by J. M. Adele
Whatever they were.
She needed a plan of her own.
Rubbing her eyes, she begged for the stinging to subside. Lethargy had her in its grip. Her mind was incapable of whipping up a brainstorm while her neurons misfired under a fog of fatigue. She had no choice but to close her eyes and succumb to the exhaustion.
_____
Hands deep in the pockets of his coat, Devlin stalked his way through the scattered headstones of Greyfriars Kirkyard. Under lights, Edinburgh Castle lorded over the city high on its hill in the distance. The place held too many memories, threatening his carefully constructed indifference.
Fueled with rage, each of his footfalls gouged the soft grass. He didn’t give a fuck. The place was deserted. No witnesses to screw him over with their cell phone cinematography. The cool night air coiled around Devlin’s vibrating form, urging him to calm down.
Not gonna happen.
The trail had led him to her.
Rubbing a hand over his aching shoulder, he swore under his breath. The fucking bullet had done a number on him. It hadn’t healed right. The docs had done all they could under the circumstances.
Nobody pins me down.
It turned out painkillers didn’t work on him. Go figure.
MacDonald, MacGregor, Stuart, Campbell . . . He read the names as he marched past . . . Ross.
There she is.
Pulling to a stop in front of a weathered sandstone grave marker, he read the epitaph.
Sorcha Ross
Beloved mother, wife and sister.
1518–1536
His body grew taut. At his feet, a patch of scorched grass held the charred remnants of a bunch of flowers. The blackened mess formed a heading for the scrawl below. Shallow channels had been carved into the earth over the grave—moats filled with blood. Their sharp angles formed an inscription of torment and warning in deep red.
The roses enjoyed the stake.
So did the witch.
You can’t stop me.
Discarded a few feet beyond Sorcha’s grave lay the source of the blood. An elderly man. His throat had been torn to shreds, vessels and stringy flesh spilling out like a toppled bowl of bolognese spaghetti. The man’s eyes were set in a blind stare.
Devlin’s nostrils flared as he ground his teeth. Scanning his surroundings, he sniffed the air, finding nothing other than the odor of damp grass, dead flesh, and day-old blood. His vision clouded, the scene before him changing to a time when he’d called this place home.
“Devlin. Come inside. Quickly now.” His mother feigned a smile as her extended arm urged him into her bosom. “We must prepare ourselves. I don’t want you to worry, lad. All will be well. No matter what. I will always watch over you.”
A gust of wind whipped the fall leaves around their legs as they scurried up the steps onto the porch and inside. Devlin’s eyes shifted to the corner of their small cabin, finding his da watching him. The light from the hearth lit one side of his father while his other half stretched a shadow upon the wall. Both eyes glowed red, even in the dark. Something’s wrong.
Mam ushered Devlin into a wooden chair, stray pieces of dark hair framing her harried face.
The door opened again. His aunt threw herself into the room and locked them in. Rubbing a palm over her swollen belly, her fretful gaze darted between them. “We must work in haste. They are almost upon us.”
Devlin gripped the sides of his seat, sweat rolling down his temples despite only just coming in from the cold October air.
What was happening? Who was coming?
His father’s red gaze fixed on Devlin as he shot to his feet.
“Sit.” With one look, his father had Devlin’s tail firmly reattached to the wooden chair. Devlin let out a whimper. It was the only thing he could do.
“Magaidh. Do what ye must.” His mother held out a carving knife for his aunt, turning over her palm once it was empty.
With one swoop, the knife slashed across his mother’s flesh and she let out a hiss. Aunt Magaidh locked her sister’s bleeding hand in a grip over a clay bowl to collect her offering. Lines creased Magaidh’s forehead as she turned to Devlin. “Give me your hand.”
He tightened his trembling lips, shaking his head. She flicked her finger and his hand flew into hers against his will. “Don’t be scared.”
The knife cut him, ripping a cry of pain from his chest. She dropped the knife to the floor with a clatter.
After adding his blood to the mix, she bound his hand together with his mother’s using rope. She held the bowl, collecting the blood dripping from their injured hands. Taking a candle, she moved the flame in slow circles under the base of the clay. Her voice rose in an incantation he didn’t understand. A language he’d only heard once before when he’d snuck out to follow his mother on the night of a full moon.
His mam stared down at him, tears collecting in her eyes, her lips moving in synchronicity with his aunt’s, but making no sound. He was aware of his da rising to his feet and drawing a dagger from his coat, but Devlin’s eyes couldn’t stray from his mam.
The chanting stopped and his mother spoke. “Drink.”
Coming back to the present, Devlin spread his fingers, drawing on his power. The earth beneath his feet began to rumble. Red droplets and clumps of dirt jumped like popcorn bursting in a hot pan. Rage doused his vision in scarlet. He raised his arms higher. A potent force pumped through every cell, from the top of his head down to his fingertips, building to an untenable crescendo. Letting out a roar, he aimed the energy at the scarred gravesite. The earth exploded. A bloody mess of dirt and grass thrust into the air, landing in a shower over the graveyard. The corpse of the old man was flung back into the wrought-iron fence of a nearby grave. All traces of the desecration were replaced by a crater a few feet deep. Sorcha’s headstone sat at an odd angle.
Dropping his arms, Devlin’s breathing slowly returned to normal while he drew memories of her from his mind.
Her sweaty, tear-stained face as she’d greeted his entry into the world.
The sweet sound of lullabies on her lips.
Her screams of terror as she’d begged for her life.
Sorcha Ross had been his mother.
_____
Shiloh woke a couple of hours later, curled in the chair at an awkward angle. There was still no sign of the sunlight over the horizon. A purple mink blanket warmed her skin, a surprise new addition. Curling her fingers into the soft fabric, she sat up, unsure whether to be thankful for the kindness or creeped out by the intrusion into her space. Her body released snaps and groans worthy of a horror film as she stretched her aching limbs.
She glanced at the bed, feeling stupid now for not answering its beckoning call, before spotting her suitcase standing near the door. Her cheeks hitched, a lightness almost lifting her out of the chair as she embraced the sight of something familiar. Something that was hers. Carter must have organized for her stuff to be brought over. How considerate. Shiloh’s feelings towards the woman softened a little.
Dropping the blanket, she stood, shuddering as a chill washed over her. She dragged the case to the bed and plonked it on the mattress. After flipping the case open, she pulled out clothes and toiletries. She refrained from hugging them to her chest, but inside she was happy-dancing. Such a simple thing, but when so much had been taken from her it was monumental to even have her own hairbrush.
She slowly placed the items aside, distracted as her attention caught on bright-purple microfiber. It’s been a while since I’ve seen that swimsuit. She draped the fabric over her hands, feeling the memories slip smoothly across her palms. She held the suit reverently, like she’d imagined holding the Olympic gold she’d been destined for. In her head, the dream had been so real it was almost impossible to fathom that it would never come to fruition.
Who was that girl? So focused on herself and the boy she’d loved. So fixated on a picture of the future that had been sketched with a poison pen. Life had a way of toppling things th
at were built on shaky foundations. The pieces of her would never fit back together the same way. But that was how it was meant to be. You were meant to rise, embers bursting into flame with a renewed strength and vision. She just didn’t know how the hell to do that, now that she was trapped in this place.
A soft knock sounded at the door, jerking her out of her reverie. Shiloh’s head snapped around as she dropped the swimsuit back into her case. She stared at the door, rooted to the spot, half hoping her visitor would go away. The knock sounded again with more insistence.
She cleared her throat before speaking, smoothing a hand over her ponytail. “Come in.”
A boy who looked to be about Shiloh’s age with messy two-tone hair—brown at the roots, blond at the ends—hesitated at the entrance. Headphones tangled in his hoodie around his neck. Holding a tray in his hands, he jiggled his shoulders, and shifted the weight of a backpack.
“Err, hi. Can I come in?”
She folded her arms. “I already gave you permission.”
His face screwed up and he chewed on his lip ring. “Right. Yeah, okay.” He marched to the sitting area, dumping the tray on the coffee table with a clang. “Sorry. Um, that’s your breakfast. Eggs, and oatmeal, and stuff. We didn’t know what you liked, so, yeah.”
He looked so uncomfortable, with his eyes glued to the carpet and his hands stuffed in his pockets, Shiloh had to smile. “Thanks. Isn’t it too early for breakfast?”
“Yeah, but we knew you were up. Sienna wants you to eat.”
Shiloh hugged herself a little tighter, eyes widening as her breath caught. “How did you know I was awake?”
“There are sensors in each room. And, um, cameras.”
They were filming her?
He coughed, his eyebrows pulling together before quickly adding, “Not in the bathroom and closet.” Pink washed across his cheeks. He rocked on his heels, pivoted, and started for the door. Abruptly, he pulled to a stop and shrugged off his bag. “I nearly forgot. Here’s your schoolwork. We can study together. You know, if ya want.”
School? That was the last thing on her mind. “Um. Maybe.”
His eyes met hers fleetingly, two tropical pools of the most vivid aqua blue. “Here.” He held the pack out to her, his gaze making contact for a little longer this time. “You can keep the bag. It’s new.”
“Thanks.” She smiled and placed it next to her case on the bed as he watched her.
He swung straight arms, then smacked a fist into his palm. “Okay. I’ll catch ya later, I guess.”
“Mm-hmm.” She bobbed her head, watching as he walked away.
Leaving her alone.
Isn’t that what you want?
She opened her mouth in a silent plea, her feet twitching to follow, but her distrust holding her steady. He was a stranger, yes. She’d been fooled before, but that was when she was still human and susceptible. Nothing about this kid set off any alarm bells.
“Are you a senior, too?” Her mouth released the words before she could twist her thoughts against doing so.
He stopped and turned, his hand half reaching for the door. “Yeah.”
“Which school?”
“Beverly Hills. Go Normans.” He did a half-hearted fist pump before flushing a light shade of beetroot.
She cleared her throat to stifle a giggle, deciding he was okay. But why was he here? Did he need guarding too? Or maybe he was someone’s son.
“Are you under protection?”
“Huh?” His nose crinkled with his confusion. “Oh. Nope. I work here.”
Her eyebrows hiked up. “Doing what?”
“IT. Nobody else really knows what they’re doing. Except Ren. She’s cool.”
“The goth?”
His head jerked back, mouth popping open. “Ooh. If she ever hears you say that, she’ll put a bullet in your brain.”
“She’s already threatened me with that one.”
“Yeah, that’s her standard welcome.” He grinned and tossed his chin in the direction of the seating area. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”
“Mm.” She looked over. Maybe some food would be a good idea, but she didn’t want him to go. The thought of being stuck here alone formed a brick in her throat. “Do you want some? I don’t think I can eat the eggs.”
“Yeah, I’ll eat anything.” He was already moving towards a chair to make himself comfortable.
She padded behind him with a soft smile on her face. “What have you been listening to?”
“Wha—?” A piece of egg flew out of his mouth with his response. He clamped his lips shut, chewing furiously before swallowing with a loud gulp. “Sorry.” He reached over to grab the stray food and stuffed it back in his mouth. “Elvin Bishop.”
“Who?”
His hand flew to his chest and he belted out a tune, singing about fooling around and getting bitten by the love bug.
Shiloh laughed, shaking her head. “Never heard it.”
“What!? Haven’t you seen Guardians of the Galaxy?”
“No.”
His face dropped in disbelief and he pulled his phone from the pocket of his hoodie. While sliding his thumb across the screen, he disconnected the headphones. He turned the phone so she could see the album cover from the soundtrack. She read the title of the song as the melody filled her ears—Fooled Around and Fell in Love. Surprisingly, his rendition had been almost as good as the original.
“It’s mellow. The guy sounds like a player,” Shiloh commented.
“Yeah, but he’s sunk now.” He grinned at her.
His smile slipped as she grinned back. Dropping his gaze to the plate, he cleared his throat.
Awkward.
She shoveled a spoonful of oatmeal in her mouth for something to do. His phone chimed, lending a much-needed distraction.
Looking at the screen, he shot to his feet. “I gotta go.”
“Oh. Okay then. Thanks for the food and the company.”
“Yeah. That’s okay.” He trotted towards the door.
Shiloh pushed to her feet. “Wait. What’s your name?”
“Zain with an a, i, n, as in brain. Not a, n, e, as in insane.”
The corners of her mouth hitched. “Got it.”
“I’ll see you around, Shiloh.”
The door closed with a click. She put her hand on the back of it, balking at being closed in. But this was her little bubble of safe space at the moment. She didn’t really know anyone beyond that barrier. It wasn’t wise to leave it open as an invitation. Not with a gun-happy gothic under the same roof.
Shiloh went back to the bed and pulled out the books Zain had delivered, their colorful covers a ruse to the dry content within. There was no way her brain would be capable of concentrating on her studies. Releasing a sigh, her eyes strayed to her swimsuit again. Could she? Would she be able to dig up her competitive spirit like she’d unearthed her body? Could she conquer her fear and find her happy place in this strange new existence?
What else am I going to do?
She headed into the adjoining bathroom and stripped off her clothes. After donning the suit, she collected a towel and robe from the hooks behind the door.
She crept through the sleeping house to the billiards room, her body tingling all the way. Everything in her bellowed, What the fuck are you doing? The floor turned to quicksand as she passed the bar and gymnasium. Moving towards the entry to the pool, her sweaty palm slipped on the steel door handle. Anxiety flipped her stomach. But she wasn’t stopping for anything or anyone.
The cavernous space was dark, apart from the colored lights lining the pool. Mist caressed the surface of the water and the humid air welcomed her into its warmth, loosening the knots in her shoulders. She left the lights off. Dawn would soon peer in through the glass windows.
Dropping her things on a deck chair, she toed the end of the diving board. Taking a seat, she bounced gently with her feet dipping in. Ripples circled out, overlapping each other as each gentle splash interrupted the si
lence. She could’ve relived the terror of being hunted. She could’ve allowed the memory to send her running for the door. But she chose not to.
Strength was always defined by the choices one made in their darkest moments. There were several options. Stand and fight. Ignore it until it went away. Surrender. Cry and moan. But it all came down to this: you either stood in your power or you gave it away to someone or something else.
She chose to stand in her power.
Fuck him.
The water called to her. It always had. She listened to its liquid song . . . and slipped in.
The warm wetness sluicing over her skin, the flex of her muscles as she pulled herself along—it was a rebirth. She found something inside her, a fortitude beyond the physical that nobody could take away. Touching the wall, she lifted her head above the water, dragging in a breath. Shiloh slicked back her hair, a gentle smile curling her lips. She rested her head on her hands, gripping the tiled edge of the pool. She had a right to be proud after what she’d just overcome.
Hearing the shuffle of footsteps, her heartbeat doubled in time. Spinning, she watched Devlin walk towards the diving board, wearing only black swimming trunks.
Shirtless.
A purple scar bloomed where he’d been shot in the shoulder—puckered, freshly healed skin.
Thank God he’s okay . . .
Her pulse refused to calm down. If he was a threat, at least she’d seen him coming this time. Her body rotated slowly, eyes following his movements. Brown skin stretched over sinewy muscle. A dusting of dark hair covered his pecs and trailed in a faint line to the edge of his shorts. His hair draped loosely around his shoulders.
She blinked.
He’s way more than okay.
Her lips parted, tongue flitting out in search of his scent before she swallowed.
Definitely a threat.
He executed the perfect dive. His form was a shadow darting underwater for the length of the pool. He touched the wall beside her, head breeching the surface. Her lids peeled back as his gaze landed on her. He stood to his full height with both arms raised above his head, his hands squeezing the water out of his hair. “Morning,” his greeting rumbled into the vast room.