by Candace Sams
"I take it you were a close friend of the deceased?" the officer asked.
"Yes, I was. And his name was Ned Williamson." Heather spoke harshly through her tears. Ned wasn't just a lifeless body, a deceased. He was a human being.
"Could you tell us when you last saw him?"
"I left late last night. Ned walked me to my car. It was about 9:30."
"Did you notice anything unusual or hear any strange noises before you left the building?"
"No. Everything was like it always was. Ned walked me to my car, which was parked right over there." Heather pointed toward a large oak tree. "He stood right there and said good night and told me he'd see me in the..." Heather's voice trailed away.
"If I can get your name, address and phone number, we'll contact you when you're more able to talk. We might need to get a statement from you." Dayton proceeded to write down the requisite information Heather gave, then continued. "Right now, I'll be working inside the building. Sorry about the inconvenience, but it's necessary if we're going to find out what happened last night. Let me know later if there's anything valuable missing. As yet, we don't have a motive for his death."
"We'll be in touch if anything's missing," Niall responded for Heather.
Heather would have normally resented Niall's answering for her. But all she could think of was the friend she had lost. Why should such a thing happen to a kindly old man who had never hurt anyone?
***
Three days later, Niall and Heather were unpacking crates when he paused, looked up and caught sight of Heather's face. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she seemed unusually distracted. "Honey, if you don't mind my saying so, you look like hell. Haven't you been sleeping well?"
"No," was all Heather could say. She looked around at the musty boxes she'd spent all morning unpacking. Excelsior and foam packing material lay everywhere, and a faint odor of peat and earth pervaded the shipping and receiving room. The fluorescent lighting in her work area made the Celtic artifacts look hideously grey. Just like her mood.
"It was a good thing Professor McPherson asked the Board of Directors to close the museum for a few days. Our new Celtic exhibit will be opening soon, and the publicity from this murder won't sit well with our investors and the Board of Directors." Niall idly picked up a small Celtic cross which had been chiseled from marble.
Heather audibly gasped. "Is that all you can think about? A man is dead."
"Darling, I'm well aware of that," Niall spoke to her as if she were stupid. "But there's nothing anyone can do about the murder. The man is dead and life has to go on. Williamson would have wanted it that way. He loved working at the museum and wouldn't have wanted to see our work hindered." He patted her arm in a condescending manner. "By closing for a few days, the police have more time to investigate the crime scene, and we have more time to defuse the situation with the people who make our work possible. Remember, without the big bucks, none of us does any research nor do we acquire any new artifacts."
"You know, Niall, sometimes you can be the biggest ass!" Heather declared.
"I'm going to ignore that in light of your emotional condition over Williamson's death. You'll see reason soon enough when you get back into your research."
"Ned. His name was Ned!" Heather insisted. "And where were the people with the big bucks when the coroner released his body for the funeral? Ned worked here for years. Did they even send flowers or contact the family?"
"Sweetheart, it's late, you're overwrought and you should go home and get some rest."
"You're right, Niall, I'm overwrought and I'm going home. But do me a favor."
"Yes?"
"Don't ever call me sweetheart again. I've just about had it with the possessive crap!"
"Again, I'm going to make allowances for your behavior because of your emotions," Niall patronizingly soothed. "You've worked too hard today on Angus's latest shipments. You should have knocked off earlier and let me finish the inventory."
"That detective told me that Ned was killed upstairs where we were working. I don't know how anyone could have gotten inside that area. The police found the outside doors locked."
"You're dwelling on this too much, Heather. You're going to make yourself ill over it. From now on, we'll work together if we have to stay late. Hopefully, the new security people will be able to take care of the situation. Don't worry about anything. Williamson, that is, Ned, wouldn't have wanted that."
"McPherson hasn't had much to say about all of this," Heather muttered.
"He's as shocked as you are, darling. Now, go home and get some sleep."
Heather put down the piece of stone she'd been holding, grabbed her coat off a nearby rack and walked out of the building. Niall followed her to the parking lot, talking the entire time. As she got in her car and drove away, she thought of the many women in every department of the museum who would give years off their lives if Niall would glance their way. His tall, Nordic looks made women drool, but Heather was finding his personality cloying and obnoxious.
***
From the night shadows beneath the trees, Gryph watched the blond man walk back into the museum. He'd heard enough to know he'd come to the right place. Gryph was dismayed to find that the headlines in the newspapers had neither shocked nor frightened the hard city dwellers around him. The news reported that a man had been slain and insinuated the murder was animalistic. People commented on the death as if it were just one more breakfast topic before starting another day filled with plodding sameness. The only voice of humanity came from the woman in the parking lot. She spoke softly of her dead friend, and her voice lingered on the night air. Her long brown hair drifted with the autumn breeze. She wasn't as tall as most of the women he knew. Despite the bulky coat she wore, he could see she was slender and walked with a grace Fairies would envy. She lifted her face to the sky, and he saw her profile. It looked like one he'd once seen on a cameo. A small, slightly turned up nose wrinkled when she smelled cooking from a nearby diner. Her lips were pink and full. But when he heard her mention McPherson, all these thoughts fled. That name prompted him to action.
He couldn't go into the museum without knowing where to look. The building was monstrously large. According to her conversation, the woman had been performing an inventory of McPherson's latest shipments, so Gryph would seek her out. Stepping deeper into the darkness, he quickly stripped off his clothing and placed his things into the large leather bag he carried. This he tied loosely around his neck. He then fell to one knee and willed the change. As always, he saw the familiar glittering lights before his eyes and felt his body go numb. Then his flesh altered and grew. His limbs became thick enough to hold the massive weight of his new form, and feathers took the place of flesh. Fur melded to him where feathers would not. Wings unfolded between his shoulder blades, and the call of a bird of prey took the place of his voice. He spread his wings to the night sky, but was unconcerned about catching the car the woman drove. No matter how fast a car could be driven, a mythical beast could fly faster.
THREE
Heather stepped into a hot shower and tried to relax. She was more tired than she could ever remember being. Besides mourning the loss of her friend, she'd thrown herself into classifying the artifacts Professor McPherson and Niall had helped dig out of their various crates. It amazed her how much Angus had been able to obtain. Some of the pieces were very old and brittle. All of them were listed as having been recovered from approved sites within Britain, Scotland and Ireland.
After the shower turned cold, she towel dried her hair, turned out the lights and slipped into bed. The familiar site of filled bookshelves, Celtic figurines and neat stacks of papers comforted her. The apartment was a small duplication of her office space but, with a few vases of chrysanthemums and some pictures of famous European ruins hanging on the walls, it was home. She only had to take a few steps to enter the utilitarian kitchenette and living room. The main attraction to the place had been a patio with a wonderful view of
the New York skyline.
A warm cup of tea would be wonderful, but she was simply too tired to throw off the cozy blanket and turn on the tiny gas stove. The autumn wind must have picked up. Just before she fell asleep, she heard what she took to be a branch from the nearby trees scrape against the roof.
Gryph waited on the gravel roof for some time. He changed back into human form, untied the leather bag from around his neck and, except for his shirt, quickly redressed. The sight of him needed to be impressive enough to frighten information out of his prey. And there was nothing he could think of that might frighten her more than awakening to a half-clothed intruder. It would leave her thinking the rest of his clothing would come off if she didn't cooperate. Something deep inside him abhorred treating anyone so vilely, but he wanted this thing done and over.
Leaving the bag on the rooftop, he lightly pounced onto the patio. The lights from within went out. Again, he waited He had made sure the woman had entered this particular apartment. Years of honing his skills would never let him make the mistake of entering the wrong place, especially not when his survival depended on such stealth. Creeping silently through the tiny living room and into the bedroom, he made his way through the clutter. The Lilliputian space directly contrasted to the cavernous abbey rum and lush forest he inhabited. Books were everywhere. Small Celtic objects littered spaces not reserved for books. Despite the darkness, he could see the furnishings were mismatched pieces better suited to comfort than appearance. He wondered if any of the things displayed were the stolen artifacts from the burial mound. As he approached the bed where the woman slept, his vision adjusted, and he found the outline of her slender form. Quietly, he knelt by the bed and very slowly and deliberately placed his hand over her mouth
Heather felt warmth close over the lower portion of her face. She instantly came awake, tried to fight, but found herself pulled against an enormous warm body. The first thoughts to careen through her startled brain were those of being raped and murdered.
"Don't fight," a deep voice whispered into her ear. "I won't harm you. All I want is information. Answer my questions, and I'll leave as quickly as I came."
The low, lilting accent frightened Heather more than anything else m her life. She remained frozen, her back against her attacker's form. Her heart pounded so loudly that it threatened to drown out the sound of that deep, masculine voice. Sweat suddenly beaded on her body, and her hands shook so much she knew he had to feel it.
"If you promise not to cry out," he spoke, "I'll take my hand away. If you make any sound other than in answer to my questions, you'll regret it. Do you understand?"
She had heard that sometimes it was best to humor an attacker to give yourself time. She would do her best to see his face so she could tell the police later. If she were fortunate enough to have a later.
Heather nodded. The man slowly lowered his hand, but only to cradle her jaw with it.
"Now, tell me where Angus McPherson placed the items he took from Ireland."
When Heather didn't speak right away, the man pulled her closer to him. The back of her head rested against his left shoulder.
"Talk!" he commanded. "I don't have time for any histrionics."
Her fresh, clean scent drifted up to Gryphon as he held her. He could feel her trembling and attempted to discard himself of pity and of the warmth her body radiated. I must stick to the task at hand. She's nothing but an outsider.
"He... he...put the crates on the top floor of the museum...the west wing," Heather whispered.
"There are guards?"
"Yes. But, you know that. You killed Ned, didn't you?" Having foolishly said the words, Heather was sure he would kill her as well. This man wouldn't leave any more witnesses than had been present when Ned died.
"If I had killed the guard, why would I promise not to harm you? Why wouldn't I just break your neck and have done with it?"
"Maybe...m-maybe you murdered him because he couldn't tell you what you want to know. Whatever it is you want, you think I can help you get it. Then, you'll k-kill me, too."
"I did not kill the guard, little fool. And I would never harm a woman!" Contempt colored his voice. Why was he even wasting time justifying his actions? That angered him. He didn't owe this woman anything. Still, he had to have her help. Even if that meant terrorizing her into giving it. “It's my guess that whoever stole the ancient belongings from my people committed the murder."
"Stole?" Heather's breath was coming in gasps.
"McPherson took objects he had no right to. Among those things he stole were a set of three large rune stones. They're Irish ancestral symbols and don't belong here. They must be returned."
"Are you accusing Professor McPherson of murder?" Heather's eyes grew wide.
"Why not? I know he's a thief."
"As far as I know, there are no rune stones in the crates." Panic and increasing terror made her start to babble. "I've told you everything I know. I-I haven't seen your face, so it would be impossible for me to tell the police what you look like. D-Don't kill me!"
Slowly, he dropped his hands from her shoulder and jaw and turned her to face him. "I'll say it again, I killed no one. I'm here to recover stolen pieces of history, objects that were taken through the desecration of burial sites. McPherson didn't have permission to do what he did. Because of him, your friend died. Others may be hurt or killed if the items aren't returned."
The massive hands holding her belonged to the biggest man Heather had ever seen. His chest was bare and, even in the moonlight from the window, she had no trouble discerning every muscle in his well-formed body. He had on dark leather pants, and his black hair fell well below his shoulders. His jaw line was square and strong. There was no spare flesh stretched across his bare torso, which looked as if it would be deeply tanned if she could see it in the light.
As if he could read her thoughts, he reached beside the bed and boldly switched on the lamp. She gasped, turning her head from the sudden brightness. Once her eyes adjusted to the light, she looked toward her captor. His eyes were the darkest onyx she had ever seen. Small strands of his hair had been braided along both sides of his face. Her academic mind immediately registered the significance. Celtic warrior braids. Heather could see lines of what she knew were Celtic knots tattooed around the biceps of his Herculean arms. His face was perfection. He had features like those she'd seen carved into Grecian statues. His nose was straight over brooding, full lips. She only had a glimpse of straight white teeth. But his eyes were what captured her. It was as if they were filled with magic. They compelled her to look into their black depths and tell him everything he wanted to know. He spoke again, but the words didn't register. Muscle loomed from every plane and angle. This was a man who could kill with very little effort. There was no pity, no mercy in his expression.
Gryphon felt stunned. What he'd seen of this woman in the museum parking lot did not do her justice up close. She had the most beautiful silver-blue eyes he had ever seen. Even the lovely, ethereal Sylphs, with their ice-colored stares, couldn't match this color. It riveted him into looking deep within her gaze. Her skin was clear and glowed with health. A hint of freckles scattered across her straight nose, and her lips were soft and trembling. Her long, nut-brown hair fell from a side part to just past her shoulders. Golden highlights captured the glow from the lamp. The ends curled temptingly close to the tips of small but full breasts. And the bed clothing revealed she wore nothing more than the blanket separating them.
"I won't harm you, Heather," he spoke slowly. "I didn't kill your friend. I only want your help."
"How do you...h-how do you know my name?" she stuttered. "And how did you know Ned was my friend?"
"The night listens."
"That's a pretty cryptic answer, Mister. Why have you come here? You could have come to the museum to see me. If you believe someone has stolen something that belongs to you, you can go to the law..."
"No," he interrupted, "I can't draw attention to myself or the i
tems I seek. They belong to my people, not to me. The person who killed the guard will kill again to keep the stones."
"What makes you think Ned's death has anything at all to do with Professor McPherson's acquisitions?"
"If your newspapers are to be believed, I know the manner of his death. Such a demise can only come from someone who's misusing an ancient power. More than this, I can't explain."
"Who are you?"
"To you, I'm but a dream in the night. To those who do wrong by my people and harm others through deceit, I'm a
nightmare."
"I don't understand..."
"Help me recover what was stolen. No harm will come to you or anyone else if I can quickly take back those stones."
"And if you can't find what you're looking for?" Heather asked.
"I’ll accomplish what I came to do. One way or another."
"We have laws..."
"Your laws can't hold a myth. They don't protect me, so they don't apply to me. They can't control an ancient power."
"A what? What myth? Which power? I don't understand," Heather blurted.
Gryph switched the bedside lamp back off. "Sleep. And be careful, Heather. Don't act in haste tomorrow and ask the wrong questions of McPherson." He stood and allowed himself the luxury of sliding his hands gently off her soft shoulders. "If he knows someone has become aware of his thievery, he may panic and hurt you. That may have been what happened to your friend. The guard may have been in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"If you knew the Professor, you'd know he couldn't hurt anyone" Heather declared loyally.
"Be that as it may, take precautions." He didn't want his mission jeopardized by this woman's behavior. He wished for the umpteenth time that he hadn't had to approach her at all. It only added complications to an already monumental task.
He vanished as suddenly as he had appeared. Heather began to shake violently. Petrified, she waited in the darkness for what seemed an eternity. Then, carefully standing, she made her way to the living room without turning on any lights and checked around. The front door was still dead bolted from the inside. The French door to the balcony was also secure. She was turning away from the door when something caught her eye. She thought she saw a distant, indiscernible shape fly across the moon. Heather began to doubt her sanity. Maybe she was more tired and upset about Ned's death than she realized.
