Even though Mr. Cadogan swore Lil was real, his tragic tale of a strangled barmaid was a ploy to draw in tourists. The Cross and Crow had half a dozen rooms for rent, and Mr. Cadogan could charge double the usual rate for the haunted bedroom—somehow, the bedroom that was “haunted” always seemed to be the highest-priced room available. Nothing like sleeping in a haunted bedroom for a good, safe thrill. Maybe that was because so many real monsters had come out into the open in the past few years that norms preferred their close encounters to be of the make-believe kind.
Norm psychology. Who could tell?
The haunted pubs article kept me diverted until it was time to change trains in Chester. For the rest of the trip, time lost all meaning and everything went by in a blur. I’d long ago grown used to the itchy eyes; the sparkly, bleary, wavy vision; the feeling of moving underwater. I was sick with tiredness, but I could deal with that, too. I was getting there. I switched trains again in Wrexham. Wales, I thought, looking around. I’ve made it to Wales.
When the slow-moving local train finally pulled into Rhydgoch station, brakes screeching, I wanted to sing with triumph. There it was: the sooty, one-story, redbrick building, the crooked RHYDGOCH sign. If this were summer, there’d be hanging baskets overflowing with red and white flowers. But it was late January, and the only decoration was a dusting of snow on the station roof.
Several people waited on the platform, scanning the train’s windows. I didn’t see Mab or Jenkins, but they might be in the car park. Or maybe they hadn’t gotten my message. No problem. I knew where I was now.
Eager to get off the train, I stood. The car seemed to slide away from me, and I had to grab the back of the seat in front of me to steady myself. My ears rang, and I was sweating despite the cold air pouring in through the open door. I’d gone so far beyond tired that tired would feel refreshing. But I was almost there. Almost safe. When I got to Maenllyd, Mab would take away the burden I’d been carrying since Difethwr had entered my dreamscape. I didn’t know how, but I trusted that she would.
I yanked on my duffel bag to pull it down from the luggage rack. As its full weight hit my chest, the ringing in my ears clamored to a roar and darkness edged my vision. My legs turned to spaghetti and the car tilted at a crazy angle. My vision shrank to a pinprick, and that was the last thing I knew before I hit the floor.
15
THREE OR FOUR FACES HOVERED OVER ME. I LAY ON MY BACK, in a narrow space that felt way too crowded. The faces wouldn’t come into focus. I closed my eyes and tried again.
“Give her some air,” said a man’s voice with a Welsh accent. Oh, right. I’m in Wales.
The blurred, shadowy faces pulled back. Above me was a curved white ceiling, bright with fluorescent lights. I turned my head a little to the right, and it felt like the floor tipped with the movement. Again I closed my eyes, waiting for the dizziness to subside.
Before it could, my eyes flew open and I sat up in a panic. “I’m not asleep!” I shouted.
“Take it easy, miss,” said the voice. “You fainted.”
I searched my memory—no dreams of Difethwr. I relaxed a hair. “How long was I out?”
“Only a minute or two. We’re still at Rhydgoch station. Are you hurt?”
I did a quick survey. No sharp pains anywhere, just a dull ache pressing at the backs of my eyes and a feeling like someone tried to mummify my head. “No,” I said. “I’m all right.”
The conductor—the guy who’d been speaking—wanted to call an ambulance. I think he was afraid I’d broken my neck or something when I fell on his train. I convinced him an ambulance wasn’t necessary, and he was happy to carry my bag off the train. I drew the line, though, at carrying me off. Hands reached down and grasped my arms. I got my legs under me, and leaned on my helpers as I got vertical again. Shakily, I made it onto the platform on my own.
My duffel bag waited by a bench. I sat down and bent over, trying to clear my head. A minute later, I heard the train chug out of the station. Someone put a hand on my back. “Here, dearie. You’ll feel good as new.”
I looked up. The world didn’t slide away with the movement of my head; I took that as a good sign. A grandmotherly woman—not Mab—smiled and offered me a plastic cup. I took it and sipped the hot tea it held. Yuck, awful—the tea had come from a machine and she’d loaded it with sugar—but it revived me. “Thank you.”
She nodded, picked up her shopping bags, and went inside the station.
I was alone on the platform. The chilly air felt good on my sweaty face, and so did the hot tea going down my throat. Despite being so close to my goal, I was in no hurry to get there. Part of me didn’t see why I couldn’t just sit on this bench, sweet tea warm in my belly, forever. Jenkins hadn’t met the train—I was pretty sure of that. Or if he’d stayed with the Bentley out in the car park, he’d have seen the train pull out of the station and figured I missed a connection. Maybe he’d gone to the Cross and Crow for a pint to pass the hour’s wait for the next train.
I supposed I should go and see. If Jenkins wasn’t there, Mr. Cadogan would call a taxi for me. I dropped the empty cup in a bin next to my bench and started to get to my feet.
That’s when I noticed someone standing directly in front of me.
I blinked. The figure was still there, silhouetted against the low sun. I wondered if maybe I’d passed out again briefly. One second I’d been alone, the next a man was right there, invading my personal space.
“You must be Vicky,” he said with a Welsh accent. “So sorry I’m late.”
I squinted up at him. He was about five-eleven and close to my age, with black hair and pale skin. Long, black lashes framed the darkest eyes I’d ever seen. They were velvety and opaque and seemed to suck the light in. He was handsome, but there was a touch of grimness in the way he held his mouth. He wore a black cashmere coat with a gray scarf, and I had absolutely no idea who he was.
“Do I know you?” When in doubt, be blunt.
“Where are my manners?” he said, grasping my elbow and helping me stand. “I’m your cousin Pryce. I’m here to give you a lift to Maenllyd.”
I stared at him. Cousin? He might as well have said, “I’m a talking chicken” for all the sense he made. Mom was an only child, and Dad’s only sister was Mab. As far as I knew, I was completely cousinless.
A door opened, and the Rhydgoch stationmaster came out onto the platform. “I see you found her, Mr. Maddox.” He tilted his head at me, “All right, luv?”
“Yes, I’m fine, thanks.”
Pryce hoisted my duffel bag. “Let’s get you to the house. I know Mab is anxious to see you.”
A BLACK PORSCHE WAITED IN A NO-PARKING ZONE IN FRONT of the station. Pryce tossed my bag in the trunk and then opened the passenger door for me with a sweeping gesture. “Your carriage awaits,” he said with a grin.
The smile emphasized how good-looking he was, erasing his grim expression and making the corners of his eyes tilt up. Yet there was no sparkle or gleam. You know how some people’s smiles light up a room? Pryce wasn’t one of those people. His smile felt more like a cloud had crossed the sun. It was those dark, light-eating eyes.
Then again, the whole world felt darker around the edges in my sleep-deprived state.