Something Wild This Way Comes Read online

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  New Concepts Publishing

  www.newconceptspublishing.com

  Copyright ©2003 by Autumn Beaudreault

  First published in 2003, 2003

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Something Wild This Way Comes

  by

  Autumn Dawn

  (c) copyright Autumn Beaudreault, March 2003

  Cover art by Eliza Black, copyright March 2003

  New Concepts Publishing

  4729 Humphreys Rd.

  Lake Park, GA 31636

  www.newconceptspublishing.com

  Chapter 1

  Lightning flashed and thunder rolled. White-barked birch and budding spruce whipped in the wild wind, groaned under the onslaught of frigid rain. Wet, wind-tossed leaves rustled in protest and massive trunks popped and groaned. Some fell under the force of the storm brewing over the rolling hills. It was winter's last gasp for control before relinquishing its seasonal reign.

  Nothing living moved.

  A violent flash of lightning split the night, illuminating a clearing on the side of one of the forested hills. In that instant of light, two men came into being—or so it seemed.

  Thunder boomed.

  The tallest—a blond warrior with eyes of brilliant green—lifted his face to the wind. His nostrils flared as he tested the currents. Reassured at finding only the flavor of wood pitch and damp earth, he lowered his face, confirming with his eyes that they were alone.

  "So this is where we came from,” said his bemused companion, a warrior as dark as he was light. “Earth...” He frowned as he took in the naked birch limbs and dead tundra. This lifeless vista was not what he'd expected. “No wonder we left. Barren sort of place, isn't it?"

  Fallon laughed. “Their winter ends, Mathin. They have snow, and seasons, remember? Besides,” he glanced around, ever alert in this hostile environment, “not all of us chose to leave.” His mind turned to more practical matters as he canted his head, checking his companion's appearance once again. Mathin had taken well enough to the comfortable denim pants and soft cotton shirts of the locals, but was visibly uncomfortable in the leather jacket that protected him from the dripping leaves. Such heavy clothing was never needed on their world and he didn't appreciate the confinement. Still, it was better than being wet.

  Fallon looked down and grinned. His companion had chosen to wear his own calf-boots instead of the hiking pair he'd been offered. No doubt he had a knife sheathed in each one. He shook his head wryly. At least they wouldn't be flying on this journey. Mathin would be a nightmare to get past airport security.

  The guns holstered to each of their thighs would be no problem. Many of the locals wore them as protection against wild beasts, at least in the untamed areas. The long dagger sheathed at Mathin's waist made him frown, though he said nothing. His companion already knew the risks of the blade falling into the hands of others, yet he'd chosen to bring it.

  No doubt because any thief intent on taking it would be cut to shreds for his effort. Mathin the Mad was no one to toy with.

  "The homeplace is some miles from here—are you ready to run?” Fallon asked, already looking in the direction of the trail that led to the highway.

  Mathin grinned, eager to explore this new world, and changed, taking on the Haunt.

  With one last look around at the empty countryside, Fallon joined him in the shift that made their race so feared by man, and so much stronger.

  Together they began the long run.

  * * * *

  "Yes, Grandma, I know."

  Andrea sighed and rolled her eyes at her friend Zoe, who sat at her battered folding table, picking all the almonds out of the chipped dish of salted nuts. “Knock it off,” she hissed, holding the phone away from her ear. “No, Grandma, not you! I was talking to Zoe."

  Zoe smirked and made a show of hunting for the next one, knowing full well she was safe from retaliation—at least until Andrea stopped piping the meringue mushrooms for her half-assembled yule log.

  Sometimes Andrea wondered if the only reason Zoe hung out at her house was for the edibles. It certainly wasn't for the decor, she thought with a grimace for the rusty folding chair on which Zoe sat enthroned. At least it was somewhat better than the rickety three-legged stool that was the one-room apartment's only other seat. Other than a neat pile of blankets in the corner and the cardboard boxes housing her possessions, the room was still bare.

  And why wouldn't it be? After all, she'd just moved in last week and between work and vocational school she'd barely had a moment to breathe, let alone unpack. Besides, it wasn't as if she could afford much more than the essentials on her waitress’ salary. Even garage sale bargains were out of reach until she had the time to hunt for them.

  This was the last semester of school. In two days she could take her finals and finally earn her accreditation as a chef. She couldn't wait.

  "Um, hmm...” she mumbled into the receiver sandwiched in between her cheek and shoulder, realizing she'd missed half the conversation. It came as no surprise, since half of her grandmother's dialogue consisted of local gossip, which Andrea detested, and personal advice, little of which applied to Andrea's life. Still, she loved her grandmother, and she did try to respect her feelings even when the woman didn't respect hers.

  "Oh, I'm so glad to hear that. When shall I expect you?"

  "What?” The receiver slipped, caught in the crook of her elbow. She grabbed it and held it more firmly to her ear. “I'm sorry, what did you say?"

  Zoe wandered over to the microscopic counter, her gaze sly as she eyed the leftover chocolate gauche. Her fingers twitched.

  Andrea snatched the wooden spoon out the bowl and whacked the back of her hand.

  Zoe pouted and licked the creamy chocolate off her dark skin. The pout turned into a cross-eyed look of ecstasy.

  Andrea giggled. Then she heard her grandmother say, “Oh, thank you, dear! It means so much to me to know you'll come visit. And do bring Zoe. She sounds like such a nice girl."

  "B-but Grandma!” Andrea stuttered, stunned. “You live in Alaska!” Surely she hadn't agreed to go visit there.

  "Don't they still have igloos?” Zoe asked.

  Distracted, Andrea glanced at her only to discover the wench had stolen the gauche while she'd been distracted. Brows lifted in challenge, Zoe dipped the spoon in the bowl and brazenly licked it.

  Andrea's mouth opened in outrage, but Grandma cut her off. “I'll pay for your e-tickets right away. I've got the Internet, you know."

  Flustered by her Grandmother's logic and the rapidly disappearing chocolate, Andrea sputtered, “I can't take your money, Grandma! Besides, I have to find a better job, and—"

  "If you haven't found a job then there's no problem, dear. You can find one here just as well, or wait until the summer's over and go back to the states. Though why anyone would like to live there is beyond me.” A device dinged in the background. “Oops! There's the timer. Jeopardy is on. I've got to go, dear. Love you."

  "I'm not going to Alaska!” Andrea yelled, but it was too late. The line was dead.

  For a moment she just stood there, stupidly looking at the receiver until the automated message came on. She slammed it in its cradle, grabbed the half-eaten chocolate from Zoe and smacked it firmly on the orange counter. Pointless, now that it had been
contaminated, but at least it was one thing in her life she could control.

  "Granny bought you a ticket, huh?” Zoe murmured sympathetically, eyeing the bowl.

  Eyes narrowed, Andrea inched it farther away. “No, she's buying us tickets. On the Internet,” she said with mock anticipation, blue eyes wide. “And since I don't have a job and as far as I know your job is mooching, there's no problem, is there?” She shook her braided dark hair in disgust and popped the meringue in the oven, mentally reminding herself to put it on the top shelf so the ancient device wouldn't scorch the bottoms. Carefully easing the frosted cake back, she grabbed a fresh dishcloth and started to clean up.

  "Sounds fun,” Zoe said absently, moving around her to lean on the mustard colored refrigerator. Her weave caught on the broken door handle and she grimaced, adjusting her position. “I've always wanted to see penguins."

  Andrea closed her eyes and shook her head in exasperation. “They don't have penguins at the North Pole, Zoe. You'd know that if you'd paid attention in Earth science instead of passing notes with Kyle Cline.” When she opened them again Zoe had the bowl and was seated at the table.

  Giving up, Andrea joined her, eyeing the bowl wistfully. At the moment she wanted nothing more than to drown her troubles in a bowl of rich chocolate, but she'd already eaten her quota of heaven for the day. It had to be one of the most painful ironies of her life to be a pastry chef afflicted with hypoglycemia. “I'm not going to Alaska,” she muttered rebelliously, almost to herself. Just the sight of that rapidly disappearing chocolate was making her cranky.

  Zoe just looked at her and licked the spoon.

  "I'm not!” she insisted more vehemently. “Can you see me living with Granny for an entire summer? I'd go insane. Completely nuts. I mean.... “She picked up a pen, tapped it on the table in agitated staccato. “All she does is ask me when I'm getting married, do I have a boyfriend—"

  "How is Rob, anyway?” Zoe asked around the spoon.

  "History."

  "Already?” she asked in surprise, going so far as to remove the spoon. “I figured you'd at least keep him around long enough to pop your cherry."

  "Zoe!” That was a little too much, even for her outspoken friend. “Maybe some of us like to wait until we've found someone worthy of the deed. Two months was enough to convince me that he wasn't it.” Actually it had taken far less time than that, but she'd been reluctant to say as much. After all, she was twenty-three and she hadn't dated more than five guys in her entire life. Zoe called her picky, and she was starting to wonder if maybe she was a little too demanding in her requirements for a man.

  It wasn't as if she didn't have desire, and she wasn't frigid or anything. She just wanted more than a brief relationship with a man she only sort-of liked. She wanted love. Passion. Magic. Was that too much to ask?

  Zoe snorted. “It's just a ring of tissue, girlfriend. It doesn't mean anything."

  Unwilling to argue the point, Andrea waved the issue aside. “Anyway,” she said, getting back to the original question, “I'm not going to Alaska. She's just going to have to understand. I'll call her back, and this time she'll listen."

  Zoe blinked, very slowly. “This is your Granny,” she enunciated very carefully, as if to a particularly slow child. “I've known you since you were twelve. Has she ever listened?"

  Andrea stuck out her lip. “I'm not going."

  "Care to bet?"

  * * * *

  One week later Andrea found herself in a cab, heading for the house her grandmother maintained for a rich gentleman. She didn't know much about the man, and at the moment she couldn't remember his name. She was far too busy wishing she'd wormed out of this visit like Zoe, who'd simply told her Grandma that she'd take a rain check and gone about her merry way.

  Andrea had no such luck.

  So here she was, paying a cabbie an outrageous fare to take her far into the budding hills of Fairbanks. Actually they'd passed the city limits some time ago, and she wasn't really sure quite where they were, except that she didn't want to be there. She had a life back in Chicago—or soon would have—and she didn't have time to run off to the wilds and rusticate.

  The first sight of the house caught her by surprise, though it shouldn't have. After all, if the man was rich enough to hire a caretaker then it would follow that he could afford a rather nice residence, but this place....

  Built of squared stone blocks and nestled halfway into the hillside, the house resembled nothing less than a small castle, complete with circular towers and a slate roof. Diamond paned glass of an iridescent hue graced the spacious windows. The front doors were constructed of thick planks of wood banded in wrought iron. Still dormant birches lined the gravel paved drive and the grass had yet to turn green on the well-clipped grounds.

  "Nice place,” the cabbie said as she handed him some money. “What's it like inside?"

  "Don't know,” she admitted as she climbed out. “First visit."

  He glanced at her black duffel bag and smaller carryall in speculation. “You need help with that?"

  "No, but I'd appreciate it if you'd wait until I'm inside before taking off—I tried to call from the airport, but nobody answered. I'd feel pretty stupid if you took off and I was left standing outside all by myself.” When he nodded she shut the door on the lavender cab and hefted her bag, her shoes crunching on the gravel as she approached the front steps. Hard to believe it was almost 10:30 PM and just beginning to get dark. This midnight sun business could really mess up a person's time sense.

  Andrea's breath frosted in the chill May air as she set down the carryall and grasped the wolf's head knocker. As the sound echoed through the door and into the house beyond she suppressed a shiver. This place was just a teensy bit creepy.

  Only a few moments passed before one thick door opened wide, revealing her beaming grandmother.

  It took a moment for Andrea to recognize her, as the lady had shrunk since last she'd seen her. Of course, she'd been just a child at the time. She remembered Matilda's hair as being shot-shot red, but now it was a faded shade of tangerine. Since their only communication had been a few phone calls over the years Andrea was also taken aback by how much the woman had aged. And didn't she look a little pale? Hard to tell with the clouds moving in to obscure the light.

  A dog bayed in the distance.

  Still smiling, the older woman ushered her into the foyer, barely allowing Andrea to set down her bags before she drew her into a big hug. Always rather awkward with that sort of greeting, Andrea gingerly returned the embrace, trying not to be rudely stiff and failing miserably.

  Her grandmother didn't seem to notice. “Oh, darling, it's so good to see you!” she gushed, holding Andrea's arms out to the side. “And look how you've grown."

  "Yeah, just look.” If her voice lacked enthusiasm for the observation, well, that was to be expected. She hadn't liked that gushing tone as a child and as an adult it set her teeth on edge.

  This is going to be a long visit, she thought with a mental sigh.

  "You look just like your great-aunt Virginia,” her grandmother enthused as she led her out of the foyer and into the sitting room on the right. She cocked her head. “Or was that Winifred? I never could keep them straight—they were twins, you know."

  "Identical, huh?” Andrea looked around. And winced.

  What she could see of the parquet flooring under her feet was beautiful. Unfortunately, someone had covered it in a series of violently clashing hooked rugs; the shaggy kind made with bits of yarn. Even worse, these rugs were balding.

  Rough hewn beams spanned the plastered ceiling and the walls were wainscoted with birch tongue and grove. Very pleasant, really, as were the wrought iron, lantern-style light fixtures. Everywhere she looked the underlying decor spoke of elegance and taste. It was difficult to believe that whomever had designed this place would allow her grandmother to run amuck with her crazy color scheme. Unless the owner rarely saw it?

  "Oh, no, dear,” Matilda cor
rected her, continuing on to the next room. “They looked nothing alike."

  Tension built in Andrea's brow as she tried to comprehend her grandmother's logic. Her first sight of the sitting room didn't help to relax it.

  Slipcovers in loud floral patterns covered all the furniture and were draped with crocheted Afghans of multicolored yarn. Checkered curtains with roughly the same colors as the slipcovers smothered the windows, obscuring the lovely diamond paned glass. So many knickknacks cluttered the sideboard, mantel and end tables it was impossible to see any of the surfaces.

  "Do have a seat, dear,” her grandmother told her, gesturing to a couch.

  Andrea sat down, discreetly elbowing aside a granny square pillow. “Been busy decorating?"

  "Oh, yes. The winters are very long here, and one must have something to do. Would you like a cookie?” She gestured to a plate on the coffee table.

  The cookies looked all right, but remembered dismay kept Andrea from temptation. Grandma's desserts were never what they appeared to be. She still remembered the horrid sensation of biting into a carob and prune bar at the tender age of seven.

  It had been years before she'd dared try another brownie.

  "Um, no thanks. I'm on a diet,” she hedged.

  Disappointed, her grandmother sat back, tucking her sweater more securely around her thin frame and propping her fuchsia-clad legs up on a hassock.

  Andrea blinked and politely averted her gaze. Her grandmother's feet were clad in mismatched argyle socks. With holes in the bottom.

  "I'm sure you're wondering why I wanted you to come here on such short notice,” her grandmother began, surprising Andrea with her directness. At Andrea's nod, she went on, “the doctors say that I have cancer.” She swallowed. “I don't have much time."

  Stunned, at first Andrea could just sit there. This was nothing like what she'd expected. Grandma couldn't have cancer. She was too ... she just couldn't!

  Wishing to give comfort, she went and knelt at her Grandmother's feet and grasped her aged hand with youthful strength. Tears she wouldn't have expected clouded her vision. “Are they sure? They can't ... fix it?"