Of Shadow and Stone

by Michelle Muto

  “Then if you don’t have ghosts, what haunts the castle?” Ian asked.

  “That is a good question.” Declan paused to drink. “And haunt is such a curious word. To most outsiders, this place might be considered the most haunted castle in the world. But to me, that would imply we had hordes of ghosts roaming the halls intent on completing some unfinished business. That is simply not the case. If instead you redefine the word to mean anything supernatural, well, then Shadow Wood could indeed be one of the most haunted places in Scotland.”

  Ian swirled his glass and took a small sip of his rum and Coke. So Shadow Wood harbored more than a supposed ghost who wasn’t really a ghost. And now Declan was telling him there were other supernatural things here. Von Hiller had mentioned it as well. They had to be playing him. A ghost he’d be willing to believe with a little proof. Everything else? It was like a zombie movie. Everyone enjoyed watching them, might even speculate what it would be like if there were an actual zombie apocalypse. Yet waking up one day to find out the living dead had become a reality was something else entirely.

  Declan’s expression remained serious. “I hope you can help me talk to her. I would like to tell her that she is more than welcome to stay here, that she need not fear us.” He traced a long finger down the side of his glass.

  “Do you have any idea who she might be or where she came from?” Ian asked.

  “Not at the moment, no. I have tried speaking with her—tried to find out more about her, but alas . . .” Declan’s brow furrowed, and he took another swig of Scotch. If Ian didn’t suspect it was impossible, he’d think that his otherwise composed host appeared frustrated.

  Not only did Ian have a possible ghost story, he had a mystery, too. Win-win.

  “Where I come from, people who show up on your property unannounced are called trespassers,” Ian kidded.

  Declan grinned. “You will see her soon enough. I have a feeling you are someone she will talk to.”

  Ian thought of the wisp of light and shadow he’d seen earlier on the staircase. “Why me?”

  “Let us just say that you might be her type.”

  “Me? Oh, I doubt it,” Ian said. “I’m not exactly a ghost magnet. I’ve never actually seen a ghost, remember?”

  “And beyond ghosts? What do you believe?”

  Well, this was awkward. If he said he believed only in spirits, would he be insulting his host? “I’m not sure.”

  Declan’s formidable gaze sharpened on Ian’s face. “Tell me, do you believe in anything you cannot see?”

  Ian thought he knew where this was heading. “I’d like to think I’m open-minded.”

  “Do you have a faith?”

  “Not in the typical sense, I suppose.” Ian never liked discussing religion. He leaned back in the chair again. “Organized religion isn’t my thing.”

  Declan raised a hand. “I am not judging you, Ian. However, most people believe in some sort of faith or religion. They believe in God, or at least a god, religion optional.” He shrugged. “And with the good, they believe in the bad, the Devil. Increasingly, though, people believe in neither, much less the possibility of a third.”

  “You mean like Greek and Roman gods, or just someone in between?”

  “In between,” Declan replied quickly, then set his now-empty glass down on the side table and gazed into the fire. “Tell me, what did you see when you drove in?”

  Ian frowned. Was Declan referring to the gargoyles by the front gate or the animal in the forest? How could he have known about either one? “I’m not entirely sure about that, either.”

  “Ah! Yes! But you did see something in the woods, Ian. And then there were other things you saw and then did not see.”

  “How—”

  Declan waved him off. “How did I know? I know many things.”

  Ian shuddered slightly as a log in the fire toppled over, sparking a brief, intense flame. He had a sudden case of the creeps. Bogeymen and Beasties didn’t exist. They just didn’t. Couldn’t. It had simply been a good guess on Declan’s part, or Von Hiller had told him and nothing more. Either he was fishing or he was playing the clairvoyant to the hilt. Later, he’d think of a way to ask Declan how he did it, how he perfected the skill. Sometimes he’d imagined Declan being more than a creative storyteller, but that was just the writer in him.

  Or was it?

  “Why is this woman such a mystery?” Ian asked.

  “What if I said that you are not imagining things, Ian? What if I said that all this time, all the creatures I told you about for your novels were real? That I am in touch with all things supernatural?”

  Maybe he didn’t have to ask. Maybe Declan was about to tell him.

  “Mentalist or wizard?” Ian said lightly, but his mind drifted back to all the details Declan had given him, all the specifics of an amazing world that had made Ian’s recent novels seem so real. Ian took another swig from his glass.

  “Amusing, but neither.” Declan paused, resting his index finger against his mouth momentarily. “What if I told you that the Netherworld exists? That it is another realm that coexists with your own? What if I told you that Shadow Wood is a sanctuary for these beings and that I am Lord of the Netherworld?”

  Ian nearly dropped his glass. His first reaction was that Declan was nuts. But inside, hadn’t he always known Declan was different? Hell, the man never used contractions! But not this different. Declan had promised to help with his writer’s block. Surely that’s what this was all about. Declan and Von Hiller had set it all up so perfectly. How else would Declan know about the disappearing gargoyles or the mist on the staircase? Granted, he hadn’t specifically mentioned each occurrence, but it was implied. Mentalists and fortunetellers referred to the method as shotgunning. Again, Ian felt honored that Declan would go to this extreme. It was some elaborate role play.

  “Okay,” Ian said simply.

  “I can prove what I say, Ian.” The flames in the fireplace took on unusual, twisting shapes. While they didn’t prove lordship over the Netherworld, the odd shapes did give Ian a healthy dose of apprehension.

  He coughed. “Okay,” he repeated. “Then let’s go with that for a minute. I mean, you know, given your status, why not just send forth minions to find her or something?”

  Declan nodded and smiled, as if Ian’s observation pleased him. “That is a fair question. The only things about her that remain a mystery are who exactly she is and where I can find her. As for the minions, Ian, I am not the mafia.”

  No, Declan wasn’t the mafia. But then, someone who proclaimed to be Lord of the Netherworld would be more powerful than the mafia. “I don’t understand,” Ian said. “If she’s walking the halls, and if you’ve seen her, why can’t you find her?”

  “That is where I hope you can help me. Until then, you probably want to unpack and freshen up before dinner. Von Hiller told you dinner is at seven?”

  “He did.”

  “Well, then,” Declan said as he rose from his chair, “Roland will escort you to your room. I will send either him or Von Hiller for you right before dinner.”

  As if on cue, Roland tapped on the door and entered the study. He nodded at Declan and grinned eerily at Ian, making him wonder if he’d been eavesdropping. Ian was starting to dislike this guy—a lot.

  “May I show you to your room, Mr. McGuire?” Roland’s voice was cordial, but Ian still detected arrogance in it.

  Ian finished his drink and stood. “I’m looking forward to continuing our conversation over dinner,” he said to Declan.

  “As am I.” Declan turned toward the fireplace. A second log tumbled into the red-hot ashes, sparking another towering flame.

  “Lead on, Macduff,” Ian said to Roland, who strode toward the hall. Ian had to hurry to keep up.

  Two women passed them on the stairs as they approached the second-floor landing.

  “I hope it’s something really big this time,” one of them was saying. “Something that takes a few of us to bring down
.”

  Upon seeing Roland and Ian, they quieted. Ian guessed that the younger woman couldn’t be more than twenty or so. She smiled at him inquisitively. The other woman discreetly nudged her.

  He tried picturing the women in camouflage and toting rifles, shooting at really large prey. Maybe a giant bear.

  “Welcome,” the slightly older one said as they passed.

  “Thanks,” he said, turning to get a better look. The two women continued down the stairwell. The older woman, who was probably closer to his own age, somewhere in her midtwenties, glanced back at him.

  “Whoa,” Ian whispered to himself, more in surprise than admiration. Her eyes were like nothing he’d ever seen—a combination of gold and brown. They were beautiful, yet startling.

  “Are you coming, Mr. McGuire?” Roland called impatiently.

  Ian hurried up the staircase after him.

  Von Hiller was right—at least some of the guests were more social than this dour, uncommunicative man. Roland needed to lighten up.

  Roland stopped in front of a door at the end of the third-floor corridor, next to a deep-set leaded glass window that was easily six feet in height.

  “Your room,” Roland announced. He opened the door and stood aside.

  “See you at dinner.” Ian smiled at his guide, not that he expected him to return the gesture. Roland seemed to be in a state of perpetual moodiness.

  Roland didn’t disappoint.

  “Right. Seven, then.” Ian closed the door, leaving Roland standing outside. He leaned against the door, listening for departing footsteps, but heard none. The guy had all the personality of roadkill. No, come to think of it, roadkill exhibited more charisma. Something else about Roland bothered him. Something in his eyes. They were cold and dark and soulless.

  He was either just weird or a psychopath.

  Don’t be an idiot, Ian told himself. Reel in the writer. Roland was probably playing one hell of a part.

  He opened the door to peer down the hall, half expecting to find Roland standing there, but the hallway was empty. Ian closed the door again and locked it. Roland had placed his bags next to the king-size bed. He looked around and whistled. He had never stayed in a room as grand as this one. Like the rest of Shadow Wood, this room had ceilings that were tall and airy, and the furniture was all oversized mahogany with intricate carvings. The sleigh bed sat opposite one of the biggest wardrobe closets Ian had ever seen. A lit fireplace adorned the far wall—yellow-orange flames danced over the logs. The room had all the comforts, including a flat screen—not that Ian planned on watching TV or movies. He’d come to write. Declan had planned for this, or at least had made sure to set him up in a room with a writing desk off to the side of the fireplace. A rectangle of light from an adjoining room fell across the navy-and-beige-tapestry bedspread. Ian guessed the light came from a bathroom.

  The rest of the furnishings consisted of a couple of comfy-looking navy sofas with black throw pillows, a few end tables, an oversized beige tapestry chair, and a built-in bookshelf complete with leather-bound books. Heavy curtains were drawn back to reveal two huge windows and a view every bit as magnificent as Declan had promised.

  Ian stepped closer to the window and looked out across the grassy field below, taking in how the last rays of sunlight made the bare trees shimmer gold and russet. He leaned against the glass, feeling the evening’s coolness through it. A gargoyle jutted out from the ledge on his right. It resembled a cross between a winged dragon, a dog, and a domestic cat. The head was decidedly canine, the paws feline. Scales lined the torso.

  Ian’s interest was piqued, and he thought of the two gargoyles outside the gates. There had to be more. Castles like this always had more.

  He walked to the other window, and sure enough, he noticed the head of a larger gargoyle protruding from under the ledge. This one looked to be a mixture of goat and man with a single horn on its head.

  Gargoyles were not uncommon. While researching locations for his books, he’d seen many of them on rooftops and cornices of famous buildings worldwide, including Notre Dame, the Houses of Parliament in London, the Washington National Cathedral, the Biltmore Estate in North Carolina, and several buildings off Broadway in New York.

  Ironically, back when some of the oldest churches were built, it was widely believed that gargoyles warded off evil spirits. In Ian’s opinion, demons should have been attracted to the grotesques.

  Here, they were perched on almost every ledge or overhang within his line of sight. None of these, however, appeared as menacing as the stone creatures at the front gate.

  Tearing his attention from the gargoyles, he looked into the garden below. From this vantage point, he could clearly see the path that led from the garden into the woods. He figured this must be one of the paths used for the hunts.

  Do you hunt, Ian?

  Turning away from the window, he went to the doorway to the adjoining room. Instead of the en suite bath he expected to see, he found a small wet bar area. The bathroom was just beyond the bar. The fixtures here looked either very old, very expensive, or both. Another claw-footed wardrobe in the corner held towels and a plush bathrobe. In the base, he found a pair of men’s slippers.

  Not too unusual, but a nice touch on Declan’s part. Still, Declan didn’t know his guest as well as he thought. Ian never wore slippers, and rarely had he ever worn a robe.

  Returning to the main room, he was drawn back to the window and his inspection of the dark forest. What kind of animal had he seen earlier? A wolf? A feral dog?

  Werewolf?

  It would really be something if Declan could figure out how to pull that off. This whole mystery was going to be a lot of fun. The kid in him, and the writer, wanted to succumb to the fantasy. Werewolves. Sure. Why not? Declan had gone to a great deal of trouble.

  He tried to see deeper into the woods, but the density of the trees made it impossible.

  As he watched, four people and two sizeable gray dogs that resembled wolves emerged from the forest onto the path. Whatever the breed, the dogs were well trained. Each one ran alongside a person—no leashes or collars. Maybe they were what he’d seen earlier.

  Werewolves it is, he thought. Go with it. It’d be fun.

  But the dogs were acting more like dogs or wolves than werewolves. Werewolves weren’t supposed to behave like Lassie. In his mind, they would be more likely to push Timmy down the well than go deer hunting with him. But then, what did he know?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Declan

  Von Hiller entered the study and rested in the chair that Ian had occupied not long ago. “Will he see her tomorrow?” he asked Declan.

  “He will. He likes to get up early to write, so he will see her,” Declan answered. “She has been here quite a bit this week. She does not yet know why she is drawn to us, but she is clearly curious, and she already suspects that she belongs. I know she calls herself Kate, but as of yet, I know nothing more. This is where Ian comes in.”

  “Do you think he’ll find out what we need in time?”

  Declan considered the question. “I believe he will.”

  “And he’ll tell you who and where she is?”

  “Most likely. I will wait until afterward to explain why we need her.”

  Von Hiller sat quietly for a minute. Declan remained silent, letting him think.

  “What will you do then? What about the gargoyles?”

  Declan stared into the fire. The flames rose steadily until they licked the mantel before subsiding. He had known Von Hiller might ask such a question. He only wished he had an answer. The right one. His powers of subtle suggestion were one thing, but from here on, everything relied on fate. That was the nature of things. He considered Ian a friend. If Ian were to help him, it would only be fair to let him see the whole picture. At the moment, Ian did not believe him. But in time, he would. Declan would have to proceed more slowly.

  “I wait and watch,” he told Von Hiller. “Ian has some choices he must make,
that much is certain. What I do depends on his decision. What they do depends on hers.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Kate

  “Want to have a little fun?”

  Kate couldn’t tell which one had spoken—the gangly teen with the wiry hair or the heavyset friend trudging alongside him.

  Where was she? She’d been standing in the castle just a moment ago. Kate tried to reassure herself that at least the gargoyles were gone and her feet were firmly planted on a rooftop someplace.

  Not until I show you . . .

  He’d sent her here. The man named Declan. How or why, she couldn’t say.

  Below, the heavyset teen punched his companion in an attempt to get him to box. He raised his fists in front of his face and took another jab. The other teen ignored him and walked on. He spat a large wad of gum through the open window of a parked car.

  They looked like they were about fifteen. Why were they so important? Kate tried to stir herself awake. Usually only the dreams that took her to Shadow Wood seemed this real. It wasn’t the vivid color or her acute hearing that made her begin to doubt that this truly was a dream, but rather the cool air blowing against her face from her position on the rooftop. Her best guess was that she was in downtown Vancouver. She’d only been to the city maybe a half a dozen or so times since moving here.

  A few pigeons cooed softly behind her. On her left sat a winged gargoyle.

  You didn’t think you’d get rid of them that easily, did you? she asked herself.

  Kate tried to recall what building or buildings might have gargoyles on their rooftops, but came up short. The statue seemed so out of place on this roof—the architecture didn’t match. She was no expert, but the building was brick and sported relatively plain ledges.

  The gargoyle’s head turned in her direction, and she distinctly heard a low, light growl. The growl almost had a purr to it. Like acknowledgment.