Authors: Sharon Lee
Carousel Sun (36 page)
“There was a disturbance at the house,” my mother said from beside me. “A lot of cars and police cars, and—these two were out back, and when they understood what was happening—that the house was being raided, they ran down the hill and into the Wood.
“The other one—he did come after them, but I think he meant to arrest them, Katie.”
“I think so, too,” I said. I sat back on my heels and rubbed my forehead. “This,” I told my mother, “is turning into a very interesting day. Remind me to tell you about it.”
“All right,” she said. “What are you going to do?”
That was a good question, but really, there was only one thing
to
do.
“I’m going to wake up Kyle,” I said.
“This man,” I told the trees, as I knelt again beside Kyle, “came into the Wood on purpose to protect it. I propose to awaken him, and have him take the two despoilers away.”
They are ours
, the Wood said, and there was enough menace in the voice of the trees that I shivered.
“Times have changed. If you kill them, men will notice you. The Lady has lately avoided notice, hasn’t she?”
Silence, then an answer, very nearly petulant.
She has
.
“Then, in the Lady’s absence, that’s how we’ll play it.”
I put my hand on Kyle’s shoulder.
“Please unbind him.”
For a count of three, nothing happened; then the vines unwound from his legs and arms, and the rootling withdrew from about his throat. I heard a rustle and glanced to my right, watching my mother place a gimme hat, a handgun and a bottle of Poland Spring water on the ground by Kyle’s shoulder, before she once again withdrew to the shrubbery.
I considered the handgun without favor, then I reached to the land and nudged Kyle awake.
“Hey!” he said, sounding faintly surprised.
He opened his eyes, and met mine, blinking like he’d looked into a lamp that was too bright.
“Good morning,” I said cheerily. “How’re you feeling?”
“Lousy,” he said, keeping his eyes on mine. “And also like I might be losing my mind.”
“Lucky I happened by,” I said, nodding to his right. “There’s a bottle of water there for you, if you’re thirsty.”
“Thanks.”
He sat up cautiously, turned his head, and looked at the things Nessa had put there on the grass for a longish time before he sighed, put out his hand—and took up the bottle of cold spring water.
“I guess my question is
how
you happened by,” he said, after he’d cracked the seal and taken a swig.
“Truthfully? Got a phone call that there was a trespasser in the woods. This land here belongs to my family.”
Kyle looked at me, holding the bottle a little away from his mouth.
“
The trees tried to strangle me!
” he said, like he’d rather be saying almost anything else.
I nodded, as matter-of-fact as I knew how.
“They’re old trees, set in their ways, and they don’t like strangers.” I shrugged. “You really shouldn’t’ve come in.” I glanced significantly at the gun, that he’d left out in plain sight on the ground.
“MDEA?” I asked.
He shook his head. “FBI.”
I sighed, making it as theatrical as possible.
“I guess this means I’m not getting my horse.”
“What?” He blinked, and for a second it looked like he had no idea what I was talking about, and then the penny dropped. “Oh, hey, no! You’ll get the horse—Mike’s working on it now.”
“Mike?” I suddenly had a bad feeling. “The guy in Glen Echo? You didn’t ship that wood to Maryland, did you?”
He shook his head.
“No; he’s here at the shop. We brought him up once I had the in with you. Since we didn’t know how long this would take to crack, or exactly what your relationship with Nemeier’s operations was, we figured we’d best produce the horse.” He pressed his lips together, but his eyes said he knew he’d let the cat out of the bag.
“You thought
I
was working for or with Joe Nemeier?” I demanded. “Do I look like a smuggler to you?”
“Does
he
look like a smuggler?” he countered, jerking his head toward the top of the hill. He had another swig of water. “And there were questions enough about you—including where the hell
did
that horse go, and what was in it?
“But you’re not a smuggler, are you?” he continued. “You’re—what? A sorceress? A—an
earth spirit
?”
I was impressed; the boy could think outside of the box. ’Course, being entwined and throttled by the Wood might broaden anybody’s outlook.
“I’m what’s called the Guardian; job’s been in the family for generations. Now, I don’t want to be rude, but I also don’t want to try the trees’ patience much further. The kiddies you chased in here are alive, but if we don’t move them soon, they won’t be. What I propose is that we drag them outta here, before you call for backup. Okay?”
He took a breath, nodded, and reached for his hat.
“Okay.”
“Did you get Joe Nemeier?” I asked, as we stretched our prisoners out on the grass at the edge of the Wood. “In the raid.”
“Far’s I know,” Kyle said, flipping open his phone.
“Good. And before you make that call, I’m leaving, and you never saw me, right?”
He looked at me, face resigned.
“My boss is a real down-to-earth kind of guy. He doesn’t handle . . . unusual situations well, and the team tries not to upset him.”
“Then he’s going to love how you’re not going to tell him about Ulme, who was a victim, and who’s gone home now.”
“To the world next door,” Kyle muttered. “You bet I’m telling him
that
.”
“Go up to St. Margaret’s any Sunday morning, and they’ll tell you a story that sounds remarkably similar,” I said.
He gave me a sour look. Clearly, he wasn’t in the mood for philosophy.
“All right, then! I’ll just leave you to your work,” I said, and left him at the edge of the wood, cell phone in hand.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Sunset 9:02
P.M.
EDT
“I’ll call that a busy day followin’ a frantic yesterday.”
Borgan had been waiting when I got home, one hip resting on the porch rail as he gazed out to sea.
“Oh,” I said. “Damn!”
He turned his head and looked down at me, eyes glinting.
“You forget our date?”
“No and yes,” I told him, coming up the stairs slowly.
Borgan had dressed for a
nice
date: salt-white shirt embroidered with seashells in glistening silver thread; black jeans; boots. The nacre stud was in his ear, and I caught the gleam of a silver bracelet under the edge of one cuff.
He was so beautiful that my chest hurt, just looking at him. He raised an eyebrow.
“You want to reschedule?”
“No!”
Halfway up the stairs, I stopped, looking into his face. I didn’t want to reschedule; I was sick and tired of people, but I
wasn’t
sick and tired of Borgan. I wanted him with me. I wanted . . .
I swallowed, hard.
“How ’bout a change of plans?” I asked.
“To what?”
“You go to Lisa’s and buy us a pizza; get a bottle of wine—no, get two bottles!—from Ahz. While you’re hunting and gathering, I’ll take a shower, and order my thoughts so I can present the most entertaining version of how I didn’t forget our date, but managed to be totally unprepared to find you standing here.”
Borgan considered it, head to one side, then nodded.
“I can work with that. Only two bottles of wine?”
“Use your judgment,” I told him, earnestly.
He grinned, and I could move again. I gained the porch and stood aside to let him pass me.
Except, he paused at my side, and ran his fingers lightly down the side of my face. I shivered, and turned my head to kiss his knuckles. He caught his breath; his other hand rose toward my cheek . . .
And fell away.
“Pizza,” he said, his voice husky, “and as many bottles of wine as Ahzie will sell me. I’ll be back, Kate.”
“I’ll be here,” I promised, and watched him jog down the stairs and walk briskly toward Grand Avenue. Nice jeans.
“
Shower
, Kate,” I told myself sternly, and turned to open the door.
It was something of a shock, a little over an hour later, to come downstairs, dressed for my date in the maroon shirt I’d bought for the pre-Season opener, and my best pair of jeans, to find him in the kitchen, the pizza in the center of the table, and a bottle of wine breathing next to it. Plates were set, with wineglasses, and napkins. Borgan was rummaging in the silverware drawer, his back to me.
For a moment, I thought I’d forgotten to lock the door.
Then I remembered that I’d given him leave to enter, and truly said that he was welcome in my home.
That gave me another pleasurable shiver, and I wanted to walk up behind him and put my arms around his waist and rub my cheek against his back. I didn’t do it, though, and a second later he’d turned ’round, and smiled.
“Hope you’re hungry,” he said. “That’s Lisa’s extra large with everything, right there.”
Now, all that was left of the pizza were a couple of sad crusts; and the second bottle of wine had been opened. My story had been told, and I was out of words.
Borgan considered the toes of his boots.
“I can see you’d be tired, after all that,” he said, looking up with a wry smile. “Best I help you clear up,” he added and stood up to do just that.
I stood, too, stacking the dishes in the sink to wash tomorrow while he folded the pizza box until it was small enough to fit in the trash can.
“Well, then,” he said, looking around as if he didn’t know what to do next. “I’d better be taking myself off. Let you get some rest.”
The last thing I wanted, I realized, was
rest
. And I certainly didn’t want him to go.
I wanted Borgan’s hands on me; I wanted him to kiss me, hard; I wanted him . . .
If you want to go faster, woman—go faster!
“There’s something I didn’t tell you,” I said, moving closer to him.
He tipped his head.
“What was that?”
“I’d been talking with Peggy about relationships. Turns out she’s bad at them, too.”
Borgan was watching me closely. He made no objection when I put my hands on his chest.
“Still, you know, advice is free. Hers was that if I wanted us to get past kissing and cuddling, I was going to have to move things along. Because—this is her theory, now—you’re too nice a guy to rush me.”
“There’s something wrong with my kissing?” Borgan inquired.
“As far as I know—which, mind you, isn’t very—there isn’t a damn’ thing wrong with your kissing.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“This is your notion of moving things along, is it?”
“I am,” I told him seriously, while I tentatively worked at his top shirt button, “a novice.” The button came open and I moved on doggedly to the next one. “I do admit that this seems a little slower than I’d anticipated. Maybe I should just take my shirt off?” I looked up at him. “Or would that be forward?”
He laughed, and lifted me in his arms. I wrapped my legs around his waist, and laughed down at him.
“Now, I’ve got you where I want you,” I told him, and put a hand on either side of his face. His skin was warm, and ridiculously soft. I stroked my thumbs up his cheekbones, feeling his breathing speed up as he looked into my eyes.
I bent closer, holding him between my hands, and kissed him, hard and deep.
We broke to breathe and I kissed him again, or he kissed me. No . . . we kissed each other. One or both of us moaned, and I
wanted
him, I
ached
with wanting him.
He carried me to the sofa, and lay me down, guidebooks and maps sliding off and scattering across the floor.
“Half a minute,” he murmured, and withdrew, leaving me bereft—and then breathless as he finished unbuttoning his shirt, and dropped it to the floor.
Some bad seed in the very back of my brain tried to suggest that I should be terrified now, but I wasn’t listening. I ran my hands over his chest, and laughed, my voice sounding breathless in my own ears. He nuzzled my neck, sliding his hands beneath me and under my shirt, his fingers molding my back and shoulders.
I stroked his back, hard, and he raised his head to look down into my face.
“You’re sure about this?” he murmured.
“Yes,” I said, with the full force of the land behind the word. His eyes widened; his fingers tightened, and I kissed him again.
