Love Everlastin' Book 3

by Mickee Madden

Winston nodded. "During my mid-twenties, I spent four years in the States, attending different paranormal institutes o' study."

  "Were you born wi' yer abilities?" asked Roan.

  "Unfortunately, I was."

  Winston's disheartened tone brought a frown to Roan's brow. "I see. Weel, we all have our crosses to bear, don't we?"

  Winston studied the new laird for a time. "Aye," he said finally, his tone low, cryptic. "Tell me, Roan, how are you faring these days?"

  Roan shrugged. "You tell me."

  A crooked grin appeared on Winston's face. "I don't make it a practice to deliberately invade people's minds. Sometimes I have no control over it, but for the most part—"

  "I understand," Roan interjected brusquely. "Ta answer yer question, I'm farin’ weel enough."

  Winston detected tension building in the laird. Laura cast him a fleeting warning not to pursue the subject, and Winston respectfully backed off. He forked the remainder of his cold eggs into his mouth. He was about to swallow when Roan's question took him aback.

  "Wha' do you hope to find here?"

  Winston swallowed and immediately replied, "Maself, I guess."

  "You’re welcome to stay as long as you like," said Roan. A lazy grin ticked at one corner of his mouth. "But I'm afraid the answers you seek will be tough to find. The magic went wi' Lannie. There are no miracles left wi’in these walls, ma friend."

  Winston stared at the couple for a long moment. "No' true," he said huskily then sighed. "It's definitely still here."

  Laura's look of surprise brought a smile to Winston's lips, and he said, "The air crackles wi' it."

  Roan, a bewildered look on his face, gave himself a shake. "But Lannie and Beth—"

  "Utilized it, but they were no' the source," Winston informed. "It's here and I hope to learn more abou' it during ma stay."

  "I'll be damned," Laura breathed.

  Damned!

  The word detonated inside Winston's head. He felt himself swiftly passing through time and space, through a dark tunnel of indecipherable voices. When his momentum came to an abrupt halt, dank, bone-invading coldness greeted him. The stench of decay and the unmistakable coppery odor of blood filled his nostrils and coated his tongue. Gagging, he tried to will himself away, but he discovered that he was frozen in this limbo. Straining to see more clearly into the foreboding grayness stretched out before him, he saw a cavernous room of stone. At the far end, a stone altar began to glow in hues of green. Red symbols covered the wall behind it.

  Blood.

  The information sickened Winston, and painfully quickened his heartbeat.

  A figure swept into the room from an arch to the left of the altar. Waves of unbridled rage emanated from the man and crashed against Winston's awareness, nearly drowning him in the depths of its vileness.

  Guttural chanting echoed within the room.

  Warlock! Winston's mind cried.

  "Master," the man's voice boomed, "grant me the power this night to fell ma enemies! Eth duc chi'nith! I offer ye the soul's o' nature's children in return for ma revenge!

  "Damn those unworthy o’ yer true and loyal fold, Master! Damn and condemn the keepers o' the land, and grant this servant the power to bring forth the true magic o' this world!"

  Winston quaked in sheer horror and helplessness. He could sense something dark and sinister attempting to breech the boundaries of his inexplicable placement. The voice of the man behind the altar droned on, but Winston could no longer make out his words. Terror consumed him. Seized every nuance of his being. His heart repeatedly slammed against the wall of his chest. The pulses at his temples threatened to burst free. His mind reached out to grab onto anything which could take him from this place.

  The terror in him built until he was on the verge of surrendering to insanity. Then suddenly he was again traveling, soaring through time and space, the tunnel brightening with each passing second. His lungs threatened to explode. Panic, fear and terror all vied to dominate him, consume the human fibers of his existence.

  The length of him crashed into unmerciful solidity. The air that had been trapped in his lungs gushed out. Pain pulsated through every square inch of him.

  "Go afore ye further weaken ma sanctuary!" cried a feminine voice.

  "Baird," he grunted, weakly propping himself up on his elbows. He discovered he was on his front, a few feet from the fountain in the garden of his mysterious woman.

  "Tis all I have," she wept low. "Leave!"

  His gaze searching for a sign of her, he stated, "You brought me here."

  "No. No! From whence place ye came, I care no' to know! Leave. Leave afore ye destroy this place!"

  "Destroy?" Wincing with pain, Winston stiffly drew himself into a sitting position. "Wha' do you know o’ the history o’ the Baird land?"

  "Go, I tell ye!" she cried.

  Refusing to empathize with the waves of panic emanating from her, he bit out, "When I'm ready! Now answer me."

  A sharp intake of breath echoed around him.

  "Baird, I want to know!"

  "He came from the Infernal Empire to be among humans," she said, her tone laced with pain and fear. "But he couldna tolerate the light. He begot a son wi' a human female. This son claimed this land, and for centuries, worked his dark powers wi’in the walls o' his castle. I know no mair.

  "Now leave and never return. Yer powers be drainin’ me, and I have existed too long to wish to die now. But leave wi' this warnin’, Winston Ian Connery."

  Her voice grew weaker, shaky. "Ye selfishly seek me, and in doin’ such have lost yer true purpose. He waits, while ye wallow in self-pity. Take heart, ma foolish Scotsmon. Danger closes in on Baird House. Heed the warnin’s or...."

  Her voice drifted off. Winston was seized with the knowledge that she was indeed dying, and instantly withdrew into himself. Again he traveled the tunnel of channelers, but this time he awakened at the dining room table, two pairs of eyes staring at him as though the couple were in a state of shock.

  Breathing unsteadily, Winston pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. "Forgive me. I need to go to ma room."

  Without another word, he ran into the hall and up the stairs, and didn't stop until he closed his bedroom door behind him. Labored breaths pumped in and out of his lungs. His head swam with alarming speed.

  He?

  Danger?

  Had she meant his presence in the house?

  No. The "he" is someone else. But who?

  Staggering across the room, he sat on the edge of the bed and lowered his face into his hands.

  Ma purpose here? Right. Why are warnings always so damn cryptic?

  Falling back, his arms winged out across the bed, he blinkingly stared up at the ceiling.

  You're no' shy abou' telling me ma failings, are you, Baird?

  He grimaced. Sighed deeply.

  Oh, we shall meet again, you and I. And I give you fair warning, ma mysterious waif: I'll expose you for the womon I know you to be.

  * * *

  Back in the dining room, Roan slapped his palm to his brow and rose from his chair. "Darlin’, this mon is too weird for ma blood." He pushed the chair into place and collected some of the dishes on the table. "Wha' say we take the lads ou' and build us a snowmon?"

  "Did he go into a trance?" Laura asked tremulously, her gaze riveted on the chair Winston had occupied.

  "Don't know, don't care. Ma skin’s crawlin’ and I need a diversion."

  "The room turned so cold when he—"

  "Darlin’," Roan groaned, "let it be."

  "He was like a statue. . .just sitting there. . .his eyes so vacant."

  Roan grunted in dismissal.

  Laura stood and uneasily looked about the room. "I keep thinking about that Phantom guy hanging around here." She shivered and hugged herself. "I know it sounds awful, but I'm glad he's dead."

  Leaning over, Roan planted a quick kiss on her cool, pale cheek. "A snowmon will cheer you up, love."

  Nodding
absently, she began to help Roan clear the table.

  They managed to put away the leftovers and do the dishes without bringing up the unnerving incident again. Laura, drying her hands with a dish towel, told Roan she'd go ahead and get the boys dressed for the outdoors. Roan remained behind, drying the last of the silverware. When he was done he hung the towel on a hook to the right of the deep sink, then braced his hands against its edge and dipped his head below his shoulders.

  Despite his every attempt to will away the unease gnawing at him, he couldn't get past it. He straightened away from the sink. Holding out his hands, he observed the way they trembled. A day outside with the boys was exactly what he needed.

  Who was he fooling?

  Since Lachlan and Beth's departure, he'd been haunted by something he couldn't begin to define. He'd tried to tell himself he was simply going through a period of mourning, but he knew that wasn't exactly true. Oh, he missed them. He had resigned himself to the fact that there would always be a void in him, one akin to that of the loss of his son. Sometimes when he abruptly awakened in the middle of a night, he almost believed he knew what was troubling him. But then it would melt away, leaving him empty and puzzled and angry.

  It was as though he were standing at the very edge of a high cliff, waiting for something to give him that slight nudge that would send him reeling into the unknown. No, it wasn't about death. He had no fears in that respect. Laura had been so supportive and understanding of his moods, but the unfairness of placing her in that position also bothered him. He loved her more than he ever thought possible. And yet he kept distancing himself.

  Why?

  Wha' the hell is wrong wi' me!

  He looked to the swinging door Laura had gone through. He felt as though he wanted to explode. Not even Aggie seemed to understand what was eating at him. In fact, she was more inclined to avoid him whenever possible. He knew she desperately missed her son, Borgie, and his heart went out to her. She remained because of the boys, but he knew she secretly yearned to pass on and rejoin with her only child. More times than he cared to remember, he'd thought of telling her to go on, but the thought of losing her, too, had been too painful, and he'd selfishly kept silent.

  If only he could purge himself of the gloom residing inside his heart.

  Chapter 3

  For the remainder of the day, Winston stayed in his bedroom. In between Laura and Agnes bringing him pots of tea, sandwiches, and snacks, and Roan lending him a shirt and two woolen sweaters, he was content to embrace his solitude with the hope of soothing the perpetual tingling invading his body. The condition had manifested shortly after he'd retired to his room. And although he had endured it often enough in his life, usually when on a case it continued to make him edgy.

  Now and then he stared out one of the windows, watching Laura, Roan and the boys build a tall snowman near the snow-covered fountain. When they had finished it later that afternoon—potatoes used for eyes, a carrot poking out for the nose and stones forming a smiling mouth—Winston had laughed outright to see the redheaded boy, aided by Roan hoisting him up, place what appeared to be a frozen peacock on top of the snowman in lieu of a hat. The bright purples, blues, and greens of the bird's feathers stood out in sharp contrast to the white, compacted snow, a perfect complement to the delightful creation.

  Now that daylight was waning, his solitude only served to feed his restlessness. Answers eluded him but for the locale of the surrealistic garden. The fourth dimension. His mind had often enough traipsed into that relatively unknown realm. The cross-over dimension. A channelers' only means of bringing individual times and space into the reality of the third dimension. But never had Winston physically visited the realm. The countless times his mind had channeled through it, it was but a world of layers of grayness. Psychic energy, replete with impressions and memories of all who had lived throughout the ages in the third dimension were libraried within the infinite region. Most psychics had only minimal channeling abilities to tap into the information. He, Winston Ian Connery, was one of a few who possessed the ability to utilize every nuance of the dimension. But if he had one hundred lifetimes, he couldn't even begin to dent the available knowledge.

  As much as he thought about transferring himself to the “lady's” garden, he stopped himself. The prospect of causing her undue pain, yanked on his heartstrings. Briefly, on more than one occasion that day, he wished he could just once feel her solidity, but he'd been forced to abandon such thoughts when he surprisingly found himself aroused. Not exactly a pleasant condition for a man who only had sex with a woman twice in his life. And that had been with the same woman—one of his teachers—the night before and the day of his twentieth birthday. Although the physical experience had been enlightening and pleasant enough, the mental assault of her too-vivid fantasies during the exchange had shocked him.

  Sex with apes? She'd imagined him to be three of the massive beasts, all lusty and ravishing her repeatedly.

  The memory not only elicited a soft grimace, but caused his mouth to go dry.

  He longingly eyed the empty teapot on the mantelpiece.

  Something stronger was definitely in order.

  He glanced at the gold-rimmed face of his black, leather-band wristwatch. Four forty-seven.

  Late enough for a nightcap.

  Leaving his room, he casually ambled down the hall. The gas wall lamps were already lit, the orange glow softening the contours of the passageway. He made a left toward the staircase then found himself opening a door. The change in placement left him disoriented. Seemingly of its own volition, his hand pushed the door inward. Before really looking beyond the threshold, he glanced behind him at the steep, narrow, descending stairwell. Heaving a breath, he narrowed his gaze at what was before him.

  His brief fear that he'd been displaced back in the past was dispelled when he viewed an attic. Soft flickering light graced the room.

  Stepping beyond the doorway and several paces further, he spied a figure sitting on the floor at the far end. He not only recognized Roan, but also the mood in the air as being undeniably morose. Approaching in slow steps, he made mental notes of the boxes and objects he passed, and of the lit lantern sitting to the laird's left. Roan was slouched against a stack of crates, mindlessly staring at a portrait propped atop a trunk. Winston identified the man in the portrait right away. Lachlan Baird. A blond woman with chilling blue eyes stared beyond the canvass, through Winston. Still staring into her beautiful but cold features, he crouched next to the lantern.

  Although Roan's gaze did not leave the portrait, he spoke calmly and steadily. "You’re lookin’ at ma Laura in anither time. She was Tessa then." He wagged a finger at the portrait. "Can't say I miss this one much."

  "She has a cruel look abou' her," Winston said.

  "Aye. She was a cruel, desperately wanton womon. And so needy." Roan deeply sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. "Sometimes I come up here and stare at her, and try to understand how I could have loved her so blindly."

  "It happens."

  Roan's troubled gaze briefly swung to Winston then returned to the portrait. "I suppose it does. Laura is verra different from Tessa. They're the same, but Laura...Laura has courage and heart. Tessa never had either."

  Sitting on the floor, Winston bent his right leg and braced his forearm atop the knee. He noticed an emptied bottle of Scotch on its side by Roan's right foot, but chose to ignore its implications. Rather, he sought to console the fires burning within the laird's heart.

  "You amaze me, Roan," Winston said in earnest. "No' many men could cope wi' the memories o' two lives, decades apart."

  "I don't think abou' it...much. The sameness, I mean." He glanced at Winston and forced a lopsided grin. "Truth is, it feels natural now. A part o' me."

  "It still takes a helluva mon to cope as you do."

  "I don't know abou' tha'. We do wha' we must."

  Winston chuckled. "I'll have to remember tha' the next time I feel like a miserable failure."
<
br />   Roan's grin deepened. "I can't imagine you a failure at anythin’. What's it like to be psychic?"

  "Busy," Winston said dryly.

  Roan nodded. "I bet you are. You get to see the dark side o' people they think is locked away."

  "Also the good. There's usually a balance."

  "Tha's good to hear." Again Roan sighed then frowned at the portrait. "Lachlan was a mon like none ither. I wish you could have known him."

  "You were fond o' him, were you?"

  Startled, Roan stared at his guest. "Fond? Och! Believe me, it is mightier than tha'! Generations o' ma family despised him. I came to banish him." He released a low, tremulous laugh. "I remember the first day he poofed in front o' me. I could hardly believe the mon wasn't alive and breathin’—breathin’ fire, for he was in a foul mood tha' day. And Beth. Such a fine lady, and to die so young!" He exhaled a ragged breath and shook his head.

  "Damn me, Winston, wha's wrong wi' me? It's all passed, but I can't seem to let it go!"

  Reaching out, Winston took the whiskey bottle in hand. "Maybe you should lay off this stuff for a while."

  Roan shrugged his massive shoulders. "There wasn't much in it. In truth, ma friend, I'm as sober as a church mouse. Perhaps that's ma problem, aye?"

  With a shake of his head, Winston set the bottle down. "I watched you and Laura build the snowmon wi' the boys."

  A genuine smile flashed across Roan's rugged face. "Aye. They're great lads. They never cease to amaze me wi' their cunnin’ and energy."

  "I thought the peacock a fitting crown," Winston chuckled.

  "Ahhh." Roan grew solemn. "Braussaw. He was one o' Lannie's favorites. I accidentally ran the bloody thing over wi' ma van. Had him stuffed in hopes Lannie wouldn't notice him missin’."

  "Did he?"

  Roan nodded almost wistfully. "One thing abou' Lannie Baird, Winston, nothin’ ever got past him! He took it pretty good though, he did. Surprisingly good. But by then he considered me a friend. In spite o' everythin’, he found it wi’in himself to be ma friend. I guess tha' sums up the kind o' mon he was. Damn me, but I wish they were still here."