Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1) (5 page)

“I’ve read your books, which include your bio.”

“Oh…and no. I became a baron after my father died.”

“When was that?”

Uh-oh. Tread carefully.
“Some time ago.”

This was getting too personal again. He wanted to get to know her—to feel comfortable in her company, not to fall in love with her. Not that there was much danger of that. As much as he relished the concept of finding the perfect partner, the seeds of passion never put down deeper roots. Meanwhile, the why of it remained an unsolvable mystery. Was it because he only slept with prostitutes? Maybe, probably. But that didn’t explain why he’d never fallen in love in his youth. Back then, as now, women chased him; threw themselves at him, even, and all he felt was disdain. Why? He was a double Leo, for God’s sake. A self-proclaimed ruthless romantic, so why did he seem incapable of falling in love?

He shook the thoughts from his head. He needed to focus on breakfast, not his dysfunctional emotions. They were almost to Wick. There was a café in the harbor, where he’d eaten a couple of times with Duncan. It was far from elegant, but had decent seafood, an all-day breakfast, and a river view. The cheesy maritime decor probably wouldn’t impress her, but neither would driving around like a total wanker hoping to find somewhere better.

When they reached the town limits, he steered the car toward the harbor and pulled in beside the café. As he shut off the engine, she frowned through the windscreen at the restaurant’s rather shabby stucco exterior.

“It’s not fancy,” he said, feeling defensive, “but the food’s quite good and the view is unparalleled.”

He removed the key, climbed out, and hurried around to open her door. Not surprisingly, she met him on the pavement. Displeased by her usurpation of his pale attempt at chivalry, he locked the car with the clicker, set his hand in the small of her back, and ushered her toward the entrance.

An older woman with a plump face and a friendly smile showed them to a table. They looked over the egg-stained laminated menus in silence. The smell of fried fish hung in the air and a fine layer of grease covered every surface. Their places were set with cheap flatware and overturned white cups on saucers. When he turned his upright, Vanessa followed suit. A twenty-something dark-haired waitress appeared with a pot of coffee he hoped was fresh.

She filled their cups, set the pot on the table, and pulled her order pad out of the pocket of her apron. “What can I get for you?”

Vanessa ordered scrambled eggs and bacon. He asked for porridge and blood sausage. He wasn’t hungry, but figured he’d better eat something to keep up the pretense of being mortal.

When the waitress left, he picked up his coffee and took a sip. Though fresh, it tasted bitter. He added milk and sugar and stirred vigorously. She watched him, saying nothing. He sipped his doctored coffee. It was better, but still miles from good. He looked out at the view, wishing she’d say something. The silence was growing uncomfortable and he had run out of small talk.

He looked at her across the table. She had that strange, enigmatic look typical of her sign, as well as the dreamy pale eyes. That faraway look might fool some, but not him. He knew Aquarians were quicker, deeper, and sharper than most. They also were natural-born rebels who instinctively believed the world was in serious need of reformation.

While he agreed in theory, time had taught him nothing would change until people stopped living in fear—of scarcity, otherness, and fear itself. Fear begat hatred, jealousy, cruelty, and every other ugly emotion that made world peace impossible.

The thought triggered the memory of a bumper sticker he’d seen once in London.
Visualize Whirled Peas.
He couldn’t help smiling as he wondered absentmindedly if whirled peas were anything like mushy peas.

“Why are you smiling?” Her inquiry brought him back to the table.

Before he could answer, the waitress returned and set their respective plates in front of them. Vanessa scooped up a forkful of eggs and filled her mouth. As she ate, he probed her mind, this time finding a specific tarot card. The
Knight of Wands
. What the devil did it mean?

“Do you read tarot cards?” Two could play at the game of random questions, he thought drolly.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” she said, seemingly taking the odd question in stride. “What about you?”

“Oh, aye. I’m an old hand at the tarot, as you might imagine, me being an astrologer and all.” He took a breath, preparing to drop the bomb. “As a matter of fact, I read my cards the other day and drew a card I’m still puzzling over.”

“Really? What card was it?”

“The
Knight of Wands
.”

She choked, nearly spewing her coffee all over the table. Her reaction pleased him more than it should have. He took a swallow of coffee to wash down his mirth. If he had any sense, he’d take her straight back to the inn and say, “Sayonara, sweetheart.” So, why did he find the idea disagreeable? Was he so desperate for female companionship that he’d risk discovery?

Not that the risk of her learning his secret was all that great. Fortunately, over time, he’d spun the tale started by the Sinclairs to deflect suspicion from himself. A dark family secret passed down through the generations. A vampire bricked up inside a hidden chamber. It was amazing what people could be led to believe.

“What do you think it means?”

“That will depend on what position it was in.”

He had to think fast. “It was in the position of the crux of the matter.”

“Was it upright or reversed?”

“Reversed.” What the hell, right?

“Hmm…well, I’d have to say the knight most likely represents you or an aspect of yourself. Are you battling with a decision that might have an impact on your identity?”

His decision about the election sprang to mind. He almost said something about it before he remembered he’d made it all up. He hadn’t drawn the bloody
Knight of Wands
, he’d seen it while probing her psyche. Though, on second thought, why not tell her what he was wrestling with?

“I’m thinking about running for a seat in the Parliament, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a private person and don’t think I’d like living in the glare of the public eye.”

“That’s understandable, but I still hope you’ll give it some serious thought.”

“I intend to.”

As they resumed eating, something else worried him, which he’d discuss later with Duncan. His dossier. Over the years, he’d taken pains to ensure his legal records were copacetic—the title to the castle, his bank accounts, his birth records and passport, that sort of thing. Luckily, there were firms that catered to the legal needs of immortals who chose to make a life in the Hitherworld.

He was now Callum Lyon X on paper. His curriculum vitae, however, was far from foolproof. What if some shrewd opponent or journalist should stumble upon an inconsistency and expose the truth? Was getting back in the game worth the risk? How would he explain his failure to age? Good genes? Plastic surgery? A portrait in the attic?

At the same time, he missed the high he used to get from political engagement. While the books and occasional lectures helped staunch the longing, they didn’t hold a candle to his golden days as the court astrologer at Holyroodhouse. Once upon a time, he’d consulted the celestial heavens to advise James IV on everything from battles to rebel plots to court intrigues. What a shame the king turned a deaf ear to the celestial warnings about the invasion of England—to many more detriments than his and the king’s.

“If you were in Parliament, you could pass legislation to protect the environment,” she said between bites.

“Aye. Exactly. Which is why the idea interests me so much.” He set down his fork and leaned closer. “This may sound strange, but I’d like to reintroduce wolves into Scotland.”

Mild surprise registered on her face. “Are there no wolves here?”

“No. They were hunted to extinction hundreds of years ago and, as a consequence, the red deer have no natural enemy, so they have taken over and are destroying the forests. You wouldn’t believe how much the Highlands have changed in the past few centuries. Old-growth forests used to dominate the glens and now there are very few trees left.”

“Oh, dear,” she said. “That does sound like a problem worth addressing.”

“Wolves would keep the deer population under control, but would also endanger domestic livestock, especially sheep. I think it’s a small price to pay for replenishing the old-growth forests, but the sheep farmers think it’s a mad idea.”

“It sounds like a complicated issue.”

“Aye, it is. Like most things.” Reclaiming his fork, he pushed the food on his plate around for a few moments before saying, “There’s something you should know about my castle before I take you there.”

Her blue eyes shimmered with interest, just as he’d expected. “Oh, really?—and what’s that?”

“It’s haunted.”

She nearly choked on her eggs, which pleased him immensely. She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “By a ghost?”

“Aye. My dead wife’s, no less.” It was the truth, though why Sorcha haunted him, he couldn’t begin to guess.

“Oh, dear. How did she die?”

“She threw herself off the tower.”

All the color left her face. “Holy shit. Were you there when it happened?”

“No, thank God. By that time, we were no longer living together.”

“You were separated?”

“More or less.” He’d been in the Thitherworld, actually, serving as a sex slave to the queen of Avalon.

“Just out of curiosity, how do you experience the haunting?”

“I feel coldness when she’s in the room.” He didn’t add that it was the same coldness Sorcha had treated him with throughout their miserable excuse for a marriage.

“Does she make sounds? Move things? Radiate hostile energy?”

“No, nothing like that.” He took a sip of coffee to hide his discomfort. “I just feel the drop in temperature when she comes into the room.”

“How do you know it’s your wife?”

“I don’t know, I just do.”

“Was she religious? If so, she might fear damnation for committing suicide.”

He picked up his cup and took a sip of coffee. “You seem to know about spirits.”

“I’ve seen them since I was a girl—not that my mother believed me.” She poked at her food, avoiding his gaze. “She thought I was crazy and made me see a psychiatrist.”

The emotion in her voice provoked a pang of guilt—and an onrush of sympathy. “If you ask me, it was your mother who needed the psychiatrist.”

“True.” Smiling sadly, she met his gaze with glittering eyes. “Perhaps when we get to your castle, I can have a word with your ghost, find out what she wants, and persuade her to move on.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

They returned to their meals, she taking tiny bites of egg and bacon between sips of coffee; he giving the illusion of eating without actually doing so. Finally, she looked up from her food, fixed him in her gaze and, in typical out-of-the-blue water-bearer fashion, asked, “What’s your position on off-shore drilling in the North Sea?”

“I oppose it,” he said, meaning it.

“Because it’s an environmental travesty, right?”

“Because not one penny of the revenue winds up in Scotland’s coffers,” he corrected her—not that she was wrong about the devastating environmental impact of the practice. “England reaps the profits from mining our national resources and invests the money in its own enterprises whilst cutting Scotland’s public services to the bone. It’s bloody appalling.”

“I can see why you feel that way, but I don’t want to see anybody profiting from off-shore drilling. We should be arresting our dependence on fossil fuels, not looking for new sources to feed our addiction—especially at the expense of the natural environment.”

The waitress was back, looking from him to Vanessa with a frown. “Didn’t you like the food, Lord Lyon? You’ve barely touched a bite.”

“It was fine,” Callum told her. “I’m just not very hungry.”

“Would you like me to box up the leftovers?” the waitress asked. “You could take it with you and have a picnic later. It’s a lovely day for it.”

“No, thank you.” He fished out his wallet. “Just the bill, if you don’t mind.”

The waitress brought the check, which he promptly paid before he and Vanessa walked to the car in silence. On the winding drive to the next stop on his sightseeing tour, he thought long and hard about taking her back to John o’Groats and leaving her on the doorstep of the inn. It was by far the safest and most sensible thing to do. So why was he still driving toward Whaligoe? Lust? Loneliness? A bit of both?

By the time he pulled into the unmarked parking tarmac above the Whaligoe steps, he had made up his mind to take her to Barrogill. She’d find nothing at his castle to substantiate the rumors, so he could see no harm in doing so. Plus, he’d like very much to be rid of Sorcha’s ghost. If Vanessa could help with that, the benefits would vastly outweigh the risks.