Hemlock Read online

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Tales of a Traveler Book One: Hemlock

  Copyright © 2014 by N. J. Layouni. All rights reserved.

  First E-Book Edition: April 2014

  Edits suggested by Red Adept

  Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

  Connect with the Author:

  Facebook:

  https://www.facebook.com/pages/NJ-Layouni/405255156236485

  Goodreads:

  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8107337.N_J_Layouni

  Twitter:

  https://twitter.com/NJLayouni

  Website:

  http://njlayouni.blogspot.co.uk/

  This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  For Sami, Khalil, and Amira: ‘To the moon and stars, and all the way back again.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  In hindsight, hiking in the Lake District on a bitter day in November was not, perhaps, the best way to fix a broken heart.

  Martha Bigalow looked up at the leaden sky and winced as a fat raindrop smacked her on the eyeball. “Ow!” She pressed the heel of her hand to the afflicted eye. “Spend a nice day in the country,” she muttered, mimicking the gentle Irish accent of her Aunt Clooney. “It’ll do you good, so it will, pet. There’s nothing like a bit of fresh air and exercise to sweep away man troubles. Hah!”

  The plan formed that morning over breakfast, snug and safe in the warmth of her aunt’s Lakeland kitchen, wasn’t exactly living up to Martha’s hopes.

  In the secret places of her mind, she’d imagined herself floating over the moorland like some despairing Bronte-esque heroine crossed in love, her heart mortally wounded by the hero’s cruelty—not that she’d ever admit that one out loud. But the reality was nowhere near as tragically beautiful. She was freezing cold and soaked through to her skin. There was nothing remotely poetic about trudging along in wet knickers. On the plus side, she hadn’t cried about Tony for the past five minutes. The loathsome fecker!

  With the wind buffeting her from every direction, she pulled back the hood of her parka a little and peered around. Was there a quicker route back to Littlemere?

  Sleet-edged rain drifted along the valley in fast-moving sheets that dwarfed the highest peaks. The familiar landmarks were already swallowed up by low cloud. No, it certainly wasn’t the best weather for going off piste. Squinting into the wind, Martha looked ahead, following the narrow path she was on until it disappeared beneath a tangle of rusting bracken. It was little more than a rabbit-way, really, but at least it led downhill.

  Replacing her hood, she set off again, head down, hands thrust deep into her pockets. Raindrops hammered her hood, battering on the fabric like stones until her head vibrated with the constant tattoo. Unpleasant though it was, Martha wasn’t afraid. These hills were old, if slightly grouchy, friends. Another hour and she’d be home and dry, sitting down to eat a steaming bowl of Aunt Clooney’s homemade soup.

  Stumbling and sliding through the wet bracken, she finally made it to the river. Martha heaved a sigh. All she had to do was nip across to the other bank and pick up the regular walking trail on the other side.

  The river had other ideas. Swollen by the downpour, the ordinarily benign strip of water had been transformed into a tiger, hissing and grumbling as it raced towards the valley. Martha picked her way uphill until she reached the line of ancient stepping stones. They usually stood proud of the river, but now they lay semi-submerged beneath the froth of angry water.

  No problem. Her coat might be crappy, but her boots were good. Taking a deep breath, she jumped and landed solidly on the first stone. Martha grinned and swiped the cuff of her wet sleeve over her face. One down, five to go.

  Stones two and three weren’t quite so easy. They wobbled with the force of the water pushing against them, minuscule movements as the shingle bed shifted beneath their immense weight.

  She dithered on stone number three for quite a while, steeling herself to make the next leap. For the first time that day, a frisson of fear rippled up her spine. As she looked down, the speed and motion of the river made her head spin. Forcing her eyes upward, she fixed them on the opposite bank. It was so near. Just a couple more hops and she’d be on her way home.

  With a final glance at stone number four, Martha exhaled like a weight-lifter and jumped.

  As her foot touched the stone, it hit something slimy, and the world went sky down. Suddenly she was thrashing in the icy water, heart hammering, lungs refusing to breathe. Although the river wasn’t deep, it was powerful, tugging at her body with unimaginable force. Flailing and splashing, she flung out her arm and hooked it about one of the stepping stones before the water swept her downstream.

  Inch by painful inch, she dragged herself to safety, choking as a torrent of foaming water rushed into her nose and mouth. By the time she reached the shallows, she was exhausted. Trembling with cold and fear, she lay face down, forehead resting on her arms, gasping and totally spent.

  Sweet baby Jesus. What just happened? Teeth chattering, she crawled from the river then collapsed onto her back on the soggy shore. The rain kept coming, belting down from the darkening sky. Her head felt fuzzy and muddled. She had to get off the hill. It’d be night soon, and she was already well into hypothermia territory.

  Come on, Bigalow. Move it! Despite her inner drill-sergeant’s best efforts, her body wouldn’t obey.

  What about her phone? Maybe it had survived? She reached into her coat pocket, her fingers claw-like with cold, and managed to scoop up her phone. It sloshed when she shook it, but ever the optimist, she pressed the on button. Nothing.

  Stupid, flimsy, state-of-the-art piece of junk. What am I going to do now?

  Violent shivers wracked her body. In desperation, she forced herself to crawl a couple more paces, but the incline of the muddy bank was too much. Wrapping her arms uselessly about herself, Martha slumped back and closed her eyes.

  As the river sang on, a slow lethargy invaded her limbs and sapped her will to move. Perhaps if she rested for a moment? He
r head ached; Lord, she was so tired. A little rest couldn’t hurt. Just to prepare her for the long walk home.

  She sat up gasping for air, wrenched from an unpleasant dream involving herself, a pool-noodle, and a raging sea. It was dark, and her bed felt strangely lumpy and uncomfortable. When she reached for her bedside light, her hand struck wet stone. “What the…?” Reality restored her memory, but it failed to quieten her heart. This wasn’t her bedroom.

  The river. She must have fallen asleep by the river. So where was she now?

  Motionless shapes rose out of the gloom as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. “H-hello?” Her voice bounced around a cavernous space. Whatever this place was, it was big. Like the inside of a cathedral, but much colder. Quieter too.

  She battled against the urge to shout as the silence crushed down on her. Her spine prickled, the weight of the dark summoning all her long-forgotten childish fears. Steady, rhythmic plink-plonks of dripping water kept time with her ragged breaths.

  She forced herself to breathe slower and deeper. A full-bore panic attack wouldn’t help. Gradually, the indistinct shapes morphed into rough walls and a sweeping roof of stone. At last, the penny dropped.

  How the hell had she ended up in a cave?

  Huddling into a shivering ball, Martha wrapped her arms about her legs. They were bare, and as devoid of clothing as the rest of her. Oh my God! The only thing between her and total nakedness was her ill-matched underwear. An unknown someone had, quite sensibly, removed all of her saturated garments. Even so, she cringed, and the heat of a blush prickled across her cheeks.

  Thank God whoever undressed her had been repelled by the sight of her off-white knickers and saggy old bra. Victoria’s Secret they weren’t. How humiliating.

  Always wear nice underwear, pet. You never know when you might wake up in the hospital.

  Aunt Clooney’s voice spoke in her head as clearly as if she were sitting beside her. The old lady was forever spouting odd sayings, but that particular old chestnut was right on the money.

  Martha groped around on the floor, hunting for her clothes. Instead, she found a woolen blanket. It must’ve slipped down when she’d woken.

  She dragged it about her shoulders and huddled beneath its itchy folds, wrinkling her nose as the scent of leather and sweat enveloped her. At least it was warm. Shuffling her butt, she attempted to find a comfier spot on the thin bedroll.

  Perhaps Mountain Rescue volunteers had brought her here? She frowned in the dark. So why hadn’t they taken her back to the village? It wasn’t that far away. And why leave her alone in a cave without so much as a flashlight or a foil blanket? No. Whoever brought her here had nothing to do with Mountain Rescue.

  When she shivered again, it had nothing to do with the cold. Something wasn’t right.

  The darkness to her right was slightly lighter than the rest of the cave. That must be the entrance. Martha leaned toward it, clutching the blanket a little tighter to her chest. She couldn’t sit here all night, half-naked, hoping her rescuer might return. Rescuer? He could be a serial axe-murderer for all she knew. A vivid imagination could be a terrible affliction. She chewed on her lower lip. Maybe she should make a run for it?

  Then she heard the crunch of slow footsteps approaching the mouth of the cave.

  Oh hell!

  She swept her hands over the dirt floor in semi-circular motions, blindly hunting for something she could use as a weapon. The movement caused her blanket to slip, exposing her chest to the bitter cold. Cursing beneath her breath, she secured her wayward covering and continued the search one-handed.

  Her fingers folded around a fist-sized rock. It was rough, heavy, and comforting. Just the right size for braining someone. She found it not a second too soon, for a large shadow appeared at the entrance to the cave, bearing aloft a flaming torch. Heart pounding, Martha flung herself down on the bedroll and pretended to sleep.

  Blood pounded in her ears, almost deafening her. Martha tried to hold her breath, but pent-up air escaped in shuddering gasps.

  The figure advanced. Crunch. Crunch. Closer still. His heavy boot-steps sent tiny bits of stone skittering towards her when his feet scraped on the dirt floor.

  It had to be a man. No female walked like that.The whispering flames of his torch were audible now. Their fiery glow penetrated her closed eyelids like the sun.

  Just how big was this guy? And, more importantly, could she take him? Martha opened her eyes a fraction, studying him from beneath her eyelashes. Her life might depend on knowing her opponent’s strength.

  The figure reached up and slotted the torch into a hidden place on the cave wall, close to where Martha lay trembling. The dancing flames transformed the shadow into a man.

  A tall man, and a strong one too, by the look of him. He turned and moved towards her.

  Was he dangerous, though? Every fiber of her soul screamed out a unanimous yes.

  Eyes tightly shut, Martha gripped the stone until her fingers ached. She sensed the man leaning over her prostrate form. What was he doing? Blindness increased her sense of vulnerability. She cracked her eyelids a fraction, and her heart went from a gallop to a stop. In his hand, he held a knife. A large and very shiny knife.

  You’ll only get one shot at this, Bigalow.

  The rock’s rough surface bit into her fingers. With a cry of fear, she lashed out at her assailant.

  Not quickly enough. With frightening speed, a large hand grabbed her wrist in mid-arc. She gasped, writhing with pain as cruel fingers exerted pressure on her feeble bones, threatening to crush them into toothpicks. The stone fell harmlessly from her hand and hit the ground with a thud.

  The knife clattered to the cave floor as the man grabbed the tops of her arms and hauled her against him. “What darkness are you?” he hissed from behind a mask that shrouded the lower half of his face.

  Martha found herself up close and personal with the most incredible pair of eyes. Mesmerising eyes, glittering like coal in the torchlight. The concealing mask heightened the impact of his gaze. She couldn’t formulate a response—not when pain had her whimpering like a puppy.

  “Speak!” he demanded, giving her a hard shake.

  “Ow! Feck! Let g-go of—”

  “Answer me, woman!” The pressure on her arms didn’t lessen. She struggled uselessly against him, her naked skin pressed to his woolen cloak.

  “I’m Martha!” she cried.

  “Armarther?” His beautiful eyes frowned, and the pressure of his hands eased. “What do you mean, Armarther?”

  “Me!” She tried to pull away, but he was too strong. “I’m a…I mean, Martha. Martha B-Bigalow. L-let me go. Please!”

  The panic in her voice must have reached him. Whatever it was, the immovable cage about her arms loosened, and she was free. The moment release came, she scuttled backward to the safety of the cave wall, arms crossed over her chest, rubbing at her throbbing arms.

  The man sat back on his haunches and watched, his eyes never leaving her face. Uncomfortable seconds ticked by, and still he didn’t speak. Only her panting breaths broke the silence.

  Was he waiting for her to make the first move?

  He picked up his knife from where it had fallen and slid it into a sheath on his belt. That was one less thing to worry about.

  The weapon’s disappearance gave her courage to study him, not that she could see much for the heavy cloak he wore. Even so, she could tell he was big. But not, she suspected, in the bulging and muscle-bound way. He was much too rangy for that. Hugging herself, Martha pressed back harder against the damp cave wall.

  Hardly daring to breathe, she continued her wary inspection, her eyes moving over the shapeless grey cloak until they arrived at the place where his face should have been. A deep hood covered his head, and a broad strip of fabric shrouded his face, highwayman style. Only his eyes were visible. And what eyes they were. Her stomach lurched several times in quick succession. Thick dark lashes, the kind to make a woman weep with envy, framed
his almond-shaped eyes. Jet-colored eyes that shone with a light of their own.

  She gave herself a mental shake. It must be an effect of the crappy torchlight. Either that or he was wearing contacts. Who wore a cloak nowadays, or a mask, for that matter? Was he living out a deranged Batman fantasy? Was this place his BatCave?

  Careful, Bigalow. Don’t anger the crazy person.

  The man held her gaze, not once looking away. Martha glanced down at the cave floor, relieved to break the connection. If he was trying to out-stare her, he’d won. She had the strangest notion he could see all the things she preferred to keep hidden—especially from a creep like him.

  Still he didn’t speak.

  His cold, silent scrutiny was beginning to piss her off. “Who are you?” she demanded, at last. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “Such gratitude.” His slightly husky voice held an accent she couldn’t place. “Perhaps I should have left you outside for the wolves to feast upon.” He tossed the blanket to her. She hadn’t even noticed it was gone.

  “Wolves? Yeah, right.” Blushing furiously, Martha grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around herself. A flash of anger melted away the remnants of her fear. “Don’t be so ridiculous! This is the Lake District, not…not…” She floundered for a country where wolves still roamed wild.

  His black eyes narrowed. “No wolves, hmm? Where are you from, I wonder?”

  The man threw back his head and emitted a long wolf-like howl that went on and on, echoing eerily around the cave. The hairs on Martha’s arms stood up in legion, and icy shivers raced down her spine. His animal impression was very convincing.

  She stared, open-mouthed. He’s as crazy as a box of frogs. “Feel better now?” she asked when the last hellish note died away.