Beyond the Highland Myst(708)

She didn’t bother stepping away from the door. Though she’d been screaming for only a few seconds, she had good lungs and knew how loud she’d been.

A few moments later there was a firm knock.

“Is everything all right in there, ma’am?” came a man’s worried voice. “We’re in the room a few doors down and heard you screaming.”

Her heart hammering against the wall of her chest, she took two slow, careful breaths. “Uh, yeah,” she managed, “I’m fine. I’m sorry I disturbed you.” She forced a shaky, self-deprecating laugh. “There was a spider in the shower and I have a touch of arachnophobia. I guess I kind of freaked out.” She injected what she hoped was a convincing note of embarrassment into her voice.

There was a silence, then the sound of soft male laughter. “My friends and I would be happy to take care of it for you, ma’am.”

Men. They could be so condescending sometimes, even when they thought they were only trying to be helpful. She’d never been afraid of spiders in her life. And if she was, that was still no reason to laugh at her. Dead bodies—they threw her. But she was no sissy about bugs. People couldn’t help what they were afraid of. One of her good friends, Cheryl Carroll, was afraid of flowers, and there was nothing funny about it.

“No, no,” she said hastily, “it’s all right, my husband took care of it.” Say something, she mouthed over her shoulder at Cian.

“All is well now,” Cian boomed. “ ’Twas good of you to inquire.”

She scowled at him. All is well. ’Twas? she echoed silently, wrinkling her nose. Could he have sounded more archaic?

At the sound of another man’s voice, a note of cordial reserve entered her would-be-savior’s tones. “You might want to call the front desk and let them know. There shouldn’t be any bugs in the rooms. My girlfriend hates spiders too.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks.” Go. Away.

As the footfalls faded down the hall, she sagged limply against the door. She made the mistake of rubbing her eyes and compounded it by looking at her hands.

Her lips parted. Breath rushed into her lungs, prelude to a scream.

“Doona do it, lass,” Cian hissed. “He won’t believe you twice.”

Pursing her lips, she forced the air back out in small, silent explosions. She puffed short, shallow bursts, as if breathing in a paper bag. I am not going to scream. I am not going to scream.

“Why did you kill her?” she asked a few minutes later, when she trusted herself to speak.

“Look in the woman’s hand. I cannot make out what it is, but she meant to harm you with it.”

Steeling herself, Jessi moved reluctantly back into the room and gazed down at the dead woman. Her left hand was closed around something. Jessi nudged it with her foot. A syringe spilled from her fingers and rolled across the blood-spattered carpet. Jessi shivered.

“Jessica, try to summon me out.”

Neither of them expected it to work. It didn’t.

“Remove the comforter from the bed and cover the body with it.”

Gingerly, she did so.

It didn’t help much. Instead of a dead body in the same room with her that she could see, now there was a dead body in the same room with her she couldn’t see, and that creeped her out even more. Everybody knew villains never really died. Just when you thought you were safe, they got up again, eyes terrifying abysses, arms sickly groping for you like in Night of the Living Dead.

“You will go bathe now, Jessica.”

She didn’t move. She wasn’t about to go off and get in the shower, only to end up having a Psycho moment.

“She’s dead, lass. I swear. She was human, nothing out of the ordinary. Now go bathe,” he said in a voice that brooked no resistance. “I will protect you. Go.”

After searching his burnt-scotch gaze a moment, Jessi went.



Near dawn on Friday, October thirteenth, Jessi stared into the mirror, blew out an exasperated breath, and muttered the spell to release Cian for the gazillionth time.

It finally worked.

Hours had passed since the long, scalding shower she’d taken, using up two entire bars of those little pink soaps.

Cian had kept her occupied with tales of life in the ninth century. He’d told her of his seven doting sisters, his mother who tried to manage them all, of his eventual attempts to secure them worthy husbands.

He’d spoken in great, loving detail of his castle in the mountains, and of the rugged bens and sparkling burns surrounding it. It was obvious he’d adored his home, his family, and his clan.

He’d told her of the heather that grew wild along the hillsides and so fragrantly scented a fire; he spoke at length of the savory Scots meals that he’d been missing for centuries.