Kilty Pack One

by Amy Vansant

  They didn’t share the same body type. Fiona might have been telling the truth about Catriona taking after their mother and she favoring their father. Catriona wasn’t sure she could fit her arm into the leg of Fiona’s jeans.

  She thrust forward the wad of mail given to her by Fiona’s landlords. “The people from your rented house wanted you to have these.”

  Fiona took the mail and strolled toward her apartment as she shuffled through the pile. She pushed the door open with her foot and walked inside, leaving the door open behind her.

  Catriona rolled her eyes. Too much effort to ask me to follow? I’m just supposed to waddle along behind her like a dog, I guess.

  She followed Fiona inside to find the old world charm had stopped at the elevator. Fiona’s white and gray modern décor led to a wall of glass overlooking the Parasol Pictures lot. Catriona scanned the view until she spotted her own building. The light wasn’t right in the late afternoon, but at night Fiona could see directly into her lit apartment. She was sure.

  “That was one of the selling points,” said Fiona, tossing the mail onto the long expanse of marble stretching across her kitchen island. “Views of Parasol Pictures’ lot.”

  “Little cozy for an estranged family like ours, isn’t it?”

  Fiona shrugged. “Aw. I thought you’d be flattered.”

  Catriona swallowed, taking a moment to find her center. Fiona was already doing that thing—making her feel off-balance, teasing, ever implying she knew more about Catriona’s life than she did. She felt like a wounded bird and Fiona, the cat, seemed eager to play.

  She needed to shift the focus to something a little less on Fiona’s turf.

  “I’m here to ask you about Jessie Walker.”

  In a low whisper, Fiona repeated the name several times as she walked around her apartment, dragging her finger along chair backs as if in thought.

  “Not ringing a bell.”

  “Makeup artist. She worked for Parasol but moonlighted. She was assigned to you when you filmed Camping Under the Stars.” Catriona found it hard not to groan as she said the name of the program. Camping pushed C-to-F-list actors on adventure excursions, where they fell in and out of various love triangles. The Under the Stars part was blatant sexual innuendo, though she didn’t know which stars Fiona had found herself beneath.

  “Oh, Jessie. Right. I never knew her last name.”

  “Understandable. You must have a lot on your mind. That’s the kind of show where careers go to die, after all.”

  Ha! Take that. Nailed it.

  Catriona tried not to smirk.

  She hoped to find Fiona reeling from the blow of her caustic wit, but her sister only seemed to grow more amused.

  “It pays the bills.”

  Catriona scanned the apartment.

  Clearly.

  Fiona continued. “Actually, my little stint in jail has garnered me quite a bit of new interest. I might be writing a book about my ordeal.”

  “Fantastic. Tell me about Jessie.”

  Fiona shrugged. “What about her? She made me look dewy-fresh in the forest. That’s all I needed her to do. What’s your interest in her?”

  Catriona considered how much she should share. “She’s a person of interest in an investigation.”

  Fiona laughed. “You sound like a real cop. An investigation into what? Studio crimes? Tell me what happened.”

  Before Catriona could sort through what information she wanted to share, Fiona gasped.

  “Timmy Grey? Is it that? Or, wait, no, the murder. Colin Layne and the girl under the house. Is she involved with that?”

  Fiona’s eyes were sparking with what looked like excitement—as if each of the tragedies were lava cakes, their hidden fonts of chocolate oozing just for her.

  “How do you know about all of that?”

  Fiona whistled. “I keep up with the news. Things have been a little hot at Parasol over the last twenty-four hours, haven’t they?”

  Catriona refused to rise to the bait. “Did Jessie ever mention to you she was angry at anyone?”

  Fiona shrugged. “No. I don’t know that I ever said a word to her.” She leaned against her sofa. “Is that what you came to ask me?”

  Catriona glanced out the window at her apartment. “Yes. If that’s all you have to say about Jessie. If I think of anything else I’ll be sure to wave at you from my window.”

  Fiona grinned. “I’ll be watching.”

  Catriona clenched her fists, digging her fingernails into her palms. She wanted to grab the smirking minx and make her answer her questions.

  She needed to leave.

  She turned and walked toward the door. Hand on the knob, she paused.

  “You said our father would find us if we were near each other.”

  “Mm hm.”

  Catriona turned. “Is that why you moved closer to me?”

  Fiona smiled. “Now why would I want him to find us?”

  Catriona gritted her teeth, but the words spat from her lips before she could stop them.

  “Brochan remembers you, you know. He remembers telling you to leave him alone when your sorry ass tried to seduce him.”

  Catriona hadn’t wanted to mention Broch, but she found it hard to regret it. For the first time, the smirk dropped from Fiona’s face.

  “There’s more to that story.” Fiona took a few steps forward, her body trembling with anger. “Tell him to think on that a little longer.”

  Fiona reached out and poked Catriona just above her left hip.

  Catriona flinched and instinctively slapped away Fiona’s hand. She felt her eyes flash with anger, and Fiona recoiled with what looked like fear.

  Catriona huffed a laugh. “I’ll catch up with you later, Sis.”

  Fiona responded with a mirthless smile of her own. “I’ll be here.”

  Catriona left, pulling the door behind her with a little more force than necessary. The elevator’s charms were lost to her on the way to the lobby. She slapped her key on the desk of the attendant, shocking the smug look from his face and stormed toward the exit. Catching the eye of the doorman, she slowed her roll and stopped to speak with him.

  “Have you worked here long?” she asked.

  “Since it opened last year.”

  The man’s gentle demeanor helped Catriona check her wrath. It wasn’t fair of her to take her anger out on the old man. She took a deep inhale and let it out slowly before continuing.

  “I have a question for you. I love my sister’s place. She just bought fifteen-oh-one. Is there any trick to how I can get myself an apartment here? Do they ever come up for sale?’

  The man shook his head, chuckling. “No, ma’am. She got lucky with that one, even if someone else didn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Gregory Pitkin lived there.”

  Catriona frowned. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  The man’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s the guy who just shot up his ex-wife and then killed himself. She lived, thank god. She put his place here up for sale a week later.”

  “And Fiona jumped on it.”

  “She more than jumped on it. She’d already put in a bid.”

  “What do you mean? You mean before he died?”

  He nodded. “Craziest thing. She came in a week earlier and said she’d visited that apartment and would love to buy it. Said if it ever came up, she’d be willing to pay...well...” He shuffled. “I shouldn’t tell you what she paid for it, but it was more than they probably would have gotten on the market.”

  “So I guess to get in all I have to do is guess who’s going to die next and throw too much money at it?”

  The man laughed. “That’s one way to do it.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Edinburgh, Scotland. 1833.

  The rope tightened around Brochan’s throat, jerking his body to an upright position. He fumbled for the noose, fingers digging into his flesh as he tried to pry it from h
is windpipe. A boot pressed the center of his back, ramming against spine, his attacker using leverage to choke him. A second rope looped around his wrist, pulling his fingers away from his throat and behind his back. A hand grasped his opposite wrist and pulled it to join his other. His arms were bound behind him as he gasped for air like a landed fish.

  The noose loosened and the black spots clouding Brochan’s vision cleared. Only then did he notice the figure in front of him.

  A woman in men’s leggings. She lit a lamp and smiled.

  Fiona.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said during your visit to the forest the other day,” she whispered, lowering to a squat to stare into his eyes. She maneuvered to his left to prevent him from kicking her.

  Brochan tried to speak, but the rope tightened, choking his words into a raspy squawk.

  A figure circled from behind him to stand near Fiona. Broch recognized Mathe and presumed he’d been the one to bind his hands. Judging by the size of the foot on his spine, he guessed Greer stood behind him, tugging the ends of the rope as if they were the reins of a runaway horse. He searched the shadows as best he could for the location of Harry, but could not find him. He guessed the chubby man had remained outside as a lookout.

  Fiona ran her nails from Broch’s temple to his chin, following the path of the scar there.

  “I wonder who gave you this,” she mumbled. She rested her fingers beneath his chin and stared into his eyes. “You said my sister died.”

  “Sister?” Broch croaked the word before Greer jerked on the rope to silence him once more.

  “Yes. I’m Fiona. My father’s favorite. It warmed my heart to hear he’d been calling Catriona by my name, but then, I took after his side of the family. Catriona favored Mama...” She leaned in to whisper in his ear. “She was more like you.”

  Mathe sneered and spat before commencing to wander the room, searching for anything of worth. He lifted a pot and several hooks fell from the rim, clattering to the floor.

  Brochan’s eyes darted to the left toward where his adoptive father slept in the back of the blacksmith shop. He didn’t want the old man to wake. Gone were the days when the strapping man might have battled the three intruders on some equal footing. If they never knew of his presence, the better. Luckily, in addition to growing weaker, the old man’s hearing had dwindled. The rattling pothooks might go unheard.

  Fiona turned to glare at Mathe as he gathered the hooks, and Greer gave Brochan’s noose a tug, no doubt in fear he’d use the distraction as a window of opportunity to escape.

  Mathe retreated to the corner of the room to lean against the wall as Fiona refocused on Brochan. She pressed her index finger to the middle of his forehead and traced down to the tip of his nose.

  “While we were in the forest I realized just how much like Catriona you are. I’d tried my best to sway you, but you resisted my charms. A common man wouldn’t have been able to do that.”

  Fiona pulled a knife from a scabbard on her side. It was a strange and beautiful serpentine blade, the side edged with multiple ripples, as if it were a small, portable river, ending in a deadly point. Brochan couldn’t help but think he’d like the chance to replicate it, should he live through the evening.

  “You said Catriona died. I didn’t think that was possible for our people. So I went to her lair and I dug her up. I found her bones.”

  Brochan lunged against his bindings and Greer jerked back, but not before he swallowed a great gulp of air. He strained against the rope, inching forward until his nose nearly touched Fiona’s. She didn’t move. She smiled, seemingly amused by his anger.

  Brochan felt the rope around his wrists loosen.

  Mathe doesn’t know how to tie a knot.

  He worked at the rope to free his hands, continuing to strain against the noose in order to distract Greer.

  Nearly there...

  His gasp of oxygen expended, Brochan again saw stars. He ceased straining and leaned back, hoping to find enough air to keep from blacking out. Unable to speak, he glared at Fiona, projecting his anger as best he could.

  “Ah’d hold still if ah wur ye,” Greer whispered in his ear. He smelled her sour breath and turned away his head. Fiona reached out and pulled his chin back to face her.

  “I saw Catriona dead, so I’ve come to visit you. You’ll be my experiment.”

  The moment she finished her sentence, Fiona thrust her curvy knife into Brochan’s lower abdomen.

  Broch felt the pop of his flesh give way to the point of her blade. Pain radiated from the wound into his chest and groin until his whole body felt aflame with agony.

  He jerked back. The noose loosened and he sucked a ragged gasp of air.

  Fiona glanced at Greer. “Release him. I need to finish this now.”

  The rope slipped from Brochan’s neck and Greer’s boot pushed him forward, shoving the blade deeper into his gut.

  With a quick jerk, Fiona retracted the knife from his body. Brochan knew immediately she’d served him no kindness by doing so. As that river-shaped blade flowed from him, so did his life.

  Fiona raised her arms into the air, the serpentine blade flashing in the lamplight.

  As she poised to slice open his throat, Broch realized her intentions.

  She wants tae see if ah kin die as Catriona did.

  With what little strength remained in his body, Broch jerked his right arm and his hand slipped loose from his bindings. He reached up to grab Fiona’s wrist, twisting the fragile joint as he pulled her across his legs.

  She cried out and dropped the blade.

  The rope that had been around his neck swept past Brochan’s field of vision as Greer attempted to regain the hold she’d had on him. He caught the rope with his left hand and jerked it away, his opposite hand still holding Fiona’s wrist as she writhed to free herself from his grasp.

  Tossing the rope aside, he grabbed the hilt of the wicked knife now lying on the ground. Arcing it behind his head, he felt the blade bite flesh. Greer yelped, scrambling back and away from him.

  On the opposite side of the room, Mathe came to life, grabbing for something on a table beside him. Brochan kicked Fiona off of him, launching her into the air. She struck her head on a large metal pot as she landed and collapsed into a heap.

  A renewed vigor pumping through his veins, Brochan jumped to his feet, roaring in pain as the knife wound in his lower abdomen demanded attention.

  A bottle of Scotch struck the stone wall behind him and exploded, covering him in alcohol and peppering him with glass.

  Broch and Mathe ran at each other and Broch connected a shattering blow to the man’s jaw. Mathe spun away, bouncing against the wall.

  The knife still in his other hand, Broch stepped forward to finish Mathe.

  A voice rang out behind him.

  “Stop noo or ah’ll kill him!”

  Broch turned to find Greer standing over his adopted father. The old man knelt at her feet, his once massive body withered and shaking. Greer held a plain, but no less deadly knife to his throat.

  It broke Brochan’s heart to see the man felled by a scrawny dirt mouse.

  Greer’s left hand held the old man by his hair, her blade pressed at his throat. Her arm bled from where Brochan had caught her with Fiona’s weapon.

  Brochan considered stalling, hoping loss of blood would soon drop Greer, but a glance at his own wound told him time was not his friend. A steady ooze ran from his belly, soaking the great kilt he’d neglected to remove before falling into bed that night. He’d been drinking with Gavin. It was why he hadn’t awoken until it was too late.

  The room spun and Brochan fell to his knees, his burst of energy expended.

  Less time than ah thought...

  Still cradling his jaw, Mathe scrambled forward. Brochan raised his blade and made a weak swipe at the man, but Mathe easily avoided him to shake Fiona awake. She moaned as Mathe jerked her to her feet and dragged her past Greer towards the door.

 
They were nearly gone when Fiona’s eyes sprang wide, her gaze locking on Brochan’s. She lunged, reaching for the Highlander with both hands. Mathe’s arms tightened around her waist, restraining her.

  “No. Stop. I have to kill him,” she said.

  Mathe wrestled to keep her still. “Shut it. We hae to gae. He’ll nae survive the wound.”

  She wailed. “No, you don’t understand, I have to kill him dead.”

  Mathe dragged Fiona from the room. Brochan’s attention shifted to Greer, who offered him one last snarl. His father remained on his knees, eyes closed. Greer bolted away from him and out the door.

  At first, Broch thought he’d imagined the motion of Greer’s blade beneath his father’s chin as she made her escape.

  Then a thin line of red appeared on the old man’s throat.

  Time seemed to slow.

  All at once, his father’s hands flew to his throat, as if jerked by strings.

  Blood spilled through his fingers.

  “Na!” Broch fell forward from his place wobbling on his knees, reaching for his father.

  Their eyes met for a moment and then the old man fell forward on his face, limp as a discarded marionette.

  “Na...na...” Broch dragged himself a few inches across the stone floor, his extremities failing him. Breath growing more shallow with every inhale, his gaze locked on his father’s wide, still eyes. His middle finger just reached the old man’s arm, and he used the tip of it to stroke the gray hair there, his eyelids growing heavy.

  The last thing he heard was a final wail from Fiona, outside the blacksmith shop.

  “I need to kill him dead.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Wake up. Ooh!”

  Broch opened his eyes to find himself sitting up in bed. Catriona stood beside him, and he followed her wide-eyed gaze to find his fingers wrapped around her wrist. Embarrassed, he released his grip as if she were scalding.

  “Ah’m sorry. Ah wis dreaming.”

  Catriona scowled, rubbing her wrist. “I know. I heard you screaming from next door. What happened?”

  Broch recalled his dream and dropped his head into his hand. “Fiona.”