Haunted Warrior (34 page)

Wee Hughie nodded. “Scotland’s Past would like to know if you’ve made contact with the spirits of the fishermen. I know from my research that tales of such fleets have circulated here for the past two hundred years, if not longer. The herring men might not look kindly on Project Pennard.”

“And you do?” Kendra spoke before she could catch herself.

“I’m for anything that promotes Scottish culture. The refurbishment would preserve the village for posterity.” He didn’t bat an eye. “Heritage and tradition wouldn’t be wiped out, but safeguarded against dilution from incomers. The monies brought in by the influx in tourism would benefit the entire region.”

“Perhaps the locals see it differently.”

“There aren’t that many of them left. You wouldn’t notice as an American, but nearly half of Pennard’s residents are from elsewhere. Quite a few are retirees from Scotland’s Central Belt and Lowlands, while others are English, having settled here to escape cities like London and Manchester.” He flicked at his sleeve, not sounding at all sympathetic. “They would’ve snapped up the homes of impoverished fisher families when the herring industry began to flag.

“The Pennard Project would pay them well enough for their homes. And”—­he looked at her—­“the village would be restored to its former glory, the present residents happy in new homes on Skye or wherever else they choose to go.”

“I don’t think they want to go anywhere, wherever they originally came from. They’re here now and they view Pennard as their own.” She would, too, if she were lucky enough to live here.

“The people here are unhappy about the project.” Her arguments might torpedo her career, but her tongue seemed to have taken on a life of its own. “I’m not surprised the resident discarnates are equally upset.”

Wee Hughie pounced. “So you have spoken with them?”

“A few, yes.” She hedged, not wanting to say too much.

“Have they been disrupting the barge traffic?” He pulled out his notebook again, once more flipping the pages. “Only two sightings of the ghost fleet have been confirmed, but not everyone will admit to having seen such a thing, even in Scotland.”

“I’m sure.” Kendra knew that well. “But, honestly, none of the ghosts I’ve communicated with have mentioned the barges. I do know they’re concerned and worried about what’s happening here.”

“Scotland’s Past won’t back away from the project.” Wee Hughie looked out at the sea, his expression unreadable. Dusk was starting to fall and his face was in shadow. “They might reduce their offers for the village. Your boss, Zack, is hoping you’ll be able to turn things around here.”

“I usually can.” But Pennard was different. “The situation here is unique. I’m not sure there’s much I can do. Zack knows our work isn’t infallible. Sometimes the
outcome isn’t what we’d originally hoped. Things turn up that alter our expectations.”

The author’s brow furrowed. “That’s happened here?”

Imagining Zack watching her from over Wee Hughie’s shoulder, Kendra filled him in on everything that had gone down since her arrival in the village, leaving out only the personal bits and any mention of Graeme’s tales about his family’s sacred relic.

“So you see”—­she met his gaze—­“there’s good reason to suspect Gavin Ramsay is behind much of the trouble here. Not interfering spirits.”

Wee Hughie’s frown deepened. “Scotland’s Past won’t be pleased to hear this. Gavin Ramsay’s name is known to me. It would be to anyone knowledgeable about ancient myth and legend. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s trying to orchestrate a situation that would land the entire village in his clutches.” He shuddered visibly, ran a hand over his thinning hair. “The man’s dangerous. He’s rumored to practice dark magic and has had numerous run-­ins with the law.

“His interest in Pennard will go deeper than carving the village into one-­foot-­square lots to sell to gullible Scotland-­loving tourists.” He took a pen from his pocket, jotted something in his notebook. “He’ll be wanting the field cleared so he can search for a relic said to be hidden away somewhere in the village or up at Castle Grath, a ruined stronghold on a bluff not far from here.”

“A relic?” Kendra hoped her surprise didn’t sound feigned.

Wee Hughie nodded, consulting his notes. “The Shadow Wand, aye. I doubt it ever really existed, at least not with the powers attributed to it. But a man like Ramsay who believes in such things would sell his soul to get his hands on something so magical.”

“Just what was it, then?” Kendra wanted to see if his explanation matched Graeme’s.

Wee Hughie cleared his throat. “Ramsay claims to be the direct descendant of a dark druid named Morcant. The Shadow Wand was Morcant’s most dreaded weapon. It was described in ancient parchments and early medieval texts as a highly polished relic of jet and amber, its spiraled length banded by narrow rings of clear, shining crystal. The name Shadow Wand comes from its ability to call out a man’s soul if the wand is thrust into the victim’s shadow.”

“Good Lord.” This time Kendra shuddered, even knowing Graeme’s similar version. “That’s terrible.”

“Indeed.” Wee Hughie looked at her and she could see the earnestness in his eyes. “And there’s worse. Once such a soul was taken, the person was hollowed and died. The wand was said to feed off the soul’s energy, thus gaining power for its wielder. In time, Morcant is believed to have fed the wand so many souls that a single victim wasn’t enough to slake the wand’s hunger.

“When that happened”—­his words echoed in the darkness of the cave—­“we’re told he learned that if he stabbed the wand into the shadow of a tower or stronghold, the souls of everyone within would be consumed by the wand.”

“And the Shadow Wand is around here?” Kendra knew Graeme thought so.

“So many believe.” The author rubbed his temple, as if bothered by a headache. “There are numerous versions of the lore. I wrote a chapter on the wand in
More Hearthside Tales
. One of the most incredible stories is that Clan MacGrath has a branch of immortals that guard the relic. Men who were made guardians of the wand over a millennia ago and who each live seven hundred years and a day until they die, passing on the legacy to their heir.”

Kendra’s blood chilled. “That sounds too outlandish to be true.”

“You see and speak with ghosts.” The author shrugged. “Who is to say what’s possible and what is not?”

“Touché.” Kendra rubbed her arms against the cold. It was full dark now and the tide was coming in, the winds strengthening so the cave no longer offered shelter. “It still doesn’t sound possible.”

She hoped it wasn’t.

But she couldn’t argue with Wee Hughie’s comment.

There
were
things in the world that couldn’t be seen or explained. “If Scotland’s Past is irritated enough by the delays and barge issues, maybe they will call off the project?” She changed the subject, afraid her face would reveal too much if they kept speaking of the MacGraths and their hidden relic.

Writers were known to be perceptive.

And Wee Hughie was already looking at her suspiciously.

“I doubt it, though they are annoyed.” He rolled his shoulders and then zipped his wind jacket. “We’ll hear soon enough. And”—­he glanced at his watch—­“I’d best get you back to your inn. I’ve a book signing and talk in Aberdeen tonight and need to be on my way.”

Kendra wasn’t about to argue.

She wanted to get back to the inn as soon as possible, go to her room, and think.

She also wanted to get away from this end of the village. A quick glance at the Keel as Wee Hughie opened the passenger’s door of his minivan for her showed that the cottage was still dark and looked empty. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was wearing a blinking red beacon on her forehead, calling attention to herself.

She knew why when the cottage door opened and
Jock bolted out, bounding across the road and shooting onto the little strand right beside the minivan.

Fortunately, the dog shot past in a blur of black-­and-­white fur, making for the surf line, where he ran back and forth, barking excitedly at the waves. He ignored the parked minivan, seemingly oblivious.

But Graeme stood on the Keel’s threshold.

Kendra sensed him there, could see him in her peripheral vision. And she knew without turning to look at him that he’d seen her.

And—­her stomach lurched—­she also picked up his shock and perplexity.

Then Wee Hughie slid into the driver’s seat, started the ignition, and turned the minivan. The maneuver gave Graeme an even better view of her as they swept past the Keel’s open doorway.

Kendra wanted to sink to the floorboards.

Now she didn’t just have to worry about delivering Jock MacAllister’s message. She also had to explain what she was doing with a strange man in the cave across the road from Graeme’s cottage.

Could things get any more complicated?

She didn’t think so.

Graeme paced the grass-­grown swath of high ground that had once been Castle Grath’s finest strolling gardens, an area along the cliff edge and beneath the now-­ruined tower. He hoped the journey here wouldn’t prove a waste of his time. He might have more hours at his disposal than he could wish to fritter away, but that wasn’t the point. He still preferred to make good use of his resources.

So he welcomed the wind coming in so strongly from the sea and gave thanks for the night’s cold air and full moon. The chill would keep him awake, his senses sharp-­edged and alert. Moon glow bathed the ancient walls of his home, offering enough silvery light to let him see every approach to his beloved headland.

Jock was safe back at the cottage.

A promising, leather-­wrapped bundle rested on the broad top of an easy-­to-­see boulder, waiting to attract curiosity.

His father’s sword, Battle Lover, whiled patiently nearby. Graeme hoped to the gods that the blade and his other preparations would serve him well tonight.

He wouldn’t think about Kendra.

Wondering why she’d ignored his warning and had left the Laughing Gull in the company of a pompous-­looking clod with the words HERITAGE TOURS painted on the side of his minivan was beyond him.

He didn’t want to risk the night’s hoped-­for triumph by fashing himself over a female he’d surely vested too much interest in already.

What mattered was that Ramsay made an appearance.

Graeme had done what he could, laying the groundwork and summoning all the craft and magic that was available to him as Guardian of the Wand.

In the end, if there was a fight, he’d use his wits and the skill of his sword arm to have done with Ramsay. And, he hoped, the bastard’s foul legacy.

If Roan Wylie and his girlfriend, Maili, had kept their word at the Mermaid, Ramsay would fall into his trap, hurrying to Grath in the hope of seizing the Shadow Wand before Graeme could dispose of the dread relic.

It scarce mattered that the wand was still lodged deep in the cliff behind Graeme’s cottage.

As long as Maili claimed she’d seen Graeme leave the Keel with a mysterious bundle, Ramsay would take the bait and head to Grath.

Or so he hoped.

Unfortunately, he’d been wearing a track in the grass, the night wind was getting colder by the minute, and there wasn’t any sign of his foe.

Yet he was sure Roan and Maili hadn’t betrayed him.

A life span of seven hundred years and a day made a man a good judge of character.

“I’ll have the wand, seal man.” Ramsay’s smug voice proved he hadn’t erred.

Turning slowly so the bastard wouldn’t guess he’d startled him, Graeme bent a long, assessing look on his enemy. “You can have it, aye. Or”—­he strode over to where Ramsay stood among Grath’s broken gravestones—­“you might be taking a jump from this world into the next. The choice is yours, depending on how well you fight.”

“You’d dare?” Ramsay gave him a silky smile, strolling forward. “That wouldn’t be wise. Or have you already forgotten how easily I sent a boulder crashing down onto your seal beach? Not that I’d mind besting you again.”

“You can’t and you know it.” Graeme held his gaze, challenging him. “Before the moon disappears behind thon clouds”—­he glanced at the night sky—­“you’ll be lying dead in a pool of your blood.”

“The wand is mine and always has been.” Ramsay leaned down and slid a fishing knife from his boot, the blade gleaming in the moonlight. “It’s you who’ll taste death this night.”

“I think not.” Graeme narrowed his eyes at the knife, using all his power to wrinkle the blade.

“You bastard!” Ramsay threw down the useless weapon. “Are you afraid to face me with a knife in my hand?”

“Are you man enough to fight with a real blade?” Graeme jerked his head toward Battle Lover, propped against one of the tall, Celtic crosses in Grath’s burial ground. “I’ve brought my father’s own sword for you.

“And”—­he drew Bone Slicer from beneath his belt, nodding as the dirk’s blade flashed brilliant blue and lengthened into a long sword—­“I thought we’d fight where the playing field is leveled.”

“I’ll take you on anywhere.” Ramsay went to grab
Battle Lover, taking a few practice swings with the sword.

“Then we’ll fight behind the tower.” Graeme gave his foe his best courtly nod, well aware that Ramsay knew he’d lived in the days when such mores were practiced. “You’ll surely not object to facing me on the same ground where you sent Ritchie Watt to spy on me?”

Ramsay glared at him, fury blazing in his eyes. “There’s nothing but rabbit holes and puffin burrows back there. The ground would break beneath our weight.”

“So it could, aye.” Graeme turned and walked that way, taking his time.

Behind him, Ramsay swore. “The wand, you bastard. Where is it?”

Graeme glanced over his shoulder. “It’s in a leather pouch on one of the rocks near the cliff edge. Whichever one of us is still standing after we fight can have it. You have my word on that.”

He just didn’t say that whichever of them won would have to retrieve the relic from the cliff behind the Keel. Not that he wanted it. If he survived the fight—­he knew Ramsay was a worthy swordsman—­he meant to destroy the wand. After all these years of study, he believed he’d finally deciphered enough of his family’s Book of Shadows to know how to accomplish the relic’s demise.