Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1), стр. 7
As she hurried after her guardians, she felt the icy fingers of presentiment stealing over her heart, threatening to unroot it with a rip. There was something so awful about the quiet, swirling fog around her that it seemed to defy the scream that threatened, locking it fast in her throat. She feared that by calling out, she’d only be inviting the monster at her back to descend upon her all the sooner.
She gave a sudden yelp of fright as a large cat streaked past her, nearly tripping her before vanishing like a wraith into the alley to her right. It was almost as though something had startled it from across the road. And then, with a sudden gust, the fog parted and she saw for herself what had frightened the cat.
There was a shadowy figure standing in the park, behind the iron fence. The face was hidden behind a cloak, only the long locks of hair escaped the hood, floating about like white chaos. But she could feel the eyes staring fixedly at her. So unmistakable was that intrusive stare that it pierced her and crawled its way up along her spine like an insect. One moment the stranger was there, watching, and then, the very next instant, the fog closed around him and he vanished, melting into obscurity.
Terrified, she flattened herself against the brick wall, near the alley. Her hair, like the cat’s, was rampant with terror. How had her aunt and uncle gained so much distance so quickly? Or had she turned to stare behind her longer than she’d thought? She tried to ignore her fear—tried to force her frozen limbs into action—but fear seemed to coil about her feet like an adder, entrapping her. If she screamed, would her aunt and uncle hear her? They could not have wandered too far ahead—were perchance already waiting for her to catch up. All she had to do was run. Run!
The townhouse was close and if she hurried, she would be home in a moment. Finally, she pushed herself off the wall and compelled her feet to move. Sprinting, she passed under another gaslight pouring its dull light into the mist. Here she stole another glance over her shoulder like a frightened heroine of a penny novel romance. Who the devil was lurking behind her? The mad butcher, to be sure.
The thought had no sooner crossed her mind when the church bells began to toll. Her hand was suddenly wrenched in a vice grip. She shrieked and spun toward the malefactor. She’d been so busy watching the fog at her back that she had not looked for danger ahead.
“What a hearty lass, out so late on her own.” The voice rasped like old parchment, the tut-tutting tone belied by tenebrous amusement. It was the figure from the park! A gypsy of some sort! A creature of considerable height and long, lethal-looking fingers.
“Let go!” She tried again and again to twist her arm free.
She felt the creature smiling even before it pushed back the hood to reveal its face. The fog swallowed her screams as the man seized her in his hideous gaze, violating her with unspeakable intention. Later, she would not recall the shape of the face or the features that had filled it, only that leering emptiness; only those lifeless, bloodless eyes that had somehow rolled back in their sockets; only the sense of nothingness that threatened to consume her. And black teeth—such long, black teeth! She would also not recall how she had freed herself. All that was certain was the fact that it had not been her own strength that had gained her release.
In the midst of her struggles, those long cold fingers unexpectedly released her and she fell backwards, stumbling into the street, arms flailing. She tripped and landed in the road with unceremonious swiftness just as a carriage came racing out of the night fog like an eight-legged steed. The sound of hooves pounding against the stones was like thunder rushing towards her, threatening to devour her beneath dust and iron. Her lungs seized with renewed horror as the carriage bore down on her, the driver shouting a panicked alarm as he spotted her. Too late!
This time, when a pair of hands snatched her up, there was no thought of screaming. She was plucked so swiftly from the causeway that her neck jerked with unexpected violence. The entire incident was a surreal blur like the harrowing sting of horse hair whipping across her brow, her skull passing inches from an iron hoof.
The world only resumed its natural tempo once she was standing on the walkway, gasping in distress and gaping at the retreating coach. Its wake disturbed and curled the fog that hugged the glistening road. The driver waved his fist furiously at her, but she was too aware, suddenly, of the man at her side—her rescuer—to pay the coachman any heed. Not the gypsy, thank heaven.
He released his hold on her and moved away to place a respectful distance between them.
“You…you saved my life, sir!” she stammered, glancing down at her stinging palms where shallow cuts were glistening red.
“Now that is something I have not yet been accused of,” the stranger replied. His voice was as dark and low as a growl, the effect not a little sinister despite his silky grin.
Just like that, Emma’s relief curdled in her belly.
Chapter Four
The Witching Hour
Emma’s rescuer was dressed in black, only the crisp white of his cravat contrasted with his heavy greatcoat and dark top boots. She caught herself staring at the shadowed