She glanced about the room, hoping to find it occupied. But it was empty. Coming across someone wouldn’t frighten her—she wasn’t the type to scare easily. She was more concerned about how she’d be received than the other way around. The castle elicited feelings of solitude and comfort. And yet there was an ambiance to the place, a foreboding unlike anything she’d ever felt, and this, above all other sensations, intrigued her.
A quick scan turned up nothing disconcerting in the dusty shadows that sprawled across the room. Nothing seemed out of place. No one peered at her from behind the heavy brocade curtains. Nothing hid under the Duncan Phyfe sofa. Nothing lurked behind the palm fronds in the planter.
But something was here.
Slowly, an elongated shadow stretched across the carpet, stealthily inching toward her. It belonged to nothing in the room that she could tell—yet it was there.
“What are you?” Kate whispered.
With a faint hiss, the shadow retreated back into the corner.
The room fell quiet again except for the ticking of the grandfather clock against the far wall. Its pendulum reflected gold light as it swung back and forth. Her heart began to beat slightly faster.
“Hello?” she whispered, the sound of her voice making her feel vulnerable.
No answer. A spark of caution, something almost akin to fear, pricked at her senses.
Kate took a deep breath. “Stop being silly. Nothing can hurt you,” she said aloud.
It’s a dream.
She found it odd that she was aware of dreaming. But it had to be a dream. Anything else was impossible.
“And why would it hurt you?”
Kate gasped despite the refined and soothing tone of the man’s voice. She hadn’t heard anyone enter the room. Heart still pounding, Kate turned to face him. What would he think? Would he see her as something frightful, or would he see her as a trespasser? Given her translucent appearance, Kate hoped for a ghost. This felt safer to her. Catching a ghost would be like catching air.
“It is possible, mind you,” he said matter-of-factly as he emerged from the shadows. The man was roughly a decade older than her, with strong features. Full head of short brown hair. Intense gray-blue eyes that stared straight at her.
It was clear that ghosts did not frighten him.
“There are plenty of things here quite capable of inflicting serious harm,” he said.
Kate took an involuntary step backward. Soothing voice or not, the idea of serious harm caused her to momentarily rethink her desire to take the dream any further. Yet it was like a roller coaster. Kate eagerly anticipated the fear, the uncertainty.
“But it will not harm you. Nothing will. Not now.”
He was handsome, but the first and lasting impression Kate had was imposing.
“Unless you are careless or uninvited,” he continued. “And I somehow believe you are not careless.”
He was tall, too. Perhaps six foot one and smartly dressed in a dark, tailored Italian suit.
Kate remained silent, unsure of what to do or say. His eyes shone with more than intelligence. Behind those eyes flickered power, danger, and, if she wasn’t mistaken, a touch of kindness.
“You know I’ve been coming here?” It wasn’t what she wanted to ask. She wanted to know if she’d been invited or not. More specifically, how and when she had been invited.
“I am Declan, my dear. I own this castle. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss . . .?”
Nice name, Declan, she thought.
“Call me Kate.”
“Do you know why you come here, Kate?” he asked casually.
“I don’t even know where here is,” she managed to say, still mesmerized by the way this man could elicit both apprehension and trust.
“You are in Scotland. My castle’s name is Shadow Wood. Yes, you truly are here, if that is your next question. At least part of you,” he said. “I could explain, but it would be a bit lengthy. Just know that your physical body is still wherever you come from.” He paused. “And where is it you come from, Kate?”
Of all the mysteries that might exist here—and she inexplicably sensed Declan knew each of them—he still had no idea where she’d come from. But he had touched on the same thing she’d thought of—being in two places at once.
“Do you normally ask ghosts so many questions?” Kate asked.
“Apparitions are not always ghosts, my dear Kate, but that is another topic. In short, you are very much alive, which eliminates the ghost theory.”
Apparition. Ghost. Whatever.
Let’s just see where this takes me, Kate thought. He was right. Nothing in this dream could hurt her. Well, the real her.
He observed her for another moment, and she felt as though he might bore a hole into her with those eyes of his. Finally he said, “What you honestly want to know is why you are here, am I correct? You want to know why this place calls to you. You want to know why you crave being here. You want to know why you have been haunting my castle.”
Could he read her thoughts? It seemed as if anything was possible here. Kate nodded.
“I can tell you these things and more,” he said, his eyes never wavering from hers. “You believe that you are dreaming all this. I assure you that you are not. You do not need to fear me. Come. Tell me about your . . . other life.”
He closed the space between them, stopping a polite distance away, and extended a hand, palm upward. Kate glanced at it, then back to his gray-blue eyes. She wanted to turn, to run, but refused to give in to such fear. “You first. Tell me why I’m here. Besides the fact I’m making all this up.”
He laughed. “You are not imagining any of this, Kate. As I stated before, you truly are here. You have been chosen.”
“Chosen?”
Chosen for what? The crazy dream lottery?
“This is where you are meant to be. You are needed here,” he replied.
Kate shook her head. “Sorry, but I don’t understand.”
“Let me show you.” Declan smiled again, that half-trustworthy, half-sly smile that might have made anyone else run screaming. But no matter what Declan said, it was just a dream. One that felt incredibly, inexplicably real. One she could control. Somewhat.
“You lead, I’ll follow.” Kate glanced at his outstretched hand, but did not take it. Bad things happened in dreams, after all. Even if dreams couldn’t physically harm you didn’t mean that they couldn’t be terrifying. No sense in inviting trouble.
Declan smirked. “I can see why they chose you.”
“Who? Who chose me? And for what?” Kate asked.
Declan turned toward the windows and waved a hand. The heavy curtains flew open, startling her.
Chill, Kate, she told herself. Weird shit happens in dreams. Don’t be such a wimp.
Declan stood watching her patiently. Kate stole a quick look at the open windows. The sun was still low on the horizon, the sky a dull blue that had started to fade to evening. Kate’s eyes darted back to Declan. He motioned toward the windows again, and Kate cautiously approached them, keeping an eye on Declan. When it was clear he wasn’t joining her, she turned her attention back to the windows. Standing closer made all the difference. On the ledge underneath the windows, several large stone gargoyles were either clinging to the side of the castle or facing the horizon as though waiting for the sunset.
Once again Kate turned back to Declan. “There are so many of them. They’re beautiful. But what—”
“Shh!” Declan commanded. “Look at them again. Then listen.”
Kate did as he said. She watched the gargoyles and listened carefully for any sound outside—a bird, voices, anything. Kate’s balance faltered as it seemed for a moment the window vanished in front of her. Wind whipped against her face, yet that wasn’t quite true. Kate blinked, unable to shake the visions invading her head. It was the gargoyles, and not just the ones directly outside, but literally hundreds of them reeling through her mind like a slide show.
Kate stumbled
backward. “No, make it stop.”
“Not until I show you,” Declan said.
The room spun, and the floor shifted as though it was slipping out from under her. Kate braced herself against a side table. Her head ached, and she closed her eyes against the pain, against the visions. Kate felt herself falling, a sign that usually meant she was about to awaken.
Instead, she found herself somewhere else entirely.
CHAPTER SIX
Ian
The Mercedes rolled to a stop on the cobblestone driveway in front of the castle. A lanky young man with raven hair waited for them by the arched wooden front doors. The man leaned against the wall, hands stuffed into the pockets of his black jeans. Despite the chill, he hadn’t bothered to button his black duster, revealing a plain white button-up shirt beneath it.
The man shoved away from the wall, ignoring Ian, and headed straight to Von Hiller. The two exchanged words, most of them too low for Ian to hear, although he thought he heard his name, Declan’s, and something about the sentinels, whoever they were. A sports team? Ian stepped away from the Mercedes to give the two men a few moments of privacy.
Though they were whispering, it sounded like they were arguing. At one point, the younger man’s face went red, and he clenched his fists. Then he looked past Von Hiller’s shoulder and gave Ian an unfriendly once-over before unloading the bags from the trunk.
So much for making new friends. Not that it bothered him. Ian stood beside the car, staring at the unusual water fountain in the middle of the courtyard and pretending he was unaware of the conflict. The fountain was a half-dragon, half-serpent marble creation that offered a continuous supply of water to a small lily pond.
The sedan’s trunk slammed closed, and Von Hiller walked toward him, leaving the stranger standing with Ian’s bags. Maybe Von Hiller’s soccer team was doing better than Mr. Grumpy’s.
As Von Hiller approached, he gestured behind him and mustered a pleasant voice. “Ian, this is Roland. Roland, I’d like you to meet Mr. Ian McGuire, Declan’s guest.”
Roland sighed as though he was rather disgusted, but he approached Ian and extended his hand. He had long, pointy fingers, and his grip felt cold, clammy, and almost painful. Ian pulled his hand away as soon as courtesy permitted and subtly wiped his palm against his pant leg.
“Roland helps out around here from time to time,” Von Hiller said.
At this, the man seemed to grit his teeth and made a sound that Ian almost took for a growl. Von Hiller glowered a clear warning. The two stood, eyes locked in unspoken combat for a moment before Roland snatched up Ian’s things and stormed off toward the front doors.
If Von Hiller had handled the suitcase with ease, Roland made it look completely weightless.
“Roland is a bit reserved,” Von Hiller said. “Our other guests are much more social, I promise.”
Ian shrugged. “Hey, everyone’s allowed a bad day.” What he’d wanted to say was that he’d never met anyone more in need of a laxative, but he wasn’t sure if Von Hiller would appreciate his sense of humor. Since Shadow Wood didn’t get many outsiders, Roland might just be resentful that Declan had invited someone new.
He looked up at the castle walls. A hint of moss covered the brownstone. Heavy-looking beveled glass windows sat beyond the deep sills. Ian had seen larger castles, but none that felt as imposing. None that seemed to hold as much promise of mystery and ghostly possibilities.
“Wow. Shadow Wood is quite impressive.”
“Yes, it is.” Von Hiller hadn’t followed Ian’s gaze. Instead, he was looking into the field where it met the edge of the woods. The late afternoon sun gave it an eerie reddish cast. “Well, then,” he said. “Shall we?”
Ian followed him through the expansive front doors. If possible, Shadow Wood was more incredible inside than out.
Large paintings mounted in massive gold frames adorned the walls. An oversized mahogany curio rested on ball-and-claw feet in the great room. A stone staircase curled upward to the second-floor landing. From this angle, the only thing visible upstairs was a hall table with a vase on top.
Von Hiller waited, taking in Ian’s reaction. “This castle is one of Declan’s favorites. I haven’t been to many of the others since leaving Germany, but from what I have seen so far, Shadow Wood is indeed the most awe-inspiring.”
“Others? I didn’t know Declan owned any other castles.”
“No, he only owns this one. But there are others . . .” Von Hiller hesitated, as if pondering something. “There are other castles of interest that he visits on occasion. This way.” Von Hiller motioned toward the end of the chamber. “Roland has already taken your things to your room, which he’ll show you to shortly.”
Ian caught a fleeting glimpse of something on the staircase. A person? Mist? Nothing more than the dusty sunlight filtering through the leaded windows?
He glanced at Von Hiller. If the other man had seen anything, he didn’t let on. Certain that it had been nothing but a trick of sunlight and his own imagination already hard at work, Ian wrote it off and followed the caretaker, who had already started across the room.
“Are you all right, Ian?” Von Hiller asked as Ian caught up to him. Von Hiller’s emerald-green eyes were staring at him as if searching for something again. The caretaker’s earlier words echoed in Ian’s head: Inhabited. We call it inhabited. There’s a difference. It’s like a . . . sanctuary.
There went his overactive imagination again. It was nothing, just a little fading light and shadow. If what he’d seen was the elusive ghost, Von Hiller would have seen it, too.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Ian said. He glanced back at the staircase. Had he seen something Von Hiller missed?
And was he sure it was his imagination?
Von Hiller walked onward. “Declan is in the study and wishes for you to join him for a drink before dinner at seven.”
He led the way to a sizeable room with several leather wingback chairs, a cherrywood sideboard, a barrister bookcase, and a massive fireplace. Other than two wall sconces, the fire in the hearth was the only source of light; shadows bobbed and danced with the rise and fall of the flames.
Declan sat in one of the chairs facing the fireplace. His short brown hair complemented his black suit. Declan had worn a suit every time they’d met. The room’s firelight intensified his blue eyes, making them almost iridescent. Otherwise he looked the same as always—dignified and composed.
Declan stood and extended a hand. “Good of you to make it, Ian. It is indeed a pleasure to have you join us. I see your books are doing well.”
“It’s great to see you again, Declan. And thanks. I owe a lot of my success to you.” Unlike Roland’s handshake, Declan’s was firm, warm, and dry.
Declan motioned for Ian to have a seat across from him. “Something to drink?” he asked. “Rum and Coke, perhaps?”
“You’ve got a good memory,” Ian said. He’d already had the ale, but something a bit harder would be good. Especially after seeing those gargoyles and that odd mist on the stairwell. Shadow Wood might actually be the real deal. “Rum and Coke is fine, thanks.”
Von Hiller moved to the sideboard to make their drinks. Ian recalled that Declan drank aged single malt Scotch whiskey, namely Macallan. It was great stuff, if you could afford it. Declan, of course, could. From his chair, Ian noticed the bottle sitting on the sideboard: “Fine and Rare, 1954.”
Declan waited as Ian took in the room. “I hope you find your stay comfortable. Your room is on the third floor overlooking the back lawn and the woods. It is a wonderful view.”
“If it’s anything like what I’ve seen so far, I’ll be more than comfortable. Shadow Wood is just what I need to get past my writer’s block.”
He couldn’t get over how grand, how gothic the place was. No wonder Declan’s imagination had bested his own with the last two novels. If he couldn’t get an idea or three during his stay here, even without a ghost, he might as well quit writing altogether. “Thank you a
gain for inviting me. Shadow Wood is amazing.”
“I agree.” Although Declan’s tone was level, Ian detected a hint of pride and satisfaction.
Von Hiller returned from the sideboard, handed Ian and Declan their drinks, then closed the doors as he left.
There hadn’t been any noise coming from the hall even with the doors open, but now the quiet filled the study. The only sounds were the flames licking the logs in the fireplace and the ice clinking inside Ian’s glass.
“Has Shadow Wood always been in your family?” Ian asked.
Declan took a sip of his drink as he regarded the room. “I have had this place for a long time,” he said. “Feels like centuries.”
“It’s a pretty big place. Are there currently other guests here?”
Declan nodded. “The hunts bring them.”
“Von Hiller mentioned they hunt a lot of deer?”
“They hunt a variety of things. Do you hunt, Ian? I do not believe I have asked you that before.”
“No. I don’t even fish.” He shifted in his chair, the supple leather creaking softly. Did Declan hunt? He couldn’t remember. Ian cleared his throat. “Have you seen any more of the dearly departed?”
“I did. Just before you arrived, actually.” Declan set down his drink and leaned forward. “But I have determined that she is not dead.”
The hair began to prickle on the back of Ian’s neck. It wasn’t the place, just some weird feeling. Mood, he thought, and made a mental note to take in how he was feeling right now. He could use it for one of his characters later. He shook his head. “You said she’s a ghost. How is she not dead? I mean, unless it’s something in one of my books, what’s dead stays dead.”
Declan smiled briefly. “What is dead stays dead. What an interesting choice of words. Something I would agree with more often than not.”
Ian leaned back in his chair. A ghost that wasn’t dead. This was a different angle. “Except here?”
“No, here the dead stay dead,” Declan said. His eyes met Ian’s, and an odd sense of calm washed over him. Just like it had at the café, when he and Declan had first met. Ian had been working on revisions to his second book back then. Declan had to be some sort of mentalist. And though he had never met one before, it was all he could think of to describe Declan’s perceived telepathy, intuition, and other seemingly psychic powers.
Of Shadow and Stone Page 4