Imprisoned at Werewolf Keep (Werewolf Keep Trilogy) (20 page)

AUTHOR NOTE

For me, every book I write is a joy. And when others enjoy reading my books I feel an added sense of elation. That was particularly the case for me when a brilliant young writer called Blakely Chorpenning offered to betaread this one, and then gave me rave reviews. Her suggestions have also made this a better book. I recommend her edgy paranormal novels to anyone who loves wonderful writing.

I love to hear from my readers
(you’ll find my email details at
www.nhysglover.com
)
and get a kick out of reading reviews on Amazon and Goodreads. If you enjoyed this book please consider leaving your feedback for other readers (and me). It does make a difference.

The last of the Werewolf Keep Trilogy
,
Defiance at Werewolf Keep,
is not far away. It’s Will’s story, and he is definitely my favourite of the Keep heroes.

To keep you going until then, why not try my other paranormal novel, a romantic ghost story called
The Way Home.
To whet your appetite I’ve included an excerpt here. I hope you like it.

PROLOGUE

October 1940, Leconfield, Yorkshire, ENGLAND

What it was about the large farmhouse Hawk did not know, but from the first moment he crossed its threshold, he felt at home. Its thick, stone walls embraced him; its low beams protected him.

Homesickness or nostalgia couldn’t account for his feelings
, because the place was very different from its counterparts at home. Nothing in England reminded him of Poland.

‘Come in, come in, don’t stand there like statue,’ the farmer demanded, his gruff Yorkshire accent softened by his friendly tone. He looked to be in his fifties, although there was the fragility of old age about him
, too, as if his body had worn out earlier than it should.

‘You do understand me, don’t ye? I know ye’re foreign an’ all…’

Hawk grinned and nodded. Although the man’s accent was strong, he understood it well enough. ‘I speak English. We had to learn it before they would let us up in their planes.’

The farmer nodded sagely, still waiting for him to move into the house more fully. Hawk wanted to savour the moment like a fine liqueur, letting the taste remain on his tongue, breathing it in through his nose.

There was mustiness in the air that spoke of a damp space kept closed up for too long, and the smell of furniture polish and wet dog. There was also the odour of manure that had accompanied them in from the farmyard. None of the individual scents he identified gave him sensations of pleasure, but in combination, they affected him pleasantly.

He’
d grown up in the city and rural life was alien to him. Mostly, it worried him with its isolation. But not here, not in this farmhouse. Here, the rural setting suited him. Here, the isolation felt comfortable, as if he could be wholly himself for the first time, without the intrusion of others. The sound of aircraft landing and taking off nearby only added to the feeling of home.

‘Is it shell shock ye’re sufferin’?’ The farmer was staring at him now, his deeply lined brow puckered with concern.

Hawk gave himself a mental shake and smiled at the man again. ‘Sorry, no. It is just this house. I feel like I know it… or it knows me. I sound like a crazy person, I know. Would you prefer I left?’

He didn’t want to leave – not now
,
not ever
, a little voice in his head said. If the man began to worry about Hawk’s sanity, however, it might be better. They didn’t want to get a bad reputation with the locals. Already, the man might see him as an intruder. After all, Hawk had wandered up his long drive to the farmhouse for no reason other than he wanted to know what was at the end of the road. He hadn’t been invited onto the property until the farmer had seen him and offered him welcome.

‘Nah then, lad, don’t be daft. I invited thee, didn’t I? And our Mildred’ll give me a right say-so if I let thee go before tha’ve had a cup o’ tea. We’ve heard about thee lads, the 303 Squadron
.’

The man had turned and begun walking down the dark hallway, talking all the while. Hawk couldn’t draw the moment out any longer. He had to follow along behind the farmer or be considered rude.

He took several long, striding steps to catch up with the Yorkshire man. ‘Yes. We were rotated out to Leconfield from Northolt for a break. Six weeks we have been in the air.’

‘
One hundred and twenty-six kills in six weeks, they’re sayin’. Impressive, and we aren’t impressed by foreigners easy in these parts.’

‘We lost eighteen Hurricanes, seven pilots
, and we have five more badly wounded. That is not so impressive.’

‘If I told thee the losses we took at the Somme, thee’d think twice about that.’ The man’s voice was hollow, as if it came from a long way away, a lifetime away.

‘You survived the Great War?’

‘Aye. Lucky’s what I was, nowt but lucky. The mustard gas got ta ma lungs, but nowt bad. Now ‘ere’s our Mildred…’

They’d made it to the back of the house by now and entered the big country kitchen with its wooden table in the centre and flagstones on the floor. A big black range burned hot against the far wall. Hawk could feel its heat from where he stood. A small window over the sink was open, as was the back door, probably because it was midday and the sun was shining. The cool air from outside also balanced the heat inside a little.

H
awk could see autumn leaves, golden and beautiful, on the oak tree just outside the window. They seemed to glow in the sunlight.

Mildred was a matronly woman with grey, straggly hair and a friendly smile. Her face was flushed red from the heat of the stove. She wiped a strand of hair away from her face with the back of a floury arm.

‘Ayap, who’s tha wi’ ye then, our Alf? An ‘andsome airman fromt’ looks of ‘im.’

‘Aye, that’s what ‘e’ll be, right enough. One of them Poles who’ve made theirselves a name shootin’ down the huns. What d’ ye call yeself, lad?’

‘Andrezej Drzewiecki, but they call me “Hawk”.’ He grinned at his nickname. He’d like to think it was because his eyesight was superior or his courage outstanding, but the real reason for the nickname his comrades had assigned him was more likely his nose, which was prominent and bent in the shape of a beak. He’d been mistaken for an aristocrat in his younger days because of that nose.

‘Hawk… hmmm. Aye, I can see it an’ all. Fierce fliers them birds. Seen one swoop down from nowtwhere, take
a newborn lamb an’ carry’t off. As heavy as t’ bird, it were, but that hawk darsen’t miss a beat. Impressive killers.’ Alf’s voice was filled with awe as he nodded at his own description.

Hawk dropped his head and shrugged his shoulders. The comparison made him uncomfortable. Although Air Command talked about ‘kills’, it still didn’t feel like what they did. Not like when a soldier fired a gun at another man and saw him drop. In his own eyes, his goal was to bounce enemy planes from the sky, and that often meant, as often as not, that the pilots escaped alive. It was the planes that needed to be destroyed. Pilots were not harmless without them, he couldn’t say that, but they were hobbled, limited in the harm they could inflict, and that was enough for him.

The other men in his squad didn’t feel like he did, of course. Most of them felt a savage fury towards the Germans who had invaded their homeland. That fury drove them to feats of audacity that were already marking them as heroes. What else could they be called when men like Karubin did stunts like flying on top of an enemy aircraft when he’d run out of ammunition so his prey became disoriented and dived into the ground to escape him? Craziness. Brave, outrageous craziness.

‘You’re embarrassing the lad, Alf, give over. Come on now, Hawk, take a seat at t’ table an’ I’ll make thee a nice cup o’ tea. Tha look tired.’

Grateful to the woman, Hawk took the closest seat to where he was standing. He lowered his long body onto the rough chair with some relief. He still had a leg injury that troubled him if he stayed on his feet too long.

As Mildred fussed over him, Hawk tested his feelings in the warm kitchen. Yes, just the same in here as at the door, it still felt welcoming. The fact that the middle-aged couple were making so much of him only added to that sense of belonging.

‘Do you have sons in the service?’ he asked Alf, who had pulled up a chair at his side and was watching his wife moving about her domain with such confident pleasure.

‘Aye, our lads are both int’ army and were evacuated off Dunkirk. Both injured and only returned t’ front line a few weeks gone. Now Mildred’s worried about ‘em again. Especially our Harold, because of our Marnie, ye see. She’s our granddaughter. Little firecracker, that
‘un. Mother died givin’ birth to ‘er, so all that child’s got is ‘er Dah, poor mite.’

‘She’s got us, man. Don’t go making it wors’n it is. I’m that lass’ Mah. Have been from t’ moment she were born.’

‘Course you are, dearie. Course you are.’

‘Does this little girl live with you?’ Hawk had a younger sister who
m he missed badly. She’d be twelve now. He hadn’t seen her since his training group had been evacuated at the end of ‘39. He hadn’t heard how his family fared since then.

‘Aye, young Marnie lives with us. She’s at school now, o’ course, but she’ll be back anon. She’ll be steamin’ she missed meeting thee. Living this close t’ airfield she’s quite taken with planes and pilots. Wants to be a pilot ‘erself one day, but, o’ course, that’ll ne’er be. Girls might be doing some men’s work now
, but they’ll ne’er become pilots. Too dangerous.’ Alf nodded sagely.

‘She’s talkin’ about being a radio operator or that RADAR whatsit now,’ Mildred corrected.

‘The war will be well ov’r nigh she’d be old enough for such things. She’s only eight an’ all.’

‘Well over by the time she is old enough…’ Hawk agreed, nodding. Then he took up the china cup Mildred had placed in front of him and sipped at the milky tea. It was strong. These Yorkshire men liked their tea strong. Not like in the south. Its tart taste mellowed him even more.

‘Where’re ye from then? Before the war, I mean,’ Mildred asked, sitting down on the other side of the table, her hands wrapped around a warm cup of her own. She’d placed a plate of fresh scones with melted butter on them in front of him. He couldn’t resist. The savoury taste melted in his mouth and he couldn’t contain his groan of pleasure.

Mildred smiled again and nodded, as if well pleased with his reaction. She took a scone herself and bit into it with relish.

‘Warsaw. I was raised in Warsaw, but I lived in Dęblin while I was training.’

‘Did thee fight the huns when they invaded?’

‘No. We were evacuated shortly after we graduated. Then we were interned in Romania briefly, before we escaped and made our way here. Some of us fought in France, but I was not one of them. I only saw combat in the last six weeks.’

‘How many kills?’

‘One. Only one confirmed.’ He still felt ambivalent about that. He felt he should have been more successful, especially in light of the brilliant kill rate of many of his fellow pilots. It seemed wrong to want to take life, however, so even his one kill felt bad. He still hoped the pilot had managed to get out of the plane he downed before it hit the water.

He hadn’t learned to fly to join the air force and fight; he’d learned to fly because he loved to fly. It had fascinated him ever since he was a boy. His greatest hero was von Richthofen, the ‘Red Baron’,
but that wasn’t something he owned up to with the men. Neither was the fact that his mother had been German. She’d died only a few years before the war.

‘Nowt wrong with one for only six weeks int’ air. There’ll be more.’ Alf pounded him gently on the back.

‘Yes. There will be more, but for now, I am happy just to take a break while we regroup. We have new recruits joining us and more training to do.’

‘Well lad, ye’re welcome ‘ere any time ye ‘ave time off base. Any lad fighting to keep huns fromt’ door is welcome ‘ere,’ Alf said, pounding him on the back a little harder this time.

The English were a strange people Hawk was finding. In some ways, they were excessively insular and fanatically suspicious of anyone from the mainland. In other ways, they were the most hospitable people he’d ever come across. He quite liked the kindly Alf and his warm-hearted Mildred, and he certainly liked their house.

He was already determined to take up the generous offer whenever he had a free moment. His soul already felt nourished by this short stay within the farmhouse walls. In the next weeks, he knew it would give him more.

He’d need what it had to offer for what was to come. Because, although they spoke optimistically about ending the war before Christmas, they all knew that wasn’t going to happen. Hitler was too powerful. It would take more than this little island to bring his war machine to its knees.

CHAPTER ONE

Present Day, Leconfield, Yorkshire, ENGLAND

Cassie Grant stared down into the back garden from her upstairs bedroom window. It was dusk on an Indian summer evening in September. The heat hung heavily in the air, and the scent of night-blooming jasmine was overwhelming. Such a plant was as out of place in the English countryside as the hot, humid air.

She rested her bare head against the cool wood of the window frame. It still felt strange to have nothing separating her bare skin from the environment, but her baldness would soon be a thing of the past. She’d finally completed the last of the six rounds of chemo, and from all reports, her hair should start to grow back soon. In a way, she was grateful that she’d gone through her treatment during the warmer months of the year. Her head would have really felt the cold in winter
, although she would have gotten away with a beanie then, to disguise her baldness. There were pluses and minuses for everything, she guessed.

At least she was still alive. At least she had a roof over her head and no worries about how she’d support herself during her treatment and recuperation. It was funny how such simple concerns had become so important
– as important as survival itself.

If Fran’s grandmother hadn’t offered her a home, she didn’t know what would have happened to her. With no real family of her own and no money coming in to pay the rent, Cassie had been in a bad way after she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She’d even played with the idea of trying to work through the surgery and follow-up chemo
, to make ends meet.

However, her boss had been firm. No one needed to see a receptionist at a high-priced spa looking sick and bald, even if she did get a wig that looked natural. Better to leave quietly. No, she hadn’t been with them long enough to accrue sick leave, and they couldn’t promise her she’d have a job when she was ready to come back to work, but they’d try. She was popular with the staff and clients
, she was told. They wished her well and would miss her.

Cassie still didn’t know exactly how Marnie had found out about her situation. She hadn’t been in touch with the old lady, except for Christmas cards, since Fran had died over two years ago.

The pain in the centre of her chest started up again. It always did that when she thought of her childhood friend. They’d been close for so many years. She’d spent every school holiday at Grange End from the time she was eight. That was when her parents and older brother had died in a car crash. Her Aunt Beth had taken her in, but with three kids of her own and no real familial interest, it had been a relief to have Cassie gone for half-term and term breaks.

Marnie had always made her feel welcome
; because she knew what it was like not to have parents. Her mother had died in childbirth, her father in World War II, and the man she’d married straight out of University hadn’t hung around long either. Marnie knew how important extended families could be.

Something drew Cassie’s attention down to the garden
and away from her reflections.

There was someone there
. A man, a uniformed man, leaning against the big oak tree that stood in the middle of the small, walled garden. She could see his relaxed body quite clearly through the leafy branches, as the bough closest to the house had been cut short years ago to protect the windows. There was a thin trail of smoke rising from the end of the cigarette in his hand.

Who could it be? It wasn’t unusual to see uniformed men around the area. The Defence School of Transport was located just across at the old R
oyal Air Force base. They trained all branches of the armed forces in driving skills there.

But no one would ever think to come this far off base and climb the high wall that surrounded the garden just to smoke a cigarette against that tree. Maybe the gate was left open
; Marnie was getting forgetful these days.

Why would anyone come into their garden uninvited
, even if the gate were open? It wasn’t like the heritage-listed farmhouse was close to civilisation. The farm and its outbuildings, all converted into private residences these days, were the only habitation for a half mile in any direction.

Could he be visiting one of the barn conversions on the development and just wandered into their private garden unknowingly?

She looked at him more closely. His uniform looked odd – almost old-fashioned – like something from the Second World War. His officer’s cap sat jauntily on his dark head. Maybe it was a foreign uniform. Other nationalities often had uniforms that looked old-fashioned to Brits. It seemed to be dark blue-grey in the growing shadows. He wore a scarf at his neck that was scarlet.

The officer was looking away from her, so she saw his face in profile. It was a strong face; harsh, with cheekbones cut high and sharp, eyes sockets deep and cavernous, chin prominent in a powerful jaw
, and a nose that was shaped like the beak of a bird of prey. The mouth was the only soft feature. It had a full lower lip that curved gently into the v-shaped upper lip.

Whether it was because he became aware of her staring at him
, she wasn’t sure, but after what seemed like forever, he turned slowly and looked up at her window. The impact of his gaze meeting hers was visceral. With a gasp, she drew back, trembling like a leaf.

It wasn’t fear
that she felt, even though a stranger invading their garden should have been frightening. That gaze had been incisive, not dangerous. It had caught and pinned her like a butterfly to a board. Those eyes had been shocked to see her at first; shocked that she was watching him. Then they’d turned piercing, as if he could get answers from her just by looking deeply enough into her.

What must he think seeing a bald woman standing
there staring at him? She was the first to understand people’s reaction when they saw her this way. Shock was the least negative reaction she received. Repulsion, pity, fear… some people looked at her as if she was ugly or contagious, but none of these emotions were reflected in the officer’s eyes. He just… didn’t understand.

Hurrying across the bedroom, she headed for the stairs. Marnie would be in the kitchen making dinner. Surely, she would have seen the man from the kitchen window if she’d looked. Maybe she’d know who he was.

Even walking down the flight of stairs took a lot out of Cassie. By the time she got to the kitchen, she was breathing hard and her legs were wobbly. The look on Marnie’s face when she rushed in was enough to slow her down and get her gathering her resources quickly. Worrying the old lady was the last thing Cassie wanted to do. Having an invalid in her home had been hard enough on Marnie over the last seven months without Cassie adding fuel to her concerns.

‘What is it, dear?’ Marnie asked, her very proper Oxford English at odds with her surroundings. It was a voice more suited to a lecture hall than a rustic kitchen.

‘I… nothing really. I just saw a man in the garden. Are we having a dinner guest?’

Marnie glanced out the window and frowned. ‘Where? I can’t see anyone.’

‘Leaning against the oak tree. Maybe the angle isn’t right from here.’ Cassie went to the window and looked out. No, the angle wasn’t quite right, but she was sure something of the man should have been visible from where they stood; yet she could see no sign of him.

She went to the back door and opened it, letting the fresh air enter the overheated kitchen. Before Marnie had a chance to
say anything, she walked out into the garden, searching for the man.

The garden was shadowed but still discernible. Rose bushes ran around the full length of the wall, their last blooms still heavy on their stalks. A small veggie plot, half dug up and ready for the winter planting, sat in the centre
, with a green lawn in need of mowing around its perimeter. A young ash grew against the wall next to the wrought-iron gate. It reached upwards, as if trying to compete with the much older and taller oak closer to the house. All this she could see quite clearly.

What she couldn’t see was a man.

She went over to the wrought iron gate and checked the lock. No, it hadn’t been left open and the key wasn’t in it. That usually hung from a rope on the back of the kitchen door. How did the man get in here then, if he hadn’t come through the gate or through the house? It was quite a mystery.

When she wandered back inside
, shutting the door behind her, she noticed how concerned Marnie looked.

‘No one there. Are you sure we didn’t have a visitor? One of the men from the DST?’

‘No one has been here, Cassie. Why do you think he was from the DST?’

‘He was wearing a uniform. A blue-grey
uniform. Old-fashioned.’

Marnie’s face had been flushed red from the heat of the agar only moments before. Now, it was as if the blood had drained right out of her body. Her finely
lined skin was suddenly bone white and stark. Even her short, spiked hair appeared more white than grey. Her lips were drawn into a tight line that almost looked like a grimace of pain.

‘A young, handsome man in a uniform? Is that what you saw?’ Her voice was hoarse.

‘Yes. I suppose you could call him handsome. He looked too hard featured for my tastes. Like one of those macho men, but without the muscles. Thinner, more dangerous.’

‘Yes. He would look like that. But he was younger when I knew him, so there was still a boyish softness to his features then.’

‘Knew him?’ Cassie was confused. What was Marnie talking about? Did she know the man Cassie had described? Was he an old friend?

‘When I was a little girl – it was 1940, the end of 1940 – he fought in the Battle of Britain as it’s now called, and his squad was sent here to recuperate. I thought he was the most handsome, heroic man I’d ever seen, and believe me, in those days there were plenty of heroic men wandering around the area. Leconfield was buzzing with airmen from all the allied countries. The Americans were particularly flashy
. But Hawk, well he was something special.’ Her eyes had become unfocused, her voice soft with nostalgia.

‘I don’t understand. You’re talking about a man who’d be older than you are now
, if he was still alive. That man in the garden was not much older than me – maybe late twenties. No older, I assure you.’

‘You don’t need to assure me, dear. I know exactly how old he looks. People have described him to me often
, over the years. But I haven’t seen him, not since I was eight.’

At that moment, Marnie’s face became stricken again, as if she’d just realised something awful. Her rummy eyes met Cassie’s for the longest moment
, and Cassie was sure it was fear and grief that she saw in the old lady’s gaze. What could she possibly be afraid of? Did the man mean her harm?

‘He’s a ghost, Cassie. And he’s only ever seen shortly before someone…’ She broke eye contact and sat down heavily on a cushioned kitchen chair.

‘A ghost? No, there was nothing ghostly about the man I saw in the garden. He was as solid and real as you or me.’

‘Was he? That’s odd. Mostly he’s described as an apparition. His details are clear
, but he’s not solid. People see through him.’

‘I definitely couldn’t see through this man, Marnie. Maybe someone is playing a practical joke. Could someone be trying to scare you? Has anyone been pestering you to sell again?’

‘No dear, not since that developer who bought the rest of the property gave up on me. And, no one else knows about Hawk. No one could play such a trick.’

‘Hawk? His name i
s Hawk? How fitting!’

‘Actually, his name was some alphabetical soup that no one could pronounce properly. Polish is a very difficult tongue. His nickname in the squadron was
“Hawk”.’

‘Polish? How could he be Polish and be in England in 1940? Poland was annexed by Germany in ‘39.’

‘Yes, and many of their pilots fled the country so they could go on fighting the Nazis. They were excellent pilots. Daredevils, I think you’d call them; took outrageous risks, but most of them paid off. They had higher kill-rates and fewer losses than most of our own squadrons ever had.’

‘I’ve never heard that before. How odd. But how did you meet a Polish pilot?’

‘He wandered into our farmyard one day. He was on day-leave and just started walking from the base – so Gran told me – and ended up here. Gramps asked him in.

‘
He loved this house right from the first moment he set foot in it; told me once that it “called to him”. Nowhere else had ever done that to him before. I suppose that’s why he haunts the place. It’s where he felt at home.’

Marnie had taken a seat at the table, part of an upmarket country kitchen dining setting she’d bought shortly before Fran’s death. Her face was still pale
, and a fine sheen of perspiration had sprung up on her forehead.

‘And you’ve never seen this… ghost?’ Cassie sat down across from her, glad to be off her feet. She was feeling decidedly lightheaded and woozy.

‘No, dear. Only people who are…’ Marnie stopped abruptly and seemed to be desperately searching for some way to finish her sentence. ‘Only certain people see him. Just leave it at that.’