Read Online Aquamarine by Catherine Mulvany - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Catherine Mulvany
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some darker emotion she neither recognized nor understood. At that moment, he seemed capable of anything.
“‘Must be a full moon.’ “His voice was raw, as if his words bled from a mortal wound. “That’s how Kirsten explained my stubble. She used to joke that I was descended from a long line of werewolves.”
Shea stiffened. She drew a deep breath, but it didn’t help. “Damn you, Teague Harris. Damn you. I am
not
Kirsten. It was a stupid coincidence. That’s all.”
Her eyes filled with tears of anger and frustration. Why did he have so much trouble accepting the fact that she wasn’t Kirsten?
Because, you fool, Kirsten’s the one he wants
.
“I’m sorry, Shea. Don’t cry.”
She jerked away from him. “I’m mad, dammit, and I’ll cry if I want to.” Like that old Lesley Gore record of her mother’s, she thought, and nearly choked on a sudden spurt of involuntary laughter.
God, she must be hysterical, laughing and crying at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” Teague said again, the way men always do when women start crying and they don’t exactly know why but figure it can’t hurt to apologize.
Me too
, she thought, disappointment a bitter taste at the back of her throat.
FOUR
Shea staggered down the attic stairs, balancing a stack of heavy photo albums, her third load—in case anyone was counting—and her last, thank goodness. Her poor arms felt as if they were about to rip loose from their sockets, and she was heartily sorry she’d ever fallen in with Cynthia’s suggestion that she look through family photographs “to fill in the gaps in her memory.”
“Watch out for that bottom step, Miss Kirsten,” Glory warned. “Tread’s got a wiggle in it.”
“I remember,” Shea said. How could she forget after the header she’d taken on her first trip down?
Despite the fact that she was hefting a load every bit as awkward and heavy as Shea’s, Glory set a killing pace along the second-story hall.
“Slow down!” Shea begged, panting like the star pupil in a Lamaze class.
“Sorry.” Smiling sheepishly, Glory paused outside Kirsten’s bedroom door and waited for Shea to catch up.
As Shea drew even with the girl, she became aware of a low hum. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“The humming sound. Can’t you hear it?”
“I don’t hear anything.” Glory’s face was empty of expression. Too empty.
“It’s coming from my old room, I think.” Shea set her load down on the floor and pressed her ear to the door. The humming stopped. “Could someone be inside? Maybe your mother is vacuuming.”
“I was in there first thing this morning, washing the dormer windows,” Glory admitted cautiously, “but nobody’s inside now. Couldn’t be. I locked up afterward. The key’s in my pocket.”
“Maybe you left something on. The stereo or a radio.”
“Didn’t turn anything on. Not even the lights.” She cocked her head to listen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Kirsten. I can’t hear a thing.”
The humming resumed as abruptly as it had stopped, a little louder this time. “There!” Shea said. “Don’t tell me you can’t hear that.”
Glory shrugged, and the top album slid off her pile to land with a thump on the floor.
Shea started to lean over to pick it up, then froze as a second noise drowned out the low hum, a piteous whine followed by whimpering sobs. She straightened with a jerk. “My God! I suppose you didn’t hear that, either.”
Glory’s face was pasty. “Sounds like a baby,” she whispered.
A baby? Or the ghost of a baby? Shea tensed, listening intently.
The whimpers escalated to an eldritch howling accompanied by a series of loud thumps and frantic scratching noises. “No,” she said, relieved. “It sounds like a dog.”
A door farther along the hall banged open and Kevin Rainey strode out wearing nothing but a worried expression and a pair of blue silk boxers. “What on earth is that ungodly noise?”
“I
“‘Must be a full moon.’ “His voice was raw, as if his words bled from a mortal wound. “That’s how Kirsten explained my stubble. She used to joke that I was descended from a long line of werewolves.”
Shea stiffened. She drew a deep breath, but it didn’t help. “Damn you, Teague Harris. Damn you. I am
not
Kirsten. It was a stupid coincidence. That’s all.”
Her eyes filled with tears of anger and frustration. Why did he have so much trouble accepting the fact that she wasn’t Kirsten?
Because, you fool, Kirsten’s the one he wants
.
“I’m sorry, Shea. Don’t cry.”
She jerked away from him. “I’m mad, dammit, and I’ll cry if I want to.” Like that old Lesley Gore record of her mother’s, she thought, and nearly choked on a sudden spurt of involuntary laughter.
God, she must be hysterical, laughing and crying at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” Teague said again, the way men always do when women start crying and they don’t exactly know why but figure it can’t hurt to apologize.
Me too
, she thought, disappointment a bitter taste at the back of her throat.
FOUR
Shea staggered down the attic stairs, balancing a stack of heavy photo albums, her third load—in case anyone was counting—and her last, thank goodness. Her poor arms felt as if they were about to rip loose from their sockets, and she was heartily sorry she’d ever fallen in with Cynthia’s suggestion that she look through family photographs “to fill in the gaps in her memory.”
“Watch out for that bottom step, Miss Kirsten,” Glory warned. “Tread’s got a wiggle in it.”
“I remember,” Shea said. How could she forget after the header she’d taken on her first trip down?
Despite the fact that she was hefting a load every bit as awkward and heavy as Shea’s, Glory set a killing pace along the second-story hall.
“Slow down!” Shea begged, panting like the star pupil in a Lamaze class.
“Sorry.” Smiling sheepishly, Glory paused outside Kirsten’s bedroom door and waited for Shea to catch up.
As Shea drew even with the girl, she became aware of a low hum. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“The humming sound. Can’t you hear it?”
“I don’t hear anything.” Glory’s face was empty of expression. Too empty.
“It’s coming from my old room, I think.” Shea set her load down on the floor and pressed her ear to the door. The humming stopped. “Could someone be inside? Maybe your mother is vacuuming.”
“I was in there first thing this morning, washing the dormer windows,” Glory admitted cautiously, “but nobody’s inside now. Couldn’t be. I locked up afterward. The key’s in my pocket.”
“Maybe you left something on. The stereo or a radio.”
“Didn’t turn anything on. Not even the lights.” She cocked her head to listen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Kirsten. I can’t hear a thing.”
The humming resumed as abruptly as it had stopped, a little louder this time. “There!” Shea said. “Don’t tell me you can’t hear that.”
Glory shrugged, and the top album slid off her pile to land with a thump on the floor.
Shea started to lean over to pick it up, then froze as a second noise drowned out the low hum, a piteous whine followed by whimpering sobs. She straightened with a jerk. “My God! I suppose you didn’t hear that, either.”
Glory’s face was pasty. “Sounds like a baby,” she whispered.
A baby? Or the ghost of a baby? Shea tensed, listening intently.
The whimpers escalated to an eldritch howling accompanied by a series of loud thumps and frantic scratching noises. “No,” she said, relieved. “It sounds like a dog.”
A door farther along the hall banged open and Kevin Rainey strode out wearing nothing but a worried expression and a pair of blue silk boxers. “What on earth is that ungodly noise?”
“I
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