Page 86 of Beloved Sacrifice

Chapter Fifteen

The recordings were housed in a small village in an even smaller library just outside of Poole in Dorset. They drove by Luscombe Valley Nature Reserve, and parked in a large lot shared by a yacht club, the library, and a small restaurant with an outdoor eating area that extended over the water.

Tristan’s large SUV was conspicuous in the lot, which was filled with Audis and BMWs. There were a few Peugeots, which probably belonged to the people who worked at the restaurant, yacht club, and library, rather than the patrons of any of the three.

It was overcast, and the wind coming off the water cold enough that Weston shivered as he climbed out of the front passenger seat. He clenched his teeth in frustration as the rest of them seemed to take their time getting out.

They’d had to swing by the cottage, which added nearly ninety minutes to the trip. If Tristan had been able to drive them straight from Hampton Court to Poole, it would have been a two-hour trip on the M3. Instead they’d had to head south on the M23, toward Brighton. They’d stopped at the cottage for five minutes, just long enough for Marek to collect his wallet, passport, and luggage. Then, much to Weston’s frustration, Marek had insisted on returning the rental car.

The man was a damned Boy Scout, who seemed immune to Weston’s repeated assertions that they didn’t have time for this.

Once the rental car had been returned, they got on the M27 headed east, paralleling England’s southern coast. It was two hours until they reached the library.

Weston was perilously close to yanking everyone bodily out of the car before the back doors opened and Marek and Rose climbed out.

Rose was still wearing the long white nightgown, but Marek had fished a clean button-down shirt out of his bag and given it to her. She’d tied the tails together at her midriff and rolled up the sleeves. If the light hit it right the silhouette of her legs was clearly visible. Weston had grabbed her shoes for her. Maybe another woman would have looked weird, but Rose looked like a model, or maybe a celebrity—the kind of person who was so beautiful that when they wore what would otherwise be an odd outfit they looked stylish.

Marek looked trim and equally stylish in a black T-shirt, zip-up jacket with the discreet logo of an expensive hiking company, and jeans.

In comparison, Weston was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. He could have changed when they’d swung by his cabin, but he didn’t because they didn’t fucking have time for any of this.

“Wes, are you okay?” Marek asked.

“Can we please go?”

Marek and Rose shared a look. It was a knowing look, and implied a kind of intimacy, not just between the two of them, but between the three of them.

He needed to calm down. He’d successfully squashed his sex drive for years; it would be a bitter sort of irony if here, at the eleventh hour, he fucked everything up because he let his dick do the thinking.

Rose nodded to him, looked around, spotted the building with the small “East Poole Historical Library” sign and started walking. Weston took two quick steps to catch up and walk beside her, Marek and Tristan falling in step behind them.

Rose uncrossed her arms and let her hand dangle between them.

Weston tentatively brushed her fingers with his. She caught his hand, interlacing their fingers. Weston felt the touch on every nerve ending in his body, as if he’d just woken up, after years of sleeping.

Once inside, he told the man at the front desk who he was, and asked for Elliot Neal.

Mr. Neal appeared a few minutes later. He was a short, almost squat man. He wasn’t fat, but instead looked as if a giant had put a hand on his head and pressed down, compacting him. His head seemed wider than it should be. He had to be in his seventies, and walked with a slight limp.

“Mr. Neal?” Weston asked, sticking out his hand.

“Aye, aye. Though call me Elliot. You must be Wesley Derrick.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Elliot, boy, Elliot.”

Being called “boy” only reinforced the urge to refer to the older man as “sir”.

“And who are these?” Elliot looked at the others.

“My friends,” Weston said. “They’re interested too.”

“Eh?” Elliot looked at each of them in turn. Tristan had, thankfully, left the sword in the car. Elliot’s expression said he doubted the story, but he didn’t comment further. “Well then. I thought you were coming before now, but I still have it all out and ready.”

“I’m sorry about the last-minute change in plans.”

“No bother, no bother. Follow me.”

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