Free Move Me by Emma Holly Page B

cellar’s only light bulb buzzed and went
out.
    “Damn it,” she snapped, spinning
instinctively. She saw nothing behind her but darkness. The cellar
was pitch black without the light, and she’d never find the fuse
box. Not that this mattered. The bulb had sounded as if it died,
not as if she needed to flip a breaker the other way.
    The draft whooshed again, bungieing her heart
up into her throat. Belle pressed her hand to the spot as a shiver
crawled up her spine. Was that a glow over there, or were her eyes
seeing afterimages in the dark? She had a powerful impulse to call
for John.
    No , she told herself firmly. You’re not that big a ninny .
    In addition to which, he wasn’t around to
hear.
    Teeth gritted, body broken out in a chilly
sweat, Belle stuck her arms out like a zombie and fumbled back to
the stairs. Though it seemed to take an eon to bump through the
basement junk, she doubted more than five minutes passed before she
emerged into the kitchen. The lights were on there, suggesting
she’d been right about the fuse. Her nerves calmed under the
brightness. Old houses were drafty. That’s all she’d heard down
there.
    She considered looking for a flashlight so
she could replace the bulb, then decided to wait until daylight.
Even non-ninnies were allowed some slack. With more force of will
than tranquility, Belle fixed herself another grilled cheese
dinner, ate four Oreos, and checked email on her cell phone.
    Her assistant at Trusty Maids seemed to have
everything in hand, so these entertainments didn’t occupy her long.
Her serial killer book appealed to her even less than the night
before.
    Tired in spite of her scare, she readied
herself for bed. She was coming out of the bathroom when she
noticed the door to Uncle Lucky’s room was ajar. She was sure she’d
shut it. His bedroom was colder than the others, and she hadn’t
wanted to waste the heat.
    Sighing, she wondered if she needed to wedge
it closed. She peered inside. The landing light was on, but the
room itself was dark. Uncle Lucky’s old iron bed put her in mind of
TV shows about haunted prisons, so she tried not to look at it. The
moon cast wiggling branch shadows on the floor. This drew her gaze
to the windows, which was when she saw one of them was open a
crack.
    “Well, hell,” she swore, stalking across the
threadbare area rug. No wonder it was cold in here. John must have
forgotten to turn the lock thingie on the sash. Country folk were
notoriously lax about safety.
    She’d tugged the window fully down and had
started securing it when a hunched-over figure skulked into the
yard below. Goose bumps rippled across her shoulders. Her cell
phone was in the kitchen. She had to call 911. How long would help
take to get here? Kingaken had a sheriff, but no resident police.
They borrowed those from the next county.
    “Crap, crap, crap,” she whispered beneath her
breath. Was it worth running around the house locking doors? Would
any lock in the place keep out a serious intruder?
    The man was doing something at the boarded-up
door to her uncle’s shack. Okay, maybe not so boarded up. The door
swung open without trouble, the nails on the end of the two by
fours apparently not attached. Clearly about to enter, the intruder
glanced toward the bright half moon. Belle’s mouth fell open. She
recognized who it was. John Feeney was breaking into her
property!
    Anger surged into her as strongly as fear
had. What the hell was he doing? And how dare he scare her that
way! Forgetting her plan to call 911, Belle grabbed Uncle Lucky’s
Louisville Slugger and went to handle this herself.
    ~
    The last thing Dubhghall expected was for
someone to bang their fist on the workshed door. He’d been sitting
on the couch, hugging a cushion to him in an attempt to stop
shivering from his long tramp around the woods. Though he could
have built a fire out there, he hadn’t wanted to be spotted.
Kingaken’s wild places weren’t as isolated as he was used to.