The Witch's Stone (7 page)

"Randall." She used her stern voice, the one she saved for students who weren’t going to pass her class. "I have a restraining order. If I call the police, they'll arrest you. You've already been expelled. Go home."

"No!" he shouted, standing straight. "You had me expelled."

"You got yourself expelled. You were asked to leave me alone, to stop sending me letters, to stop following me."

"It’s okay. I know why you did it." His voice was little more than a quivering whisper.

"Go. Michael will be home soon--"

"No, he won't." A smile curved Randall’s lips, slow and predatory. "He's gone until Friday."

Apprehension crept up her spine.

Her husband had left that morning for a conference and wouldn’t be home for four days. And Randall had known. "How did you know that?"

"Now that I'm not in school, I have a lot of free time."

For the first time since this whole thing with Randall had started, fear tightened her insides. Over the past months, she’d found him sad, a nuisance, unfortunate, but never frightening.

"I'm closing the door. You have five minutes to go away, then I'm calling the police."

She started to push the door closed, but he blocked it with his hand and moved so his body filled the doorway. "I just want to talk to you."

"No, you have to go." She placed the flat of both palms on his chest and tried to push him back onto the porch, but he was stronger than she gave his skinny body credit for.

"Listen to me," he shouted. He grabbed both her upper arms, his fingers digging painfully into the flesh, and thrust her back. Her elbow struck the heavy newel post at the bottom of the stairs, sending a sharp rocket of pain darting up her arm. “I just want to talk.”

The hell with that.

Rubbing her aching elbow, she edged closer to the opening that would lead her into the dining room. She could run through there, to the living room and out the back door, then to her neighbor’s where she would call 911.

Randall moved further into the house, closing and locking the door behind him. The heavy clunk of the bolt sliding into place chilled her blood as her control over the situation slipped away.

“Why are you trying to run?” Randall snapped, stepping in front of her and using his frame to block her escape.

He was skinny, taller than her, but beanpole thin. Maybe if she caught him by surprise, shoved into him as hard as she could, she would knock him over and buy herself enough time to get away.

“I just need you to understand,” he said, almost pleading. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She reverted to her disappointed school teacher voice, doing her best to ignore the pounding of her heart. “I didn’t realize that was an option.”

“Well, you’re making me angry.” He sounded like a defensive child. She was certain the power had shifted back to her.

“I’m sorry, Randall, but this behavior is unacceptable. If you want to speak to me, forcing your way into my house is not the way to do it.”

“This is the only way. You got me expelled and if I leave you’ll have me arrested.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. It’s your fault. We’re supposed to be together now.”

“You’re one of my students--”

“Not anymore. You had me expelled, but it’s okay, I know why you did it. We couldn’t be together if I was in your class or going to the university. But now we can.”

The full impact of his delusion struck her as it never had before. How could she have confused this with a crush gone too far? It didn’t matter now. She had to get away from Randall.

She charged him, head down and forearms up, like a football player pushing toward the goal. Randall let out an airy “oomph!” as she forced him back and out of her way. Her dining room came into view just as he locked his hand around her arm and yanked her back.

"Bitch!" he screamed, his voice hoarse and shrill all at once.

His free hand closed into a fist and swung back. She squeezed her eyes shut so she wouldn't see him hit her. But she heard the flat thud as his fist connected. And felt the explosion on her cheek that made her ears ring and sent her tumbling backward.

He was on her in a second. Straddling her hips and tugging at her shirt.

“You’ll see. You’ll see,” he muttered over and over again, like a kind of mantra.

She tried shoving him off, slapping and punching at him. The reality of what was about to happen was sinking in, bringing with it the sick realization she was helplessness to stop him.

"Stop Randall, please. Stop!"

If he heard her, he made no indication. He yanked her shirt up and pulled her bra down, exposing her breasts. His groping hands on her flesh turned her stomach. She screamed, loud and high as she continued to struggle.

"Shut up!" He backhanded her, grinding her lips against her teeth. The sweet metallic flavor of her own blood filled her mouth. Her head swam, but she was still conscious enough to feel him pull at the zipper on her jeans.

Desperate, she reached out and seized his face with both her hands. Gritting her teeth, she gored both sides of his face with her fingernails. He howled and pulled away from her, giving her the chance to scurry out from under him and dart for the dining room.

For a moment, she thought she might be free, then Randall leapt at her, tackling her into the buffet, sending the ornaments decorating the surface crashing to the hardwood floor. Her shoulder struck the large gold-framed mirror hanging on the wall. The glass cracked with the impact. They rolled onto the floor, the heavy mirror landing on top of them, showering them both with shards of broken glass before falling aside.

She started to crawl away. Then his hands were on her again, flipping her onto her back. And he was straddling her. He bent his head, pressing his mouth to her neck. Her stomach lurched.

She reached out, her fumbling fingers straining for something, anything that she could use to knock him off. Her hand closed around something cool and smooth. She gripped it tight. The sharp edges sank into her palm.

A guttural cry filled the air--later she would realize the sound had come from her--as she swung wide. The tip of the broken mirror connected with his neck, sinking deep into his flesh. He sat up straight and opened his mouth. A strange gurgling sound bubbled out.

Hillary sat up straight in the darkness. Sweat soaked her skin and her body trembled. For a split second, she didn't know where she was, then memory flooded her, reminding her of how she’d wound up at Joan’s inn.

With a shaky breath, she wiped away the tears on her cheeks. Her throat felt raw and dry. She hadn't screamed in her sleep, had she?

When he'd first come home, Michael had complained about her waking him night after night. But the dreams had been more frequent, then.

No one was pounding at her door. That was a good sign.

On wobbly legs, she left her bed and went to the bathroom. She ran the tap and filled the porcelain cup next to the sink. She gulped deeply, the cold water soothing her burning throat. Once she'd drained the cup, she filled it again and guzzled back the contents before setting it back on the counter.

Her wide-eyed expression in the mirror shocked her. With her skin pale and her hair tangled from her restless sleep, she looked wild, haunted. She turned away, the image hardly comforting.

Back in the bedroom, the room felt hot and small, as if the walls were closing in. She dragged a chair to the window and pushed open the glass, breathing in the frigid air. The dark night was quiet and the slight breeze seemed to chase away the last remnants of her dream.

In the distance a light shone, tiny and bright. It flickered and swirled in the dark.

Joan's Witchlights?

As if the nightmare wasn't enough, now she was seeing ghosts.

Or maybe, and far more likely, she was simply losing her mind.

Perhaps the prospect of returning to Glendon House had brought on her nightmare. After all, the last time Hillary had been in the house, she’d found a dead woman at the bottom of the stairs. As she steered her car up the long, narrow drive, a shiver ran through her.

She glanced at Caid, sitting in the passenger seat. He hadn't noticed. His gaze was fixed on the road beyond the windshield, his fingers curled into the arm rest so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

"I'm not used to driving here yet," she ventured.

He didn't look at her. "Really? I hadnae noticed. It seemed perfectly natural to turn onto the road and face down a lorry."

"Sorry about that." She opted for a change of subject, hoping to distract him. "Will your parents still be at the house?"

"No’ likely. I insisted they spend the night yesterday, but my father was equally adamant that they leave. Worried about running into him again?"

"Not worried per se, just not eager for another unpleasant confrontation."

He smiled, but didn't let his gaze wander from the windshield. She sighed and gave up.

As the car rounded the top of the drive, she spotted a dark green Jaguar parked by the front door. Her stomach dropped. So much for avoiding unpleasant confrontations.

"Looks like they spent the night after all."

Caid shook his head. "That's my brother’s car."

Good
. She pulled up behind the jag and cut the engine. 

Caid turned, lifting his straight brows. "We live."            

“Very funny.” Attraction fluttered in her belly and she mentally squashed it. One uninvited kiss and she was behaving like an infatuated school girl.

Still, when they collected their bags from the trunk and Caid’s hand brushed hers, a wave of goose bumps stippled her skin. She gritted her teeth and did her best to ignore the sensation as she followed him to the door.

Once inside, Caid dropped his suitcase to the floor. "We'll choose rooms later."

Hillary nodded, letting out a slow breath. 

The sickening smell of rot had gone from the foyer, but her gaze kept flicking back to the bottom of the stairs, no matter how she struggled not to look.  There was no evidence that a dead woman had lain there for three days, except, perhaps, for a faint reddish tinge to the dark wood floor. Though, she could just be imagining it. A trick of the light.

"Are you all right?" Caid asked, frowning.

"I found her there." She pointed to the bottom of the stairs.

He started toward her. "I never even thought."

"I'm fine," she said, moving back. "I really am."

Caid opened his mouth as if to say something else, but the sound of another man's voice stopped him.

"I thought I heard you--;" Alex came to a dead stop when he saw Hillary next to Caid. "Dr. Bennett, what a wonderful surprise."

Though the smile on his face never faltered, Hillary doubted he meant a word of it. "Thank you."

Alex turned to Caid. "I thought we'd be leaving straight away. You have yer lunch if I remember correctly."

"Aye. Hillary's going to be staying here.” Caid turned to her.  “Will you be all right on yer own for a wee bit?"

Hillary’s heart rate quickened. "Of course. Where are you going?" She hoped she sounded casual and not terrified at the idea of being left alone in this monstrous house where little more than a week ago she'd found a dead woman.

“Alex is giving me a lift back to Edinburgh so I can meet with my agent and pick up my car. Make yerself as comfortable as possible.” He grimaced as he said the last, glancing around their dreary surroundings. “I’ve no idea where yer journals might be. You could try the study.”

“Thanks. I will.”

Hillary stood, leaving the pile of wrinkled papers and receipts on the floor, and walked to the window, stretching her back. Through the smeared glass, she peered out at Glendon House’s tangled garden. The overgrown shrubs and long grass bowed in the wind. Above the trees, slate-colored clouds swept closer. A storm, maybe.

Her initial nervousness at being left alone had disappeared as she worked. Despite the house’s age and decay, there was something about it that she liked. A rambling coziness that made her feel protected.

For most of the morning and well into the afternoon, Hillary dug through papers packed tight in the credenza and desk, searching for Roderick’s journals. While Caid’s family had given the room a decent surface clean, they hadn’t bothered getting rid of the garbage hidden in the drawers and cupboards.

Things like ancient tax bills and quotes from various contractors, she set aside for Caid. The bundles of newspapers and old magazines, she piled near the door for the garbage. In the end, all she had to show for her hard work was a sore back and bleary eyes.

A loud gurgle from her stomach interrupted her thoughts. She glanced at her watch. Nearly four. Hopefully, Caid would make it back before the storm hit. In the meantime, she had to eat something.

 She made her way to the kitchen, a long rectangular room tucked away at the rear of the house. Of what little of the house she’d explored, she liked this room the best, with its wide stone floor and huge hearth at the far end. Dust and cobwebs gave a feeling of general neglect, but with a good scrub and a can of paint it wouldn't be hard to restore the room, making it cozy and warm. A couch and a few chairs by the fireplace. Move the harvest table to the middle of the room.

Cut it out, it's not your house
. Besides, she didn’t need any reminders of her transient state.

She went to the fridge and hauled out the basket of food Joan had sent with them. And thank God Joan had. There was nothing else to eat. Hillary probably should have gone out for supplies earlier, but she’d lost track of time, and with the first fat drops of rain pelting the windows, she’d wait until tomorrow.

She stood at the counter, picking at the cold roast chicken, cheese and bread, and drinking a can of lemon lime soda. Which room should she search next? She had no idea, but she needed to come up with some kind of plan. The house was huge and filled with junk. If she didn’t get lucky soon, she could spend the rest of her natural life looking for the journals.

When she finished eating, she hefted the leftovers back into the fridge, then went on to explore the rest of the house. As she moved from one junk-filled room to another, her sense of futility grew. Those journals could be anywhere, and she didn’t even know what they looked like.