strained, trying to take the best look around he could. He could see no house lights, no cars, no signs of humanity save for the power lines that ran parallel to the tracks.

"Hello?” he yelled anyway. “Hey, out there! The next time you decide to kidnap me let me put a coat on first, okay? It's effing cold out here!” He paused. No movement in the bushes, no response of any kind. Silence. He liked silence right now, though. It meant he had a little longer before chop time.

"I don't see the sense,” he continued, “in kidnapping a man whose PJs have worn spots in them. If I had money, I'd at least be sleeping in something a little less vintage."

He shifted. The rocks were beginning to cut into his flesh, but for some odd reason, it didn't really bother him. The cold didn't, either, although he could feel it wearing away at his resistance.

He wasn't happy to be in this situation, but he wasn't going to whine about it. His friends back at work would think he was unnaturally calm, and this might be true. He wasn't the kind of person to feel too deeply. He wasn't shallow, but he had to admit he wasn't extremely passionate. He liked to call himself even-tempered, but the truth was, he had an almost magical affinity for staying calm. It was going to serve him well now. He'd hate to spend the last moments of his life a sobbing, screaming idiot.

Who are my enemies? he wondered. He yelled “Hello” once in a while as he tried to think. His ex-fiancee? No, she'd already gotten what she wanted, i.e., rid of him, so there was no point. Anyway, they really didn't dislike each other, had just sort of grown apathetic. Although, come to think of it, their breakup scene hadn't given her much to recommend him to her. ("I don't want to marry you, Alex.” “Oh. Okay. If you're sure.” “What do you mean okay? Don't you care?") And on, and on ... but they'd made a kind of peace when he left.

Work? He couldn't think of anyone there, where he was considered just one of the guys. People had actually said they'd miss him when he left. He lost his job because the company needed to downsize. They decided Alex's office only needed four accountants. Those with seniority stayed. He knew it wasn't personal. He was the one, actually, who should be holding the grudge.

So, that left this as a random act of cruelty. Or perhaps someone from his unremembered past had caught up with him. He mulled that over and discarded it. It'd been roughly five years. Surely, someone would have stepped forward before now. Unless it had taken them that long to track him down? He laughed. Nah. He wasn't going to suddenly discover his exciting past as 007.

"No, Mr. Kincaid,” he said in a terrible German accent, “I vant you to die."

It was probably someone from the diner. He hadn't felt very comfortable there. Perhaps he'd felt something on an instinctive level. Maybe someone had decided to rob him, had followed him to the hotel and, when they discovered he had nothing, brought him out here to die for the fun of it. Maybe they'd managed to drug him, which would explain how he slept through the whole thing.

It had to be someone from around here who knew where they were going. He remembered the pair with their weird gold eyes. Maybe he was the person they'd been talking about.

Or, he could just be barking mad.

Actually, some beautiful Russian spy sneaking into his hotel room and injecting him with a sleeping drug, then having him tied to the tracks so he would never get a chance to tell the secrets he knew sounded more plausible.

He was getting sleepy. He fought it, remembering a Jack London story about a trapper who fell asleep in the cold and died. On the other hand, maybe it would hurt less if he was asleep when the train came.

Dawn broke, and while he was pleasantly surprised no trains had come yet, he knew there'd have to be one soon. The line of sky in his vision was an unreal, glowing blue, the clouds touched with an edge of pink.

Alex was still alive, but he couldn't feel a thing. He tried to call out again, the sound a clotted and hoarse groan. He tried to make some spit to moisten his throat, but his mouth felt dry and cracked.

He closed his eyes again. He'd never been much of a morning person.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

He opened his eyes to see a German shepherd's face, so close that for a groggy second he thought the voice had come from it.

"Teaching myself patience,” he croaked.

"Good grief! You've been tied down!"

He tried to see her, but all he could see was dog.

"Came as a bit of a surprise to me, too."

"Don't bother speaking. You sound awful. Move it, fatso.” The dog moved aside.

She had impossibly blue eyes—large, electric-blue ones that could not have come from nature—and long, wavy auburn hair that brushed him as she cut the ropes. She had a pretty, heart-shaped face, and Alex thought he would have fallen in love with her even if she wasn't in the process of saving his life.

He heard a metallic snapping sound.

"Lucky I always carry a knife, eh?” she said.

"My ... heroine...” he whispered, and she grinned at him before going for his ankles.

In the distance, he heard the low moan of a horn, blasting three long times.

"Don't worry,” she said soothingly, “he's signalling at a crossing through town. Sound carries a pretty good distance on a cold morning like this.” She huffed softly as she stepped over him. “Are you going to call the cops?"

"No."

"Are you sure? I mean, the rule is, if you don't report it, it never happened."

"Sure."

"No need for forensics, then.” She balled up the duct tape and threw it aside with the ropes.

He tried to command himself to move but failed. She put her hands under his armpits and dragged him off the tracks. The day was suddenly looking up.

"Dashiel? Dashiel! Get off the tracks.” The dog complied, and she rubbed his ears in loving reward. “Dummy,” she muttered, but as before it sounded more like an endearment. She turned her attentions to Alex again, vigorously rubbing his feet and arms.

"Thanks,” Alex said, and was gifted with another pretty, fleeting smile.

"It's not a dramatic last-minute rescue, but it's better than nothing."

"Grateful—had enough excitement."

She patted his shoulder. “We'll get you up to the house, get something warm inside you."

He stood on wobbly legs. Use made them hurt then feel better. He held out a hand.

"Alex Kincaid."

She took it briefly.

"Libby Halstead,” she nodded, almost shyly. “You can lean on me when you have to."

They worked their way up the path to a clearing with a formidable cabin in the center. He tried not to be rude and stare at it too much, but it was hard. Thick shutters flanked the window, and the door was heavy when he pulled it closed behind him. Her house looked like a castle on the eve of invasion. Are times really that bad? he wondered when he saw the twin brackets that could hold a thick wooden bar firmly across the door.

"Sit down,” she invited, pulling an afghan off a chair and wrapping it around him.

The chair was big and comfy, and he sank gratefully into it. Dashiel settled down in front of him, dark eyes watchful. He smiled at the dog, but it sat motionless, unmoved.

He heard things clattering in the kitchen.

"Do you want to call anyone, let them know you're alright?” she asked.

"No, thanks."

The room he was in was paneled primarily with bookshelves and had an oak rolltop desk near the window. There was a couch, a rocking chair and some filing cabinets. There was only one picture, a painting of a woman in an elaborate peacock feather-and-velvet dress. It was over a barrister bookcase, and he was tempted to wander over and see what books deserved such special treatment.

He looked back at the woman in the portrait, her white hair pulled up into an elaborate bun, her pale green eyes, the black pearls around her neck, and felt a pang of familiarity. The place, too,
smelled
familiar to him with its varnished wood and multitudes of books. He felt drawn to Libby, and he almost wanted to ask her, “Do you know me? Are you sure you've never seen me before?"

But he figured if she knew him she would have said so, and he didn't want to invite questions. She was skittish, and he was afraid any more weirdness on his part would cut off any relations between them.

"Here's some coffee,” she said when she came back in. “I only have instant. What kind of soup would you like? Something beef or something chicken? I have tomato, too."

"Don't trouble yourself.” He looked at the portrait. “Nice picture."

"Thank you,” she said almost absently. “I always liked that dress.” She perched on the edge of the couch. “So, what should we do with you?"

He drank. It was sweet—Irish cream-flavored instant stuff, but it was hot and he was beginning to feel human again. “I don't have anyone to call,” he said, “except a cab."

She shook her head. “I can drive you to town. I'm going there anyway."

"Where?"

"California."

His eyes widened, and she laughed. “Little California. A town next to a river, not the state."

"That's good. How far is that from Uniontown?"

"Uniontown?” She blinked. “Half an hour, I guess. Is that where you were staying?"

"Yeah. I was staying at the Great Gable Inn.” He waited for the question, but it never came. “Aren't you curious?"

"About?"

"How I got from Uniontown to a railroad track in front of your house?"

She shrugged. “Things happen."

He looked around at the shuttered windows. “I guess they do."

She shrugged again and stood. “I'm feeling charitable. I'll take you there."