He slowed as he passed through Inverness, knowing he could pick up speed again after the next stop sign.
Suddenly, he was blinded by a flash. He couldn’t see anything. Adrenaline rushed through his body. His leg brushed against something hard, but he couldn’t immediately react. It was a few seconds before he could get his bike to come to a full stop.
What the hell, he thought. He was in great pain, and yet he knew that was absolutely impossible. He would have welcomed pain. Any feeling would have been better than his unbearable numbness.
There was no question, though—he could feel his heart pounding double-time to pump the blood through his veins. He slowly looked up as the bike underneath him purred, ready to flee at his command.
The street was almost empty. A suitcase was in the middle of the road. But Payton McLean wasn’t looking at that. His eyes were looking for her.
There was another flash of light, and a new wave of pain washed over him, almost overwhelming him.
Damn, he said to himself, what was that?
He quickly turned away. The bike’s motor screeched full of energy as he sped off in a panic. His heart was racing faster than his Ducati, even after he had left the girl far behind.
Many miles later, in the safety of the dusk, Payton’s mind began to clear. He stopped at the side of the deserted road, got off his bike, and eased the helmet off his head. Breathing heavily, he looked around. The loneliness of the Highlands stretched out in front of him. The mountains were mere shadows in the darkening night.
He let an anguished howl escape from his throat. He was desperate to experience feeling again. Pain—how incredible it had felt. After all the emptiness. Nothing. Years of nothing.
He kicked a stone with his boot, hard, and it rocketed away into the darkness. Still, he felt nothing.
Please… Please… God, redeem me, he silently prayed.
Payton squinted into the night, waiting.
And just as the countless times before, his plea wasn’t heard by anyone.
CHAPTER 4
The final stop on the bus tour was a visit to Urquhart Castle, which sits on the edge of the legendary Loch Ness. I was feeling restless—our group was moving slowly—and I broke off from the pack to enjoy the view on my own. As the day had passed, I’d started to enjoy the tour, but I didn’t need to hear every single fragment of history to appreciate the beauty of the sights.
A man who looked a bit like Arnold Schwarzenegger was trying to take a picture of himself and his female companion. He set his camera into a small nook in the castle wall, pushed the auto button, ran quickly back to his darling, and put his arm around her hips. They briefly stayed in that unnatural pose, and then Arnold went to check whether the photo had was any good. I shook my head—at this rate, they weren’t going to get a decent shot at all—and I decided to pitch in.
“Can I maybe help you?”
“Oh, yes. Thank you,” the woman answered, laughing. “Our heads are always cut off!”
Happily, they smiled as I took a few shots, framing them carefully with the Grant Tower behind them. In return, they took a picture of me in front of Loch Ness.
It was hard to imagine that people had actually lived their lives in this castle, that it had once been something more than a ruin. I envisioned rough invaders swinging their swords as they raided the place. People from another world entirely, seven hundred years before. I climbed up the tower and took in the breathtaking view. I could easily see why this lake was the source of so many mysteries: the water looked almost black, and its surface was restless and opaque. Bare branches drifted in the current, standing out like bony arms from the secret depths below.
The wind blew my hair into my eyes, and I went back into the tower. My flimsy jacket wasn’t heavy enough for the Scottish climate. I wandered along behind a smoochy couple until I noticed that there was no trace of my tour group anywhere. I quickly scanned the ruin. Crap, I said to myself. Where had they all gone?
I pulled my jacket tightly around me and headed back to the bus. The path led over a small bridge, up a slope, and through the open doors of the souvenir shop. Dozens of people were pushing through the narrow aisles, clutching postcards and stuffed Nessies.
Looking for the shortest way past the crowd to the exit, I scooted along the back wall and tried to squeeze by a metal jewelry rack featuring coats of arms and clan tartans. I stopped dead in my tracks. A necklace on the rack looked just like the one I’d found in the attic.
Reaching into my shirt, I pulled out my grandma’s necklace. Wow—I was right! It did match.
I took the souvenir necklace off the display. It was slightly larger than mine and had a label that read “Cameron Coat of Arms, 12 pounds.”