Free Winter's Light by Mj Hearle Page A

one. Besides, going on the offensive is a smarter play than . . .’
    ‘Than what?’
    Sam took a moment to answer. ‘Waiting for him to kill us.’
    ‘Oh,’ Winter said, swallowing nervously.
    ‘We just need to pick a location,’ Sam continued, clearly not wanting to dwell on this possibility. ‘Somewhere isolated . . . somewhere that won’t tip Benedict off that he’s being tricked. A place it would seem natural for you to call to Blake. Maybe here in the house?’
    An idea occurred to her. A fitting location to spring Sam’s trap that wouldn’t arouse Benedict’s suspicion. She told him, and he jumped on the option immediately.
    ‘That’s brilliant! We’ll meet there tomorrow. Six-thirty, just before sunset.’
    ‘Six-thirty it is.’ Winter nodded, feeling her stomach twist at the prospect of facing Benedict again. Sam was right though. If the only other alternative was to sit and wait for the Demori to pick them off then she’d rather act. Even if the idea terrified her.
    As a vaguely uncomfortable silence settled over the kitchen, Winter debated whether or not to break it by telling Sam about Blake. Because of his occult background, he was probably the only person who might know what the lodestone’s vision meant. It wasn’t something she could look up on Wikipedia. The problem was she still couldn’t bring herself to trust Sam. Not yet, anyway. Caleb had raised his children to hate Blake – would Sam even care if somehow Blake had cheated death?
    ‘You can take that off if you like,’ she said, nodding towards his trenchcoat. Sam glanced down at the coat as though he’d forgotten he was even wearing it.
    ‘Right,’ he said, and somewhat reluctantly took it off, draping the coat over the back of the kitchen table chair nearest him. Winter wasn’t shocked to see how thin he was, she’d guessed that he’d lost weight already. She was shocked at the blood staining the grey t-shirt he was wearing underneath.

Chapter 13

    It must have been too dark and her concentration too scattered while they were digging the grave for her to notice. His forearms and neck were also splashed with dried blood the colour of brown paint.
    ‘Oh my God, Sam! That’s not your blood is it?’ Winter asked, appalled at the grisly sight. He looked like a butcher fresh from the slaughterhouse.
    ‘No, I’m pretty sure it’s not.’ He glanced down at himself with a slightly embarrassed expression, as though he was covered in dried tomato sauce and not a creature’s viscera.
    ‘You need to have a shower.’
    Sam began to protest. ‘It’s fine . . . I’ll just wash up at the sink.’
    The last thing Winter wanted was for him to wash off the Demori’s blood in the kitchen. ‘No you won’t. Follow me, I’ll get you a towel and find you some clothes.’
    His face still pink, Sam followed her into the hallway. She took one of the towels from the cupboard and gestured to the bathroom. ‘You can get changed in there.’
    Sam took the towel, and she was momentarily unnerved by the depth of gratitude she read in his grey-blue eyes. ‘Thanks, Winter.’
    ‘No problem.’ She left him to strip off and went into Lucy’s room, fishing around in the bottom of her drawers for something Sam could wear. Winter was pretty sure Lucy had an ex-boyfriend’s sweater in here somewhere . . . Found it! It was striped black and white, with a gold thirty-three on the back inscribed over the word ‘Beanpole’.
    Casey ‘Beanpole’ Tompkins and Lucy had dated throughout most of her first year of college. He’d been to Hagan’s Bluff only once and Winter hadn’t liked him much. He was too loud, too cocky, and she was glad Lucy had dumped him. Taking the sweater back into the hallway, she knocked on the bathroom door and waited for Sam to answer.
    ‘Come in.’
    Keeping her eyes on the tiles, Winter opened the door. She still managed to glimpse Sam in her periphery wearing nothing but the towel, and it was long enough to