by Cindy Miles
Contents
Dedication
Author's Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Excerpt: A Christmas Spirit
Copyright
For my son Kyle,
whose modern-day chivalry makes me proud
and gives me inspiration—especially for a particular
young knight named Jason. I love you.
Dear Readers:
While all of my novels can stand alone, they’re ultimately all linked by a common denominator: characters—mostly, characters from the past. Somewhere, somehow, and at some point, they’ve all bumped into one another during their ghostly journeys. Tristan de Barre (from Spirited Away) and Gawan of Conwyk (from Into Thin Air) have known each other for centuries—since before any curses deemed anyone a wandering spirit or an earthbound angel. The Munros (from Highland Knight) met Gabe MacGowan (from MacGowan’s Ghost, and the only modern hero so far!) after the medieval Highland lot had been relieved of their centuries-old enchantment. In Thirteen Chances, you’ll find Christian de Gaultiers of Arrick-by-the-Sea is the hero who brings them all together. His lifelong friendship with Gawan of Conwyk introduced him centuries before to the Dreadmoor lot, and Christian’s friendship with a certain secondary character, Captain Justin Catesby, has brought them all together from MacGowan’s Ghost. Here, in Thirteen Chances, they’ll all have a chance to get to know one another, thus linking all of the books to date. I had so much fun bringing the entire cast of main and a few favorite secondary characters together. It’s like bumping into an old friend you really hated saying good-bye to once before.
I hope you enjoy!
Cindy
Prologue
Northwestern Wales
The White Witches’ Souls for Eternity Convention
All Hallows’ Eve, 1865
Somewhere in the dead of night …
“All right, ladies, open your scrolls!”
Willoughby’s fingers tightened on the parchment, and she glanced up at the headmistress, Mordova, who impatiently awaited the opening of the Souls’ Scrolls. A breeze wafted through the copse of trees, and dead leaves flitted to the ground. Somewhere close by, a field of dried corn crackled as the brisk autumn wind slipped between the stalks. Above, a harvest moon, large, full, and bright, shone through the canopy of birch and oak, bathing everything it touched in glowing silver. Several bonfires flickered with orange flame.
“Willoughby!”
Willoughby jumped, startled, then glared at her sister. “Don’t do that, Millicent.”
“Well, then open the bloody scroll!” another sister, Agatha, said under her breath. “I’m dying to see our assignment!”
Four Ballaster sisters gathered round and leaned their heads close together as Willoughby, the eldest, slowly unrolled the scroll.
Four Ballaster sisters drew in sharp breaths.
The gathering of White Witches ceased looking at their own scrolls and turned to stare at Willoughby.
“It’s them!” squealed Millicent, the third Ballaster sister, pointing at the scroll. “Oh, Willoughby! Do you know what this means?” She clapped her hands in excitement.
“Yes, Willoughby Ballaster,” said Mordova, who’d come to stand before them. “Do you know what this means?”
Willoughby looked up, and before she could say a word, the headmistress continued.
“It means you and your sisters have the most difficult of assignments.” She turned, her long, silvery hair gleaming in the moonlight, and addressed the rest of the witches. “For those of you new to the convention this year, Christian’s and Emma’s souls have longed to be together for centuries, and for centuries they’ve been denied”—she waved an elegant hand—“all because they inadvertently cursed themselves.” She tsked and shook her head. “Poor Christian of Arrick-by-the-Sea. A gallant and fierce Crusader, he vowed in the throes of death that he would forever await his Intended’s love. And faithful to his vow, he is here, earthbound, yet a spirit, in truth.” She clasped her hands together and paced. “And Emma, upon Christian’s departure for the Crusades, performed an ancient incantation the poor lamb had no business performing.” She stopped and shook her head again. “Mortals. Always convinced they have the control to conjure magic.”
Willoughby and the other Ballaster sisters stared on with the rest of the conventiongoers. Headmistress Mordova faced first the crowd, then the Ballasters—seeming to focus in particular on Willoughby.
“In an attempt to keep her true love safe in battle, Emma concocted a Welsh spell using an aged, outdated book of incantations. Sadly, she didn’t pronounce the verse correctly and, for lack of a better word, it backfired.”
“What happened?” said a quiet voice in the crowd.
Mordova gave a winsome smile, and firelight cast her face in shadows. “Every seventy-two years, Emma’s reincarnated soul returns to Arrick-by-the-Sea. Drawn like a moth to light, she is—only she doesn’t know why. Nor does she recognize her true love.”
A resounding sigh echoed through the moonlit night.
Mordova continued. “Patiently, Christian awaits his true love, his Intended, his eternal soul mate. Eleven times thus far he has made Emma fall in love with him anew.” The headmistress heaved a gusty breath. “And due to that discombobulated scrap of magic, something inevitably happens and Emma dies, only to be reborn, her soul forgetting everything. Meanwhile, poor Christian’s heart is severely broken each time, and I fear ’tis nigh unto being irreparable if this continues much longer.”
Silence filled the night air.
Willoughby met the gazes of her sisters, gave a nod, then cleared her tightened throat. “Headmistress, we, the Ballasters, proudly accept this assignment.” She looked out over the expectant faces of the coven and raised her voice. “We’ll see that Christian and Emma are reunited once and for bloody all!”
A thunder of clapping sounded through the wood, accompanied by laughter and whoops and whistles. Many of the other witches walked up to Willoughby and the other Ballaster sisters to offer wishes of good luck—and a few homespun spells if needed. When the crowd thinned, Mordova stood before the Ballasters, staring.
Willoughby lifted her chin. “Can the council not help?”
The headmistress shook her head. “We are administration. We oversee, but do not give aid.”
Willoughby sighed. “Figures.”
“I know you girls have pure hearts and good intentions,” Mordova said, her amber eyes shiny in the firelight. “I say this not to intimidate, but to encourage. Take heed; I beg you. Not one of your predecessors has succeeded in reuniting Christian’s and Emma’s souls, and they with many more centuries of experience at spell-making than you young Ballasters. The undoing and redoing of such a discombobulated incantation is precarious at best
. ’Twill not be an easy task, and can be rather heartbreaking—as well as dangerous. I warn you: beware of the magic you use. Be absolutely sure of each and every word chosen, in any spells you conduct. For one misspoken word could mean the end of their chances. Forever.”
Northwestern Wales, 1937
Castle of Arrick-by-the-Sea
Once again in the dead of night …
“We simply weren’t prepared!” Agatha cried. “Whatever did we do wrong?”
“Another chance gone!” said Millicent, fretting her hands. “Oh dear, Willoughby, what shall we do now?”
“Perhaps we should contact the headmistress?” said Maven.
Agatha snorted. “She cannot help, Sister. Remember? She’s administration.”
Willoughby rubbed her chin with an index finger and looked out at the castle ruins. Through the moonlit night, she saw Christian walking the battlements. He’d just lost Emma for the twelfth time.
Willoughby could feel his pain from where she stood.
Something needed to be done once and for all.
She thought hard, and paced.
“Just look at him, poor dove,” whispered Maven. “I cannot bear to see his anguish again. We must do something!”
“Indeed—Willoughby, where did we go wrong?” said Agatha. “Our spell was perfectly orchestrated. We planned it for seventy-two years!”
“Aye, and we should be thankful there’s no retribution from it.” Willoughby shook her head. “We’re approaching this whole thing a bit too timidly, I think, especially when working with as discombobulated an incantation as Emma’s. And conjuring from afar simply won’t do,” said Willoughby. “We need to be closer, for one. More aggressive. None of this peering from behind the tree line and conjuring spells from the wood business.” She nodded to herself. “We shall become the new owners of the manor house near the castle. ’Tis for sale and we’ve the funds to purchase and restore it.” She met each sister’s puzzled look. “I know what else needs to be done, but ’tis risky.”
Maven lifted a brow. “How risky?”
Willoughby stroked her chin. “The riskiest.”
The three other Ballasters gasped.
“You don’t mean the—” started Millicent.
“Whsst!” Willoughby placed two fingers over her lips. “ ’Tis the dodgiest of incantations and mustn’t ever be spoken aloud.” She cast a stern look to the others. “You know the one I mean, aye?”
“Aye,” the others said together in a hushed whisper.
“I’m uncertain and not at all comfortable about it, Willoughby. No one has ever, in the history of the White Witches, succeeded. Using this spell will mean Christian and Emma’s very last chance,” said Maven. “Their eternal love relies on this one scrap of magic. If it fails—if we fail—’tis over.”
“Forever,” whispered Agatha.
Willoughby again glanced out at the ruins and watched the silhouette of the fierce Crusader as he paced the battlements. He stopped, turned, and stared out toward the sea.
“Well then,” Willoughby said with determination, and met her sisters’ eyes. “We mustn’t fail, aye? We’ll waste not another second. Time’s of the essence, girls. Thirteen is a lucky number, and we’ve seventy-two years left to conjure the chanciest of charms!” She inhaled with gusto and puffed it out slowly. Under her breath, she said on a sigh, “By Morticia’s wand, let’s not screw this up.”
Chapter 1
Savannah, Georgia
Forevermore Photography
September, present day
Sometime late in the afternoon …
“Emma, these are absolutely amazing. I can’t wait for you to do my wedding.”
Perched on the brick window ledge that looked out over River Street and the Savannah River, Emma Calhoun smiled at Zoë Canady—soon to be Zoë Zanderfly—as she looked through the McAdams’ portfolio. The girls had been friends since college, and Emma had promised to shoot her wedding in December. “Is Jay still threatening to have his groomsmen all wear Curly, Larry, and Moe T-shirts beneath their tuxes?”
Zoë laughed, and Emma saw that glow—the one that lights up a bride-to-be’s face like the aurora borealis. It really was something of a phenomenon, in Emma’s opinion.
She wondered briefly what it felt like.
“Of course,” Zoë said. “And I told him my maids and I would all be wearing football cleats beneath our dresses.”
“And that you’d kick him with one,” Emma added.
“Or that I’d wear them on our wedding night.” They both laughed.
Late-afternoon sun beamed in through the window, bathing the two-hundred-year-old brick-walled studio in straw-colored light and gray shadows. “Well,” Emma said, pushing off the sill and tidying up her work space. She glanced at her watch. “You’d better go or you’ll be late for your dinner date with your future hubby.”
“Yeah, you’re right, but I’ve got a few extra minutes,” Zoë said. She sat down at Emma’s desk, idly tapped the mouse, and the computer screen came to life. “Wow.”
Emma set a tripod against the wall and walked to peer over Zoë’s shoulder. The Arrick-by-the-Sea castle ruins she’d been looking at during lunch gave her chills all over again.
“Where is this?” Zoë asked.
Emma leaned a hip against the desk. “Wales.”
“Do you know anyone in Wales?”
Staring at the stark gray stones of the castle, the crumbling wall surrounding it, and the sea beyond, Emma blinked and shook her head. “Not a soul.”
Zoë turned in the chair, pushed a long strand of strawberry blond hair—which Emma had always secretly coveted—behind her ear, and raised her brow. “You’ve been dreaming again, haven’t you?”
Emma sighed and rubbed her eyes. “If you want to call it that. I really don’t see anything in my dreams.” She looked at her friend. “I feel it.”
“And then you obsess and stay up all night long for nights on end, surfing the Net until you find the feeling?” She pointed at her. “You’ve dark circles under your eyes, Emm. You look like a vamp. How long have you been dreaming this time?”
Emma glanced back at the computer screen, and the imposing walls of Arrick. “Months.” She couldn’t explain it—not at all. But somehow, when she’d finally come across the breathtaking photo of the twelfth-century fortress, she’d known.
What she’d known, exactly, she had no clue. But she knew she had to go there. Needed to go there.
“When are you leaving, and why haven’t you told me before now?” Zoë said, frowning.
Emma looked at her friend and motioned at her with two fingers. “Put those mean eyebrows away, Zoë.” She sighed. “I didn’t want to burden you. You’re in the throes of planning a wedding, silly. The last thing you need is a whiney pal.”
Zoë placed a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “You goofball. It’s not a burden and you know it. You’re my best friend. So much of a best friend that you’re the only one I’d trust to photograph my wedding.” The mean eyebrows returned, just briefly; then she smiled, her expression softening. Zoë cocked her head as she studied her. “You are a very weird woman, Emma Calhoun. You capture the most astounding pictures of people in love, and yet here you are, twenty-eight years old and still all alone. Good Lord, look at you.” She pointed at her. “Porcelain skin, beautiful cinnamon hair—you’ve got abs, woman.” Zoë lifted her shirt and poked her own softer belly. “I’d give anything for abs. Anyway, you’re a gorgeous girl, and yet you’ll go home tonight, order a pizza, and watch … let me see … The Mummy, followed by The Mummy Returns.”
Emma shrugged. “I like mummies.”
“No, you like the guy who kills the mummies.”
Emma didn’t dispute it. She peered at her friend. “Are you trying to make me feel better?”
Zoë smiled. “When do you leave for Wales? And while I’m being selfish, more important, will you be back in time to shoot my wedding?”
Emma walked to the window
and glanced down at the tourists walking the cobblestones of River Street. A tugboat blasted its horn as it pulled away from the docks, and a tour group hunting Savannah’s spirits ambled by.
Even with the window closed, the scent of freshly made pralines wafted up from the sweetshop below. When she turned back to Zoë, she noticed the tiny dust particles flittering like fairies in the waning light that streamed through the glass. It was all quite surreal, but not nearly as surreal as her dreams.
Something pulled her to Wales, and specifically to Arrick-by-the-Sea. It was weird, and yeah—Zoë was right. She was a weird woman, because the dreams plaguing her sleep each night had no real definition, no flashing neon sign that said HERE LIES YOUR DESTINY. And yet, after months of accumulated feelings of urgency to get to those crumbling twelfth-century ruins, Emma had booked a round-trip flight to Wales, made reservations at the charming manor house B and B located just up the way from the castle, and had taken the entire month of October off to travel across the Atlantic to satisfy whatever it was inside her that was all but driving her into lunacy.
“Well?” Zoë prodded, waving a hand. “Earth to Emma? Promise?”
With a gusty sigh, Emma grinned. “I leave in a week. And yes, of course I promise to be back to shoot your bridal shower, your rehearsal dinner, and your wedding.” She made an X over her chest with her forefinger. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Castle of Arrick-by-the-Sea
September, present day
Eveningish …
“Och, look at you, lad. A fierce wad of squirmin’ nerves—that’s what you are, walkin’ back and forth, back and forth. You’re all but makin’ me head spin.”
Christian of Arrick-by-the-Sea stopped and glanced at his longtime friend. The older knight was a resident ghost at Castle Grimm, but he frequented Arrick. Christian had known him for centuries. “I can’t help it, Godfrey.” He shrugged, sighed, and glanced out across the shadowy sea. “I just … can’t.”
Sir Godfrey of Battersby scratched a place under his big, floppy hat. “Damn, boy, you should be used to this by now. ’Twill be the ninth time, aye?”
“Thirteenth.”