Bloodfire (Blood Destiny 1) - Helen Harper Page 0,75

him updated. Who else would have told him that I was going to Trevathorn to make sure that everything there was alright?

Not good.

Pain was reflected in his Voice and, for a moment, he seemed more human than shifter. He was silent for a moment longer and then broke off the contact. I kicked the log, hard, and cried out, feeling the sharp pain in my foot briefly overtake me. Then it faded and I was more alone on the beach than I’d ever been before.

*

I eventually entered Trevathorn via a small cobbled side street that led from the beach. There was a small crowd of people standing beside the square at the Hanging Bull. This didn’t look good.

I strode up with purpose, figuring that if someone had seen or heard something, they’d be broadcasting it to the entire village. Secrets didn’t stay quiet for long in any small village, and Trevathorn was a shining example of how to put a rumour mill to perfect use. In fact, I’d heard the barman in the Bull quip once that if you were caught unaware in the woods and had to answer a call of nature, then everyone would know about it before you even managed to get home. Even though, as the local ‘cult’, the pack wasn’t exactly a real member of the community, there was still a part of me that appreciated that feeling of living somewhere where the neighbours cared enough to gossip about you. The only thing worse than being talked about was not being talked about.

As I got closer to the clump of humans, I realised that they seemed to have formed some kind of semi-circle around whoever was doing the talking. So perhaps there was just one witness then. That would make any reports of giant one eyed beasts with ugly toenails easier to discount at least. My money was on Mrs Arkbuckle, the local postmistress. If there was a story to be told, then she would be the person most likely to know it. She was the human version of Betsy. I’d heard a scandalous rumour last year that she’d been steaming open any interesting looking envelopes that came her way, in order to know as much as possible about what everyone was doing. I think most people had forgotten that in this day and age of email, most letters were confined to boring and official business matters. Smoke doesn’t always equal fire. And that was what I’d have to make sure that everyone thought now.

Unfortunately my heart dropped to the bottom of my stomach when I saw that it wasn’t Mrs Arbuckle at all. In the centre of the circle was a cameraman, pointing a black video camera at a trim woman with perfect skin. She was holding a microphone and flashing a curved row of even white teeth. Shit, shit, shit. I stepped closer to hear what she was saying.

“Are we ready?” She tapped her earpiece, and cocked her head quizzically.

The cameraman began counting down from five, pointing at the woman dramatically as he said each number. I briefly considered rushing them both, tackling her like a rugby player, and taking her down before she could say anything to the world at large. I doubted that would help matters, however. Holding my breath, I pushed closer into the watching crowd, earning myself a few scowls in return.

“Good afternoon, Martin.” Her voice had modulated itself into an almost perfect version of received pronunciation and she gazed into the camera lens with a happy concentration. I figured that the invisible Martin must be the anchor ‘back in the studio’. “I am here in Trevathorn in Cornwall, reporting on the recent wave of seismic activity that has sent the local villagers running for cover. There were several small earthquakes here on Tuesday evening, each measuring around 2 on the Richter scale, and large enough to send roof tiles crashing into the quiet cobbled streets and vases tumbling to the floor from atop mantelpieces.”

I immediately relaxed. Oh, the drama of a little quake. It was hardly on a par with the San Andreas fault, but I supposed the tremors caused by the terrametus had been strong enough to warrant a mention in the remarkably unturbulent British Isles. And no doubt, the appearance of this minor celebrity in town, coupled with the vague promise that they might catch themselves on television, meant that both the locals and the tourists had stayed glued to the action here, instead of realising