Shadows & Spells Book 2

KELLY

The next morning, I found myself at breakfast promptly at eight o’clock.

The same older bartender was there, engrossed in his newspaper. But he seemed to be expecting me, because he quickly put it aside and offered a warm smile.

“Sleep well?”

I shook my head, my hair cascading around my face. “Absolutely. I was so exhausted from the journey yesterday, I slept for almost ten hours.”

He smiled again, and before he could ask anything else, I said, “Can I have an English breakfast, please?”

He closed his mouth, which had been about to form another question, and nodded. He then disappeared into the back to prepare my order.

I settled at the same table as the night before, watching the fishing boats across the street unload their morning catch.

The men on the boat would toss a large fish to the men on the pier, and the line of flying fish would continue until it was eventually thrown onto a truck on the road.

It was hypnotic, this fish line. After watching the muscular fishermen for a few minutes, the older bartender emerged with my breakfast and set it down.

He started to walk away, but I gently reached out and touched his arm to stop him.

“Excuse me, before you go, could you help me find something?”

He turned back with the same helpful smile. “Sure, dear. What are you looking for?”

I unlocked my phone and pulled up a note. “Can you tell me where…Llll-ea-de…Manor is?”

The bartender frowned at me again. I wasn’t pronouncing it right; I knew that. So, I just showed him the note.

“Where is this?” He squinted at the phone before saying, “Slay-aud Manor, huh?”

I quickly switched my phone to the map feature and placed it between us for him to reference.

He squinted at it again before pointing to a place on the south end of the town, farther inland and away from the main roads.

“There’s no official tar road that leads to the house, but there’s a well-trodden dirt one that will take you there.”

I nodded, looking at the place he pointed out. “About a half-hour walk, huh?”

He nodded again, this time deep in thought. “What do you want at—”

A loud, booming voice interrupted his question. “Mikey! Maaaaaate!”

A group of men, looking like they’d just come from the boats, entered the foyer behind the bartender, and he turned to greet them.

It seemed the pub was the breakfast spot, as five or so more fishermen followed the first group and settled into tables in the main bar.

Turning back to my own breakfast, I began eating, studying the route to the manor house and glancing outside.

The sky was filled with heavy, pregnant clouds, interspersed with rays of sunshine. It looked like it might rain soon. But then again, it probably always looked like it would rain in Wales in April.

For a half-hour walk, I figured I’d be fine with just my long-sleeve tee, khakis, and denim jacket.

I’d left my baseball cap upstairs. It would be best to leave my hair down while I walked through the town.

Heavy footsteps entered the dining room, and some of the fishermen sat at the larger table behind me, suddenly quiet despite their boisterous entrance.

I tensed slightly.

It was the smell. It wasn’t the fishy smell I’d been expecting. It was the scent of wolves.

Since I hadn’t transformed yet and had been avoiding it, I was still navigating my new senses, most of them only partially developed.

But every now and then, I could smell something faint or hear something far away that I didn’t expect.

The guys sitting behind me were wolves; I would have bet my entire bank balance on it. They were too close for me to miss their scent. The musty smell, like an animal that had been rolling in hay.

From their silence, they knew me too, or at least they were suspicious. I smiled into my coffee cup.

They were probably utterly confused. They knew something was different about me. I wasn’t entirely human, but not fully were either.

On top of that, my lavender perfume was everywhere, so I didn’t doubt they were having a serious WTF moment.

Keeping my eyes on the window and the people passing by outside, I finished my toast, drained my coffee, and cleared the table for “Mikey” to pick up the plate.

I stood, acting completely oblivious to the men, then I left the room, passing the bartender on the way out, his arms laden with plates of English breakfast.

“Thanks for the directions to the manor. I’ve just left my plate there,” I said, gesturing back into the room.

He nodded in acknowledgment and watched me leave, as did the other men.

The walk to Lleaud Manor took me through the southern part of the town and out onto a road that wasn’t the main thoroughfare but would still lead to the main highway eventually.

Men and women were leaving their homes for work, a few of them eyeing me curiously as they passed on the street. They knew. Or more likely, they didn’t, but they suspected something was off.

Jolene had mentioned that the town was full of weres, more than one would expect. I wasn’t yet able to tell the difference unless, like in the dining room, I was in close proximity to one of them.

It didn’t matter, though, that there were so many here. It was to my advantage if they were curious and started to ask questions, started to remember their past.

Like they had when I’d walked into town yesterday, the cobbled streets eventually gave way to wider roads and cottages with yards, then farmhouses with fences holding horses and sheep.

“Mikey” had pointed to a road that didn’t seem to have any houses near it, but sure enough, it was hard-packed dirt that seemed well used.

There were no signs indicating anything was down there, and the road eventually turned a corner and was lost out of sight behind low-hanging trees.

I looked up and down the main tar road for any signs of life. Nothing.

The clouds above started to crowd, and whatever sunshine and warmth the day had started off with was lost. A few times, I thought I felt rain on my face, only to have it disappear just as quickly.

A few more minutes of walking, and I was around the corner, eyeing the sporadic patches of forest that dotted the hills.

The landscape was a sea of rolling green hills, dotted with dense patches of woods. It was the kind of place where secrets could easily be hidden.

The road eventually leveled out, leaving the woods behind, and a modest farmhouse appeared on the left. It was close enough to the road to be seen, but still had a decent amount of yard space.

I studied it with interest. It was no manor, and it looked fairly new with its bright white stucco.

A small red hatchback and a large black truck, clearly used for farm work, were parked out front.

This wasn’t the house I was searching for, but the road continued on, so the manor must be further down.

I had just passed the farmhouse driveway when I had to stop.

The road split into two. Damn it. Mike didn’t mention a fork in the road, did he? Both paths looked identical, curving around clusters of tall, thick woods. ~Shit.~

The right path seemed more promising. It was flatter, and the road looked more traveled, with mud tracks leading down it.

Suddenly, loud voices erupted from behind me, and the farmhouse door swung open. I spun around at the sudden disruption of the quiet country road.

A man and a woman were arguing loudly in Welsh. The woman, a tall brunette, had a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and was storming towards the little hatchback.

A man, equally tall with dark features, followed her, gesturing towards her car.

This was awkward. It looked like a breakup, and I was an unwilling spectator. They hadn’t noticed me yet, and I slowly turned to continue down the right path.

Suddenly, the arguing stopped, and something was shouted in my direction. Another Welsh word was yelled, and then the man called, “Hey, Red!”

I turned around, now a hundred or so feet away from the farmhouse.

The man was leaning over the fence by the road, while the brunette stood by the open door of her car, looking confused.

“Ya lost?” he shouted over to me, giving me a once-over.

I had nothing but a small purse strapped across my shoulders. The wind blew my hair into my face, and I brushed it aside to answer him.

“Nope. Not lost.” I gestured behind me to the road. “Just taking a walk down this road. Please go back to…whatever this is.”

I waved my hands between the couple and turned back to the road.

Behind me, the woman’s voice started up again, sounding more agitated, and the man responded in kind.

After another minute of walking, I was hidden by a small clump of forest.

Jesus, talk about awkward.

I walked down the road for a few more minutes, then stopped abruptly when it ended at a farm gate with a pasture on the other side.

I climbed up to the gate and looked around. Nothing but cows, sheep, and rolling green hills. Damn it.

I turned around and started the walk back to the fork, hoping the breakup had moved inside or was over.

When I finally made it back, the little red hatchback was gone, but the man was still leaning over the fence, clearly waiting for me to return.

This jerk—he knew that was a dead end and was just waiting for me to walk back up. I approached him with a reluctant smile, and he returned it.

I took him in. He was dressed in work jeans, splattered with mud here and there, and a plaid shirt covered by a fleece vest.

He was definitely a farmer, judging by his clothes and the thick mud on his boots.

A dark beard, matching the brown wavy hair peeking out from under a wide-brimmed hat, covered his face, and his bright blue eyes gave me another once-over as I approached.

A prominent scar ran down his left cheek, from his ear to his chin. His beard covered most of it, but a clear line was still visible.

I stopped on the road, about thirty feet away from him, and he shook his head at me.

“I thought you might be back. Not often someone walks up this road and down to my sheep paddock.”

I gave a rueful smile and tucked my long hair behind my ear. His voice was deep and undeniably masculine.

“Forks in the road were never my forte, but there’s a metaphor about the road less traveled in there somewhere,” I replied, shrugging.

His eyes dropped to my chest in a blatant move before he asked, a hint of heat behind his smile, “Make a lot of bad choices, huh?”

I smiled down at my feet. Men were incredible sometimes. I’d just seen him break up with his girlfriend twenty minutes ago, and here he was, flirting.

“Ohhh, I wouldn’t say a lot, but when I do”—I looked up his six-foot-four frame—“they’re certainly big mistakes”—and ended on his face with a knowing look.

The farmer gave me a curious smile, then seemed to remember himself, glancing back up the lane.

“Uh, look, the bed and breakfast is back up on the main road, another five minutes on your left.”

I made a mischievous face, teasing him. “That’s good to know.” I pointed down the left side of the fork we were standing at. “But Lleaud Manor is down this way, right?”

His face looked puzzled, then hardened slightly. “What ye be wanting at the manor?”

I ignored his question and started to back away, heading down the correct road.

“Thank you, and sorry again for interrupting your…domestic…thing.”

He frowned at me again for my lack of answers, but I was too far away now for him to say anything else.

After a few more steps, I turned my back on him and continued down the road. It eventually curved, and I looked back to see the farmhouse was now out of sight.

Holy shit, that was a farmer? He looked average with the hat and covered in mud, but there was no denying that with his height and blue eyes, he’d clean up nicely.

A few more minutes of walking down the lane, and a large, three-story stone house came into view behind a hill.

The house was partially hidden by vines, swaying gently in the breeze. Its large stained glass windows were a stark contrast to the stone columns flanking the front entrance. The doors were thick and wooden, looking like they’d need a good push to open.

It was a far cry from the other houses in town and the farmhouses scattered around the outskirts. This house was old, built by someone with deep pockets.

Despite its imposing facade, the house was surrounded by a quaint white picket fence and a lush, well-tended garden. The sight of the flowers lightened my heart a bit. Whoever lived here had a soft spot for blooms.

There were no cars or driveways in sight as I approached the front gate. Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the gate and walked up to the intimidating doors.

An antique lion-shaped knocker was affixed to the right door. I lifted it and let it fall three times, the sound echoing ominously.

After a few moments of silence, I heard movement behind the door. It creaked open to reveal a tall man of Arabic descent, who looked at me with a puzzled expression.

He said something in Welsh, to which I could only shake my head.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Welsh.”

He switched to perfect English, his accent polished and Oxfordian. “Are you lost, young lady?”

I shook my head again, offering him a nervous smile as I fiddled with the hem of my jean jacket.

“No, I don’t believe so. Is…does Iona still live here?”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Yes, she does. But I’m afraid she’s not well enough to receive visitors. How may I assist you?”

I let out a sigh of relief, glad to know she was still here, still alive.

The man looked slightly taken aback by my reaction. I took a moment to study him. He was dressed in a collared long-sleeve shirt, brown slacks, and sneakers. His attire seemed more like a uniform than casual wear, suggesting he worked here rather than lived here.

After a moment of hesitation, I flashed him my father’s smile. “Um, I’m Kelly Jones. I believe she would want to see me.”

The man straightened up, standing at his full height of six feet. Despite his age, around fifty, he looked formidable. Like a former fighter who, despite the passage of time, could still hold his own if need be.

He studied my face and hair, then took a deep breath, his expression shifting to one of wonder. “Yes, I believe she would. Please come in.”

He held the door open wider, and I stepped inside, wiping my feet on the mat. We moved from the foyer into an adjoining room that looked like it had once been a reception area for guests.

The room was filled with rich furnishings—leather and mahogany, bar carts by the fireplace, leather-bound books on the shelves. This house had seen its share of parties, but now it seemed neglected and forgotten.

I followed the man through the room and into the next, which was brighter and more modern. Large picture windows framed a view of the lush garden, and the furniture was upholstered in modern fabrics, with cream and eggshell tones dominating the room.

A small woman sat with her back to the doorway. The man walked around to face her, while I hung back, holding my breath.

“Ma’am, you have a visitor.”

A surprised Welsh accent responded, “A visitor? Well, that’s new. Show them in.”

He gestured for me to enter the room. I walked over and stood in front of the woman. She was petite, with gray hair pulled back into a small bun. She looked to be around eighty, with a kind face and soft blue eyes.

She was dressed in a pink fleece sweater and khaki pants. A book rested on her lap, and an aspirator with a breathing mask sat by her side.

She studied me from head to toe, and when our eyes met, I gave her a wide smile, filled with relief and joy.

The older woman leaned back, as if the wind had been knocked out of her. Tears welled up in her eyes.

“Hi,” I said, my voice choked with emotion.

“You’re…”

“Kelly Devon Jones, Ewan Jones’s daughter.”

A tear rolled down her wrinkled cheek as she heard my name, her eyes fixed on my face.

“You’re my…”

“Granddaughter, yes… I am your granddaughter.”