Immortal Warriors 02 - Secrets of the Highwayman

by Sara Mackenzie

  Melanie turned around again. There were the remains of an extensive garden in front of the house, the shrubs long overgrown, the flower beds choked with weeds. Big old trees blocked any view toward the road she had traveled down last night, and what had once been tree-studded parkland was now densely cluttered with saplings and suckers.

  There’s going to be a storm and—

  Melanie immediately blocked the image of the fallen tree, the broken branches, the smell of burning in the air, before it could take hold.

  She’d had practice enough.

  Instead, she told herself that although the park might look uncared for, even neglected, the land was probably worth a great deal. Melanie was surprised it hadn’t been sold off ages ago for holiday vans or cottages. A place like this must eat up the money. She’d have to ask Eddie about that.

  Eddie from the wrong side of the Pengorren blanket.

  Melanie grimaced. Did people really say that anymore? And why did Miss Pengorren feel she had no right to the house; why had she returned Nathaniel Raven’s portrait to its place above the stairs?

  The Raven.

  Thoughtfully, Melanie began her warm-up stretches.

  She had taken another look at the portrait of Nathaniel on her way downstairs. She hadn’t meant to, but something had insisted she turn and gaze into that smiling, dangerous face. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of her experience of last night or her dream from this morning.

  Nathaniel Raven’s eyes were hazel, and they stared back at her with more than a hint of teasing laughter. He was a flirt, a ladies man, a heartbreaker, and not to be trusted. The sort of man cautious Melanie automatically avoided.

  Her gaze had slid to his hand. He wore a broad signet ring, made of silver, and probably complete with the family crest, whatever that was. He was pointing with his forefinger, and she could just see the misty, vague representation of Ravenswood to one side. He looked very much like one of the local gentry, born and bred into the English upper classes, secure in his position within the society of the times.

  Why had he turned feral?

  Melanie finished her stretches. “It’s none of my business,” she murmured, and set off purposefully along the track that ran through the overgrown garden, toward a gate set in the high stone wall. When she unlatched it and peered through, she saw that another, far-less-defined path, led across the fields toward the steep rise of the tor.

  The sense of unease returned, but Melanie refused to allow her imagination to rule her. I control my body, it does not control me; I control my mind so that it works for me, not against me. That had been her motto forever. Besides, it would test her fitness to reach the top. With her usual determination, Melanie latched the gate behind her and set off at a run.

  There must be a right-of-way across the fields; at least there were no fences to keep her out and no crops to trample. The ground was covered in springy grass, and the wind whipped her short fair hair about her face. She quickened her pace as she neared the hill, enjoying the stretch of her body, knowing she was fit and strong and up to the challenge.

  Melanie believed she was up to any challenge. Her current goals were to upgrade her apartment, upgrade her job, and invest her next raise in the more secure end of the stock market. The thought of losing everything, as her parents had done, terrified her so much that she used to wake up at night, damp with sweat. Now it only happened if she’d been visiting Suzie, and nowadays she and her sister were too busy with their own lives for more than the occasional phone call. There were times when Melanie felt guilty about that, but her relief usually outweighed her guilt. Suzie lived in a state of perpetual chaos that she called “being at one with the universe,” and Melanie wanted no part of it. The most disturbing thing was, Suzie appeared to be happy with her life.

  As Melanie ran, she began to make a mental checklist of all the things she had to do before she could leave Cornwall and go home to London. And what about Eddie, who paid him? Then there was the house itself. She was glad it wasn’t her job to sell it. Maybe it could be transformed into a nursing home, or a hotel, or one of those places where rich people came to cleanse the poisons from their systems—in other words, a celebrity drug-rehabilitation clinic. No one these days would have the money or the inclination to take it on as a private residence, surely?

  Still, the admission came grudgingly, as if deep down she was finding it hard to accept the inevitable. Ravenswood must have been beautiful, once.

  There was a sound behind her. Panting, like a dog.

  Melanie gave a quick glance over her shoulder…

  And stumbled, letting out a gasping shriek.

  The black hound was behind her, and it was broad daylight. Even as shock zinged through her, Melanie’s analytical mind was telling her that “black” wasn’t quite the right word because the hound was a darkish grey. As grey as Nathaniel Raven had been last night. Ghostly grey.

  “Oh God!”

  She picked up speed, forgetting the ache in her legs, but so did the hound. Its ears were flopping, large paws pounding the soft grassy ground, tongue flapping from loosened jaws. If it wasn’t a ghost, she would have laughed to see it having such a wonderful time. Instead, Melanie ran even faster, her breathing short and choppy, her heart pounding. Then she realized what she should have known a moment ago, that she was climbing, the slight incline growing increasingly difficult as she headed toward the top of the tor. Behind her—she dared another look—Ravenswood was getting smaller, and she knew the sensible option would be to turn around and go back for help. But there was nothing sensible about what was following her.

  Chasing her.

  Gasping, her feet like lead weights, she struggled to the top.

  The old standing stone was both broad and tall, and lichen was growing rampant on it. There was a large hole punched through the middle. Melanie, thinking she might be able to climb up on the very top of the stone, to escape the reach of the hound, forced her flagging body across the flat summit of the hill.

  The hound was still loping along, following her at a steady pace. It didn’t seem interested in attacking her or overtaking her, but how could she be sure…Melanie scanned the bare hillside. And how did she know the Raven wasn’t around here somewhere on his ghostly horse, just waiting to spring out at her?

  She had almost reached the stone, her chest on fire, her legs burning, when she realized she would never climb it. Behind her came panting breath, the thump of paws, but as she turned with a whimper finally to face her foe, the hound ran right by her and sprang gracefully through the hole in the middle of the old stone.

  And vanished.

  Melanie stood, chest heaving, staring openmouthed at…thin air.

  She took a step back, looking one way and then the other. Nothing but open ground. On the western side of the tor there were views of Ravenswood and its extensive estate, and if she turned to the east, a cluster of houses down in the valley and the spire of the village church. To the north the sea was a flat sheet of steel beyond the edge of the cliffs, and to the south the stone…It seemed to mock her. But one thing was for certain, the hound really had vanished, and Melanie was alone.

  Gradually, her heartbeat began to slow, the burning ache in her chest to fade, and her mind to clear. She rested her hand against the stone. The rough surface had captured what warmth there was in the day and she felt it now against her skin. She peered through the hole in the middle.

  It wasn’t a recent act of vandalism; that hole had been there for a long time. The edges were worn smooth, and when she looked more closely at the surface she could see carvings beneath the lichen. Celtic carvings. Symbols, a language, that only a few scholars could understand.

  Melanie was now more curious than frightened. The hound hadn’t hurt her, and it had jumped right through the middle of the stone.

  In fact the hole was large enough to crawl through, but she wasn’t quite brave enough for that, not just yet. Instead, she stuck her hand through, wriggling her fing
ers, a gesture of bravado, really.

  Come and get me.

  Something grabbed her, and Melanie shrieked. Another hand, so strong and cold. It closed on her flesh with a fierce determination. The hand tugged violently, catching her off-balance, and she fell forward, clutching at the stone for support, her hands slipping through. Her feet went up, her hip bruised on the inner circle, and then she was falling.

  Tumbling through the middle.

  There was no time to scream again. Before her the top of the hill had opened up, and there was darkness, going down deep into the earth. Like a great black mouth.

  And Melanie was swallowed whole.

  Four

  It was beyond her comprehension, beyond belief, beyond horror. Above her the light faded, and she cried out, her nose full of the smell of damp soil and rotting vegetation. She was tumbling over and over through a long dark shaft, with nothing to stop her, nothing to hold on to.

  And then she landed in a heap at the bottom, her head ringing, her stomach heaving.

  It was all wrong!

  She was inside the hill. It had opened up and taken her inside, and that was just plain impossible. It was a dream, that was it. She’d open her eyes, and it would be a dream.

  But when she peered through her eyelashes Melanie found she was lying in a narrow tunnel that seemed to have no beginning and no end, while above her was only darkness.

  Before the shock could ease, and she could begin screaming, this isn’t true, a soft voice spoke.

  “Welcome to the between-worlds, Melanie Jones.”

  Melanie promptly closed her eyes again, tightly.

  “Are you hurt?” the voice added, closer now.

  Melanie opened her eyes. All around her there was light, brilliant light of an indescribable color, and it was forcing back the darkness, and within it she could see a figure bending over her. The figure had long auburn hair that hung down in a curtain about her sweet young face.

  “I can’t be awake.”

  The sweet young face had blue eyes, neon blue, but as she gazed into them, mesmerized, Melanie realized they weren’t young eyes at all but old. Ancient. They were like no eyes she had ever seen.

  She shuddered and looked away, saying shakily, “The between-worlds? That’s not right, there’s only one world.”

  The young woman laughed, but the sound didn’t make Melanie want to join in; instead, the hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up. She gave a sideways glance and realized that the figure was wearing a scarlet cloak, and beneath that a gossamer gown of iridescent silver rippled like liquid mercury as she moved. And her feet…weren’t feet at all. They were talons.

  Melanie stared, openmouthed.

  “St. Anne’s Hill is a door, and you have come through it. The door leads from your mortal world to the between-worlds, the realm that exists between life and death, and I am its ruler.”

  “Like a queen, do you mean?”

  “That’s right,” the creature with talons said, with a little smile. “You can call me Your Majesty.”

  Your Majesty? Queen of the between-worlds? Melanie decided that was more information than she could process. She put her hands down on the ground—it was cold and damp—and pushed herself into a sitting position. Water was dripping, but thankfully not on her. The between-worlds? The realm between life and death? There must be another explanation, a more rational explanation…

  With a start she realized that the brilliant light was receding. Anxiously she looked around for the queen.

  “Where are you?”

  “This way, mortal…”

  The voice was behind her, moving away with the light.

  Frantically, Melanie scrambled to her feet. “Don’t leave me here!” she shouted, and promptly knocked her head on the ceiling of the tunnel. “Ouch!” She felt woozy, but now the light was getting very faint, and soon she’d be all on her own.

  “Hurry, mortal.” That melodious voice drifted back toward her.

  “I want to go home,” she answered, even as she was moving after the queen.

  “It’s too late for that, Melanie Jones.”

  Melanie stumbled along the tunnel, trying to remember to keep her head down. Something scuttled in the shadows, like claws on a blackboard, and she made a little whimpering noise. The light drew closer and then, just as she was beginning to think she’d catch up, slipped out of her reach again. It was as if the queen didn’t want her getting too close.

  “Where are we going?” Melanie’s voice echoed around her, and set off more of the horrible scuttling. She quickened her pace.

  “…you’ll see…”

  “I don’t want to see,” she grumbled, “I want to know.”

  She walked on. She wanted to catch up so that she could argue and complain, scream and shout, and demand a proper answer. Instead, she was completely at the queen’s mercy.

  Of course she could turn back, but…A glance behind her showed pure darkness, the sense of things she couldn’t see but were there, watching her. No, there was only one option, and that was to follow and see where the queen led her. And then, when the opportunity allowed, escape.

  At least, she told herself, feeling light-headed, she’d have something to tell Suzie next time they spoke. Suzie seemed to think her sister’s life was as dull as dishwater, every day the same. Well, her eyes would pop when Melanie told her about St. Anne’s Hill, and the stone with the hole in the middle, and the between-worlds, the place that lay between life and death, and the queen with talons for feet…

  “I must be crazy.” It was the only explanation. “Or…dead?”

  Maybe she’d had a stroke and now she was dead and this between-worlds place was really just another name for hell.

  “Melanie Jones!”

  Melanie blinked. Up ahead the light was different, the color diluted, as though it were bleached, and…There was an opening! A door to the outside world! And—she took a deep breath—she could smell the sea.

  Stumbling, gasping, Melanie ran toward it.

  The queen must have exited this way because she was no longer anywhere in sight. Melanie burst through an arched doorway and out into the trees that lay between Ravenswood and the road.

  She halted, confused.

  It was nighttime. A huge moon hung in a cold sky. Melanie’s breath came from her lips in puffs of white, and there was an icy stillness to the air that told her it wasn’t late April anymore. This felt more like midwinter.

  She turned, wondering if she should wait here by the entrance to the tunnel…but the tunnel was gone. Instead there was a small summerhouse, the interior dark and empty, and some prickly bushes. She walked around, but there was no sign of the queen with the long red hair.

  A chill breeze swirled about her, and Melanie folded her arms as she tried to orient herself. She was very near the beginning of the gardens. Lights blinked through the trees, and there were voices, the rise and fall of many voices, and suddenly, music. Not modern stuff but orchestral music, pleasant but certainly not highly professional. The violin scraped slightly off the note, but she recognized the old, familiar Christmas carol: “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”

  Melanie left the trees behind her and walked toward the house on grass that was no longer wild and unkempt. In front of her Ravenswood shone, but as she drew closer she realized the lights weren’t quite right. They were strangely muted, more like natural flame than electricity. Candles in colored glass lanterns hung throughout the garden, which was no longer a wilderness but a wonderland of trimmed hedges and shrubs and bare winter roses. There were walkways sprinkled with gravel, the edges ruler straight. Couples in costume were strolling, huddled in cloaks because of the cold but obviously enjoying themselves. It must be a fancy-dress ball, Melanie told herself. The same orchestra she had heard before struck up again, but this time it was something more lively. Looking up, Melanie could see into the big upper room where she been standing such a short time ago, looking out at St. Anne’s Hill. Now they were dan
cing up there—women in long gowns, with their hair up, and men in formal jackets with starched white neckcloths.

  For a moment she simply stood and stared. It was beautiful, and it looked just like a movie set, a costume drama, or one of those reality shows where members of the public were placed in a period situation and told to act like their ancestors.

  Suddenly a young girl in a long pale dress ran past her, her slippers tapping on the path, her fair ringlets bouncing. A boy was chasing her, and they were laughing. Neither of them glanced at Melanie, neither of them noticed her although she was standing in plain sight in her old jeans and sweatshirt and trainers.

  Maybe they were just ignoring her, but Melanie didn’t think so. She had a nasty feeling it was because she wasn’t really here at all—not in the proper physical sense, anyway.

  To test it she stepped forward just as another couple wandered by arm in arm, their cheeks rosy from the cold.

  “Excuse me? Hello there!”

  But they didn’t look either. They couldn’t hear her. They couldn’t see her. Neither of them glanced her way, not even for a moment. She was invisible, and it was terrifying. What was she supposed to do? What was her reason for being here? The queen of the between-worlds hadn’t handed her a book of instructions.

  She found herself drifting closer to the house, drawn by the light and the noise. Besides, she was freezing, and the front door was open, beckoning her.

  Inside Ravenswood it was surprisingly warm, although nothing like she remembered it. The marble floor was buffed, and the wood paneling and furnishings shone as if they were polished lovingly every day. Candles were everywhere, while great bunches of flowers stood in huge vases, their perfume stiflingly sweet. A door banged, and suddenly she was surrounded by a river of servants carrying covered platters. They surged by her, and for a moment the smell of food was overpowering.