“Who are you? Where’s Nikki?” The knife was by her foot, so she snatched it up. She had dropped the phone, but to her surprise he stood up and flicked a light switch in the bedroom, casting them both into a harsh artificial glow. “I … who are you?”
He stood unmoving, watching her. Now that there was more light, she could see that they weren’t identical after all, of course they weren’t. He had a wider jaw and thicker eyebrows, and there were scars, lots of them, crisscrossing their way up his forearms. His hair, too, was shorter. But other than that, the resemblance was uncanny—there was little doubt who he was, not really. For a strange, horrible few seconds, Heather found she wanted to laugh, or be sick; she wasn’t sure which.
“Why do you look like me?” He sounded petulant almost, a child angry because he was confused. His hand crept up to his head, touching the place where he had struck it on the door jamb.
“I’m your sister.” Heather paused and made a strangled noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I’m your bloody sister, aren’t I? Who’s your dad?”
He looked confused by the question. Instead, he took out a knife from his back pocket. It was slim and lethal, and not clean. As he held it up, Heather found herself noticing other details about him; his hands had spots of blood on them, and his shirt, which was a dark navy blue, had darker patches on it.
“Listen,” he said. “Listen.” He shook the knife at her. “I am the wolf. I am the barghest. There can’t be two of us. It’s my job.”
“What is? What is your job?”
He took a step forward, and Heather held her own knife up in front of her. If she got up and fled down the stairs, she’d have to turn her back on him, and she still didn’t know where Nikki was.
“To take them home.” The last word was filled with such longing, such raw emotion, that Heather found herself bewildered. Tears were running freely down his gaunt face. “They were born here, they belong to the woods, so I’m just bringing them back to their home. I can’t let you stop me from doing that, because it’s what I was made for.”
“What do you mean, they were born here?” With a shudder, Heather remembered Anna in the hospital, her hands hovering over her stomach. How she had shouted about the baby—the baby taken from her. “Fucking hell. The babies born on the commune, is that what you mean? They would be my age now, or older, and you’re …” The sea roared in the silence. “What’s your name?”
“My name?”
“Yes, your fucking name. You’re my brother, I should at least know your bloody name.”
“I am the wolf, I am—”
“Your name.”
Her flash of anger seemed to startle him.
“Lyle,” he said in a quiet voice. “My name is Lyle, Lyle Reave, and I am the barghest, the new Red Wolf. It’s what I was made for.”
“Listen to me, Lyle. My friend Nikki, who you took, she wasn’t born here. She wasn’t born in Fiddler’s Woods, okay? She hasn’t got anything to do with this, all right? Let me take her away from here. That’s all. And I’ll leave you be.”
“No.” He said it softly. “No, it’s a bit late for that.”
“What do you mean? Where is she, Lyle?”
“She’s in the Folly,” he said, coming forward again. “With the other one. That’s why she can’t go, because she’s seen her, and she’s seen me. And anyway, the old wolf is there now.” He seemed to brighten. “But maybe this is right. If you’re my sister, then you belong to the woods, too. I can take you there.”
“No!”
He came forward, the knife raised. Heather sprang at him, trying with everything she had to push him over, but he was too strong. Instead, he shoved her roughly toward the bannister, which struck her across the middle of her back, and then slashed at her with the knife. Heather threw herself out of the way just in time to avoid a blow that would have struck her in the chest, but he came straight after her. A thin line of agony moved down her left arm and she knew he’d got her.
“Stop it!” She swung her own knife around, but it seemed hopelessly inelegant in the face of his wicked little blade, and the flat of it bounced off his arm. “Do you think Michael Reave would want you to kill me? Your own sister?”
But his face was closed, masklike. There was nothing behind his eyes now but a terrible flatness that made her think of the red painting downstairs. His knife flashed again, this time slicing across her belly, and she screamed thinly, horrified by the immediate hot wetness soaking into her jumper. The stairs were directly behind her now, and she clasped onto the newel post for balance, her fingers slippery with her own blood.
“It’s good that you came,” he said. His cheeks were still wet from his tears. “This is how it should be. I am the wolf.”
“Oh fuck you,” Heather spat through her teeth. “You’re nothing but a murderer, a desperate sad waste of space. Every woman you’ve killed is worth ten of you!”
For the first time, a flicker of some alien emotion passed over his face, and Heather was reminded of the time she had seen Michael Reave lose his temper—the truth, she thought bitterly. He doesn’t want to hear it.
“There’s nothing grand or mysterious about you,” she said, and she laughed, genuinely amused. Her head felt very light. “Just a little man hurting women because it’s the only way you feel powerful. God, losers like you are ten a penny.”
His face twisted and he leapt at her again. This time, Heather embraced him, ignoring the bright white agony
