Into the otherworld, p.1
Into the Otherworld, page 1
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Into the Otherworld
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
A word about the author…
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Flora’s pulse roared in her ears as the blood pushed past the lump that had lodged itself somewhere near her heart. What the hell was going on here?
“Owen’s dead,” she bit out, feeling like she was being stabbed in the gut as the words tumbled from her mouth. She knew it to be true just as much as she believed it wasn’t.
A perfectly contoured raven eyebrow rose. “Is he?”
“Yes.” Flora didn’t sound terribly convincing, not even to herself.
The smile became sly, the sharp cheekbones blooming as the woman approached her. It amazed Flora how gracefully she moved in her towering heels, how regal she appeared in her black suit, and the full fur coat loosely wrapped around her. Even the hat perched precariously on her head, a matching black feather skimming the air, oozed money and power.
“You and I both know that isn’t the case, don’t we Flora MacDonald?”
Flora’s heart slammed into her breastbone. “How did you…?” she whispered, fear curling around her.
The woman slipped around her. “Would you do whatever it takes?” she murmured into Flora’s ear.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you saving Owen.” Matter-of-fact. As if Flora had even an inkling of a clue what was going on.
“I barely know him,” Flora told the woman.
“But is his life worth it to you? Would you save him if I told you, you could? Or would you give him up to the other side?”
Into the Otherworld
by
Kyra Whitton
Breaking the Veil Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Into the Otherworld
COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Kyra Whitton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by Kristian Norris
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2018
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2134-9
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2135-6
Breaking the Veil Series
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For those I would cross the veil to retrieve;
may you always know who you are.
Chapter 1
Flora MacDonald found it rather ironic that getting divorced in America was a lot easier than setting up shop in America. Not that either were particularly difficult, but filing a non-contest divorce had given her less trouble than retrieving a lost computer password.
It had taken only a couple of months to get both of their signatures on the paperwork, something both of them were eager to do. More than anything, Robert had seemed embarrassed that he had to admit to his infidelity and gave into her every request, which, if she was perfectly honest, wasn’t much. The condo had been his, as had most of the furniture. She didn’t want it, anyway. But she asked for a large sum of money, instead, fully expecting him to barter with her, and when no counteroffer came, she was surprised to, instead, be unceremoniously offered a check for the full amount.
She mourned briefly for the friend she had lost, for the time she had spent living a lie she didn’t even know was a lie, but mostly she realized how miserable she truly had been—not necessarily with her ridiculously short marriage, but with her entire life—and chose to look at the whole thing as a growing experience.
An expensive, stressful, anger-inducing experience.
At least it allowed her to completely rewrite her life. No longer were her days spent in contract negotiations, feet crammed into uncomfortable shoes, bum glued to a chair. Her alarm clock no longer chirped angrily hours before the sun rose, and she hadn’t worn a hint of brown in months. Instead, she’d traded in her tailored suits for worn jeans and jumpers, her designer heals for fuzzy boots, and her carefully coifed knots for wild copper ponytails. She’d kicked her career to the side and welcomed her parents’ disapproval to open up a shop in Middle America.
It was a drunken, spur-of-the-moment decision, and one that should have probably inspired more thought and foresight, but if Flora was one thing, it was stubborn. Following a self-pitying wallow at the local pub, McGregor’s, after finding Robert in a compromising position with his personal trainer, she’d found herself inquiring about an empty space across the square and the equally empty apartment above it. She had taken possession of both on a month-to-month lease while she worked on the business permits, and then signed over the next year of her life to the owner a week before November rang in. Robert’s money and betrayal had certainly paved her way to a new beginning.
She had never had so much fun in her life, something she realized wasn’t really much of an accomplishment. She had always been so focused, fun had been something she kept on the back burner. “Fun” to Flora had consisted mostly of grabbing a pint after long hours of study. But finding supplies, ordering goods, planning the store, and opening boxes full of little bits of home filled her with an excitement she had never experienced before.
The Victorian building wasn’t old by any means, at least not to the standards of her home country. But it had lovely hardwood floors, high ceilings, and a whole wall of exposed brick. The former occupant—a comic book guy, she’d been told—had left some old display cases, which she put to good use holding decidedly Scottish ornaments and jewelry made by Highland craftsmen. She filled the rest of the space with some large, imported antiques: a wardrobe to house tartan skirts and hand-knit cabled jumpers, a thick-legged and beautifully carved pub table upon which she could make her seasonal displays, glass-fronted barrister bookcases for, well, books. In the back, she had gone a little more modern, installing a refrigerated case for ales and grocers’ shelves for the food items she would sell. She had been positively giddy when the first case of Cadbury Whole Nut bars had arrived. So giddy, she might have eaten three immediately. Or five.
Fine, it was five.
She had made it a habit to go to McGregor’s for dinner every Tuesday evening. It was the slowest night for the middle-aged owner, which gave her a chance to dig for information about the town and clientele since she had been too nervous to actually venture out and meet any of her fellow shopkeepers. At first, the older man had been reluctant to talk, but once she asked about the pub and his background, he was more willing to open up. It turned out Mr. McGregor’s parents had been Irish immigrants of Scottish background and had opened the pub upon retiring from their day jobs. He took it over when his father died at the age of eighty-four a few years back. His mother, he told her, could still be found in the kitchen some nights.
But when she wasn’t cramming shepherd’s pie into her mouth and washing it down with an ale, she kept to herself, setting up shop and making a home. Lucky for her, she had been so set on doing everything just right the first time, she had—past tense had—a nice little savings account set aside for a rainy day. She hadn’t been able to think of a reason not to call finding her husband in bed with another man a rainy day, and nearly emptied the fund buying new clothes, getting her hair cut, and acquiring furniture for her little apartment—Roberts’s money was all for the business, but she felt she owed it to herself to play with hers. She felt more like herself—though, to be honest, she was still trying to figure out who she was—than she ever had before, and that surely had to count for something. She thought maybe she would get a cat. Or a dog. Who knew? The possibilities were endless.
The town’s preparations for the Christmas shopping season were in full swing; no sooner had the howling ghosts and round, orange pumpkins been retired than silver bells and holly popped up along the brick sidewalks. Friday night candlelight shopping was being advertised for every week up until Christmas, itself, and there would be carolers on the square, a giant tree would be erected, and Santa would arrive to listen to the wishes of local children. Flora’s aim was to have the shop’s Grand Opening on the Monday before the first candlelight shopping
Well, she hoped there was a rush. Or at least steady foot traffic.
And she only had three days to make sure all was perfect.
She was standing at the front of the shop, going through her inventory lists on her laptop when a series of bangs rattled the heavy metal back door. She jumped a little, nearly sloshing her tea over the side of her mug, and frowned. She’d never had anyone knock at the back before, and the delivery drivers always came to the front door, tapping lightly on the glass, which was covered on the inside with brown paper reading “Coming Soon: The Thistle and Rose.”
Flora set her mug down and carefully slid her cell phone into a sweater pocket, just to be on the safe side. Still frowning, she made her way to the back, through the little store room, and into the landing that separated the shop from the stairs leading up to the apartment. Hesitantly, she opened the heavy metal door and peered out.
All she could see was a giant box. A pair of arms were wrapped around it, and two jean-clad legs were all that appeared from its bottom.
“Um, may I help you?” she asked, surprised to hear her usually throaty voice sound so squeaky.
“Sorry, this has been sitting out here all morning, and since it’s starting to rain, I thought you might like it not to get all wet.”
The voice belonged to a man. Which, upon further observation, she could have deduced from the size and breadth of the hands and the feet.
Flora looked up and around the box. Indeed, the sky was gray and low and steady rain fell. “Oh, all right. Um, here.” She reached for it, but couldn’t figure out how to take it from him without it falling on her feet.
“It’s really heavy. How about you just tell me where you want it, and I’ll bring it in for you.”
She hesitated.
“I promise, as soon as I set it down, I’ll leave. Scout’s honor.”
“I have no idea what that means, but fine. Could you bring it into the main shop?” She pulled the door all the way open and stood back.
The man pushed in, hefting the box up for a better grip. She followed behind him, letting the massive door clunk shut, and tried not to notice his rather impressive bum and broad shoulders. He squatted down in front of the display case, carefully lowering the box onto the ground rather than just dropping it, and stood back up.
Bloody hell, but he was gorgeous. His light hair, the color of fresh honey, was cut short. He looked back at her with gleaming green eyes. Even from a few feet away, she could see how green they really were, like spring moss. He had a straight nose and square chin with a slight cleft in it. Strong jaw. His shoulders were just as broad from the front as they were from the back, and there, he saw she was looking at him, and a dimple winked as he smiled at her.
She immediately regretted the too-big jeans slung around her hips and the overly large hooded sweater she had pulled on that morning, the low, loose ponytail of fuzzy coppery hair at the nape of her neck. She quickly averted her eyes and felt her pale cheeks flush red under her smattering of freckles.
“Um, uh, thank you,” she finally stuttered out.
“No problem,” he said settling his hands on his hips, relaxed. Then straightened abruptly as he realized he had promised he would go as soon as he offloaded the box. He pointed toward the back door. “I’ll get out of your hair.” He started toward the back, leaving Flora a little slack-jawed behind him.
“I’m Flora,” she said almost desperately, suddenly wanting him to stay.
He gave her a dimpled smile again, and she thought she might melt into a puddle right there.
“Owen,” he told her, his deep Southern drawl like melted chocolate.
“Nice to meet you.” She held out her hand.
She had never thought of herself as petite. She was an average height, with an average build, but when he took her hand in his, she suddenly felt small, delicate, ladylike. She fumbled for something to say. To make him stay. “Are you, do you… Do you have a shop around here?”
He shook his head. “No. My sister owns the children’s boutique next door. I’m just helping her out for a while.”
“Oh.” Oh? All she could think of was oh? “So, maybe I’ll see you around?”
Lords above, what was wrong with her? She had never been this tongue-tied, thunderstruck, or flustered around any man, not even Robert when she’d first met him!
Perhaps that had been part of the problem…
He grinned at her, almost wickedly, and pushed out the door. “See you around, Flora,” he called over his shoulder as he pulled the door shut behind him.
Flora dropped her face into her hands and groaned. What the hell was wrong with her? Not only had she acted like a complete idiot, she was just divorced! Shouldn’t she be drowning her sorrows in a bottle of wine and swearing off men? Not acting like a sixteen-year-old girl and basically throwing herself at them!
She shook herself out, rolled her head across her shoulders, and turned back to the rather large box in front of her. She racked her brain for an idea of what might be in it, but she couldn’t think of anything missing from the orders she’d made.
It was taped up rather well, so she had to go in search of a box cutter, but once the flaps were pulled back, she found herself staring at a rather odd assortment of Celtic items. Quite a few of the books looked to be antiques, a small metal bowl with some decorative pictures hammered into it, a rather lovely knife with etchings on its blade, and a carved wooden box filled with various silver jewelry items. She pulled everything out, one by one, turning them over in her hand and spreading them out across the glass countertop.
She honestly couldn’t remember ordering any of these things, but she had placed bids on some lots being auctioned off from a few large estates in the Highlands and somewhere in Wales. Or maybe it was Cornwall? She searched through the packing material for a receipt, but there was nothing. She turned the box back over. Sure enough, her name was printed on the shipping label, but there was no return address. Odd.
Well, she supposed it really didn’t matter. She would just have to catalog them and add them to the display somewhere.
She went back to work, carefully clicking through her spreadsheets, crosschecking, and cataloging. But her mind was still on the strange items in the box, and perhaps more importantly, the man who had brought it into her life. When she found herself staring off into space instead of working, she decided to take a break. She clicked over to her Internet browser and opened up the search engine. Reaching out, she pulled one of the old leather bound books to her and flipped open the cover. The pages were thin, delicate, and smelled musty. The ink was faded.
“Mabinogion.” She sounded out the name—or what she thought the name might be. She flipped a few more pages and was greeted by a foreign language. She was certainly no expert, but it looked like Welsh. Or at least, the little bit of Welsh she’d come into contact with while on holiday in Cardiff and Tenby as a girl. The print was faded, the pages yellow and fraying on the edges, some pages torn and ripped, others missing completely.
Well, the title was enough to get started, somewhere, at least. She typed it into the search bar and hit enter. She clicked on the first link to come up and skimmed the opening paragraph. The Mabinogion appeared to be a collection of Welsh histories and folklore from the Dark Ages, which was translated and compiled by one Lady Charlotte Guest in 1877. This copy wasn’t that old, the spine in impeccable shape, the cover unworn. But the leather was soft and supple, the gold brushed pages gleaming. She pushed it away and reached for the next.
Canu Taliesin. Now, Taliesin was a name she was more familiar with, although she couldn’t think why off the top of her head. Another search revealed he was a sixth-century bard hailing from Wales or Cornwall or…somewhere in the southwestern regions of Britain. The name likely came up in school, in days long forgotten as she set out on her university path.
The other tomes included journals, a sketchbook, a book about magic, and an herb encyclopedia. Clearly, she had been drunk when she made the bid on this particular box, because none of it was anything she would have had any interest in stocking, save maybe some of the jewelry. Perhaps that was it. Maybe she ended up with the rest of it as a way to get the silver pendants and amulets?
