by P. N. Elrod
"She's lonely."
"Tell Henry that."
Lucy held up her hand. "He and Mary have their time now. Time to make their own way." Time to finish what they had started, if such a thing was possible. To have their honeymoon, their marriage, their life.
Miss Lindsay murmured, "Patience. I told Henry—both of them—to have patience. They've been through so much. Neither is the person the other married. Not anymore." She glanced away, bitterness touching her mouth. "Is it wrong to wonder whether I should be happy for them?"
Lucy closed her eyes, savoring the warmth of Barnabus's hand. "Did you ever marry?"
Silence, long and deep. Finally, Miss Lindsay said, "A woman like me rarely does."
Lucy opened her eyes and gave her a questioning look. The woman sighed. "I'll tell you some other time, perhaps."
Some other time, Lucy thought. Like how you read minds? Or how sometimes you are a woman, and sometimes a crow?
Miss Lindsay stared at her, startled, and then laughed out loud.
"Yes," she said, still smiling. "Just like that."
But she never did. At least, not for a long while. One morning soon after, she approached Lucy and Barnabus as they were weeding the garden, and said, quite crisply, "I think I will go away for a time. There's a world beyond the wood, you know. I've been here my entire life, already."
"Yes," Lucy said, though she herself had no desire to go elsewhere. Barnabus put down his rake and regarded the older woman thoughtfully, with no small amount of compassion in his steady gaze. He nodded once, finally, and held out his arms. Miss Lindsay fell into them, hugging the young man so tightly, Lucy thought his bones might break. And then Miss Lindsay did the same for her, and she was quite certain that was indeed the case.
"Tend this place for me," whispered Miss Lindsay, her eyes glowing golden as the sun. "For all of us. We'll be back. And we might bring others. There is so much in this world I have yet to explain to you."
And then, with no shyness or hesitation, she did a shocking thing—stripping off all her clothes, right in front of them, with hardly more than a smile. Golden light covered her body. Feathers black as jet, thick and rich and hot, poured up from her skin and rippled like water. Lucy could not help but gasp; her knees buckled. Barnabus caught her, and she glanced at his face. He did not appear at all surprised by what he was seeing, and there was an appreciation in his gaze that was from the heart.
He nudged Lucy, gestured for her to look again—and she found Miss Lindsay shrinking, narrowing—until she was no longer a woman, but a crow.
A crow who stared at them with golden eyes—cawed once—and leapt into the air, followed by a flock of companions that shrieked and beat their wings in raucous sympathy.
Quite a sight. But it was not the last time Lucy ever witnessed it.
Time passed. Lucy and Barnabus did as Miss Lindsay asked—maintaining the house and land, as well as the cemetery—though they married soon after to keep local tongues from wagging. She kept the name of her birth, since Barnabus had none to give. Lucy Steele. They called their son William, who also, on occasion, exhibited peculiar talents.
And sometimes Lucy would take a book and sit on the edge of the woods, and read out loud. She never knew if the woman, the Sidhe queen, was listening, but she liked to think that the trees were, and that through them the immortal could hear another voice, speaking just for her.
It was a good life for Lucy and Barnabus, a happy life. A life together, a grand adventure, and one that lasted many moons, over many secret stories—each as sweet and golden as honey.
Marjorie M. Liu is an attorney who has lived and worked throughout Asia. She hails from both coasts, but currently resides in the Midwest, where she writes full-time. Her books include the New York Times—bestselling Dirk & Steele series of paranormal romances for Leisure, and her forthcoming Hunter Kiss urban fantasies from Ace Books.
You can discover more at her Web site: www.matjoriemliu.com.
CAT GOT YOUR TONGUE?
Katie MacAlister
Fans of the Dark Ones have long wondered what was up with Raphael St. John's amber eyes, and his skittishness around members of the Otherworld. Could there be more to him than was strictly human?
Chapter One
IT WASN'T UNTIL THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY, THOUGH, THAT life at Fyfe Castle took a dark turn.
"It did?" I glanced around the room. It was pretty dark even though the sun hadn't yet set, shadows seemingly smudged into the vast gray stone walls of the castle. Narrow window slits reluctantly allowed thin rays of Scottish sunlight to shoulder their way into the passage, but provided less illumination than the somewhat tattered electric candles which had been screwed into the stone wall. "Darker than this, you mean?"
The woman leading the way paused to look over her shoulder, her eyebrows raised. To be honest, I was encouraging her to talk just because her lilting Scottish accent sounded so delicious to my American ears. "Castle Fyfe has always had a dark and mysterious past. But when the seventh laird took ownership, all who lived here learned what fear truly was. He had a terrible temper, did Alec Summerton… Sir Alec he was then, later the earl of Seaton."
"That's the ghost you mentioned earlier?" I asked, waggling my eyebrows and tossing a lascivious grin to the man behind me.
Raphael rolled his eyes, and hoisted up the two suitcases, following as Fiona the castle hotelier started up the famed Fyfe staircase.
"Oh, no, the ghost isn't Sir Alec, although some say he does haunt the lower levels of the castle. Mind the ceiling just here, won't you, Mr. St. John? It's been the bane of many a tall man such as yourself. No, it isn't Sir Alec who is the best known ghost here, Mrs. St. John—it's his wife, Lily Summerton."
Raphael ducked to avoid a low beam as we marched up the stone staircase. Although I wasn't as tall as he was, at roughly six feet in height, even I had to bob my head to get through without braining myself. "Don't tell me—she's the Gray Lady?"
"Green, not gray," Fiona answered with a roll of her r's. She paused and gestured vaguely around. "This staircase was built in the early seventeen hundreds, in case you were wondering. It's known throughout Scotland as the finest example of its kind."
"I can see why." I waited until she continued up the stairs before waggling my eyebrows again at my husband. It had been a long train ride up to Scotland, and I was anxious to get to our room. "So, this ghost haunts the room we're staying in? Does she do anything in particular, or just float around and wring her hands while moaning about her lost love?"
"On the contrary—she says nothing, just appears briefly before people, gives them a searching glance, then sighs sadly, as if disappointed, and disappears into nothing."
"Sounds like a typical moody woman," Raphael muttered.
"Hush, male of the species. This is all very fascinating," I said, hoping Fiona would continue.
"Here's your suite." She threw open a modern-looking wooden door and escorted us into a bright room. "This was the laird's private suite. The later lairds, that is. It used to be Lily Summerton's room, in fact. The original laird's room was on the floor below it, but later lairds had their room moved up here after Sir Alec died. When the last Lord Seaton bequeathed the castle to the National Trust, it was decided to make his rooms available to the public. You'll have all the privacy you want, since these are the only rooms we let. The caretaker will be here, though, in case of emergency. His office is just off the tearoom, on the ground floor. The toilet is through that door. This is the sitting room, and to the right is the bedroom. I'll just make sure everything is proper…"
"Wow," I said, wide-eyed as I took in the heady scent of beeswax and antiques. The room was furnished as if the owner of a hundred years past had just stepped out of the room, with a few discreet nods to technology.
"Very nice," Raphael said, setting down the suitcases. "Worthy of a honeymoon?"
"Oh, yes. You think this stuff is real?" I asked in a low voice as I ran my fingers along the back of a
rosewood settee upholstered in blue-and-green crushed velvet.
"At the prices they're charging? They'd better be."
"Good thing we decided to leave the kidlet with Roxy, then. I'd hate to see what Zoe could do to this lovely room. Maybe I should just call to check—"
Raphael stopped me before I could pull my cell phone from my purse. "You called half an hour ago, Joy. I can't imagine that even Zoe could get into trouble that quickly."
I raised an eyebrow.
His lips curved in a rueful smile. "Well, all right, I can imagine it, but I'm sure Roxy has her well bribed with all sorts of sweets and promises of visits to the zoo for her to be behaving badly."
"I suppose," I said slowly, quelling maternal worry.
"You're acting more like a worried mum than a blushing bride," my husband said.
"That's because I've been a mother for two years and a bride for less than a day. I know, I know, it's just separation anxiety, and it's perfectly normal. I've already had the lecture from Roxy, Bob. You don't need to fire one up as well."
"Bob?" Fiona emerged from the bedroom, frowning as she glanced at a card in her hand. "Has there been a mistake somewhere? I had you down as Mr. and Mrs. Raphael St. John, here for a honeymoon visit of a week. Is that not right?"
"Yes, it's right," I said, laughing a little as I grabbed my suitcase and took it into the bedroom. I whistled at the sight of the giant four-poster bed, determined to put my worry behind me.
"Bob is a nickname," Raphael told her. "Joy's a bit rattled because it's our first time away from our daughter. She's just two years old."
Fiona tsked and bustled around the room, chattering about children before pausing next to a large double-glazed window. "You asked about the Green Lady, Mrs. St. John. It is indeed here she makes her appearance… but not in the room, you understand. It's there, just outside the window, that her tortured face can be seen, as if judging those within the room."
"Oooh! Bob, a tortured ghost!"
Raphael gave me a long-suffering look.
"Do you not believe in ghosts, then, Mr. St. John?" Fiona asked, her voice kind as she patted him on the arm. "Don't be ashamed if you're not a believer. It's the way with many men, I know."
Raphael had difficulty in keeping his expression pleasant. Despite our experiences to the contrary, he clung desperately to the belief that the world had gone temporarily insane, and any minute now life as he previously knew it would regain the upper hand, allowing him to forget that things like ghosties and ghoulies really existed.
"My husband is a bit of a skeptic," I said, taking pity on him. "But I'm dying to know about this tortured ghost. What happened to her? Was she married? Is she one of those bride ghosts who appear to newly married women? I wonder if she'll show up for me, even though Raphael and I have been together for three years."
"About that, I cannot say. But this I can tell you—for a time, Lily and Sir Alec were happy, but she gave him a daughter rather than a son, and it wasn't long before he was casting his eye elsewhere."
"The dog!" I said, sitting on the edge of the bed as Raphael gave me another long-suffering look. He took out his shaving bag and disappeared into the bathroom. "What happened to her?"
"Well, it wasn't long after the birth of her daughter that Lily mysteriously disappeared. Sir Alec gave out that she'd gone to the seaside to recover, but no one believed such a tale. They heard the cries in the night, you see. They heard her sobbing and begging for help, and they knew what had happened."
"Walled up alive?" I asked, a prickle of goose bumps making me rub my arms.
"Like as not. He'd shut her up in the upper room of the black tower—it's gone now, but it stood in the northwest corner of the castle. No one was allowed near it, and Sir Alec claimed Lady Lily took the keys with her, and sealed the only entrance. For two weeks the servants in the castle heard her cries and pleas. For two weeks, she lived, but at last the devil had his way, and she fell silent."
"Oh my god! How horrible! He really was a nasty customer. What an evil thing to do to someone."
"It was indeed. Sometime during the night after she died, he spirited her body away, announcing a fortnight later that she'd drowned herself in the sea. And what did he do then but wed Grizel Adams, a widow from the village he'd been consorting with."
"Callous, murdering bastard," I muttered.
"That he was. On their wedding night, Sir Alec and his new bride lay together in Lily's bed. But they didn't get any sleep."
"Randy little bugger, was he?"
Fiona shook her head. "No, it wasn't the wedding night activities which kept them up—all night the two of them heard horrible scratching sounds, but though Sir Alec had all the lamps lit, nothing could be seen in the room. In the morning though…" She smiled.
"What?" I asked, thoroughly engrossed in the story.
"Do you see that window?" she asked, nodding toward it.
"Yeah." I got up and walked over to it. "Lily appeared outside it? She was scratching on the glass?"
"No. Open it up and tell me what you see."
Another little shiver of goose bumps rippled down my flesh as I opened the window and looked down. We were on the third floor of the castle, smack dab in the middle of the wall. "Well, it's a nasty drop. I can't imagine there's any way someone could get up here—there's no ledge, and the closest pipe is about fifteen feet away. Is that what you wanted me to see?"
"Look at the casement."
I squinted at the cream-colored stone. Someone had carved something just beyond the glass. It was upside down and somewhat blurred with age, but the words LILY SUMMERTON were chipped neatly into the casement. "Oh, wow. She carved her name?"
"That she did. And if you can tell me how anyone could do that in this spot, well, I'd certainly like to know."
I looked around the outer edge of the castle wall. Without some sort of a ladder or scaffolding, such a thing would be impossible.
"Very creepy."
"The Green Lady had her revenge, some said," Fiona continued, a prim set to her mouth. "For it was not but a month after Sir Alec married the widow Grizel that they both died when their carriage overturned. Snapped their necks, they did."
"How tragic. Makes you wonder, though, doesn't it?"
"Are you done with your ghost talk?" Raphael asked as he reentered the room.
"Yeah, but you should have stayed to hear it. It's really interesting," I said, giving the carved name one last look before closing the window.
"I'm sure I'll survive. Is it possible to have breakfast in our rooms rather than the restaurant?" he asked Fiona.
"Yes, but your food is bound to be cold by the time it's brought all the way up here," she answered.
He grinned and took the room key from her, herding her toward the door. "We'll survive."
Fiona melted before his grin, and although clearly desirous of telling us more about the castle's history, confined herself to wishing us a pleasant evening. In less time than it took to say the word "honeymoon," Raphael dashed across the room, stripped off his clothes, and pounced on me.
"At last, we are alone," he said with an atrocious French accent.
I blinked up at him a couple of times.
He kissed the tip of my nose, and cocked one eyebrow. "The accent too much for you, sweetheart? You look somewhat stunned."
"Yes, it was awful, and besides, I think your English accent is the sexiest thing on earth. But it's not that…" Loath as I was to pry myself from his arms, I did just that to sit up and look from him to the entrance to the suite. "How did you do that?"
"Do what?" he asked, pulling me back so he could nibble on my neck.
I shivered at the touch, thought about dismissing my confusion, but decided there were more pressing issues. "Bob, you know just how much I've been looking forward to this honeymoon—"
"Oh, yes. I believe the fact that you almost ravished me on the train coming up here brought that to my attention. And you will notice that whereas I objec
ted to our enacting upon our wedding night in the coach of the Edinburgh Express, I am now agreeable to the whole idea, and you may commence with your planned ravishing of my manly self."
"Mmm hmm," I said, squinting at the door to the suite as I judged its distance.
Raphael's face suddenly filled my vision. His lovely amber eyes were narrowed with suspicion. "You are not ravishing me. You've talked of nothing for the last four hours. Why are you not ravishing me? Is it Zoe? Are you still worried—"
"No, it's not the baby. It's… well… how did you run from the door to the suite all the way in the other room, to here, without me seeing you move? Not to mention taking off your clothes while you were doing it."
Raphael turned to consider the door at which I was pointing. "What are you talking about?"
"I didn't see you move. One minute you were there, smiling your very best smile for Fiona and making her go all swoony, and the next minute you were naked and pouncing on me. I didn't see you move in between the two actions."
"You were just too busy ogling my chest and imagining the many and varied things you'd like to do to me. With whipped cream."
"Do we have any whipped cream?" I asked, distracted for a moment.
He shook his head. "But I'll get some if you want it."
"Well…" I didn't have an opportunity to say more. Once again I seemed to be suffering from an odd sort of time loss. As the word left my lips, he was looming over me, his eyes alight with a familiar albeit exciting glint; half a second later the door to the suite slammed shut, his discarded clothes having vanished somewhere along the way.
"Bob? I didn't mean right now… Oh, hell. Honest to Pete, men! Sometimes they're just… just…"
"Treacherous? Vile? Whoremongering? No, I have it—murderous, evil bastards who deserve to spend eternity in pox-riddled, pustule-filled, eternal, endless torment!" a voice said from the window.
I fell off the bed spinning around to look behind me.
