in thearena as well, perhaps right where she was standing. The thought made her shiver, or maybe it was the strangeness of having seen the mastiff on every day of her trip, at every stop. While the dog never came close, he never failed to make an appearance. At first, she’d thought there were an awful lot of the monstrous dogs in this small country. That is, until she’d spotted the distinctive metal collar around his muscled neck. It was wide and ornate, almost like a broad silver torque. Perhaps it was a replica of some ancient design. Maybe the animal was part of the tour, a living prop?
She grabbed the flowery sleeve of her traveling buddy, a tall white-haired woman named Gwen, whom she’d met at the beginning of the tour. “He’s here again.”
The older woman looked over her glasses with bright eyes, spotting the animal at once, even as she clutched her travel bag to her chest. “How fascinating! I wonder what kind of energy such a creature would have. Probably negative, don’t you think?”
“Energy?”
“I’m sure it’s a
grim
, you know, just like the ones in my books. A
barghest
. What the Welsh call a
gwyllgi
, though goodness knows I’m not pronouncing it right. A messenger from the faery realm.”
“A messenger of what?”
“Why, whoever sees a grim is usually dead in a month and almost always by violent means.”
“Great. So, it’s the canine version of the Grim Reaper?”
“Not quite. A grim only heralds death, it doesn’t collect souls. At least that’s how the old stories go, but I’ve never read of a grim being out in broad daylight, have you? Are its eyes glowing red?” Gwen frowned as she strained to see.
Morgan hid a smile. As a child, her
nainie
—the Welsh word for grandma—had told her stories about the grim, but she hadn’tthought of it in connection with the flesh and blood animal that sat not thirty yards away. Gwen loved all things supernatural, however, and
of course
she would think of the dog in paranormal terms first.
To each his own.
Morgan chose to humor her friend, dutifully shading her pale-blue eyes and squinting. The dog’s baleful eyes seemed amber, almost golden. “Nope, not even bloodshot,” she reported.
“Well, it’s probably just an ordinary dog then, but I suppose we shouldn’t take chances. I don’t want it heralding my demise or yours.” Gwen laughed, a pretty sound that reminded Morgan of delicate glass wind chimes, and turned to follow the group that was now shuffling its way to the bus. Morgan looked back at the dog. She’d always had a deep affinity for animals, a connection to them, and although the mastiff was intimidating, she sensed a great sadness radiating from him.
She’d taken only a few steps toward the animal when the bus driver sounded the high-pitched horn, signaling it was time to leave.
Crap.
“Do you need help? Are you lost?” she called out to the dog. She’d often been teased for talking to animals as if they were people, but she felt strongly that animals understood intent if not words—although many understood words better than their owners gave them credit for. “If you could just tell me what you want, I’d love to help you.” The dog blinked suddenly, rapidly, but otherwise didn’t move. His expression remained mournful, his tail unmoving. To Morgan’s practiced eye, the animal didn’t appear neglected. His black coat was as glossy as a raven’s wing, and although he was lean, she could see no ribs in the broad, muscled body, no evidence of hunger. What did the dog want? Why was he following the tour bus? And why had the other tourists failed to take notice of the unusual canine? They should have been talking about it, quizzing the staff, and taking photographs. Instead, no one seemed to pay the dog any mind except Morgan and Gwen.
The horn sounded a second time, and reluctantly she obeyed. After she took her seat beside Gwen, she looked out the window, but the dog was nowhere to be seen. There were