Of Shadow and Stone

by Michelle Muto

  Von Hiller turned to face him, ready for whatever explanation Declan intended to provide. The wizard’s keen focus probably had more to do with the use of his first name than his reluctance to observe the scene before them. Von Hiller had always shown his sympathetic side more than most. But this time, Declan could not fault him.

  The wolves dashed around the clearing, showing off pieces of their prize. One pranced and shook its head, grizzly ribbons of intestines hanging from its blood-soaked muzzle. Four others tore at the carcass of the fanged, horned creature that still bore some faint resemblance to the human it had once been.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Kate

  For Kate Mercer, the workday had started just after midnight and ended an hour after sunrise with her shooting one of her lovers to death.

  One clean shot, right to the head.

  The camera zoomed in as Kate slid the Glock G30S back into the waistband of her faded jeans and let the tears flow down her face exactly as scripted.

  “Sorry it had to end this way,” she said. “I guess fate makes us choose, whether we like it or not.” She swiped at her cheek and bent down next to her costar who lay on the ground in his tattered clothing and zombie makeup. Kate reached into her T-shirt and yanked at the chain around her neck. The chain broke away as designed. Gently she placed the silver chain and locket in her costar’s palm, curling his fingers tightly around it. Choking back more tears, Kate stood and turned on her boot heel.

  After multiple takes from different angles, the scene was complete. But for Kate, that hadn’t been the difficult part.

  The hard part, the one she had been dreading, was getting through the next scene in front of the camera crew, producers, and director. The one with her real-life ex-boyfriend, Michael Owens.

  “Cut!” the director shouted. Bells sounded, and the crew scrambled to set up for the next scene.

  Kate’s makeup artist and hairdresser hurried onto the set, perfectly tousling her dark brown hair and adding perfectly placed dirt smudges onto her face.

  Graham Benedict, who played her now-deceased lover, arose from his well-rehearsed death. He walked over to her and gave her a hug. “Nice, Kate!” When they parted, he made a fist and tapped it lightly against hers in solidarity.

  Kate’s eyes locked onto Michael’s for a second before she looked away, doing her best to tune him out.

  Kate exhaled slowly as he approached. He wasn’t going to give up easily, but then, she wasn’t going to back down, either. There were some things no self-respecting girl could ignore.

  “Once more for old time’s sake,” Michael said, acting as though nothing had happened between them. Or more accurately, as though nothing had happened between him and the actress he’d been caught with just over a month ago.

  “Maybe you’ll remember what it was like between us.” His voice was like silk, but his eyes showed the desperation within. “Maybe you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.” He smiled faintly.

  Kate managed her own smile, ever aware of the two women finishing the last touches on her face and hair, prepping her for the movie’s final shot—the one with Michael. They were eager to stick around and listen in on the conversation.

  “Don’t do this, Michael. Not now. Please.” Kate thanked her makeup artist and hair stylist and then walked away, noting that the sound of her boots against the concrete was keeping time with her heartbeat.

  Michael quickened his step alongside hers. “Kate, please. Try to understand, it meant nothing.”

  Nothing? It had meant something to her. It had meant everything.

  By now, she’d hoped that seeing him wouldn’t hurt. But it did. God help her, it did. She’d hoped that time and practicing her lines—the ones she’d already said to him before—would make it easier, that he would detect nothing but sheer resolve in her tone. “I do understand, Michael. I understand perfectly. Do you? We need to finish this scene. Don’t make it any harder than it has to be.”

  Keeping her anger in check, she stepped around him and left him standing in the middle of the set. She wanted to tell him that apparently the other girl had meant something to him or he wouldn’t have screwed around.

  The media had made the whole affair headline news. Being in the news was par for the course for a lot of Hollywood stars. But that didn’t mean Kate enjoyed that part of the limelight. It was the one thing she didn’t like. Why some people thought that being a celebrity entitled the world to know every detail about her life made no sense to her. Weren’t they the same people who complained about the NSA or street cameras? But so much of her fan base also loved dirty laundry. The dirtier, the better. And the girl had made sure that everyone knew the details were very dirty.

  “Kate!” He was running to catch up; she could hear him right behind her.

  All eyes were on them. Hollywood’s once-darling couple at war with each other. They weren’t married, but the rumors had been flying that an engagement was only a matter of time.

  “Kate!”

  If she kept going, he’d only cause even more of a scene—and Michael knew how much she hated negative publicity. She turned to face him just as his hand reached out and took gentle hold of her arm.

  “I love you, Kate. Only you. Take me back,” he said, eyes pleading.

  “Don’t,” Kate said, meaning it. She didn’t want him touching her. Not anymore. Some people could set aside affairs, especially in the film industry, but not Kate. She had a reputation for being badass on screen and disciplined and self-reliant off screen. But for her, love couldn’t survive such a breach of trust. His infidelity had hurt her more than she’d ever admit to anyone. His words were just that, words. And Michael Owens knew how to play heartstrings all too well.

  Michael’s cell phone rang, and he glanced at his pocket. The ringtone was familiar—his agent.

  Her eyes met his. “You should get that.”

  Michael took the phone out and stared blankly at the screen as though unsure what he should do next, but clearly wanting her to wait for him to take the call.

  One of the production assistants, Hatcher, hailed her. “Kate!” he called. “Graham says he needs to talk to you about the next scene.”

  Kate frowned. She’d just talked to Graham. And Hatcher was peculiar. He talked to himself. He was temperamental. Yet in all other departments, Hatcher was perfectly average. Average height, weight, looks. Average dress code for a stagehand—jeans, T-shirts, sneakers. Nothing about him stuck out. Not his dishwater-brown hair or his brown eyes. He was the everyday Joe you passed on the street or stood behind at the grocery store checkout. But he still gave off an odd vibe. In this business, though, that in itself wasn’t unusual.

  She walked over to Hatcher. “I made that up,” he said, looking smug. “I thought you needed a rescue line.”

  Kate smiled politely. “Thanks for coming to the rescue, then.”

  “You’re welcome. You’re an amazing actress, Kate. Can I call you Kate?” Hatcher stared at her, his expression slack and soft.

  She noticed a large prescription bottle poking out of his shirt pocket. Was he on some sort of painkiller? “You okay?”

  Hatcher fumbled for the bottle. “Yeah. It’s nothing. Some antibiotics. It’s my last day taking them.”

  “Well, take care of yourself, Hatcher.” Kate turned and headed back to the set, ready to do the final scene. Over the years, she’d thought about how it would feel to say her last lines in the trilogy. Now all she could think about was that the scene included a kiss with Michael.

  Kate waited while everyone scrambled into place. A trickle of anger and hurt wanted to slip back into her heart, but she shoved it aside. She no longer loved Michael. All that was left were memories of what had once been between them.

  Keep it together, she told herself. Just this one last scene, then the worst of it would be over. One scene. One kiss. Make it look real, she thought, but don’t forget where those lips of his had been. Don’t forget the lies they’d told her befor
e the truth came out.

  She could do this. As her agent liked to tell her, she could do anything she set her mind to.

  Exhausted, Kate hung up her coat and dropped her purse on the counter of her Vancouver home. It’d cost her a small fortune, but the extra privacy the front gate bought her had proved useful. After the breakup, and now, after the last day of filming, Kate just wanted to be alone. No camera crews, no reporters. No crazy fan mail taped to the front gate proposing marriage or telling her they loved her. The notes someone had posted a couple of weeks ago should have rattled her, especially since one or two had been written on the back of a photo of her taken in a public place. But she felt certain that it’d all die down soon enough.

  She opted for tea and some breakfast instead of much-needed sleep and headed for the kitchen. She glanced at the clock above the microwave: 9:15 a.m.

  She’d been just over eighteen when she bought the place with cash almost four years ago while filming the first movie in the Dark Fall trilogy. She had been a young model with only bit parts and a few well-known commercials in her portfolio before auditioning for and landing one of the most coveted roles in Hollywood. She’d come a long way in those four years.

  Kate rubbed the back of her neck.

  She loved her job, loved the action, even the rehearsals. It appealed to the part of her that liked a challenge. But now? She was torn between wanting a break and throwing herself even harder into her work. She’d been going full tilt for months, and the thought of taking time off to relax on a remote beach—or even better, doing some hiking and rock climbing, or wandering around Europe—sounded great. The dreams that had haunted her waking thoughts the past couple of weeks—the ones where she roamed an old castle—had to be a sign that some downtime was in order. On the other hand, her agent, Shirley, had a few other roles for her to consider—parts that would better brand her as an action star rather than just Peyton Harris, the character she played in Dark Fall.

  Decisions, decisions.

  Her cell phone rang on the counter behind her. Michael’s ringtone. Ignoring it, Kate took her tea and toast into the living room and turned on the TV to a local news station, more for background noise than anything else.

  She took a sip of tea before setting it aside and curling up on the sofa, closing her eyes, and letting the call go to voice mail. She could go upstairs to sleep, but right now that felt like too much effort.

  Her body responded quickly. Her breathing slowed, and Kate felt the familiar pull of sleep. She gave in, hoping that it would take her back to her escape, back to the castle where the shadows lived.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ian

  The wooden sign hanging above the pub’s entrance read “The Blackthorn Tavern” in faded white letters. It swung back and forth, squeaking with each blast of frigid air. Eager for warmth, Ian McGuire opened the door and stepped inside. The place was doing a decent business. A young couple sat drinking wine in the corner next to the stone fireplace. At a large table in the center of the room, eight diners laughed and talked. A waiter was serving appetizers to a few of them. Two more members of the waitstaff were busy behind the bar where a row of patrons sat.

  The place seemed nice enough—well lit, with dark wooden tables and chairs, and the floor and bar stained a deep black walnut color that hid most of the wood grain underneath. Various black-and-white photos of local scenes hung on the pale yellow-gold walls. Like the sign outside, the walls could have used a fresh coat of paint, but all in all, the place had a certain appeal. It reminded him of a pub in Edinburgh he’d been in a few days earlier.

  Ian took off his coat and sat at one of the tables on the far side facing the door. He glanced at his watch: 3:40. His friend Declan was sending a man named Emmerich Von Hiller to meet him at 4:00 p.m.

  He nodded for the waitress, who was already heading toward his table.

  “What can I get you?” she asked while looking him over.

  “An ale would be good.”

  “Hobgoblin okay with you?”

  The odd names for ales you could find in British pubs were endless. They rivaled some of the microbrewery brands back home. “Sounds great.”

  She pushed back a strand of her long blond hair and motioned toward his luggage. “Planning on staying awhile?”

  “Just long enough for a drink.”

  His joke made her smile. “Too bad,” she said. “Visiting, or did someone kick you to the curb?”

  He hesitated longer than he meant to. “Just visiting a friend for a while.” Her comment had been casual, but Ian’s thoughts flashed back to Carly and the moment she’d told him she needed some space and some time to figure out what she wanted from life. Apparently, after two and a half years, that no longer included him. She had packed her bags and left that night.

  Carly.

  The girl who’d taken his heart and given it back. It’d been almost five months since memories of her blindsided him. He’d met her at an Irish pub he and his friends often visited. Carly had been a waitress there. Sometimes Ian would go to the pub by himself just to see her. They had both been twenty-two, just finishing college. But people changed. It was as complicated and as simple as that.

  “Well, you’re welcome to hang around,” the waitress said, snapping him out of his memories. She placed one hand on a curvy hip. “There’s something about you. Your face is familiar, but I can’t place it. You’re not from around here, are you?”

  His accent alone should have told her that he wasn’t local. “No. I’m not.”

  “Hmm. I’m usually good with faces. It’ll come to me. Anyway, I’ll be right back with your drink.” She set off toward the bar.

  He didn’t bother going into how his face might be familiar if she read thrillers with a touch of paranormal horror. He might not be Stephen King or Thomas Harris, but he did manage to make a good living for a young author. His earlier novels had been moderately successful, but with Declan’s input, the last two had become bestsellers. Still, if she didn’t recognize him, then that was perfectly all right with him.

  She returned a moment later with a pint of ale and a smile that bordered on seductive. “Here you go, handsome. Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, I think this’ll do it, thanks,” Ian replied.

  He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the come-hither looks women gave him. It was his mischievous grin, or so he was told. That, and he worked out. Sometimes his best ideas came to him while working out.

  Ian reached for his wallet. The intensity of the waitress’s stare made him feel like a slice of pepperoni and extra cheese pizza at a Weight Watchers convention.

  Creepy. Totally creepy, which was saying a lot for someone who’d traveled this far so his host could prove to him that his castle had a ghost.

  Most people would have told Declan he was crazy. But they didn’t know him the way Ian did. Declan might have helped fuel Ian’s own imagination, but he wouldn’t lie. He’d been serious about the ghost.

  Although Ian had never seen a ghost or had a paranormal experience of his own, trusted family members had. Deep inside, something in him wanted to believe what Declan claimed. Why couldn’t ghosts exist? What happened to the human spirit after death? It would be a shame if this ride called life was all there was.

  So if Declan was crazy, then so was he. Ian was more than willing to give it a fair shake.

  “Keep the change,” he said, handing her the money.

  She tucked the bills in her apron. “If you’re ever in need of another ale, you know where to find me.” She gave him one final appreciative look before returning to the bar and a patron who raised an empty pint glass.

  She was attractive, but right now it was best to think about his stay at Shadow Wood. It wasn’t every day he received an invitation to a private castle.

  He’d met Declan a few years ago during an extended visit down in Edinburgh. They’d shared the same café one rainy afternoon, sitting at adjacent tables, both drinking coffee. Ia
n had taken to writing there. He’d noticed Declan as a regular. The two struck up a conversation, and they’d remained in touch ever since, even when Ian returned to the States, mostly by letter or phone. Declan wasn’t overly fond of technology.

  About a month ago, Ian mentioned he had a serious case of writer’s block after his last novel, and Declan offered him room at his castle for a few months—and the promise of more stories and more inspiration. Castles were always filled with dark history; between Declan’s tales and Ian’s ability to improvise, he was sure to come up with an amazing story. Especially with the prospect of a real ghost haunting Shadow Wood. Hell, even the name was inspirational.

  Ian had booked the earliest flight out of Chicago, and after spending a couple days in Edinburgh visiting another reportedly haunted castle called Ilea, here he was.

  A man entered the pub, bringing with him a blast of the crisp October air. He was dressed entirely in black from his hat to his shoes. The young couple in the corner scooted closer to each other. They clutched their collars as if the stranger had brought in something a bit more menacing than an icy draft.

  The newcomer looked around briefly and then headed to Ian’s table. This had to be the man Declan had sent.

  “Mr. Ian McGuire?”

  Ian nodded, stood, and extended his hand. “I am. And you must be Mr. Emmerich Von Hiller.”

  “I prefer just Von Hiller,” he said. “I’m here to escort you to Shadow Wood.”

  His handshake was firm and all business, much like Declan’s.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Ian nudged his ale. “Would you care for something to drink?” He looked for his waitress, but she appeared to have her hands full with another table.

  “No thank you, Mr. McGuire. It’ll be dark soon, and Declan has given strict orders to have you to the castle well before nightfall.”