Lost in Shadow (A Shadow Walkers Ghost Novel) (5 page)

Later that night, stalking through the World’s End pub, Rawlins sneered at the pathetic humans scrambling to move out of his way.

He needed a drink, a human to drain, and a good lay, not necessarily in that order.

His man Jackson hadn’t found anything of use at the women’s hotel other than their names and they were visiting from America on holiday. He was in a foul mood. At least Jackson used his phone to search the web and discovered the one called Emily, had died in an accident before being brought back. Rawlins was right; this Emily Laurens could indeed be the Cursebreaker, if there even was a bloody curse—you had to love modern-day technology.

Sipping a twenty-year-old single-malt whisky, he scanned the pub. Several females were darting glances at him. At six foot three, he was taller than most men, with broad shoulders showcasing a heavily muscled body honed from years of sword work. Rawlins projected a deadly aura that had most men cutting a wide path around him wherever he went, while drawing women to him like bees to honey. Short, dirty blond hair cropped close to his head framed brown eyes so dark they usually looked black. Lounging on the bar stool, he loved modern-day fashion, no more uniforms for him, he preferred designer all the way. Tonight he was dressed in a black Armani t-shirt, Marc Jacobs black leather jacket, jeans, and black motorcycle boots; he was a predator surveying prey before striking.

The pub was larger than it looked from the outside with the inside divided into the eating area and the bar. The dark paneling, leather chairs, and stone walls gave it an old-world flavor. The tourists flocked to this place. It hadn’t changed since he’d been stationed here in Edinburgh over four hundred years ago. Rawlins remembered fighting at Flodden Wall. Part of the wall was incorporated into the pub’s foundations, a section of which used to be part of Old Town’s defenses. Of course at the time, the pub was barely a ramshackle building serving soldiers alongside all kinds of riffraff and other infamous clientele.

Letting his eyes wander over the patrons of the pub, Rawlins scanned the crowd for a delicious female or two to satisfy his hunger. His eyes came to rest on two redheads sitting in a booth in a dark corner of the pub, their heads close together whispering about what they’d like to do to him. Dressed casually, they looked like college kids on holiday, ready to celebrate Halloween, enjoying the weekend without a care in those pretty heads.

Lust coursed through him as he listened to their conversation. All Walkers had preternatural hearing. He could hear every conversation in the pub. Rawlins would take energy where he could get it but especially liked human females, Americans were even better—always so willing, their aggressive energy tasting like a glass of strong ale.

“May I buy you lovely ladies a drink on this festive eve?”

“Oh my, you’re English not Scottish.” The redhead with brown eyes twittered. Her friend had blue eyes and wasn’t a natural redhead, not that he cared. She chimed in giggling, “Her name’s Marci, and I’m Mindy. We love foreign accents.” Slightly bowing to them, Rawlins leaned in close, “Then let me whisper sweet nothings in your ears milady’s.”

Marci grabbed him by his jacket and started kissing him, pressing her body against his. He wanted to take her there in the pub, but it wouldn’t do to draw too much attention.

The scent of electricity filled the air as Rawlins started to take the human’s energy. To the casual observer, it would look like the couple was merely kissing, the woman turned on, limp in his arms. If anyone listened closely enough, they would hear a low-level hum, the same noise heard near large electrical lines. The noise of the pub and stale scent of beer, sweaty bodies, and greasy food covered what was happening. Looking closer, a shimmer radiated between the couple like a mirage on the pavement during a hot summer day.

The kiss turned deadly as Rawlins sucked her energy life-force into him. If he was careful, he would age the human a few years, not enough to be noticeable other than her looking tired. However, a taste whetted the appetites; he would take it all. As the air hummed and shimmered, the girl’s appearance began to change. The dark interior would hide anything amiss from curious eyes. If anyone did notice, it would be chalked up to one too many drinks. As Rawlins took her life-force his pulse hammered, blood coursing through his veins, energy building to a crescendo, making him stronger, energy filling body and soul.

Marci’s skin began to change, becoming thin as paper, mottled with age spots, dull and leathery. Inside her organs aged, slowed down, and started to fail. Her hair began to turn, the gray flowing down her once-red hair like a rock landslide, until it was completely white. The skin on her face began to sag, wrinkle, and show sun damage. Once taut, young, flawless skin was now old beyond recognition, her lips cracking, thinning, and losing their youthful fullness as her energy life-force seeped from her. He took it all, dispassionately watching her youth and beauty fade like a summer green leaf, now brittle and worn by the passage of time, crackling to dust. Gasping her final breath, feebly trying to pull away, Marci’s heart slowed and pumped no more. Going limp, he supported her weight, easing her down on the banquette next to them. Any who happened to walk by would simply note a woman who’d had too much to drink, passed out in the corner. The darkness would conceal the theft.

“Is Marci OK?” Mindy asked, slurring her words.

“She’s fine, bit much to drink, she’s resting. Now come here luv and give us a kiss,” Rawlins purred.

With a bleary smile, Mindy wrapped her arms around his neck. The air around them shimmered with energy and life, seeming to pulse in the air around them as Rawlins finished her off. Placing her next to her friend, the two of them looked like grandmothers, out for a pint at the pub, albeit dressed in college sweatshirts and jeans.

To other humans, it would appear they’d had a heart attack. It wasn’t as if there was a checkbox listed on the police report for causes of death that stated “deceased’s life-force drained dry.”

Sated, content, humming with energy and power, he turned back to the bar to order another whisky.

Finishing off his coffee, Monroe MacDonald heard his police radio crackle. It was a little after eleven o’clock, he should be off shift; however, he didn’t sleep much anymore. This close to Halloween there were bound to be altercations, drunken brawls, assaults, you name it, and plenty of crimes committed. Throw in clueless tourists wandering the streets, and it was a recipe for long hours for the entire force.

Was today That Day all over again? He had a bad feeling, twisting his gut into knots. Hell no, he wasn’t going there right now. Shut the fucking door in his head, throw away the damn key. Someday he’d revisit that bloody scene, Alice’s lifeless body lying in the remains of St Anthony's chapel within Holyrood Park. One day he’d find out who killed her and why, but today was not that day. Today he had a job to do.

Monroe responded to the call. Hell, he could use a couple of dead bodies to distract him tonight. The thoughts eating his brain wouldn’t do any good other than causing him to down a bottle of whisky, ending up with a bitch of a hangover in the morning.

A police officer for more than ten years, he loved the city. Born in Glasgow, his widowed mom moved them when he was in primary school. While he loved his birthplace and cheering on Celtic, he knew Edinburgh like a lover knows the scent of their beloved.

All of her imperfections and flaws. He knew them all and carried a deep-seated need to protect his city.

Scotland, like England and Ireland, relied heavily on cameras for security and keeping an eye on its citizenry. Looking around, he noted the pub conveniently didn’t have any cameras. There was one hanging by a frayed cord, useless. Sighing, he shoved his hands through his hair in frustration, stalking inside the pub to the crime scene.

An officer approached the taped off area of the pub. “The medical examiner’s here, Shamus. You and Monroe ready for him?”

“In a minute mate, Monroe needs a few.” Shamus turned to Monroe. “The ME’s here, finish it up. You know that dobber Fergus will have your ass in a sling if you muck about with his body.”

Monroe jerked his head at his partner to show he’d heard and went back to studying the scene. He’d talked to the wait staff and numerous patrons. No one remembered seeing the women come in or serving them. It had been a busy night; the match was on the telly so most folks eyes were glued to the screens. A tourist on his way to the bathroom called it in. The guy noticed one of the women was wearing a UCLA sweatshirt, his alma matter. When he’d stopped to say hello, he saw they were dead. The guy didn’t notice anyone with them.

“Thank you all for your time. Make sure the officer has your name and where you can be reached if we have further questions. You can go.” What a waste of time. He scowled. Not just one dead grandmother, two. Yanks by looking at them. They were propped up against the banquette as if resting. What was it with Yanks dressing decades younger than they were? He couldn’t fathom why you’d want to dress like you were twenty when eighty was fast approaching in your headlights, but hell, what did he know? He was lucky if he remembered to shave and put on clean clothes in the morning.

Approaching the vics, his heart started pounding, beating out of his chest, as his nose picked up a long-forgotten scent, waking the animalistic part of his brain, causing it to sit up, sniff the air and roar in fury.

That smell. Monroe would never forget the unmistakable scent. Burnt into his brain, imprinted into his nostrils, seared into every fiber of his being. This particular scent could only be described as sex in the morning overlaid with something burnt, sickeningly sweet. Not leaves or wood, almost the smell of an electrical fire but not quite. This was something darker,
evil
.

Evil electricity? I must be losing my bloody mind.

Putting his shaking hand against the wall, Monroe took deep breaths trying not to pass the hell out. This scent was exactly the same as what he’d smelled finding Alice murdered on That Day. How many killers smell like energy? It had to be the same bloody bastard. He’d be damned to hell and back before he let the prick get away again.

How he could have forgotten…didn’t matter it had been ten years, the smell was as fresh in his mind as if only a moment passed.

“Oy, earth to Monroe. What the hell, mate? You know this bird?” his partner, Shamus asked him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He had no bloody idea.

“Naw, I’m pure brilliant. Bad curry at lunch or something.” Monroe pushed away from the wall and bent over the bodies without touching anything. The suits got their panties in a wad over that sort of thing, he bent to the hair. Why, when they were dressed so young, wouldn’t they dye their hair? Maybe white was in fashion. He didn’t know or keep up with the latest in women’s hair and fashion; after all, he wasn’t some navel-gazing emo ass. Still, something was eating at his brain; he was missing something important; it kept sliding around, slightly out of reach, if only he could remember.

Shamus kicked Monroe with his boot. “Let’s go. Some Yanks at the Balmoral had their room ransacked and we’re closest, I told dispatch we’d take it even though we’re homicide not robbery.”

Monroe nodded. There was nothing for him at home. The longer the day, the better in his book. His pathetic apartment was breeding dust bunnies, he’d run out of clean dishes since he never bothered to wash what was in the sink. Murder, robbery…all he needed was a nice assault to finish out the night. Then maybe he could grab a decent few hours’ sleep without the nightmares. Starting to rise, he stopped dead. There…amongst the white hair, coated on her earring…was the clue he’d been looking for these past ten years.

“Let’s head up to the room, order some tea, and relax by the fire, I’m exhausted.” Kat yawned, watching Emily.

Seriously, Kat was looking at her like she was some kind of rare, exotic bird about to fly away or as if she might run screaming from the room at any moment—well, it was a possibility. Emily sighed, “Really, I’m perfectly fine, the drink helped calm my nerves. I know what I saw. If it was a joke, then it’s not very nice. The blood looked awfully realistic. That guy was hurt. There’s something weird going on.”