Moon Cursed (13 page)

Right before everything fell away, he kissed her lips like that infernal prince in every fairy tale and whispered, “I’ll kiss ye awake every few hours, aye?”

“Aye,” she breathed, and wondered—

When she woke up would she no longer be a frog?

*   *   *

Liam watched Kris slip into sleep. Her hair, splashed by her struggles, had begun to dry in tangled hanks, and the freckles on her nose that had so captivated him shone stark against the unnatural paleness of her skin. A smudge of mud slashed her cheek like a wound.

Fury sparked, and he had to clench his hands to keep from breaking something.

How dare anyone touch her. She is mine!

Although perhaps that was why.

Liam left the room, shutting the door only partway in case she should need him. He’d stay here all night. He’d wake her as he’d promised. He wouldn’t leave until he had to.

He was the protector of the loch. By day and by night, Liam watched over it. Those who had gone into the water and not come out … they were on his head. That Kris had nearly been one of them—

He could not bear it.

Was it coincidence that the first woman he’d touched in ages had nearly died tonight? He didn’t think so.

Someone was drowning people. He didn’t know who any more than Alan Mac did. But it wasn’t Nessie.

Liam gave a short, sharp laugh.

That
was the only thing he was certain of.

*   *   *

Kris awoke as the gray light of approaching dawn filtered into her room. Her first thought was that she was happy. Then she stretched, winced, and remembered.

She’d been attacked last night, and if Liam were to be believed, she would have been drowned.

Liam.

Kris smiled, understanding the reason for the wash of happiness, even though she should be anything but.

He’d stayed all night. He’d woken her every few hours with a kiss—just as he’d promised.

Of course they’d been chaste kisses on her brow, her cheek, once on her hand. But when she opened her eyes and saw that face …

What a way to wake up.

Kris lifted herself, bracing for the pain she expected to shoot through her head. Nothing happened—in her head.

Her back, shoulders, neck, legs, and arms were another story. She felt like she’d been beaten with a bat. Getting conked on the noggin and falling to the ground like a box of rocks must have that effect.

“Shower,” she muttered, levering herself to her feet—which also hurt, by the way. “Then coffee.
Mucho
coffee.”

Hoping Liam had started a pot, she sniffed the air, but all she smelled was herself—lake water, fear-sweat, a little mud, and … was that mold?

“Shower,” she repeated more firmly, then as she opened the door to her bedroom, “Liam, could you—?“

Kris stood in the doorway, staring at the empty living area, then glanced at the bathroom, but the door was open and no one was there, either.

Had Liam ever been here at all?

Kris laughed, but the sound was brittle and she stopped right away because she was scaring herself. Just because no one had seen Liam but her, no one seemed to know him but her, didn’t mean—

“What?” That she was the only one who
could
see him?

She rubbed her forehead, then reached up and gingerly touched the knot on her temple. Someone had hit her. They’d dragged her to the loch with intent to drown her. Then Liam Grant had saved her. Unless—

“I fell, hit my head, wandered around, tripped into the loch, crawled back here, and hallucinated everything?” She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Yeah, sounds like BS to me, too.”

Then she spied two cups on the counter and nearly hooted in relief. Until she realized …

In her delusion, she could easily have made two cups of tea—one for herself and one for her imaginary friend.

“There has to be something.” She peered around the room. Something that would prove to her, and anyone else who asked, that Liam Grant was a real-live boy.

She found nothing.

Determined, Kris opened the door and stepped outside, searching for footprints. Unfortunately, the area around her cottage was too dry. She’d just have to check down by the—

Kris lifted her head and froze just as a tour bus pulled up and belched tourists all over the place. If there’d been any footprints near the loch, any signs of a body being dragged or a struggle, they were soon gone.

A ripple went through the crowd. “Look!” someone shouted; then they were all crowding at the edge, snapping pictures of the same thing. Kris hoped to hell it wasn’t another body.

When she at last crossed the road—there was a lot of traffic for so early in the morning—the tourists had lost interest and wandered down the shore. Kris didn’t see anything that might have caused so much excitement.

She was headed for the house when a sharp splash drew her around. A small, dark
something
now protruded from the water about a hundred feet away. It seemed like a head-shaped rock, with a hollow well where the eye would be. The sun struck that well just so, making it glitter and appear to move.

When Kris sidestepped right, the shiny “eye” followed. She hustled left and left it went.

“No wonder everyone around here believes in Nessie,” she muttered. The loch was so damned weird.

Kris returned to the cottage and discovered her backpack, which she must have dropped in the struggle last night, sitting next to the front door. She peered inside; her camera was still there and apparently unharmed. By the time she glanced again at the loch, the rock was as gone as Liam.

Hell, maybe it hadn’t been there, either.

CHAPTER 10

After a long, hot shower that eased the worst of her aches, Kris quickly checked her e-mail and discovered among the usual advertisements to either enlarge a penis she didn’t have or buy drugs she didn’t want a message from Lola.

NO ONE
’
S CALLED. NO ONE
’
S BEEN BY.

Kris wasn’t sure if she should be glad about that or not. She’d like an explanation. Then again, having someone ask for her in Chicago, then show up here …

Pretty damn creepy.

Most likely the questions around the village had been innocent. Probably a closet writer who wanted to discover how to get published and figured that Kris knew the secret handshake. She heard that happened all the time.

Although after the attack last night, she shouldn’t take any chances.

Kris walked toward Drumnadrochit. She would tell her story to Alan Mac, then let the constable deal with it. She would also go to the bank and swap Mandenauer’s Franklins for some QE2s.

First she’d stop at Jamaica’s. Kris had too many cobwebs on the brain to discuss currency exchanges, mysterious attacks, and potential drownings without coffee, and this morning she wasn’t up to making it herself.

Besides, it was still early. She doubted Alan Mac would be at the station yet and the bank definitely wasn’t open, but Jamaica’s place had lights in the windows and Kris could smell delicious on the air as soon as she stepped foot on the street.

Inside, the owner once again stood behind the counter. As a businesswoman, Kris understood that often the only way to make a profit was to do everything yourself.

“De usual?” Jamaica asked, tilting a cup back and forth like she was shaking dice.

Kris nodded, liking that she already had a “usual.” “I’m a coffee-holic,” Kris said. “Comes from a lot of very early mornings at the computer.”

“You an early riser?” Jamaica asked as she filled the cup.

“Yeah. I like to get ahead before I even go in to work. My favorite time is before the sun’s up.”

Kris accepted the coffee, paying for it with her last few pounds. “Can you point me at the closest bank?”

“One block up and another to de left. Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks. Did you wanna join me?” Kris lifted her cup.

Jamaica glanced around. Locals occupied over half the tables, along with tourists and a few Kris couldn’t place in either camp.

“I’d best not. De help shouldn’t be seen just sittin’ around.”

“You’re not exactly the help.”

“I’ve always thought ‘Do as I say and not as I do’ is baloney.”

“I’d have to agree.”

Jamaica smiled, the tentative friendship they’d begun the first time they’d met deepening.

Then Kris remembered that their last meeting had ended abruptly when she’d questioned Jamaica about Liam. The woman had behaved strangely, although around here everyone did. Kris wouldn’t hold it against her.

“I went to The Clansman for dinner last night,” Kris said, hoping to keep the conversation alive.

“With dat nice young man who be lookin’ for you?”

Kris jerked and slopped hot coffee over the edge of her cup. Hissing, she put it down, then mopped her fingers with the napkins Jamaica tossed her way.

The woman came around the countertop, snatching Kris’s hand, peering close. “Come on,” she said, and tugged Kris into the back room. “I have some ointment.”

The area was a tumble of files and invoices covering a desk with an open laptop. Several bags of coffee lay scattered around in various stages of being packed into boxes.

“I started a Web site,” Jamaica explained. “Now I can ship my coffee anywhere in de world.”

She really was quite the businesswoman. Kris was impressed.

Jamaica shoved her into a chair. Kris landed on a bag, and the plastic went
oof.
Coffee beans spilled onto the floor.

Both she and Jamaica exclaimed, “Shyte!” at the exact same time; then together they laughed.

“It’s a good word,” Kris said.

“I like it.” Jamaica smoothed a light green gel onto Kris’s thumb and the meaty part of her hand just below it. The slight sting immediately disappeared.

“You should sell
that
on the Internet,” Kris said. “What is it?”

“Magic,” Jamaica intoned, then waggled her fingers over Kris’s hand. “Oooga-booga. All better now.”

Kris snorted. “Really, what is it?” She lifted her hand and sniffed. The gel had no scent.

“Secret recipe from my great-grandmamma in Kingston.”

Kris lifted a brow.

“If I told you what it was, I’d have t’ kill you.”

Kris almost said that she’d need to get in line. But Kris really didn’t want to have that conversation. However, there was one she did want to have.

“What nice young man?”

Jamaica peered into Kris’s face, then at her burn, then into her eyes again. “You don’t know him?”

Kris spread her hands. “Hard to say since I have no idea who ‘him’ is.”

“American. ’Bout…” Jamaica lifted her hand to indicate a height near six feet. “Not heavy, not thin. Brown hair.”

“Streaked?”

“He wore a cap.” Jamaica narrowed her eyes as if looking into the past. “Boston Red Sox.”

“Dougal did say this guy was from the East Coast.”

Jamaica started. “Dougal? Dougal Scott?” Kris nodded. “How you know dat man?”

“I went to his museum, and … out for drinks and dinner at The Clansman.”

“You dating him?” Jamaica did not appear to approve.

“Just friends.” Kris had a bad feeling. “Why? Are you dating him?”

Jamaica laughed. “Dat would not happen.”

“You don’t think he’s attractive? Those light eyes and the dark hair. He’s got great hands, and his legs aren’t so bad, either.”

“If he’s so wonderful, why you don’t want him?”

Why indeed? Kris didn’t plan to elaborate on that. Instead, she prevaricated. She was getting pretty good at it. “I won’t be here long enough to get involved. I’m not going to start something I can’t finish.”

Jamaica’s lips curved. “I bet he finish pretty quick.”

This surprised a laugh out of Kris. “You don’t like him?”

The other woman shrugged and didn’t comment.

There was something else going on here, and Kris really wanted to know what. She liked Dougal. She planned to spend more time with him. Unless there was a good reason she shouldn’t.

She kept her gaze steady on Jamaica, waiting, and eventually Jamaica gave in.

“He’s new to Drumnadrochit, but he t’inks he should be accepted just like he been here since de Kingdom of de Picts. People in Drumnadrochit dey take a little time to warm up to outsiders. Dey like de tourists fine, but to really be from here you must be here more dan a minute.”

“I thought his family lived in the village.”

“His grandpapa.” She waved a hand as if shooing a lazy fly. “Don’t mean nothin’. You must be accepted on your own for who you are and not who you came from.”