A Finer End

He lifted her to her feet and held her, shivering, against his chest. “Of course you didn’t. We’ve got to get you inside, ring for the doctor—”

Faith tugged away. “You’ve got to find her, before it’s too late—”

“Find who, Faith?”

“Garnet. They’ve taken her away.”

“Who has?”

Making an obvious effort, she looked round, as if afraid someone might overhear. Then she rested her cheek against his chest and whispered, “The Old Ones. But it was me they wanted.”

CHAPTER TEN

 … to the great Spirit and Fountain of life, all things, in both space and time, must be present … action, once begun, never ceases … thus the past is always present, although, for the purpose of fitting us for this mortal life, our ordinary senses are so constituted as to be unperceptive of these phenomena.

—CATHERINE CROWE,

FROM THE NIGHT-SIDE OF NATURE

THE MILES FELL away under a leaden sky. Traffic had been fairly light on the M4 since they’d left Reading, allowing Gemma to relax enough to enjoy driving. Beside her, Kincaid dozed, head tilted back against the headrest. They had departed London before seven, hoping to avoid the worst of the morning rush hour.

He’d rung her the previous afternoon with the invitation to spend a long weekend in Glastonbury. Her first response had been an adamant no, she had too much pending at work. Kincaid had patiently reminded her that she had the authority to delegate, and that she hadn’t taken a full weekend off since she’d started the new job.

Bristling, she’d pled a meeting and hung up. But afterwards, sitting at her desk in the brief after-lunch lull, she wondered if Kincaid were right. When she’d first been promoted, he’d warned her that the biggest danger in command was thinking oneself indispensable—had she unsuspectingly fallen victim to that delusion? Her team was competent, and although they were working a number of ongoing cases—a string of petty burglaries in the Portobello Road; a serial rapist who posed as a Good Samaritan—there was nothing they couldn’t manage on their own for a few days.

And staring into the cold cup of coffee that had made up her lunch, she had to admit she was exhausted. She wasn’t eating right, nor sleeping well. Maybe a weekend away would give her a chance to recoup.

She’d rung Kincaid back and accepted. Before he could respond, she’d added, “I’ll drive. You’re daft if you think I’m riding all the way to Somerset in your rattletrap of a car.”

Now, as she glanced at his relaxed form beside her, she realized that perhaps there had been more than duty involved in her overwork the past few weeks—she’d been avoiding spending time with Duncan as well.

What a coward she was! To confirm what she suspected she had only to go in the nearest chemist and buy a test. But then she would have to deal with her choices—and with Kincaid’s reaction, should she decide to go through with the pregnancy.

Would he be pleased? Horrified? Although they had smoothed over the rift caused by her leaving Scotland Yard, she knew the hurt was still there, beneath the surface, and it had left their relationship on shaky ground. Not to mention the fact that he had just begun to adjust to the acquisition of a twelve-year-old son. How would he cope finding himself abruptly saddled with her, Toby, and another child on the way? Not that she couldn’t manage on her own, she’d proved that, but just now the thought of it seemed overwhelming.

Oh, Lord, how could she have been so careless, with so much at stake on the job? She was at a point in her career when a maternity leave was the last thing she needed. And how would her new superiors respond to a pregnant and unmarried detective inspector?

Blinking back tears, she concentrated on overtaking a lorry, then slid the Escort back into the center lane. She’d done too much of that lately: crying at the drop of a hat. A bad sign. Out-of-control hormones mixed with a healthy dose of self-pity. She snorted at the irony of the whole situation, and beside her Kincaid blinked and stretched.

“Sorry. Was I snoring?”

“Actually, you were sleeping quite gracefully. I could use a map check, though. I think our exit’s coming up soon.”

He retrieved the large-scale AA map book from the rear seat and glanced at the open page. “Exit seventeen, towards Chippenham, Bridgwater, and Taunton.”

“We passed sixteen a few miles back.” Rain spattered against the windscreen and Gemma turned the wipers on. “It’s getting darker by the minute.”

“Not a bad omen for the weekend, I hope,” Kincaid said, grinning. “Want me to drive the last leg?”

“I’m fine.”

“You just don’t want to give up possession.” Kincaid patted the car’s dash. “Now aren’t you glad I gave you an excuse to take it out on the motorway?”