Читать книгу Keep Me Forever - Rosemary Laurey - Страница 6

When Elizabeth waved from the open door of the little office, Antonia took it as ‘All’s well,’ waved back, and drove down the lane. Elizabeth seemed set, and no doubt, would have a nice time chatting witchy stuff to Ida. The thought didn’t give Antonia as much of the creeps as it would most of the colony, or at least the newer members. She remembered the days when the old religion still held sway in the woods and around isolated campfires. Still, she wondered how Tom, raised when witches were publicly tried and burned, quite handled getting intimate with one. Not that it was any of her business really, but one couldn’t help thinking about it.

Still, if Gwyltha as leader of the colony accepted Elizabeth, who was she to question it? Besides, she liked Elizabeth and needed her skills to get set up, and the prospect of working closely with someone and not having constantly to conceal her nature was more than welcome.

And meanwhile…

Antonia covered the few miles from the Collins’s in Horsley to the outskirts of Bringham in a short time. After pulling to the side of the lane to consult Dixie’s lists and maps, she drove through the village, turned right at the church, took the next left, and parked in front of a modern house. The vast Victorian rectory that had housed former vicars and their offspring and servants was now an old people’s home. The current incumbent had far more modest and vastly more comfortable surroundings.

A glance at the immaculate rose beds and lush hanging baskets showed someone in the house was a very eager gardener—or they hired one. Might be handy to get the name and add it to her list. They’d need help with the wilderness around Orchard House. The lawn cutting service didn’t extend to weeding or pruning.

Hoping someone would be in—it was the vicarage after all—Antonia rang the bell.

The genteel ding-dong-ding of the chiming doorbell was drowned out by what sounded like the baying of a wolfhound. The gray shape that appeared through the reeded glass in the front door pretty much confirmed it.

“Hush, Pansy! Hush!” a woman’s voice called, and as the dog quieted, the door was opened by a fresh-faced young woman. “Yes? Can I help you?”

“I was hoping so, but is this an inconvenient time?”

“No worse than any other. I’m afraid Mum’s out if you wanted her.”

“If your mother’s the vicar’s wife, yes. I had hoped to speak to her. I just moved into the village. My name’s Antonia Stonewright.

“Oh! You bought Orchard House and are turning it into a B and B.” She gave the dog a yank back as it tried to sniff at Antonia. “Behave yourself, Pansy!” She looked back up and smiled, “Sorry. Excuse my manners.” She held out her free hand. “I’m Judy Abbott. Dad’s the vicar here, and I just got down from Uni. Come in.”

Antonia stepped over the threshold. Pansy decided she was persona definitely grata and started sniffling and licking her hands.

“Want a cup of tea?” Judy asked as she led the way back to a large kitchen filled with sunshine and overlooking a back garden every bit as immaculate as the front. “Oh, Pansy, leave her alone!” Judy gave the dog a gentle nudge, and then Antonia noticed that Pansy wasn’t merely large and fat, she was expecting. After Emily this morning, Bringham appeared to be a font of fecundity.

Pansy lumbered her bulk into a vast dog bed and, after turning around several times and scratching the pillow, settled, but kept her eyes on Antonia.

It was a darn good thing animals didn’t really react to vampires the way they did in some fanciful fiction. “She’s a beautiful dog,” Antonia said. “My father had several wolfhounds.”

“Several?” Judy looked around from filling the kettle. “I hope you had a bigger house than this one!”

It had been a hall: vast, draughty, dark, and large enough to sleep a hundred men. “It was.”

Judy plugged in the kettle and reached for the teapot. Antonia would have sighed if she still could. Another cup of tea! Better get used to swallowing them if she planned on knocking on doors. After all, at her age, she could ingest gallons of tea without ill effect. She hoped. “Mum should be back soon,” Judy said. “If you want to wait, that’s fine, or if I can help…” She walked over to the table and cleared away a heap of sewing and a workbasket. When the kettle boiled, she took two mugs from a row hanging beneath the countertop. “Tea bags alright?”

“Perfect.” The mugs caught Antonia’s eye—souvenirs of the London Dungeon and the All England Tennis and Croquet Club just didn’t seem to mesh exactly. But who knew how mortals viewed these things?

Judy filled each mug and swirled the tea bags around. “So you need help? About the Bed and Breakfast? If you need staff, Mum can spread the word, but an ad in the local paper might get better results.” She squeezed out the bags, added milk without asking, and handed Antonia the London Dungeon mug. “Sugar?” She put a small pottery bowl of sugar on the table.

“No, thanks.” The tea was hot, so it had better sit. Swallowing boiling liquid tended to get noticed. “Actually, it’s not a B and B. I’m opening a small art gallery and craft center. We plan to open in September and be in full swing for Christmas. What I was hoping was your mother might be able to help me find someone. I was given a name, but can’t find him in the phone book.”

“Maybe I can. If not, Mum or Dad might. Who is it?”

“A potter. A Michael Langton.”

“Oh! The reclusive potter!” Judy smiled and shook her head. “He’s hard to find, ex-directory and ex just about everything. Beats me how he runs a business, but he seems to sell all over the place. I’ve never met him. Dad has. When we had a silent auction to raise money for repairs to the church, Michael Langton donated a really beautiful soup tureen and plates. Told Dad he was happy to contribute as long as he didn’t have to come. Odd sort, but his stuff was beautiful.”

“You have any?”

Judy shook her head. “It all went and got a good price, too. Someone from Effingham bought it and thought they got it for a song. Seems he’s known all over the country. As for where he lives,” she paused, “let me call Sylvie, who edits the parish mag.”

Judy picked up the phone and speed dialed a number. After enquiries about Sylvie’s Dad’s health and how much he was looking forward to two weeks in Brittany, she wrote down what was either a long address or extremely complicated directions. “The address is Manor Farm cottages, but you can’t get there from Manor Farm Road.” She handed Antonia the paper. “Here are Sylvie’s directions verbatim. If you get lost, I’ve written her number at the bottom. Call her. She’s been there to deliver parish magazines.”

The paper was covered with large, loopy handwriting, but it was legible enough. Antonia tucked it into her pocket. “Thank you so much; you’ve been really helpful.”

“Glad I could be. The odds were I couldn’t have as I’m gone more than I’m here, but it so happened I remembered Mum and Dad talking about him.” She paused. “Want Mum to spread the word in the village you’re looking for people for craft sales? Or do you have particular requirements, nonamateur stuff and so forth?”

“I’ll be very selective.” Abel help her, she was going to have to be. “But I’ve nothing against amateur. It’s quality and originality that matter. I hope to use mostly local people. Do you know anyone else?”

“Only two old ladies, the Misses Black. A pair of sisters who live in the Council Houses up by the main road. They knit and have for years. Mum had them make a marvelous poncho for me for Christmas. Their work is really good. A whole lot better than the sort of stuff we get for church bazaars.”

“Someone else mentioned them. Do you have an address? Phone number?” Judy had both. Antonia downed a mouthful of tea. “Sorry to run, but I’d like to try to find the elusive potter before I go home.”

“And,” Judy went on, half-hesitating, “I do embroidery and collage. I sold a few cushions to an interior decorating shop in Oxford. Made myself some extra dosh to eke out my loans.”

Might be hideous but one never knew. “Do you have some work handy?” Antonia glanced at the heap of sewing Judy’d pushed aside earlier.

“That one’s still at the planning stage,” she replied, following Antonia’s gaze, “but I do have a couple I gave Mum and Dad for Christmas. Let me get them.”

While she nipped upstairs, Antonia took the opportunity to tip the contents of her mug down the drain to save her body the effort of absorption. She was sitting back down, empty mug in front of her, when Judy returned, clutching two large pillows.

Antonia had to stop herself from gaping. They were almost bed pillow size, a glorious mix of colors and textures and embroidery. Both had foregrounds of skeletal winter trees. One background was bright oranges, yellows, and reds; the other was done in pale blues and whites with pink and lilac streaks. “Sunrise, sunset?”

“Yes. Dad’s a night bird, Mum’s a morning person. My brother and I nicknamed them Sunset and Sunrise when we were little. I made these for them for their silver wedding.”

“They’re incredible but hardly economical. There must be hours of work in these.”

“Weeks and months actually. The ones I sold were nowhere near as intricate.”

“Could you make up a few samples? I think they’d sell for Christmas or wedding presents. Maybe as special orders.” Antonia turned the pillows over, inspecting the piping and finish. “I’d love to sell them. We just have to work out prices that cover the work involved.”

“No prob.” Judy took them back as Antonia stood. “We know where to find each other. Give me your mobile number, and I’ll leave a message when I have something to show you.”

Antonia drove away from the rectory and turned down the lane toward the station and the common. She’d check out these two Misses Black. Having seen Judy’s work, she was ready to accept her word that maybe the two knitting sisters would fit into the center. But what she really wanted was a couple of nationally recognized names, and if Michael Langton was as well-known as everyone claimed, he’d be a good one to start with.

The lane curved by the station; Antonia consulted the written directions and turned right onto a narrower lane that skirted the common. Antonia drove until the lane narrowed even further and, after several minutes, degenerated into a rough track with grass growing down the middle and overgrown hedges that brushed the car on both sides. No question the man lived in the back of beyond.

Potholes and ruts now joined tufts of grass as scenic additions to the lane. It wasn’t quite as bad as roads she remembered from centuries back, but it would definitely have been easier on horseback. Just as Antonia was thinking of turning around—or would have if there had been any sign of a gate or field to reverse in—the lane came to an abrupt end in a graveled, open area where she could reverse comfortably. As she turned sharply to the right, ready to turn around, she noticed a battered van parked under an overhanging tree and a narrow bridge.

Footbridge, she amended to herself. A couple of stout planks to be more exact, held down at each end with rough boulders. On the far side, a narrow footpath led to a group of buildings that resembled sheds or dilapidated warehouses.

This couldn’t be where he lived. She must have missed another turning. How could anyone, even a recluse, run a business here? Impossible to receive deliveries, and potters needed vast amounts of clay and minerals for glazes. What about food? Even back to nature self-sufficient sorts surely needed milk delivered. And how in Abel’s name did he fire the kilns? He couldn’t have electricity or gas this far out, could he? Hard to imagine coal or coke lorries venturing up that road. She wasn’t even sure her car would make it back.

Antonia locked her car. Foolish really. Hardly likely to be any sneak thieves around here, but city habits died hard. She crossed the narrow bridge. It was more of a small river than a stream—about three meters wide and running fast. The water shone clear and clean as it flowed over the bed of pebbles and sand. The afternoon sun glinted on shoals of silvery minnows as they darted back and forth. It would be fun for Sam to come fishing. Right now, she might as well see if the potter was at home.

The mortal appeared to inhabit a series of shacks—rough buildings, some mere lean-tos, clustered round a paved courtyard. Antonia passed each building until she found a mortal heartbeat, albeit a rather slow one, inside a long shed.

When a knock on the wooden door got no reply, she rapped harder before opening the door and calling out, “Hello?”

“What the hell do you want?” Wasn’t exactly the response she’d expected, but it was clear and to the point.

“My name is Antonia Stonewright. I’d like to talk to you about selling your work in my gallery.” That should work. She’d never met an artist who didn’t want to make a bit more money.

“My agent’s Robbie Peterson. Contact him!”

Damn mortals! She watched him bend over as his strong arms and broad shoulders eased trays of unfired pots into the open kiln. “I certainly will, but I would like to see some of your work first.”

He looked up, straightening as he turned toward her.

Something inside her did a little skip.

Sweet Abel! She was far, far too old and cynical to fall for a mere mortal. Even one as godlike as this specimen. They were a good three or four meters apart, but who could miss the dark, bright eyes; the unruly sandy hair; the wide shoulders, and the sheen of sweat across his face.

Unbidden, her tongue slowly licked her upper lip as the gums around her fangs tingled.

“My work’s on display in the Sewell Gallery in Guildford.”

And if she possessed a modicum of common sense, she’d be in her car, headed for Guildford. “Fine, but I doubt it’s open late on a Tuesday night, and I really do want to see your work. I don’t want to interrupt, and I don’t mind waiting until you’ve stacked your kiln.” Watching those shoulders as he reached and stretched wouldn’t be any hardship either. Here was a mortal definitely worth visiting in the dark of the night.

He raised one full eyebrow. “Might take me a while.”

“Doesn’t matter. I should have called before coming, but I was on my way home and…”

“You just happened to be passing?” His wide mouth twitched at the corners.

“No. I just happened to think it was only half a mile out of my way, and by the time I realized my mistake, I had no way of turning around.”

The twitch became a rather twisted smile. “You could have reversed on the open patch across the river.”

“I could, but I’d come this far, and I do want to see your work. I’m opening a gallery and craft center in the village.”

“I don’t make souvenir ash trays or milk jugs with ‘A present from Bringham’ on the side.”

“I should hope not. I didn’t wreck my car’s paintwork and suspension for tourist tat.”

His dark eyes lit a little as his smile broadened. “Since you’re here, you might as well wait.” He angled his head to the racks behind him. “I’ve two more trays to pack. Go into the cottage next door and wait. I’ve a few samples on the shelves. They’re not for sale at any price, but you can look. I’ll be along in a half hour or so once I get this packed and going.”

He hadn’t thrown her out, something she’d half-expected after his initial unwelcome. Seemed, recluse or not, he had more sense than to rebuff a potential sales source.

Lingering just long enough to enjoy the view as he hefted the next tray of pots, Antonia stepped out of the kiln room and into the courtyard. The first building to her right looked more like a henhouse than human habitation. The next, while as shabby as the rest, did have windows and a recently painted front door. A glimpse through the curtain of a table, a sofa, and shelves of pots confirmed her assumption.

She grasped the doorknob—a loose one, missing a screw. Home maintenance was obviously not one of his priorities. She opened the door. She could see the array of pots on the shelves across the room but couldn’t cross the threshold. His casual ‘go in and wait’ wasn’t an invitation to enter.

Drat! Nothing for it but to wait. Once he did actually invite her in, she’d be able to enter as freely and as often as she wanted to, and Antonia Stonewright was certain she would.

It had been a while—at least several decades—since she’d felt this strong a pull to a mortal. But it hadn’t been so long that she’d forgotten the sensation, and just thinking about the taste of his skin on her tongue had her gums tingling again.

She sat down on the step; stretched her legs out in front of her; and watching the sun sink through the trees, thought about the potter.

She could hear him moving in the other building, lifting trays, shifting pots, muttering under his breath, and once or twice uttering a muffled curse. But they were the only sounds apart from the river a few meters away. Odd really that she didn’t hear any birds. It was too early for them to be nesting for the night. Maybe the fumes from the kilns kept them away. Odd he didn’t have a dog too. Most recluses or back to nature sorts tended to have cats or dogs for company and conversation, but seemed bedworthy Michael lived solo.

Good. She’d have to stay away if he had a wife or girlfriend. Antonia was strict with about that. After her own experience with betrayal, she’d never poach on another’s territory.

Damn! Even in the sylvan vastness of the Surrey hills, she had to think about Etienne Larouseliere. Damn and double damn him! But his infidelity and betrayal she’d turned to her good. Learned not to give her heart away and to find friendship among the vampires of her colony and sex and sustenance from humans. Worked so much better all around. If a mortal betrayed her, death would put paid to their duplicitous ways. All she had to do was wait.

Antonia leaned against the door, closed her eyes, and wondered if Elizabeth had learned anything from Ida. Antonia hoped not. As far as she was concerned, the scattered coven was best kept that way. What earthly good could come of encouraging witches to mischief? True, Elizabeth was loyal, noble, and trustworthy, but she was an anomaly.

“Didn’t you go in and look around?”

The tone struck her more than his words. This was one prickly mortal. She smiled. “No. I’d rather see your work with you. Always helps to see your reactions and hear what you have to say about it.” Wasn’t entirely a lie either.

“And why would I even want to do business with you when I have a perfectly good agent to handle all that nuisance for me?”

“Maybe you don’t.” And maybe she didn’t, but she’d driven this far, waited this long, she was entitled to at least a good look at his work. She stood up. And smiled. Mortals tended to fall for her smile. “You won’t really know until we talk, will you?”

He didn’t exactly fall at her feet, but he did nod and open the door for her. “Might as well come in then.”

He wasn’t straining himself with graciousness, but it was all she needed. Seconds later, Antonia stepped into the house, barred to her before his invitation, and almost gaped. A bit ramshackle it might have been from the outside, but inside, it was a showcase of comfort and efficiency. Including, she noticed, a state of the art security system. There was no mistaking the touch pad beside the door. He’d want to protect the collection of pots on the shelves from burglars.

What had looked interesting through the window was incredible close up. Not waiting for further invitation—hadn’t he expected her to barge in anyway—Antonia crossed the generous sitting room cum kitchen to the dark wood shelves on the far wall. As she reached them, Michael must have flicked a switch. The shelves were bathed in concealed light.

His work wasn’t good, it was incredible! Assuming…“They’re all your work?”

“Every last one.”

Yes, a definite edge to his voice there. Not that she blamed him. An artist of his caliber was entitled to be possessive.

Antonia stopped an arm’s length from the shelves. She so wanted to touch the pots, run her fingers over the voluptuous curves, and test the muted glazes against her fingertips, but she satisfied herself with gazing at the full shapes, the wide shallow bowls, and the wonderful subtle blues and greens and soft grays. “You use all wood glazes?” As she spoke, she turned and caught the surprise in his eyes. Hm-m-m, so he hadn’t expected her to know that much, had he? Michael Langton might be in for a bit of a surprise.

He nodded. “For my best pieces, I save ashes all winter. I don’t have enough for all I produce, and I do a line of shallow dishes and bowls with enamels.” He paused. “Want a cup of tea? We can go into the warehouse later and look at the mass production pieces if you like.” He smiled, his eyes sparkling as they creased at the corners. For a second, she almost forgot he was mortal.

“I’d love a cup of tea.” A lie, but she knew better than to refuse the offer of hospitality. Some things hadn’t changed in fifteen centuries. Besides, he was definitely mellowing…might as well encourage it. She turned back to his pots ranged side by side. “They almost ask to be touched.”

“They were made to be touched.”

She heard water running and the ding of a lid being put on the kettle, but making tea was a mortal occupation. She had far more fascinating prospects in mind. Reaching out both hands to the round base of a tall pot that resembled a giant water lily bud, she stroked the firm curves, running her fingers up to the narrow neck and over the smooth edge. Beside it, another rounded shape had a wide neck plus a handle and a spout. He obviously intended it as a water jug. But it was the brilliant, bloodred glaze that caught her attention. Beside the muted blues, greens, and grays, it stood out like a flash of heat and passion.

“How utterly beautiful!” she whispered but Michael Langton appeared to have incredible hearing.

“It’s the one and only,” he replied, crossing the room with almost silent steps. “A fluke really. Years back, I was experimenting with Raku—reduced firing,” he added after a slight pause. “Most come out with interesting glaze effects, but this one…” He reached out and touched it, his finger a bare inch or less from hers. “This one I’d packed in the dead center of the kiln, and somehow it came out this magnificent color. I tried a score or more times to replicate it, but never could.” His strong fingers eased up the spout. The pad of his index finger caressed the rim before he stroked back down to the base. She found herself staring at his work-worn hands. “I decided to accept this as a gift from the gods and not demand a repeat.” He shrugged. “But I held on to this one. I don’t ever intend to part with it.” His closing words held a note of finality, almost a gentle threat.

“I can’t imagine how you could.” She took her hand away. Almost touching fingertips was something she was not yet prepared for. Nipping a vein yes—that was sustenance—but intimacy of any sort was not a wise idea. “I’m flattered you let me see it, and the others.” Her gaze went over the beautiful shapes, the shallow bowls and the tall, smooth urns. She turned to look at him. He was close. Far too close. She caught his scent: healthy male with a light touch of fresh sweat and something else, a wild, almost feral scent.

She gave herself a little shake. Rural vastness was doing things to her mind. “You’ve shown me what you won’t sell. What about the work you will?”

That smile was beyond mortal. He angled his head to his right, and a couple of sandy curls shifted over his right eye. She was letting a mortal male have far, far too much effect on her. Attractive, yes; a fine specimen, definitely, but having the blood in her veins tingle at his nearness was utterly ridiculous.

“I keep the stuff to sell in my warehouse. Want to look before or after tea?”

Brushing aside the suspicion that sharing anything with Michael Langton, even a cup of tea, was injudicious, she smiled back. “How about you show me? Then we’ll settle business over a cup of tea.”

Was she pushing too hard? He certainly hesitated but, in the end, shrugged. “Over here.” He opened a heavy door and stood aside to let her enter.

Appearances were deceptive. The apparently ramshackle wooden building between the pottery and his cottage was a modern metal building, almost hygienically clean, with finished pots stacked on shelf after shelf and several packing cases sealed and ready to ship.

As she studied the rows of shallow bowls, lamp bases, and mugs, she couldn’t help considering the contradictory exteriors and interiors of Michael’s setup. Odd really, but what the heck. He was an artist, after all, and she’d known enough artists over the centuries not to be surprised at anything one of them said or did.

Right now, just keeping up with Michael Langton was enough.

That and his work, of course. “What’s your lead time for orders?” She picked up an oval shallow bowl that was the color of a robin’s egg.

“Depends. Rush orders I can do in a week or so, but I prefer four to six weeks. Better to pace myself and work in with standing orders.”

“You have a price list?”

“Of course.” She didn’t need to look his way to know that his wide mouth was curling just so at the corners and his dark eyes had a glint of amusement…or perhaps something else that right now might not be a good idea. Or was it? “I’ll print you out one. Any particular products you’re interested in?”

“Depends on prices. I’d like a quantity of the small bowls, mugs, and dishes. Assorted glazes will be fine, and say three, no, four, of the large lamp bases and urns.” She glanced up, and he nodded. “I’ve found, as a rule, that smaller items sell better if there’s an expensive item on display.”

He grinned. Watching with fascination was a big mistake. “I see. Sneak selling, eh? Hook them on the pricey stuff they can’t afford so they permit themselves a consolation purchase.”

She grinned back. What the hell? He’d started it. “It’s not infallible, but works quite nicely most of the time.”

Michael reached over her shoulder for a shallow dish with a pale turquoise glaze. “Take it as a sample,” he said, putting it in her hand. “Let’s go back into the kitchen and have tea while the price list prints out.”

She closed her hands over the smooth, cool glaze and walked back into the house as he stepped aside and locked the door to the warehouse after them. He was very security conscious for someone living this far from civilization, but he did have his livelihood in that small warehouse.

She put the dish on the counter beside her as she sat on the stool he held for her and watched as he reached for two mugs from hooks under the shelf.

He’d made the mugs himself, of that she was sure—the outsides showed wide marks from his hands on the wheel. Inside and outside, they were covered with a white glaze that let the darker clay show through on the wide curves. “Milk?” he asked.

She nodded. “Please, but no sugar.” Not that it tasted any different to her, but why put refined sugar in her body when it had no use for it?

He poured the tea, passed one mug her way, and offered a tin of biscuits. She refused, but he took four chocolate-covered digestives and proceeded to munch on them with particularly white and strong-looking teeth. He swallowed and looked at her. “Okay. What sort of commission are you charging?”

Better talk business than dwell on luscious, dark eyes. Better discuss delivery dates and returns than wonder how his sandy curls would feel against her face or how his tanned skin and rich blood would taste on her tongue.

Later. She could and would return, but for now, she had a deal to hammer out.

It was twilight before she was ready to leave.

He walked with her across the footbridge to her parked car, hesitating as he offered his hand. “Bye,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll be hearing from you.”

Her fingers closed over his, his eyes registering surprise at the strength of her handclasp.

She smiled. “We’ll keep in touch. Once I have storage space ready, we’ll firm up the consignment.” She dropped his hand and stepped away, fighting the temptation to step closer. He was mortal. She’d visit him, yes, but…“Goodbye!”

“Bye, Antonia,” he replied. “Be careful reversing.”

She drove back down the lane, half of her determined to return and feed and give Michael Langton a night of dreams to remember, while some deep instinct insisted that with this man she was biting off more than she should. Her mouth twisted at the unintentional pun. Sweet Abel! What did it matter? She’d never harm him. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. But she had no question in her mind. She’d return. Soon.

Michael Langton stood listening until there was no sound of her engine and even the scent of motor oil and petrol had faded.

He should have thrown her out of his pottery at first sight. Yeah, right! He could no more have done that than change his nature. Antonia Stonewright fascinated him. Women were danger, trouble, and traps for the unwary. But about Antonia he sensed something different. True, she’d been all business, but he’d need to be devoid of all five senses not to catch her interest: the glimmer in her eyes, the scent of her skin. Odd, he hadn’t noticed a quickened heartbeat, but her smile and her voice had been enough.

She shared his interest.

The prospect was a recipe for disaster. He hadn’t cultivated the reclusive artist persona to have it breached by a good-looking woman down from Yorkshire.

Pots and bowls—yes, he’d send them on consignment. But never, ever could anything more than business exist between them.

He looked up at the sky. Two, three hours before dark, with moonrise a couple of hours after that.

He returned to the house, rinsed out the mugs they’d used, and walked over to the pottery to check the progress of the new firing. The kiln would be at temperature by dawn, and he’d be back long before then. He wedged several pounds of clay, slicing it with a twisted wire, before dropping each segment on the remainder, turning, cutting, and dropping again, until the clay was smooth and free of air bubbles. Satisfied, he wrapped it in a wet cloth and heavy plastic.

He washed his hands and took off his clay-covered smock and hung it on the hook by the door. Back in the house, he unzipped his jeans and left them, and the rest of his clothes, in the bathroom. He set the security system and closed the door behind him. Naked, he walked out into the moonlight. Standing in the shelter of a cluster of trees, he looked up at the full moon, threw back his head, and let out a deep, feline howl. Minutes later, a large, dark shape ran on all fours toward the open fields.