The Curse of Wolf Crag #3
She heard some siren singing along the way, and a ghost or two lingered in shadows.
They beckoned, but listlessly, not really trying to draw her into shadowland.
She had to stop to chat with a lonely dryad that wanted to complain about land taxes and dogs pissing on her tree, but none of Tara’s magical protections proved necessary.
The walk in the fresh air was invigorating, even if the rocky terrain was more rugged than she remembered.
The path she took was officially a road, but it was a courtesy term rather than the truth.
Legend said it was a fair folk road, and one was careful to never insult anything to do with them.
The path on to the Thomas property was marked by an ancient stone arch that was said to be Roman, though no Romans had ever made it to the Crag as far as history was aware.
Family legend had it otherwise, though it was a sordid and tragic tale spoken of in whispers around the children.
The actual story didn’t seem so sordid to modern sensibilities, so all the anticipation of finding out about the founding of the clan had been anticlimactic when Tara finally did.
The path up to the huge house was lined with low drystone walls, through fields dotted with sheep. Sheepdogs kept watch over them, and ignored her as she made her way to the house.
Tara found a large goat munching on a rose bush near the back door and they exchanged a nod as she opened the heavy old door. The goat followed her inside.
“Hello, Theo,” she said.
Air swirled and dimmed around the goat and it turned into a paunchy old satyr. Tara looked away to give him a moment of privacy to cover his huge genitalia with a tea towel.
“Where’s Granda?” she asked once Theo was presentable.
“Here,” Granda said, coming into the kitchen.
There were still a few ginger strands in his thick silver hair and beard. But perhaps there were a few more wrinkles, and a bit of a droop to his broad shoulders she hadn’t noticed during their latest webcam chat.
He held out his arms.
Tara dropped her stick and bag and rushed into his embrace. His hold was strong and tight and she leaned into it with gratitude. “I was worried about you,” she whispered as she hugged him back hard.
He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Can’t think why. I always worry about you,” he added. “That’s my job.”
Her parents had fled the Crag with her younger siblings for a quiet life in New Zealand when she was in her late teens.
She’d had no intention of leaving home, her textile apprenticeship with her grandmother – or Alistair – back then.
Granda had convinced her parents to let him finish raising her.
Maybe if she’d gone with them Alistair wouldn’t have broken her heart, but other than that she was glad she’d stayed then, and glad for the life she had now.
Except, now that she was back on Wolf Crag where the air was clear and the natives were strange, she was happier than she’d been in years.
“I don’t know why I didn’t come back to the Crag sooner,” she said.
“Good thing you came back while it’s still here,” Theo said darkly. “I’ve got rose bushes to trim before they’re swallowed by mist.”
She turned to the satyr, but he morphed back to his goat form and wandered out to the garden before she could ask what he meant. “Uh – Granda?”
The old man gave a satisfied, evil cackle – which told her that whatever followed involved bad news for dear old Gran Douglas.
The two of them were never going to forgive each other for as long as they lived.
Maybe Thomas and Douglas blood was never meant to mix, no matter what legends, prophecies and curses said about their undying true love through the generations.
As far as Tara knew, no Douglas and Thomas had ever made a successful love match, no matter how often passion burned between them.
Of course she’d thought she and Alistair would be different – before he decided to sleep with every woman he met when he left the island.
In Gran and Granda’s case, the Second World War had got in the way.
He’d been reported dead when, in fact, he was a POW, and Gran had married one of her Douglas cousins for the sake of keeping the werewolf bloodline strong.
When Granda came home to find his love married and a mother, he’d never forgiven her.
She’d taken the attitude that he should never have left her or the Crag in the first place. Their war continued to this day.
“A landslide took away half of the old bitch’s property last week,” Granda said. “Serves her right for living so close to the sea now that the ice caps are melting.” He sounded as if Gran Douglas was personally responsible for global warming.
“The Crag’s a small island,” Tara said. “All of it’s close to the sea.”
“Small, and getting smaller all the time.” He picked up her backpack. “Your old room’s ready for you. And your packages arrived yesterday.”
Tara had brought her work with her. “I’m dying to set up Grandma’s workroom. Thanks for letting me use her looms.”
“They’re your looms, now. She left them to you when she died. She was so proud of your talent with weaving.” He sighed. “I was never as good to that woman as I should have been.”
He’d married late, and they’d only had one child, her father.
As far as Tara could tell it had been a happy marriage but, of course, there’d always been the shadow of his youthful fling with Gran Douglas hanging over whatever relationship he’d had.
She was determined that her ruined romance with Alistair wasn’t going to throw the same dark shadows over her love life – though so far she hadn’t formed any attachments serious enough to matter.
She was not going to consider that her feelings for Alistair might have anything to do with her current lack of intense interest in any other male. She did consider just how tired she was as she followed her grandfather up two flights of stairs to the loft under the roof.
She loved the view of Tor Rock and the wild coast beyond from the high loft windows. She hurried over to take a look before the last of the light of the long summer day faded. She was oddly disappointed. The Tor didn’t seem as high and grand as she remembered. And was the sea somehow encroaching?
She looked back at her grandfather. He was watching her pensively. “Is the ocean eating away the coastline?”
“Things are changing around here, lass.”
Tara’s heart jumped with worry. “Things never change on the Crag.”
Saying it could make it so, couldn’t it? Magic worked on Wolf Crag, after all.
He snorted. “They’re building a golf course.”
Which was all he’d say on the matter. He kissed her on the forehead and bid her good night.
She did not have a good night. She dreamed of curses and prophecies – and there was an incubus dream where her body twined and tangled with Alistair’s that woke her up panting and sweating and filled with carnal aching.
“Damn the man!” she muttered as she got out of bed. And she didn’t care that she was blaming Fang Douglas for something that wasn’t his fault.
She flung open the window and took deep, bracing breaths of the cool morning air. Unsurprisingly, it was rainy, with mist obscuring the distance between the house and the Tor. The smell of frying eggs drew her attention away from the landscape.
Once she’d dressed and headed down to the kitchen, she’d also got her mind and libido off of Alistair Douglas.
Who was standing by the stove.
“What the devil are you doing here, Fang Douglas?” she demanded as she marched up to him.
He turned to her with a grin. “Making breakfast.”
“I told you I was turning the place into a B&B,” Granda said from a seat at the kitchen table. “I rent Fang a bed, but he insists on providing the breakfast.”
“But––” She gestured, vaguely in the direction of the Douglas property. “What about the manor house?”
“I’m renovating and renting it out.” Alistair stepped closer to her, making her very aware of his masculine presence. “The place is too big to live in alone. Now, if I had a wife and some bairns to fill the house up––”
“Oh, leave off!” she complained.
Annoyance didn’t stop a hot thrill going through her. A domestic picture of them together, as man, wife and parents filled her head. Combining that with last night’s dream––
“Bother,” she grumbled. Tara put her hands on her hips, facing Alistair belligerently.
“How do you like your eggs?” he asked. The look in his eyes told her he knew exactly what she’d been thinking – wishing.
“You weren’t on the ferry. How did you get here? And you know very well how I like my eggs.”
“Over easy, it is. I flew in with Andy McCabe last night.”
“Oh. Right.”
He had told her about the new island air service.
He hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d saved her life, and started her thinking about an overdue visit home.
Alistair wasn’t being trouble – but her nerves screamed a danger warning that grew stronger with every moment near him.
He wasn’t up to anything, had no reason to be, but …
“I’m going for a walk,” Tara said, and escaped out the back door before another word was spoken. She could feel Fang looking after her as she went.
Theo was in the garden, in satyr form and wearing boxer underwear. He was sitting on a low, moss-dotted wall, sipping a mug of tea. She joined him when he gestured her over. When she took a seat he looked around furtively.
This was her cue. “All right. What’s really going on?”
“We’re doomed,” he said. “The curse is coming to pass.”
Tara folded her hands in her lap, not in the least disconcerted. “Which one this time?”
“The one about Adam’s children leaving the border of faerie.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard of that one.”
“We keep it quiet around humans. Knowledge of some things is forbidden to those it would give power to. But when the time comes––”
“Right. The curse has something to do with humans leaving Wolf Crag, is that it?”