Read Online Warped by Maurissa Guibord - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maurissa Guibord
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cry. “Madness,” he said. His expression registered something between disgust and despair.
Hugh hesitated. “Perhaps,” he said. He paced before his father’s massive oaken chair as if to wear a groove in the flagstones. Hugh’s nature was one of action. He despised talk. He halted, and then, speaking in a curt monotone, said: “There’s an old woman come to the village. A traveling weaver. She says she saw the unicorn at the edge of the northern wood. She followed it into the forest and saw it attack a young noble. The description she gave sounds like Will.” He looked at his father with anguish. “I would say the old woman is raving, except that some of the villagers say they’ve seen it as well—a unicorn with a blood-tipped horn. And Will was . . . ” Hugh broke off and cleared his throat noisily. “He was going into the northern woods on the day we left.” He lowered his head. “I might have stopped him. Or gone with him.”
The earl rubbed a heavy hand over his eyes. He was a brusque man with a titan’s temper. But his sons were as dear to him as his own breath. He looked at his elder son. “This is no fault of yours, Hugh. Gather a hunting party. Capture the beast. I will see it with my own eyes before I believe a word of this tale.”
Hugh shook his head. “The crone says the unicorn cannot be captured by ordinary means. A trap must be set, and then the creature must be fettered with iron shackles.”
“Trap? What kind of a trap?” the earl asked. His eyes brightened, seemingly despite himself, at the prospect of a challenging hunt.
“A virgin must be placed in its haunts,” said Hugh.
“Then make it so,” said the earl. “And if this is true, if there is such a beast,” he went on in a commanding tone, “kill it, Hugh. With your own hands, kill it. It won’t bring Will back to us, but such a thing must not be suffered to live. It’s a danger to the village.”
Hugh’s breath was ragged with emotion, and wetness glittered in his eyes as he answered:
“I will destroy it.”
Chapter 11
T essa couldn’t sleep.
No matter what shape she punched her pillow into, it wasn’t comfortable, and every book she picked up she tossed aside. Her thoughts kept revolving around one idea: something was wrong .
Outside were the sounds of occasional cars passing, but the building was quiet. She was alone. Her father had called; he would be home a bit later. She’d heard music playing in the background as he spoke over the phone. “You’re sure you’re okay? I’m just around the corner, at Alicia’s.”
Tessa heard the carefulness in her father’s voice, and the worry. “I’m fine, Dad,” she’d said firmly. “And that thing I said this morning—I’m really sorry. It was stupid.”
“The way you feel is never stupid, Tessa.” He had paused as if to say something else but then seemed to change his mind. “I won’t be too late.”
Now Tessa heaved herself up from the bed and turned on the desk lamp. Her father was happy; it was a good thing. She should just focus on her own life. Or lack thereof.
She remembered what Hunter had said about the volleyball accident, about their having some kind of fate or destiny together. Tessa scowled. No. Hunter Scoville was not her destiny.
Anyway, she didn’t believe in fate. If everything in this life were preordained, destined to be, well, that would mean that someone, somewhere, had decided that Hey, on December 12, Wendy Brody will be in a head-on car collision on I-95 South. Make sure it’s when she’s coming back from a shopping trip. For Christmas .
Tessa recognized the same painful twist of sadness she always felt when she thought of that day four years ago. She pushed it away.
As far as she was concerned, life was one big series of accidents. Some were good, like when you meet your best friend during your most embarrassing moment on the playground in second grade. Some were bad, like when you kill somebody’s mom,
Hugh hesitated. “Perhaps,” he said. He paced before his father’s massive oaken chair as if to wear a groove in the flagstones. Hugh’s nature was one of action. He despised talk. He halted, and then, speaking in a curt monotone, said: “There’s an old woman come to the village. A traveling weaver. She says she saw the unicorn at the edge of the northern wood. She followed it into the forest and saw it attack a young noble. The description she gave sounds like Will.” He looked at his father with anguish. “I would say the old woman is raving, except that some of the villagers say they’ve seen it as well—a unicorn with a blood-tipped horn. And Will was . . . ” Hugh broke off and cleared his throat noisily. “He was going into the northern woods on the day we left.” He lowered his head. “I might have stopped him. Or gone with him.”
The earl rubbed a heavy hand over his eyes. He was a brusque man with a titan’s temper. But his sons were as dear to him as his own breath. He looked at his elder son. “This is no fault of yours, Hugh. Gather a hunting party. Capture the beast. I will see it with my own eyes before I believe a word of this tale.”
Hugh shook his head. “The crone says the unicorn cannot be captured by ordinary means. A trap must be set, and then the creature must be fettered with iron shackles.”
“Trap? What kind of a trap?” the earl asked. His eyes brightened, seemingly despite himself, at the prospect of a challenging hunt.
“A virgin must be placed in its haunts,” said Hugh.
“Then make it so,” said the earl. “And if this is true, if there is such a beast,” he went on in a commanding tone, “kill it, Hugh. With your own hands, kill it. It won’t bring Will back to us, but such a thing must not be suffered to live. It’s a danger to the village.”
Hugh’s breath was ragged with emotion, and wetness glittered in his eyes as he answered:
“I will destroy it.”
Chapter 11
T essa couldn’t sleep.
No matter what shape she punched her pillow into, it wasn’t comfortable, and every book she picked up she tossed aside. Her thoughts kept revolving around one idea: something was wrong .
Outside were the sounds of occasional cars passing, but the building was quiet. She was alone. Her father had called; he would be home a bit later. She’d heard music playing in the background as he spoke over the phone. “You’re sure you’re okay? I’m just around the corner, at Alicia’s.”
Tessa heard the carefulness in her father’s voice, and the worry. “I’m fine, Dad,” she’d said firmly. “And that thing I said this morning—I’m really sorry. It was stupid.”
“The way you feel is never stupid, Tessa.” He had paused as if to say something else but then seemed to change his mind. “I won’t be too late.”
Now Tessa heaved herself up from the bed and turned on the desk lamp. Her father was happy; it was a good thing. She should just focus on her own life. Or lack thereof.
She remembered what Hunter had said about the volleyball accident, about their having some kind of fate or destiny together. Tessa scowled. No. Hunter Scoville was not her destiny.
Anyway, she didn’t believe in fate. If everything in this life were preordained, destined to be, well, that would mean that someone, somewhere, had decided that Hey, on December 12, Wendy Brody will be in a head-on car collision on I-95 South. Make sure it’s when she’s coming back from a shopping trip. For Christmas .
Tessa recognized the same painful twist of sadness she always felt when she thought of that day four years ago. She pushed it away.
As far as she was concerned, life was one big series of accidents. Some were good, like when you meet your best friend during your most embarrassing moment on the playground in second grade. Some were bad, like when you kill somebody’s mom,
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