Love Everlastin' Book 3 (31 page)

"Were
seventeen. I be all that's left, so yer dark soul can
rest."

"Deliah—"

"No. Speak no' a lie and
I'll respect ye in yer prejudice." She swallowed and its sound
echoed in his ears. "I mistakenly believed I was where I should be.
Here. Wi' ye. Offerin’ to ye wha' I could never offer to no ither.
But I canna bring light into a soul as dark as yers. I canna fill
the emptiness in ye, because ye desire tha' emptiness mair'n ye
desire aught in life. Ye embrace it too fiercely, ma dour Scotsmon.
I love ye no less, but I canna bear mair scars on ma
heart."

She held up her right hand,
palm raised level to his chin. Winston stared at the slender,
graceful fingers and fought back an urge to encompass them within
his own. He knew she didn't expect him to touch her. Why the hand
was extended, though, he couldn't fathom.

"Ye believe I have cast a
spell on ye."

He looked into the palm and
for a split second saw a starburst of blue light flare up and
vanish. Dizziness washed through him momentarily.

"I've no spells over ye. I
have naught but love, but love is no' enough to win ye. I canna
leave Baird land. to do so would deny me wha' little connection I
have left wi' ma past. And wi’ou' ma past, ma memories o' ma family
and ma clan, I am naught but a dead twig waitin’ for the earth to
reclaim me."

She slowly lowered the hand,
her bleak expression making her eyes seem too large for her
face.

"I told ye I was fond o'
poetry. There were times I compelled Lachlan to sit in his library
and read aloud. O' all I have heard, one in particular comes to
mind. Tis called A Promise. I know no' its author, but tis why I
was gladdened when I thought I saw a fairy ring by the old oak this
eve.

"He who tills the fairies'
green

Nae luck again shall
have.

An' he who spills the
fairies' ring

Betide him want and
wae.

But who goes by the fairy
ring

Nae dule nor pine shall
see;

An' he who cleans the fairy
ring

An easy daith shall
dee.

"I sought answers in the
believin’ o' a fairy ring, but found none. Ye are like tha', too,
Winston. But I canna believe in wha' canna be. I can only live and
hope tha' ma remainin’ years be no' too long, and tha' ma daith be
easy and ma return to the earth, fruitful.

"So in sayin’ this, I
promise ye I will no' approach ye. I will no' seek ye to ease ma
loneliness. And I will no' seek ye to pleasure. Ye want freedom
from the world? Ye have it, Winston. Wi' ma blessin’, go on till
yer end, denyin’ wha' could have been—should have been—atween us.
Find ye yer peace in solitude if ye can. Find ye love in wee,
fleeting draughts. I be done wi' ye, Winston. As done as be the
hope I once held in ma heart for ye."

Here she was giving him the
out he'd wanted from their relationship, but for some inexplicable
reason, it frightened him. He suddenly felt as if he'd lost the
most precious thing in his life. And had lost a vital part of
himself. A little voice in his mind told him to reverse what had
just transpired. There was still time to undo the wrongs. Still
time to open himself up to the promise of a future filled with love
and joy. But that voice wasn't strong enough or persistent enough
to win over his instinctual fears, which mostly germinated from his
belief that he didn't deserve love. That he didn't deserve
her.

No matter that she wasn't
human. No matter how great the mysteries or how great the
speculations of her origin. He loved her. The rightness of being
with her should overpower everything else. But it didn't. After
such a long, convoluted journey through life, he had but one small
bridge left to cross, and he couldn't bring himself to take even
one step in its direction.

Unable to say anything, he
lifted the hatch and descended into darkness, closing the doorway
behind him.

His intention had been to
return to his room and meditate until he was able to sleep.
Instead, he found himself descending to the first floor landing
with a hankering for a cup of coffee. He was about to turn right
when an impression triggered his awareness. Mouth grimly set and
his eyebrows drawn down in a scowl, he hastened to the library,
where he found Lachlan sprawled out on the sofa. An empty bottle of
Scotch was on its side on the floor, a short distance from
Lachlan's limp hand. Winston picked up the bottle, shook his head
while eyeing it then placed it on one of the end tables. The fire
in the hearth was burning low. After re-stoking it, he covered
Lachlan with the knitted afghan draped on the back of the sofa,
then headed out of the room.

Again an impression changed
his direction. A vivid psychic print of Alby slipping out the front
doors and into the night.

* * *

Alby tried to close his
mouth to stop the cold air from burning his lungs, but he was
desperate to scream, and couldn't. His little chubby legs worked
against the snow to bring him around the side of the house, this
journey taking far longer than when he had gone to the rear of the
property.

He'd been afraid to go
outside alone after spying the boogeyman from his bedroom window,
but more afraid of his brothers' teasing if he hadn't checked to
see if their traps had worked yet. Being the youngest wasn't easy.
He didn't like being afraid all the time. Didn't like Kevin calling
him a chicken, or Kahl always telling him he was such a baby. But
if the boogeyman had been trapped, and Alby had found him, then his
brothers would have to be proud of him. They would have to quit
picking on him!

Alby stumbled and fell face
first into a soft pile of snow. The coldness stung his skin, and he
was so desperate to cry, he nearly couldn't get back onto his feet.
Only a growl of a voice from behind him gave him the stamina to
flee.

"You little
bastard!"

His arms stiffly swinging at
his sides, Alby ran. Ran in hobbled steps, his fear-filled eyes
enormous and focused on nothingness. Terror gripped him, its hold
squeezing his heart and cutting off his breath. He resembled a lost
penguin scrambling for freedom.

Beyond his snow-crusted
blinking eyelashes, he saw someone emerge from the front of the
house. The distance seemed very great to him, and for a moment, he
faltered in his run, believing the boogeyman had somehow beaten him
to the front doors.

"Al—by!"

The shout took a moment to
register in his brain. Winston. Winston was calling him. Calling
him from the stoop.

The boogeyman was in big
trouble now.

Although it felt to Alby
that he was running like the wind, in reality, he was sluggishly
making his way through the deep snow.

"Alby?" Then Winston was
running toward him and sobs were hiccupping from Alby's raw throat.
"Alby!"

A cry wrenched from him when
he was unexpectedly jerked into the air, the front of his zipped
jacket painfully tight against his throat. He was shaken in midair
and his ears filled with the liquid-sounding rage of what he knew
now was the boogeyman. The boogeyman had him by the back of the
coat. Shaking him furiously. Cursing him in sounds that were more
animal than people.

"You're dead, you bloody
little brat!"

Alby didn't doubt the
boogeyman's words. He couldn't move. He couldn't scream. He
couldn't breathe.

As the night grew ever
darker, he wondered if Lachlan and Beth had been this scared when
they had died.

C
hapter 12

Winston couldn't believe his
eyes when he first spied Alby some fifty yards away. He'd nearly
missed the snow-clad boy against the white backdrop. For a moment,
Winston thought to let Alby make his way back to the house, then
realized he was struggling to walk. Winston cast off in a semblance
of a run, but stopped when he saw a large, dark shape emerge from
seemingly out of nowhere and lift Alby off his feet.

Outrage finally doused
Winston's shock and he lit into another run. The packed snow was
like ice beneath his hard-soled shoes, and maintaining his balance
was precarious at best. He didn't consider who the adult might be
who was roughly handling the boy, only knew that whoever it was,
was going to learn a harsh lesson at the end of Winston's fist when
he caught up with him. Granted, he was ticked off with the boy for
venturing outside alone in the night, but he would never think
about laying a hand on him, let alone shaking him like a rabid dog
with a kitten locked in its jaws.

Thirty feet of reaching the
man, a glint of steel flashed through the air. Winston came to a
skidding stop, his hands held out at his sides, his face frozen in
a mask of stark terror. At first he could only focus on the long
serrated blade jutting past a black handle gripped in a black
gloved hand. The deadly point was leveled at Winston, while the
man's other hand held Alby out to one side as if the boy were
feather light. Then Winston's gaze zoomed in on pale eyes, the
malevolence in them accentuated by the black knit mask hiding the
rest of his face. Reality slammed home in Winston's faltering
mind.

The Phantom. Alive. Alive
and threatening Alby's life.

Now Winston could see the
boy straining to look at him, and the terrified expression on the
boy's face nearly lost Winston what little control he had
left.

"Leave him be," Winston
demanded of the Phantom, cautiously closing some of the distance.
"Put him down, or so help me, I'll kill you wi' ma bare
hands!"

A smile of such evil gleamed
in the Phantom's eyes, Winston thought for sure he had further
endangered Alby's life. But then Alby was released. He fell to the
ground in a small heap, where he remained motionless. Winston's
gaze pinged from the boy to the Phantom as he repeatedly clenched
his hands at his sides.

"I've thought abou' our
first meeting," said the Phantom, his words surprisingly clear
despite the knitted wool across his mouth. "The great Detective
Connery." He laughed. "The soon to be late great, wouldn't you
say?"

The Cockney accent was as
chilling to Winston as the night air. "It seems your death was
grossly exaggerated."

The Phantom shrugged. "You
make it so easy," he chuckled. "Tell me, you arrogant pup, do you
bleed as bloody red as normal people?"

Winston nibbled on the
inside of his lower lip and brazened two more steps in the other
man's direction. "Redder than you."

"Tha' sounds like a
challenge."

"Aye. Mon to mon. You and
me. Step away from the boy. There's no need to risk hurting
him."

The Phantom glanced down at
Alby, who was groggily sitting up, then narrowed his eyes on
Winston. "I guess it would really tear you up to see the little
bastard bleed to death before dying yourself, wouldn't
it?"

Rage heated Winston's blood.
"No' even you are
tha'
sick."

"Oh, I am. I am," he said
gleefully.

A wail ejected from the
Phantom's throat when Alby's teeth sank into the calf of his leg.
Instinctively, he kicked out, sending the boy tumbling away then
readied his six-inch blade to receive the man charging at
him.

* * *

Not since her escape from
the root in the cellar had Deliah felt so cold. Even if she were
standing on the tower in the midst of a summer's heat, she would
feel as if her blood had turned to rivers of ice. She had spoken of
Winston's emptiness, when her own was far worse to fill. She'd once
known the love and security of family and clan. Nevermore. Without
Winston, her dreams were as adrift as a dried leaf in the
wind.

Suddenly she felt more tired
than she believed possible. Her chest was heavy with sorrow, her
heart a hollow ache.

"I so love ye," she said
tearfully into the night.

She started to push away
from the wall when she heard Winston's voice call out for Alby. A
weary smile touched her lips. The boys were always into or doing
something they shouldn't. She had checked in on them before going
to the oak. Kevin and Kahl were fast asleep, but Alby was wide-eyed
lying atop his bed and, when she asked if he needed company, he
refused and said he wanted to think.

Think.

What could a three-year-old
have to think about that would prompt such a frown on his
brow?

A stranger's outcry dashed
her reverie and she scanned the front yard to find its cause. The
rooflines blocked most of her view, but then she saw two adults
struggling on the ground, and a much smaller figure crawling away
from them.

Winston?

Another cry was heard, but
this one was unmistakably Winston's, and the anguish it carried in
the night, alarmed her.

With a swiftness born of
instinct, she untied the robe, let it fall to the floor and pulled
down the elastic edging on the back of her nightgown, nearly to her
waist. She was first conscious of the buds forming on her back,
then of intense, almost searing tingling as the buds opened and her
wings unfurled. When they were full and she had flexed them to test
their flight-worthiness, she leaped atop the crenellations and cast
off.