Iron and Hemlock #2
The old lady looked at her with more interest now.
“Well now! Got the banshee after you, have you? Heh. Perhaps I ought to let you in after all.” She swung the door open, smiling a rather white and sharp smile at the wind’s protest. She grabbed Jordon as the wind suddenly tried to suck her away from the thick, iron-bound door, and pulled her firmly inside.
The sudden quiet as the door slammed was almost eerie.
The woman sniffed. “Nothing like hemlock and iron to keep out unwanted guests.” She picked up her old-fashioned oil lamp from a side table and glanced at Jordon. “Come. You’re dripping on the floors.”
Jordon glanced around as she followed her hostess, taking in the dusty elegance of the house. “I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself. I’m Jordon Hearst.”
The old lady raised a brow that was nearly as thick as her nose.
“You may call me Mrs Yuimen. I am the keeper of the kitchens here.” As she spoke, she led the way through a great hall with a polished table and murky floors.
“The housekeeper has left us some time past and has yet to be replaced. You can see it needs attending to.” She spoke as if this were somehow Jordon’s responsibility.
Jordon blinked. “I see.” She was unwilling to offend Mrs Yuimen, lest she be given the boot. “I really appreciate –”
“Yes, yes,” Mrs Yuimen interrupted. “Now, be seated and I’ll pour you some tea.
” She entered the kitchens as she spoke and gestured to the rocker and stool before the old brick hearth.
A one-eyed cat looked up from the rug there and growled a warning as Jordon shuffled over, choosing the stool.
She didn’t want to take what must surely be the cook’s customary seat.
She cast a wary eye at the glaring, reddish-coloured cat and the odd green flames of the fire. “I’ve never seen a fire burn green before.”
“Driftwood,” Mrs Yuimen said as she moved efficiently about the kitchen, setting up a tea cart.
“Oh,” Jordon said, disoriented. “Are we by the sea?”
Mrs Y. cast her an odd look but otherwise didn’t comment.
The kitchen was so spotless as to seem a world apart from the rest of the house.
Mrs Y. had enormous worktables that, while nicked and battered enough to be fifty years old, were polished to a high sheen.
Stacks of wooden bowls and crockery lined the shelves, and ropes of garlic, onions and herbs hung from the beams. The stone floors were neatly swept, and the tiled, wood-burning cooking stove was free of soot and food residue.
Even the copper tea kettle was brightly reflective.
When she’d assembled the cream and sugar and such, Mrs Y. rolled the cart over to Jordon and poured the tea.
“Thank you,” Jordon said gratefully as she accepted a piece of apple, and some cold ham and cheese from the birch platter. Cold drops of rain water still ran down her neck, chilling her. Carefully, she wrung her hair out over the basin and tried to squeeze some water out of her sweater.
Mrs Y. made an impatient sound and found her a kitchen towel. “Here, use that. You’re making a mess. And take off your clothes – I’ll fetch a blanket.”
“Th-thank you.” Mrs Y. was quick, and Jordon was soon wrapped in a quilt, her feet in borrowed bed-slippers.
She watched Mrs Y. wring out all her clothes and hang them over chairs near the fire.
They quickly began to steam from the heat, but Jordon knew it would be hours before they were dry.
“I was wondering if you had a phone here? I’d like to call for a cab.
” She bit her lip, silently questioning just what help a cab would be.
She wasn’t exactly in the city here. Looking around, she began to wonder if she were even in the same century.
Though that was absurd, right? Where else could she be?
The old woman looked at her with gleaming black eyes.
Too large and black, really. Combined with her odd grey hair – like wet soot, with a subtle life of its own – she didn’t look either modern or normal.
“I have a suspicion you’re not asking about a hansom, which you’ll not find here in any case.
And unless a ‘phone’ is an odd term for a footman, I think you’ll find yourself unsatisfied. ”
Jordon opened her mouth to speak and was interrupted by another angry peal of thunder.
She glanced warily towards the window and had to stifle a sudden cry.
A man stood there in the shadows, just behind the workbench.
His chest was bare, the rest of him hidden by the bowls on the countertop.
“Who are you?” Jordon demanded, trying not to take a peek at the rest of him.
Mrs Y. didn’t seem disturbed. “Oh, Lord Griffin! This is Jordon Hearst. She was caught in the rain tonight. Join us for tea?”
Griffin came closer and smiled into Jordon’s wide eyes. “We’ve met.”
Jordon looked hard at him. Surely he didn’t mean . . . but his hair was tawny and crested, more like feathers than hair. His nose was hooked, the jaw strong, but with a rather pointed chin. The eyes were dark, with glints of gold. Her heart accelerated as she recognized the voice. “Griffin?”
He cocked his head, like a hawk considering prey. She took it as affirmation – and fainted dead away.
She didn’t think she’d been unconscious long. Griffin’s feathery hair was still dripping when she came to. In fact, it was probably the drops falling on her nose that woke her.
She sat up carefully, but there didn’t seem to be any new aches.
It was then that she noticed he was naked.
Since he was crouched beside her, she wasn’t particularly stressed about that – it wasn’t as if he were totally on display.
Oh, he was well muscled otherwise, of course.
Fighting monsters must be great exercise.
She shook her head, feeling dizzy. “I think I could use some whiskey,” she muttered. With a little help from him, she climbed carefully back on the stool.
He smiled as he helped to steady her. “I’ll bring you some brandy. It’ll take the chill out better than tea.”
She watched him as he walked over to a cupboard. She numbly accepted a jam tart from Mrs Y., trying in vain not to stare at Griffin’s better parts while he poured her drink. It was difficult; there was a lot to look at. She averted her eyes when he caught her at it.
“My apologies. I’ve run with my brothers too long,” he murmured, then reached into a lower cupboard to fetch out a tablecloth. He wrapped it deftly around his waist. “Better?”
Jordon lowered her head and muttered something non-committal. In other circumstances, she’d feel obliged to correct him.
He returned to the fire and handed her the brandy snifter. “See if that helps.”
It did, actually. It even helped her to maintain her calm as he pulled up a chair and sat across from her with his own cup of tea.
He smiled at Mrs Y., then commented to Jordon, “You’re doing very well. I imagine most damsels would be in hysterics by now.”
“Yes, well, American girls are tough,” she said. “We aren’t bothered by drinking liquor with half-naked, shape-changing griffins. Though if we were back home, I’d probably be having an Irish coffee . . . with a little extra Irish thrown in.”
“Ah.” There was silence for a moment. Maybe he was organizing his questions. “You came through our gates earlier, trailing banshees and storm gremlins. I wonder what they wanted with you?”
She released a shaky breath. If she’d had lingering doubts about his identity, his words erased them. “It really was you outside.”
“Mm. My brothers were there, too.” He took a careful sip of tea, then slanted a questioning glance her way, as if judging the state of her nerves.
He was right to be concerned. Hysterics threatened again, but she stared at the ceiling until they passed. “I have a question. Where am I?” It came out pleading. She felt obliged to explain. “I’m supposed to be in America.”
He was silent for a long moment. Finally, he set aside his tea cup. “You’re in England, darling. I am curious to know how you missed the transition. I’m told it’s a three-month journey by ship.”
She frowned very hard to suppress her distress, though she wasn’t terribly amazed. Both he and Mrs Y. spoke with British accents. “I was struck by lightning. It . . . did things to my memory. Tell me, what year is it?”
He looked even more curious. “It’s the twelfth day of July, 1837. We have a new queen on the throne.” He frowned. “I say, you’re looking rather pale. Can I get you something?”
Her lip quivered. “Starbucks,” she whispered. “The internet. Real books.” While she enjoyed Pride and Prejudice, it had nothing on modern werewolf romance. And what would she do without Stephenie Meyer? She wanted to cry.
To disguise her distress, she stared at the green fire. If she’d had somewhere to go, she’d have left that instant.
Griffin exchanged glances with Mrs Y. “Our guest is tired. Why don’t you prepare a room for her? I’ll keep her company until you return.”
Mrs Y. left without a word. Griffin looked at Jordon thoughtfully. “I’m wondering what happened to you before you entered our estate tonight. The lads at the gate tell me you appeared, ‘between one lightning flash and another’. Normally they would have smelled you coming.”
Jordon drew a deep breath. The brandy was already affecting her judgment.
Why not tell him? Maybe he could actually help.
“The lightning brought me.” When he remained quietly interested, she added, “I was crossing the road. A car almost hit me – I swear, it was trying to hit me – and suddenly I was here. Well, in the road, at least. I don’t know how.
” Despair threatened her self-control. “I’d just like to go home. ”