by Dawn Brown
Hillary sat up straight in the darkness. Sweat soaked her skin and her body trembled. For a split second, she didn't know where she was, then memory flooded her, reminding her of how she’d wound up at Joan’s inn.
With a shaky breath, she wiped away the tears on her cheeks. Her throat felt raw and dry. She hadn't screamed in her sleep, had she?
When he'd first come home, Michael had complained about her waking him night after night. But the dreams had been more frequent, then.
No one was pounding at her door. That was a good sign.
On wobbly legs, she left her bed and went to the bathroom. She ran the tap and filled the porcelain cup next to the sink. She gulped deeply, the cold water soothing her burning throat. Once she'd drained the cup, she filled it again and guzzled back the contents before setting it back on the counter.
Her wide-eyed expression in the mirror shocked her. With her skin pale and her hair tangled from her restless sleep, she looked wild, haunted. She turned away, the image hardly comforting.
Back in the bedroom, the room felt hot and small, as if the walls were closing in. She dragged a chair to the window and pushed open the glass, breathing in the frigid air. The dark night was quiet and the slight breeze seemed to chase away the last remnants of her dream.
In the distance a light shone, tiny and bright. It flickered and swirled in the dark.
Joan's Witchlights?
As if the nightmare wasn't enough, now she was seeing ghosts.
Or maybe, and far more likely, she was simply losing her mind.
Perhaps the prospect of returning to Glendon House had brought on her nightmare. After all, the last time Hillary had been in the house, she’d found a dead woman at the bottom of the stairs. As she steered her car up the long, narrow drive, a shiver ran through her.
She glanced at Caid, sitting in the passenger seat. He hadn't noticed. His gaze was fixed on the road beyond the windshield, his fingers curled into the arm rest so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
"I'm not used to driving here yet," she ventured.
He didn't look at her. "Really? I hadnae noticed. It seemed perfectly natural to turn onto the road and face down a lorry."
"Sorry about that." She opted for a change of subject, hoping to distract him. "Will your parents still be at the house?"
"No’ likely. I insisted they spend the night yesterday, but my father was equally adamant that they leave. Worried about running into him again?"
"Not worried per se, just not eager for another unpleasant confrontation."
He smiled, but didn't let his gaze wander from the windshield. She sighed and gave up.
As the car rounded the top of the drive, she spotted a dark green Jaguar parked by the front door. Her stomach dropped. So much for avoiding unpleasant confrontations.
"Looks like they spent the night after all."
Caid shook his head. "That's my brother’s car."
Good. She pulled up behind the jag and cut the engine.
Caid turned, lifting his straight brows. "We live."
“Very funny.” Attraction fluttered in her belly and she mentally squashed it. One uninvited kiss and she was behaving like an infatuated school girl.
Still, when they collected their bags from the trunk and Caid’s hand brushed hers, a wave of goose bumps stippled her skin. She gritted her teeth and did her best to ignore the sensation as she followed him to the door.
Once inside, Caid dropped his suitcase to the floor. "We'll choose rooms later."
Hillary nodded, letting out a slow breath.
The sickening smell of rot had gone from the foyer, but her gaze kept flicking back to the bottom of the stairs, no matter how she struggled not to look. There was no evidence that a dead woman had lain there for three days, except, perhaps, for a faint reddish tinge to the dark wood floor. Though, she could just be imagining it. A trick of the light.
"Are you all right?" Caid asked, frowning.
"I found her there." She pointed to the bottom of the stairs.
He started toward her. "I never even thought."
"I'm fine," she said, moving back. "I really am."
Caid opened his mouth as if to say something else, but the sound of another man's voice stopped him.
"I thought I heard you--;" Alex came to a dead stop when he saw Hillary next to Caid. "Dr. Bennett, what a wonderful surprise."
Though the smile on his face never faltered, Hillary doubted he meant a word of it. "Thank you."
Alex turned to Caid. "I thought we'd be leaving straight away. You have yer lunch if I remember correctly."
"Aye. Hillary's going to be staying here.” Caid turned to her. “Will you be all right on yer own for a wee bit?"
Hillary’s heart rate quickened. "Of course. Where are you going?" She hoped she sounded casual and not terrified at the idea of being left alone in this monstrous house where little more than a week ago she'd found a dead woman.
“Alex is giving me a lift back to Edinburgh so I can meet with my agent and pick up my car. Make yerself as comfortable as possible.” He grimaced as he said the last, glancing around their dreary surroundings. “I’ve no idea where yer journals might be. You could try the study.”
“Thanks. I will.”
Hillary stood, leaving the pile of wrinkled papers and receipts on the floor, and walked to the window, stretching her back. Through the smeared glass, she peered out at Glendon House’s tangled garden. The overgrown shrubs and long grass bowed in the wind. Above the trees, slate-colored clouds swept closer. A storm, maybe.
Her initial nervousness at being left alone had disappeared as she worked. Despite the house’s age and decay, there was something about it that she liked. A rambling coziness that made her feel protected.
For most of the morning and well into the afternoon, Hillary dug through papers packed tight in the credenza and desk, searching for Roderick’s journals. While Caid’s family had given the room a decent surface clean, they hadn’t bothered getting rid of the garbage hidden in the drawers and cupboards.
Things like ancient tax bills and quotes from various contractors, she set aside for Caid. The bundles of newspapers and old magazines, she piled near the door for the garbage. In the end, all she had to show for her hard work was a sore back and bleary eyes.
A loud gurgle from her stomach interrupted her thoughts. She glanced at her watch. Nearly four. Hopefully, Caid would make it back before the storm hit. In the meantime, she had to eat something.
She made her way to the kitchen, a long rectangular room tucked away at the rear of the house. Of what little of the house she’d explored, she liked this room the best, with its wide stone floor and huge hearth at the far end. Dust and cobwebs gave a feeling of general neglect, but with a good scrub and a can of paint it wouldn't be hard to restore the room, making it cozy and warm. A couch and a few chairs by the fireplace. Move the harvest table to the middle of the room.
Cut it out, it's not your house. Besides, she didn’t need any reminders of her transient state.
She went to the fridge and hauled out the basket of food Joan had sent with them. And thank God Joan had. There was nothing else to eat. Hillary probably should have gone out for supplies earlier, but she’d lost track of time, and with the first fat drops of rain pelting the windows, she’d wait until tomorrow.
She stood at the counter, picking at the cold roast chicken, cheese and bread, and drinking a can of lemon lime soda. Which room should she search next? She had no idea, but she needed to come up with some kind of plan. The house was huge and filled with junk. If she didn’t get lucky soon, she could spend the rest of her natural life looking for the journals.
When she finished eating, she hefted the leftovers back into the fridge, then went on to explore the rest of the house. As she moved from one junk-filled room to another, her sense of futility grew. Those journals could be anywhere, and she didn’t even know what they looked like.
What if they didn't really exist? What i
f the whole thing had just been the ploy of a lonely old woman looking for attention? No, that couldn't be. James Douglas had been too furious at the prospect of her seeing the journals for them not to be real. Damn, what if he’d taken them with him? The way her luck was running, anything was possible.
As she started up the stairs, her stomach clenched a little on the first step--Agnes’s step--but she kept her gaze straight ahead, and by the time she reached the top she was fine. The rooms upstairs were similar to the ones downstairs. Cluttered, dirty, and in a general state of disrepair.
She found one bedroom recently wiped down, the bedding neat and fresh, and not a single box to be found. Across the hall, there was another room in the same condition. Probably where Caid's parents and brother had stayed. That was good. Both she and Caid would be able to sleep in reasonably clean rooms.
Provided he ever came back.
She checked her watch again. Quarter to five.
At the end of the hall, she found a large bedroom filled with more junk than any of the other rooms she'd seen. Carefully, she moved through the clutter, stepping around the huge pieces of furniture and boxes piled so high she couldn't see over them. When she reached an old brass lamp on the nightstand, she flicked the switch and filled the room with watery light. The soft glow cast long shadows over the mess and unmade bed.
Agnes's room?
Feeling like an interloper, Hillary let her gaze sweep the space, hoping for some clue about where the journals were. On the mantel above the fireplace, a collection of framed black and white photographs stood, covered in dust and cobwebs.
She lifted one and rubbed the dust away from the glass with her sleeve. The man smiling back at her could have been Caid, but she’d never seen Caid with the same expression of easy levity. Judging by the style of his clothes, the man in the photo was probably Caid’s grandfather. Agnes's brother, David. Perhaps that was why she’d left everything to Caid. He reminded her of her brother.
A loud bang from somewhere deep in the house made her freeze. What was that? Caid, maybe?
Hillary set the picture down, went to the window and pulled back the yellowed lace curtain. Hers was the only car in the driveway.
Her heart rate quickened as she mentally listed the number of reasonable explanations for the noise. The house was old. The storm. But as she left Agnes's room, she heard the distinct sound of footsteps followed by the slam of a door.
Chapter Eight
Caid squinted through the driving rain, clutching the steering wheel in a death grip. His shoulders ached with tension. Not much further now, thankfully.
The wind swept over the open fields, shifting his car in the lane. He gritted his teeth and held the wheel steady, trying to ignore his growing unease.
It had rained like this the night he’d lost control of his car and hit the tree.
His memories of the accident were almost nonexistent--a combination of alcohol consumption and the trauma from the event. He had a vague recollection of speeding down the road, struggling to keep his eyes open. His next memory was the hospital--emergency room maybe--and a blur of people standing over him.
But no pain. Not then. He’d probably still been too drunk to feel anything.
When he woke next, he was in a hospital room, wrapped in an agony he hadn't known existed.
Caid pushed the memories away, forcing himself to concentrate on the here and now. The narrow road curved in a loose snake shape, the terrain alternating between wide, flat fields and patches of forest. He preferred driving through the woods. The trees provided a natural barrier, blocking the wind.
Ten minutes and he’d be at Glendon House. He slowed through another sharp curve. Gnarled trees rose up on either side of him, their branches hanging into the road like reaching fingers.
Coming out of the bend, his heart leapt into his throat and he jumped on the brake. A flashing light atop a police car in the center of the road acted as a sort of beacon for the mangled wreck compressed against the wall of trees.
A thin line of sweat trickled down Caid’s back as he pulled over. Struggling to ignore the nausea swirling in his stomach, he climbed out of the car into the cold rain. Bristol, covered in a tent-like slicker, waddled over to him.
“What happened?” Caid had to yell to be heard over the wind and rain.
“Jimmy and Nancy Fraser,” Bristol said. “As best I can tell, they lost control on the wet road and swerved into the trees.” His round face was pale beneath the slicker’s hood.
Bristol said the names as if Caid should know who they were. For a moment, he was tempted to remind Bristol that he hadn’t been in Culcraig since he was ten years old, but changed his mind. What was the point?
“Can I do anything?” he asked, instead.
“No. The ambulance has already come. I’m waiting until what’s left of the car is towed away. I dinnae want any more accidents tonight.” He shook his head slowly. “There’s a dark cloud hanging over the aged in this village.”
Caid didn’t know what to say, but no response seemed needed.
“Are you on yer way to Glendon House?” Bristol asked.
Caid nodded.
“You best be off then. Drive safely.”
“Be careful,” Caid told the officer, then slid back behind the wheel. Bristol gave a short wave as Caid pulled away.
Shivering, he switched on the heat so warm air blasted from the vents in an attempt to dry his rain-soaked clothes. But the effort was futile at best. God, he wanted a hot shower. Hopefully, his parents had hired someone to give Aunt Agie’s bathroom a bit of a clean. They must have. There was no bloody way his mother would have stayed there without certain civilities being met.
He turned up the long drive and the manor rose from the gloom--a welcome relief after the drive. A few lights glowed weakly from the windows. He parked behind Hillary’s rental, grabbed a bag from the back and dashed from the car to the door. Though why he bothered to run when he was already wet, he didn’t know.
As soon as he stepped into the hall, Hillary raced down the stairs as if she’d been waiting for him. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes dark with fear. Confused, he lowered his bag to the floor.
“You’re back,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I’m so glad you’re back.” She gripped his sleeve in a tight fist. “There’s someone in the house.”
Her voice trembled a little, and he was struck with the urge to pull her into his arms and comfort her, but thought better of it. Their agreement was built on a shaky foundation as it was. No need to complicate matters. Still, he shouldn’t have left her alone for so long. Not after she’d found Agnes little more than a week ago. For all her sharp words there was a softness about Hillary. A vulnerability.
“Were you a wee bit nervous on yer own?” he asked, gently.
She released his sweater and took a step back, narrowing her eyes. “I was fine alone,” she said, enunciating each word as though he were dense. “I didn’t get nervous until I realized I wasn’t alone. Are you hearing impaired?”
So much for soft vulnerability. “What are you talking about?”
“When I was upstairs, I heard someone walking around down here. At first, I thought it was you, but when I looked out the window, mine was the only car parked out there.”
“How long ago?”
“Just a few minutes.”
“Right then, let’s have a look.”
He took her hand and was surprised when she linked her fingers with his. A tiny jolt leaped from his palm up his arm.
Together they searched each room, flipping light switches as they went. Some worked, most didn’t, and the ones that did offered such a low wattage they barely lit the space, casting more shadows than anything else. Not that it mattered. He doubted that anyone had actually been in the house. Old houses made noises.
“You know,” Hillary said, keeping her voice low. “This house is huge. We could check each room individually, but who’s to say that whoever’s here won’t just keep movi
ng around as we search, eventually working their way into a room we’ve already checked? We’ll never be one hundred per cent sure we’re alone.”
“Are you suggesting we separate?”
Her grip on his hand tightened. Did she even realize she’d done that?
“It would probably make more sense to split up. If we worked from opposite ends and met in the middle, it would reduce the chance of an intruder slipping away. But as I said, this place is huge and we’re only two people. The odds of our mystery person eluding us are still pretty good. Not to mention the confusion.”
“Confusion?” He tried to suppress his grin.
“If we separated, we could easily wind up tracking each other. At least together, if we hear or see anything out of the ordinary, we know that it has to be someone else.”
“What an astounding rationalization.”
“I think I made some very good points.”
“Aye, you did. I’m sure you’ve convinced yerself quite nicely. Did you bring the subject up simply because you were concerned I might think you liked holding my hand?” He couldn’t stop himself from smiling, especially when she struggled to untangle her fingers from his.
As they entered the kitchen, he tightened his grip. "Dinnae be like that. I’m just having a wee bit of fun with you."
She ceased struggling and her delicately shaped brows drew together in a frown. "That wasn't here earlier."
"What?" He turned to the direction she pointed. A brass fireplace poker lay dead center on the battered harvest table. On the floor, a series of watery footprints stretched between the back door to the table.
Christ’s sakes, Hillary hadn't just been frightened alone in an old house, there had been someone else here. But who? And why?
She released his hand and moved closer to the table, bending slightly to inspect the poker. He strode to the back door and slid the bolt into place. When he turned, Hillary was staring at him, her eyes wide.
"I think there's blood on this. And maybe hair."
A strange lightheadedness gripped Hillary. Her stomach turned and she could no longer look at the tiny rust-colored marks dotting the length of the brass poker. Or the single white hair fluttering near the tip. She took a step back as Caid moved closer, his expression impassive.
