The Witch's Stone

by Dawn Brown

  Her other sexual experiences had all been within the confines of a slowly developing committed relationship. There were certain behaviors and expectations to be met. But what she’d shared with Caid certainly wasn’t committed, nor was there a relationship except for a strange sort of friendship and business agreement. And now sex.

  She hated awkward moments.

  “Bloody hell, this house is cold,” he muttered, returning. He slipped beneath the covers and she sat up. A low chuckle rumbled from his chest and he ran a knuckle along the back of her arm. “Do you have somewhere you need to be?”

  With pale light seeping into the room from the hall, she could just make out a glimmer of a smile.

  “No.” She lay down, resting her cheek on his chest. His hand stroked her hair as his lips brushed a feathery kiss over the top of her head. Something fluttered dangerously close to her heart.

  Not good, she thought, snuggling into the security of his embrace, as sleep slowly overcame her.

  From the attic window, Hillary watched the witchlights dance and titter in the darkness. They circled and swirled, grew dim, then shone with a sudden brilliance.

  An oily fear crept over her, but of what she couldn’t say. The emotion was as intangible as it was overwhelming. And the longer she watched the tiny orbs, the more intense the sensation became.

  She stood, mesmerized with her hands pressed against the cold glass. Laughter, faint at first, then growing to a high pitched cackle, as if from a storybook witch, filled her head. She turned away from the window, her heart pounding, desperate for escape.

  She fled down the stairs, but the laughter stayed with her, growing louder until it reached a screaming crescendo, then went silent as she burst through the door at the bottom of the stairs.

  But instead of Glendon House, she was home.

  She unlocked the front door for the police and started toward the dining room. The light from the front hall reflected in the tiny shards of mirror glittering on the floor. Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze fell on the bright pool of crimson slowly working its way toward her.

  Not again. Please not again.

  But her feet kept her moving forward. Legs crept into her circle of vision. Her gaze traveled up, following the still length of him until reaching the slack features of his face. A scream bubbled deep in her throat as her eyes locked with his wide, brilliant blue stare.

  The dead man was Caid.

  Trembling, she took a step back. Something cold and sharp dug into the palm of her hand. When she looked down, she clutched a long, sleek splinter of glass. Her wide eyes reflected in the mirror until a tiny, red rivulet cut through her image like a jagged crack.

  At last, the scream tore loose, shrill and piercing.

  “Hillary.”

  Dead. Caid dead.

  Hands on her, pulling her away from his limp form. She struggled against them, sobbing.

  “Hillary.” The voice punctured through her dream haze. Caid’s voice. “Wake up, love.”

  The warmly lit dining room and Caid’s pale, waxen features dissolved, replaced by darkness and his shadowy outline.

  “Caid,” she croaked.

  “Aye.”

  Without another word, she threw herself into his arms. He held her tightly, soothing the shivers wracking her by stroking her back and hair. She ran her hands over his warm, living skin. When her palm came to rest over his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart thudded against her touch. Alive.

  “You were dead,” she whispered, snuggling deeper against his warmth. “In my dream you were dead and it was my fault.”

  “I’m fine. It was just a dream,” he murmured. His lips brushed her temple. “My God, Hillary, where do these nightmares come from?”

  Hillary couldn’t stop shaking. She felt cold to her soul. She should have told him about Randall before sleeping with him. He had the right to know that she was a half-crazy murderess before getting mixed up with her. “You wanted to know what happened to me, what Bristol knows, I want to tell you. I should have before…”

  “In the morning,” he said, gently smoothing her hair. “Wait until morning, then you can explain everything to me.”

  “But--”

  “It’ll wait until it’s at least light out.”

  “Okay,” she nodded, her body sagging with relief.

  She lay down and rolled onto her side. He lay down next to her, wrapping his arm around her middle and pulling her back against his chest. His body heat seeped into her skin, making her drowsy.

  Closing her eyes, she drifted off with the feel of him wrapped around her. She would enjoy this moment while she could…

  Because once he learned truth, everything would change.

  When Hillary’s breath turned deep and even, Caid pushed himself up, glancing at the clock next to the bed. 4:37. He wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. Not with so many questions circling inside his head.

  Without thinking, he smoothed the hair away from Hillary’s cheek and pressed his lips to her soft skin. What gave her the nightmares? What left her terrified and clinging to him? He wanted her to tell him, but not while she was still trembling from the remnants of her dream. He wanted her to come to him in bright light of day, with all her faculties in place.

  It shouldn’t matter to him, but it did. And that alone was enough to keep him awake.

  He stood and drew the covers over Hillary’s naked form. Fresh lust stirred within him along with a wave of relief. It was just good sex, nothing more. He liked her well enough, wished good things for her, but that was all.

  Still unconvinced, Caid left the room, determined to lose himself in his work, but stopped in the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. He was becoming as addicted as Hillary. He’d probably wind up hooked by the time she left. A strange pang gripped his heart, but he refused to acknowledge it.

  With a yawn, he walked to the back door, waiting for the coffee to brew. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the cool glass. When he opened them again an orangish glow flickered beyond the grayish forms in the garden.

  Dawn at last. He yawned again, stretched and turned away from the door. Then froze.

  Since when did the sun come up in the west? Or flicker for that matter?

  He opened the door and stepped outside. The cold, damp air, combined with a deep sense of foreboding, sent a chill rippling through him. Bright, orangish-pink light rose above the forest treetops on the far side of the field. The glow quivered and brightened like an ember in the hearth.

  Fire. Good Christ, a fire!

  His stomach dropped. The nearest building past the trees was Joan’s inn. He turned and yanked open the door. With the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears, he ran through the kitchen, down the hall and upstairs.

  He burst into his room and flipped on the light. Hillary sat up in the bed, squinting against the sudden brightness.

  “What is it?” she asked, her expression a mixture of confusion and fear.

  “A fire.”

  She sprung from the mattress as if the flames were beneath her. “A fire, here?”

  “No. Sorry, no.” He was panicking and had to pull it together. “At Joan’s, I think. I’m going over to see if she’s all right.”

  He went to the window. Smoke, visible now as night turned to morning, rose up over the trees. Hillary joined him and gasped.

  “I’m coming,” she said.

  Fear gave his insides a good twist. “No, stay here.”

  “Now is not the time for some caveman power struggle.”

  “Nor is it the time to fight for the feminist cause. Someone has to call the fire department, paramedics, in case someone’s been hurt…” his voice trailed off.

  She started to argue, but he shook his head. “If someone’s trapped and needs help getting out, I’ve the physical strength. Dinnae try and argue, it’s a fact and you cannae change it.”

  “You’re not going inside?” Though it sounded more like an order than a questio
n.

  “I’m sure it willnae come to that, but just in case. Does she have guests the now?”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  They left the room together and hurried down the stairs. He grabbed his jacket from where he’d left it, draped over the newel post, and shoved his arms through the sleeves as he wriggled his feet into his shoes.

  “Where will I find the number for the fire station?”

  “Just dial 999, that’s the number for emergency here.”

  She nodded, and as he turned to leave, she gripped his sleeve and stopped him. Her eyes locked with his.

  “Be careful.”

  “I will,” he promised, then pressed his mouth to hers. Fear and hungry desperation exploded between them.

  “I will,” he said again, as he stepped out into the cool morning air.

  Hillary stood where she was and watched the door close behind him. She pressed her fingers to her lips.

  Let him be okay.

  The image of his lifeless eyes from her dream flashed before her. What if he didn’t come back? Her heartbeat kicked up and her throat tightened. She gave herself a mental shake. There wasn’t time to worry.

  After phoning to report the fire, she went to the kitchen and peered out the back window. The glow seemed to have dimmed some, but a steady stream of black smoke billowed up over the trees.

  “Let them be okay,” she muttered aloud.

  This was nuts. She was going over there. She’d called the fire department just like she’d said she would. There was no reason for her to sit here and worry.

  She stood, went upstairs and changed. As she left the room, something moved at the edge of her peripheral vision. She turned to look, but a sudden clang filled her ears and shimmering pain exploded at the side of her head.

  She stumbled sideways into the wall.

  What the--?

  She touched her fingers to the screaming agony above her ear. When she pulled her hand away, bright red smeared her pale skin. Blood.

  Her vision blurred as she slid to the floor.

  Then there was nothing.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Heat radiated from the burning building as Caid crossed the empty car park. The Inn loomed above him, glowing dark orange like a massive ember and seeming to pulsate with a life all its own. A low rumble filled his ears, the vibration permeating his body right through to his pounding heart.

  “Joan,” he yelled.

  No one answered, but he doubted anyone could hear him over the roar of the fire. He tried again, louder this time. “Joan!”

  Where was she? Had she escaped? Made it to a neighbor’s? Or was she trapped inside?

  With his heart slamming against his chest, he moved closer, looking for a door or a window not already engulfed in flame. He walked a tight circle of the house, staying as close as the heat singeing his skin would allow.

  A sudden explosion of glass had him diving for the ground, pressing the hot skin of his cheek to the cool grass and covering his head with both arms. Tiny fragments showered over him like a deadly rainstorm, burning the back of his hands and neck. When he looked up, hot flames lashed out of the broken window like a serpent’s tongue.

  If Joan was inside, she had to be dead. A wave of sick panic mixed with loss rushed through him. Still, he forced himself to his feet, hoping to find proof that she’d somehow escaped.

  As he rounded the back of the house, the temperature dropped and the radiant brilliance emitting from the flames dimmed, casting the garden into shadow.

  She could have escaped from here. The fire hadn’t spread to the rear of the house yet. He approached the back door, smoke seeping from a smashed window, and gingerly touched the knob until satisfied the metal was cool. He depressed the lever and the door swung open into the kitchen.

  Billows of foul-smelling smoke poured out the opening and Caid stumbled back. He covered his mouth with his forearm and hacked, his lungs and throat burning. Good God, no one could be alive inside. Still, he had to be sure. He couldn’t stand back and let someone burn to death in that hell.

  He pulled the collar of his sweater up over his nose, crouched down and crawled into the smoky kitchen. The air near the floor wasn’t as bad as when he’d first opened the door, but his eyes still stung and watered.

  On his hands and knees, he moved into the dining room. The smoke seemed to thicken, and the temperature rose. He was moving closer to the fire. Or the fire closer to him. Maybe both.

  He sat back on his haunches to gain a better sense of where he was and where he needed to go. Something wasn’t right. He wiped away the water filling his eyes to see better. The layout seemed different somehow, but he couldn’t put his finger on the change. Admittedly, he’d only eaten in the dining room twice during his stay. Still…

  The door. Where was the door?

  His stomach dropped. A heavy bureau, the one where Joan stored her linens and good sliver, had been shoved over the doorway, blocking any chance for escape.

  Joan was still inside.

  He stood and, foolishly, took a deep breath. Heavy coughing racked his body as he struggled for air and worked to shoulder the cabinet away from the door. The solid wood scraped the floor as he slid the bureau over.

  Once the furniture was out of the way, he collapsed to the floor, his lungs burning as he tried to stem the coughs still shuddering through him. Pulling his sleeve over his hand to protect his flesh from the hot brass, he turned the knob and yanked the door open.

  Joan’s limp form fell into his lap and a gust of hot wind stung his face and hands. For a moment he stayed frozen, crouched on the floor. Flames rippled over the far wall of the hall like the waves of a fiery ocean, as beautifully mesmerizing as deadly.

  Something above him fell with a loud crash. He ducked, half expecting whatever it was to come crashing through the ceiling above him. He had to get Joan out of there.

  Still struggling for air, he scooped Joan into his arms and fought his way to his feet.

  He teetered and reeled drunkenly from the dining room to the kitchen and out the back door. Once on the grass his knees buckled. He half lowered half-dropped Joan to the ground, then turned away. On all fours, he coughed and retched until he’d emptied his stomach.

  With his ears ringing and his throat and lungs burning, he rolled onto his back. Flames flickered behind the glass in the windows above him. The ringing in his ears grew louder.

  Not in his ears. Sirens.

  Hillary had called the fire department. Would she come?

  A wide, round shadow eclipsed the blazing house behind him. Bristol stood over him, his expression grim.

  Caid pushed himself up onto his elbows as Bristol crouched beside him, a position that had to be uncomfortable for a man of his size. Caid tried to get to his feet so Bristol wouldn’t need to stay like that to talk to him, but the inspector pushed gently on Caid’s chest.

  “Easy, lad,” Bristol said. “Stay where you are.”

  The slight pressure was even too much for his weak body to fight against. He had no choice but to drop back onto the ground.

  “Joan,” he croaked, then choked on a spasm of dry coughs shuddering through him.

  Bristol waited for his coughing to subside. “She’s being seen to.”

  Caid turned his head slightly. Paramedics scurried around Joan on a stretcher. He hadn’t even realized they were there.

  He looked back at Bristol. “Alive?” Every word he uttered lit his throat with raw agony.

  “Aye, I think so,” Bristol told him. “You did well, lad.”

  Good. Joan would live and that was good. He glanced around him, but Hillary hadn’t come. He’d told her to stay at the house, not that he’d believed she would.

  He closed his eyes and did his best to ignore the ache in his chest that had nothing to do with the fire.

  Caid inhaled deeply from the plastic oxygen mask he held to his face. Each breath made his chest squeeze tight. From the back of the open ambulance on the f
ar side of the car park, he watched the fire crew bring the blaze under control. Even from this distance, the glowing inn looked terrifying and he could hardly believe he’d been inside. He held himself against a shudder rippling up his spine.

  “Joan’s stable,” Bristol said, as he came to stand beside Caid. The other ambulance, with Joan inside, made a wide turn in the lot before starting down the drive toward the road. “Smoke inhalation and some bad burns, but you saved her life.”

  Caid nodded. Thank God, she’d be all right.

  “I’m going to need to ask you some questions. I wantae hear more about the cabinet over the doorway.”

  Caid tried to speak, but couldn’t. His burning throat felt two sizes too small.

  “No’ the now,” Bristol said. “I can wait until we reach the hospital.”

  Caid frowned. “Hospital?” he managed to croak.

  “Aye. You inhaled a lot of smoke. The doctor will be wanting a look at you. Make sure ye’re all right.”

  Caid shoved aside the oxygen mask. “I’m fine.” Though the thick raspiness of his voice did little to help his argument.

  “You probably are, but you still need to be examined. Just to be sure.”

  Caid shook his head and hopped down from the back of the ambulance. The paramedic who’d been quietly inspecting her equipment and eavesdropping came forward.

  “Sir, please get back inside,” she said, sounding very stern and a little bored.

  Again Caid shook his head. Had his throat not felt like a raw piece of meat, he would have told both Bristol and the paramedic where to go. As it was, he turned on his heel and started toward his car.

  “Mr. Douglas,” the woman called after him. “You need to be seen by a doctor.”

  Quick footfalls in the gravel behind him made him stop and turn around. The woman marched his way, bent slightly forward, arms swinging. Her eyes narrowed and three deep lines creased her high forehead.

  “Mr. Douglas,” she said as she grew nearer. “Please get back in the ambulance.”

  He ignored her, continuing to his car. He’d be damned if he’d waste what little voice he had left on this pointless argument.