Stormy Peril

by Victoria Pinder

  The rain beat on the glass and she couldn't see anyone outside. Roger was nowhere near her. Her pulse quickened, but she reminded herself to focus on one truth.

  For today she lived, and it had to be enough.

  CHAPTER 3

  Raphael had saved her, and was now offering her shelter despite wanting a winter alone. Kimberly decided that she'd make something nice for him for dinner, perhaps even a cake.

  She wandered back into the empty castle library. On the counter, she found a silver candelabrum and lit the candles. Without a flashlight, it was the best she could do. The gray walls danced with the small flames, but a little light was better than none. The hard rain became the steady beat of desolation to her ears. She had never believed in ghosts, but the wind outside and the storm that echoed everywhere almost made ghosts seem possible.

  In hopes she’d spot a cookbook, or perhaps to ease her thoughts, she flipped on light switches and discovered more rooms. After she passed through the poorly lit areas, she turned off the lights. She refused to turn around to see behind her, following the shadows that creeped ahead.

  The swish sound had to be the wind outside, but she blinked until she realized it was a tree branch that brushed against the windowpane.

  Nothing to be afraid of. She glanced out into the blackness. No moon appeared to lessen her anxiety. Night was never this dark in the tropics. She licked her lips to gather her wits. In horror movies, the only one that survived the terror was a virgin. She let out a small laugh and shook her head. No virgins here.

  The thought stayed close as she walked closer to the bookshelves. Would she find a recipe book? Tonight, she'd cook Raphael something nice.

  The dong of the grandfather clock pierced the air and she froze. She clutched the candelabrum tighter then released her firm grip. At least this temporary cook thing would pay for the rest of the trip home, and it wasn't for a hotel full of guests. Three people were enough. What would she do with no internet?

  Bang. A tree branch beat against the windowpane.

  A memory of the gunshot replayed in her head. She sat in her seat with a glass of water in her hand when the dark-haired pilot pointed a gun at Eileen's neck. Kimberly stood up, but then someone or somehow she was thrown backward. Eileen's blood spattered everywhere. Strange foreign words were muttered then a moment later Ali, her husband, was shot multiple times.

  The crack of the tree branch resounded in the air and Kimberly breathed. She stared at the window, then wiped her face with her free hand. The memory faded. She let her arms fall to her side and her mind returned to her task. She preferred to follow a recipe. Where would a cookbook be?

  She brought the candelabrum to the nearby side table, so she could browse through the books. Murder 101, How to Get Away with Murder, How to Commit Murder and Get Away with it, Deserves to Die, Deadly Intent, and Real Murder. Her heart skipped a beat.

  The next shelf had more books on murder. Who was Raphael? She stepped back and listened to her racing heart beat in her chest. No. She shouldn't be here. What should she do? She licked her lips and remembered Eileen and Ali. Their corpses were lying on the beach with a bullet hole. Was there something else?

  A headache raged suddenly. She wiped the tears in her eyes back. She ought not to think about this.

  So what—Raphael enjoyed macabre topics to read and probably scare himself. She swallowed. No big deal. She straightened her borrowed shirt and closed her eyes. This was her life for the moment. Her old one was over. Her celebrity gossip blog readers would disappear, but now that she was almost home, perhaps it was for the best.

  She opened her eyes and stared at a portrait of a man in a kilt who held the head of a stag, like he had ripped the thing off with his bare hands. He also had Raphael's eyes. She swallowed and told herself this was a long-dead relative of his from two hundred years ago or more. She stared at the stag's black eyes, then the Scottish man's eyes. She leaned a little to the right and froze. Had his gaze followed her? She took a step in the other direction and blinked. No. There was no such thing as the supernatural.

  Picking up the candelabrum, she studied the portrait one more time then winced. She'd not come back to the library alone.

  The fire captured her attention until she turned and stared down the hall. The sound of the rain was more calming now. Raphael kept her safe from harm. She'd make him that dinner. He'd be handsome and quite a catch if he wasn't so isolated and alone. Whatever drove him here had to be bad. With his muscles and money, he could have almost any woman, except her, of course. She had vowed not to be swayed by yet another loser. It had been a man that took her to the other end of the earth, away from her family, then dumped her because she refused to experiment in a threesome. Since then, she’d grown up and discovered her inner self.

  At the door, she shook her head. Cooking would help her long term. Food she could handle right now. She'd leave here with six months' salary. Even at minimum wage, the money would help her start a new life.

  With one more turn out of the library, she swore the kilted man in the painting winked at her. Kimberly ran out of the door and wiped the sweat off her brow. She leaned back, shook her head, and told herself she was safe. Ghosts were stories told to scare children. Not real.

  She took a deep breath then stepped into the main hall. Her fingers traced a mahogany desk that might serve as a check-in for a small hotel lobby. She stared then tilted her head back and almost hit the door with her skull. Two large, gargoyle-like creatures held up the mahogany wood on the side. As she turned, her gaze went up toward the huge ceilings that went up at least four floors and with the grand staircase she had only ever seen in Halloween movies.

  Her pulse spiked. Who could live here? She brushed her hands against her skirt. In time, she'd get used to the castle and the isolation. Raphael's castle was another port in the storm of her life.

  A sound, like a swish, hung in the air. She bit her lip and called out, "Hello?"

  Footsteps echoed and a huge shadow of someone overpowered the room. She stilled, unable to move. The footsteps grew again, and then Meg stepped out of the library with a mop and bucket in her hand.

  Kimberly's shoulders stayed tense, but her pulse calmed. As Meg approached, ice raced up Kimberly's spine. Kimberly took a step away to warm up and fumbled a smile. "Where is the kitchen? I said I'd work as the cook, but I've no idea where anything is in this house."

  Meg rolled her eyes. "The master will give you a tour, I'm sure."

  Kimberly tilted her head, opened her mouth, but didn't say anything. Raphael Murphy had offered her the job, but she wasn't sure what to think of the man. Raphael was a few years older than her at most. He was powerful, rich, and he’d destroyed her dreams of freedom until spring.

  Meg dropped the mop in the bucket, shook her head, then stood up. "Let me walk you to the stairwell. The kitchen is downstairs."

  "Of course it is." Kimberly's mind flashed to almost every Cinderella movie she ever saw. "This way?"

  "In older times, the kitchen was away from the house entirely. The young have no idea the ease in which you live." Meg swayed back and forth with every step. Kimberly's hand itched to help the older woman, but she hesitated. Her hand froze as she went closer to Meg. If she ended up staying here, she'd have to find a way to befriend this woman. So she walked in step next to her with her hands clasped behind her back.

  "Can't wait to see the kitchen," Kimberly said, even though every cell in her body screamed that she shouldn't get too comfortable here. Goose bumps formed on her skin. Her breath hitched and she exhaled to calm down. "Part of me pictures this medieval kitchen with a black stove and charcoal to start the flames."

  "Wood gave the food flavor." Meg stared ahead of her. Her pale face didn’t crack a smile. Kimberly vowed to find common ground despite how her insides quaked.

  She chewed on her lower lip and stared at the tapestries on the walls. "You clean this whole place?"

  Meg nodded, and a sliver of a smile reached her
lips. "Every day for eternity, it seems."

  Progress. Meg had almost smiled. Kimberly kept her fingers crossed. "This place is so clean. I'm impressed. How do you do this by yourself?"

  Meg shrugged. "Someone has to, and cleaning is my job. This here is the dining hall, where you serve Master Raphael."

  "We all don't eat together?" Kimberly bit her lip to stop it from shaking. The man in the portrait would slay her alive for saying that. Meg’s green eyes sent another shiver down Kimberly's spine. She must have crossed the line. She stepped away and hugged her waist. "Never mind. Sometimes I speak without thinking. Do you think Raphael will investigate what happened to the plane?"

  Meg walked back into the hall, and Kimberly followed. "He's likely already there,” the old woman said. “He stormed out of the house after he spoke to you. I thought you said something to him."

  "No. He told me how he has no internet, phone, or a boat. And he asked me questions about Eileen and Ali, but I didn't say anything to upset him." She stalled a bit, but then held her chin up. "He upset me far more. I already know I’m trapped."

  "I doubt Master Raphael intends to upset you." Meg walked forward and pointed toward a staircase. "I suppose he'll tell you at dinner, then."

  "If you don't eat with him, I won't." Kimberly crossed her arms then let them fall to her side until she realized how rigid her muscles became. "What if the pilot gets to Raphael first?"

  The pilot. Kimberly's brain hurt. Something or someone else had happened. She couldn't remember or pinpoint what, but there was some other vital thing she ought to do. She shook her head. What had she forgotten?

  Meg interrupted. "Mr. Raphael has too much responsibility to go around fighting with men who wish to kill you."

  Kimberly jerked forward. "That's rude."

  Meg shrugged. "Master Raphael is needed here." She rolled her shoulders back. "However, he is from strong stock, and he has the blood of warriors in his veins. He can take care of himself. I still see him as the boy I watched over most of his life."

  Her headache dissipated. She stared at the doors, but stood still. "He was a marine? I hope the pilot is no longer a threat to me or anyone."

  Meg's white face became paler, but then she stared at the ground. "These are things you should discuss with him, miss. He said you were a guest in this house, and it's polite for you to eat with him."

  "I've never been good about what I should do." She sighed. Which was how she'd screwed up her relationship with her family. "Okay, but Meg, you should eat with us too."

  Meg shook her head. "Master Raphael and I don't need to share a meal in order to talk. I am here for him, even if he doesn't always notice."

  Notice meant he didn’t always, and she didn’t want to think about any psychological implication that comment meant. She hadn't seen enough movies or read enough books to even offer an opinion. She took a step toward the stairs to go down, but she hesitated. "Is this place an exact castle made the same as medieval days, or a recreation?"

  "It was a keep over in Scotland, but two hundred years ago the family wanted more modern adaptations. The lights run on generators that have to last the entire winter. Master Raphael prefers the power to go into the heating system, as winters are cold outside." Meg stared at Kimberly's candelabrum for a moment, and it seemed that the flame made part of Meg's face vanish. Kimberly peered closer as Meg finished, "A few centuries ago, one of Master Raphael's ancestors shipped it here piece by piece to rebuild the Murphy home in the New World."

  Kimberly lifted her face. "So why does a man like Raphael choose to lock himself away?"

  "You'll have to ask him, miss." Meg turned to go. "I have lots to do, miss."

  She called out to Meg's back, "Thank you for everything."

  She stared at the retreating figure for a while then a loud swish of outside wind knocked her back to her senses.

  Storms weren't good here. Weren't islands near continents barrier places not meant for human existence?

  No matter. She glanced at the staircase, and how the darkness at the bottom was thick and formidable. Guess the hired help weren't treated to luxury. Her skin grew a few goose bumps, but she held on to the banister and proceeded down.

  A swoosh of wind sounded like a cry.

  She stilled. Then she laughed and shook her head a bit. She sucked in her stomach then continued. No wonder people thought this place was haunted.

  She squared her shoulders and marched to the bottom.

  At the door, she checked the walls with her hand, but found no light switch. Her heart beat faster as she stared into the blackness. Nothing stirred, and her eyes adjusted so that she could just make out a light switch on the opposite wall.

  She made her way across the room and flipped it on. The lights burned her eyes for a moment, but her heart beat returned to normal. The yellowness of the candles that lit the halls made the basement seem less dreary.

  She rubbed her face and followed the wall to a set of swinging doors. She bit her lip then entered the room. The darkness blinded her again, but she found the light next to the door. A moment later her mouth dropped open.

  Modern everything reflected back: silver steel dishwasher, refrigerator, sinks, microwave, and oven. The countertops seemed made of granite, and the cabinets were white with steel handles. Perfect. This place was designed to host major groups, and the kitchen should be manned with twenty people. She could picture men and women with white hats running around, not that she had ever really been behind the scenes at a restaurant.

  Then she rolled up her sleeves. Since she hadn’t found a cookbook in the library, she hoped to find one down here. Her sister had taught her the basics years ago, though her simple dishes didn’t qualify as edible to most people. Erica had loved the task.

  Kimberly opened drawer after drawer. From social media, she knew her sister now owned multiple restaurants in a few states.

  At home, she'd apologize to her mom and her sister for how she ran off without a word. Then she'd tell them she loved them, and they would forgive and hug her. They were both good people. Kimberly sniffed the air and hoped to smell the cinnamon that Mom used to accidentally spill into her hair.

  Then Mom faded in her mind and the dark-haired pilot once again shot Eileen in the head.

  Shaking, Kimberly collapsed onto the floor. How had she lived when Eileen and Ali died? She should have died, not them. They had won some major humanitarian award last year. She'd disappeared on her family without a trace. No one would look for her. No one that mattered even knew she was alive. Tears welled in her eyes and her stomach burned.

  A cough sounded. Kimberly whimpered and stared at another long, overpowering shadow on the wall. "Hello?"

  Meg stepped forward from the dark corner of the room. "I wanted to make sure you hadn't burned the place down."

  How had she come out of the blackness at the other end of the room? Kimberly wiped the tears out of her eyes and stood up.

  Meg dropped a thin book on the counter. "The switch to turn on the gas stove is on the wall over here." She pointed toward a light switch. "Be sure you turn it off when you're done or else we'll all die in our sleep."

  "I will." Kimberly swayed on her feet a bit, hugging herself for warmth and comfort, then studied the book.

  Meg nodded then faded back into the darkness. Kimberly took a few steps to follow her, but the blackness of the shadow became too thick. She stopped and edged back to the light.

  With no answers, Kimberly placed the Scottish recipe book on the counter and flipped through pages. Raphael deserved a good meal. He must eat meat, as he hadn't reminded her of her island vegan friends at all. Mom had let her help with ratatouille a few times, so she found the list of ingredients in the book. Then she rifled through the fridge and entered a deep freezer.

  This place had plenty of everything. She picked up an onion and the rest of the ingredients and placed them on a table. Then she found a drawer of utensils and a cutting board. Ice ran through her veins, but sh
e picked up the knife.

  "Careful."

  Kimberly twirled around and clutched the knife. Had someone said that or was that the wind? It hadn't sounded like Meg. It was more like a child's cry. Kimberly shook her head and tried to calm down. Raphael wasn't hiding children in the attic, was he? The thought sounded ridiculous. She'd never read another book like Flowers in the Attic ever again. She hadn't thought about that book in years anyhow. Her heart raced, and she gripped the handle of the blade tight. Nothing stirred.

  She had no idea how long she stood still, but finally she placed the knife on the counter. Then she fixed the onion on the cutting board. Her hair no longer stood on the back of her neck. Nothing and no one was here. There was no such thing as ghosts.

  Activity helped. She opened cabinets and fished out spices for the recipe. A few labels were words she had never heard of, like "fenugreek." What was that?

  She laughed at herself—her sister and mother would know. They were earth mothers. She returned to her simple stew recipe and relaxed. Raphael would like ratatouille.

  Next, she'd bake him that cake. He'd protected her from the pilot. She nodded to herself and started her work.

  CHAPTER 4

  Kimberly set the glasses on a dining room table that had belonged to some ancient Scottish lord and shifted on her feet in the black dress she had found in her room.

  A ding of the grandfather clock chimed in the air. Bing. She shouldn't be here. Bing. Images formed in her mind of the plane crash. Bing. The crash had changed everything. Bing. She hated that clock and covered her ears.

  If she lived in one of her books, some dragon creature would be hanging out the window. A smile formed on her face and she opened her eyes. Bing. A whoosh sound in the dark hallways out the door must be the wind. Life was nothing like a book.

  She was stuck here. With a determined shake of her head, she fixed the plates.

  The clunk of heavy footsteps, like boots, echoed in the hall. A shadow of a giant figure loomed into the room, and she braced herself. Her hands rattled the spoons.