by Olivia Norem
“Of course I’m ready.”
“When you’re done, take the limo straight to the airport. You’re taking the red-eye to Heathrow and connecting to Edinburgh. From there you’ll drive to Fasque Castle. On Monday, you courier the package to a hotel in Zurich. You fly on Tuesday and deliver the package to a safety deposit box. Simple.”
“Sure, Murray, easy peasy. And I won’t be home next week.”
“Why not?” He raised a critical brow.
“Since I’m already in Europe, I think I’ll take a little vacay. A little ‘me’ time. I deserve it don’t you think?” she prodded.
“I suppose, Katherine,” Murray sighed, and coughed again into a napkin. “But I expect you back stateside before the end of the month. And don’t even consider beginning your little vacation until you’re finished in Zurich.”
“Fuck off, Murray. Since when have I ever put anything before work?”
Murray drained his dainty espresso with a deep frown and stood to leave. “I raised you better than this Katherine Moira Goldman. Language.”
Kat watched his retreating back wind through the tables as she toyed with the brochure. Dropping the ‘f-bomb’ in Murray’s presence was a guaranteed way to secure an abrupt departure. Not only did he skip the obligatory kiss to her cheek, the prick hadn’t been bothered to cover the tip.
Yet Murray’s predictable behavior wasn’t the source of her discontent; it was the timing of his message. International locations were not wholly unusual for Goldman & Associates, but she was lifting bearer bonds from a trust fund baby tomorrow night. The job had taken two months to plan. Had he forgotten that?
He just blindsided her with this announcement and she had little to no time to prepare. Two jobs back to back? And why had he looked so worried?
Murray was a planner, and he’d never engaged in any operation that resembled a smash and grab. Kat tossed a five on the table and tucked the brochure in her purse. Either Murray had grossly underestimated the risk, or this Scotland job really was a cake walk.
###
Simeon paced in agitation.
For hour upon endless hour he’d been shrouded in darkness, making the confines of his cell perversely unbearable. His warrior’s sense prickled the hackles of his neck ever since his view of the marble table top and the empty room had been obscured. The endless steps, back and forth, back and forth, worrying a sure spot upon the stones, did nothing to expel his nervous energy.
Something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
He’d been mysteriously placed—face down no less—in a box. Before the darkness had closed around him, he’d caught a glimpse of a sea of white, pillowy objects, and heard the squeaking and crunching sounds as the mirror that imprisoned him these past centuries was placed upon it. It was unlike any straw he’d ever seen.
Then complete darkness.
He heard the twin sounds of metal clips snapping shut. After that, the distant pounding of hammers on wood made Simeon assume his perpetual prison had just been crated.
Twofold.
A pittance of time passed compared to what he had previously experienced. With a squeak of nails and snapping of clips, light broke across the translucent barrier of Isobel’s cursed hand mirror. Finally, he would see proof the world still existed since more sunrises than he could remember.
He’d seen the odd faces of bustling men, wearing odder-looking caps, against interior walls that could only be made from his familiar Highland stone. Boxes and crates were stacked around the room and Simeon assumed he was in some sort of a tower. A castle tower.
He pressed his ear against the cool glass and strained to hear their far-off speech. Men’s voices held the familiar lilt of brogue, but the words they used were different from his own. By chance one of them passed in front of his field of vision; Simeon was aghast. They seemed kindred, but their manner of dress was confusing. Not a single man among them wore a linen shirt or was draped in plaid. Bereft of any markings of any clan, they wore breeches and long overcoats in a dark blue hue.
Was he still in Scotia?
Simeon pounded the glass shouting for answers, as one of these curious men lifted the mirror and inspected it closely; yet he knew the man gazed solely upon his own reflection. And heard nothing. Simeon caught a glimpse of a glove covering the man’s fingertips, but it was thin and white, not at all like the hide gloves he was used to wearing.
The man was as strangely dressed as the others, in a dark blue shirt with buttons of unknown origin that glinted in the light. He wore no waistcoat, nor was his shirt decorated with any adornment except a white patch of fabric upon his breast.
The patch had peculiar red letters and spelled: S-A-M-O-H-T.
Simeon squinted and mouthed the unfamiliar markings, but quickly determined he was seeing the reflection.
Thomas, he repeated aloud. While he was unacquainted with the Thomas clan, the knowledge almost made him giddy. “Thomas!” he bellowed.
But the man had not heard him. No one ever heard him except Isobel, and he hadn’t seen her in at least a century, by his guess. The view of the room was quickly obscured as the man set the mirror face-down on a black velvet cloth.
That had been two days ago.
Absolute darkness engulfed him, and he listened from the wistful silence of his isolation. He longed to be lifted from the darkened cloth. He wished to see the man in the Thomas garb, if for nothing more than to validate other men still existed. He longed to view the simple stone walls, count the crates to relieve this boredom, and enjoy respite from this infernal shroud. He heard only the thuds of shuffling feet, muffled lilts of brogue too vague to be distinct, and the incessant pounding of hammers.
Then there was nothing. The noise ceased, and Simeon was left in abject solitude once more.
Darkness.
Nothing stirred except the sound of his own breath. He’d paced and ran and kicked and punched, trying to exhaust himself, to banish the cold, brittle doom of worry that tingled his spine and stabbed his gut. This silence, this unknown, was worse than the flooding fear suffered by all men who had stood doomed and outnumbered on a battlefield. At least they saw the face of their enemy.
Simeon pressed his back to the wall and slid down until he was fully lowered upon the floor. He rested his forearm on a bent knee and rubbed his forehead on his bicep. With measured breaths, he clung to the one thing that had kept him from stepping over the precipice and falling headfirst into the abyss of insanity that was this interminable prison.
Hope.
Chapter 3
Weddings sucked.
Kat mentally slapped her forehead and cursed.
Perhaps she could blame it on a bit of jet lag, but so far she’d made two classic mistakes. First, she was posing as a married woman using the flimsiest of acceptable excuses as to why she had arrived without her husband. And second, she attended the wedding as a blonde. The novelty of a singular, golden-haired American wasn’t lost on the braw lads attending the festivities.
Music and laughter swirled between the romance perfuming the air, thicker than the roses and spicy lilies that dripped everywhere in the bride’s signature shade of bubblegum pink. Between watching the dewy-eyed bride with her attentive groom, both glowing with happiness, and the heartfelt sentiments pouring from the guests, Kat was almost caught up in the allure of the perfect event. She even teared up as the couple pledged their vows of eternal love against the sweeping vistas of Fasque Castle while bagpipes played their haunting melodies in the distance.
Disgusting.
Unfortunately, in this love-charged atmosphere she had attracted the attention of one rather zealous admirer…
Brice was handsome and polite. The man zeroed in on Kat (or Heather — the name she’d assumed for the event) as his target for a romantic weekend, and simply wouldn’t be dissuaded from his single-minded pursuit. It was Kat’s first up-close and personal taste with the notorious trait of Scottish stubbornness.
If she hadn�
�t been on an ulterior pursuit, she probably would have dallied in a weekend of hedonistic pleasure. After all, she wasn’t attached to anyone, a girl did have needs… and those needs were crying to be fed at a rampant pace.
Being one of the world’s most successful thieves wasn’t exactly conducive to relationships. And intimacy, beyond quick, sexual relief, was strictly discouraged. Lord knows what details might be whispered to a lover. What might a boyfriend learn during a hand-held walk in the moonlight, or what suspicions raised because of her prolonged disappearances?
The Goldman rules, specifically number four, never share details about yourself, had been drilled into her since childhood.
Kat had lovers here and there, but she never allowed anyone to know her. The real her. She’d never experienced the kind of love she was witnessing tonight at Fasque Castle.
A sharp tang of regret stabbed her chest. She had a front row seat at true love’s stage, and all she saw was a reflection of her loneliness. There was no denying it.
Weddings sucked.
Kat needed to focus. Love and romance be damned, she had a job to do. Besides, she had Brice, who was stuck to her side with all the wanted pleasure of gum on a shoe.
Burying the remorse, Kat smiled inwardly and drew upon one of the tenets Murray drilled into them as children: ‘When harvesting the cabbage, if find yourself with unwanted company… Make him your mark.’
###
Simeon waited, tense and vigilant with his face and fingers pressed against the glass window of his prison. There was an inexplicable draw of celebration in the air, he was certain. As certain as he heard the faint chords of pipes...
At last, his indistinct imaginings were realized. Muffled footsteps approached, followed by a heavier set. Simeon craned his neck and held his breath. There it was again. He straightened as he caught the unmistakable resonance of a female voice, followed by her dainty laugh. Then the muted baritone of a male reply.
Simeon punched his fist on the glass with a curse of frustration. He startled upright as the feminine tones pierced the darkness.
“Did you hear that?”
A quiet pause and Simeon listened too. The stillness stretched like a warm ache and he felt his chest constrict in false hope.
Silence.
He kicked the translucent door in annoyance, knowing for the ten-thousandth time the glass would hold. But it felt good to release some anger.
It felt good to feel.
“That? Did you hear that?” the female repeated.
Simeon’s breath caught in his throat. His body tensed. She’d heard him. Saints be praised, the lass heard him. Could it truly be after these quiet centuries someone had actually heard him? The joy rendered him almost light-headed, until he realized the voice belonged to no Scottish lass.
What disguise had Isobel assumed now?
“’Tis no’ but the sound of my heart, lass.” The male voice replied low and husky.
Another feminine chuckle.
Simeon rolled his eyes.
Doubly cursed to solitude and when he finally heard another human, what greeted him? A rutting fool!
Who had Isobel coerced to this chamber?
“Eno’ o’ yer tiresome games, ye bloody witch! Speak the words!” Simeon bellowed and punctuated his angry speech with another hard knock to the mirror.
As Simeon’s fist connected with the glass, Brice unknowingly dropped a crate lid with a bang. The sound muffled the punch Kat had heard before.
Kat froze.
Goose bumps spread along her bare arms. It was bad enough this horny Scot had followed her into the tower, but now he was swearing at her? She was so going to enjoy setting him up to take the blame for the disappearance of these artifacts.
“Did you just call me a bitch?” Kat stiffened.
Her “date” had been arranging some tarps and sheeting into a makeshift bed among the crates. Brice spun around and peered at her sardonically.
“Nae, lass. I would ne’er call you such thing.” Brice inched forward. Kat backed up a few steps until her bottom came in contact with a table, preventing any further retreat.
“Stay right there,” she breathed huskily. She turned her back to Brice and made a slow show of unzipping her dress.
“Where the hell else would I be gaun?” Simeon ground out impatiently. He leaned his forehead against the glass.
Kat darted a sharp look at Brice. “You’re pretty weak at this seduction thing, aren’t you?” she accused and rotated away, turning her attention to her shoes.
Simeon jolted upright at the affront. Weak? After all this time, locked away under her cursed spell, the bitch dared call him weak.
Brice frowned in confusion and jammed his hands in his pockets. “Och! I dinnae like these games ye Americans play,” he muttered, and spun on his heels.
Brice suddenly felt the need for another drink. His brother was right. American women could be downright rude.
“‘Twas no’ weakness that had ye whimperin’ in me bed so hot with lust, it turned ye into a crazed, possessive shrew!” Simeon bellowed.
“Whoa, buddy. I think you’re mixing me up with someone else. Hot with lust? Oh please,” Kat retorted to Brice’s retreating back.
Damn! She did not need him to leave right now.
“Are ye drunk woman?” Brice frowned over his shoulder.
Simeon frowned.
Isobel didn’t get drunk.
What the hell was happening? Unless the voice who could hear him was not Isobel, but someone else...
Kat hurried across the stone floor in little skipping motions impeded by her tight dress.
“Brice, wait.”
“Who the bloody hell is Brice?” Simeon roared as he kicked the mirror again.
Kat halted. She glanced left. Then right. Then she spun full circle. Someone was here, and it sure wasn’t Brice. A cold tremor of dread shivered down her spine, and Kat did not shiver.
What the hell was going on?
“All right, you sick bastard. Why don’t you just come out and play, huh?” Kat’s eyes darted around the dim tower room, as she deftly unzipped the lower portion of her dress. She slipped out of her shoes, fists raised in a defensive stance.
She was ready for this intruder.
“Come oot?” Simeon shouted, incredulous. His voice curled low and menacing. “I’ll twist yer wee neck ‘til ye cannae breathe for yer mockery.”
“Oh, so you want to strangle me, huh?” Kat taunted. Her senses tripped to full alert in anticipation of a blindsided attack.
She took slow, deliberate steps to secure a vantage point. Kat felt the cool press of ancient stone against her back. Her breath hitched as an angry tone permeated the quiet of the tower once more.
“Isobel! Speak the words and face me true, ye bloody coward,” Simeon growled low and dangerous.
The voice sounded irregular, diminutive even, like it was… covered. Or trapped.
Maybe the acoustics of the room were playing tricks on her? And who was Isobel?
Kat inched along the wall, poised for combat. She edged toward the table and glanced at the object on the black velvet. It looked like a hand mirror, but the silver work was so unusual she allowed herself a momentary distraction.
The mirror was about eight inches long with an oval top that curved downward into a twisted, spiral handle. A barely-pink stone was set into the base of the handle. Between the silver talons that held it in place, the stone glimmered, cut in such a manner, it almost looked… prismatic.
Sparkling blue sapphires, pink prism stones, and rough-cut diamonds were scattered amid the markings. The engravings were intricate scrolls and patterns that appeared to be some sort of ancient language.
Kat was well versed in Hieroglyphics, Sanskrit, and had a rudimentary knowledge of Celtic rune markings; but this mirror was unlike anything she’d ever seen.
Ian would love this mirror.
She scanned a cautionary eye on the stacked crates and the objects piled on t
he tables. Everything was catalogued and ready to be carried into the exhibit on Monday.
Whoever had been watching her, had now gone silent.
The inlaid stones winked at her in the dim light. At least eleventh century she guessed, perhaps even earlier. If it was a mirror on the other side, the thing could come in handy to move stealthily among the stacks of crates in a low crouch. She could peek around corners and catch her would-be assailant unaware.
Kat closed her fingers around the handle. A raw surge of pure electricity shot up her arm. Faint blue light began to glow along the markings, illuminating the darkness of the room. Kat released it abruptly and the light faded.
What the heck just happened?
With a wary glance to the shadows, Kat touched her finger to the mirror. The light intensified, powering up to vivid blue.
What was this thing?
Kat picked up the mirror again. Tingling charges shot up her arm and she couldn’t stifle a groan of pain. Keeping one eye on the room and one eye on the glass what she saw next in the crackled silver was not her reflection.
It was a man.
A man with wild dark hair around his face and the hint of tartan slung over one shoulder. Why on earth would someone put a portrait behind a glass and put it in a mirror? In all her familiarity with antiques, Kat had never seen such an oddity. Not only was the mirror baffling, but why would someone paint a portrait of such an angry face?
“Ye’re no’ Isobel!” His eyes widened in pure astonishment.
“What the fuck?” Kat sprung back in shock. She dropped the mirror on the velvet as if she’d been burned.
That was not possible! This was not happening. Did she just see a living man behind the silvered glass? Who spoke? Who had… expressions? Was this real or was this jet lag? Severe jet lag.
Was this stress? Is this what happened when your mind finally cracked? You started imagining things were real? Animated? She’d read somewhere once about delusional people who saw people on television coming out of the screen and believing they were real.
Kat struggled for air, almost wishing she could shed the constricting dress and adopt a yoga pose.