Kilting Me Softly

by Persephone Jones

  From birth, like most twins, they’d been inseparable. But at the first signs of puberty, things changed between them. Ciaran became antagonistic and withdrawn. When Conall excelled at something and Ciaran didn’t, Ciaran took it especially hard. Even worse, their father had made an obvious difference in them, favoring Conall over Ciaran for reasons Conall never understood. If Conall did well in school, Ciaran failed. When Conall made friends, Ciaran made enemies. Conall was everything Ciaran wasn’t. And at some point, Ciaran had accepted it, embraced it.

  Over the years, Ciaran became a shadow of his former self, Conall’s dark mirror. People began fearing him. It was as if he’d freed the wolf and caged the human. Conall encouraged his brother to travel in the hopes that it would calm some inner restlessness, but it hadn’t worked.

  “Ciaran. What the fuck, man?”

  Not surprisingly, his brother ignored him. “Though I must admit, you certainly did pick a looker this time.”

  “You saw her?”

  “Kinda hard not to.” The towering male snickered. “Red hair. Milk-white skin. Just the right amount of—”

  “When did you get back?” What he’d done with Morgan wasn’t something he was going to share. He hoped a change of subject would steer his twin in another direction.

  “Oh I’ve been back awhile. Keeping an eye on things.”

  It took Conall a few seconds to get his brother’s less-than-subtle innuendo but when it did, it caught like wildfire. “You watched us?”

  “Aye. There’s a shirt in the floor of your closet that speaks to that.”

  No. He did not need to hear the details of his brother’s vicarious masturbatory fantasy. “Jesus Christ. Untie me, will you?”

  “She tried to kill you, little brother.”

  He glanced down at his semi-hard cock and gritted his teeth, not in the mood to joke. Let alone about dimensions. “You’re a riot, you know that?”

  “That’s what all the ladies say.”

  “One of the ladies thinks you’re a murderer, you crazy fuck.” Conall struggled against his restraints. “She thought I was you.”

  Ciaran beamed, more wolfish than man. The first hint there was still something wrong with him. “I know. Lucky for you, she’s better at fuckin’ than killin’.” He sucked a breath through his teeth. “Much better.”

  Conall’s patience had worn out long ago and now he was getting nervous. “Let me up, god damn it.”

  He watched Ciaran walk the perimeter of the bed, taking a place at his bedside. In a toss-up between his brother freeing him and pushing the blade deeper, his money was on the latter. Ciaran had a twisted sense of humor, always had. Being pinned down like a bug underscored his heightened sense of concern for his own well-being.

  “What was said at the clan meeting? The one I wasn’t invited to?”

  Conall huffed. “We talked about you. What else? You have to turn yourself in, Ciaran.”

  Ciaran shook his head to the contrary. “I don’t think so. I don’t like enclosed spaces.”

  He was referring to the cage in the cliffs. The one the clan elders wanted to put him in if he didn’t surrender himself to authorities. They thought he was a menace and a danger. As much as it pained Conall to admit the ugly truth about his brother, they weren’t wrong. “They’ll kill you. You know that.”

  “Aye, perhaps.” Ciaran shrugged. “Present circumstances aside, you’re one lucky sonofabitch, baby brother.” In close proximity, Conall noticed a glimmer of clarity and pain. His voice took a softer edge, naked with sorrow.

  Think. Think, damn it. “I’ve got Guinness in the fridge. Let me up and we’ll get shit-faced. Like old times.”

  “Old times.” A flash of genuine anguish flittered across his brother’s face. Ciaran plucked the dagger’s bejeweled hilt with his index finger, sending a shock wave of pain radiating throughout Conall’s chest. “I do like it when they play rough.”

  A wail tore past Conall’s pinched lips as his body attempted to fold in on itself. The upside to that would have been he might be able to get free if he snapped the bed in half. “Don’t pull it out, for fuck’s sake. You’ll kill me.”

  Ciaran continued to smile, not the least bit concerned for Conall’s welfare. Sadly, this was the brother he’d come to know in recent years. “No. It’ll just hurt like hell.”

  “How would you know?” He almost regretted asking such a question but it was out before he could censor himself.

  “Let’s say I’ve tasted forbidden fruit and suffered the sting that accompanies it more than once.” He pulled his shirt up, revealing a scar where something sharp had penetrated his side. Now Conall would match him in scars too. “Like father, like son, eh?”

  Conall failed to see the humor in his brother’s joke. He was referring to the curse. Their father had paid for his infidelity and his sons had paid double.

  “I’m not gonna lie to you. This is gonna smart.”

  Sweet Jesus, he was going to pull the dagger out. “Ciaran—no!”

  Ciaran McCade put his booted foot on his brother’s side and used his body weight as leverage to pull the blade free. Blood gushed from the wound, staining the gray sheets deep crimson. The ceiling spun like a top and he was powerless to stop it, weakened instantly by the rapid blood loss.

  “Don’t worry, Connie. I only want to taste her.”

  “Ciar, no. Don’t you lay a hand on her. Ciar!” His mind reached for the last image it could hold, the view of Ciaran’s backside as he disappeared down the stairs, leaving him to bleed to death and Morgan in the path of a madman.

  Dazed, Morgan walked the road back to the inn. The night was bitter cold, the woolen bulk of her coat failing to keep the shivers at bay. Weeping, she took in the beautiful land that surrounded her in the hopes that its tranquil beauty might soothe her ragged nerves. Everything was either green or rocky. Handfuls of grass dotted the terrain here and there and the hills were mild and few. Notably absent were the sounds of city life. No traffic, noisy crowds or construction. Only pristine silence. The circumstances of her life had taken her all over the United Kingdom. Scotland, she admitted to herself, was her favorite.

  Nevertheless, she could hardly enjoy the view. Her shoes felt as though they’d been put on backward, so powerful was the urge to turn around and go back to the lonely house on the hill, to the man who lay dying by her hand. To the man who’d let down his guard and trusted her. A man whose taste still lingered on her lips.

  He had a brother, a twin of all things. What were the odds that twins would cross paths with another pair of twins in such circumstances?

  How could the visions be wrong? Maybe there had been no visions. Maybe she’d gone genuinely insane. But if that were true, how in the world would she have known who she was looking for? Where he’d gone?

  No. She wasn’t crazy. That was too many coincidences for one lifetime. If Conall and Ciaran McCade were twins, that meant she’d stumbled upon Conall and not Ciaran as she’d assumed. Accused the wrong brother of murder. Tried to kill an innocent man.

  Regardless, she was in over her head. In an instant, her world had been turned on its head and now she couldn’t think straight.

  Where was Ciaran McCade?

  After almost an hour of walking, the rooftop of the inn appeared in the near distance. Surveying the rural landscape, she decided to cut through a corner of the woods and shorten her route. But it was not without internal dissension. Her mother, if she were here, would disapprove with notable hysteria. It was understandable. Brenda Keevy already lost one of her babies and she didn’t want to lose the other.

  This time, she had a good excuse. The deer carcass in the road. She realized in hindsight the dead animal had been like an omen, foreshadowing the horror to come. With an arrow to her heart, she recalled how Conall had put his arm out to protect her from hitting the dash as he steered his truck around the carcass. This wasn’t something a savage killer would do. She could think of him as Conall now, because unless he’d s
tolen his brother’s ID, he was certainly not Ciaran. No one was that good of an actor.

  Lord, she was tired. From her scalp to her toes, her body throbbed. The distance she had traveled was so far. Now all she wanted was to get to her room, crawl into bed and wither away. But first a shower and a good cry.

  Then she would have to make a decision. The hardest decision of her life. Would she notify the authorities about Conall or not?

  Hushing her mother’s repeated admonitions reverberating in her head, she entered the small wooded area. Instantly, the night grew darker and the moon, her faithful escort in the sky, became masked from view. A rustle in the trees blew overheard and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end.

  She was not alone. Something else walked the woods with her. Morgan reached into her pocket to retrieve the dagger but found the space empty. That was because it was still buried in Conall McCade’s chest. If she had remembered to pull it out, she would have it now to defend herself. Not only that, but leaving the blade behind meant Conall could still be alive. Whether that was good or bad was a thought for another time.

  Indecision paralyzed her. She could go back but at great risk. She could run but it would be an exercise in futility. The police weren’t stupid and the evidence would eventually lead them to her. It wouldn’t take long for the authorities to identify her because she’d left fingerprints. Not to mention she’d used her sash to tie Conall to the bed. It had her epithelial cells on it. Bodily fluids, hair, fibers. She would never get away with murdering Conall McCade.

  The grass to her left swished and crunched with the weight of footsteps, nearly stopping her dead in her tracks. Then as if with renewed purpose they hurried ahead and she managed to relax a little. She figured it was an animal on the nocturnal prowl for food, dismissing her as harmless. A creeping dread drenched her in sweat.

  What if she were the food?

  The footsteps were directly ahead of her now. Whatever it was, it was flanking her. She stopped and searched the forest ceiling in search of the moon, convinced that light no matter how little, would make her safe.

  “Hey there, little red riding hood…”

  Morgan’s heart skipped a beat. Animals didn’t speak. She laid eyes on what had to be a hallucination. Standing in her path was a man who looked exactly like the one she’d left tied to his bed and with a six-inch dagger buried in his chest.

  “Ohmygod.”

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” The man chuckled and took a step toward her. “Except you’re the ghost.”

  “Oh no.” She didn’t expect him to speak. Her nightmare visions of the confrontation she might have with Megan’s killer had never allowed for this. Especially since she believed she’d already confronted him.

  “My little ghost returned from the grave.” He chuckled once more.

  Dear Lord, he thought she was Megan.

  Megan…dead and buried. Megan…robbed of life and love. Megan…no more.

  The lion’s share of Morgan’s fear transformed into pure rage. It was bad enough he’d slain her sister. He wasn’t getting her, too.

  “You.” She shot a glowering stare at his gigantic form. “You murdered my sister! But not before you tricked her, beat her, raped her and tore her to shreds.”

  “Sister?”

  “Megan!” She declared. “Megan Keevy!”

  Like a confused dog, he tilted his head this way and that. Did he even remember her? His green eyes, eerie and inhuman, searched over her trembling figure hungrily. “I did no such thing.”

  Morgan searched her empty pocket for the absentee dagger and cringed. She knew it wasn’t there but the need for self-preservation had her searching for it in vain. “I know who you are and I know what you did.”

  “You’re looking for my brother—my name is Conall.” The thing with the unkempt face and hands grinned unconvincingly.

  Even in the midst of imminent bodily harm, she found room to be insulted by his counterfeit civility. It was nothing but a cheap ploy, a con like a serial killer might use to gain access to his victim. And probably just like the one he’d used to lure Megan to her death. Not to mention the same one he’d used to single-handedly transform her from a grieving family member into a cold-blooded murderer. The bastard didn’t belong in jail. He belonged dead.

  “Liar.” Her heart crumbled at the thought of her fatal mistake. “You’re Ciaran McCade and you’re a fucking monster.”

  “In the flesh.” He grinned, his mouth a frozen rictus of insanity.

  His voice was like a bug in her head, burrowing into her brain. She wanted to rip her ears off and stomp on them just to be rid of it.

  “Stay away from me—”

  The bestial creature crept toward her without regard. “You left something behind.”

  She’d like to leave something behind all right. His body in a thousand pieces. And this damned cursed place that brought her nothing but heartache.

  “A dagger with blood all over it.”

  No way he could have known anything about that. Dear Lord, had he been there? “I don’t know what you’re talking about but you better stay back.”

  Conall McCade’s double circled her like a predator coming in for the kill. “Come come now. Or is that the point? You denied the poor bastard. And the knife? So ceremonial. So ritualistic. So rough.”

  “So help me God.”

  With another step, he was closing in on her. “It’s okay. Nobody gets it right the first time.”

  “I said keep away!” Morgan stomped backward, maintaining the space between them as the clouds parted for the moon.

  “Awww,” his voice purred to her in an all-too-familiar Scottish tongue. “Come on. Let me have a look at you.” He made a reach for her, his eyes a dirty yellow that made her weak.

  Was he human at all? Her head shook at the realization of what was unfolding in front of her. The creature was changing. Into what, she didn’t want to know. Humans couldn’t physically transform. The human body couldn’t stretch or move like that. Not without severe injury anyway.

  The man smiled in a mockery of what remained of its humanity. A strange random pop and crackle emanated from his joints and he visibly shuddered. Then the male spoke again in a voice that shook with altered pitch. “How good will you taste, I wonder?”

  Morgan whimpered.

  He appeared to sniff the air around them in wistful contemplation. “Linen, gardenia…and a hint of—”

  Morgan read the discovery in his glowing eyes. He could smell her. All of her.

  “Sex.”

  She bit back a sob.

  “I’ll make it fair.” The creature turned his broad back to her and exposed the ripped seams of his shirt. “I’ll give you a head start.”

  Morgan turned in a full sprint and abruptly met the earth, her foot shin-deep in a hole. A large, bristled hand grabbed her and flipped her with one twist like she was a piece of meat on a spatula. When she looked back, he wiggled his clawed fingers at her in a maniacal wave. Struggling against his familiar shape, she had time to agonize over her fate. She would die here alone on the moors of Scotland, mutilated beyond recognition. Animals would cart off parts of her in their ravenous mouths to points unknown and there would be nothing left of her to bury. Not altogether unlike Megan. Even in death, they would be united by their fates.

  The wolfen male moved with powerful ease behind her. Razor-sharp nails sliced long parallel slits down the back of her coat as she struggled against him. He had the advantage and there was little she could do to her assailant.

  Still, she fought. By the grace of God one of her kicks landed a blow. She didn’t hesitate to deliver another but one lucky thrust proved enough. On her belly, she traversed the dark textured floor of the forest.

  But the monster was quick. He grabbed her by the ankle, immobilizing her long enough that he could mount her flailing body from behind.

  “I’m going to enjoy doing to you what you did to my brother.” The monster growled
with sadistic glee and let out a howl that threatened to steal the wind right out of her. That sound, that horrid, soul-stealing sound…

  Twigs snapped and leaves rustled all around them. She no longer felt the oppressive weight of the creature’s body on top of her. Getting to her feet, she spun around and prepared for a second offensive.

  “Get away!” Morgan shrieked, but again something caught her, this time by the arms. It pushed her aside with such force that she lost her balance and fell to the ground again. Her fingernails dug into the cold earth when a growl from above rendered her immovable. Quaking with fear, an inner voice compelled her to get up. Rising to her knees, she spun like a top in the thick black night, desperate to orient herself.

  Unexpectedly, the salivating, golden-eyed creature’s double entered the small clearing with a leap that defied human possibility. Men did not move in such ways. Yet there it was. There was one explanation but she refused it at once.

  “Ahhh!” Morgan let out a cry and scurried like a crab to the base of a rock.

  Had grief driven her mad? Was she seeing double? There, before her eyes were not one but two Ciaran McCades. She hadn’t suffered a head injury and she defied the possibility that she was insane. That left one logical conclusion. Morgan saw two of them, because there were two of them.

  “Run, Morgan!” someone somewhere shouted.

  Without understanding how, she was on her feet and running. A burst of adrenaline coursed through her and her blood raced to her extremities as she made record distance between herself and the melee. She looked back for a split second and nearly stumbled into another hole. But she had to look again.

  Large, hairy and staggering on two feet, they grappled like bears. These weren’t like any bears she’d ever seen. Extended snouts ornamented with elongated fangs stretched wide in open-mouthed snarls and growls. Claws scraped and swiped at each other from hands that did not belong to men. Even when she realized what they were, her mind would not accept it.