The Witch's Stone (8 page)

What if they didn't really exist? What if the whole thing had just been the ploy of a lonely old woman looking for attention? No, that couldn't be. James Douglas had been too furious at the prospect of her seeing the journals for them not to be real. Damn, what if he’d taken them with him? The way her luck was running, anything was possible.

As she started up the stairs, her stomach clenched a little on the first step--Agnes’s step--but she kept her gaze straight ahead, and by the time she reached the top she was fine. The rooms upstairs were similar to the ones downstairs. Cluttered, dirty, and in a general state of disrepair.

She found one bedroom recently wiped down, the bedding neat and fresh, and not a single box to be found. Across the hall, there was another room in the same condition. Probably where Caid's parents and brother had stayed. That was good. Both she and Caid would be able to sleep in reasonably clean rooms.

Provided he ever came back.

She checked her watch again. Quarter to five.

At the end of the hall, she found a large bedroom filled with more junk than any of the other rooms she'd seen. Carefully, she moved through the clutter, stepping around the huge pieces of furniture and boxes piled so high she couldn't see over them. When she reached an old brass lamp on the nightstand, she flicked the switch and filled the room with watery light. The soft glow cast long shadows over the mess and unmade bed.

Agnes's room?

Feeling like an interloper, Hillary let her gaze sweep the space, hoping for some clue about where the journals were. On the mantel above the fireplace, a collection of framed black and white photographs stood, covered in dust and cobwebs.

She lifted one and rubbed the dust away from the glass with her sleeve. The man smiling back at her could have been Caid, but she’d never seen Caid with the same expression of easy levity. Judging by the style of his clothes, the man in the photo was probably Caid’s grandfather. Agnes's brother, David. Perhaps that was why she’d left everything to Caid.  He reminded her of her brother.

A loud bang from somewhere deep in the house made her freeze. What was that? Caid, maybe?

Hillary set the picture down, went to the window and pulled back the yellowed lace curtain. Hers was the only car in the driveway.

Her heart rate quickened as she mentally listed the number of reasonable explanations for the noise. The house was old. The storm. But as she left Agnes's room, she heard the distinct sound of footsteps followed by the slam of a door.

Caid squinted through the driving rain, clutching the steering wheel in a death grip. His shoulders ached with tension. Not much further now, thankfully.

The wind swept over the open fields, shifting his car in the lane. He gritted his teeth and held the wheel steady, trying to ignore his growing unease.

It had rained like this the night he’d lost control of his car and hit the tree.

His memories of the accident were almost nonexistent--a combination of alcohol consumption and the trauma from the event. He had a vague recollection of speeding down the road, struggling to keep his eyes open. His next memory was the hospital--emergency room maybe--and a blur of people standing over him.

But no pain. Not then. He’d probably still been too drunk to feel anything.

When he woke next, he was in a hospital room, wrapped in an agony he hadn't known existed.  

Caid pushed the memories away, forcing himself to concentrate on the here and now. The narrow road curved in a loose snake shape, the terrain alternating between wide, flat fields and patches of forest. He preferred driving through the woods. The trees provided a natural barrier, blocking the wind.

Ten minutes and he’d be at Glendon House. He slowed through another sharp curve. Gnarled trees rose up on either side of him, their branches hanging into the road like reaching fingers.

Coming out of the bend, his heart leapt into his throat and he jumped on the brake. A flashing light atop a police car in the center of the road acted as a sort of beacon for the mangled wreck compressed against the wall of trees.

A thin line of sweat trickled down Caid’s back as he pulled over. Struggling to ignore the nausea swirling in his stomach, he climbed out of the car into the cold rain. Bristol, covered in a tent-like slicker, waddled over to him.

“What happened?” Caid had to yell to be heard over the wind and rain.

“Jimmy and Nancy Fraser,” Bristol said. “As best I can tell, they lost control on the wet road and swerved into the trees.” His round face was pale beneath the slicker’s hood.

Bristol said the names as if Caid should know who they were. For a moment, he was tempted to remind Bristol that he hadn’t been in Culcraig since he was ten years old, but changed his mind. What was the point?

“Can I do anything?” he asked, instead.

“No. The ambulance has already come. I’m waiting until what’s left of the car is towed away. I dinnae want any more accidents tonight.” He shook his head slowly. “There’s a dark cloud hanging over the aged in this village.”

Caid didn’t know what to say, but no response seemed needed.

“Are you on yer way to Glendon House?” Bristol asked.

Caid nodded.

“You best be off then. Drive safely.”

“Be careful,” Caid told the officer, then slid back behind the wheel. Bristol gave a short wave as Caid pulled away.

Shivering, he switched on the heat so warm air blasted from the vents in an attempt to dry his rain-soaked clothes. But the effort was futile at best. God, he wanted a hot shower. Hopefully, his parents had hired someone to give Aunt Agie’s bathroom a bit of a clean. They must have. There was no bloody way his mother would have stayed there without certain civilities being met.

He turned up the long drive and the manor rose from the gloom--a welcome relief after the drive. A few lights glowed weakly from the windows. He parked behind Hillary’s rental, grabbed a bag from the back and dashed from the car to the door. Though why he bothered to run when he was already wet, he didn’t know.

As soon as he stepped into the hall, Hillary raced down the stairs as if she’d been waiting for him. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes dark with fear. Confused, he lowered his bag to the floor.

“You’re back,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I’m so glad you’re back.” She gripped his sleeve in a tight fist. “There’s someone in the house.”

Her voice trembled a little, and he was struck with the urge to pull her into his arms and comfort her, but thought better of it. Their agreement was built on a shaky foundation as it was. No need to complicate matters. Still, he shouldn’t have left her alone for so long. Not after she’d found Agnes little more than a week ago. For all her sharp words there was a softness about Hillary. A vulnerability.

“Were you a wee bit nervous on yer own?” he asked, gently.

She released his sweater and took a step back, narrowing her eyes. “I was fine alone,” she said, enunciating each word as though he were dense. “I didn’t get nervous until I realized I
wasn’t
alone. Are you hearing impaired?”

So much for soft vulnerability. “What are you talking about?”

“When I was upstairs, I heard someone walking around down here. At first, I thought it was you, but when I looked out the window, mine was the only car parked out there.”

“How long ago?”

“Just a few minutes.” 

“Right then, let’s have a look.”

He took her hand and was surprised when she linked her fingers with his. A tiny jolt leaped from his palm up his arm.

Together they searched each room, flipping light switches as they went. Some worked, most didn’t, and the ones that did offered such a low wattage they barely lit the space, casting more shadows than anything else. Not that it mattered. He doubted that anyone had actually been in the house. Old houses made noises.

“You know,” Hillary said, keeping her voice low. “This house is huge. We could check each room individually, but who’s to say that whoever’s here won’t just keep moving around as we search, eventually working their way into a room we’ve already checked? We’ll never be one hundred per cent sure we’re alone.”

“Are you suggesting we separate?”

Her grip on his hand tightened. Did she even realize she’d done that?

“It would probably make more sense to split up. If we worked from opposite ends and met in the middle, it would reduce the chance of an intruder slipping away. But as I said, this place is huge and we’re only two people.  The odds of our mystery person eluding us are still pretty good. Not to mention the confusion.”

“Confusion?” He tried to suppress his grin.

“If we separated, we could easily wind up tracking each other. At least together, if we hear or see anything out of the ordinary, we know that it has to be someone else.”

“What an astounding rationalization.”

“I think I made some very good points.”

“Aye, you did. I’m sure you’ve convinced yerself quite nicely. Did you bring the subject up simply because you were concerned I might think you liked holding my hand?” He couldn’t stop himself from smiling, especially when she struggled to untangle her fingers from his.

As they entered the kitchen, he tightened his grip. "Dinnae be like that. I’m just having a wee bit of fun with you."

She ceased struggling and her delicately shaped brows drew together in a frown. "That wasn't here earlier."

"What?" He turned to the direction she pointed. A brass fireplace poker lay dead center on the battered harvest table. On the floor, a series of watery footprints stretched between the back door to the table.

Christ’s sakes, Hillary hadn't just been frightened alone in an old house, there had been someone else here. But who? And why?

She released his hand and moved closer to the table, bending slightly to inspect the poker. He strode to the back door and slid the bolt into place. When he turned, Hillary was staring at him, her eyes wide.

"I think there's blood on this. And maybe hair."

A strange lightheadedness gripped Hillary.  Her stomach turned and she could no longer look at the tiny rust-colored marks dotting the length of the brass poker. Or the single white hair fluttering near the tip. She took a step back as Caid moved closer, his expression impassive.

"Ye’re positive this wasnae here earlier?" he asked.

"I would have noticed a bloody fireplace poker in the middle of the table.”

"It's no’ blood," Caid said, turning toward her.

"How do you know that it isn't?" 

"How do you know that it is?"

She remembered the brass candlesticks in her old dining room. She hadn't noticed them right away, not for nearly a week after the police had let her and Michael back into the house. At first glance, she thought they'd simply been dirty--then the realization of what those dots really were had hit her and sent her flying upstairs to the bathroom.

The marks on the candlesticks had been remarkably similar to the ones dotting the poker.

"Instinct," she told him. "I think we should call Bristol."

Caid shook his head. "Bristol's hands are full tonight. There's been a car accident." With a dishtowel, Caid wrapped the handle before picking the poker up. "We'll ring him in the morning, but for now, we'll find somewhere else for this."

She followed behind him as they retraced their steps, searching for a place to store the poker. At last, Caid decided on a badly scratched credenza in the study. He laid the poker down inside the empty storage space.

“I dinnae think we need to worry about the intruder still being in the house.” Caid slid the cabinet door closed. “The footprints didnae leave the kitchen. Whoever it was, it looks as though they went out through the back door.”

Hillary nodded. “You should probably get changed. You’re soaked through.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “I dinnae suppose in yer search you found a reasonably tidy bathroom.”

She nodded. “I did. Your parents or Alex must have cleaned it because I don’t think Agnes had cleaned anything in years.”

Caid snorted. “My parents didnae lift a finger, I can promise you that. More likely, some poor sod from the village did the work before they ever arrived. As for Agnes, well, she was old and didnae have much money. Likely, she couldnae keep the place up on her own. Alex told me she paid a local lad to help keep the grounds from becoming too overgrown, but really couldnae afford to have him come out more than a few times a month.”

“In that case, I’m surprised the place isn’t worse.”

“My father sometimes paid for work to be done. I imagine he considered it an investment into what would one day be his. After he tried to have Agie committed, though, she wouldnae let him anywhere near the house.”

A hint of a smile curved his lips, his eyes the color of the sky at twilight. A tiny shiver raced up her back.

“Why did you--” She cleared her throat, her mouth inexplicably dry, and tried again. “Why did you tell me that in front of him at the cemetery?”

“He’s a bully and a hypocrite, and he had the unfair advantage since you didnae know either of those things.”

Caid’s voice had turned quiet, and his head bent toward her. That weird fluttering returned low in her belly. Was he going to kiss her? Did she want him to? Yes, she realized, she did. But she took a step back, putting distance between them.

“You really should shower and change, before you catch a cold.” If he had planned on kissing her, she needn’t worry now. Nothing killed the mood more than sounding like someone’s mother.

He nodded, frowning. “Ye’re probably right.”

Once he was gone, she flopped onto the faded settee. A cloud of dust billowed out from under her. She coughed and waved it away.

What was it that made her insides shiver like that? If she didn’t know better, she’d swear it was lust. But that couldn’t be, and certainly not for him.

She hadn’t wanted a man’s attention in more than a year. Still, had she expected to remain celibate for the rest of her life? She stood and started to pace. Maybe. She’d never really thought about it. After Randall, her interest in sex had evaporated along with her interest in men.