Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 146289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 731(@200wpm)___ 585(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 731(@200wpm)___ 585(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
And that’s the happy ending. That’s the best version on offer. That’s the thing I’m going to drive home and lay in front of him like a gift.
I just have no idea if he’ll see it as a gift.
Because who am I, really, to ask a man to give up his immortality? I’m just Iris Galloway. Plant nerd, young divorcée, an immature, chronically ill, neurodiverse weirdo who kind of stumbled upon this next stage of life. I didn’t know what I was doing before I got here, and I certainly don’t know what I’m doing now. And somehow, I have to ask Alasdair to give up being the incredible—albeit terrible and bloodthirsty—creature that he is, his eternal life, all for meeeeee. I mean, would I be willing to give up being a horse for him? He’s living out all my childhood dreams.
I take a deep breath of sea air and get in the car. My hands are steady now, which is somehow worse than if they shook. Like I know exactly what I have to do, because I do.
I have to go home and tell him I’ve found the way.
And then I have to find out whether he’ll stand the horse for me, and let me cut it loose.
Chapter
Thirty
The rain starts before I’m even out of the village, a fine mist at first, the kind that doesn’t fall so much as hangs in the air and waits for you to walk into it. By the time I’m on the road that hugs the loch home, it’s turned to something with weight, drumming the roof of the car, smearing the headland into grey.
I drive half-paying attention to the road, half drowning in my thoughts about what I have to do and how the fuck I’m going to convince Alasdair to do it, so that I don’t see the blue lights until they’re right behind me.
My stomach drops straight through the floor of the car.
This is it. They found the car, they found Sinclair, they followed me from Mhairi’s, they know.
Every catastrophe arrives in my brain at once, and my hands go slick on the wheel as I pull onto the verge with the rain coming down in earnest. I watch in the mirror as a figure gets out, hunches into the weather, and comes up alongside me. I put the window down and the cold, misting rain comes straight in, beading on my sleeve, on the dash.
It’s Constable MacRae. The one who first came out to see me after I made a complaint about someone chasing me down in the woods. My god, that feels like a lifetime ago.
“Evening.” He dips to my level, rain running off him. “Miss Galloway, if I remember? From the Galloway cottage out the headland.”
“That’s me.” My voice comes out almost normal. I’ve gotten frighteningly good at almost normal. “Nice to see you again.”
“Aye. Didn’t mean to put the heart across you with the lights.” He says it almost apologetically. “It’s just your nearside taillight’s out. Back left. You’ll not have known, but it’s a wee bit dangerous on these roads in the dark, especially in this.” He tips his head at the rain. “Will only get worse as we head into a proper autumn.”
The relief is total, a rapid loosening behind my ribs that leaves me lightheaded. A taillight. It’s just a fucking a taillight.
“God, no, I had no idea. Thank you. I’ll get it fixed ASAP.”
“You do that.” He glances past me into the car, the back seat, the way they do, and I’m suddenly aware of everything that could be in a car. In fact, I have the library books in the backseat since they’re already overdue; I just keep getting distracted. Story of my life.
Luckily, he doesn’t seem too interested in the mythology books. “This a hire car?”
“It is, yeah.”
“You’ll want to ring them about the light, or get the registration shifted to your own name if you’re stopping for good and they make you an offer. You’ve been here a wee while now.” A long pause, a squint of his eyes. “Folk tend to buy a runabout, once they know they’re staying. Cheaper than the hire in the long run.”
“I’ve been meaning to sort out something more permanent.”
“Aye.” He straightens, then bends back down, and his expression turns troublesome. “You’ve not seen DI Sinclair about, have you? Out your way? He’s not checked in to work for some time, and it’s not like him to do so. I know he said he was going to ask after some people, and I know your name was on that list.”
The rain seems to be heavier all of a sudden, the sound of the drumming on the roof becoming a cacophony.
“No,” I reply smoothly while my heart has turned into a machine gun. “Not since he stopped by to ask about the missing woman. Few days back.”