by Nina Mason
As a glorious hatred welled up in his chest, he fastened both hands on the protruding stake and thrust with all his might. Fitzgerald gasped, a wet wheezing sound. The light in his yellow eyes flickered and went out. Graham, feeling as if an anvil had lifted off his chest, dropped into a crouch and pressed his fingers against the wizard’s throat. There was no pulse. He shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. He’d been fooled into believing Fitzgerald dead once before. If he wished to break the curse, he could waste no time.
Extracting the stake from the wound released a torrent of blood. Not bothering with the buttons, he tore open the soggy shirt. Using the dirk concealed in his boot, he made a deep incision, set the blade aside, and he reached into the wound. The ribs snapped like twigs as his hands forced them apart. Finding the heart, he plunged his fingers underneath and scooped it out, bringing with it clinging strands of tissue.
Swatting them away like spider webs, he freed the heart and carried it across to the cell. Once inside, he cast around in the dim, dancing firelight for a receptacle to capture the ash. There was nothing save the wee shovel among the hearth tools. Taking it from the stand, he set the organ on it and pushed it into the flames. The heart began at once to smolder and smoke, filling his nostrils with a smell that was equal parts appetizing and revolting. Leaving it to cremate, he went to the cot to check on the lad. He was still alive, though heavily drugged.
Turning back to the fire, he stared blankly into the dancing flames as the heart burned. When there was nothing left but smoldering ash, he carried the little spade upstairs to the kitchen, brewed a cup of tea, and added the cinders. Would it work? Did he dare allow himself to hope?
He drank the tea. It tasted bitter and granular, but he forced it down. He set the cup on the counter and waited, his thoughts returning to Cat. Was she in the attic? She had to be. He’d already looked everywhere else. He tried to tune her in, to assure himself she was still nearby, still all right, but couldn’t seem to find her. Fear rising, he closed his eyes and willed himself into the ethers. Nothing happened. Fear rocketed to terror. Forgetting the curse, he raced toward the staircase.
* * *
The ghost of Lachlan Logan had told Cat the story of William Wallace and Marion Braidfute, who’d sacrificed her own life to save her lover’s when the sheriff came looking for him. The story only made her feel more awful about doing nothing to help Graham. To make things worse, she couldn’t feel him anymore. Had their connection broken when he gave up his soul? The mere thought plunged a red-hot spike into her heart.
“Thank you very much for the story,” she offered as graciously as she could, “but I can’t wait any longer. So, please tell me how to get out.”
A grinding sound shot her attention across the room, where a section of wall was swinging open unaided. Behind it lay darkness. She turned back to the ghost, to offer her thanks, but, reminding her once again of his grandson, he wasn’t there.
Desperate to locate Graham, but also terrified of what she might find, she stepped into the darkness, emerging into a maze of small, dusty rooms filled with antique bric-a-brac. At the end was a narrow stairway leading down from the attic. Dirk at the ready, she crept down the steps and through what she presumed was the second-floor corridor. All the while, her heart pounded like a fist against her ribcage. It was worse than walking through a carnival house of horrors. At any moment, she expected hands to reach out and grab her. These hands, however, wouldn’t grab her in jest.
When she heard someone coming up the main stairs, she froze in her tracks. Not about to wait and see who it was, she spun around and high-tailed it back the other way. Please let there be stairs at the other end of the hall. The footsteps followed, but, to her enormous relief, went up the stairs she’d just come down.
There was a back staircase, thank the goddess. She raced down it, finding herself in the kitchen. It was empty, but smelled of bitter herbs. The footsteps pounded overhead. Whoever they belonged to had gone up to the attic and come down again. From the sound of the thumping, they were now heading for the back stairs. Panic rocketed through her. Dashing to the outside door, she yanked it open. Even if the footsteps were Graham’s, he might be a soulless monster now.
She burst into the garden as though the devil himself was hot on her heels. The thought of losing Graham was a dagger in her heart, but what could she do for him now? Or for herself, except run for her life? Slamming through the gate, she veered toward the woods. The sky was moonless and the castle grounds incredibly dark. When she saw the pale whisper of a trail, she swerved toward it, already out of breath. Digging a fist into the stitch in her side, she pushed on. Looking back again, she tripped over a root in the path and stumbled a little, but quickly regained her balance. If she fell, whoever it was could be on her in a heartbeat.
Her throat was on fire, her chest screamed for air, and the pain in her side a twisting corkscrew. There was a steep rise just ahead. Despite having nothing left, she forced herself up the incline, arms pumping, legs shaking under the strain. At the top of the hill, she pulled up and bent over, unable to go on. Grabbing her knees, she gasped for air as she searched the darkness. There was nothing as far as she could see.
She waited, sweating and gasping, until her breathing slowed a little and the stitch in her side began to ease. She glanced across the distance between hill and castle. There was still no sign of movement. Her heart sparked when she heard the rustle of dried leaves right behind her. With a sharp intake of air, she spun around, seeing only a shadow. Panic stabbed her heart and shrouded her mind. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. She just stared at the dark shape, glassy-eyed and blinking. It came closer. Stepping back, she spun and took off, pouring every ounce of energy she could summon into her legs. She headed deeper into the woods. Branches tore at her face and hair. Roots grabbed at her feet. She stumbled a few times, but kept going. Adrenaline and sheer will were her only fuels.
The tree cover came to an abrupt end at the edge of road. On the other side was a stone cottage surrounded by a low wall. There was no light in the windows. She ran toward it anyway, diving over the wall. She tumbled, knees and elbows barking. Her pursuer was still hot on her heels. Breathing hard, vision blurred by tears, she heaved herself to her feet, stealing a glance at him, a shadow in the dark hurling toward her. He was too close. She’d never escape. As he sprang over the wall, she turned to run, but slipped in the gravel, losing her footing. She landed hard on her hip and cried out in pain. The next second, he stood over her.
Scrambling to her feet, she tried to run. He grabbed her arm and pulled her back. As she struggled to free herself, he said something. Hysteria muffled the words. She turned away, unable to bring herself to look at him.
“It’s me, lass. Graham.”
Tears streamed down her face, choking her words. “Did you…give him...your soul?”
“Nay. I staked him.”
She looked at him then, meeting his eyes.
They were green.
Deep emerald green.
Chapter 26: The Ten of Cups
It was now Midsummer’s Eve and Cat was sitting at the skirted vanity in the bartizan dressing room at Tur-nan-Deur, putting the finishing touches on her hair and makeup. Behind her, in a zippered vinyl garment bag, hung her wedding dress. She’d been lucky enough to score it off the sale rack at an Inverness bridal boutique. It was new, but had a vintage je ne sais quois with its fitted lace bodice and tea-length full skirt. The traditional sash in the Logan tartan would complete the look, along with the fussy up-do Avery had spent half the morning teasing, pinning, and spraying.
“You look beautiful, Cat. Really beautiful. And so happy.”
“I am happy,” she returned, beaming at Avery in the looking glass.
Avery turned and unzipped the garment bag, setting Cat’s stomach aflutter. Butterflies of anticipation, not nerves. She wasn’t the least bit nervous about marrying Graham. On the contrary, she couldn’t wait to be his wife and the m
istress of Tur-nan-Deur, where they’d decided to live. She couldn’t wait to see him all decked out in his Highland finery, either. Or to get him out of it as soon as the formalities ended.
The groom was getting ready downstairs, in the bedchamber adjoining the priest hole. He’d slept there alone for the past fortnight while she’d slept up here in the tower. She hadn’t seen him since they said their goodbyes in the drawing room last night, with an annoyingly platonic peck on the cheek. They’d been chaste since they became engaged—at his insistence. To make the wedding night more special, ostensibly.
“I’ve been waiting two hundred years to marry you,” he’d said, “and want everything to be perfect.”
She’d bitten her tongue despite wanting to point out she’d been waiting thirty years to get shagged and wanted to make up for lost time—not wait, for pity’s sake. Neither did she mention how much she was itching to know what it would be like now that he was human again. Or was that the problem? Was he afraid of disappointing her?
Taking a deep breath, she stepped into her gown. No, everything would be perfect. In a few minutes, they’d exchange their vows under the hawthorn tree in the garden—a few feet from where they’d buried Fitzgerald under a cairn with his feet pointing skyward. The wedding planner MacCabe used, a fastidious woman named Enid Worthington, had erected an iron arbor for the purpose. Her helpers had decorated it with the same roses, ivy, heather, thistle, and tartan ribbon as in the bridal bouquet now resting beside her elbow. It was perfect, as was everything.
She’d never really dreamed about her wedding the way other girls did. Had she, her dream wedding would have been exactly what they’d planned: a handfasting in the garden on Midsummer’s Eve. As luck would have it, Mrs. Worthington knew a pagan clergyman who performed the sort of ceremony she had in mind. Graham had expressed his desire to be married by a priest, but hadn’t insisted on it.
Her parents had declined her invitation to attend, which hurt some, but so it goes. Some people tried to use love as a weapon or to manipulate and control others. But she was too old and independent to change her beliefs to suit anyone but herself. And she wasn’t about to let bloody-mindedness spoil her wedding day. Or her happiness. She was marrying the man she loved, the man she was born to be with, the other half of her soul.
“Are you ready?”
As Avery swept the wedding dress out of the bag, she rose from the dressing table, being careful not to step on Wallace and Bruce, who lay at her feet. They’d been groomed, perfumed, and festooned with big tartan bows for the ceremony. In the absence of her father, the dogs were walking her down the aisle. Mrs. Worthington and MacCabe had rustled up a couple dozen guests from the surrounding area. Merchants, farmers, neighbors, and the like—locals to whom the elusive laird of Tur-nan-Deur was a both a mystery and a celebrity.
Avery unzipped and lowered the gown so she could step in without messing up her coif. Her underpinnings consisted of a strapless longline white torsolette, thigh-high stockings, a lace thong, and a half-slip with oodles of foofy black crinoline to poof out the gown’s full skirt. She chose black to create an edgy yin-and-yang effect. The underlying dark side and all. Her shoes were simple satin pumps with a pointy toe and low heel to avoid breaking an ankle walking across the grass.
Mrs. Worthington, with her consent, had hired a string quartet. Cat was not, however, content to do the traditional uber-traditional thing and walk down the aisle to Mendelssohn’s Wedding March or even Pachelbel’s Canon. Oh, no. She would walk down the aisle behind a bagpiper playing Love Divine.
“Let’s go,” Avery said. “It’s show time.”
Nerves aquiver, heart overflowing, the bride took up her bouquet and the dog’s leashes and let the Westies lead her down the spiral staircase, across the drawing room, and out the side door leading into the garden.
It was a perfect day for a garden wedding. Warm, sunny, and clear with a slight onshore breeze to cool the skin. She took a deep breath, drawing in the intermingled scents of sunbaked plants, sea, and wedding flowers. It was time to at last become his wife and she couldn’t wait—even if the only family member in attendance on either side was a ghost watching from an upper window.
Her heart, already in her throat, nearly leapt out of her mouth as the piper stepped in front of her. He was an older gentleman with a bit of a paunch, but still looked impressive in his ceremonial costume. He gave her a nod as he blew into the chanter to inflate the bellows. The pipes began to drone—a low, mournful sound—then struck a pair of high, shrill notes before settling into the tune.
The piper set off and was halfway down the aisle before Avery stepped in between him and the bride. Cat drew a deep breath to steady her nerves before starting herself, fighting the eager dogs to keep a slow, measured pace. Ahead, clustered around the arbor, were Benedict, Avery, and the cleric. When her gaze fell on her bridegroom, her breath caught and her blood surged, heating her face.
He was—gulp—resplendent. His hair, pulled back in a tight braid, shone in the sunlight like a copper halo. Over his kilt, he wore the formal Prince Charlie coat and waistcoat, the modern Highland equivalent of a tuxedo. All she could see of his shirt was a bit of ruffle at the collar and cuffs. His kilt was a muted green and blue with intersecting bars of vermillion, yellow, and black. The ancient Logan tartan. It was the same one she and the dogs wore. Another large swath of plaid hung from his right shoulder, where it was secured by an ornate silver brooch with a large golden gem in the center. His favorite fox sporran filled out the breathtaking ensemble.
He was better than any fictional Highlander because he was real. And would be her husband very soon. She turned the idea over in her mind, still unable to grasp the reality. She was getting married. To a man she loved with all her heart and soul. A man who fulfilled and completed her.
If this is a dream, may I never awaken!
When she reached the arbor, Benedict took the dogs, Avery relieved her of the bouquet, and her gorgeous groom leaned in and whispered, “You’re a vision, m’aingael. I’m quite undone.”
The cleric cleared his throat. As they turned to face him, he said, “What greater thing is there for two souls than to feel they are joined together for life—to strengthen each other in all labor, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, and to be one with each other in silent, unspeakable memories? The vows you exchange today will join your souls in this way—in this and future lives. Do you wish to proceed with the handfasting?”
“We do,” they replied in unison.
The cleric said more, but the buzzing in her head drowned out most of his words. She came back when he asked them to join hands and look into one another’s eyes. As they did, she observed with detached fascination how Graham’s hand trembled as much as hers. Was he as nervous as she was?
She’d so far avoided looking at him, but now glanced up to find him staring down at her. His face was pale and his eyes looked like clouded emeralds. She tried to smile at him, but the corners of her mouth refused to obey. The pressure of his fingers on hers increased, giving her the impression he would fall over if she let go. Oddly, the feeling heartened her. Come what may, good or ill, they would endure it together with hands clasped.
The cleric produced a tartan ribbon and proceeded to tie it around their joined hands. He then looked at the groom. “Will you cause her pain?”
“I may.”
His voice was steady, but his hands shook. She squeezed his fingers to spur him on. The blood drained from her brain, making the words sound far away. A chill crept through her even as sweat pooled under the layers of her gown. She prayed she wouldn’t faint. Or worse, throw up.
“Is that your intent?” the cleric asked.
“No.”
She swallowed hard and took a deep, bracing breath. It was her turn.
“Will you cause him pain?”
“I may.”
“Is that your intent?”
“No.”
To both of them as a couple, he asked, “Will you share each other’s pain and seek to ease it?”
“Aye,” Graham replied a second ahead of her “Yes.”
Several similar exchanges followed. Would they look for the brightness in life and the positive in each other? Would they share each other’s burdens so their spirits might grow in the union? Would they dream together to create new realities and hopes? Would they take the heat of anger and use it to temper the strength of their marriage? Would they honor one another and never give cause to break that honor?
As they answered each question, the cleric wrapped another ribbon around their joined hands. Finally, it was time to exchange their vows. Graham went first, speaking in Gaelic a handful of sentences that sounded like gibberish. With all due diligence, she repeated the nonsensical syllables, fudging her way through some of the more challenging pronunciations.
“What did we say?” she whispered, hoping he hadn’t tricked her into agreeing to obey him.
“An old Celtic vow,” he replied, keeping his voice low.
She blinked up at him. “I gathered that, but—”
The cleric cleared his throat to regain their attention and then removed the ribbons from their hands. “May the god and goddess in their goodness strengthen your consent and fill you both with their blessings. What they have joined, let no one put asunder.” With a beaming smile, he turned to Graham. “You may now kiss your bride.”
When her big, handsome husband bent to kiss her, it was clear he intended only a pious peck on the lips, but she did her best to draw him in. It didn’t take much. She forgot the cleric and their guests as he gathered her in his arms and surrendered his tongue. The world fell away and for several exquisite moments, it was as if they were the only two souls in the whole of existence.
* * *
Ceremony now over, she couldn’t wait to get her gorgeous groom alone. He looked so bloody hot in his Highland attire she was on fire to get her hands on him. A fortnight of abstinence had reduced her to a quivering ball of need. At present, they were in the receiving line Mrs. Worthington had insisted upon with Avery and Benedict, who were being obnoxiously lovey-dovey. Word the laird was coming home to Tur-nan-Deur had spread like, well, parish gossip. All were welcome to the reception, apparently. A seemingly endless stream of people ushered past, shaking their hands, kissing her cheek, wishing them joy, and telling her how lovely she looked. Shit. Had MacCabe invited everyone on the Black Isle? After forty minutes of this mind-numbing ritual, she began looking for ways to amuse herself.