Hemlock Read online

In reply, the man raised one leather-gloved finger and tilted his head slightly toward the cave entrance. “Listen.”

  And then her whole body erupted into a mass of gooseflesh. From far away, other wolf voices answered, continuing the stranger’s song.

  It had to be a dream. Jaw flapping, Martha tried, and failed, to put into words all the terrible confusion racing through her mind.

  Were dreams this painful, though? Her head ached, pulsing with a slow symphony of throbs. Summoning her courage, she glared at the man. “I don’t know what your game is, pal, but I don’t like it.”

  She scrambled to her feet, and a sharp pain flashed down her leg. Her right knee almost gave way. She must have twanged it when she fell in the river. The man extended his hand, but she swatted it away. The blanket snagged beneath her foot and almost came loose. With a muttered curse, Martha yanked at it, managing to preserve her modesty at the final moment.

  In one graceful movement, the man rose from his crouching position. He accompanied her to the cave entrance, keeping abreast of her as she hobbled barefoot over the uneven floor, but he made no further attempt to offer his help.

  She stepped beneath the rocky arch into the outside world. Her hand flew to her mouth. For a brief time, she forgot the man existed at all.

  The rain had stopped, and a bitter wind blew, leeching the remaining heat from her skin. She barely noticed. The valley below secured all of her attention. It was utterly dark. From this height, she should have seen roads down there, villages. There was nothing. Not a solitary light shone out in the darkness. A mass power cut? No. If that was the cause, she would have seen the friendly glow of a thousand candles. Besides, power cuts didn’t affect car headlights, did they?

  Her headache picked up speed. This was all so wrong. Littlemere was a popular tourist trail, for God’s sake. It wasn’t as if she’d been out hiking in the middle of nowhere.

  But no matter how long she looked, she didn’t glimpse a single light anywhere. Even the moon and stars had hidden themselves behind the heavy clouds. The skeletal shapes of trees, rank upon rank of them, clung to the sides of the valley, almost to the entrance of the cave.

  Littlemere’s hills were devoid of trees.

  The surrounding landscape looked wrong. Sharp, soaring peaks replaced the gentle curves of the countryside she knew. Nothing was right.

  “Where the feck am I?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Breathing much too quickly, Martha leaned back against the stone wall, her legs as wobbly as a newborn lamb’s. Where was the Littlemere? An entire village didn’t simply get up and walk away.

  Impossible. She turned and glared at the masked man. This was all his doing. For some perverted reason, he must have drugged her, and then driven her out here—wherever the hell here was.

  “Where’s Littlemere?”

  “You talk in riddles. Come back inside,” he said in a gentle voice. “You will catch a chill, standing there wearing so little.”

  Martha glanced back at the silhouetted landscape, her body shaking with a combination of cold and raw fear. The man didn’t sound perverted. If anything, he sounded concerned.

  Well, of course he does. He’s messing with your head.

  Great. She was holding conversations with herself again. It was a stress thing. She’d been doing it a lot since she’d caught Tony— oh, forget him. Right now, her unfaithful ex-fiancé was the least of her worries.

  “Why are you doing this?” Wrapping her arms about her shivering body, Martha raised her chin, holding the masked man’s gaze. “Is it a power thing? Is that it?”

  He took a step closer, eyes frowning over his mask. “What is it you imagine I am guilty of, m’lady?” He didn’t look angry, only puzzled.

  “Drugging me, kidnapping me, taking my clothes.” Martha arched her eyebrows. “Any of this sounding familiar? How about when you tried to stab me—”

  “I certainly did no such thing.”

  Now he was angry.

  His eyes flashed like fiery coals. “You are free to leave whenever you choose. Go now, if you will.” He gestured outside. “Your sodden garments are by the hearth. I was about to make a fire to dry them when you attempted to cave in my skull with your rock.”

  If he wanted an apology for that, he’d be waiting a long time. “So what did you need a knife for?”

  The man took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “The wood is wet,” he said, with exaggerated patience. “Unless I first split and feather it, it will not burn.” Shaking his head, he stalked back inside the cave, muttering snarly things beneath his breath.

  Martha chewed her lower lip, her eyes darting from the strange man to the unfamiliar land outside. Now that he’d given her permission to leave, she was suddenly reluctant to go. Okay, he was a total fruit loop, but it was dark out there. An unfamiliar, howling kind of dark. Added to that, she had no idea where she was, and her clothes and boots were still soaking wet. Perhaps she should postpone her departure until morning. Decision made, she sidled back inside.

  He knelt beside a circle of stones that marked the boundary of the fireplace. Martha crept toward one of the two log seats beside the hearth and sat down. The man didn’t look up, too intent on what he was doing.

  With her free hand, the one not occupied with securing the wayward blanket, Martha massaged her temples. The white-hot headache knifing between her eyes was fast becoming an absolute blinder. Hardly surprising, really. It wasn’t every day the world she knew disappeared.

  Aunt Lulu would be pacing the floor with worry by now. Had she already alerted Mountain Rescue? They must be out looking for her by now.

  There had to be a rational explanation for all this, something her muddled brain had overlooked. Perhaps she was having a mental breakdown of some kind? She hadn’t been sleeping much recently. Misery had that effect on her. Or maybe it was the result of some terrible hallucinogenic illness? She might even be dead. Now, there was a comforting thought.

  Her idea of heaven, however, was a place sunshine and peace, not of hypothermia, migraines, and twisted knees. And it certainly didn’t come with a complementary wanna-be medieval cave-dweller.

  Unless, of course, this was the other place. The basement. Martha shivered again. No. Hell would be warmer. So, by that reckoning, she must still be alive.

  Huddled in her blanket, she watched as the weird man arranged small pieces of twigs in the blackened hearth. His movements were smooth and deft, as if making fire was second nature. Maybe he lived here, all alone in his horrible cave. What was he, a medieval re-enactor gone feral?

  After arranging the twigs, he placed a layer of fluffy kindling on top. How would he light it? She craned her neck to see.

  He fumbled in a leather pouch at his waist and produced a metal stick and some kind of stone. As he struck the two together, a shower of brilliant sparks rained down on the bed of kindling. A thin ribbon of smoke swirled upward in a lazy spiral.

  No matches or firelighters for this guy. He really was living the survivalist dream.

  Flipping back the hood of his cloak, the man pulled off his mask and threw it to the ground. Then, cupping the smoking ball in his hands, he raised it close to his face, gently blowing on it, encouraging the embryo fire to life.

  Having ascertained she wasn’t dead after all, Martha shuffled to the end of her log in order to see him better. If the veil was his normal attire, this might be her only chance to study him properly. The police were big on physical descriptions, apparently.

  Oh, hello. Unexpectedly, her stomach flipped, and she sat up a little straighter. He was younger than she’d imagined; the old-fashioned way he spoke had thrown her. She began compiling a police report in her head.

  Age? Early-thirties, give or take a year.

  As he blew on the kindling ball a second time, tiny flames appeared, their light illuminating his face. The fire danced and flickered, reflecting in the man’s dark eyes, lending him a demonic air.

  Eye color? Demon? Martha suck
ed on her lower lip. No. She’d pass on that one for now. How about hair color? Freed from the confines of his hood, it hung down his back in a smooth black sheet, ending in a ragged line just beneath his shoulders. Making a sound of irritation, he flicked back his head to remove the hair from his eyes and the peril of the flames.

  The newborn fire shone kindly on its maker. The Hollywood-perfect cheek bones were the ideal accompaniment to his firm and stubbled jaw line. Lovely. Not a sag or a bag anywhere. A little unkindly, Martha overlaid his profile with that of her ex-fiancé, mentally evaluating the two men. Tony lost. He’d gotten rather doughy around the edges of late. In comparison, the stranger’s face was granite and marble.

  Crossing her legs, she released her pent-up breath in a slow exhale. There was something rather sensual about his mouth, particularly the fullness of his lower lip. Set in such an angular face, it saved his face from harshness.

  The man set the flaming ball in the hearth, tending to his greedy progeny as patiently as any father, feeding it small morsels of twigs until the flames were able to gorge on thicker pieces of wood.

  Martha knew she was staring. She just couldn’t help herself.

  Perhaps sensing the intensity of her gaze, the man glanced around. “Have you seen enough yet, m’lady?” He rose smoothly to his feet, all six-foot-something of him. “Or perhaps you might like to see me dance a jig next?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” Martha blushed, annoyed he’d caught her dissecting him. She needed a change of subject—and fast. “What have you done with my clothes? I take it you were the one who undressed me.” The thought of him seeing her squishy bits made her cheeks burn even hotter.

  “You would prefer I left you to freeze to death in your sodden garments?” He crossed the cave in two strides and selected another piece of wood from a pile of logs in the shadows.

  “Yes… No…” She raked her hands through the wild frizz of her hair. “I don’t know.” Another flash of pure white pain pulsed through her head.

  “I derived no pleasure from the experience, if that comforts you,” he said, throwing the wood on the fire.

  Yeah. Right. Her heart set off galloping as all her former panic resurfaced in a sudden crashing wave. “Enough with the games. Who the hell are you?” she demanded. “Where the feck am I, and what did you do with Littlemere?”

  The man slung one long leg over the log and sat astride it. “Littlemere?” He began removing his leather gloves, one finger at a time. “Is that a person or a place?”

  “The village!” She all but screamed the words at him. “You know what a bloody village is, don’t you? Where am I?”

  “The Norlands, m’lady. Erde, lest you have forgotten that too. The nearest hamlet is more than five leagues from here.” Examining the stitching of his gloves with apparent interest, he added in an undertone, “I fear the cold must have addled her mind.”

  “Martha!” Heart pounding with fury, she leapt to her feet, grabbing hold of the blanket as it made yet another bid for freedom. “My. Name. Is. Martha. Where the bloody hell are the Norlands? Talk sense, why don’t you? I don’t want a hamlet. I want a proper village, preferably a town. Somewhere big, with shops and hotels. You know, decent restaurants, ATMs…cars…telephones?” A bitter laugh escaped her. “Is anything I’m saying even the slightest bit familiar to you? Feel free to jump in at any point.”

  The man picked at a small hole in the seam of his glove. “The town of Edgeway holds a market once a month during—”

  “That’s hardly the same thing, is it?”

  “I really cannot say.”

  “Ow, shit!” Something sharp jabbed into the sole of her foot.

  “Calm yourself!” Throwing his gloves aside, the man shot to his feet. Although he didn’t shout, his voice was loud enough to get her attention. “Losing control of your temper will not benefit you.”

  Subdued by his superior height and proximity, Martha limped back to her seat to examine her wound. Just a spot of blood, but it hurt like crazy.

  The man glanced at her foot. “Would you permit me to—”

  “No. It’s fine!” He’d touched her more than enough already. She pressed her thumb down on the bloody mark and winced. “It’s nothing, really,” she added in a gentler tone, throwing him a fake smile for good measure. He’d been fairly harmless so far, but she didn’t want to piss him off. Not when they were alone in the middle of nowhere.

  “Your words are strange to my ears, but instinct tells me your heart is truthful. Shall we begin again?” He stood before her, hand held over his heart. “Some call me Hemlock, but you may call me Vadim.” He bowed his handsome head. “If it is within my power to do so, I will help you find your way home.”

  “Ch-charmed, I’m sure.” Her stomach fluttered. “And I’m Martha, Martha Bigalow.” Without thinking, she thrust out her hand. What the heck had she done that for? His old-fashioned manners must have rubbed off on her. “How do you do?” she added for good measure, then cringed.

  “I do very nicely, thank you.” After a momentary pause, Vadim took her outstretched hand.

  Although his skin was rough, his touch was gentle. Warm. A pulse of electricity bolted up her arm. To her amazement, he raised her hand to his lips and brushed it with a feather-light kiss. All the time, those dark, knowing eyes bored into hers.

  “’Tis my greatest pleasure to know you, Lady Martha,” he murmured against her skin.

  For a moment, she forgot to breathe. “J-just Martha will do. Thanks.” What was she thanking him for? Blushing and flustered, she slipped her hand from his.

  He made no attempt to stop her, but a half-smile played upon his lips.

  Weird hermit, or an escapee from a secure unit? Whatever he was, Vadim knew what he was doing to her. Damn him. Martha shook her head to clear it. What was she thinking? Get a grip, woman.

  While she wriggled her icy toes by the heat of the now blazing fire, Vadim retrieved her clothes from where he’d stashed them, and wrung out each sopping garment in turn, twisting them with his hands. Droplets of water pattered to the dry, dirt floor, quickly transforming it to a muddy ooze. It was strangely intimate, watching a strange man handling the things she wore next to her skin.

  “What are the chances of my clothes being dry by morning, do you think?” she asked.

  “Chance is something I seldom trouble to estimate, m’lady.” The tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We have never been the best of friends.”

  “Not a gambler, huh?”

  “This is strange fabric,” he said, neatly changing the subject. “I have never seen its like before. What is it?” He raised her coat close to his face to examine it.

  “It’s a nylon mix. Don’t ask me to explain what that means, I have no idea myself.” She blinked. Did he just sniff at her parka? Lord knew what that smelled like after a day spent sweating in the hills.

  “It is not a particularly serviceable garment.” Vadim gave it a shake. As he did so, her water-logged phone flew out of the pocket and landed with a thud at her feet. His smile vanished, suspicion glinting in his narrowed eyes. “What is that?”

  “N-nothing.” Martha snatched up her phone and nursed it between her hands. “Just my phone. Don’t worry. It doesn’t work anymore.”

  Vadim threw down her parka. In two long strides, he was beside her, hand extended. “Show me.”

  Reluctantly, Martha obeyed. Great. She’d really blown it now. He probably thought she was going to call the cops. What would he do to her?

  Vadim turned the phone over and over in his hands, frowning as if he’d never seen one before. “What is it?” he asked, prodding at the power button.

  If that was the way he wanted to play it, fine. She needed to keep him sweet. “It’s a telephone. I use it when I want to talk to someone who lives far away.” If her voice was slightly patronising, it wasn’t intentional.

  “So you are a witch!” Vadim held the phone by his thumb and index finger and held it away fr
om him. “This…thing is part of your impedimenta?”

  Oh, for God’s sake. She rolled her eyes and exhaled hard. He was taking this whole thing way too far. “It’s just a phone, not a Book of Shadows, you great eejit.”

  “Then do it now. Speak to someone.” He tossed the phone to her.

  She caught it one-handed. Was he for real? “I can’t.” The phone sloshed when she shook it. “It’s full of water, see? It’s probably ruined.”

  Thank God it was still on contract. Getting a replacement shouldn’t be too difficult, though it pained her when she thought of all the data and pictures she’d lost.

  “I see.” Vadim held out his hand again, his black brows knitted together. “So it no longer has any value or power?”

  Martha chucked the phone back to him. “Not any more.” Besides, most of the stored pictures were of her and Tony. Maybe it wasn’t such a great loss after all. “What the—”

  Vadim dropped the phone to the floor and crushed it beneath his boot.

  “What the hell d’you think you’re doing?” she cried, leaping to her feet.

  He shrugged, then crouched to gather up the shattered pieces. “By your own admission, it was useless.”

  “I-I don’t care! It was mine.” Her hand balled into a fist at her side, tingling with the urge to punch him. What, kidnapping her wasn’t enough for him? Well, that Riverdance number he’d done on her phone had added a charge of criminal damage to the mental rap sheet she was compiling.

  Vadim tossed the broken bits of phone into the hearth. “And now it is fuel for the fire.”

  Martha stared open-mouthed as the flames lapped greedily about the remains of her phone, melting it into nothing. “You bastard!” She cupped her nose and mouth with her hand as an acrid stench of plastic filled the cave.

  A muscle set off pulsing in Vadim’s jaw. ‘Tis for the best. It would cause too many questions if anyone found it on your person. You are other-worldly enough as it is.”