Chapter 2
Miss Akin was about seventy years-old with gray hair held back in a tight bun, wide hazel eyes, and a high-pitched laugh that reminded me of a witch’s cackle. Nearly as round as she was tall, she wore a white apron over a floral dress, nylons and loafers. There was a grandma-like quality about her I liked, and at the moment she lingered in my bedroom doorway. “Is there anything I can get you, dear?” she asked, her “you” sounding more like “ye”––which seemed to be the norm in Scotland.
“No, I’m fine. In fact, I think I’ll take a walk and get some fresh air.”
Her lips curved into a wide smile. “Don’t wander off too far.”
“Miss Akin, I’m sixteen, not twelve.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Ah, sixteen. Such a brilliant age, full of wonder…and boys.”
I rolled my eyes and she giggled like a girl.
“Oh, and Riley dear––dinner will be at half-past five, so keep that in mind while you are out explorin’.”
She shut the door, and I took a few minutes to pull my blonde hair up into a sloppy ponytail, and change from sweats to jeans and a hoodie. The ghost hadn’t returned since my father’s abrupt entrance and I was relieved. I hoped he got the idea I couldn’t see him, and therefore, he was wasting his time haunting my new home.
Needing to clear my mind, I checked to make sure I had everything I needed and headed out the door.
Once outside, I started across the heather-strewn field, and headed straight for the castle.
I felt like I was living somebody else’s life. Everything was so unfamiliar, so opposite of Portland, where I’d been born and raised. I was unused to so much quiet. It was almost unsettling not to hear kids playing, horns honking, or just the sounds of the city. I wondered how long it would take before I went crazy.
I passed by an old cemetery surrounded by a rock wall. A flock of birds flew from a tree, nearly startling me out of my skin. They soared above the cemetery, and landed on top of an old mausoleum. Hundreds of tombstones of various shapes and sizes littered the graveyard, the majority being crosses and giant slabs, some of which were leaning over and crumbling. The place was old, and I wondered just how far back the dates on the tombstones would go. Not that I planned on investigating. I hated cemeteries. My mother had been cremated and her ashes were in a mahogany box that my dad kept in his bedroom. I know it sounds weird but I found it strangely comforting to know she wasn’t in the ground.
A car blew past me, missing me by inches, and pulling me abruptly back to the present.
The castle’s driveway was blocked by a large chain. Obviously the owners were only concerned about cars driving in, and not foot traffic. I inched under it easily enough.
I walked through the tall trees and looked up at the castle where the blue and white Scottish flag waved from the ramparts. The castle was more intimidating up close than from a distance, and I felt a strange compulsion to run, mixed with an almost need to explore it, but I stayed rooted to the spot. There were no cars around, and I wondered if it was a private residence or one of those castles owned by a trust. Though a part of me wanted to check it out, I didn’t dare. Honestly, I didn’t have the guts. Plus, I didn’t come here for a tour.
I pulled the small matchbox out of my pocket. My hand shook as I slid the box open and unwrapped the gleaming new blade within. Sitting on a soft patch of grass beneath a giant oak tree, I looked around to make sure I was alone.
Seeing no one, I rolled up the leg of my jeans and slid my sock down. I took a deep, steadying breath, released it, and before I could talk myself out of it, I ran the blade slowly against my skin. I winced at the pain, and watched as blood beaded against the blade. I cut further, deeper, and the release came, taking with it the anxiety and frustration that had been building within me for weeks.
Blood streamed down my ankle, soaking into my white sock. I set the blade aside and mopped at the crimson stream with the tissue. Damn, I had cut deeper than intended. Reaching into the matchbox, I pulled out the Band-Aid.
I closed my eyes and pushed away the guilt and disgust that always came with cutting. I had “officially” quit self-mutilating two months ago, but the move had pushed me over the edge, I reasoned.
“Bloody hell, what are you doing, lass?”
I gasped, horrified to hear I was no longer alone. How could I possibly explain what I’d been up to?
Slowly I turned to find a guy watching me with disbelief in his piercing blue eyes. That disbelief quickly turned to bewilderment as our gazes locked and held.
Oh my God. It was the ghost from the inn…and he had followed me here.
The Deepest Cut, (MacKinnon Curse series, book 1) Page 2