And there, flashing briefly in the soft roll of her neck, was an unmistakable feeding mark. Two, dark puncture wounds from fangs not unlike mine.
Rye didn’t so much as flinch, striding confidently across the room to greet Alex’s Mum with outstretched arms. The woman embraced her immediately—easily—tossing a small towel over her shoulder as if Rye were a far cousin and not a stranger.
“We’re so pleased to meet you,” Rye said, voice dripping warmth. “We’ve loved having Alex under our tutelage. You must be so proud to have raised such a bright, hard-working young man.”
The woman flushed at the compliments, squeezed Rye’s arm, jagged smile stretching hideously wide, eyes twinkling. “Ach, he does all the hard parts. I kinnae take credit.”
“Mum . . .” Alex whined bashfully, kicking his feet at the entrance in a now recognizable fidget.
“Well, love, don’t leave your guests standing.” She gestured to the sofa. “I’ll put the kettle on and see what biscuits we have. I’mafraid Alex didnae tell me you were coming, or I would’ve run out for the good ones.”
“Nonsense, Miss Shepherd, we’re more than pleased to have time with you,” Rye practically cooed.
“Please, it’s Moira.” She fluttered her hands at Rye, flashing yet more scars across their backs and up her wrists—as if she’d tried and failed to protect herself against her attacker. “Have a seat, Miss . . .” She waited expectantly.
“I’m Rye. I’m the hospitality history expert on staff at the Clotswold.” The lie slipped easily from her, breezing by as if it were weighted down with no more than the truth.
“And American!” Moira beamed. “How lucky we are.”
“And this is our resident operations liaison, Patrick. He’s helping tighten up the ship—although there’s little for him to do with your Alex around.” Rye gave Moira a wink that had the woman fluttering her hands again before following Moira’s instructions to join me on the sofa. Alex sat in one of the matching chairs, ramrod straight, hands clasped tightly in his lap.
Moira put the kettle on the scorching wood stove with a telltale hiss as the water immediately began to heat. Sweat slid down my spine beneath my sweater, and I regretted not wearing more proper underclothes so I could shed a layer.
“My Alex is so excited to have you at the hotel,” Moira buzzed, flitting back and forth across the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets, checking tins, and looking disappointedly in the icebox. “He was just telling me yesterday how good it is to have mentors around after a long year of having to drive in the dark. Isn’t that right, love?”
Alex nodded. “Yes, Mum. Too right.”
“Although we do love that Mr. Barlow. Such a love and so handsome!” Moira put a girlish hand over her giggle, and it was almost as if the scars weren’t there. For a moment, I couldsee what Rye seemed to—a joyful, loving Scottish mum bursting with pride for her son, and not the victim of a horrific attack.
“Alex is an excellent attendant and has transformed our horse-drawn buggy offering,” I offered, throat hoarse from the thick air. I coughed again, trying for a softer tone. “The mares seem to listen to him like no one else.”
“Ach, that’s my Alex. Always had a knack for his animal friends.” Sooner than expected, the kettle screamed. Moira’s fluttering search turned to cups and tea bags, expertly navigating the debris until she had four mismatched vessels and matching fresh bags. Alex stood without being asked and helped Moira fill each cup before carrying them over in slightly shaking hands to the coffee table. I’d been so focused on his mum’s scars, I hadn’t even noticed the army of porcelain cat knickknacks piled six deep on the table.
“Sorry, you’ll have to hold it if you don’t mind. I’m afraid I’m weak to the kitties,” Moira said, handing me a sloshing cup. I accepted it, holding in the wince at the scalding touch and thanking her. She settled easily in the other chair across from Alex, Rye joining me on the sofa, balancing her own overflowing cup.
“Now, tell me, how are you finding Ashbourne?” Moira asked, as if we were joining her for tea in her garden and not crammed in her sweltering living room at 4:30 a.m. on a Tuesday.
“This is my second visit, and I must say, I’m thoroughly charmed.” Rye sipped her tea politely, beaming over the rim at Moira. “So much history here, and everyone has been so helpful and welcoming.”
“We’re ready for proper tourists.” Moira nodded sagely. “With the old Huxley Manor almost restored, and the grounds done by our own famous landscaper—you know Leslee was almost gardener to the queen?” She leaned forward as if she were telling us a well-kept bit of gossip and not a PR factoid. “Our Leslee!The odd duck that sings to her aspen. Ach well, if it works, there’s something to it. Good for her, I say. And to have that Mr. Barlow on her arm! Jesus.” She said the religious figure’s name with a heavy emphasis on the first syllable, drawing the vowels down hard so it sounded more like “JAY-zuhs.” This time, I flinched, unable to hold back the physical impact of the holy invocation.
“Ach, forgive me.” She made the sign of the cross, and I felt a different kind of heat sear across my skin. “I get a little too excited.”
“Mum, Patrick is helping us manage the hotel more efficiently. More like seasoned hoteliers,” Alex chimed in, saving me from further invocation—perhaps he also felt the heat, although he hadn’t so much as sweat since we walked in. “When those tourists come, we’ll be ready.”
“Do you think so?” Moira put a gentle hand to her heart. “I can only imagine how beautiful the manor will be in the spring, never mind our own Ashbourne. It would do a heart good to see the streets bustling.”
Alex nodded, hair swinging in a thick curtain. “I’m sure of it.”
“That’s my boy.” Moira reached across the porcelain cat army, taking Alex’s ready hand and squeezing. “Always thinking of the good of others and the hope of our home.”
“He is a thoughtful one,” Rye chimed in, beaming with no false pride. It struck me that she truly cared for the fanglings. And although she claimed only two visits, I wondered what had happened that first stay to have bonded her to them—Alex especially.
“You know, he’s had to be the man of the house after his da got us run out of Renfrew. He was no good, that one, and our town was too small to accept we were any different, never mind how hard we tried to make that much clear. When we came to Ashbourne, it was just us two, like a wee tribe of strangers in astrange land.” Moira’s eyes misted as she released Alex’s hand, settling back into her seat, tea forgotten on the arm of the chair as she put both hands over her heart. “But my Alex said, ‘Don’t you worry, Mum, I willnae let anyone scare us away ever again.’ And even after my accident, he’s been nothing but a helpful, upstanding, good-hearted—” Her voice cracked, and she sniffed, swiping quickly at her eyes. “You’ll have to excuse me; I can go on.”
“How could you not?” Rye somehow located a crochet-covered tissue box and offered it to Moira, reaching across me so I inhaled her sweat and perfume in a heady breath. My fangs lengthened on impulse, and my head swam—with the heat of the room, want, and everything Moira was letting pour from her mouth.
My accident.
