The Edinburgh Seer Complete Trilogy

by Alisha Klapheke

  Both of them were in a terrible situation. But one, one of them was directly, inseparably lashed to a political storm to rival any in their country’s history. A tempest of powerful men and women, desperate to curl hands around money, people, farmland, cities, towns, and businesses.

  She spoke first, her chin shaking. “You’re the Heir. The wind and that noise, it all started when your hand touched the stone.” She didn’t want it to be true for him, but it had to be true, because she knew it wasn’t her.

  “Your hand was on it too,” he said.

  Rodric had fallen. He swore, found his feet, and ran up the stairs, shouting orders Aini didn’t hear.

  “You’re the Seer,” Thane said. “It only makes sense. You’re the Heir, Aini.”

  She shook her head so hard it was in danger of falling off. “I’m less than half Scottish.”

  “You think any one of the line is fully Scottish by blood? Course not. They’re all married into English, German, French families. What matters is…the stone has called us.”

  It did feel that way. Like the kings had set a quest at their feet. Because of Thane’s bloodline—Campbells did hold a tenuous line to the old rulers, as did many clans—but also because of who they were. Seer and Dreamer. Merlin and Arthur. Hearts ready for sacrifice.

  Thane pressed a fist against his mouth and studied the stone. The fallen flashlight and the storm’s intermittent waves of white and silver cast a haunting light over both man and throne. It had to be him with his broad shoulders, quick mind, and high cheekbones. His tartan completed the picture. Thane had been through so much. A military upbringing under a madman’s hand. Life-threatening situations when he had to make split second decisions. A moment when he’d had to go against everything he knew—father and clan—to become the man he wanted to be. And he’d grown a good heart and a brave soul throughout his struggles.

  The Coronation Stone has chosen well, Aini thought.

  Outside the entrance, gunshots blasted through the rush of rain.

  Leaving the stone, they ran from the cell to see a fight already in motion. The bulk of the Dionadair—who’d concealed themselves at Rodric’s arrival—worked in pairs, grabbing Campbells from behind and bringing them to their knees. One of the two would hold a gun to the Campbell’s head and the other would grab him by the hair and force a cherry drop down his throat. The Campbells fell one by one, paralyzed with Thane’s concoction.

  Myles and Neve were back-to-back, brandishing a gun and a knife, their faces ghostly as they held off two Campbells with wild movements. The Campbells circled Myles and Neve like wolves do their prey.

  Bran traded punches with a Campbell who kept shouting, “Traitor!” Blood ran in two thick rivulets down Bran’s chin, but he smiled anyway and threw another fist.

  Thane put a gun in Aini’s hand and cocked one of his own. “Stay beside me,” he said. “Please.”

  Rodric had Father and was dragging him away from the fight, toward the arched door. He fired off two rounds into the fray. Owen jerked, hit.

  “Brother!” Vera shrieked and fell with him to the mud.

  At her scream, the other Dionadair lost focus and ran to their leader. Some shouted for Aini; others were captured immediately by Campbells who hadn’t been dosed with the sleeping agent. At the shoulder, Owen’s shirt was black with blood and his cheeks had gone white.

  Aini scraped at her throat, feeling like she was suffocating.

  “It’s over!” Rodric shoved Father to the ground, and Thane and Aini took off at a run toward him. “Rabbie,” Rodric growled at a lanky man with deep-set eyes, “destroy the stone.”

  Bran stepped over the Campbell he’d knocked out and started toward Rabbie, but Rodric pointed the gun at him.

  “No, Bran. You’ve shown your colors. Get over there with the rebels where you belong.”

  Bran held up his hands and joined Vera and Dodie. He bent and felt Owen’s pulse as he whispered something to her. Vera shot curses at Rodric. She took a wad of cloth from another Dionadair and pushed it into Owen’s wound.

  Rabbie hefted a massive canvas roll from his back. He pulled out five sledgehammers and handed them out. The men pushed past Vera and Dodie and Owen, who moaned and tried to lift an arm. They stormed into St. Baldred’s cell.

  “That abomination must be eliminated,” Rodric said, sounding so much like Nathair had during his announcement on the square. Then, Aini hadn’t understood why the king called sixth-sensers abominations, why he drove his head of security to destroy them. But now she knew. He was afraid—terrified of the possibility of a Seer finding the true Heir and the people who would support that Heir.

  Myles waved his knife to drive back the Campbells surrounding him and Neve. The Campbells dodged Myles’s knife and the taller of the two kicked at the gun in Neve’s shaky hand. Hair tangled around her face and nose running, brave Neve managed to keep hold of it.

  The weighty ping and smash of sledgehammers battled the increasing wind’s howl and the cracking thunder.

  “You’re going to smash the Coronation Stone?” Aini shouted up at Rodric. “Aren’t you afraid of the curse?”

  “My dear uncle Nathair is the curse you should fear. His will crushes through my hand. That is the real threat.” A feral smile creeped over his mouth. He held a hand out toward Owen, whose lips were blue, glasses fallen to the ground beside him and his siblings. “Isn’t that right, Dionadair?” He spat the word into the rain, full of arrogance, but his eyes gave him away as he glanced toward the saint’s cell. Fear flickered in his gaze. Perhaps that’s why he wanted to destroy it. He thought that would end its power.

  Hands trembling, Aini worked the burlap bag off Father’s head. He looked up at her, one of his eyes swollen shut and bruised to a purple she could see even though the storm had blackened the sky. She cradled his head and wept over him, her stomach sucking and pulling as she cried, in relief, in rage, in absolute terror. A line of dried blood divided his gray and white beard. Dirt stuck in the lines of his forehead and the crow’s feet at his temples.

  “Aini.” He coughed.

  Thane went to one knee and, pushing wet hair out of his face, pulled a knife from his kilt belt, then cut Father’s hands free.

  “I didn’t want you here,” Father said to Aini, his voice a croak. “This is my fault.” He was shaking his head as the rain poured down, sticking their clothes to their skin.

  “It’s my doing, Mr. MacGregor,” Thane said, his face dark as the sky.

  Father put a hand on Thane’s knee. “No, son.”

  The Campbell nearest Neve launched forward and ripped the gun from her. The second slapped Myles’s knife away.

  “No!” Aini shouted, fear scratching through her bones. Why wasn't the curse doing anything about this?

  “Hold them. Hold them all,” Rodric ordered as one of his men cocked Neve’s gun and pointed it at the Dionadair. “They’ll meet our firing squad for this. It’ll make for a braw show.”

  Myles, veins sticking out on his forehead, struggled against the Campbell who had an arm wrapped around his neck. Neve whimpered and stomped her captor’s foot. Holding her by the arm, the Campbell smacked her across the face and split her lip open wide. Aini’s stomach rolled.

  Rodric tapped his gun against his own head. “Nathair has a fine plan for a show in Edinburgh. Remind the people who is in charge in Scotland and who they should pay fealty to.”

  Fury raged inside Aini, a storm of her own, made of blood and heart and refusal to bow to the Campbells, to the clan who’d maimed her father and ruined her life.

  “It’s not your fault,” she said to Father. She stood, water shucking off her leggings and dripping from the loose ends of her hair.

  Thane leaned toward her. “Aini…what are you doing?”

  “I’m not going to let this happen.” For Father. For my country. “I will not let him win.”

  Tucking his gun in his belt, Rodric crossed his arms like there wasn’t a man bleeding, maybe dying
, not ten feet away. “And just what are you going to do about it, Seer?” He spoke casually, but terror flickered in his black eyes.

  Her heart lodged between her ribs like a knife. “I am exactly as dangerous as the king thinks I am.” She flew toward the cell.

  “Aini!” Thane’s and Father’s voices followed her down the stairs.

  Vera called out, “Seer, wait!”

  Their work lit by a battery floodlight, the men inside lifted their hammers and drove them into the throne, breaking Aini’s heart in a million ways for a million reasons. There were pieces of the ancient throne everywhere. Then as the men hit the center, a large crack etched down the black, glittering stone. A corner of the stone fell away and tumbled toward Aini. The men didn’t turn, didn’t seem to hear her above the noise, as she lifted the rock. One spiral marked the piece, its edges like a giant’s fingerprint.

  She tore out of the cell and into the storm.

  Lightning poured over Rodric, his boot now on Father’s chest, and two of his men pointing guns directly at Thane.

  Campbells restrained Dodie, Bran, and Vera.

  Owen lay on the ground, partially covered in Dodie’s coat and shivering.

  The wind rippled kilts and the ends of jackets, grabbed at hair, and threw sounds of hammering and crying and thunder around like leaves. The air smelled like steel and blood.

  “I’ll not settle for a cousin who knows nothing of loyalty,” Rodric said, his voice broad and curling with his West Scots accent. “I’m the son Nathair should’ve had and it’s time I rid him of you for good.”

  “Thane!” Aini shouted and her voice cracked, her throat on fire. She threw the heavy piece of the Coronation Stone.

  Squinting, Thane spun, his kilt twisting above his boots. He caught the piece.

  Everything happened at once, but slowly, like in a dream.

  The dirt under Aini’s boots began to quake. Growing in strength, the Coronation Stone’s tremor knocked her to the sharp bracken and sucking mud. A frigid wind whipped through the chapel’s skeleton walls, stinging her cheeks. Crackling like a fire, a blue-white haze oozed from the stone, and Thane’s face went slack as he held the stone tight, arms shaking. The pale fog formed the appearance of men with stoic faces, beards and crowns, long shirts and draping robes that snapped in the wind.

  They were the ghosts of the kings of Scotland—ancient Celts, the Gaels, the men of Alba.

  With gray hands like claws and eyes empty but burning with purpose, the ghost kings rose. Aini smelled woodsmoke, pine, and a deep, complicated scent like sage or cloves. Their voices filled her ears. Pleading, asking, retelling old tales.

  She stood tall, wind tearing around her. The urge to speak to the ghost kings pressed against her mouth, but what could she say? Only the truth and a request.

  “They want to kill Thane Campbell,” she said to them, her throat aching and her heart in pieces. “He is the stone’s chosen ruler. Protect the Heir!”

  The blue-white light sighed and brightened. Gunpowder flashed, orange and blinding, from the Campbells’ guns.

  Surrounded by the kings’ twisting light, Thane didn’t fall.

  The spirits grew, unfolding from the stone, their draping tunics and tartans fluttered over their seemingly solid bodies. Scrolled metal decorated the nearest king’s belt. The blue glint of an ethereal light flashed from another’s simple crown. Which one was Macbeth?

  The ghosts opened their mouths as one, releasing a sound like a broom dragged across a dry floor. They rushed forward and swamped Rodric, Rabbie, and the rest of the Campbells, engulfing them in milky blue, their odd, magic scent increasing, overpowering the salty sea and the metallic flavor of the rain. The men’s guns splashed as they hit pewter puddles on the ground. Shouting, Rodric and all the Campbells in the chapel, except Thane, grabbed their chests and pulled at their shirts and jackets.

  They collapsed, white-faced and still.

  The ghost kings faded into shining dust and disappeared into the biting air.

  The curse of the Coronation Stone had worked its magic. Rodric and the rest had tried to kill Thane, the Heir, and they’d paid the price. The power of the old to protect their own.

  Blinking and ears ringing, Aini scrambled to Father. Thane lay the piece of the stone down and they helped him to stand.

  Black lines of makeup marred Vera’s face. “Thane Campbell.” Her voice shook. “You are the Heir and we, the Dionadair, promise to serve you.”

  Vera, Dodie, and the rest of the Dionadair crossed their thumbs over their heads as the storm pulled its ashen cloak from the island.

  Bran took a knee as the sun battled its way out of the clouds. “I swear fealty to you, Thane Campbell.”

  Thane’s throat moved in a swallow. “I may be the Heir, but I’m not the chief of Clan Campbell.”

  Bran smiled sadly. “I think you’ll need to claim that too if this is to work.”

  Thane’s eyes shuttered, then he looked to Aini, his face grave. Tentative joy and relief flew through her like birds and she drank in the sight of him, strong and able, and of Father standing tall too. Whatever must come next, it was over for now.

  It. Was. Over.

  Chapter 28

  Sweet and Sour

  “Don’t think you’re getting my side of the room just because of all this,” Myles shouted over at Thane. Aini slapped him because Neve wasn’t there to do it. Neve was checking on her family. “What?” Myles frowned and stacked some card stock at his desk. “He can’t have everything.”

  Aini shook her head and joined Thane at the taffy puller. He gave her a sideways grin that turned her bones into butterflies. Last time they’d made taffy… Aini’s gaze went to his parted lips.

  “Don’t lose focus over there, squirrel,” Father said. “It’s a lot more expensive now that it’s loaded with more Cone5.”

  Cheeks going hot, Aini forced her eyes away from Thane’s broadening smile. “Of course not, Father.”

  The taffy was finished aerating. As it dropped from the puller’s silver arms and onto the tray, Thane and Aini used plastic scrapers to remove every last bit from the machine. Who knew when they would have access to the candy lab again? Probably never. Tears burned Aini’s eyes, but she willed them away. They’d won the first battle. Now they had to prepare for the next. That involved moving whatever they could into the Dionadair safe house on the outskirts of Edinburgh, where Owen was healing with the rest of the rebels. There was no time for sentimental tears.

  “The hard candies are ready,” Father said, closing the small, purple treats up in a tin. “These will make some brave soul float like a leaf in the wind.”

  They hadn’t decided how exactly to use these intensified sweets. But using candy to improve abilities seemed the best way to help the Dionadair and fight Nathair. Poisoning people could be done in more efficient ways. The rebels had a full armory. Aini hated that she had to consider such things now. But this was war, not a party.

  Aini had suggested eating intensified altered candies to form a sort of improved team of operatives. She hadn’t realized the idea would result in her being in charge of said team. “I hope that’s not the one I end up using,” she admitted quietly to Thane.

  He chuckled. Sadness still pulled at him, darkening his eyes, but he smiled easier now. “It would be good to see an area from above in a pinch.”

  “Then you do it.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “I think I’m going to be the one eating the taffy.” She’d had another idea late last night when they’d returned from Bass Rock. “Maybe the Cone5 will allow me to see more spirits, to communicate with more of them.”

  “Ah. Good thinking.”

  “We’ll test it when we get to the safe house. Vera said there’s a cemetery nearby.”

  “We could test it when the rest take the first load. The house will be ours.”

  His voice sent good shivers down her back. She tried to breathe evenly so he wouldn’t know how much he af
fected her. It was embarrassing how he could melt her with a word.

  “Maybe,” she said.

  His eyebrow twitched near the frame of his glasses and that grin appeared again.

  “All right,” Father said. “Myles. Help me take these tins downstairs. Bring your supplies. The lorry should be out front. You two, finish wrapping that taffy, please, and meet us there.” He threw a stern look at Aini, then said something under his breath. Even patient Father had his limits.

  The second Myles and Father were gone, Thane threw the taffy and scraper down onto the tray, took Aini’s face in his sticky hands, and covered her mouth with his. Aini fell into the warmth of his lips, the strength in his chest and stomach against hers. She ran her hands into his hair, not caring one bit that it would make the ends stand up and everyone would know exactly what they’d been doing. He said something into her neck, a piece of that old poem, and she couldn’t stop smiling, her lips stretching and her hands smoothing the back of his skull. His scent had changed. Still the clean cotton of his clothing was there, but something like sage, like magic, cloaked him. She pulled back to look at his eyes, the steely gray of the cold North Sea, swirling with power and pull.

  She raised an eyebrow. “I told you that you were the Heir.”

  A little laugh escaped him. “Aye. And I see that, though you’re fine with breaking rules now, you’ve not lost your love of being right.”

  Lifting her chin, she smiled. “No. I have not.” She chewed the inside of her cheek, not wanting to ruin the moment, but needing to talk about what was to come. “You have to go to Inveraray and claim your place as Chief of Clan Campbell. And Nathair will have something to say about that when he is well.”

  He swallowed and looked away. “I suppose I must try. We need the clan behind us against him and against the king, if it comes to that. It will be a fight. A terrible fight. I’ll need you with me. As Seer. The clan will want to hear about the kings you spoke to and how they followed your commands.”