Hope Everlastin' Book 4

by Mickee Madden

  She watched him stroll down the hall and disappear down the staircase, then grumbled, "Life in the fast lane, it ain’t. But what else can one expect from a house that favors the dead?"

  * * *

  It was the dampness and chill of the night making him so jittery. At least, that's what Stephan Miles kept telling himself. His horn-rimmed glasses kept fogging up. He'd swiped the moisture off with his fingers so many times that the lenses were smudgy and getting more difficult to see through. Without them, though, he was blinder than a bat on a sunny day.

  He sat on the cellar bulkhead like a man whose legs had turned to rubber. His three-quarter length black raincoat tented his lean body, making him appear thinner than he actually was. He was twenty-six, but knew he could pass for forty. His dark hair was short-cropped, worn that way because of its tendency to form ringlets when even an inch long. Mediocre blue eyes. High cheekbones, and a chin too pointed for his liking.

  Basically, he was a miserable man who detested his job but didn't believe himself suited for anything else—at least, nothing that would pay the bills. His ex-wife remained a nag, and his dog disliked him. He had no real friends, and his boss was on the verge of firing him. And his mother—

  He didn't want to think about her.

  Life in the nineties. What a bitch.

  The only other time he'd set foot on this estate was last July, when he'd told the American woman he was interested in buying the place. Right, like he would ever be able to afford anything more than his dinky little flat in London. The fib had gotten him through the doors, although not for long. Something had happened to him while he was talking to the American woman. Something vile had seeped into him and made him vomit green ooze for the rest of that day. It had shaken him up enough to make him terrified of returning, even when he was told about the impending Christmas Eve miracle the ghostly laird had promised the media and people of Crossmichael. His boss had demanded he be there for the story. At the time, Miles hadn't thought any piece of news was worth chancing another attack of green slime.

  "So what the bloody hell am I doing here?" he asked himself, glancing apprehensively around at the varying shades of darkness.

  He knew the answer.

  Unless he came up with a sizzling story by the end of the week, he could kiss his job goodbye. Any reporter could be here now and accomplish the same job, probably better. He didn't have any hang-ups about being a so-so journalist. Some men were born for literary greatness, others, so-so-dom.

  Good ole Whitney Melcamp. Sonofabitch. He was the editor from hell. What kind of man sent another man on a mission like this?

  Had Melcamp barfed green slime? No!

  Had Melcamp watched his pathetic life flash before his eyes until the throes of the whatever it was had spent itself? Hell no.

  He laughed at me! Belly-laughed until tears streamed down his flaccid cheeks!

  Well, let me tell you, Melcamp, ole boy, if the "whatever" gets inside me this time, I'll be sure to puke the green slime right in your face for my troubles!

  The mental image of that happening brought a wan smile to his sickly pallor, but did little to heighten his willingness to venture into the house.

  Nonetheless, he would have to. He needed his next paycheck. He'd already recycled his boxers by wearing them inside out. Another round of use and a story would smell him coming.

  Releasing a burst of breath, he rose to his feet and hastily opened one side of the bulkhead doors. The fathomless darkness that peered up at him made him shudder. He repeatedly told himself that if old Viola Cooke could use this method to listen in and move about the house, he should be able to get past his fears.

  One step at a time, he counseled himself then finally turned on his flashlight and headed down the steep stone steps.

  He closed the door and paused momentarily as if afraid he had sealed himself in a tomb, then puffed up his cheeks and moved the light around the room.

  As cellars went, this one was pretty clean and organized. His head bobbed in appreciation of this. No cobwebs that he could see. Nothing scurrying about. Not yet.

  A few minutes into his unhurried exploration, he began to hum the theme from the Red Dwarf series. It helped to quell his unease. He idolized the character of Lister, believing him to be the epitome of a man's man, the ultimate hero and slob extraordinaire. Favorite segments of the show flashed across his mindscreen, and he grinned as he searched what turned out to be a vast sectioned-off area of the basement. Sometime later, he detected a rather unpleasant odor.

  He came across a door and opened it. A foul stench rolled over him from the room beyond, a stench reminding him of body excrement, rotten food, and something else he couldn't begin to analyze.

  "Oooo-eee," he rasped, pinching his nostrils closed. Now sounding like a cartoon character, he added, "I've been in garbage dumps that smelled better than this."

  He leaned into the room, the beam of the flashlight dancing on the interior walls, then lingering on a table a short distance away.

  "What the....?"

  Releasing his nose, he cautiously stepped to the table. Amid empty pork rind bags and other various food containers was a heap of white sausages.

  Not sausages he realized upon a closer inspection. He gagged and clamped a hand over his mouth when the flashlight dipped and he saw a gutted peafowl on the floor by the nearest table leg. His eyes wide with horror, he trained the light back on the table. He now knew the sausages where in fact the bird's intestines. Someone was hiding in this cubbyhole in the cellar, eating whatever they could find. And anyone capable of eating the raw innards of a bird was not someone he wanted to encounter.

  Another fact registered. The wicks of three short, black candles were smoldering, as if the flames had been extinguished a short time ago.

  Trembling violently, his gorge rising into his throat, his flashlight dangling from a slack hand at his side, he rigidly turned toward the door. Pale gray eyes stared at him from above the flickering flame of a held candle.

  There was no life in those eyes.

  No fear or surprise.

  Certainly no, "Hello. Welcome to my sty."

  At first, Stephan Miles felt only a mild punch to his chest. Then twinges of pain—annoying pain—made him look down and slowly raise the beam of the flashlight to the area. He thought it utterly ridiculous to find a knife poking out from his breast, a large hand attached to the handle. The knife was given a twist by the stranger's hand, and Miles' pain turned to searing agony.

  Bewildered more than anything else, he looked again into the pale eyes.

  Why? he wanted to ask. Is this really necessary?

  No words passed his lips. He'd always had a problem with voicing his objections.

  The blade again turned inside him, but he looked unwaveringly into those eyes, seeing his stupidity and his own death reflected in them.

  What really galled him was knowing the man was enjoying himself. This guy was a killer, and no amateur. A great story in itself.

  To hell with the green-slime-infesting-ghost.

  Here he was, faced with a flesh and blood killer, and wasn't it just like freaking fate to have him on the victim side of the story!

  The word "Shit" gurgled from his blood-filled throat, and his tunneled vision diminished to pitch darkness. He wasn't aware of falling, or of the blade being wrenched from his flesh before he hit the floor. He was bewildered by the fact he could still think, and believed himself floating within the infinite blackness.

  Hello! he called into nothingness. Hey, asshole, where are you? Just for the record, you just murdered a nice guy! That's right, you bloody shit! A nice guy! Are you going to explain to my mother why I was found with my shorts inside out? Asshole! Couldn't let me die with a little dignity, could you!

  ***

  Cuttstone stared apathetically down at the heap at his feet, absently wiping the bloodied blade against the left leg of his pants. A buzzing filled his ears. He ignored it and stepped over the body and
stood at the table. The smell of death didn't bother him, nor did the other stenches in the room. He could shut off any of his external senses when they became intrusive.

  He was about to place the dirk on the table when he realized it was emitting a pleasant vibration. His fingers flexed almost caressingly around the handle. The blade winked in the meager glow of the candle he held, and he lifted the knife to regard it more closely.

  The gleaming, blood-spackled steel rippled like the surface of a pond when a rock is tossed into it. His pulse quickened in anticipation of the Guardian contacting him, and he breathed heavily through his opened mouth. The vibration intensified, pulsing rhythmically. Then came a hum from the knife, its cadence primordial, beckoning, mesmerizing.

  Trancelike, Cuttstone cleared off the table with his left forearm and lowered the knife to the wood surface. The hum grew louder as a blue glowing speck appeared on the border surrounding the runes. Seconds later, the blue glow spread like liquid fire along the entire border, illuminating the runes and making them appear three-dimensional, hovering above the blade.

  "I'm here for you," Cuttstone said in a monotone, his unblinking gaze riveted on the runes.

  The dirk rose to stand on its steel tip atop the table. It gradually rotated, spinning faster and faster until the dirk appeared to be but a blur of glowing blue mist. The hum crescendoed into a symphony of countless rhythms. Pounding. Beating. Pulsating like the skins of drums under the driving force of hands. Maddening rhythms. Compelling rhythms. Rhythms that deftly wove a spell of encompassment.

  There was no escaping them.

  Cuttstone had no will to escape.

  The mist spread out, its blue glow turning the squalor of the room into a mystical setting. Cuttstone's head first lolled to one side, then the other. He could see a door appear in the heart of the mist. It was opening, slowly, but nonetheless opening. His heart hammered painfully. A normal man would fear the pain, but he considered it a gift. All that mattered was his belief that the Guardian thought him worthy enough to visit.

  When the door fully opened, the aperture expanded until it was large enough for him to lean his head and shoulders through. Beyond, he found more blueness of varying shades. Enchanting splendor. Serene. Infinite.

  "I'm here," he said, his voice soft with awe and reverence.

  A disembodied face rushed at him, enlarging and halting a few feet from the opening. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. To him, the visage was no more hideous than his own. A mere man would have gone into shock and died from terror. Not Cuttstone. He had longed for so many years to look upon the Guardian, and now realized that he had countless times in his life, in more cities than he could remember.

  This one had a raised, glowing red disfigurement that ran from its right brow, across the left eye, and down half the craggy cheek. Cuttstone accepted it as an identification mark, one that enabled him to recognize his Guardian from the others he was now sure existed.

  Man called them gargoyles, but he now knew them to be gods.

  His personal Guardian roared. Cuttstone's eardrums burst, and he instinctively shrank back as the Guardian's hot breath blasted against his face. The door closed, the mist vanished, and the dirk fell onto its side.

  The man known as the Phantom lowered himself onto the chair and dazedly stared off into space. His world was now soundless, and would be for the rest of his life. He didn't question the necessity of this, or resent the blisters forming on his burned face, for he knew he'd waited too long to claim the begetters in this house, and the Guardian had punished him.

  * * *

  Beneath the Callanish Standing Stones on the Isle of Lewis in Scotland, the ground rumbled.

  Chapter 8

  The day began with a light drizzle, but by late morning the sun won out over the clouds. Beth and Lachlan decided to bring the twins outside and, to Roan's delight, asked if the boys could join them. Taryn was still asleep, and Deliah and Winston drove into town to go through the files at the police station.

  Whistling, Roan practically danced up the staircase. The boys had finagled their way into his bed again last night. It was so seldom Laura and he had a chance to be alone, he now felt as if he were blessed.

  When last he'd seen Laura—about an hour ago—she'd mentioned she was going to make the beds. He knew her routine. She always did the boys' rooms first, then theirs. If his timing was right, and he was sure it was....

  A broad grin spread across his face when he opened their door and saw her bent over the bed, tucking in the bottom right corner of the sheets. He eased the door shut and tiptoed behind her. His eyebrows lifted appreciatively as he checked out the roundness of her hips and buttocks beneath his shirt that she wore. She had dressed for breakfast then bathed after the dishes were done. Obviously, she had decided to make the beds in as little as possible because she was barefoot, bare-legged and, he hoped, devoid of underwear.

  She released a squeal of surprise when he clamped his hands on her hips. She whirled, but stopped short with a laugh when she realized who it was.

  "You scared the hell out of me!"

  Roan flashed a devious grin and, his hands still on her hips, drew her tightly against the hardness of his body. "Hey, gorgeous. You up to some serious play time?"

  Her face brightened then fell into a look of mild despair. "The boys."

  "They're ou'side wi' Lannie and Beth," he said merrily. His fingers kneaded the firmness of her hips and he moved his lower body in a manner that told her what he had in mind. "I've got a wicked hunger for you."

  "How wicked?"

  His right eyebrow stretched upward as far as he could make it go. "Weel, I really haven’t had a chance to try to break ma three hour record."

  "I don't think we have that much time," she chortled.

  "We could make love in double time."

  An amused frown creased her brow. "Pray tell, how does 'double time' work?"

  In response, he swept her up into his arms and deposited her on the bed. Then, her laughter ringing through the room, he peeled out of his shirt with incredible swiftness, twirled it over his head and gyrated his hips with a quickened rendition of "The Stripper" theme crooning from his throat. Finally, he tossed the shirt across the room and sat on the edge of the mattress. He removed his shoes, socks and pants with record-breaking speed then stood in his white boxers with his hands on his hips and sang out, "Ta-daaaa."

  Laughter brought about a painful stitch in Laura's side. Her arms braced against her middle, she rolled into a fetal position and tried to will back her mirth, but her laughter flowed from her like a waterfall down a mountainside. She could no more cut off her laughter than she could plug up a cascade with a bottle cork.

  "Laura?"

  Roan soberly glanced about the room then looked at her pensively. "Lass? I didn’t think it was tha' funny."

  Still she laughed, squeaks intermittently escaping her. Roan rolled his eyes to the heavens, climbed on the mattress and turned her onto her back. Tears streaked her flushed face and brightened the emerald green of her eyes. Her laughter finally wound down, but hiccups took over and she giggled after each as if she had no control. Stretching out alongside her, he smiled down at her with the patience of a man deeply in love.

  "Are you through?" he chuckled moments later.

  She was breathing hard and staring up at the ceiling. "Sorry." Hiccup. Giggle. Groan. "But while you were undressing with the speed of light—" Hiccup. Giggle. A muttered light curse. "I had this image of the Energizer Bunny trying to make love to me, and I wore him out."

  "I'm offerin’ you this perfect body o' mine, and ye're thinkin’ abou' a bunny?" he asked with comical disbelief. "Is there a message in this, or am I bein’ obtuse?"

  Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Who told you that you have a perfect body, huh?"

  He grimaced sheepishly. "So I'm gettin’ a wee paunch."

  "No, you're not." Placing a hand on his chest and shoving him onto his back, Laura straddled him and
removed the rubber band that held her hair in a ponytail. She shook out the thick mass of pale gold strands and looked down at him with a seductive smile as her fingertips trailed from his shoulders to his lower rib cage.

  "There isn't one inch of you I would change, Mr. Ingliss."

  "No?"

  She playfully ran her fingers through the golden curly hairs on his chest. "No. Even if you did develop a paunch, it would be all the more for me to love."

  Roan released a breath through pursed lips. He could feel his body tightening beneath her rump. Feel himself strain to breach his underwear to slip inside her.

  "Are we—" Hiccup. At least they were coming less frequently now. "—anxious to get down to business?" she asked coyly while unbuttoning the shirt she wore.

  "Anxious? I'm bloody aroused for the occasion!"

  Her slender eyebrows arched and she clucked her tongue. "Don't get me laughing again." She opened the shirt and teasingly lowered it from her shoulders.

  Roan's eyes fixed on her firm, naked breasts. His mouth went dry and his nostrils became pinched. "Aye. No laughin’."

  She completely removed the shirt with deliberate slowness and dropped it over the side of the bed. "Are you?"

  He forced his gaze to look into her eyes. "Am I wha'?"

  "Aroused?"

  "I'm abou' to catapult you across the room," he said wryly.

  She laughed then she hiccupped and sighed. "It feels good to laugh. Good to be free."

  She yelped with laughter when Roan masterfully reversed their positions. She stared up at him with eyes wide and blinking, her lips parted in surprise.

  "My, my, big guy. We are in the mood!"

  "That's wha' I've been tryin’ to tell you," he said with a mock growl. Planting his hands to each side of her shoulders, he leaned toward her, his gaze riveted on her lips. "God, ye're a beautiful womon, Laura. Just lookin’ at you makes ma blood sing."

  If Laura had intended to keep up the playful bantering for a time longer, his poignantly spoken words rendered her speechless. She reached up and placed her hands along his jawline and swept her gaze over his face as if recommitting it to memory. Roan felt a little breathless. She was all he had ever wanted, or could possibly ever want in a woman, and he realized that he very much wanted to have a child with her.