“I don’t go anywhere unarmed,” he’d replied when she suggested that he might want to leave the gun behind. At that point, it had occurred to her that she might have been better off leaving him behind, never mind the gun.
The pub was small and snug with a long wood bar at one end and a small spattering of tables. The walls were dark red with horse brasses hanging from hooks and pictures of the moors. Christian had to duck as they crossed the room to avoid the low wooden beams. She found an empty table and pushed him toward it. “Sit down. I’ll get us a drink.”
She bought Christian a beer and herself a Coke and could feel the barman’s eyes—along with everyone else’s—on her as she made her way back across the room.
Christian took his drink and eyed her glass as she sat.
“What?” she said. “I like Coke.”
“Some supernatural beings react to alcohol.”
“In what way?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear this. Why couldn’t they chat about the weather or something?
“Demons go crazy. It brings out their darker side.”
“It’s a good job I’m not a demon, then. I just passed out, and that was bad enough.”
He looked around the bar. “Do you know any of these people?”
“I recognize some of them. Most people have lived here all their lives.”
“So they would have been around back when you were born?”
“I suppose so. Do you think they might remember anything?”
“Newcomers are always noticed in these sorts of places. Do you want to try?”
She did. A pang of excitement jolted through her at the thought that someone might remember them coming all those years ago. There were only about fifteen people in the pub. Some, like the barman, were too young but most were quite elderly. She wasn’t very good at approaching people, a hang-up from Rule Number Four—never talk to strangers—but there was one man seated at the bar who caught her eye and raised his glass. He appeared to be in his fifties, so he should remember her moving here with her aunt. Without giving herself time to think, she got to her feet and walked across to him.
“Hello,” she said.
He nodded. “Evening.”
“I wondered if you’d mind talking with me for a moment. My name’s Tara, I used to live at the house on the tor.”
“I know the house.”
God, this was hard. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Glancing at the barman, he raised his glass. The barman poured him a pint and put it down in front of them.
“Would you mind talking to my friend as well?”
He looked across at Christian, who, to give him credit, wasn’t doing anything obvious to draw attention to himself. “No problem.”
Christian stood as they approached and nodded. They all sat down.
“I’m Ted Carter,” he said.
“Christian Roth.”
“Well then, what can I tell you?”
“My aunt died recently—”
“Aye, I know, and we were all sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. My aunt was a very private person and didn’t tell me much about my family. I was wondering if you remember when she came here.”
“Of course I do. It was the talk of the village for a while. Not that she ever gave us much to talk about, she kept to herself.” He paused and took a sip of his drink. “Well, they both did.”
“Both?”
“Your aunt and your mother. At least, I presume it was your mother. She was pregnant at the time, heavily pregnant, and she had a look of you about her.”
Tara went still. For some reason, it had never occurred to her that someone would remember her mother. “Can you tell me about her?”
“Not much to tell, I’m afraid. I only saw her once, but she did stick in my mind. She was beautiful, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He seemed lost in thought for a moment, a small smile playing across his features. “I think we all fell in love with her just from that one sighting. She was like something from another world, too good for this one.” He shook his head. “It’s not like me to be fanciful, but she had that effect.” He gave a rueful smile, pulled himself back from the past, and focused on Tara. “She was a lot like you, you know. A tiny little thing. With hair so blond it was almost silver and long, right down her back. Like yours used to be when you lived here, and her eyes were the exact color of yours, like new spring grass.”
Tara blinked back tears and took a gulp of coke. “Sorry,” she said. “But no one’s ever spoken to me of my mother before. Can you remember anything else?”
“She carried a big gray cat, cuddled it the whole time, and she seemed sad.”
Had she known then that she would never see her child grow up? “Do you know what happened to her?”
He shook his head. “I told you, they kept to themselves. Bill Tyler used to do the deliveries up there. He told us once that he heard a baby crying in the house. That wasn’t long after they moved here, but no one ever saw your mother again. Never saw much of your aunt either. Though we did see you.”