Page 39 of The Howling
Reavely releases a low, dark chuckle which echoes around the tunnel. “I was never his captive,” he says as we reach a set of steps, and he mounts them two at a time, leaving the water behind.
I’m not sure I’ve ever been happier to see daylight, even having lived and worked in a dungeon. The tunnel had an atmosphere which, even now, makes my skin prickle. The door we’ve come through leads out into a grazed field. When I look behind us, I can’t see anything other than a low stone wall.
“Magic,” Reavely growls. “Distasteful but necessary,” he adds, his lip rising to reveal a fang.
Ahead of us is a collection of two-story buildings. They’re built from the same light coloured stone as his castle, their windows glinting diamonds in the early evening light. The place is quiet, smoke rising in single straight columns from chimneys, the scent of fresh cut hay and cooking in the air.
“We’re too late,” I murmur.
“I am never too late,” Reavely growls. “Everyone lets in a Barghest, if they know what’s good for them.”
This time the prickle in my skin is annoyance at his bombastic confidence. My big beast can be, well, a big beast at times.
Reavely strides down the street. I’m pretty sure a couple of sets of shutters close as we pass, and I don’t blame them. If nothing else, they need to protect themselves from Reavely’s ego.
He comes to a halt in front of the sweetest little shop. Blue wisteria grows around the doorway, the grape-like flowers hanging in huge bunches over the window, which is mostly bottle glass, but inside I get a glimpse of clothing.
Reavely kicks at the door. It swings open, and he shoves his way inside, finally allowing me down from his muscular chest to the flag-stoned floor.
The room contains a small fireplace, in which is a merrily burning fire. The bay window contains two mannequins dressed in rather severe looking clothing. There is a counter dividing space, and in one corner a small woman sits, sewing.
She doesn’t even look up.
“Here with your mate, Barghest?” she says. “I was expecting you yesterday.”
A growl ripples in Reavely’s chest.
“My Wynter needs clothing,” he says. “You will provide it, witch.”
The woman looks up. She’s young, maybe younger than me, possibly in her early twenties. Her youthful face is pretty with dark blonde curls framing fascinating violet coloured eyes. She hobbles to the counter and puts her hands on the smooth wood, her gaze roving over me from head to foot.
“She certainly does.”
“I didn’t come here naked,” I gabble out. “I was injured, and the healer had to remove my clothing.”
Her gaze swings from me to Reavely, and back again. “How convenient,” she says.
Reavely shuffles his feet, and I glance at him sharply.
“Your dress was destroyed, Wynter, you have my word,” he rasps, putting his hand on the counter and extending his claws until they bury themselves in the surface.
The woman snorts. “Good thing I am prepared, Barghest, even if you and your ancestors are not.” She lifts one end of the counter and steps through. “I am Bessie.” She holds out her hand. “Please come with me.”
I’m filled with internal mirth at how she’s dealing with Reavely, so I take her proffered hand, and she leads me through a low doorway to a room at the rear of the shop. Reavely attempts to get through, but Bessie turns and fixes him with a glare.
“Not you. You stay outside,” she half growls and slams the door in his face before turning back to me and dusting off her hands.
“And that’s how you deal with a Barghest?” I query.
“That’s the only way to deal with a Barghest,” she says, leading me through a room filled with bolts of fabric and then into yet another room.
This one is furnished with a large comfortable looking sofa, and multiple dresses hang on rails. A large mirror stands in the corner.
“I’m sorry we came so late,” I venture as I’m ushered to the sofa. “We had unexpected guests.”
“The Lambton Wyrm? Yes, he is almost as unexpected as the Barghest. We hadn’t expected to see him back here again.”
It’s clear Bessie has her finger on the beating pulse of this sleepy village, not that I would expect any less. She reminds me of Gloriana and how she ran her kitchen, with a rod of iron and an oven glove of silk.
