A sleek black wolf emerged from the shadows and ran towards Lindsay, silent and swift.
Francis. Thank God.
Chapter Eighteen
They dressed in clothesthey found in Cruikshank’s bedchamber, Lindsay’s skin crawling at the familiar papery scent that clung to them.
While Francis located the Naismith papers in Cruikshank’s desk drawers, Lindsay wrapped Drew in a thick blanket he’d taken downstairs. Together, they lifted Drew tenderly, all swaddled up like a baby, and took him out to Mercer’s cart. He didn’t so much as stir. Francis noticed the bite on his neck but didn’t say anything. His soft brown gaze rebuked Lindsay though, making Lindsay feel ashamed and defiant at once.
“Put him in my bed,” he told Francis. “Wynne will take care of him.” Francis nodded and drove off without a word.
While Francis conveyed Drew to Locke Court, Lindsay laid out Cruikshank and Mercer’s bodies, wrapping one in a Turkish rug and the other in a quilted bedspread. He dragged the two bodies out into the corridor and set about cleaning up the blood, soaking up the worst of it with piles of linens he’d found.
By the time Francis returned, he’d made good progress. They finished the job together, washing everything down and settling the disturbed furniture to rights, gathering up all the broken bits and pieces and bloodstained things, wrapping everything up in all the linen they could put their hands on, then stashing everything in the cart—the two bodies, and all the other detritus of the night.
When they were finished, they checked the house one last time. There was no sign of any disturbance now, though the house was emptied of many things that had been there before. A mystery, to be sure, but not one that anyone would guess the true answer to.
“It smells like a slaughterhouse,” Lindsay said, as they closed the study door and locked it, heading towards the kitchen and the back entrance.
“Only to us,” Francis said. And then they were out of the house, and in the mews. Francis tossed Cruikshank’s key ring into the cart.
“Come on. Let’s get rid of this.”
They drove west. Out to St. Cuthbert’s Kirk, next to the surviving undrained section of the Nor’loch.
It was almost two o’clock now. The fat yellow moon drifted in and out of the clouds, bobbing placidly in the sky. It was as well Lindsay had already shifted this night, or he couldn’t have withstood her call. As it was, he’d have to change when they were done, at least for a while.
Francis brought the cart to a halt next to the water. They pulled everything out, disposing of the linens and broken things first. The bodies, they unwrapped, added heavy stones to weigh them down, then rolled them up again in their coverings, tying them this time with strong rope that Francis had brought from Locke Court.
When Francis saw Cruikshank’s smashed-in, misshapen face, he flinched.
“Mercer’s bite didn’t take,” Lindsay said. “I don’t believe he had the Urge. Duncan used compulsion to order him to give a transformative bite but whatever he turned Cruikshank into, it wasn’t a wolf.”
Without looking at him, Francis said flatly, “Well, let’s hope your bite takes. Only time will tell.”
“Francis.” Lindsay sighed. “I had no choice. Drew was dying.”
