Haunted Warrior (16 page)

His time ran out in seventy-­five years.

He was the last MacGrath.

And he’d take his legacy with him, leaving no future Guardians to suffer his fate. Before he went, he’d fulfill one final duty, even if it wasn’t exactly what his responsibilities demanded of him.

He’d destroy the Shadow Wand.

The relic would never fall into Ramsay’s hands.

Graeme glanced at Jock and went back inside his cottage. He needed to study the Grimoire. A crack had sprung in the cliff face behind the Keel, and it was only a matter of time until the break widened, exposing the Shadow Wand’s centuries-­old hiding place.

Most alarming of all, he hadn’t caused the crack.

It was the work of someone else.

And that meant trouble.

He’d been studying the Grimoire for ages, poring over its brittle pages and scrutinizing near-­indecipherable text penned in old, faded ink, in search of a way to destroy
the relic. Many of the tome’s strange symbols and illustrations were even harder to grasp than the ancient words. So far, he hadn’t found the answer he needed. He had hoped to have time to keep looking.

He’d have to search faster if Ramsay, or some potent energy drawn by his darkness, was responsible for the split in the cliff’s stone.

Too bad haste wasn’t known for improving matters.

“Dinnae look at me that way.”

Graeme slid an annoyed glance at Jock, almost wishing the dog had retired to his cozy armchair beside the fire when they’d come back inside the Keel. That was well over an hour ago, and Jock had been treating Graeme to his you-­dinnae-­ken-­what-­you’re-­doing stare ever since. It was a look the dog gave him every time he lifted a certain slab from the kitchen’s stone-­flagged floor and retrieved the ancient tome known simply as the Book of Shadows.

His family’s most prized possession, the book was leather bound, heavy, and so old Graeme often worried it would turn to dust in his hands.

But somewhere within the Grimoire’s cracked binding and inked on brittle parchment stood the key to destroying the Shadow Wand.

At least Graeme hoped so.

He’d been studying the book for centuries. Sadly, to no avail.

And each time he tried to glean the tome’s secrets, Jock looked on with his unblinking canine stare. Until, at last, he grew bored watching Graeme turn the fragile pages. Then, as if washing his paws of his master’s foolishness, he’d sit by the kitchen door, waiting for Graeme to take him for their late-­night walk along the shore.

“I’m not done here.” Graeme peered harder at the Book of Shadows, trying to decipher the strange words and symbols. Encoded secrets, conjurations, charms, and rituals that imparted mystical knowledge, allowing those adept to gain love, power, and riches. There were also instructions on how to punish enemies, avert evil, and divine the future. The tome was even rumored to offer an invisibility spell. The easiest-­to-­read notations covered natural magic, giving descriptions of medicinal herbs and enchanted gemstones. Sprawled in faded ink across the Grimoire’s yellowed pages, the shrift belonged to a distant
time.

An age before even Graeme’s great-­great-­grandfather had walked the hills.

Yet some of those forebears had managed to unravel the meaning of a few words and symbols. Their helpful notes were penned in the margins, giving Graeme his only clues to what he sought.

In nearly seven hundred years, he hadn’t come close to his ancestors’ successes in cracking the maddeningly illegible writing and weird sketches. He’d made progress, but not enough. It seemed that time was starting to run out.

Yet the answers he sought eluded him.

He bit back a curse as he turned another page.

Swearing in the presence of a book so magic laden wasn’t a mistake he’d make. The air in the kitchen
hummed with the tome’s power. And the pages warmed beneath his fingers, as if the parchment lived and breathed. Only absolute reverence was acceptable when handing the Grimoire.

Graeme treated the book with care.

Behind him, Jock showed less respect by whining.

But when Graeme shot him a look, the dog flopped down on the floor and wagged his tail. His expression turned hopeful, full of barely repressed excitement.

“No walk yet.” Graeme straightened and rolled his shoulders. He’d placed the Book of Shadows on the kitchen’s sturdy oak table, and bending over the tome for the past hour had made his back ache.

His head hurt, too.

And the trace of sausage, bacon, and eggs that lingered in the air—­a reminder of his midnight snack—­was making him hungry again.

Frowning, he reached to rub the back of his neck. Outside the rain had stopped and the night was still. All he heard now was the sound of the sea and the swish of Jock’s tail across the kitchen floor.

Or so he thought, until he caught the unmistakable crunch of footsteps on pebbled rock.

Someone was walking the shore.

And the prickles on his nape warned that it wasn’t anyone who should be there.

Jock’s low growl said the same.

“You will stay here.” Graeme flashed a stern look at his friend as he carefully closed the Grimoire and returned the tome to its hiding place.

If one of Ramsay’s followers was looking for ­trouble—­
he could tell from the vibrations in the air that it wasn’t Gavin himself—­the last thing he wanted was to be worrying about Jock when he confronted the intruder.

“There’s no time to say a sealing spell o’er the flagstone,
” Graeme spoke as he worked the stone into place over the cavity in the floor. His words would soothe Jock’s pride. “You’ll need to guard the book’s hiding place until I return.”

Jock gave another low rumble in his chest.

But he did leave his post by the kitchen door to dutifully sit beside the stone flag. And much to Graeme’s relief, the dog held his head high, assuming a look that showed he felt important.

“This won’t take long.” Graeme rubbed Jock’s ears and then took a well-­honed dirk from the drawer set into the oak table.

It was a drawer that even the most curious eyes wouldn’t notice and that only opened to his touch.

“Dinnae leave that spot, laddie.” Graeme tucked the dirk beneath his belt. The blade was just as unique as the secret drawer, and he hoped he wouldn’t need to make use of its capabilities.

He stepped out into the night, not bothering to will his footsteps into silence as he strode along the side of his cottage toward the road.

Whoever was on the shore knew he’d join them.

As soon as he reached Harbour Street, he could feel the eagerness to greet him. Two heartbeats rippled the air, and the men’s aggression was dark and palpable, staining the night’s peace.

Graeme’s jaw set as he crossed the road, scanning the empty foreshore. The bay was calmer now, the water lapping gently on the pebbled strand. A glance to the far end of the village showed low clouds drifting over the cliffs and a few stars high above. Pennard slept, the tiny fishing hamlet seeming so far removed from the hectic pace of the outside world.

The tranquillity was an illusion.

Two dark shadows near the cave at the bay’s edge
spoiled the image. They didn’t move and could’ve been night-­blackened fissures in the cliff. But Graeme knew better, and closed in on them with long, sure strides.

He recognized them as the Fleming brothers, Roddie and Patrick.

Dressed entirely in black, they were his equal in size. They were also Ramsay’s best fighters, though they should know from their last encounter with Graeme that they’d made a grave error in coming to challenge him again. Their weapons, two-­foot lengths of steel pipe, wouldn’t help them. They were fools to think so.

Graeme let his gaze flick to the pipes, not bothering to hide his disdain. The Fleming brothers could be glad this wasn’t an age when a man’s foes could be killed with a single sword swipe.

They did tempt him.

“Didn’t learn your lesson last time?” Graeme went to stand right in front of them. “Can it be”—­he pulled the leather tie from his ponytail, freeing his shoulder-­length hair—­“you want your faces bloodied again? Or is it broken bones you’re after now?

“I’ll give you both, gladly.” He shook his head, letting his hair swing menacingly.

Vikings and many medieval Highland warriors had enjoyed fighting with unbound hair. In his time in that world, it was a tradition Graeme had kept.

The Flemings narrowed their eyes at him, almost as if they knew.

Graeme flexed his fingers, eager to lash into them. “You’re brave men, coming here.”

“We’re walking the strand.” Roddie, the larger of the two, hefted his pipe, slapping the makeshift weapon against his palm. “The Keel is yours, last I heard. You have no claim on the foreshore.”

Graeme stepped closer, ignoring the pipe. “I have
more than that, as you and your master know. Do yourself a favor and go back to the Spindrift and tell him to keep his goons out of my sight.”

“He’ll gut you, MacGrath.” Roddie spat onto the ground.

“And you two”—­Graeme looked from one to the other—­“are still bearing the scars from our last fight. Are you really up for another?”

“Arrogant bastard!” Patrick lunged, swinging his pipe at Graeme’s head.

Graeme ducked and spun, bringing up his arm to seize Patrick’s wrist in a fierce grip. The pipe fell from his fingers, clattering onto the shingle. Graeme kicked the pipe into the surf, then thrust Patrick aside, hauling back to smash Roddie in the nose when he roared and leapt forward to defend his brother.

“Yeowww!”
Roddie staggered backward, his pipe also slipping from his grasp as he dropped to his knees at the water’s edge. “You’ll pay for this, MacGrath!” He glared at Graeme from hate-­filled eyes, one hand clutched to his nose, blood streaming through his fingers.

Recovered, Patrick scrambled for his brother’s length of pipe. Cursing, he bent to grab the weapon, but Graeme was on him in a beat, yanking him up by the back of his jacket collar. He stiffened when Graeme whipped him around, defiance rolling off him.

“You’ll no’ be rid o’ us so easy, seal man.” Patrick jerked free, tugging his jacket in place. “Next time you’ll no’ see or hear us. We’ll—­”

“You’ll fail every time you come for me.” Graeme stepped back, allowing his magic to give his foes a glimpse of how he’d once been: a weapon-­hung medieval warrior, tough, battle hardened, and terrifying. “Doubt me at your peril. I’ve no’ enjoyed a true fight in a while.”

Taking his dirk from beneath his belt, he aimed it at
Patrick’s belly, his lip curling when the blade lengthened into the razor-­sharp long sword it truly was. By the time its tip touched the other’s man gut, the brand shone like blue fire, and Graeme was smiling.

But it was a mirthless smile.

The kind that chilled a man to the marrow—­if he lived long enough to feel the cold.

Patrick blanched, his eyes going round. He backed away, raising his hands. “What are you, MacGrath?”

“Nothing you want to mess with.” Graeme flicked his wrist and the glowing brand was no more. But he still held the dirk in his hand.

And the two brothers’ faces showed they’d had enough for this night.

“I’ll credit you both for not running.” Graeme nodded in grim acknowledgment as Roddie lurched over to them, still clutching his bloodied nose. “A man willing to face his enemy and fight, even when he’s misguided, is a man who aye deserves respect.”

His words were met by sullen stares.

Neither man budged.

But Graeme clasped his hands behind his back and walked a slow circle around them, knowing nonchalance would irritate them more than aggression.

His steps also left an impassable barrier, trapping them if they tried to flee before he was done with them. He hoped no further use of his magical skills would be required. Despite Ramsay’s presence, Pennard was peopled by good, salt-­of-­the-­earth folk who didn’t need to learn about worlds and powers far beyond their daily lives.

“You both ken you cannae beat me.” Graeme stopped before them, folding his arms. “So tell me what brought you here tonight.”

Angry silence answered him as Patrick flattened his
mouth into a hard, tight line. His brother glowered at Graeme from above his red-­dripping fingers, his eyes glinting with resentment.

Graeme shrugged. “Speak or you’ll be here a while.”

He didn’t warn them of the guarding circle, knowing Ramsay would’ve informed them of such interferences.

The look they exchanged proved him right.

“Your ma’s a good woman.” Graeme flashed a glance down the waterfront, letting his gaze light on one of Pennard’s more modest cottages. “Do you really want her waking to see her lads standing naked on the foreshore?”

He lifted a brow on the word
naked
, letting them know he could arrange the like.

Willing it so was all that was necessary.

And as he’d guessed, manly pride won out over stubbornness.

“Ramsay sent us.” Roddie broke first, his words garbled behind his bloody fingers.

“That I know.” Graeme lifted a hand, pretending to examine his knuckles.

When neither brother spoke again, he sent another look down the silent row of Pennard’s houses. This time he focused on a red-­doored cottage where light still flickered behind neat lace curtains.

Then he looked away again, fixing his attention on Patrick. “I hear you’ve been seeing Lorna Gillespie. She’s a fine lass—­bonnie, honest, and hardworking. What would she think to see you out here, shivering in the dawn and no’ wearing a stitch?”

Graeme would never allow Lorna or Mrs. Fleming to see such a sight.

But Roddie and Patrick didn’t need to know that.

“You’re a bastard, seal man.” Patrick was seething.

Graeme smiled. “So some have said. Now tell me why Ramsay sent you here. Once you do, I’ll let you go.”

The brothers exchanged glances again.

Patrick spoke. “It’s the American.” His answer didn’t surprise Graeme. “Gavin doesn’t believe you’re a pair. He saw her go into the Laughing Gull alone tonight. And”—­he glanced over at Graeme’s lit cottage—­“he wanted us to see if she’d joined you later.”