Into Thin Air (2 page)
Gawan tapped on the window. "I vow 'twould be best if I drove, miss."
The door opened and she stepped out. "Sorry," she mumbled, then walked around and slid into the passenger's seat.
"Quite all right," he said, trying to put her at ease. When they were both inside, he shifted the Rover into drive and started back up the lane. "Do you have a name, girl?" he asked. "Or mayhap someone you'd like us to ring?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her looking at him. "What's happened to you?"
Then, fidgeting, she placed her hand on the door handle. "Maybe you could just drive me into town."
Because no matter how cute you are, if you think I'm going home with you, you're freaking
crazy.
Gawan's head snapped up. "Beg pardon?"
"I said, maybe you could just drive me into town."
Gawan shook his head. He must have misheard her.
In truth, he knew she was scared and didn't want to give her name, and he wished like hell he could put her at ease. And by the devil's pointed tail, he couldn't leave her. "Nay, miss. I fear everything's closed for the night." He turned his head to look straight at her. "You'll be safe within Grimm's walls. I give you my word."
She frowned, as if pondering, then nodded without saying anything at all and stared out the window into the ink-black darkness. Her hand, though, remained clenched around the door handle. She was ready to bolt, her chin trembling from the cold. At least, he thought it was from the cold.
" 'Twill be fine, girl," he said, and turned up the heater.
Minutes later, the Rover climbed the winding, rocky path to Grimm's barbican gates. The big iron beasts opened as he approached, and Gawan steered through, under the portcullis, and around the drive, stopping at the front entrance. He parked and turned off the engine.
"You
live
here?"
"Aye." Gawan peered through the darkness at imposing Castle Grimm—home for nigh on nine hundred years.
"Who are you?"
"Forgive me, girl. Gawan of, er, Conwyk. Gawan Conwyk." He gave a short nod. "Let's quit this drafty Rover, aye? No doubt Nicklesby has a fine fire roaring in the hall." He jumped out, grabbed his bag of soggy fried Milky Ways from the dash, slammed the door, and ran around to help her out.
She sat, hesitating. Not that he blamed her.
Finally, she accepted his outstretched hand and stepped out of the vehicle. At that same time, the tall oak double doors of Castle Grimm swung open.
"Young Conwyk, what are you doing in the rain? Do you require aid?" his wiry steward called.
"Nay, Nicklesby," Gawan answered. He tugged on the girl's elbow. "Come."
For a moment, Gawan thought she'd run. Her wide eyes darted from Nicklesby to the barbican gates and back to Gawan.
Should I? Shouldn't I? Should I? Shouldn't I?
Gawan stared at her and cocked his head. Nay, 'twas impossible. How could he hear her thoughts?
'Twas one of the only skills he'd maintained, from before, when he could hear the thoughts of his charges.
"Thanks," she finally said, and started to move.
As they climbed the steps, Nicklesby clucked his tongue. "Oh, dear. Soaked to the bone." He lifted his gaze to Gawan. "I thought you went out for those fried concoctions you fancy."
Gawan stepped into the great hall, and all but pushed his confused visitor inside ahead of him. "I did"—he held up his rather pitiful-looking sack of treats—"and I stumbled across this waif alone in the lane."
Nicklesby eyed Gawan for a moment, no doubt curious. Then he examined the girl. "Her room shall be ready, posthaste." Without another word, he hurried up the stairs.
Gawan bet Nicklesby was all but bursting at the seams with curiosity. Nosy devil, that one.
Gawan ushered the girl to the hearth, where indeed, Nicklesby had an enormous fire roaring.
She took a step closer to the flames, stared into the fire, and rubbed her arms.
"Have you a name?" he asked. "You never did say."
She hesitated. "Where am I?" She turned to face him. And waited. Expectantly.
Gawan scratched his chin. Did she really have no clue? "As I said before, Castle Grimm."
She squinted, staring hard.
Not the brightest bulb in the box, huh, fella?
"No.
Where
am I? What country?"
Gawan blinked. He poked his forefinger into his ear and gave it a good squeaking. He had to be hearing things, for no way was he hearing her aright. Must be one of the others, goading him.
Bleeding priests, she didn't even know what country she was in? " 'Tis the North of England. Now, your name?"
She scratched her brow. "England? You're kidding me?" She looked at him. "You spoke to me earlier, out there"—she inclined her head to the double doors—"in another language."
Gawan gave a short nod and ran his fingers through his wet hair. " 'Twas Welsh."
She paced, looking at her feet, and began to mumble to herself. "In the North of England. How'd I get here? In a castle, with a Welshman. Cute, too. Everyone talks funny, saying
nay, ye, mayhap,
and
aye. 'Twas."
She shook her head. "Didn't think they still said that stuff. I just don't get it."
"Mayhap I should ring the infirmary? I could send for a helicopter—"
"No! I'm"—she stopped and once more patted her head, then her stomach—"fine, really. I just ...
this is all just so weird."
Taking off his jacket, Gawan tossed it over the back of his favorite chair and placed a hand on the girl's shoulder. She looked up.
And his bloody knees nearly buckled.
Though drenched like a stable rat, Grimm's latest guest had brownish-red hair that hung far below her shoulders in thick, wet hanks to frame a creamy, oval face. Tiny freckles crossed her nose and cheeks. Like-colored brows arched over green—no, blue-green—eyes that stared at him, wide and uncertain.
And scared witless.
God, you're gorgeous, but could you please stop staring at me like that? You're freaking me out.
Nay! Why was he able to hear her thoughts? Damnation, this could not be so! Not
now.
Gorgeous?
He cleared his throat. "Do you know who you are?" he asked, as gently as he could.
Still wearing Gawan's weatherproof, she pulled the edges together and frowned. "Don't be silly. Of course I know who I am. I ... I'm"—she glanced around the great hall; then her eyes widened
—"Eleanor. That's right. My name is Eleanor."
Gawan cocked his head. "Just Eleanor?"
Again, she moved her gaze around the room, then back to him. "Aquitaine. Eleanor Aquitaine."
It'll
do for now, anyway, because I have no freaking clue who I am!
Oy, by the bleeding priests, this cannot be happening.
Gawan forced out a smile that felt rather pasty. "Very well, Miss Aquitaine."
"Call me Ellie."
"The chamber is ready, young Conwyk," Nicklesby called from the top of the stairs. "Come, miss.
You must get out of those soaked garments. I have a robe at the ready."
Following
Ellie
up the stairs, he and Nicklesby escorted her to the prepared room. At the door, she turned.
"Thanks for letting me stay here. I don't know how to repay you."
Please, just don't be a pair of
freaky murderers who prey on hapless travelers.
Gawan shook his head and reached into his pocket and withdrew his mobile. "No need." He felt Nicklesby's pointy elbow sink into his ribs, and he smothered a grunt. "Make use of anything you find in the chamber and garderobe. And here," he said, placing his small silver mobile in her hand.
"Keep this with you. Local numbers are listed, including the constable." He smiled. "Just to make you feel safe."
Her gaze shifted from his to Nicklesby and back.
What would make me feel safe would not to be in
this stupid mess!
"Thank you." She pushed a bit of her hair from her eyes. "For everything."
Gawan gave a short nod. "The pleasure is quite mine."
Nicklesby cleared his throat. "I'll prepare an evening snack. Something other than those horrid fried bars young Conwyk brought home. No doubt you're hungry?"
Ellie stepped into the room. "Starved."
"Splendid. I'll see to it."
With that, Ellie closed the door.
Gawan looked at Nicklesby and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Eleanor Aquitaine."
Nicklesby lifted one silvery-gray eyebrow. "Come again?"
Jerking his head toward Ellie's door, he leaned closer to his steward. "She told me
her
name was Eleanor Aquitaine."
Both silvery-gray eyebrows shot up. "Do say? What a coincidence."
" 'Tis not a bloody coincidence, man. She saw the tapestry hanging in the great hall. She's no more named Eleanor Aquitaine than I. And," he said, "I can hear her bloody thoughts!"
With a nod, Nicklesby agreed. "So right." He quirked a brow. "Then who is she—
What?"
Gawan grabbed his man's elbow and led him farther down the corridor. "I can hear her bloody thoughts! Not all of them, I assure you. And I vow I don't know who she is. At first, I thought she'd been struck by this witless fool in a farm truck who nearly ran me off the track. Out of nowhere, she all but stumbled over the guardrail and into the lane ahead of the Rover. No car, no one else around.
Just her. Didn't even know she was in England."
"Passing odd, indeed," Nicklesby said, nodding. "Apparently, there's something amiss. We both know there is only one reason why you would be able to perceive her thoughts."
"Aye." Gawan looked over his shoulder at the still-closed door of Ellie's chamber. "There must be a mix-up, Nicklesby. This isn't supposed to happen—not now. Mayhap after she eats, she'll remember
—"
A small crash sounded from behind them. Gawan looked at Nicklesby, then both hurried up the passageway to Ellie's room.
All was quiet within.
Gawan rapped on the solid oak. "Ellie?" He and his man shared a glance; then Gawan knocked again. "Miss Aquitaine?"
Complete silence.
"Try the door," Nicklesby urged.
"What if she's undressed?" Gawan thought a moment. "Mayhap you're right."
"Oh, for God's sake, move over," a grumbly voice said. The shimmering image of Sir Godfrey of Battersby appeared between Gawan and Nicklesby. Without effort, he poked his ghostly head through the six-inch solid-oak door.
He pulled his head out. "She's gone."
"Impossible," Nicklesby said.
Gawan tried the door, found it unlocked, and pushed it open.
He, Nicklesby, and Sir Godfrey all entered the chamber.
It was, as Sir Godfrey claimed, empty.
As Gawan thought,
not
boding well.
In the middle of the floor lay Gawan's mobile. Beside it. his weatherproof. He bent to retrieve both.
"By the bloody priests ..."
Nicklesby, who'd quickly run his lanky self about the room, checking every nook and cranny, sighed. "Indeed, she's nowhere, sir."
Crossing the chamber, Gawan threw back the drapes and shoved open the window. Through the darkness, the North Sea crashed against Grimm's rocky base. Thankfully, the spot of ground below the window remained vacant.
Eleanor Aquitaine had disappeared, indeed.
He turned and faced his companions, still trying to talk himself out of knowing what was, in truth, happening. "She couldn't have left the room. We blocked the passageway. And by the saints, she didn't jump."
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," clucked Sir Godfrey. "After all these centuries, you're still learning the ways of the unliving, eh, Gawan?" He shook his head. "Shame, really. A most comely wench, in my own opinion."
Gawan frowned and took a step closer to Sir Godfrey, till they were nearly nose to nose, and asked the question he bloody well knew the answer to. "What mean you?"
Sir Godfrey, previously of Battersby, lately—as in the last five hundred fifty years—of Grimm, folded his arms over his foppy silk and ruffled tunic. "Why, she's dead, of course."
Gawan closed his eyes and swore.
"Godfrey, you old poop—of course she's not dead," Nicklesby said. "Young Gawan here touched her, and more than once. She had his weatherproof draped about her shoulders, for heaven's sake.
Had she been a spirit, 'twould have slipped right through her."
Gawan pinched his brow with thumb and forefinger. A headache surely would plague him soon.
Saints, he hated being right.
"Aye, she is dead. Well," Sir Godfrey argued, "she's
mostly
dead, anyhow."
With another frown, Gawan stared at the old knight. Indeed, this was a new one, even for him.
"Mostly? What do you mean, mostly?"
"What he means is that she's fluttering about between the living and the unliving," another voice answered. "We like to refer to it as
In-Betwinxt.
Rarely happens, of course, and only in the utmost extraordinary circumstances."
All three turned as Lady Follywolle emerged from thin air. Dressed in her usual gown of lace and green pinstripes, her powdered hair coifed into some sort of odd bird that Gawan found highly amusing, she bustled into the room, as she'd done for the last three centuries.
He turned and quit the chamber, Nicklesby, Sir Godfrey and Lady Follywolle close on his heels.
"My good sir, it seems you've a new case on your hands," the lady said, her voice quavering with excitement. "Terrible time for a case such as this, being so close to your retirement. 'Tis understandable, though, that you did not recognize her unusual aura. You'll find it most useful, though, to be able to touch her person, should you need to." Lady Follywolle swooped ahead of him as he ambled down the passageway. " 'Twill boggle the mind, if you let it. But you've not handled a mostly dead lost soul yet." She leaned in close, her ghostly lashes batting furiously. "Have you?"
Gawan jogged down the stairs and crossed the great hall, his mood growing darker by the second.
"Nay, I have not."
"My good lady," Nicklesby said from behind, "that's quite enough. I'll explain what I know to the boy."
