‘Why would I give all this up?’ he posed cheerfully, glancing back to Maggie’s dead body. ‘When it is such a joy to watch her suffer?’
So, it was as she feared; he was motivated not by love but revenge.
He looked the old woman up and down. ‘And you’ve certainly seen better days.’ Mackenzie, curious, took a swipe at the old woman with his hand, and it passed right through her. ‘You’re a ghost!’ He laughed to learn she was not immortal as he was. ‘My guess is that you have to right that which, through your greed, you thwarted.’ He glanced back at Luke and Maggie’s corpses. ‘You’re not doing a very good job.’
He didn’t know the half of it, and that was a good thing. ‘They will always be drawn to one another, and she will always choose death over you. Why—’
‘If you are supposed to be a guardian to these two, then why did you not warn them about me?’ Mackenzie proffered curiously, and her silence was adequate for him to draw his own conclusion. ‘You cannot. And meantime, you are stuck in limbo.’ Her predicament filled him with mirth. ‘Well, you always did want nothing more than to serve her, now you can do it for all eternity!’
He whistled for his horse and the animal emerged from the woodland to stop beside him.
‘She was my niece, and I wronged her.’ She had to wonder how that constituted service.
‘Oh.’ Mackenzie sounded surprised. ‘Your memory obviously doesn’t hark back as far as ours.’ The smug grin he wore as he mounted his horse was vexing.
‘You will never find your own true path, Thorkell, while you continue this farce. Do you not wonder about the lives you are missing, while you pursue this demon’s work?’
‘Not at all, I love my life choices,’ he replied with cheer. ‘But I bet you wonder about yours. Make no mistake, old woman, we shall never grow tired of seeing you or your charges suffer. See you at the next bloodbath. Ya!’ He spurred his horse into motion and rode off down the dirt road.
As a spirit form, she had learned how to manipulate physical world matter; how to manifest items, assume a physical appearance and summon the very elements to do her bidding — yet none of this would serve her in this instance. She suspected the spirit she had introduced to Thorkell was one of her ilk — a hungry ghost — thus none of her glamours could aid to defeat it, for it was not of the physical world. Only its host could choose to dismiss it, and she held no hope of that happening any time soon.
FOUR HUNDRED-ODD YEARS LATER
Thrust back into a conscious state, Jon was having a full-blown panic attack and vacated the chair at once.
‘I’m back,’ he repeated several times, turning circles as he reassured himself that he’d not just been stabbed to death. ‘Thank God!’ He relaxed, until the sound of the door slamming downstairs alarmed him anew.
The experience he’d just witnessed was playing through in his mind as though it had just transpired, and not feeling fully coherent, Jon dived for the bed to pretend he was still asleep.
Moments later he heard the door open and rolled over to find Simon leaning in the doorway. Images of Stephen threatening him replayed in his mind, along with a vivid memory of Stephen’s murder at the hands of Mackenzie, and for a moment the division between his dream life experiences and the present blurred.
‘I know it’s early, but I haven’t slept a wink.’ Simon wandered in to take a seat on the chair. ‘I was way out of line and I apologise.’
‘Don’t sit there.’ Jon sat upright, not knowing if the chair’s enchantment would affect anyone, or if it was specific to him.
‘So sorry,’ Simon immediately jumped up and looked back to where he was seated. ‘Am I sitting on her?’
Jon ignored his cynicism; having just witnessed his friend run through with a sword, he was content to see Simon alive and well. ‘I’m the one who should apologise. I broke my vow . . . but I never imagined she would become a cause of contention between us.’
‘Steady on, it’s just a painting.’ Simon decided to seat himself on the bed instead. ‘Stop talking about your ghost as if she’s living, it’s a little creepy.’
‘Sorry,’ Jon realised the way he’d phrased his apology was probably a little archaic also.
‘Anyway, you were right, she is one of your paintings, and if you want her in the exhibition, then so be it.’
A pang of panic rushed through Jon, having heard Stephen coin the phrase ‘So Be It’ what seemed like only minutes ago, before attempting to kill him.
‘Are you all right?’ Simon cocked his head to one side, obviously concerned for him. ‘You seem kind of . . . distracted?’
‘Well, how am I supposed to be? You woke me for a deep and meaningful without so much as a coffee.’
‘My bad!’ Simon stood. ‘I shall rectify this immediately.’
Jon was so pleased to hear that — coffee would be very welcome right now, but he could have equally enjoyed a glass of Maggie’s mead.
‘But before I do,’ Simon delayed, ‘as we are all friendly again, I may as well ask you now . . .’
‘Oh no.’ Jon didn’t like the sound of this.
‘How would you like to go to dinner with the gallery directors and investors?’ Simon’s smile was forced and his expression begged cooperation.
Normally Jon would have objected, but having just experienced life during the time of the reformation in Scotland, he realised that dealing with the people of the modern world was really not so difficult. ‘Sure, if you think it will be beneficial.’
‘What?’ Simon was stunned, having anticipated a debate.
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ Jon affirmed, amused by how clearly unbelievable his cooperation was. ‘I think it’s about time I stopped giving you a hard time for trying to do your job.’
‘Splendid.’ Simon seemed pleased and yet bemused. ‘Are you sure you’re feeling okay?’
Jon rolled his eyes, feeling Simon was just looking to vex him now, but still, nothing was going to bother him today; they were both alive and he was grateful. ‘Coffee?’ he prompted, whereupon Simon slapped his hands together, held up a finger to beg his patience, and headed back downstairs.
‘Augh . . .’ Jon collapsed back onto the bed.
Such a tragic story he’d just witnessed and yet he could not stop smiling. His short time with Maggie and her wolf in the bliss of her little homestead made him yearn to go back there. His sudden death at the hands of a possessed sadist filled him with joy to be alive today so he might have a chance to even the score. But how did one destroy an immortal? It would seem it could be most beneficial to find out, lest the same fate await him in this life.
Mind you, it seemed it was his unknown woman that the demon was really after, and although Jon had no proof that she was even living at this time, he could see no purpose to the chair’s lessons if she was not? If the old woman embroiled in all this was not permitted to openly tell them of her curse and their plight, then perhaps the chairs had been her solution to that woe.
More research was needed, but where to start? He had always had an interest in the darker side of life, and his artwork reflected that — was this why? After all the facts surrounding his first adventure into the past had checked out, Jon had still considered that his recollection might have been coincidence. But if the facts of this flashback also proved accurate, could there be any doubt that he was indeed being made privy to excerpts from his own past lives?
There was also the very distinct possibility that his self-imposed isolation was leading him to flights of fancy — he certainly wouldn’t be the first artist to take leave of his senses. So perhaps Simon’s schemes to get him out socialising would be a timely remedy, as Jon really did need to get some perspective on reality before he lost grip of it altogether.
* * *
Tears were flowing down Sara’s cheeks, she couldn’t stop them. She kept telling herself it was just another dream, yet in her gut she knew it wasn’t. Her emotions were more aroused by these dream life experiences tha
n they had been for ages in real life. And if this was all just a figment of her imagination then why was her fiancé being portrayed as the villain? It was this character’s constant prodding to ‘look into his eyes’ that was giving her the creeps, as this was something Robert requested often. He was a hypnotist by trade, and a renowned one at that; why did she think it beyond the realm of possibility that he had manipulated her feelings using his craft, while she was being treated for her grief? Because it was too despicable to imagine.
Sara truly believed she was happy with Robert. Yet, when she thought about the soul who kept luring her into the chair, her heart felt like it was going to burst right out of her chest! She could never remember feeling that way about the man she was to marry.
‘Am I falling in love with an apparition? Surely, that is insanity.’
She had not researched any of the details of the dreams she’d had; what was stopping her? The fear of discovering there was truth to it all? That notion absolutely petrified Sara and maybe she’d been brainwashed into feeling that way! ‘Dear universe, what if I have no control of my own emotions any more? Or my decision-making process has been tampered with?’ That premise was even more horrifying.
A knock on the door surprised Sara, and she grabbed a bunch of tissues to dry her face as she headed downstairs to answer it.
‘Who is it?’ she asked, wiping away her tears.
‘Sara, it’s Liz, open up.’
She sounded in a rush, and Sara, relieved, obliged.
‘Sorry I’m late, I got held up packing.’ Liz, chic as always, breezed in and parked her large suitcase on wheels inside the door, then moved to the lounge area to offload her hand luggage. ‘I never know what to pack for Europe this time of year; the weather is all over the place.’ She turned back to Sara and her carefree mood departed. ‘Goodness, Sara, are you all right?’
Liz had her red hair loose and curled today, and Sara suppressed a gasp as she saw the Great Witch of Balwearie in her friend. The mental connection sent her brain into overdrive. Was this why Liz was so devoted to her now? Was she paying off a karmic debt?
‘Sara?’
Sara forced a smile. ‘I’m fine. I just watched the most incredibly sad movie, is all.’ As she moved to close the door she glanced outside and noted it was getting dark. ‘Where did the day go?’ She’d relived weeks in one afternoon.
‘Please don’t tell me you forgot I was coming?’ Liz sounded very alarmed, and Sara couldn’t think why. ‘The Retro Chic photo shoot!’ Liz jogged her memory. ‘Tell me you’ve decided on the outfits and they’re all packed and ready to go.’
Sara raised a hand to her mouth to hide her growing panic.
‘What time does your plane leave?’
Liz glanced up at the huge antique clock in Sara’s workspace.
‘I’ve got an hour and a half before check-in.’
‘We can do this.’ Sara raced towards the racks of clothes in her sewing area, doing her best to remain calm. ‘It’s all in my head, somewhere.’
She forced her fantasies from her mind to get with the present. Her little supernatural investigation was beginning to interfere with her work ethic and that was not on!
Once all the outfits for the shoot were bagged individually and enclosed in a large hanging box for transportation, Liz ordered a taxi-van and they both breathed a large sigh of relief.
‘I’m so sorry about that, the day completely got away from me.’
Sara hated that she’d thrown Liz’s perfect schedule out of whack.
Liz waved off the oversight. ‘Worst case . . . I catch the next flight. I know you have a lot on your plate with the wedding and all, I’m sorry to be overloading you.’
Sara shook her head. ‘You’re not. I haven’t had any arranging to do, Robert has hired people to take care of everything!’
‘Are you having doubts?’ Liz asked, perhaps picking up on Sara’s underlying melancholy. ‘You just don’t seem yourself.’
‘No I don’t, do I?’ Sara quite agreed.
‘Is it Robert?’ Liz appeared concerned.
‘You wish.’ Maybe there was more to her dear friend’s dislike of Robert than readily met the eye. For chances were, even if her feelings for him had been manipulated, her friends were certainly not under his influence or they would speak more highly of him — perhaps they saw him as he really was. ‘Why do you dislike him so much?’
Liz shrugged. ‘I just think you two are a mismatch and that, quite frankly, you could find someone far more suited to your creative lifestyle and path.’
‘Liz, you’re being diplomatic, I want you to be brutally honest.’
Liz seemed to light up at the invitation, and yet she was wary of it also. ‘I don’t want to offend you.’
‘You won’t,’ Sara assured. ‘Give it to me straight.’
‘I think he’s conceited, manipulative, and that he treats you like a trophy,’ she began. ‘I don’t think he gives two hoots about our business, and once you are his wife, he’ll do his best to ensure that’s your primary reason for being.’
Liz was describing the villain in her dreams, and the fact made Sara gasp.
‘Too honest?’ Her partner placed a hand on Sara’s shoulder.
‘Not at all.’ Sara patted Liz’s hand to assure her, as a horn sounded out the front.
‘That will be the van.’ Liz gathered her possessions. ‘If you need to talk, call me at the hotel in twenty-four hours.’
‘I will.’ Sara smiled. Still, they’d been friends a long time and Liz saw through her mask.
‘You don’t have to do this.’ Liz was adamant. ‘No one is forcing you to marry this man, so if in doubt, call it off. All right?’ She served Sara her ‘serious businesswoman’ look.
‘I promise.’ Sara hugged her, thankful for her honesty, then encouraged her to get moving. She pushed the large box of clothes onto the footpath while Liz wheeled out her large suitcase.
‘Perhaps I should delay this shoot.’ Liz lingered as the cab driver loaded the van. ‘I feel like I should be here for you.’
‘No,’ Sara insisted. ‘This is a great opportunity, and we’ve worked hard for it. I will be fine, truly. And I have Willie.’
The luggage was all in the cab, the driver too, and the meter was running.
‘You’re absolutely sure?’ Liz held both her hands and was watching her closely.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Whatever happens, I wish you a world of happiness.’ With a kiss to the cheek and one final hug, Liz took a seat in the cab. ‘I’ll always have your back.’
‘Thank heavens.’ Sara closed the door.
‘Call me.’ Liz waved and blew kisses as the taxi-van drove away.
Upon her return inside, Sara closed the door and leaned against it, then slid down to sit on the floor, exhausted and bemused. ‘What the hell is the reality here? Is this just me creating some new psychosis to help me deal with losing my parents? Or am I marrying a psycho?’
Quite the question, and one difficult to fathom when her own mind and reasoning capability might be working against her.
* * *
Everything about his outing felt awkward. The weather was abysmal, and Jon was really uncomfortable wearing a tuxedo to dinner. He felt like he should be painting, or continuing his research into the affairs of his chair. That’s obsession, he reminded himself why he’d accepted the invitation in the first place.
When Simon pulled his new car up in front of the swish restaurant where valets were waiting, Jon felt so far beyond his comfort zone that he wanted to jump ship. ‘I’m really not going to enjoy this.’
‘Just think about the money.’ Simon pulled into the kerb of the covered entrance, whereupon his door was opened by a valet and he exited the car.
Jon spied a valet coming to perform the same service for him, and did the honours himself.
‘What happened to me being a recluse?’ he queried Simon as he joined him on the footpath. ‘Didn’t you tell them?
‘Yes, I did . . . And they were so intrigued they invited us to dinner.’
The passion with which he detested socialising was something Simon could never possibly understand; he had to remember Simon was not inviting him to these affairs just to piss him off. To Simon’s mind, or anyone else’s for that matter, Simon was doing him a very good turn here tonight, and it would only cost Jon a few hours of his time.
‘I feel like I’m going to a wedding in this suit.’ He reluctantly resumed their course to the door.
‘I assure you, you look great.’ Simon trailed him about half a step behind, obviously fearing he’d flee at any second.
The awkwardness continued throughout dinner. This party had money and a good part of the evening was spent listening to stories of how they spent it. Jon much preferred this to talking about himself, and if they felt compelled to buy his paintings he was certainly not going to complain. Still, it seemed they were not really interested in him or his artistic process — bar the young woman seated beside him who kept hanging over him and had nearly spilled her drink on him several times. His agent was across the table chatting with a very round, merry, older fellow and his pretty, young, vacuous wife — Simon was clearly in his element.
Fortunately, the food and wine were fairly outstanding, and for much of the evening Jon tuned out. He smiled and appeared attentive to the conversation, but in his head he dwelt on his latest jaunt back to the past.
Earlier that afternoon Jon had done some research and discovered that many of the details of the latest flashback checked out. There was a Great Witch of Balwearie named Margaret Aitken, who made a deal with the Minster of the King’s Commission, Jon Cowper, in the late winter of 1597 AD. All through spring and into the summer of that year witch hunts took place throughout the eastern counties of Scotland, until the commission reached county Ross. It was reported that Margaret Aitkin was finally proven a fraud at that time, but as no details of that commission were found, there was no reference to Maggie’s case in particular. Alexander Bayne had obviously made good on his promise to dispose of the notes of the court hearing of that day. Also, Jon found accounts of the Battle of Logiebride — the dispute that Maggie’s father had been slain in — the same winter the great witch had risen to influence. All this information had ignited a fire in Jon’s belly to know more about the mystery surrounding the unknown woman. Was he a sucker for punishment wanting to return to the chair and see what other glimpses into the past it had to offer? What other clues he could garner about his opponent in this affair?
The Immortal Bind Page 13
