The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love (12 page)

He
threw a cheeky grin over his shoulder. “Nay, though garlic does make me flatulent. And gives me fearful breath. So, if I were to eat any, others might wish to run for the hills.”

“
Is there a way to end your existence?”

“Aye. There’s a way.”

He turned back to the fireplace, but didn’t go on. Deciding not to press him further, she pulled out
Varney the Vampire,
a book-length collection of stories written in the mid-1800s by James Malcolm Rymer. She ran a hand over the cover’s composite sepia image of a Victorian man in a top hat with bat wings. Varney, even more than Count Dracula, set the tone for the majority of literary vampires to follow.

“I’ll just go grab a quick shower while
you’re setting up,” he said, recalling her attention.

She nodded her agreement and he left the room. With a gear-shifting deep breath, she put Varney back on the shelf, crossed to the desk and got to work. By the time she heard footsteps—and clicking toenails?
—in the foyer, a solid hour had flown by. The dogs came in first, two adorable West Highland White Terriers, who charged straight for her and jumped at her legs. She smiled, warmed by the sight of them, and reached out a hand to pet the scamps. She’d always wanted a dog, but her mother was allergic.

He
came in then, barking at the dogs: “Get down, lads. You ken better than to jump on a guest.”

They retreated at once and chased each other around the desk. She looked up at their master, not expecting what her eyes beheld. Her mouth fell open.
Holy shit.
He wore the kilt he’d had on yesterday at the library. But to please or tease? Whatever the reason, he looked magnificent. Up top, he wore a muscle-revealing black T-shirt; down below, black knee-high hose and brogues laced around his ankles. Over the front, from a chain, hung a leather sporran stamped with Celtic knots. Three leather tassels dangled under the flap. Lower down, a striking silver brooch festooned with multi-colored agates was pinned to the edge of the kilt’s flap.

“Wow.”

He winked and grinned. “You like?”

She swallowed. What wasn’t to like? Which he knew, the scoundrel. So, what was he playing at?
As longing thrummed between her legs, she ripped her gaze away from the vision before her and forced it back to her laptop screen.

“I really appreciate your willingness to help me out.”

“And I appreciate your willingness to bring me home.”

The dogs were still chasing each o
ther about, snarling playfully.

“They’re adorable,” she said, watching them. “What are their names?”

“Wallace and Bruce,” he replied, and then added, “Benedict’s upstairs, but going out later. With your housemate. So, we’ll have the place to ourselves most of the evening.”

The mention of Avery tightened her stomach. The thought of spending the rest of the term sharing the cottage with a back-stabber didn’t thrill her, but what
choice did she have? There was no university housing available. Even if there might be, relaying Avery’s offense to someone in the real estate office would make her seem petty. Besides, he’d be leaving Wickenham in a couple more days, so problem solved, right?

Well, one problem, anyway.

They got to work on her dissertation. He made several insightful suggestions, pointed out several things she’d not thought of, and, in general made her glad she’d asked for his help. He knew the literature far better than she did, which was saying something. By the time they finished, the sun was going down.

L
eaving her to pack up her things, he crossed the room to a globe-shaped bar, poured them both whiskies and took them to the fireplace, where his Westies now slept on the hearth. She joined him there a few minutes later, claiming the wingback across. As they sipped their drinks in silence, she watched the fire and the dogs. It felt good to make real progress on her dissertation, thanks mostly to him, but she still felt uneasy about what lay ahead.

“What do
you say we go for a walk?”

At the sound of the word “walk” the dogs sprang to their
feet and started bouncing about, so she could hardly refuse. Not that she wished to. A walk sounded nice. She’d like to see the manor’s grounds and could use the fresh air and exercise after a long, sedentary afternoon.

“A walk sounds great.”

* * *

It was twilight now and the evening stars were
just coming out. He searched the sky for
Capricornus
, the constellation under which he’d been born—a goat-headed incubus, ironically enough. Once upon a time, he’d thought the gloaming a magical time of day, but now it only heralded nightfall the way a tolling bell heralded death. The nights were his undoing. At night, he felt the endlessness of his existence pressing down like
peine forte et dure
, the stones once used to crush witches.

Speaking of witches
, he enjoyed her company, took comfort in knowing he had one more night under her spell. At some level, he recognized the spell for what it was—a way to fulfill his heart’s desire without having to take responsibility. Deep down, he wanted this, wanted to be with her again—more than anything else in existence. Maybe, just maybe, things would be different this time. Besides, what harm could come from allowing the wee flame of hope to burn for one more night? After she released him, he could just blow it out and climb back up on his tightrope.

“I want to go in,” Cat said, bringing him back to the knoll.

Just below them was the estate’s private chapel, a wee gem featuring an ivy-covered limestone facade, diamond-leaded windows, an arched stone doorway, and a simple bell tower. He’d passed it many times while out walking the dogs, but had never gone in, mainly because he wasn’t sure he could without God throwing down a thunderbolt.

She turned to him, brow furrowed. “Have
you not been inside a church since you were turned?”

“No.”

“Because you’re afraid of what might happen?”

He nodded. “Among other reasons.”

As she started down the hill, he sucked in a breath and followed, overtaking her in no time. Passing by the old churchyard, he made the sign of the cross out of habit, only dimly aware he’d done it. A few feet from the arched front door, he stopped and waited for her.

“Well
...?” she asked, pulling up beside him.

“Well, what?” His mouth felt like cotton.

“Are you going to risk God’s wrath?”

Taking a
breathless step toward the chiseled stoop, he crossed himself again.

“
You’re still Catholic?” She sounded surprised.

Though he and God had not been on speaking terms for some time, he still believed, more or less, in the One True God of his faith: the perfect, infinite, omnipotent, and incomprehensible Creator and Lord of heaven and earth. It was God, it seemed,
who’d stopped believing in him.

“I’ve got news for
you, lass. Once a Papist, always a bloody Papist. It’s as if they lay claim to your soul at the baptismal fount and don’t give it back till they administer last rites—if they see fit to give it back at all.”

She rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it. It’s like they brainwash
you into believing it’s the one true faith and everything else is blasphemy. Or devil worship. Intellectually, of course, I don’t believe that, don’t believe in a higher power who’s judgmental and punishing. But I still can’t seem to shake the stupid guilt.”

After giving her
a long, apprising look, he asked, “What kind of higher power do you believe in, then?”

“One
who’s loving, forgiving, and helpful.”

He swallowed the scoff
tickling his throat. Loving, forgiving, and helpful? Who was she kidding? The God he knew was the opposite of those things.

“Well, I wish I could believe such nonsense about the vengeful auld prick.”

She put a hand on his arm. “Do you truly believe you have no soul?”

“Aye. I do.”

“But...you do believe we’re soul mates, don’t you?”

Did he?
In truth, he’d never given it any thought. While he believed in destiny, he also believed each human being entered this world with a soul—a spiritual suit of clothing, more or less, that was his or hers to keep clean. God didn’t split up the suit, giving the coat to one person and the trousers to another.

With a shake of his head, he said,
“To be frank, I don’t know what to believe.”

A shadow passed behind her eyes. “The higher power isn’t some old man up on a cloud somewhere looking down on creation; it’s love. Pure, unadulterated love. Not the vampiric kind most people feel.”

He gave her a hard look, but didn’t say anything. She was one to talk about vampiric love. Had she not put him under a holding spell? A forgotten childhood memory flickered. His Granda sitting beside him before a blazing fire reading him the story of Job.

“The lesson,” the old man explained, “
was that we can never hope to understand the causes of our suffering, can never see the whole picture, can never ken what God kens. The key to inner peace is to have faith no matter what, to implicitly trust the Lord knows best. When seen in the proper light, trials can teach us things; healing things; things that bring us closer to God; things we might never learn by walking an easier road.”

Blinking the memory away,
he refocused on her. “Do you believe the higher power sends us suffering as a lesson?”

“Yes
, but not in the sense of a punishing lesson. I think the universe sends us lessons to show us where we’re blocked, to help us open our hearts, to help us grow spiritually.”

Praying she was right, he stepped across the threshold, half expecting the stones to shake. Nothing happened. The chapel’s interior was cold and dark, but he could easily make out its sandstone walls, leaded windows, and beamed ceiling. Wooden pews faced an altar at the far end of the nave. Above it, rendered in stained glass, stood the Archangel Michael atop a vanquished Satan.

“See,” she whispered, clasping his bicep, “not a thunderbolt anywhere in sight.”

Setting his
hand atop hers, he walked up the aisle toward the altar, but lost his nerve and cut toward the pews, pulling out of her grasp. Out of old habit, he genuflected and crossed himself before settling onto the rigid but well-worn board.

“When was the last time
you were in a church?” she asked, joining him.

He suddenly
felt hollow. “My own funeral.”

Bending, he released the kneeler, which landed with a resounding thud.
After kneeling down, he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and said a silent prayer.

Please God,
whoever or whatever you may be, let me keep her this time.

* * *

Whilst he knelt beside her, head bowed in prayer, she found herself thinking about the circuitous spiritual path she’d followed to where she was now. She’d been born a twin, but her sister had been stillborn, and, for a long time, she thought that might explain why she felt so incomplete and alien, a feeling only exacerbated by her father’s neglect and her mother’s unpredictable mood swings.

As a girl, she’d never doubted the existence of a higher power, but could still vividly recall the incident that convinced her of it. One morning, when she was about nine, she went downstairs for breakfast without her slippers—a capital offense in the Fingal household. So, under threat of a beating, she raced back upstairs.
She located one slipper right away, but couldn't find the other one anywhere. She searched everywhere: The closet, under her bed, the bathroom. But it was as if the slipper had vanished into thin air. Her fear of being whipped—her mother rarely made idle threats—mounted as time elapsed. In desperation, she started to pray:
Please God, if you just let me find that stupid slipper, I promise to be good.
When she opened her eyes, the missing slipper was right in front of her. Right in the middle of the floor—where it was not a moment before.

There had been other incidents too. Objects sometimes moved in her presence,
particularly when she was upset or angry. Candles mysteriously flamed or blew out. Lights turned on and off. The stove sometimes lit when she walked past. She saw spirits and heard voices. She didn’t understand these phenomena and spoke of them to no one—especially her parents, who dismissed everything they didn’t understand as the work of the devil. The Christmas she asked for a Ouija board, her mother damn near had a stroke. Needless to say, she didn’t get it, which, on reflection, was just as well. The kinds of spirits that communicate through Ouija boards were akin to the people who hung around bus stations.

Despite these experiences, the feeling of emptiness persisted, as did the quest for something to fill it. In secondary school, she fell in with a group of re-born Christians—“Jesus Freaks,” as the other kids called them. She went to weekly Bible studies, used
maranatha
and
ichthus
in casual conversation, listened to Christian rock bands like Skillet and Red, and kept a picture of Jesus taped to the inside of her locker door. On weekends, a group of them would hang out at Walton on the Naze, a seaside town where time seemed to stand still, handing out religious tracts to passersby.