Haunted Warrior (6 page)

Jock didn’t meet his eye, his unblinking stare pinned on the white-­faced youth. But when Graeme angled his head, putting all his will into a silent command, the dog gave one last snarl and then trotted back down the path, disappearing around the front corner.

Graeme released the breath he’d been holding.

Ritchie Watt was good with a gutting knife and he held one in his hand now. It was the blade he’d been using to try and pry open the shed door. And the glazed look in his dark-­circled eyes left no doubt that if Jock had sprung on him, he would’ve used the knife.

“Drop your blade, lad.” Graeme started toward him,
hoping the boy didn’t do anything foolish. “You dinnae want me to take it from you.”

“I’ll drop it in a pig’s eye.” Ritchie made a dash for the rock face rising steeply behind the shed. The knife fell from his hand as he flung himself at the cliff, scrambling for a foothold.

“You’re no’ going anywhere.” Graeme reached him in three easy strides. He plucked the ruffian off the rocks, thrusting him back against the shed. “And you wouldn’t have made it into my shed if you tried for a hundred years. You know that, I’m thinking?”

Ritchie gave him a surly look rather than answer.

“There’s naught but old salt barrels in there.” The thought that Gavin Ramsay would send a lackey to invade his shed, prying into one of the few things he cherished as a semblance of normalcy in his life, stoked a fury Graeme didn’t want to unleash on a misguided lad like Ritchie Watt. “They’re from o’er two hundred years ago, when the herring fleets crowded this wee harbor.

“Thon barrels”—­he leaned in, anger giving an edge to his voice—­“were once packed with
silver darlings
, the herring that meant bread and living for Pennard and this whole coast in those days.”

“I don’t care about herring barrels.” Ritchie’s eyes glittered, his chin jutting defiantly.

“You should.” Graeme glanced at the shed door and then at the youth. “I do, and my shed’s full of them. Whole barrels, half barrels, and a few firkins, sweet little quarter barrels, if you’ve forgotten so much of this place’s history, you dinnae ken what a firkin is.

“They’re the salt barrels I restore and give out on loan to the Laughing Gull and anyone needing them for a ceilidh or other gathering.” Graeme released the youth, letting a hard stare hold him in place.

“And there’s nothing inside the barrels except air,
age, and a hint of brine.” He stepped closer, bracing a fist against the shed wall next to Ritchie’s head. “Tell that to Ramsay, and warn him that the next fool he sends to my house will suffer more than leaving here with his knife bent from prying into places it dinnae belong.”

“My knife’s not bent.” Ritchie glared at him, his gaze flicking to the rock face where the herring knife had slipped from his fingers.

The muddy ground was empty.

Following his gaze, Graeme smiled. “Your blade’s here.” He held out the knife on his palm, watching the youth’s eyes round as he snatched the bent-­double weapon from Graeme’s hand.

He suspected Ritchie knew he’d bent the blade.

Just as the lad now knew that the boundary spells Graeme kept around his property worked better than any dark magic Gavin Ramsay could conjure. It didn’t matter that Ritchie and his like, or even the whole village, never dared voice such suspicions.

Worrying about his supposed powers was enough to keep them at bay.

At least, it had been until recently.

So he reached for the shed’s door latch, lifting it with ease. “This shed is ne’er locked.” It
was
sealed against evil. But that wasn’t his point. “If e’er you feel a true interest in preserving old salt barrels, the door will open for you. I’ll gladly teach you how to get the salt crust and grime off them and bring them back to their original beauty. Until that day comes…”

He let his voice trail away, piercing the youth with a look that said more than words.

“Off with you now.” He gave the lad a light shove. “And tell Ramsay what I said. Then, if you’ve any sense, you’ll say him good-­bye.”

His last words were lost, carried away by a quickening
wind as Ritchie tore down the path and disappeared onto Harbour Street. His running footsteps echoed through the evening as Graeme quietly closed the shed door. As always, he didn’t lock it.

Nor was there a need.

The Shadow Wand wasn’t kept inside Graeme’s barrel shed. It was an unlikely reason for Ramsay to send the youth to peek about the shed. Ramsay wouldn’t be so witless as to send a stripling like Watt to look for such a powerful relic.

More likely, Ramsay hoped to strike Graeme where it would hurt and must’ve ordered the lad to damage the salt barrels or roll a few of them into the sea.

Everyone knew Graeme loved the old barrels.

What they didn’t know was that the cooper who’d made them had been a good friend of Graeme’s.

But that was long ago.

Remembering made him start determinedly down his cottage’s narrow side path. He’d been careless of late. Watching so diligently over Pennard and the coast, keeping out an eye for Ramsay’s growing influence, caused him to lower his guard at the Keel.

Coming with ill intent, Ritchie shouldn’t have been able to set foot onto Graeme’s property. He should’ve been repelled at the street.

So Graeme did what he should have done weeks ago and collected a pail from beneath the blue-­painted bench beside his door. Kept ready thanks to the moonwater that filled it—­gathered rain regularly replenished and set out to catch the moon’s silvery glow—­the pail felt light in his hand.

Lightness that proved the moonwater still held a good measure of power.

Not enough to keep Watt off the property, but it’d surely helped to prevent him from opening the shed door.

Still…

Stronger measures were required. The strengthening of Graeme’s protective shields around the Keel needed immediate attention. Preferably without the interference of a certain border collie.

“You stay here.” Graeme gave his dog a look. “I’ll no’ have you shadowing me.”

Jock, now sitting on the stoop, lowered his head solemnly, as if in agreement.

Not trusting him, Graeme indicated the door, slightly ajar. “Away in with you, laddie. You’ve a fine, warm plaid before the fire and I’m no’ of a mind to have an audience just now.”

Jock didn’t budge.

And Graeme didn’t have the heart to scold him further.

He did reach to rub the dog’s ears. Then he emptied the pail of its moonwater before crossing the road in front of his cottage. Harbour Street ended at the Keel, bounded by the high bluff at its back. Just beyond, a small cave marked Pennard Bay’s western edge.

Little more than a gash in the rock, the cave wasn’t large enough to hold the picnic table on the pebbly strand before its entrance. A relic from the filming of
The Herring Fisher
, the table was popular with tourists because the cave offered shelter from wind and spray.

Above all, its black-­glistening walls couldn’t be penetrated by curious eyes.

The cave, Graeme suspected, had been used by his like for centuries.

He certainly appreciated its positioning.

As, he was sure, had every MacGrath Guardian before him.

He headed that way now, already focusing on the task before him. Without looking back at Jock—­a single
glance over his shoulder would have the dog running to him—­he left the road’s end and stepped onto the strip of beach skirting the cave.

Strong wind hit him at once, sharp and smelling of seaweed and brine. Cold, bracing air, thick with salt and seasoned with peat smoke, to Graeme it was a blend headier than wine. Wet stones shifted and crunched beneath his feet, and spray splashed against the larger rocks at the water’s edge. This was his world, and he gloried in the surge and swell of the sea, the wind and mist that he loved so much.

Sadly, Pennard’s balance was bruised.

And it fell to him to keep the damage from worsening.

It was a burden he shouldered gladly.

Even so, his jaw tightened when he couldn’t keep his gaze from straying to the high crags at the far end of the bay. The haar was thickening, hanging low over the water and cloaking the cliffs. But pinpricks of yellow light glimmered through the mist where Ramsay’s Spindrift claimed a prominent ledge, the big house taunting and tormenting him. Just as the bastard’s forebears had bedeviled every MacGrath Guardian down the ages.

A self-­proclaimed entrepreneur—­windbag and arse, to Graeme’s mind—­Ramsay’s seemingly endless funds supposedly came from his family’s involvement in the Aberdeen oil boom of the previous century.

Graeme suspected other origins.

Not that it mattered.

What did matter was that Ramsay had always shown an aptitude for noticing the supernatural. And now, of all times, a fetching American with an overbright aura had to visit Pennard.

Graeme’s gut clenched at the ramifications.

Ramsay would seek to charm her, believing he could
manipulate her natural energy to aid his grasping, power-­hungry schemes.

Graeme set down his pail and rolled his shoulders. He also flexed his fingers, shaking off all negative thoughts. He’d deal with Ramsay later. So far, the oily bastard was all glare and bluster. And only when he suspected no one but Graeme saw.

If he touched the American…

Graeme closed his eyes, willing the thought from his mind before it could create an image. He wouldn’t be putting his hands on her, either, much as he’d like to. He would look out for her as long as she lingered in Pennard, a visit he hoped would be of short duration.

And if he meant to do that, he needed to keep his wits. He couldn’t be distracted by Ramsay’s hooligans skulking about his property.

So he took a deep, cleansing breath and turned to the open sea. Closing his eyes, he stood with his legs apart and ground his feet firmly into the loose stones. That done, he raised his arms above his head, opening himself to the elemental energies he needed to balance his powers.

He allowed his hands to stretch for the sky, his fingers already tingling, as if he touched the heavens. His feet warmed, welcoming the connection to Mother Earth’s heart, beating so deep beneath him. Awareness poured into him, strong and potent, a river of molten heat sweeping his body as the distance between the manifest and unseen world began to close. Only then did he center himself.

His eyes still shut, he delved deep into the earth’s inner core for the intense white-­light energy he needed. He summoned the same power from high above him, hardly breathing until he felt both energy sources flow together, surging and fusing inside him.

At last, he opened his eyes, fixing his gaze on the dark, rolling sea as he lowered his arms. As he’d done so often, he let the energy gather in his hands and then flow from his fingers to fill the little cave and the curving strip of shore.

With all the knowledge he possessed, he willed the summoned power to cleanse and neutralize any negative energy around him and his home.

This tiny corner of Pennard that was so needful of his protection.

Would that he could expand his boundary shields all up and down the coast. But even good energy could turn bad if sent out without permission.

It had to be enough to guard these shores.

The Keel…

There he could expend his fullest powers.

So he retrieved his pail and went to the sea’s edge, collecting a bucketful of the energy-­charged water. Slippery, weed-­draped rocks where the swell washed ashore and clumps of the glistening wrack also littered the tide line. This flotsam he also gathered. Though he took only what he could carry in one hand.

The Keel was a small cottage.

Glancing that way, he was relieved to see that Jock hadn’t left the stoop. Though he must’ve gone inside the cottage at some point during Graeme’s summoning, because the door now stood more than a little ajar. Jock was adept at opening doors, latched, knobbed, or otherwise, as long as the door wasn’t locked.

He also had a penchant for sneaking treats from the kitchen cupboard when Graeme wasn’t around. Jock’s present air of exaggerated innocence warned that that particular habit was the reason for the half-­opened door.

But Graeme would deal with Jock’s overeating later.

Just now, he turned back to the sea, thanking the ele
ments for the blessings they’d given him and releasing any excess energy back whence it’d come.

He kept only the charged water and sea tangle.

These he’d use to place a protective shield around his house and property, warding against the intrusion of anything negative or evil.

Hoping to take advantage of the evening quiet—­Pennard residents were known for their curiosity, but most would now be gathered at the Laughing Gull—­he left the little strand and crossed to the landward side of the road where the Keel awaited him.

He skirted Kendra Chase’s car, not even glancing at it, lest thoughts of her rush into his mind. Her essence still clung to the vehicle, humming in the air. His heart thudded, proving how easily she’d captivated him.

She could make him forget time and duty.

Even now, he could imagine claiming her mouth with his, threading the fingers of one hand in her hair as he kissed her, and using his other hand to whip off her bulky, waxed jacket, revealing the woman beneath.

Graeme fought back a scowl, pushing her from his thoughts.

This was no time for such intrusions.

And that’s exactly what she was.

Before he lost his concentration entirely, he walked back to the barrel shed and removed the withered bundle of seaweed tacked above the door, and replaced it with a few strands of the fresh sea wrack.

He also set down the pail and dipped his hand into the cold water, flicking droplets onto the shed’s ancient, salt-­crusted wood.

“By my will and the powers of all worlds, no darkness may tread here.” He stepped around the shed, going sunwise, and spoke shielding words as he trailed a line of water along the foot of the cliff behind his house. “Only
those I wish to see may cross this boundary. Blessed be this place and those welcome here.” He circled around the cottage’s far corner, replacing old seaweed with new and dabbing water along the windowsills. “Nothing evil can touch these walls and those within.”