The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love (29 page)

The palpitating concern grew into throbbing panic.
She considered the window, but soon dismissed the notion. It was far too high. She took another look around. There must be an outlet somewhere, mustn’t there? How else could someone have stowed all these weapons up here? Still seeing no way out, she began to feel along the paneled lower portion of the wall. Was there another secret passage concealed somewhere in the wainscoting?

Tears
of fear and frustration welled in her eyes as she fingered her way around the room’s perimeter. Swallowing them back, she commanded herself to keep calm as she circled the room. Finding nothing, she went around again and then again. After the fourth go-round, the tears of frustration refused to be stemmed. After the fifth, she was sobbing like a lost child. Giving up for now, she plopped down in the middle of the dusty floor and surrendered to her despair. Tears poured from her eyes as she began to imagine how awful it must be to die slowly of thirst and starvation.

* * *

Graham rematerialized in the priest hole and glanced around. Damn, she wasn’t there. He finger raked his hair. Where else might she have gone? Fighting his mounting panic, he closed his eyes, concentrating all his energy on feeling her through his blood. Gradually, the signal came to him and grew stronger. She was still in the castle and still alive, thank God. But where? He sunk into the connection, attempting to use it like a tracking device. She was somewhere above him. Second floor? Tower? Attics? He couldn’t be sure. Sucking in a breath, he willed himself to the upstairs corridor, praying he found her before his dark brethren did.

* * *

Shivering under a sudden chill, she sniffed back her tears and rubbed her arms. It felt like the temperature in the room had just dropped twenty degrees. Then, she felt another presence in the room. A ghostly presence.

“King Robert never gave up
, nor should you.”

The voice had a Scottish burr.
Her eyes flitted around, but found no one.

“Who said that?”

“I did,” the voice replied.

“Show yourself
, spirit.”

The air grew even colder as one corner began to shimmer. She watched, heart in throat, as the diffusion began to gather into the shadow of a man.
Fright clawed at her insides. What the hell was happening? She’d encountered spirits in the past, but only fleetingly. And none had ever spoken to her.

Little by little, t
he shadow solidified into the specter of an elderly gentleman. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had a barrel chest and slender legs. His face was handsome beneath the jowls and wrinkles, his brows thick and wiry, and his gray hair tied back with a tartan ribbon. Her astonished eyes took in his clothing, the Highland costume of a bygone era. Tartan jacket, red wool waistcoat, checkered stockings, and an old-style kilt. The tail of it was pinned like a sash to the left shoulder of his coat with a circular silver broach. A wide leather strap with a large brass buckle cut across his broad chest. From it, hung an arsenal of period weapons. Still more protruded from the ribbon-bound cuffs of his hose. They clacked together as he bent into a cordial bow.

“L
achlan Logan, fourth earl of Druimdeurfait, at your service.”

She
gaped at him, speech escaping her. Who was he? Not Graham’s father, surely. His parents had drowned at sea off the tip of Africa and, as far as she knew, spirits only haunted the places where they’d died.

“
Are you Graham’s grandfather?”

His green eyes twinkled. “I gather
from your question my grandson’s made mention of me?”

“
He has.” She blinked, still doubting her eyes. “Many times. He loved you very much.”

The ghost grinned.
“I’m that glad to hear it.”

She
answered his grin with a wavering smile. There was so much she wanted to ask, about him and Graham and the afterlife, but those questions would have to wait. Right now, she needed to concentrate on a more pressing mystery.

“Can
you help me get out of here?”

“Aye, if
you wish it. But it might be wiser for you to stay put and wait for him to find you.”

Her heart flared in protest. She couldn’t bear the thought of just sitting her
e like some helpless damsel waiting to be rescued. She needed to find Graham so she could help him take down Fitzgerald. Scowling at the apparition, she asked, “Where is he right now? Do you know?”

“Aye.
He’s on the second floor.”

“And the
others? Are they nearby?”

He shook his
head. “The earl of Kildare is in the dungeon, doing unholy things to some poor lad from the village. And the other one is on the ground floor.”

“Will
you come with me? I could use a look-out.”

“Aye. If
you wish it. But you’d best arm yourself first, lass.”

With a sigh, she cast a wary glance toward the stash of weapons.
She lacked the strength to wield a claymore and knew nothing about swordplay. A dagger, however, she might manage. Bending, she picked one up at random and ran an apprising eye over its form. It’s hilt appeared to be carved from a bone. Unsheathing the spear-like blade, she took a minute to examine it, noting some pitting and a bit of leeching rust. Did steel rust? She didn’t think so, but maybe it was just
stainless
steel that didn’t.

Feeling like an ignoramus, she turned to the ghost
and held out the knife. “How can I tell if it’s iron?”

’Tis,” he assured her after a quick once-over. “Now are you certain you shouldn’t wait for my grandson to find you? I could tell you a wee story to help pass the time.”

She
offered him a tight smile. “As much as I’d love to hear one of your stories, I can’t just sit around here playing Pauline.”

A ruddy eyebrow shot up. “Pauline?”

She started to explain and then shook her head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

He nodded toward her hand.
“I see you’re wearing the ring I gave my wife back before we were married. Did he tell you it’s called a witch’s heart?”

Shaking her head, she looked at the ring
before meeting his phantasmal green gaze. “Why’s it called a witch’s heart?”

A smile reminiscent of Graham’s spread across his face.
“Because, in my day, a man gave it to a woman to let her know she’d bewitched him.”

Melancholy washed over her as she realized he’d been separated from his wife the same way she and Graham had been separated. “Did you love her very much?”

“Aye, and still do.”

“Where is she now? Do you know?”

Eyes twinkling, he gave her a small nod. “She comes back in search of me, the way you come looking for our Graham. And it wouldn’t do for you to go getting yourself killed so the poor lad has to wait another hundred years to find love again.”

As loathe as she was to admit it, he had a point. If
Fitzgerald killed her and succeeded in stealing Graham’s soul, she’d lose him forever. “Fine, then. One story. But if he hasn’t found me by the time it’s over, I’m going out there to find him, come hell or high water.”

Chapter
25: The Dark Curse
 

Footsteps. Echoing in the corridor. Someone was coming. But from which direction? The
alcove’s acoustics made it impossible to tell. Was it Aiden, Fitzgerald, or his darling lass? He couldn’t tell. He only knew the footfalls were drawing nearer. Pressing his back against the wall, he did his best to make himself invisible. The frequent jumping back and forth had taxed his ability to etherically transport, stranding him for the time being.

The footsteps ceased, filling the corridor with silence. Holding his breath, back still pressed to the wall, he crept to the edge and peered out. It was Aiden, dammit, stopping to have a look around. Graham ducked back behind the wall
. What to do? Attack or retreat? 

Aiden
started walking again. Toward the alcove. Seeing no other way, Graham drew his dirk and waited for the right moment, counting on the element of surprise to give him the advantage. When the footfalls reached the edge of the nook, Graham lunged, thrusting the weapon with all his might.

The blade found only air. Aiden, startled by the ambush, reeled backward, struggling to keep his balance. Thrown off balance himself,
Graham crashed heavily into the wall, scraping his left side and banging his head. Aiden, balance recovered, gaped at him, dumbstruck. Graham tightened his grip on the antler hilt. Then, in a sharp upward thrust, he plunged the blade into the Irishman’s chest. It struck meaty bone. Aiden made a wheezing sound and staggered backward, mouth agape, eyes bulging. Dark blood gushed from the wound.

Graham didn’t stick around to see what happened next.
Instead, he charged down the corridor at breakneck speed, heading for the tower and praying to God he would find Cat there waiting for him, safe and sound.

* * *

Bloody fucking hell
.

She
wasn’t in the tower and he couldn’t afford to waste any more time looking. But before he could confront Fitzgerald, he’d need to procure a hawthorn stake. Dashing out to the walled garden, he snapped a suitable branch off the tree and took it back into to the kitchen, keeping a watchful eye out all the while.

Seizing
a sharp paring knife, he began to whittle one end to a point. The task took more time and elbow grease than he’d anticipated. When dry, hawthorn, being a soft, straight-grained wood, was ideal for carving; when green, it was incredibly hard and unyielding.

J
ob finished at last, he concealed the stake in the waistband of his kilt and stole back down the dungeon stairs. He crept through the dim maze of cells, ducking behind posts and peering around corners, but saw no sign of Fitzgerald.

He made his way to the cell where he’d earlier encountered Aiden. The door was open and
, judging by the flickering shadows, the fire was still going strong. Back hard against the rough wall, he stole a peek around the doorway. The drugged lad he’d fed from was on the cot—either dead or asleep. He couldn’t tell which from this distance. Not that he could do much either way.

He glanced up and down the dark corridor. It was empty and as silent as a tomb, and yet
Fitzgerald’s propinquity buzzed in his veins. So where the bloody hell was he? Steeling himself, he stepped into the cell.

“Looking for me?”

His heart turned to ice at the sound of Fitzgerald’s brogue right behind him. Reflexively, he started to turn, but, regaining his wits, stopped himself in time. He must think fast. The stake, which the wizard couldn’t have seen, was still in his belt, giving him a momentary advantage.

C
lasping it, he spun round, drawing and jabbing in one liquid motion. The point connected with something fleshy. Fitzgerald, eyes widening in surprise, emitted a strained gurgle. He thrust again, sinking the point deeper. The wizard gasped and reeled backward, arms flailing. A fist caught Graham under the chin, knocking him off balance. As he stumbled, his head hit the doorjamb. Stars flashed behind his eyes. Going down, he groped blindly, desperately for something to hold onto.

Fitzgerald
staggered backward across the corridor. Recovering himself, Graham went after him. The wizard’s back met the wall. With a grunt, he began to slide toward the floor. Moving over him, Graham met his hooded gaze.

“I loved
you, you know.”

Fitzgerald’s hoarse admission made his
stomach clench. “You stole everything from me, you evil bastard. Love, family, faith, home, honor, self-respect. And you’d have stolen my immortal soul too, given half a chance. And this you call love?”

A
s a glorious hatred welled up in his chest, he fastened both hands on the protruding stake and thrust with all his might. Fitzgerald gasped, a wet wheezing sound. The light in his yellow eyes flickered and went out. Graham, feeling as if an anvil had lifted off his chest, dropped into a crouch and pressed his fingers against the wizard’s throat. There was no pulse. He shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. He’d been fooled into believing Fitzgerald dead once before. If he wished to break the curse, he could waste no time.

Extracting
the stake from the wound released a torrent of blood. Not bothering with the buttons, he tore open the soggy shirt. Using the dirk concealed in his boot, he made a deep incision, set the blade aside, and he reached into the wound. The ribs snapped like twigs as his hands forced them apart. Finding the heart, he plunged his fingers underneath and scooped it out, bringing with it clinging strands of tissue.

Swatting them away like spider webs, he freed the heart and carried it across to
the cell. Once inside, he cast around in the dim, dancing firelight for a receptacle to capture the ash. There was nothing save the wee shovel among the hearth tools. Taking it from the stand, he set the organ on it and pushed it into the flames. The heart began at once to smolder and smoke, filling his nostrils with a smell that was equal parts appetizing and revolting. Leaving it to cremate, he went to the cot to check on the lad. He was still alive, though heavily drugged.

Turning
back to the fire, he stared blankly into the dancing flames as the heart burned. When there was nothing left but smoldering ash, he carried the little spade upstairs to the kitchen, brewed a cup of tea, and added the cinders. Would it work?  Did he dare allow himself to hope?

He drank the tea
. It tasted bitter and granular, but he forced it down. He set the cup on the counter and waited, his thoughts returning to Cat. Was she in the attic? She had to be. He’d already looked everywhere else. He tried to tune her in, to assure himself she was still nearby, still all right, but couldn’t seem to find her. Fear rising, he closed his eyes and willed himself into the ethers. Nothing happened. Fear rocketed to terror. Forgetting the curse, he raced toward the staircase.

* * *

The ghost of Lachlan Logan had told Cat the story of William Wallace and Marion Braidfute, who’d sacrificed her own life to save her lover’s when the sheriff came looking for him. The story only made her feel more awful about doing nothing to help Graham. To make things worse, she couldn’t feel him anymore. Had their connection broken when he gave up his soul? The mere thought plunged a red-hot spike into her heart.

“Thank
you very much for the story,” she offered as graciously as she could, “but I can’t wait any longer. So, please tell me how to get out.”

A grinding sound
shot her attention across the room, where a section of wall was swinging open unaided. Behind it lay darkness. She turned back to the ghost, to offer her thanks, but, reminding her once again of his grandson, he wasn’t there.

Desperate
to locate Graham, but also terrified of what she might find, she stepped into the darkness, emerging into a maze of small, dusty rooms filled with antique bric-a-brac. At the end was a narrow stairway leading down from the attic. Dirk at the ready, she crept down the steps and through what she presumed was the second-floor corridor. All the while, her heart pounded like a fist against her ribcage. It was worse than walking through a carnival house of horrors. At any moment, she expected hands to reach out and grab her. These hands, however, wouldn’t grab her in jest.

When she heard someone coming up the main stairs, she froze in her tracks. Not about to wait and see who it was, she
spun around and high-tailed it back the other way.
Please let there be stairs at the other end of the hall.
The footsteps followed, but, to her enormous relief, went up the stairs she’d just come down.

There was a back staircase
, thank the goddess. She raced down it, finding herself in the kitchen. It was empty, but smelled of bitter herbs. The footsteps pounded overhead. Whoever they belonged to had gone up to the attic and come down again. From the sound of the thumping, they were now heading for the back stairs. Panic rocketed through her. Dashing to the outside door, she yanked it open. Even if the footsteps were Graham’s, he might be a soulless monster now.

She burst into the garden
as though the devil himself was hot on her heels. The thought of losing Graham was a dagger in her heart, but what could she do for him now? Or for herself, except run for her life? Slamming through the gate, she veered toward the woods. The sky was moonless and the castle grounds incredibly dark. When she saw the pale whisper of a trail, she swerved toward it, already out of breath. Digging a fist into the stitch in her side, she pushed on. Looking back again, she tripped over a root in the path and stumbled a little, but quickly regained her balance. If she fell, whoever it was could be on her in a heartbeat.

Her throat was on fire
, her chest screamed for air, and the pain in her side a twisting corkscrew. There was a steep rise just ahead. Despite having nothing left, she forced
herself up the incline, arms pumping, legs shaking under the strain. At the top of the hill, she pulled up and bent over, unable to go on. Grabbing her knees, she gasped for air as she searched the darkness. There was nothing as far as she could see.

She waited,
sweating and gasping, until her breathing slowed a little and the stitch in her side began to ease. She glanced across the distance between hill and castle. There was still no sign of movement. Her heart sparked when she heard the rustle of dried leaves right behind her. With a sharp intake of air, she spun around, seeing only a shadow. Panic stabbed her heart and shrouded her mind. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. She just stared at the dark shape, glassy-eyed and blinking. It came closer. Stepping back, she spun and took off, pouring every ounce of energy she could summon into her legs. She headed deeper into the woods. Branches tore at her face and hair. Roots grabbed at her feet. She stumbled a few times, but kept going. Adrenaline and sheer will were her only fuels.

The tree cover came to an abrupt end at the edge of road. On the other side was a stone cottage surrounded by a low wall. There was no light in the windows. She ran toward it anyway, diving over the wall. She tumbled, knees and elbows barking.
Her pursuer was still hot on her heels. Breathing hard, vision blurred by tears, she heaved herself to her feet, stealing a glance at him, a shadow in the dark hurling toward her. He was too close. She’d never escape. As he sprang over the wall, she turned to run, but slipped in the gravel, losing her footing. She landed hard on her hip and cried out in pain. The next second, he stood over her.

Scrambling to her feet, she tried to run. H
e grabbed her arm and pulled her back. As she struggled to free herself, he said something. Hysteria muffled the words. She turned away, unable to bring herself to look at him.

“It’s me, lass. Graham.”

Tears streamed down her face, choking her words. “Did you…give him...your soul?”

“N
ay. I staked him.”

She looked at him then, meeting his eyes.

They were green.

Deep emerald green.