Page 76

I stood, finding that the weird invisible force that held me down had gone.

Yanking open the door, I ran along the landing, trying to locate Tristan. He wasn’t in any of the rooms upstairs, and his fragrance had vanished with him. I crept with caution down the stairs. In the hallway, I caught a faint trace of his scent. My heart leapt into my mouth and my scalp tingled as I edged toward the kitchen. Tristan’s scent was stronger here, but there was no sign of him. Entering the kitchen, I froze.

Outside on the deck, stretching up, feeling his way around the French doors, was a man with short, blond, corkscrew curls. He glanced through the doors and our eyes locked, both of us shocked to see the other. His eyes were a pale, feral brown.

Oh hell!

Tristan was right.

“Shit—Emily—I told you to stay the fuck upstairs!” Tristan yelled, his voice laced with fury.

“Where are you?”

“Go call the police,” he shouted from the ether. “Now!”

Corkscrew Curl appeared torn. He glared with loathing through the glass at me, as if assessing what kind of threat I represented.

From out of the blue, the doorbell rang.

Corkscrew Curl heard it too, and the sound galvanized him into action. He disappeared around the side of the house toward the front. This spurred me to the front door, and I jerked it open. A young man in blue overalls with close-cropped black hair and a broad face stood on the doorstep, startled by the sudden opening of the door. From the side passage, Corkscrew Curl burst out and ran down the street, making an effective escape.

“Blimey. Who was that, miss?”

“I don’t know. Who are you?”

“I’m from Oakley & Ware Locksmiths.”

“Oh yes, of course. Come in.”

“You okay, miss?”

Tristan stood glowering in the hallway, his mouth a thin angry line as intense waves of disapproval rolled off him.

Not bad for someone who is no longer of this earth.

I ignored him.

“Yes, I’m okay. Do you know what you are supposed to do?”

“Yes, miss. It’s the lock on this door.”

I nodded.

“You can leave me to it. I spoke to Dr. Knightley about it.”

“Would you like some tea?” Polite. Remember polite.

“Cold drink would be most welcome. Do you think you should call the police?”

“I’ll fetch you a drink first. Might be a bit late for the police.”

I headed straight into the kitchen, circumventing the livid ghost in the hallway. Tristan was standing by the fridge. I pretended that I couldn’t see him.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” he snarled.

I ignored him, trying hard not to flinch at his tone. Grabbing a glass, I filled it with ice and then water from the fridge’s dispenser.

“Are you ignoring me?” Incandescent disbelief made Tristan’s voice hoarse and at least an octave higher. The glass flew out of my hand, smashing onto the limestone floor, the ice skidding noisily everywhere, the water soaking my jeans.