The reckoning, p.19
The Reckoning, page 19
part #50 of The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Series
“If not my brother, Walter—"
“But Walter is dead.”
“Aye. So I believed.”
“And if not Walter?”
“Someone…equal, perhaps. Some blood kin? My brother ran roughshod over the world, after all, with no one to answer to. I have no doubt he sewed his seed far and wide. There might be many more of his children out there. More than just…”
“Me.”
Wickham released her hands and began rubbing her arms, to keep her warm, despite her layers of wool clothing. He always fretted over her when her parentage was mentioned, as if he could make up for her being put up for adoption. He was always trying to make up for the fact that her grandfather was a wicked man, though he might not have known about his own child, let alone his granddaughter.
“As I’ve said many times, ye should be pleased ye never came face to face with Walter. But I wonder if my sisters and I weren’t the only ones to recognize ye as our own. Remember what I said about yer parents? That they are likely alive, out there somewhere?”
“Aye.”
“I should have realized then what a danger it would be to find them. If they realized ye were a Third, and gave ye up to hide ye from Walter, it means there could be others searching for ye as well. An uncle, a cousin. Even a sibling.”
“A sibling?” She couldn’t help the adrenaline dumping into her bloodstream at the mere idea of not being an only child. But it was too late for that. She wouldn’t be around long enough to enjoy that kind of relationship. Any relationship.
“Aye. There is no reason to think there aren’t others. But Soncerae,” he took her shoulders in his hands and gave her a firm shake, “ye’re not like other teenagers searching for blood-family. And neither are they.” He noted something in her expression and his brows flew high. “Heaven help me, I’m making this worse! Soni, lass, my precious. I beg ye, do not entertain hopes of finding them when we must do all we can to keep them from finding ye!
“Whoever it is that has followed yer footsteps to Culloden, their intentions are to harm ye, no mistake. There is no reason to believe they would be less dangerous than my brother. Perhaps just as greedy. Someone who would never be satisfied with what they’ve been given. Someone who might plan to steal yer life away as Walter once sought to steal mine.” He shook her again. “Promise me ye’ll not go looking.”
She scoffed. “What could they take from me, really—”
“Yer power. Yer very specific power, which is tied to yer ghosties by a very short tether. The better question is…what might they do with yer Highlanders?”
A shiver ran up her spine and shattered across the back of her head. The discussion was just too dark and too chilling to be having in the middle of the night in freezing winter weather. “Let’s talk of this tomorrow, preferably in front of a warm fire, aye? For now, I have a Highlander to send away.”
Wickham turned her loose and stepped back. “Aye. We should talk long and hard about finishing this business.” He glanced at Simon. “No offense.”
Simon waved away Wickham’s concern, then gave Soni a wistful grimace before backing away as well. There was no time to deal with worried ghosts and uncles because she was too busy being haunted herself—by that shadow currently occupying her bed. Of all the nights she’d snuck away from the house, it was most important she not get caught this time, or her mother’s heart would break for good.
She closed her eyes, cleared her mind, and began humming a simple summoning tune. It was the first her great aunts had taught her when she’d been only five. It was a dangerous tool to hand over to a child that age, but she’d been getting frustrated, and the sisters believed that a frustrated child with powers such as hers was a dangerous thing. They’d said nothing about her being a Third, even when they’d taught her the Rowena story.
The sisters had been careful to give her strict rules to go along with the tune, such as making certain she was well and truly alone when she used it. And they’d forbade her from summoning anything but her toys.
It had worked out well enough. After all, one must master a rule first…before one can break it properly. By the time she was seven, she’d been able to summon anything--things, people, spirits--with the tune simply playing in her head. Tonight, however, she used her voice, weaving the melody through the chill night air, like half a dozen icy breezes dancing around each other while they searched out the man whose name she held at the front of her mind.
Fisher Rankine.
Those frosty tendrils of focused song danced down the path of clan markers and veered to her right, where the left wing of Charles Stuart’s army had fought, facing north. With the rest of the MacDonald of Glencoe Regiment, the Rankines had struggled alongside the Keppoch’s on the front line, where so very many were lost.
Blinking and stumbling like a man roused from a deep sleep, Fisher Rankine made his way toward her, his steps growing surer as understanding dawned. He was tall, muscular, and had a face that made Soni smile. There was nothing particularly pleasant about his nose, eyes, cheeks, or mouth. But the combination was beautiful. At least to her. If it weren’t for the fact that she’d already lost her heart to Simon, she’d have lost it to Fisher. Hands down.
He frowned at the spot where he expected the fire. It was there, but hidden. Still frowning, he closed the distance to her in a blink. “Soncerae.”
“Fisher.”
He smiled at the sound of his name. “Is something amiss?” He gestured toward the missing fire.
“Nothing. I am unusually pressed for time this night, but I must send ye on yer way. All the stars are aligned, as it were. We mustn’t miss the window.”
He nodded as if he understood, but she knew he did not. His lack of concern was a mask for the others who might be looking on. In his heart, Fisher Rankine was shaking in his boots. It was a pity she couldn’t have sent him earlier, to put him out of his misery, but Martine hadn’t been ready.
“Ye’ll no longer be known as Number 4, my friend. Trust yer instincts and ye’ll do fine. I’ll see ye again in two days’ time.”
His carefree mask slipped briefly, but a forced smile brought it back into place. “Wait, ye wee beesom,” he teased, “allow me to ready my weapons, at least. Ye wouldnae send me into this next battle without my sword and targe, surely.” His hands searched his waist, his shoulders, but there was no hilt, no gun, no shield.
“Ye’ll not be joining that sort of battle, my friend.” She gave a nod, and with it, willed one of the life credits into him, from her arm. And the instant he was mortal, she stepped close and rose on her toes, to kiss his cheek and whisper in his ear. “Simply prove that ye’re still a good man, Fisher. And it will be enough, aye?”
With no one close enough to see, he allowed his false bravado to drop away. “No more proving myself in battle, ye say?” His eyes glistened with hope.
“Only the battles ye choose.”
He pulled her close for a quick embrace. Since she couldn’t wrap her arms around Simon, she didn’t see the harm in a wee squeeze. After indulging herself for just a pair of seconds, she waved her hand and sent Fisher from the moor before either of them could enjoy it, and before Simon could protest. Her torture would have to continue—being in love with a man who could never really hold her--as long as they occupied different states of being…
“I must go now,” she said to anyone listening, including Simon. “No time.” He started toward her but she held out a hand to stop him. “I’m sorry. I’m needed at home.”
For once, when she left the moor, she was able to push aside the anguish she felt each night when she had to leave him there, in the darkness. This time, it was easy to let other worries fill her mind. Like whether or not her mom had discovered the shadow lying in her bed.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Soni’s mobile phone rang as soon as she turned onto the road. Wickham’s ringtone. She put it on speakerphone. “Did I forget something?”
“I’m going to follow ye home, lass. Ye shouldn’t be goin’ anywhere alone anymore. Ever. Until…this business is finished. So when ye return to the moor next, I’ll come collect ye.”
She resisted the urge to rebel. “It will give us more time together, aye?”
“Just so.”
The warning light came on. “Hey, I’m out of petrol.” She checked her gage. “Way out. I dinnae trust I’ll make it all the way home.”
“No hurry.”
She checked her rearview mirror again and, as usual, the mystery car pulled onto the road just after her uncle’s pickup. “Wickham?”
“Aye. I’m here.”
“Why do you need to follow me home, too. Don’t ye trust yer regular lads?”
Wickham was silent for a long minute. “Soni?”
“Aye.”
“My regular lads?”
“Aye. That car behind ye. They’ve been following me the last four or five times I’ve gone to the moor.” Her chest flooded with fear. “Wickham?”
“And they follow ye home again?”
“Nay. Just to Kingmills Hotel. That’s where they fall in behind me, and where they cut out again.” Her voice shook so madly, she didn’t know how he could understand her. Her hands trembled too, but she was able to stay in her lane. “What do I do? Can we step out of Time--”
“Nay! If they have the power, they can follow us, prevent us from every stepping back—Shite! My petrol is gone as well. They’ve drained the tanks. Listen to me. Ye must get somewhere public and bright, whether or not it has petrol. Do ye ken? And if my truck dies, ye’re not to come back for me. Keep goin’, no matter what. I’ll call my sisters. They’ll call the cavalry.”
“If I concentrate—”
“Nay, lass. Get safe first. Concentrate on that.” He cursed again and she could tell his headlights were falling quickly behind, stopping. The second car pulled in behind him, its headlamps shining through the windows of the truck, contrasting with his lone black silhouette.
“Wickham!”
“After ye cross the A9, take the first left at the roundabout. Stop at that Tesco station. Nothing else will be open now. Go inside and—"
His phone cut out.
A third set of headlights pulled around the other two and continued behind her. A lorry. Maybe a van. It blocked the view of what might be happening to Wickham, but she was too far away to see anyway. To conserve gas, she resisted the urge to speed. The van passed her instead of following, then drove on and she relaxed her grip. Due to the curve in the road, Wickham’s lights were well out of sight by the time she could see behind her again.
Her phone lit up. It was the sisters’ ring tone. Wickham hadn’t had a chance to call them, unless he’d done so with his mind. Soni answered and put the mobile to her ear. “They have Wickham! Or they’ve hurt him! We were cut off. They siphoned his gas too, and the truck died—”
“Soni, listen!”
“Aye?”
“Whatever ye do, don’t—”
And then nothing. They’d been cut off, just like Wickham’s call had been. She hit redial and nearly drove off the road but recovered. The call never connected. She tried the police, then waited, forcing herself to breathe. The phone gave a dying beep, then shut down.
I’m on my own. I need to get safe.
She remembered she’d finished charging her phone while waiting for her parents to go to sleep. The cold weather couldn’t have drained a day’s worth of battery… What kind of witch could kill a phone—in a moving vehicle they weren’t even in?
She had to concentrate. A9, first left, Tesco.
No! She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t just leave Wickham to defend himself. Already, he could be hurt!
She reached out with her mind. Wickham! What have they done to ye? But there was only silence. Either he was unconscious, or they’d found a way to hush him—like the witch hunters had done! If she’d tried to help him sooner—
The mortal Simon McLaren wasn’t around to come to their rescue this time. It was up to her. And if these were witch hunters, she was at least on her guard. Besides, if she didn’t at least try, how could she ever face Ivy and her children?
She tossed her worthless phone aside, hoping the sisters would have gotten through to the police, then looked for enough room to turn the car around. She started across the overpass, but with no time to waste, she couldn’t wait until the roundabout farther on.
She edged closer to the left rail and slowed, but a car was coming from the opposite direction, so she waited for them to pass. But at the last second, the car veered into her lane--a large black van—which screeched to a halt in front of her. The side door was already open and large men poured out of it
Soni shoved the gear shift into reverse and put the pedal to the floor. The engine revved, then coughed and died. Out of petrol!
With shaking fingers, she found the button and locked the car. Blood and adrenaline screamed in her ears, beat on her heart like a baton on a kettle drum. One of them struck a back tire and the car tilted. But still, what frightened her the most was the sound of them flipping the door handles. Could a sixteen-year-old die of a heart attack?
The man standing beside her driver’s side door stooped down, to look at her. She refused to turn her head in some unreasonable hope that if she ignored him, he’d go away. The driver finally got out of the van and came to stand in front of her hood. His facemask exposed his eyes. He was way too pleased with himself.
It pissed her off.
She’d do anything to wipe that look off his face…
Her car began to rock and she grasped the steering wheel to steady herself. The five men, clad in black, grabbed the handles again, but this time, to steady themselves. The overpass itself was rocking, along with the van, which started rolling backward. The driver glanced over his shoulder, but instead of worrying about his vehicle, he rushed around to her window, pulled his arms to one side, then swung something at the glass.
The window shattered. Black gloves reached through the hole, pulled more glass out of the way. Another one flexed toward the buttons on the armrest, to unlock the door. She pulled back her elbow, then buried it into the stretching arm, grinding her pointy bones between the man’s radius and the ulna bones.
Until a hand clamped around her left shoulder, she hadn’t realized that the passenger window had been shattered and the door opened. Cold air flooded around her but she couldn’t stop fighting.
She wrenched her shoulder free, slapped at the hands trying to open her own door, all while concentrating on shaking the ground beneath them.
The gloves disappeared. The van driver stooped to frown at her. “Miss Blakeburn, destroy this overpass and people will die,” he said calmly, “innocent people.”
She thought about the cars on the A9 below, could imagine the faces behind the windows, and instantly invited the world to settle.
This wasn’t random. They knew her name. It was just what Wickham had warned her about. Too bad she hadn’t thought to mention her mysterious escort earlier.
“Climb out of the car, now, and Wickham Muir will live.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Soni tried the engine one more time, but sadly, she wasn’t able to conjure up petrol, or even the function of petrol. She wouldn’t have gotten far with one burst tire anyway, but she just couldn’t shut off the impulse to fight. For a long minute, she sat there, puffing, wishing something else would come to her.
The panic eased as each of the intruders backed away from her car, leaving the next move up to her.
Wickham. She had to think of him now.
“Let Wickham go, and I’ll get out,” she said, loud and clearly.
The driver shook his head. “I said he could live. But if we have to fight you, he’ll pay for it.”
Soni stretched out her powers, testing, probing. She couldn’t read his thoughts, so he had to have been prepared for her to try. But that didn’t mean he had powers. So maybe she still had the upper hand.
The asphalt on the overpass only went so deep…
She imagined it separating, flipping up like a tablecloth, and sending the van into the air—just enough to spin it, not to send it flying off the edge onto the A9. And the asphalt did just that. The van crashed to the ground, the impact sending all five men to their knees. Cowering, with their arms covering their necks, they were almost prepared for their turn, when the black top performed the same trick with them.
The driver landed on his feet, then raised his head to glare at Soni through the windshield. He lifted his radio to his mouth, but before he could say anything, she summoned the wee black contraption to her own hand. It didn’t fly to her; it was simply in his hand one second, then in hers the next. A blink and it was done.
She pressed the bulky button on the side. “Let my uncle go, or these men die.”
The radio was silent for a long moment. Then it gave an electronic screech. “Soni! Soni, this is Wickham. Surrender, lass. Let them take ye. I promise I’ll find ye, but…they have Ivy. They have my boys. We must do as they say.”
She went over his words once again, trying to understand. Ivy and the boys had been taken? Because of her? No!
She shook her head, hoping things would make more sense when they settled back in place. When they didn’t, she shook it again. It was too much to believe. He couldn’t really mean for her to surrender—not when she had the upper hand!
She reached out telepathically. Wickham! They’re on their knees! We can trade them for Ivy and the boys! But ye must tell me what do with them.
Soni, if ye can hear me, surrender! Then the message repeated.
Since when could her and her uncle’s mental link go only one way? It made no sense! Unless…unless it was Walter and not Wickham sending the message. She’d made Wickham a promise that she wouldn’t go looking for other family, and if she answered the stranger’s message in her head, she’d be doing just that.
