Susan Krinard - Come the Night

“Are there other werewolf families living near you?”

“There are some in Northumberland, Lancashire and Yorkshire, but we don’t see them very often.”

“But there must be other houses nearby, even if they aren’t occupied by werewolves.”

“Oh, yes. Uncle Ethan lives at Highwick, which is right next door to Snowfell. And there are farmers all around the fells, and people in the village.”

“Then you have other kids to play with.”

Toby glanced at his mother, who was gazing at the passing scene. “I’m much too old to play children’s games.”

“You must have friends.”

“Of course. I—” He squirmed, scuffing his feet on the floor, and then seemed to reach a decision. “I talk to the servants all the time.”

The servants. Fuming, Ross reminded himself that he was talking to a boy, not a man. “If you don’t play with anyone,” he said, “what do you do to have fun?”

“There are lots of things to do at Snowfell. Mother and I read a great deal. She orders books from London. We play chess nearly every day. And we’ve even found some old Roman ruins, where soldiers used to guard the border against the barbarians.” He beamed. “I’ve begun a collection of ancient coins.”

“That sounds…very interesting. Do you ever take trips away from Snowfell?”

“I’ve been to Kendal, of course, and Carlisle and Penrith, and once to London.”

“What do you do there?”

“Sometimes we go to museums or visit the park. But we don’t go very often.”

“And your mother? Does she go out alone sometimes?”

“Mother? Oh, no. Only when she takes me.”

“Does anyone come to see her?”

Toby’s speculative glance was keen enough for a kid half again his age. “No one comes to Snowfell. Not even Uncle Ethan. But sometimes Mother meets him where Snowfell borders Highwick.”

Warbrick again. Ross hid his scowl, but he needn’t have bothered, because Toby’s interest had been caught by the structure towering over the streetcar as it began to slow. “Is that the Thunderbolt?”

The boy craned his neck, peering up at the steel struts and towers, the sweeping curves of the massive roller coaster that projected above the fence running alongside Surf Avenue. He might have jumped off the still-moving vehicle if Ross hadn’t grabbed his arm.

“Stay right here,” he warned Toby, and turned back to help Gillian, who had already stepped down to the street. The day was growing warmer by the minute, but somehow Ross knew that the perspiration gathering on Gillian’s forehead had nothing to do with the temperature. She gazed at the vast structure before them.

“Toby,” she said quietly.

The boy obviously heard a world of warning in those two syllables. “It’s not as dangerous as it looks,” he assured her. “I’ll ride with Father. You stay here.”

Gillian continued to stare at the roller coaster. Ross sensed that it wasn’t so much the potential danger of the ride that worried her as much as Coney Island itself, this vast and very human place. She dropped her gaze to the unruly line winding around the base of the coaster, then looked around like a wild animal surrounded by hidden hunters, seeking the source of danger in an ever-changing, faceless crowd.

Toby had said she never went out and that no one came to Snowfell. How long had it been since Gillian was engaged with the world, as she’d been in London? What kind of life had she led before he’d met her? She’d said her family had welcomed her back after Delvaux’s death, but what exactly had she gone back to?

Was it possible that he’d never really known her, that he’d been mistaking arrogance for fear all along? Had she been battling demons of her own from the very beginning?

Hell, no. Not Jill. Upset that she’d let herself fall for a guy who was mostly human, sure. And worried about betraying her high-flown principles, concerned about Toby and his attachment to Ross, less than enamored with crowds of noisy, malodorous humans. That was the sum total of it. The rest was sheer fantasy.

He emerged from his thoughts to find her staring at him, the uncertainty in her eyes vanishing behind a wall of determination.

“We must go,” she said. She grabbed Toby’s hand. “Please show us to the exit, Mr. Kavanagh.”

“But we’ve hardly done anything, Mother!” Toby protested. He looked at Ross for support. “It isn’t fair.” Before Ross could respond, Toby tried another tack. “Mother, why don’t you go back to the hotel and rest? Father and I will go on alone.”

“Certainly not,” she said. “We have done quite enough for one day. I am certain that Mr. Kavanagh will understand.”

“Mr. Kavanagh doesn’t,” Ross said. “We had a deal. I’ll take you back to the hotel, and then Toby and I—”

But Gillian was already walking away, dragging Toby behind her, body tensed as if she were about to break into an all-out run. Ross caught up with her.

“For God’s sake, Gillian.”

She spun. Her lips curled back from her teeth, wolflike. “Where?” she demanded. “Where is the way out?”

Ross was on the verge of another argument when he noticed that Gillian had suddenly gone still. He turned to follow her stare. Behind him, a crowd had gathered at the base of the platform where the coaster’s cars came to rest after each circuit.

Gillian pushed Toby toward Ross and set off for the platform at a run. By the time Ross and Toby caught up with her, she had shoved her way through the circle of gaping observers and crouched beside the boy who lay on the ground, flopping like a fish thrown onto dry land. A cut on his forehead was bleeding profusely, and Ross guessed that he had somehow fallen from the platform.

“What’s wrong?” someone asked. “What’s wrong with him?”

Gillian didn’t answer. She had rolled the boy onto his side and placed a wadded piece of cloth under his head, watching him intently as the muscles of his body contracted violently and then released. When a man from the crowd tried to help by restraining the child, she warned him off. He persisted. Ross told Toby to stay put, told the guy to back off and crouched beside Gillian.

“It’s a Grand Mal seizure,” she said, in a tone meant only for werewolf ears. “Either he’s an epileptic, or he’s dangerously ill.”

As she spoke, the boy’s convulsions grew weaker and gradually ceased. Gillian produced another strip of fabric—torn, he presumed, from some part of her clothing—and pressed it to the child’s wound. Ross glanced at Gillian’s profile. She hardly seemed to realize that she was the center of attention; the boy was all that mattered.

“Someone ring for an ambulance,” she said. “I’m only a nurse. Someone needs to find a doctor, if one is available.”

After a brief hesitation, several men huddled together and ran off in different directions. A shriek silenced the murmurs of the observers, and a woman stumbled into the center of the circle.

“Bobby!” she cried, dropping to her knees. “Bobby!”

“It will be all right,” Gillian said, nothing but compassion and understanding in her voice. “Ross, please watch Bobby and hold this cloth in place. He should regain consciousness presently. I must speak to his mother.”

Ross moved so that he was level with Bobby’s head, listening to Gillian as he waited for the boy to wake up. Gillian began to ask the sobbing mother a series of questions, each spoken so calmly that their rhythm slowly eased the woman’s hysteria. She squeezed the woman’s trembling arm gently and turned back to Ross.

“This has never happened to him before,” she said. “It’s possible for children to develop epilepsy at any time, but Bobby must have a full medical examination to rule out an infection. It’s fortunate that he wasn’t more badly injured in the fall.” She passed the back of her hand across her forehead. “We must move him to a cool, quiet place.”