A Very Gothic Christmas

by Christine Feehan

  Her breath lodged in her throat as a shaft of winter light shone through the bay window, highlighting a man’s hazy figure standing in front of it . . . black eyes staring at her, epitomizing all that was dark and malevolent in that single unwavering glare. He seemed to be there and yet not, as if he was half in and half out of their world.

  In horror, she watched him begin to take on more substance, more form, a flesh-colored hue that was almost human coming into his face as Duncan grew weaker and paler.

  Then the man sank to the ground before Duncan, locking that malevolent stare on Duncan and baring his teeth in a feral snarl, a growl of rage issuing from his lips, rebounding through the room like evil personified.

  In that instant, Rachel realized that some kind of internal struggle was going on, a force whose very power enclosed a barrier around the two men, pushing her back.

  She could feel a palpable force center squarely on Duncan, a violent charge of crackling sparks and shimmering illumination. Around them the lamp lights flickered and dimmed, the colored tree globes winked and sputtered. Rachel knew this man—this thing—meant to kill Duncan.

  Her panic mounting, she watched Duncan’s form begin to dwindle, fading to a diaphanous veil, while the unholy apparition before him grew more distinct by the second.

  The man’s energy expanded, became more vibrant and powerful—an energy that made the air move wildly, whipping the limbs of the Christmas tree so that the glass balls began to crash to the floor.

  “Leave him alone!” she cried, fighting to get to Duncan, only to be driven back.

  Her gaze flew around the room, her eyes alighting on a vase situated on a table near the door. Frantically, she reached for it, and with all the power she could muster, she hurled it toward the man . . . only to see it sail right through him with no effect and smash resoundingly against the wall behind him.

  Dear God, what madness was this? Her world was spinning out of control and she was helpless to stop it, helpless to save Duncan. He was dying right in front of her, and she could do nothing but watch.

  No! She wouldn’t stand by and allow that to happen.

  “In the name of God Almighty, go back to hell where you belong!” she shouted.

  The man’s head jerked up, shock momentarily limning his face before changing to undiluted rage. “Harlot!” he roared, his eyes blazing. “I’ll see ye suffer for your interference!”

  In the next moment he began to dim, his image fading, until what had been a shape once more became a white mist, before evaporating entirely.

  For a second, time stood suspended; then Rachel shook off her terror and raced to Duncan’s side, dropping down beside him.

  His hands were braced on his knees, his head hanging low. He looked white as death, and the realization that she had almost lost him froze her to the marrow of her bones.

  “Duncan.” She took his face in her hands and smoothed the hair back from his sweating brow. “Oh, God . . . Duncan. Please tell me that you’re all right.”

  His breath rasped in his throat as he struggled to lift his head and turn it in her direction. He stared at her with blank eyes, lifeless eyes, faded hollow spheres that filled her with a fear as powerful as she had experienced moments ago.

  “Duncan,” she pleaded, shaking him. “Come back to me.”

  His clouded gaze finally found her. He spoke only one word, but that single word filled her with a dread more chilling and terrible than her earlier horror.

  “Gordon.”

  chapter

  9

  GORDON. The MacGregor clan’s most hated enemy.

  The foe Duncan had been fighting right before he had been pulled forward in time.

  Rachel shook her head, her confusion and frustration mounting. “I don’t understand. How can that be?”

  For an eternal moment Duncan remained silent, his body still weak, color barely transfusing his skin.

  She gripped his big hands in her own, rubbing them briskly, trying to somehow transmit her strength and body heat to him as her brain scrambled frantically for an answer to what had just transpired.

  Something teased the back of her mind, a memory of fire and vows of vengeance. Though she tried desperately to grab hold of it, the images vanished as swiftly as vapor.

  Long, tension-filled minutes passed before the dull sheen left Duncan’s face and his color began to return to normal. Her relief, however, was brief. As his strength rallied, so did his anger. Blazing fury stamped his features as his gaze swept the room.

  He shoved her hands away when she offered her help. He rose unsteadily, weaving on the balls of his feet as if hovering on the edge of a precipice. Then he found his center and righted himself.

  His step faltered as he moved to stand in the spot Gordon had so recently occupied. Shattered remnants of Christmas ornaments winked from the floor like iridescent confetti.

  “Why?” he demanded, swiveling around to face her, his eyes like ice on fire. “Why is that bastard’s hell-doomed soul haunting Glengarren?”

  Rachel wanted to wrap her arms around him, hold him tight, tell him everything would be all right. But deep down she knew things would not be all right. Something had been set in motion. Something they were powerless to stop.

  They had to get away from here. Immediately. Leave Glengarren and not look back. The urgency rattled everything inside her.

  “Duncan . . .” she whispered, but he was no longer looking at her.

  “Show yourself, ye devil’s spawn!” His voice vibrated with escalating anger. “Ye’ll not get the better of me again. This I promise ye.”

  “Duncan, please, listen to me . . .”

  “Why is he here?” he shouted toward the rafters, as if demanding an answer from God. “I was denied the pleasure of killing his blackened soul!”

  A memory crystallized in that moment, a rush of vivid descriptions . . . gleaned from an old history book.

  Rachel closed her eyes and said, in a raw voice, “He died here.”

  When she opened her eyes, she found Duncan staring at her—his eyes as sharp and dangerous as his sword. “Died in my house? How?”

  “The fire in the east wing. He set it after you had wounded him. His body was never found. It’s believed he perished in the fire.”

  Duncan’s fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening into a hard knot of anger. “He always told me that should I ever succeed in killing him, he would haunt me all my days. He has managed tae keep his vow.” He slammed a fist into his palm, and Rachel winced at the impact that spoke viciously of his anger and pain. It did not, however, deter the urgency inside her to be away from this place.

  “We have to leave here, Duncan. Now.”

  His flashing blue gaze slashed to hers. “Leave?”

  “Yes. I saw the look in Gordon’s eyes. He intends to kill you.”

  His jaw clenched. “And do ye think I fear death, lady?”

  “No,” she said without hesitation, wishing in her heart he did fear death, that he would run away from it, run away with her, stay safe. Stay alive. “I know you don’t, and that’s what frightens me most. Duncan, please . . .” she begged. Unbidden, the tears began to flow again.

  Without a word, he came to her, pulling her into his arms. “Do not fear for me, lass. I promise tae take care. Gordon will not prevail. I have beaten him time and again.”

  She shook her head, the wildness growing inside her. “No. This isn’t the same. Don’t you see?”

  “I see that his strategy has changed, but that the result will remain the same. He has might, but still no wit. He never did.”

  Rachel wanted to rail at him, shake him, take him from this place. “He is a different opponent this time, Duncan. This is not an enemy you can face head-on with a sword. He has the advantage. Your strength. Your will. His revenge.”

  He shook his head, though she caught the flicker of understanding in his eyes, telling her he knew exactly what she was saying, that this time the battle was not simply
to take Duncan’s life.

  But to claim his soul.

  “ ’Tis you I’m worried about,” he said, gripping her tighter to his chest, unwilling to face the truth, or simply refusing to believe he couldn’t win against Gordon.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “He means tae harm ye.”

  “I only care about you.”

  “He knows I love ye, and he wants tae destroy all I hold dear.”

  How Rachel had wanted to hear those words, how she wished they could have been spoken at an hour less desperate, her heart less consumed with his safety.

  “I love you, too, Duncan, and that’s why I beg you to come with me, to leave this place. Surely Gordon cannot follow us.”

  “Ye ask me tae run away?”

  “No. I ask you to save yourself. For me. Please, Duncan.”

  “ ’Tis not in my power tae do, lass. This is a battle that has waited centuries to be put tae rest. There can be no more waiting.”

  “You don’t understand . . .”

  “I understand fully,” he said softly, his hand trembling as he brushed her cheek, conveying that he had yet to regain his full strength. “I want ye tae depart this place. Go now. Gather your belongings and leave Glengarren and its curse behind.”

  “I won’t leave you.”

  His grip on her arms tightened and he shook her lightly. “I command ye tae go!”

  “No,” she said firmly. “Not without you.”

  His eyes softened a fraction, and his voice became a painful rasp. “I could not bear it should something happen tae ye.”

  “Then take me away from here. Gordon has lost, don’t you see? He’s dead. You’re alive. Let the past remain where it is, and give us a chance.”

  A spark of hope warmed in Rachel’s chest as he appeared to consider her plea. She knew how much his honor meant to him, how deep this rivalry went between the two clans. But would his love for her prove to be stronger?

  Dear God, she hoped so.

  At last, he nodded. “I will go with ye as far as town, tae make sure ye’re taken care of, but then I must return. I can offer no more.”

  Rachel bit back the argument that he would not deposit her at some hotel and then return to face Gordon alone. He had agreed to leave with her, and that was all that mattered. Once they were gone from Glengarren and Gordon’s threat, she would find a way to keep him from returning.

  She took hold of his hand and tugged him toward the door. “Let’s go. Now. Quickly.”

  He took a step and stumbled, bracing a hand against the back of the couch. To his protest, she wrapped an arm around his waist to help him.

  She had expected to stagger beneath his weight, and struggled to keep him upright. He was a big man, and she well knew how solid, remembering the heavy, warm feel of all that muscle and sinew on top of her the night before.

  Yet, to her despair, she acknowledged that there was something different about his body, as if Gordon’s appearance had robbed Duncan of substance.

  The urgency to be gone redoubled inside her, and she prayed they would make good on their escape, that Gordon had been weakened as well, and that he would not have the force to bar their exit.

  But as they reached the door, a haunting howl erupted, driving them back. Duncan groaned, and for a terrible moment, she felt him being pulled away.

  “Fight him,” she cried, locking her arm around his waist, trying to propel him forward as she flung open the door.

  She stumbled back, bludgeoned by the cold, biting air that rushed in on her, snow stinging her throat, cutting through her clothes like sharp teeth—no time to retrieve her coat.

  Her rental car, covered by a thickening blanket of snow, remained where she had parked it upon her arrival at Glengarren, at the foot of the front steps.

  She was forced to beat upon the ice-layered door handle before she managed to jerk open the door, scattering slivers of ice and chunks of snow over their legs.

  Duncan dropped heavily into the passenger seat. She slammed the door and then raced around the front of the car, quickly realizing they were going nowhere until she cleared the banked snow off the windshield.

  With frantic hands, she swiped at the glass, felt the ice shards cut into her palms. She shut out the pain in her desperation to complete her task.

  Once done, she jumped into the car, white-knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel. She stared at the ignition as the jarring realization struck her—she didn’t have the keys. They were in her purse. Inside the house.

  She had to go back in.

  “Where are ye going?” Duncan shouted as she leapt from the car.

  “I don’t have the keys.”

  “Rachel!” he bellowed as she dashed away from the car, his protests following her back to the front door, where she momentarily faltered before shoving the heavy portal wide.

  Her breath left her in a rush as she spotted her purse on a chair near the library. Ignoring the rising fear that beckoned her to turn on her heels and run, she raced across the foyer, swiping up her purse and clutching it to her as she headed back to the door.

  Barely ten feet from her goal, a sudden, familiar pressure gripped her neck, filling her with dread as invisible fingers began to tighten around her flesh, cutting off the scream working its way up her throat.

  Her fingers scraped at her neck, trying to pull away hands that were not there, fighting an enemy she could not see . . . one who was far stronger than she, and who she knew would kill her if given the chance.

  She struggled against the power holding her in place and forced her feet to move, dropping to the ground to claw her way toward the door, something inside her clamoring that, once outside, she would be free of the menacing hold.

  With every ounce of strength she possessed, she fought for her life, unconsciousness threatening as her oxygen-starved lungs sought air, the mounting pressure hauling her back as if she were being sucked into a yawning black chasm that had begun to roil with Gordon’s vindictive laughter.

  The thought flickered that if Gordon killed her, she would be sealing Duncan’s fate. Duncan would avenge her death in whatever way possible. The image galvanized her, pushing her step by tolling step toward the door.

  On the threshold, her desperate gaze lifted, seeing Duncan’s stricken expression as he stumbled out the car door.

  Before he could get to her, the pressure against her throat subsided. She gasped for precious air as she struggled to her feet, praying her legs would not give out or that her mind would not succumb to the overwhelming fear making her body feel combustive.

  She fell into the driver’s seat, her shaking hands digging in her purse for the keys, only vaguely aware that the contents were spilling to the ground.

  At last she found the keys, shoved them into the ignition, and turned. Nothing. She pumped her foot on the accelerator and tried again. The engine grunted and sputtered and then stopped.

  Please, dear God, not now. Don’t let the cold have drained the battery.

  Again the engine whined and labored, before finally roaring to life. Throwing the car in gear, she hit the gas, the tires spinning as she took off down the driveway like the very demons of hell were dogging her heels.

  “Rachel . . .” she heard Duncan say, her name barely audible over the wild thumping of her heart, her gaze flying to the rearview mirror, seeing the front door standing open and Glengarren looming over them, its shadow casting a menacing black cloak all the way to the gates marking the entrance to its haunted grounds.

  Faster—she punched the gas pedal, racing for those gates, telling herself if she could just get through them, they would be free. That’s when she heard the gasping.

  Her gaze cut to Duncan to find his chest heaving with the exertion to breathe, his skin as white as the snow clinging to the windshield . . . his very presence growing dimmer, fading with each passing second.

  Dear God, what was happening?

  Then the answer came to her, swiftly, clea
rly, and with painful recognition.

  They could not leave this property. Somehow, Duncan was bound to it, and should she make it through the gates . . .

  She would kill him.

  chapter

  10

  RACHEL SLAMMED ON THE BRAKES.

  Tires locking, the car skidded sideways, spewing gravel, sliding over the snow-slick drive, the squeal of grinding brakes ear-piercing as they careened toward the gates—straight toward disaster.

  With a muffled cry, she gripped the steering wheel, which lurched from side to side, the gates looming like a gaping abyss before them.

  Hurling her partly over the console between the seats, the car suddenly plowed to a stop, the rear mere inches from the property’s border and buried in a snowdrift that partially covered the back window, obliterating the sight of the castle in the distance.

  Winded, Rachel struggled upright, shook free of the ache in her ribs and turned to Duncan. Panic closed off her throat.

  He shimmered, his body mass diffused, breaking up, his eyes half-shut and his chest barely moving. Dear God, he was dying, fading before her very eyes into oblivion.

  She turned the steering wheel hard and stomped the gas pedal. The rear tires spun, dug into the snow and mud, spattering the fenders and undercarriage.

  The engine roared, the tires whined before they found traction and hurled the car forward up the driveway, toward the house, her gaze shooting repeatedly to Duncan—praying her plan worked.

  A cry of relief broke from her lips as his image grew more vibrant and solidified the closer they got to Glengarren.

  Coming to a stop, Rachel slammed the gearshift into park, jumped out of the car, and ran—feet sliding on the ice, sending her impacting against the hood before she regained her footing and sloshed through the snow to the passenger door, fighting with the handle that was again covered with ice, slivers jabbing her fingers.

  At last she flung open the door and fell to her knees beside Duncan’s still form, taking his hand in hers, trembling and numb with cold.