Haunted Warrior

by Allie Mackay

  His energy was also gone.

  The thick air and ripples of agitation around the red phone box had been wiped away, leaving only the chill salt air blowing in off Pennard Bay.

  Kendra doubted Dod would make a further appearance.

  As often happened, she felt a twinge of sadness to see him go, though he’d surely visit Pennard now and then. He’d pop by family celebrations or important local events, as most ghosts were wont to do.

  She hoped so.

  She also had work to do. And she wanted to catch Janet as soon as possible. Dod Murray was a good man, and she used the term with respect. He deserved her adherence to the promise she’d made him.

  So she looked again up and down Harbour Street, relieved to see she was still alone. Then she crossed the road, leaving the red phone box behind her. Nothing waited there now except a few hungry seabirds hoping someone leaving the Laughing Gull with a takeaway fish supper might have a heart and toss them a few chips.

  And if Zack called now—­he always trusted her, but did check on her progress every week or so, and such a call was about due—­she could truthfully say she was making headway here, helping soothe the village’s disgruntled spirits.

  She just wished Jock MacAllister and his friends weren’t connected to Graeme.

  But they were.

  And that made her dread the work that yet stood before her.

  As soon as Kendra stepped inside the inn, she knew something was wrong. No one was in the entry hall, so she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, trying to pick up the source of the unpleasant energy that had hit her like a solid wall the instant she’d opened the door. Whoever—­or whatever—­was responsible, the vibes were faintly familiar.

  It was definitely an atmosphere imprint she recognized.

  She just couldn’t place it, though she did know it wasn’t Gavin Ramsay.

  The Laughing Gull felt clear of his residue.

  “Worn out so early in the afternoon, are you?” Janet’s voice came from right beside her. “I’m not surprised.”

  Kendra blinked, straightening. “You startled me.”

  “And no wonder, dozing against the wall.” The older woman sniffed, once again clutching her broom. Only this time she looked as if she’d like to sweep Kendra out on the pavement rather than attack invisible dirt on the inn’s tidy, stone-­flagged floor.

  Kendra took a breath, wishing her manners didn’t prevent her from brushing past Janet and heading up the stairs to her room.

  But the woman had planted herself in front of her, barring the way. And the look she bent on Kendra made her feel like a bug pinned to a wall. Rarely had she felt so scrutinized, and so unfavorably.

  Not to mention that Janet’s soured mood made it difficult to talk to her about ghosts, especially the spirit of her late husband.

  Even so, she had to try. She met the older woman’s gaze, straightening her shoulders. “You’re right. I am tired. I was just going upstairs. But something crossed my mind, running into you, and I think I should tell you.”

  “Is that so?” Janet arched her eyebrows, giving her a suspicious look. “I’ve work to do, so make it fast.”

  “It won’t take long; don’t worry,” Kendra spoke softly, silently asking Raziel, Saami, and Ordo to help her find the right words. “I had a dream last night—­”

  “Ach, I’ve no time for such drivel.” Janet glanced at the entry’s photo-­lined wall, ran her thumb along the edge of a wood-­framed picture. “I’ve work to do and—­”

  Kendra cleared her throat. “I know you’re busy. Iain told me about your husband, Dod. My dream was about him. In it, he came to me, telling me something he wanted you to know. I normally wouldn’t mention such a thing”—­she hesitated, lowering her voice—­“but the dream felt so real, I feel compelled to share it with you.”

  Janet’s face closed, her expression tightening. “I stopped believing in dreams a long while ago.”

  “What can it hurt to hear mine?” Kendra reached to gently touch her arm.

  Janet sniffed. “I’ve a kettle of fish stew simmering in the kitchen. And”—­she flicked her broom at the baseboard—­“sweeping to do.”

  “I know…” Kendra suspected Janet worked so hard to keep her mind off everything she’d lost and the happiness she refused to allow herself now.

  “The man in my dream told me you were very happy together.” Kendra spoke in a rush, trusting her instinct, as she always did in such situations. “He told me to mention bog cotton.”

  There: she’d caught Janet’s attention.

  Kendra took three long breaths, readying herself to share the ghost’s message with Janet. Dod had revealed that they’d made love on the cliffs in their youth. Afterward, Janet had picked some of the delicate bog cotton growing where they’d lain. He said she’d sewn the snowy white blooms into a tiny silk pouch. And that since his passing, she’d worn the bog cotton pinned inside her clothes, near to her heart.

  The look on Janet’s face said the tale was true.

  “What about bog cotton?” She set her broom against the wall and folded her arms. “I’m thinking you better tell me.”

  And Kendra did, leaning close so her words wouldn’t carry as she repeated Dod’s account of Janet’s silken pouch and its significance. When she finished, the older woman had gone white. The harshness had also left her face and her eyes were overly bright.

  “I can’t imagine why he’d appear to you and not me.” Janet dashed a hand across her cheek.

  Kendra didn’t tell her Dod had been trying for years to reach her.

  It wasn’t necessary to cause Janet undue pain.

  “I’m sensitive to such things at times.” Kendra gave her the best explanation she could, thinking it better to stick with dreams rather than reveal that Dod’s spirit had lingered outside the inn all this time, hoping to reach his wife or her new beau, Archie Dee.

  “There is something else he wanted me to tell you.” Kendra hoped Janet would be as receptive to Dod’s wishes about Archie as she’d been to the bog cotton. “It has to do with a friend of yours—­Archie Dee, the fisherman who—­”

  “I ken who Archie is.” Janet flushed scarlet, snatching her broom again. She gripped the handle, leaning forward. “There be nothing between the two of us. Nary a thing.”

  “Dod wishes there was.” Kendra said the words she must, reaching again to squeeze Janet’s arm. “At least, that’s what I dreamed he said.” Glancing round, just to be sure they were still alone, she shared the rest of her encounter with the ghost.

  When she finished, she saw that Janet’s doubt had faded.

  “I thank you for telling me this.” The older woman looked at her, the gratitude in her eyes squeezing Kendra’s heart. “I suppose I have been wearing this bog cotton long enough,” she said, lifting a hand to her breast, where Kendra guessed the silken pouch was pinned inside Janet’s blouse. “I’ll return the bog cotton to its place inside my cupboard when I get home tonight.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Kendra was, but another unspoken question hung in the air.

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “About Archie—­”

  “He’s been after taking me into Banff for tea at one of the finer hotels there.” Janet flushed brighter on each word. “Perhaps I’ll say yes next time he asks.”

  Kendra smiled, her heart lightening. “I hope you will.”

  “Aye, well, I might just.” The way Janet straightened her back and patted her hair hinted that she would. “By the way, I almost forgot…” She glanced at the open door to the pub restaurant. “Your other friend is in there, waiting on you. He’s been here for hours and isn’t too pleased.”

  “My other friend?” Kendra blinked.

  “Aye, just.” Janet flicked at her sleeve. “I would’ve told you right away, but…” She let the words trail off, looking embarrassed.

  “It’s okay. But there must be some mistake.” Kendra lifted a hand to rub her temple, w
hich was beginning to throb. “I don’t know anyone around here. Only Graeme.” She bit her tongue before blurting that even he couldn’t be counted as her boyfriend. “Whoever is here can’t be looking for me.”

  Unless Zack had flown over to surprise her, which was highly unlikely.

  Janet just shrugged. “Tell that to the Highland Storyweaver. He might not have said he’s your friend, but what else can he be, sitting in there all this time, his eye on the door?”

  Kendra frowned. “I don’t know any Highland Tale-­Teller.”

  She didn’t and was sure she didn’t want to, either.

  “Highland Storyweaver.” Janet corrected her. “Wee Hughie MacSporran is his real name. Him, that’s the famous author and historian, also running Heritage Tours. Everyone in Scotland’s heard of him.”

  “Well, I haven’t.” Kendra could see Janet didn’t believe her.

  She also had a sense of the air thickening around her, a sure sign that whoever the Highlander was, he had some kind of a connection to her. And—­she glanced toward the noisy public room—­whatever it was, there’d be something uncanny about it. She could feel that in the slight dizziness that hit her for a moment and also in how the wind outside was rising, bringing the sound of dried, brittle leaves rattling along the pavement. Only she knew there weren’t any dead leaves lying about in the seaside village.

  Glancing longingly at the darkened stair to the guest rooms, she turned instead to the door into the pub restaurant. “I’ll just go see what he wants, then. What does he look like?”

  “You’ll know him.” Janet pursed her lip and then bustled away, busily wielding her broom.

  Curious, Kendra stepped into the smoke-­filled pub, finding it even more crowded than she’d imagined. Locals stood three deep at the bar and every table was occupied. Haze from the hearth’s peat fire hung in the air, as did tantalizing food smells. And although everyone had been talking, all conversation stopped as she moved into the room, searching for the Highland Storyweaver.

  As she’d expected, she’d become an object of speculation.

  Heads turned and gazes followed her progress through the tightly spaced tables. She knew just where she was heading, because Janet had been right. She did spot her visitor right away. At least she thought so, because he was the only guest with a stack of books on his table. He also looked more authorly than anyone else.

  Unusually tall, the large, red-­cheeked man wore loose black trousers and a white shirt, long sleeves rolled back. Even sitting, she could tell he had a paunch, and his thinning red hair gleamed in the light of a nearby sconce made from a fisherman’s lantern.

  He looked familiar.

  And she remembered where she’d seen him as she approached his table. He was the man who’d parked his multipassenger minivan on Harbour Street a few nights ago. She’d watched as he stood near the marina’s slipway, looking about the village so proprietarily.

  She’d seen the word heritage on his minivan.

  And she’d also noted the strange luminosity that had shimmered around the vehicle.

  “Kendra?” He stood, offering his hand when she reached the table. “I’m Wee Hughie MacSporran, author and historian.” He smiled when she put her hand in his, his grip firm. “At six-­foot-­four, my friends thought the byname clever when I was younger. The name stuck.”

  “Should I know you?” Kendra took the seat he’d saved for her. “I was told I must.”

  “I would’ve thought so.” He glanced at the door, his smile fading a bit when his gaze fell on Janet, who hovered there, scrubbing the doorjamb with a cloth. It was clear she was watching their table.

  Turning back to Kendra, he patted the books on the table. They were his, unmistakably so, with his name and picture gracing the covers. The top book bore the title More Hearthside Tales: A Highlander’s Look at Clan Legend and Lore. He lifted the book, showing it to her.

  “I’m doing a bit of a book tour,” he said, his tone going a tad lofty. “This one”—­he wriggled the book at her—­“is my latest. It’s selling quite well.”

  “I saw you the other night.” Kendra ignored his boast, simply nodding as he returned the book to the stack. “You parked across from the inn and got out in the rain, looking up and down the road.”

  She wasn’t surprised when his brows lifted. She smiled, not too warmly. “I’m observant.”

  “So you are.” He signaled to a server, lifting his ale glass and indicating the boy should bring two more pints to the table. “You’ll join me for a pint?”

  “I’d rather know why you’re here, but yes. Thank you.”

  “I was told you’d be expecting me.” He glanced at his watch. “We were to have lunch hours ago.”

  Kendra frowned. “That’s news to me. Why we were supposed to meet?” Her nape was beginning to prickle as a sneaking suspicion made her reach for her oversized shoulder bag and scrounge in its depths for her cell phone. “Who said that we were?”

  Before he could answer, a man and a woman who’d been staring at them from a nearby table stood and headed their way. The woman was older, stout, and wore a determined look. Her companion trailed uncomfortably in her wake, his embarrassed, long-­suffering expression marking him as her husband.

  “Excuse me,” the woman beamed when the pair reached their table. “We couldn’t help but overhear that you’re the Highland Storyweaver.”

  “I am.” Wee Hughie nodded almost regally. He

  glanced at the camera in the woman’s hand. “You’re here on holiday?”

  “We are, up from Berwick for a week’s stay.” She didn’t even look at Kendra, her gaze fixed on Wee Hughie. “We’re huge fans of your work. We have every one of your titles and would’ve brought them along for you to sign if we’d known you’d be stopping here today.”

  She nudged her husband, who dutifully nodded. “We were wondering if you’d sign one of these for us?” She picked up More Hearthside Tales: A Highlander’s Look at Clan Legend and Lore and handed Wee Hughie the book and a pen she quickly snatched from her husband. “You can sign it to Margaret and John. We’ll pay for it at the till.”

  “I’d be happy to.” Wee Hughie autographed the book with a flourish. “Did you want a picture with me?” He stood, glancing at Kendra. “My friend can take it for you.”

  “That would be grand,” the woman gushed, thrusting her camera at Kendra.

  Her husband said nothing, looking even more stricken as his wife hooked her arm through Wee Hughie’s and drew him between them for the photograph. Getting to her feet, Kendra obliged, even snapping two pictures, as the woman wanted a second in case her eyes were closed in the first.

  When the pair left, Wee Hughie turned an apologetic look on her. “Sorry about that.” He sounded more proud than regretful. “The books are all best sellers, and such things happen wherever I go. But”—­he shrugged—­“it’s all good for business. I also own and run Heritage Tours, taking visitors on specialized tours throughout Scotland. Many of the tour-­goers are fans of my books.”

  “You must be a busy man.” Kendra couldn’t stand braggarts.

  “Busier than you know.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I also work on the side for Scotland’s Past.” His words confirmed Kendra’s suspicions. “It was your friend, Zack, who arranged our meeting today. He said he’d ring you.”

  “Oh.” Kendra’s heart sank. Grabbing her bag again, she fished for her cell phone, this time finding it. As she’d guessed, the battery was dead. “I didn’t receive his call. I’m not too good with technical things and”—­she dropped the phone back into her bag—­“it looks like I forgot to recharge my phone.”

  “No matter. You’re here now.” Wee Hughie sat back and took a sip of his ale. “Though I’m no longer sure this is a good place for us to speak.” He glanced at the table where Margaret and John were still eyeing them, the woman all smiles and full of fanlike devotion. “If you don’t mind leaving with me, I know just the place we can speak in
privacy.”

  “Of course.” If Zack was involved, she had little choice.

  She just hoped the Highland Storyweaver hadn’t been sent to inform her she’d been fired. And a short while later, as they left the Laughing Gull together, the stares of Janet, Iain, and everyone else in the pub following them, she also hoped word of her assignation with the pompous Highland author and historian didn’t reach Graeme’s ears.

  It was a shame she knew it would.

  “We’ll stop here for a walk along the shore.” Wee Hughie drew his Heritage Tours minivan to halt right across the road from the Keel. “There’s a small cave in the cliff here where we’ll be sheltered from the wind. And”—­he was already opening the vehicle’s door—­“any curious glances.”

  “That’s great.” It was horrible.

  Kendra wanted to disappear. It’d taken all of two minutes for the drive from the Laughing Gull to here, and in that short span of time, her world had tilted out of whack and was threatening to implode.

  She just hoped Graeme wasn’t home.

  He’d said he’d be dealing with Ramsay, and the cottage did look empty.

  It certainly was quiet. No lights shone in the windows although the day had turned dark, with a light drizzle falling and mist rolling in from the sea.

  Even so, her legs felt rubbery as she slid out of the minivan and followed Wee Hughie the few feet to the sliver of shingled beach across from Graeme’s cottage. They passed a picnic table that stood before the cave’s mouth and then, much to her relief, nipped inside the nichelike opening in the rock face.

  “This is better.” Wee Hughie clasped his hands behind him, gazing out at the breakers rolling into Pennard Bay. “We won’t be disturbed here. And”—­he glanced at her—­“this is more appropriate to Scotland’s Past’s concerns. They’re troubled about goings-­on at sea.”

  “Just how well do you know Zack?” Kendra wasn’t ready to speak openly.

  Not until she knew what the author wanted.

  “I don’t know him personally, only by phone and reputation.” He turned to her, pulling a small notebook from his pocket. He wet his thumb and then flipped through the pages, finally glancing back up at her. “My work for Scotland’s Past is similar to yours, although I don’t see and speak to spirits. They employ me for my knowledge of Scottish folklore and myth. As you’ll know, that includes a great deal of otherworldliness, including ghosts.”