Curse of the Nandi (Society for Paranormals Book 5) by Vered Ehsani Page A

you need a pair of wings,” Mr. Elkhart called after us.
    The main street of Nairobi along which we walked had the predictable name of Victoria Street; for obvious reasons, such a name could be found in every city of every colony of Great Britain. Our Victoria Street was at least as wide as four ox-drawn wooden wagons. The hard-packed mud was perfectly suitable during the dry season, but come the heavy rains, I was certain the place would become quickly impassable. At one end of the rigidly straight street was the new post office, its location having been shifted from a temporary office at the train station to a suitably impressive brick building. At the other end and hidden around a forested bend in the road was the train station itself.
    Lining either side of the road were small, wood framed buildings with sloped roofs made of iron sheeting. Produce, wares and people normally cluttered the shops’ entrances, but at this time of evening, the place had a deserted feel, as if it hadn’t been a bustling business center only a few hours earlier. All the windows were shuttered closed, the doors firmly barred against whatever may roam the place at night.
    As we drifted farther down, we passed the Colonial Stores, which was the only shop that maintained a sternly tidy entrance and would allow no wayward product or person to mar the orderliness thus imposed.
    We reached the bend in the road without incident, which was a clear indication to me that something was amiss. To not see, hear or smell any indication of the murderer was odd enough. More peculiar was the lack of scuffling sounds from nocturnal birds and beasts that normally rummaged around the refuse piles of the town. The suffocating silence that resulted from their absence left my nerves tingling.
    Without speaking on the matter, we both prepared in our own ways. Just as I released the blade from one end of my walking stick, I could feel Mr. Timmons flex his energy in preparation for whatever might await us around the bend and on the other side of the thick stand of trees.
    “Stay behind me,” Mr. Timmons murmured.
    “Simon, I’m quite capable of handling such situations,” I said with some impertinence.
    “Of that I have no doubt,” he said with a bit of a growl in his voice, “but at the least, humor your husband, if you don’t mind.”
    My attention shifted from the shadowy trees to Mr. Timmons. “As a matter of fact, I mind very much,” I said. “While you are my husband, I’m still a trained and experienced paranormal investigator.” My agitation caused my wolf energy to appear at my side, and it was all I could do to direct it into my metal hand rather than at the thick head of the man by my side.
    Mr. Timmons spun about to block me, his gray eyes darkening into storm clouds. “That’s all well and good, Beatrice, but I'm not about to allow you to rush into the unknown alone. It was bad enough to watch you endanger yourself before we were married. Now, it would be intolerable.”
    “Allow?” I repeated, my metal hand glowing brighter with my emotions.
    “Perhaps that was the wrong choice of words,” Mr. Timmons admitted. Before I could scold him further, he continued with a mildness I didn’t quite trust. “But it’s perfectly acceptable, even socially required, for a man to wish to defend his wife, and it would be most gratifying if she would allow him to do so on occasion.”
    Every fiber of my being tensed in protest, for had I not always prided myself on my willful independence and self-reliance? I began to argue the point when I observed within Simon’s stormy eyes a quiet desperation that forced me into a moment of uncomfortable inner contemplation, an activity in which I was not accustomed to engaging. The discomfort of my inner landscape was as great as my resistance to dependency on another.
    “Is it not enough that I thank you for assisting me?” I demanded, not willing to relent.
    “No,” he said with finality. “I want you to