The Reckoning, page 22
part #50 of The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Series
Wickham muttered all the way to his truck. “Ivy’s going to kill me.”
Chapter Forty
Inside the cab of the truck, there was barely enough room for a small lass between Wickham and Fisher, but Simon wedged himself in and pretended not to mind that his spectral shoulders were constantly invaded from both sides. He appeared to hold his breath when they neared the alleged border of the battlefield, then relaxed when they were well and truly away from the moor.
They weren’t much of a rescue team. One mortal armed with magic and a strong right hook, one with a dagger and a questionable sword arm, and a formidable Highlander as substantial as a heavy mist--unless there was a sturdy bench near at hand. Since that only helped if he was also outraged, they were in luck. Wherever Walter was holding Soni, it was sure to piss off Simon McLaren.
“Where do we go?” Fisher asked.
“To the Muir chieftain. If it is possible to divine her location, he is the one who can do it. He was not at home yesterday. I hope our luck is better today.”
Fisher frowned. “And if he cannae?”
Wickham shrugged, then glanced at Simon. “I must say I believe she is alive. We are close, linked. Our minds. Our fates. Perhaps it is only a paternal protectiveness. But I believe I would know if she’d…been killed. I also believe in the bond between the pair of ye. If she’d died, would she not have come to ye, if possible? When she has even the slightest control over death, wouldn’t she do the same thing she would do in life?”
“Aye,” Simon grumbled. “If she’d have passed, she would have come to me straight away.”
Wickham nodded, satisfied. “Then she is alive. And unless she forces Walter’s hand in some manner, she’ll remain that way.”
Fisher spoke again. “Do ye have a plan for when we find them?”
Wickham explained about the tactics Walter and his witch hunters had used to capture him. Then he warned to be on the lookout for small black flint stones as well, that they have the power to paralyze a witch. “My brother is nearly eighty years old. Do not expect him to look like me, but I warn ye not to underestimate him. He was clever enough to steal our Soni.”
“Ye once believed him dead, though?”
“Aye. But I should have known better. As his twin, I should have felt something.” He realized Fisher was waiting for more, so he explained. “With Muir twins, who are nearly always witches, there is a close mental bond. When one suffers, the other may suffer the same. Many die within a short time of each other, if they’ve never married and created other bonds to sustain them. I thought my brother and I had separated long ago. Maybe we’re not as disconnected as I once believed.”
Simon couldn’t have said how much time passed before they arrived at Muirsglen, on the Black Isle, a place known for fairy inhabitants long before Scotland was Scotland. He wondered if those fairies had eventually grown to human size and passed themselves off as Muir witches.
Wickham insisted he and Fisher remain in the truck while he went to knock on the chieftain’s door. He disappeared inside and was gone long enough to make Simon worry. But perhaps it was simply a symptom of being a poltergeist, when the subject of his haunting wasn’t near.
If someone had explained the nuances of haunting to him, he’d have shrugged off the moor and attached himself to Soncerae years ago. And if he had, she wouldn’t now be missing.
“Perhaps he is learning where the lass is,” Fisher suggested.
Simon was happy to share that hope…until the dangerous man emerged with anger twisting his face. His steps were unhurried, as if he dreaded the news he must share. Simon waited almost patiently—a sure point in his favor come judgment time—for the man to be forthcoming.
Fisher proved braver. “Were ye able to speak to the man?”
Wickham shook his head and gripped the steering wheel. “I was not. The old man has gone missing as well."
There were some things Wickham wouldn’t bother explaining to the Highlanders, nor to Pat and DeAnne. Some details about Clan Muir made little sense to anyone but Muir folk. For instance, as chieftain of the witches, The Grandfather could separate any witch from his or her power…and bestow it on another.
If Walter got the old man to transfer Soni’s dexterous-but-burgeoning power to him, he’d have no more use for her. The true danger would start then. Wickham just had to find her before the chieftain could be persuaded. Thankfully, his personal encounters with the ancient, obstinate one gave him hope.
Thirty-three days left…
Soni was naturally curious about the ornate wooden box Walter brought to the table, but she refused to ask about it. Though he smiled through their fancy breakfast, she could tell it was driving him crazy. When she finally set her napkin aside, he nudged the box forward.
“I have something special for you today, for dessert.”
“I have eaten enough, thank you.”
His smile dropped, then recovered. “This is not food.” He pointed with his chin. “Go on. Open it.”
She sighed and kept her hands in her lap, just to mess with him.
“Very well,” he said, and reached for it. “I only thought you might be bored—”
Her hand got to the box first. Walter removed her plate to give her more space while she dragged it closer. The lid opened, like the hard cover of a book, and lying inside was a smaller book of well-worn leather. The word “diary” was embossed across the front in a swirling font. She knew what he was going to say, and prepared to argue. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t interested.
“I suppose this is supposed to be Ivy’s diary?”
“As a matter of fact, it is.”
She shook her head. “I’ve seen Ivy’s diary.” But she wasn’t going to tell him where. No need to put others in danger, just in case Walter wanted the real one. “I’ve read Ivy’s diary. And yer sisters confirmed everything written in it.”
“Wickham was always their favorite,” he said. “It blinded them to what really went on between us. But it is simple, really. Wickham had this diary at his disposal. He had a second one forged, switching our names around in most places.” Walter got quickly to his feet like he was too excited to sit. Then he stepped to the gate, anxious to leave. “I only ask that you read it with an open mind. Remember how powerful he is. I really had no chance, once he set his sights on my Ivy.”
A look of pain crossed his face, but he shook his head and it disappeared. Then he ducked through the gate and left her alone.
His Ivy?
Soni couldn’t stop her eyes from rolling, no matter who might be watching. But she took the book and moved to the bed so the team could sweep in and clear away the table. She was promised a shower, but that wouldn’t be until later. Just before bed.
Though there seemed no hope of escape, she appreciated the routine they’d settled into. At least she wasn’t left alone all day to slowly go mad, imagining what Hell her parents were going through. She had to put them out of her mind completely, or she’d be a weeping, miserable mess. And now she had a book to read, even though it would be complete fiction.
Later, just like the first time she’d been led to the bathing room, the female that delivered her meals would be brought before her. Walter would make Soni promise she wouldn’t cause any trouble or the lass’ tongue would be cut out. And what use was a chef without a tongue?
The first time, the young woman had been caught off guard, laughing, then shaking with fear when she realized Walter was serious. She hadn’t smiled since.
Soni had pointed out the error in his reasoning, that his threats made it less likely he was the more innocent of the two brothers. But Walter dismissed her argument and said it only proved how badly he wanted her power, how much he loved Ivy and needed to win her back.
Naturally, she didn’t believe him. He’d had a lifetime to win Ivy over after Wickham was out of the picture, locked inside the walls of the tunnel. Now that Wickham was back, Walter didn’t stand a chance, even if he had the power of a Third at his fingertips— or even in his fingertips.
No. He was just desperate, with no good reason for wanting her powers. He was grasping and greedy, just as Wickham had always described him. But she would never give in. Even though she wouldn’t need her powers after her birthday, handing them over to a monster would make her an accomplice to every evil deed that followed.
The leather diary was suddenly as inviting as a snake, and she chucked it across the cell. She wasn’t going to play his little games, wasn’t going to risk being persuaded, no matter how ludicrous she considered his lies.
She had to find a way out, or her remaining thirty-three days would be wasted…along with the thirty-one marks left on her arms.
Wickham! Wickham, can ye hear me? Find me, uncle! Find me before it’s too late!
Chapter Forty-One
18 days remaining…
Wickham was losing his mind, and Ivy couldn’t stop it.
The day Walter Muir had shown up on her porch, she knew her carefully crafted life with Wickham was just an illusion. She wasn’t exactly sure what her drastically-aged brother-in-law planned, but with the past rising from the dead like some zombie king, come to knock on her door, it was only a matter of time before she gave her secret away.
Sadly, she didn’t last twelve hours, but she blamed it on the baby, Gavin.
If she hadn’t been holding a baby on her hip when Wickham appeared out of thin air, she could have screamed or fainted or something. But staying calm was essential if she hoped to get Gavin back to sleep, which overrode any other instinct at two in the morning.
Though it was a true emergency, she was relieved when Wickham had to hurry off before they could talk. It gave her time to decide just how she’d phrase her confession. But she never got the chance when he came home the next time because he didn’t come alone. He brought a mysterious Highlander named Fisher, and a ghost, supposedly.
She never really saw Simon, but she felt like ignoring him would be rude. Wickham finally had to stop her fussing when she set too many places at the table. The upside was that their heart-to-heart was postponed indefinitely. For nearly three weeks, the men came home to eat, sleep, then take Simon and go.
Finally, she decided her confession was the only way to get his attention. “Wickham,” she began, after clearing the dinner dishes. “we need to talk.”
When he smiled, he looked even more tired than she imagined. “Certainly. Shall we go upstairs?”
She left Gavin and the boys in Fisher’s care. The Highlander was obviously nervous, but she wasn’t worried. Alexander would either advise him or holler for help. If she were honest, it was Fisher who was in the most danger.
Once she closed the bedroom door and turned to face Wickham, she almost reconsidered. He sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for her to explain. The way he stroked the bedspread, however, made it clear he was dying to lie back on it and go to sleep. But she needed sleep too. And she wasn’t going to get any until she’d unburdened herself.
“Honey?”
“Aye?”
“You’ve asked everyone in Scotland about Walter.”
“Aye.”
“But you haven’t asked me.”
A shadow fell over his features like a cloud had blotted out the sun. She dreaded what he was thinking, but she had to know. The fact that she kept her back pressed against the door didn’t make her a coward, though. It wasn’t like she was running away, just standing her ground.
“Ye remember, then?”
She grimaced. “I do.”
“And before this month, when was the last time ye saw my brother?”
“I think he followed me to Wyoming. Someone sent me gifts sometimes, for the baby. I thought it might be him.”
He cleared his throat, tried to speak, then had to clear it again. “Do ye suppose he might have taken Soni to the States?”
“I don’t think so. He wasn’t there long. At least I don’t think he was. I’d send things back. After a while, they stopped coming.” She was tired of him ignoring her confession. “Your sisters think—”
“Oh? Ye talk to them much, do ye?”
“We get together for tea now and then.”
“Tea!” He jumped to his feet and started pacing along one side of the bed. “Go on, then.”
She knew he didn’t want her spending much time with the twins, but that was a discussion for another day. She had to get it all out and be done. “When I was pregnant with Katharine, who was half Muir, they think enough Muir blood mingled with mine that…some of your magic didn’t work on me. When you thought you were erasing my memory, you weren’t.”
He shook his head so hard his hair fell out of his ponytail. “That makes no sense. Ye were in my arms. I watched the years fade from yer face. I felt yer memories pass into my hands.”
“I can’t explain it. I was lucky it worked with my age. But maybe…maybe I was holding on too tight to my memories. I’m sorry. I should have told you a long time ago.”
He stopped pacing and only blinked. After a minute, he fell back to sit on the bed again. The look on his face was pure betrayal. “Ye never let on. All this time…” He ran his hands through his hair, tied it behind his head, then sighed loudly. “Do ye ken how badly I wanted to ask ye about Katharine? How many times I almost mentioned her when our lads were born?”
Ivy smiled, remembering all the instances when he’d slipped and referred to things in her forgotten life and didn’t know it. When she pointed out a few, he didn’t think it was amusing at all.
“Ye should have told me,” he whispered.
She went to him then, knelt down in front of him, and put her hands to the sides of his face so he couldn’t look away. “How could I tell you then? You were so happy, so sure that your plan worked.” She swallowed back her tears. “So I was afraid. Just like I am now.”
“Of what?”
“That, if you knew the original Ivy MacKay is still in here, you wouldn’t look at me the same. You’d only see the old, bitter woman who turned out to be a terrible mother. You’d see the monster. And I’m afraid it’s too late, that you see me that way now--”
She was instantly forgiven, even before his lips crushed into hers. When he finally pulled back to catch his breath, she saw it in his eyes--that happiness, that relief she recognized from before, when he’d brought her back from the brink of death, to take full advantage of a miraculous second chance.
And just like that, her world was right again. No secrets left between them. Nothing to fear.
Just in case Walter was able to hide things from him specifically, Wickham called out a dozen pairs of Muir witches to revisit all the locations he’d already searched. He had private detectives hunting down any possible clues to where his brother might have spent those sixty years while Wickham had been a captive in the tunnel. He also wanted to know where his brother had been hiding since he’d faked his own death.
All searches failed. All but one. A friend of his sisters and a former MI6 agent, James Fergusson found some records filed by a law firm in Edinburgh…
16 Days remaining…
Fisher and Simon joined Wickham on the P&O ferry for a two-hour trip across the Irish Sea, from Cairnryan to Larne. It was just over a hundred pounds for a round trip ticket for two. Simon sailed for free.
From Larne, they took a rental car to Whitehead, a coastal town with brightly colored houses lining the waterfront. The GPS took them away from the water, to a large manor house on a hill that had been converted into apartments. After asking for directions from a woman walking a dog, they moved around to the back of the building and Wickham knocked on a small door painted a bright blue.
The woman who opened the door didn’t seem nearly as cheerful as the sky-colored paint. She might have been forty. Not the age he’d been hoping for.
“Pamela?”
She shook her head and stepped back, to close the door in his face. He pushed the toe of his boot forward, to prevent it.
“Please. I beg ye. Just a word. A wee lassie’s life is in jeopardy.”
The woman yanked the door open and stepped close, nearly bowling him over. “What lassie?”
“My niece. She’s been taken.” He tried to look past her into the dark apartment while she studied his face. “I must find Pamela. An older woman—”
She grabbed him by the front of the shirt, looked past his shoulder at Fisher, then past Fisher to where Simon stood. But she couldn’t possibly see him. “Come in, and quickly.” She dragged him forward, then released him after he was over the threshold. A jolt of electricity fizzed up his legs and into his spine, despite the souls of his boots. She was obviously a witch, and she’d broken her own ward pulling him inside. He mightn’t have been able to enter otherwise, so he thanked her.
His eyes adjusted and he realized that, without her heavy coat and cowl, she was an attractive woman with smooth round cheeks that looked far too familiar to be coincidence. The hair, the dark eyes. He was being given a peek at what Soncerae would look like at forty, if she could have lived so long.
“Make yerselves to home. I trust the blond came with ye.” Then she winked at Simon and disappeared down a hallway.
Still dazed, Wickham pulled a kitchen chair out from the table and sat. Fisher remained standing, wary.
“Relax, man. She’s a witch. A Muir witch. On our team, I’m sure of it.”
Fisher nodded, but remained standing. Simon lifted his backside slightly, sat on a cleared section of counter, then looked around the room with approval. The place was clean. The high ceiling made it spacious enough for a man of his size. With the furniture covered in charming touches of various tartans, it was a Jacobite’s delight.
A slightly healthier version of the first woman hurried into the kitchen. “I’ll be putting on the kettle, then.” She, too, was able to see Simon, but didn’t seem to mind that he was sitting in the center of her counter. Whether or not she knew him for a ghost, she stepped around him as she put a tea tray together and begged pardon now and again for manners’ sake.
