Haunted Warrior (12 page)

“Wait…” Kendra pulled back, stopping just before he could open the inn door for her. “Isn’t the
Sea Wyfe
your boat?”

“Aye, she is.” He smiled and pulled her close, lowering his head as if to kiss her. Instead, he just rested his head against her hair, speaking in her ear. “Folk will wonder if we’ve just been reunited and I don’t take you out on the water with me tomorrow.

“Consider it a free boat outing to see some really special seals.” He straightened, seeming pleased with himself. And—­Kendra just looked at him—­as if the matter was all set and arranged.

“Nine sharp, America.” He squeezed her shoulder and then turned on his heel, disappearing into the mist before she could argue.

And it was as she stared after him that she saw the big, gruff-­faced fisherman again. As before, he was leaning against the red phone box across from the Laughing Gull. Still wearing his yellow waterproof jacket and gum boots, he was once again staring fixedly at the inn’s windows.

There was only one difference.

This time, Kendra could see right through him.

Kendra froze, her fingers gripping the door latch of the Laughing Gull Inn. Across the road, Pennard’s first phantom resident to appear to her continued to lean against the red phone box. His jacket and boots glittered with beads of water, as if he’d just come from a place where it had rained. More likely, the droplets were sea spray.

His gruff face was fierce, despite its shimmering translucency. And as before, he didn’t look at Kendra. His piercing blue gaze remained on the windows of the inn’s pub restaurant.

Someone, most likely the innkeeper, had propped a large, hand-­painted Project Pennard protest sign inside the window nearest the door. It was this poster that seemed to earn the specter’s wrath.

His bearded jaw was tightly set and he’d lowered his bushy gray brows so they appeared as a thick, fearsome line across his brow.

Kendra studied him, not yet trusting herself to move. Instead she took a series of deep, calming breaths. As always when confronted with a discarnate she wished to communicate with, she relaxed her shields, allowing her aura’s energy to warm and shine their brightest.

The ghost didn’t react.

He kept his vigil at the phone box, where the soft light from a nearby lamppost illuminated his broad face. Kendra could tell that at some point in his earthly life, he’d broken his large, bulbous nose.

His contemporary clothing and the flash of a watch on his wrist revealed more, showing that he’d been a fisherman of fairly recent times.

The longer she watched him, the more the air filled with the unmistakable tang of herring and brine, the strong fishy smell underscoring the ghost’s lifelong association with the sea.

He was clearly a man of Pennard.

And something here was making him unhappy.

Kendra had a good notion what. Darkness circled him like an impenetrable wall, letting her also know that his grievance went deep. Distress fueled by strong energy and emotions from the past.

The kind of ghost who’d loved his home so much in life that even death couldn’t make him leave.

Such souls refused to settle into dust.

For them, the old days never faded away, but lived on just as they did. When they saw their world threatened, some tried to intervene. Sadly, they rarely achieved more than giving the odd chill to a few receptive people and making themselves miserable.

The ghost’s unhappiness pulsed in the thin haze of darkness surrounding him.

Kendra’s compassion welled, her heart clenching as always when she had to gaze on a spirit’s suffering.

She had to reach him.

Wishing such an encounter could’ve happened elsewhere, she glanced up and down the narrow street. The hour had grown late, and no one moved anywhere on the waterfront. But muffled rock music escaped the grimy windows of a tiny pub she’d noticed at the opposite end of the village from Graeme’s cottage. Called the Mermaid, the place looked more like a bar or tavern than a pub.

It had a seedy, rough-­around-­the-­edges air even from a distance. And the low beat of some indistinguishable heavy metal tune underscored her negative impression. Kendra loved Beethoven and Mozart, Celtic rock, and mystical New Age tunes. The discordant strains from the Mermaid jarred the nighttime calm.

Suppressing a shudder, she tore her gaze from that direction before the bar’s dubious atmosphere could tinge her perception.

Everywhere else along Harbour Street appeared quiet. Even the empty house she’d noticed on arrival seemed still now, its earlier menace gone. Cold mist hung over the marina, and thick clouds covered the moon. Lampposts glimmered, each one a loving replica of an old-­timey gas lantern. Their soft glow spilled across the street’s glistening pavement. And although she could hear the murmur of voices and the clink of glasses and cutlery from within the Laughing Gull’s thick whitewashed walls, the noise wasn’t disruptive.

Kendra just had to hope no one came outside.

She also stole a moment for a long glance down Harbour Street toward the Keel. She didn’t need to be reminded of Graeme. Her entire body and all her senses went into overdrive just thinking about him. And this wasn’t a good time for such an indulgence.

Not with an unhappy ghost right across the road, needing her undivided attention.

So she took another deep, cleansing breath, grateful that the night’s darkness and drifting mist strengthened the illusion of being alone.

With the aid of long practice, she blotted the noise from the Mermaid from her mind, closing her ears—­her world—­to the beat of the music and the sounds of the rowdy crowd inside the bar.

She also raised a mental wall between herself and the Laughing Gull, willing the invisible barrier to hold off the buzz of conversation and other sounds slipping out into the street from within the cozy inn. The noise wasn’t jarring like the heavy metal music from the Mermaid, but she raised her protective shields all the same. Any distraction could shatter her concentration.

Then she focused, delving deep so that her aura would glow even brighter. She asked the powerful white-­light energy to cleanse and bless a sacred circle of space around her.

Such a purification rite was necessary to banish negative psychic imprints that may have been left behind by any number of occurrences. A couple arguing, someone’s depression, or even the sadness of a homeless animal could all impact the atmosphere. There was always the possibility of dark, low-­level energies hovering near if even a trace of negativity stained a place.

And once she opened herself fully, making contact with the unseen realm, Kendra knew she was vulnerable to attack from such entities.

So she never greeted a ghost without first practicing psychic self-­defense.

It was a ritual she’d done so often, she needed only a few seconds before the protective energy rose, flowing through and around her.

Only then did she return her attention to the phone-­box ghost, allowing her consciousness to slip into her
most receptive state. The spirit still hadn’t looked her way, his fierce gaze remaining fixed on the inn’s front windows. But the dark haze around him wavered a bit now, as if his own deepest subconscious was becoming aware of her.

Encouraged, she focused harder, sending him a mental greeting. Using the words of power she always employed, she offered him respect and asked him to acknowledge her. She also assured him he could trust her.

As it harms none—­
she silently repeated the words of power, ensuring that no one nearby, corporeal or otherwise, would be endangered by her attempt to contact the spirit—­
by your free will, speak to me.

The ghost’s eyes flickered, blinking as if coming out of a daze. Straightening, he pushed away from the phone box, turning at once to stare at Kendra.

Fool woman.
The slur reached her as clearly as if the spirit stood beside her and had spoken into her ear. His voice was deep and gravelly, full of the sea, and very Scottish. He also sounded angry.

Ne’er ken what’s good for you, aye?
He started forward, drifting across the road toward Kendra. His eyes glinted and the sharp smell of fish and brine in the air intensified, growing so strong that her eyes began to burn as he reached the middle of the street.
Thick-­skulled your like is, unable to see aught but—­

He jerked to a halt when two houses down from the Laughing Gull, a door opened and a small man with a weather-­beaten face stepped out onto the pavement,
a tiny tricolor terrier bouncing at his heels. The dog
was energetic, circling the man’s feet and barking excitedly as the two headed right toward Kendra and the ghost.

Kendra recognized the man as the same one who’d
tipped his cap to her when he’d left the pub restaurant earlier. He was wearing the same cap now. And his eyes, when they lit on her, again showed friendliness.

But he couldn’t have chosen a worse time to take his dog for his evening constitutional.

The phone-­box ghost’s already-­translucent form was fast fading. And the darkness around him was swiftly turning into ordinary night blackness. There was a cloaking smudge that would be visible only to Kendra and that curled slowly about him as he dissipated into nothing.

Then he was gone.

And the jaunty little fisherman and his dog were upon her.

“Fine night, aye, lass?” Again, the cheery man touched his cap, nodding respectfully.

His dog leapt at Kendra’s legs, his small black nose nudging her knees.

“Charlie, get you down! Be a good lad.” The man snapped his fingers at the dog, his face apologetic when Charlie only jumped higher, resting his paws on Kendra’s legs, his stubby little tail wagging.

“It’s okay.” Kendra reached to pet the terrier, aware that Charlie hadn’t seemed frightened by the ghost who’d been floating across the road just as he and his master had left their cottage.

She was sure the dog must’ve seen the spirit.

Animals, especially dogs, always saw ghosts.

“I love dogs.” Kendra straightened, relying on years of experience with similar interruptions to keep from showing how untimely their arrival proved. She really did love dogs. But she would’ve preferred meeting Charlie some other time.

“He didn’t bother me.” She glanced after the little
terrier, who’d run ahead, sniffing the pavement with great enthusiasm.

Farther down Harbour Street another door burst open, and this time several pale-­skinned, black-­jacketed youths lurched out into the road. Loud and clearly full of ale, they leaned into one another as they swayed along the street in the opposite direction. Their gel-­spiked hair glistened in the lamplight, and before they’d turned away, Kendra was sure she’d caught the flash of studs in their nostrils. She knew they were staggering drunk. The reek of stale beer carried on the wind, making her wrinkle her nose.

Charlie growled.

“He knows bad business when he sees it.” The friendly
man once more looked apologetic, though not because of his pet. His gaze was on the rowdies, now beginning to weave their way up the cliff path toward Gavin Ramsay’s Spindrift. “Didn’t used to see suchlike in Pennard.”

Shaking his head, he turned back to Kendra. “You’d best be inside the inn, miss. Thon lads won’t it make where they’re headed. The way’s too steep. They’ll be stumbling back into the village anon, looking for trouble.”

“I was just going in, anyway.” She was—­now.

“I’m Archie Dee.” He thrust out a hand, his calloused grip firm and warm. “Salt Barrel Cottage is mine, two doors down from the Laughing Gull, if e’er you be needing aught. I’m aye home unless I’m away at the fishing, at the inn, or out walking with wee Charlie.”

Kendra started to thank him, but he’d moved on, hurrying after Charlie, who’d bolted across the road, making for the two empty cottages and the little alleyway where Graeme had taken her earlier.

She felt a pang of loss as dog and man nipped into the
shadows, out of sight. Not because of Archie Dee and Charlie the terrier, but for the twinge of regret that Graeme hadn’t kissed her in the darkness between the tiny cottages. Instead, he’d sworn not to touch her again. His vow still whispered in her mind.

I won’t kiss you, if that’s worrying you.

His gaze had dropped to her lips as he’d said the words. But even in the night’s dimness, she’d been able to tell that it’d been only a perfunctory, instinctive glance. No warmth or desire had kindled in his eyes. Yet she’d been weak in the knees just standing so close to him. No more than a breath separated them, and she’d burned to step nearer, letting their bodies touch. She’d felt the heat rising inside her, the memory of his kiss making her tingle.

Kendra frowned, pushing him from her mind.

She’d never run after men who didn’t want her. And she wasn’t going to start now.

Duty also called.

So she glanced up and down Harbour Street one more time, making sure no one else was about. Then she reached down, using the pretense of adjusting her boot laces to lightly touch the flats of her hands to the cold, damp ground. She’d stirred a flurry of energy when trying to communicate with the phone-­box ghost. That energy still shimmered in the air, broken by the disruption. Potentially dangerous if not returned from whence it’d come.

Excess energy needed grounding, especially in a place like Pennard.

Only when she was sure that the last remnants of summoned white light had flowed from her hands and were absorbed back into the earth did she straighten and allow herself another long, cleansing breath.

The night felt ordinary once more.

If a cold Scottish night on the moon-­silvered North Sea coast could be called anything but magical.

Kendra didn’t think so.

Pennard
was
special.

The night darkness only enhanced the fishing village’s charm. The harbor lights danced on the glassy water, while the old-­fashioned lampposts cast yellow pools of light on the rain-­dampened pavement. Long tendrils of mist still trailed across the bay, and torn clouds drifted past the moon. High above, stars glimmered brightly, their brilliance rivaling any she’d ever seen.