by Tammy Swoish
Hot Adan Alert
Adan stopped by tonight. When I saw him riding his horse down the path toward our courtyard, my stomach flipped a million times.
He's so handsome.
Luckily, Fiona had gone home to get her cameras and other ghost-hunting gear, otherwise she'd probably have thrown eggs at him.
Last year in social studies, Mr. Minkton talked about Greek mythology. He told us that Eros, according to legend, was so hot that if a woman looked at him, she'd go blind. At the time, I figured that Eros had to be one heck of a hottie to make women lose their vision.
Adan is like a modern-day Eros. That's how fine he is.
He asked me to go to Loch Ness tomorrow on a date.
“To see the Loch Ness monster?” I asked.
He laughed. “Aye, if she shows herself. And for a picnic.”
Mom said I could go. YES!
But I'll need my sunglasses . . . I don't want to go blind. Ha.
He's picking me up at noon.
Samuel Logan
Okay, so Fiona and I made contact with Samuel Logan. At least I think we did.
Fiona, wearing black again, came over. She made a circle of dried herbs in the corner and then did some freaky chant thing.
I didn't see or hear anything. Honest.
But as soon as Fiona finished the chant, she snapped a million still pictures and pushed Record on her video camera. She did this for about five minutes without stopping. Then she sat on the bed and flipped back through her photos, listening to the sounds. Apparently she'd been using the voice recorder also.
“There he is,” she said, jumping off the bed and shoving the display in my face. “Do ye see him, Sami? Do ye?”
I looked at the screen. “No.”
She sighed and pointed. “There. It's a light anomaly. Remember, that's how spirits use their energy to show themselves?”
I saw what looked like a speck of dust. But I remembered reading about that phenomenon online. “I see it.”
“Aye,” she said, turning the camera so she could look at the display. “And listen.” She pushed a button. “This is his voice.”
I really tried to hear something, but all I could catch was a sound like a gurgling wind.
She pressed the button and played it again. “Did ye hear that?”
I nodded. I wasn't really sure what she'd heard, but I didn't think I'd heard anything significant.
“Did ye hear what he said, Sami?”
I nodded again.
“What do ye think he means?”
I'd heard a gurgle, nothing ghastly, so I shrugged.
She sighed. “He didn't kill himself, didn't ye hear? I'll play it again.” She pushed the button. “Mc-Clintogg,” she whispered.
My skin went all goose-bump cold. “No,” I said.
“Aye, Sami . . . in Sam's own voice.” She looked at me for a long time, then said, “You know, you have the same name. That's why he's connecting with you.”
Holy crap. Fiona was freaking me out.
“You think—”
“His words.” She nodded at the camera. “There've always been rumors surrounding Sam's death,” she said. “A lot of folks don't believe he'd take his own life. McClintoggs killed him.”
“Fiona,” I said, gulping deep breaths to calm myself. “I just want Samuel gone.”
“Aye, I understand.” Her eyes were huge. “But we'll have to release his soul.”
I nodded. “Okay, then let's release it.”
“ 'Tis not that simple, Sami,” she whispered. “We'll have to bring him justice, right the wrong done to him.”
I wished she'd stop whispering.
“Why?”
“Didna ye pay attention at all when we researched?” she said. “He can't cross over until his soul is at rest, and as long as people think he killed himself, he'll not find peace, and he'll be trapped here forever.”
“Yeesss. Trapped.”
Crap. We had made contact with Samuel, and he was talking to us. Fiona and I both jumped, and her mind clicked into gear more quickly than mine. Before I fully registered that I'd just heard a spirit voice, she was snapping pictures. “Did ye hear that, Sami?”
“Yes,” I said.
I'd definitely heard that.
“McClintogg,” said Samuel.
“Talk to him, Sami,” Fiona urged, still taking pictures.
“Why me?”
“You're his namesake,” she said.
“What?” She'd lost her mind. “I don't want to talk to him.”
“McClintogg!” Samuel shouted. An unlit candle fell off the nightstand. Then a burst of cold air swept over me, and I knew he'd gone. “He's left,” I said.
Fiona stopped taking pictures. “Why didn't you talk to him?” she asked. “We had him where we wanted him.”
“Why didn't you talk to him?” I shot back. “Just because his name is Samuel and mine is Samantha doesn't mean we can communicate through realms or that he's come here to talk to me.”
“Aye, well, 'tis done,” said Fiona. “Next time, talk.”
“You talk.”
“Tomorrow we'll go to town,” she said. “We've got to find facts surrounding Samuel Logan's death.”
I nodded. The sooner we solved the mystery, the sooner Samuel would be gone and I would get some rest.
“In the morning?” I asked.
“Aye,” she said.
“Good.” I had a date with Adan in the afternoon, but that was something I'd rather not discuss with Fiona.
Day 16
7 a.m.
I'm so tired. Thanks to ghost Samuel, and now ghost-hunter-personality Fiona, I haven't had a good night's sleep since I arrived.
Fiona slept over the past two nights, and I listened to her constant ramblings until three a.m. both times.
Samuel only made the one appearance. Apparently Fiona's too much of a talker for him.
I'd finally hit a deep sleep around 6:30. Then at the butt-crack of dawn, Fiona put a cup of hot tea under my nose, saying she wanted to get to the public records building before the crowd.
I'm not sure what public records buildings are like in Scotland, but at home I don't think I've ever heard of one with a crowd. Fiona was acting like she was going early-bird shopping the morning after Thanksgiving.
10 a.m.
A wasted morning.
On the bright side, I got to sit in a stuffy room working some ancient microfiche machine and smelling musty old papers instead of combing the hills counting sheep.
I didn't know what Fiona expected to find on Samuel Logan. There were no CSI units in the 1700s.
According to public record, there's never even been a Samuel Logan living in this area, although we did find documentation of the birth of a Samuel Logan MacKensie. It had to be him.
The old man who supervised the records sat beside us the entire morning. His breath smelled like after-dinner mints. His name was Roland, and he said there'd been a fire in the early 1900s. Although most documents had been saved, Samuel's had not.
It's as if Samuel Logan never existed. Maybe he didn't. Maybe he's nothing more than a rumor. Maybe he was a MacKensie—but Fiona was adamant that no MacKensie had ever died by hanging. And legends around ghost Samuel clearly state he was hanged.
Maybe Samuel was the product of my overactive imagination, freaking me out in a strange environment. But Fiona had heard him too. Hadn't she?
I tried to explain my imagination theory to her. She wouldn't hear it. Well, she was quiet while I talked, and then when I paused, she said tonight we'd have to get more photographic evidence. Her obsessive personality is dominating her brain.
The Best Date of My Entire Life
Adan was on time.
I hate it when people are late. It really bugs me.
Thankfully, he didn't ride his horse. He drove up in a hot black sports car. It was sweet and made me all weak in the knees.
I could've kissed him then. I wanted to, but not on the first date.
Mom's drilled that into my head since middle school. She didn't know I'd already been kissed on the playground once. No reason to let her know that Derek Price had already taught me the basics of a good lip-lock.
Back to the date.
Adan came to get me, brought Mom flowers, and opened the car door for me.
Imagine some guy in Michigan doing any of that. Not.
Then we drove to Loch Ness. Adan drives like he rides his horse, all confident, and cocky enough to increase his hotness by ten degrees.
I have to say that Loch Ness is nothing more exciting than a big lake. I live around a lot of lakes, so one more isn't all that thrilling unless I'm jet-skiing or something.
But the point of visiting Loch Ness was to see the Loch Ness monster, Nessie. We parked on a hill overlooking the lake.
“The best place to see Nessie,” Adan said. “I'll get the food. You choose the spot and spread the blanket.” He reached into the backseat, pulled out a dark blue plaid blanket, and passed it to me.
His hand touched mine, and he held it there a little longer than necessary.
Goose bumps. For real.
Lunch was interesting. Adan might be a rich noble and all, but he'd packed simple meat sandwiches, a jar of pickles, a bag of chips, a box of store-bought cookies, and canned lemonade. Besides the homemade bread, everything looked like it had just been taken right out of the pantry and packed in the wicker basket. Putting the whole thing together probably took five minutes, but for a guy that's pretty impressive.
Adan has probably never had to pack a lunch a day in his life. I bet he's always had a servant to do it for him. That he'd taken the time to pack lunch for me made my stomach tingle. He's so hot, and thoughtful. At least I think he packed it.
What would it be like to have servants? Mom always says to me, “I'm not your servant, Sami.” It'd be so cool to have some, though. One to do my laundry, one to cook pancakes for every meal, one to bake me bread. Adan's bread smells so awesome—sweet and fresh.
“Do you have a cook?” I asked.
“Aye. Don't ye?”
I almost spit out my lemonade. Yeah, my dad. “No,” I said.
It got quiet then. He probably thought I was some kind of commoner. No cook . . . really. What kind of a person doesn't have a cook? Ummm . . . me.
I tried to focus on the water and ignore the tingling that had turned to an ache in my stomach. I felt out of place. Back home I was kind of sought after by the guys. It wasn't like I had a different date every weekend, but I was the only freshman asked to the winter formal last year, so I'm far from hopeless.
The water in the lake was really blue.
It was quiet. Nothing to talk about. I'm a peasant, living in a medieval no-electricity cottage.
Great. I was there with dreamboat “I have a cook” Adan, and I was focusing on the color of the lake.
Adan cleared his throat. “ 'Tis fine ye don't have a cook, Sami. I didna ask ye here for your family wealth.”
Great. He thinks I'm a loser, and poor.
He continued. “I asked you to come with me because I wanted to show you the mystical power of my country.”
Great. Now he was going all supernatural-patriotic.
“Would ye like to know the magic of the land, Sami?”
“Yes,” I said. What else was I going to say? No, Adan, don't tell me anything about your magical country.
I turned and looked at him. I could listen to him talk about his magical country, or whatever, for days.
He smiled, and my stomach tingled again. Mom always said if a guy gives you that weird, happy, I-want-to-throw-up feeling, it's special.
My stomach gurgled.
“Hungry?” Adan said, handing me a sandwich.
I nodded. I wasn't going to tell him that it wasn't hunger noises my stomach was making. My stomach was sending messages to my brain: Adan and I would date, he'd come to the States and we'd go to college together, we'd get married, live in his castle, and have five children.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” I asked.
“No.”
Perfect. He'd want lots of kids too.
Maybe I was getting ahead of myself.
My stomach was going nuts, sending crazy nervous in-love signals to my brain.
I've always hated the thought of eating in front of a guy, and I hate my queasy stomach. I have only done it a couple of times. This time, however, was all I needed to know that I never want to do it again for the rest of my life. My husband will eat in a separate room.
Here's why: When I took a bite, some of the food didn't make it all the way into my mouth. There's nothing more disturbing than having a guy make eye contact when you know there's a hunk of ham hanging out of the corner of your mouth.
Every swallow sounded like I was trying to force down a boulder of meat. I wasn't sure if the romantic atmosphere had somehow heightened my sense of hearing, or if I was just now realizing what a pig I was.
I was starving, but my brain wouldn't relax enough to eat. My stomach was sick, like I wanted to vomit.
My irrational thoughts made no sense. Adan's offer of a nice, calm picnic had become more like an invitation to a twisted carnival ride gone wrong.
Somehow, amid my inner turmoil and Adan's teasing smile, I finished my sandwich.
I'm not sure what kind of meat I ate. I didn't taste a thing.
Medieval Crossbow Shooting
“ 'Tis like the modern sniper rifle,” said Adan, lifting a wooden crossbow out of the trunk of his car.
I nodded. I'm no expert on weapons, but I know enough to understand the deadly killing capacity of this particular bow.
Awesome!
Adan set the bow on the ground and pulled out a stack of arrows and a round straw target. I was going to shoot a crossbow! It was a skill I'd never need, like golf, but I wanted to learn.
“Longbowmen were highly trained marksmen,” he said, carrying the target to a tree and leaning it against the trunk with its face turned to us. “They were expensive to train, and it could take years to replace a dead one.” He walked back to me and pointed at the bow on the ground. “A crossbow, anyone could use. It was not as effective as a longbow, but it worked.”
I nodded. “Would you have used a crossbow?”
He laughed. “Auch, nay, Sami. I would have been a knight—the tank of the medieval battlefield.”
“Ah, then how do you know how to fire one?” I was so pumped. My hands were itching to hold the weapon. I cracked my pinky knuckle.
He stopped and picked up the bow. “I love the history of my country,” he said. “Some is magical, like Nessie, and some a matter of practical survival. The crossbow is about survival.”
“In battle?”
“Aye,” he said. “ 'Tis necessary when laying siege to a castle to have weaponry equal to, if not better than, your enemy's.”
I nodded like I understood castle sieges. The closest I'd ever come to something like that was the one time I'd locked my parents out of my bedroom. I was twelve and angry and rather fond of slamming doors to make my point. My parents had laid siege to my bedroom by simply removing the door.
Adan picked up the bow and held it with respect. Then he started talking, but I had a hard time focusing on his words; he was speaking a foreign language. “ . . . a light coat of wax on the shelf . . . string of whip-cord . . . lubricate the mechanisms . . . exposed wood makes the best prods . . . split in the grain is dangerous . . . the bow irons add more weight . . .”
I watched and smiled. I was listening, but he was so hot I didn't want to tell him that I didn't have a clue what he was talking about.
“Come, I'll show you,” he said, holding the firing end pointed at the ground. He placed his right foot on the back of the bowed part and pulled the string up. “Like that. Ye want to keep the string resting in the groove of your first knuckles.” He held up his right hand with his fingers bent. “You won't have as much pain in your shoulders tonight if you pull keeping your
elbows straight.”
I raised my eyebrows. Couldn't he just load the bow for me and I'd pull the trigger? I guess that wouldn't have been very sportsperson-like.
Adan handed me the bow, and I put my foot on the back just the way he had and pulled. Nothing.
“Give it a good tug,” he said.
I tried again; the string moved slightly. I'm not weak. I've taken weight-training classes for two years.
Adan stepped behind me and put his arms around me. No way was I going to tell him I was strong enough to do this, not when I was all snug in his arms.
He grabbed the string, placed his hands over mine, and helped me pull the string back and lock it behind the arrow.
My knees were weak, and I could feel my fingers tremble slightly. He kept his hands on top of mine, like a calming breath slowing my heart and my shaking.
With his arms wrapped around me, I felt like this would be as close to pure contentment as I'd ever get for the rest of my life. Never mind that I was holding one of the medieval world's deadliest weapons.
Adan raised his arms, and mine followed. “We'll aim,” he whispered in my right ear, “and squeeze the trigger.”
I followed the fluidity of his voice and the gentle coaxing of the muscles in his arms and hands. Mom better write stuff like this in her romance novels.
“Now?” I asked, surprised that I could still form and speak words.
“Aye, Sami.” His breath moved in and around my ear.
I pulled the trigger because the other option was to pass out from pure pleasure.
He released my arms but didn't step away from me. Then he laughed. “A good try, Sami, but next shot, hold your aim.”
My vision adjusted. “Crap.” The arrow stuck out of the ground at least five feet in front of the target and three feet to the left.
“Dinnae be too worried,” he said. “Crossbows are noted for their inaccuracy.”
“Really?” I asked, turning so I could see him telling me such a blatant lie to make me feel better.
He nodded, never breaking eye contact.
I've read stupid, romantic stuff about a man devouring a woman with his eyes. I've always thought that was dumb. But I think Adan was doing it to me. I had no idea how to react, so I looked back at the bow. “Can I try again?” I asked.