by Hazel Hunter
“I don’t know why I feel like this,” she told David as he climbed in behind the wheel. She swiped at the sweat on her brow and grimaced. “Maybe I should see a doctor.”
“Take a nap while I drive,” he suggested. “If you still feel sick when we get to Monterey, we’ll call your family doctor, and have him come out to the house.”
Rachel hated making a fuss, so she nodded. “All right. Thanks for understanding.”
He started the engine and grinned at her. “Thank you, my darling, for not jilting me. You just made me one of the richest men in the world.”
She forced a laugh, but he sounded almost as if he were gloating.
“So the truth finally comes out,” she said. “You married me for my money.”
“I married you,” he corrected her, wagging a finger, “not your inheritance.” She noticed the sunlight glinting from his wedding band. “If you like, when we get back you can donate your billions to the homeless. We’ll live off my income, which should keep you in Chanel, as long as you shop at the outlets.”
His obvious amusement made her feel a little better. “Okay.”
Rachel settled back in her seat and watched as he drove through the city to the interstate. When he switched on some of the classic music he liked, she closed her eyes. Nightmares about Avalon burning had turned her into an insomniac, but now she felt as if the horror was at last coming to an end. A moment later she drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Sometime later the feel of the car stopping woke her. She felt a little confused when she looked out and saw the setting sun streaming through a grove of massive oaks.
“This isn’t Monterey,” she said smothering a yawn.
“We’re in Los Padres,” David told her as he unclipped her seat belt before he climbed out of the car and came around to open her door.
Rachel shouldered her purse and got out, but was shocked by how unsteady her legs felt.
“Oh, I still don’t feel very well.”
“Take my arm,” David said and guided her into the grove. “That’s it. You just need some food and fresh air, which is why we’re having a picnic.”
She frowned as she spotted the red and white checked cloth on the ground, and the big picnic hamper beside it.
“Who set this up?”
“That would be me,” David admitted. “I lied about going to the club this morning. I came here instead to arrange everything. I had to do this, Rache. After all, this is the best day of my life.”
Vague memories of chasing butterflies through a meadow came back to Rachel. As she and David moved through the dappled light cascading down through the old oaks she saw one crooked limb forming an arch, and finally recognized the place.
“This was my parents’ favorite picnic spot when I was a little girl,” she said, turning toward her husband. “How did you know about it?”
“Your father told me,” David said, and tugged her to a stop just before they reached the picnic basket. “He wanted me to bring you here when I was ready to propose, but I decided to save it for a bigger surprise. Now close your eyes, and don’t move.”
A sudden, inexplicable apprehension shivered through her, but Rachel ignored it and dutifully obeyed him.
“Should I guess what the surprise is?”
“You’ll never be able to do that,” he assured her, his voice moving away from her.
Rachel’s head felt a little clearer now, and some of what he’d told her wasn’t making much sense. Her father hadn’t been especially fond of David, and more than once before he’d died had advised her not to rush into anything with him. So why would he suggest David propose to her at all, much less at such a private family spot? And why was her skin now crawling with goosebumps?
“When did you and my dad talk about this?” she asked.
“It was the day I asked for his permission to marry you.” David’s footsteps shuffled through the grass as he returned to stand behind her. “He didn’t say yes, if you’re wondering. He never liked me very much. I have to admit, that always rankled a bit. Parents usually love me.”
“He was just being an over-protective father, I guess.” She swayed a little on her feet. “So what’s the big surprise?”
“Something you never once suspected, I’m happy to say.” His hand ran from her nape to a spot between her shoulder blades, and stopped to press against a space in her spine. “Okay, here it is.”
Rachel’s eyes flew open as something long and sharp rammed into her back and skewered her. She screamed as everything below her ribs went completely dead. David gave her a hard shove onto the checked cloth, which fell with her into the ground, and then yanked the cloth out from under her, turning her face-up in the shallow pit.
“David, I can’t move.” Rachel felt as if she had shrieked the words, but they sounded slurred and choked. She couldn’t understand why he just stood there watching her. “Please, help me.”
“You can’t move because your spinal cord is severed.” Her husband neatly folded the tablecloth as he looked down at her, his expression serene. “You still don’t get it, do you? God, you’re a complete dupe. I stabbed you in the back, Rachel. I’m murdering you.” He chuckled, shook his head, and moved out of her sight.
As her chest hitched Rachel stared up at the black, twisted branches of the grove’s canopy. He’d come here this morning. He’d planned this. Everything he’d said and done had been to bring her here and do this. The man she loved had never loved her. This was the reason she’d never been able to pick up on his emotions. He didn’t have any that were real.
She’d married a psychopath.
The sound of a trunk slamming shut made her peer at the edge of the pit. David appeared a minute later holding a large shovel.
“You really had me sweating when you tried to back out this morning, you know,” he said, smiling. “I’m glad I talked you out of that. Now, I’m not sure if you’ll smother before you bleed out, but either way, I don’t care. I only need you dead.”
She didn’t have to ask him why. Of course it was her money. A knot of agony tightened inside her lungs. It was hard to breathe, and her numb body chilled as if she were already dead. Clots of dirt landed on top of her as he began filling in the pit. Rachel dragged in as much air as she could.
“How could you…do this?”
“Jesus, how could I not?” he countered cheerfully. “My gambling debts have grown rather mountainous, and the showgirl I’ve been screwing in Vegas got pregnant and is suing me for child support. My father threatened to disown me if I didn’t find a rich wife to bail me out. Did you know he told me all about you, the sweet, shy heiress to billions? Babe, you were practically begging to make me an insanely wealthy widower.”
“They’ll know…you did it,” she told him, and choked as the next shovelful landed on her face. “Paul…will tell.”
“Dad won’t say a word, and they’re never going to find your body, you idiotic twat.”
He stopped shoveling and knelt down to remove her shoes, and then wrenched off her wedding ring. She couldn’t feel his touch, for which she was grateful.
“Why…not?”
“I thought about using fire again, but they’ll never look for you here. Tonight I’ll make it look like you drowned while you were swimming at the beach house, and the currents swept away your body.” He stood up. “I am sorry that I never fucked you, but as rough as I am in bed, I couldn’t risk it. Even with the drugs I’ve been giving you, you probably would have dumped me afterward.”
He sounded so smug but her shock and horror dwindled as she realized his mistake. He’d removed her ring but not the–
The pain deep inside her chest swelled, growing as hot as an open flame, and her heartbeat fluttered like a moth dashing itself against it.
“Smart,” she wheezed. The whistling sounds coming from deep in her chest. When they ended, so would she. “Hope it’s…worth it.”
“Please, just shut up and die,” David said, working faster
with the shovel.
The soil he mounded over her soon filled her eyes and nose and mouth, and Rachel stopped fighting it. Her lungs flattened, and her pulse slowed, and the iciness of her paralyzed body made her feel as if she had turned to stone. Inside her head she could see the oak grove, which seemed to be swirling into the shape of a tunnel.
Yearning flickered through her confused thoughts. Would she see her parents again? She didn’t care about David or what he had done anymore. She was ready to go to the next place. She didn’t know if it would be like heaven, or a new life, but she hoped it would be better than this. Anything would be.
A glowing light filled the whirling tunnel of leaves and arching branches, outlining the form of a tall man standing between two moons: one white, and the other black. The lethal-looking spear he held in his strong hand bent into the shape of a letter Z turned on its side. Over it his dark green eyes met hers, and somehow Rachel knew what he was thinking.
’Tis time. I’ve naught left to me, lass. I cannae go on pretending I do.
Images of a dark-haired woman poured into Rachel’s mind. Her body appeared first voluptuous, and then slowly grew thinner. Her pretty face tightened into a gaunt, worried mask, and then went ashen. The last image of her was in a bed surrounded by candles. Her lips were blistered and her face covered with open sores, her chest barely rising and falling before it went still.
The man came to kneel beside the bed, and buried his face in the dead woman’s sweat-dampened hair. A flood of despair and love poured into Rachel, and she finally understood. He had loved the woman, and he didn’t want to live without her.
No. She stretched out her hand to him. Wait. Don’t do it.
The dark-haired woman floated past her, and then the ground rose up and swallowed Rachel alive.
Chapter Three
OAK LEAVES RUSTLED in the cold wind as Evander Talorc made his way across the sacred grove. The moon had risen full and bright in the sky, silvering everything with its cool light, but he no longer cared if anyone saw him. As he approached the spot where he had buried the woman he had loved, nothing much concerned him.
He’d made his choice. This night his torment would end.
The ancient stones stood as if guarding the unmarked grave of Fiona Marphee. The Pritani designs carved on their weathered surfaces caught the moonlight and edged it with shadow. Like him, they had come into the world hard and cold, wrenched from the womb of the mother to be hewn and etched by powerful forces. He’d often thought if he’d stood still long enough he’d become one of them. That they would watch over his lady from this night on gave him a little solace.
“Fair evening, love,” Evander said as he bent to place the bouquet of white heather in the cool grass, and then straightened to watch the tiny petals shiver in the wind. “’Tis been weeks, I ken, but the roof wanted mending. That little owl has taken to the barn rafters again. I expect he’ll winter there. I left your gray with the man who bought the sheep farm. He’ll look after her. You were right about the gorse. They’ve crept up through your heather now.”
He’d bloodied his hands, trying to weed all of the prickly yellow blooms out of the flower beds she’d planted. He knew by the next moon the frost would come to take it all, but he couldn’t bear seeing the life choked out of her heather. Not when he’d watched his love do the same to Fiona.
Evander had risked everything to be with his mortal lover, turning his back on his duty and his clan to run away with her. They’d gone as far from the Isle of Skye as they could, first hiding in the lowlands near Aberbrothock before traveling to the eastern highlands near Wick. He’d scoured the lochs and rivers until he’d gathered enough gold nuggets to buy an old shepherd’s cottage in the mountains, a few miles above a small seaside village. The local mortals, most of whom were descended from Viking raiders, tolerated their infrequent visits to buy necessary goods. Evander in turn remained civil but watchful.
They’d taken the name Hunter, but in truth they were the hunted.
Despite his efforts to make Fiona feel safe, she had fretted and worried every day about their future. Since their escape she had been convinced that they would be pursued, captured, and executed for what they had done. Every noise made her flinch. Every visitor sent her into a panic. Yet in the end their enemies never found them.
Death did.
There had been no warning that sickness had struck the old shepherd’s farm. Fiona only went there every few months to buy wool for her weaving, which she made into the blankets and coverlets that Evander took into town to sell. He always went with her, but for some reason on her final trip she’d waited until he went hunting before going alone. He’d heard her screaming, and rushed back to the cottage to find her filthy and hysterical.
“They’re all dead, even the bairns,” she’d sobbed against his chest. “I tripped and fell on the shepherd’s wife. The pox had eaten away her face–” She tore at the front of her gown. “Take this off me. She’s all over it.”
Evander had stripped her and scrubbed her clean, and for more than a week after that Fiona seemed well. His hope ended when he woke one morning to find her thrashing beside him, and saw the tell-tale dimpled lesions covering her arms and face. He’d wiped down her hot body and coaxed her into swallowing some broth, and lay with her until she came to her senses.
“I’m done for now, lad,” she said, her lovely eyes clouded by fever.
“’Tis no’ always so bad,” Evander said. But he knew if she survived she would be badly disfigured. It didn’t matter to him. She had become his whole world, and without her he would have nothing left. He would be nothing. “You’re young and strong, sweetheart, and I’ll look after you.”
“You still dinnae ken,” she muttered, and then rested one thin hand against his cheek. “The gods are taking me, and freeing you. ’Tis how it should end, Evander.”
“Now you’re talking daft,” he said and brushed the hair back from her pocked brow. “You’ll survive this. You’ve been through worse.”
“When I’m gone, put me in the grove,” Fiona said and closed her eyes. “The gods will forgive what I’ve done if you give me to the oaks. I want to sleep with them.”
“No,” he said and pressed her hand to his mouth. “Stay with me. Let my love be your strength.”
She shook her head. “You were ever my weakness.”
In the end his love and care had done nothing for her. The plague had ravaged her body before it had filled her lungs and choked the breath from her three days later. He’d left her for a moment to fetch water, and when he returned she’d gone. At times he wondered if she’d waited for him to leave so she could die without him watching it.
It had been almost six months now, and grief no longer stabbed him in the heart when he paid a visit to her grave. In the beginning he came every week to sit with her, and talk of how well her garden was growing, and the improvements he had made to their little cottage. Sometimes he stretched out beside her and simply looked up at the stars. But each time he returned to the grove he felt his heart grow heavier. Fiona could not hear him, and she was never coming back. When he spoke, it was only his ears that heard him. The days and nights he spent at the cottage had begun to blur together, while the world around him seemed to be graying and flattening. Everything he forced himself to eat tasted the same. He’d even tried getting drunk, but after half a jug of whiskey he’d only felt numb.
Evander could no longer bear his loneliness.
It should stop now, this miserable immortal existence of his. The finality of it made a darkness swell in his heart. He had been angry and foolish, and he had betrayed the men who had given him a home and purpose. Fiona was gone, and the gods would never offer him another chance of happiness. Whatever rewards awaited in the afterlife, none had been saved for him. He fully expected to be damned to oblivion.
“’Tis time,” he murmured. “I’ve naught left to me, lass. I cannae go on pretending I do. I mean to hunt the undead, and kill as many as
I may before they take me.” Dying that way, in battle, was the only honorable way to end his life. It would also give him the chance to do a little good before he went. “I am no’ sorry I loved you. You made me a better man, Fiona. Be at rest now, lass.”
Beneath his tunic the ink of his war spirit woke, but for the first time since he had been inked it did not fill him with anger and blood lust. Instead it pulled at him, as if it meant to drag him to the ground. He glanced down.
Dirt fell away from a slender hand pushing up out of the ground, the fingers clawing at the air.
“Fiona.”
Evander fell to his knees, gouging at the soil around the hand until he exposed an arm, and then a shoulder, and uncovered a face. Frantically he wiped the dirt away, stilling as he realized the features were not Fiona’s. This woman had an angular face and a squared jaw, and her brows arched over large, thickly-lashed eyes.
A howl of rage rose in his throat, that the gods would be so cruel to give him such hope, and then such crushing desolation.
“Please,” she gasped.
Eyes so dark they looked like black pearls opened and stared up at him, reflecting everything he felt. Earth soiled every inch of her, and she smelled of rot. Yet when her blackened hand clutched at his, it tore at his heart. Someone had done this sickening thing to her, and it had not been the gods.
“I have you,” he said.
He worked his arms under her, and dragged her up, freeing her from her grave. He did what he could to brush away the soil from her strange white garments. Her skirt must have been hacked off her, exposing legs clad in hose so thin it looked to be spun from spider web. She wore no shoes, but she smelled of roses and earth now.
As he placed her on her feet she turned, revealing the back of her clothes had been soaked with fresh blood—so much that he could hardly believe she yet lived.
“Be still,” he said. “You are injured.”
“I’m not,” she said but looked down at her legs and then at Evander. “I can move. I’m not dead.” Her brows drew together. “I should be dead.”
