Must Love Kilts (17 page)

Dev Doonie at the crofting and fishing museum wore the very same boots.

And she tied them with red plaid laces.

Margo sank back onto the stone, almost dizzy. The world was spinning around her and her blood rushed in her ears, loud and ringing.

Dev Doonie
was
the little old lady at A Dash o’

Plaid.

The woman had even claimed to have come from a nonexistent Hebridean isle called Doon. She’d been the one who’d made the Heilander comment.

Twice now.

There could be no mistake.

Margo should’ve recognized her at once. But she’d been sporting a typical museum-volunteer outfit and even an official-looking name badge.

People believed what they expected to see.

Margo knew that well.

The phenomenon probably also explained why a whirling, dark luminance was beginning to form across the road from her. It was the same weirdness she’d seen on the waterfront, and this time, she had no doubt as to the shape’s malignancy. The smell of rotten eggs thickened the air, the stench burning her eyes and making her gag.

Rolling blackness blotted the road, cutting off her escape as the night came alive, seeming to breathe clouds of tiny jet-colored spangles.

Margo leapt to her feet and started to run.

The only place she could go was down the footpath to the strand.

Chapter 9

Margo ran like a gazelle.

The foul-reeking luminance at her back put wings on her heels as she flew down the rough-hewn steps carved into the steep headland. Her rotten luck definitely enjoyed the sticking power of gum on the sole of a shoe, because whatever horror had tried to materialize on the road swirled everywhere now. She could feel it swelling on the wind, pressing against her until she could hardly breathe, and even clawing at her back as if terrible, talon-tipped fingers were reaching for her.

Panic flooded her.

Adrenaline kept her legs pumping.

She’d always loved the paranormal, even priding herself on her acceptance of things like ghosts, time slips, Wiccan beliefs, and magic.

She’d felt sorry for people so narrow-minded they couldn’t believe in the unseen and unproven.

Now...

She was ready to rescind her opinion.

If this was the supernatural, she wanted nothing to do with it.

This wasn’t amusing.

Margo . . .

A hollow-sounding female voice called her name, the cry echoing along the headland.

“Oh, no!” Margo’s heart slammed against her ribs, terror gripping her.

She ran faster, one hand pressed to her breast.

Halfway down the cliff, the path curved and seemed to end in a tumble of broken rock, thick with nettles.

Margo sailed over the rubble in one leaping bound and tore down the remaining steps at light speed.

Relief was hers when she reached the strand. The air was cold and fresh here. Moonlight gleamed on the water and the tide was coming in, breakers foaming white up and down the coast as far as she could see.

No miasmic clouds hovered anywhere and the only sound was the sea. She didn’t see a single stir of movement that wasn’t natural.

“Thank God.” She braced her hands on her thighs and leaned forward, struggling to catch her breath.

Night wind rushed past her, cooling her brow and bringing the clean tang of the sea.

For the moment, she was safe.

And she wasn’t going anywhere until she was sure that the thing up on the road was gone.

Just now ...

She straightened, pulled a still-shaky hand down She straightened, pulled a still-shaky hand down over her chin. The strand
was
beautiful and any other time, she’d have swooned to be here. Incredible rocks were spread up and down the beach. Great masses of the loveliest stones she’d seen anywhere in Scotland. Most were the size of a man’s fist, though some looked as large as a cantaloupe. They were all round or oval-shaped and perfectly smooth, each one well polished by the surf.

Every hue imaginable seemed represented. Many of the stones were speckled, some banded, and all of them sparkled or gleamed. They were so remarkable that each one struck her as more appealing than the last.

She wanted them all.

Unfortunately, her carryall was already so crammed with Scottish rocks that the seams were splitting. Her suitcase was no better. She’d used every available inch of space, even stuffing smaller stones inside her extra pair of shoes. Some of her toiletries and makeup had been sacrificed so a few stones could be wedged into her cosmetics case.

Who needed eye cream or a change of lipstick when you could hold a little bit of Scotland in your hand?

Not her, anyway.

Precious memories clung to each rock and she couldn’t bear to leave any behind.

Still...

Margo tapped her chin, glancing at the temptation all around her.

Surely she could find room for just one more? A really special stone she couldn’t resist and that jumped out at her, begging to be taken back to Pennsylvania.

A stone that was so
hers
, she’d carry it home in her hand if need be.

Glad for a distraction—and hoping to convince herself she’d only imagined the nightmare on the road—she clasped her hands behind her back and began walking the strand. A few times she held her breath and closed her eyes, certain that her stone would leap out at her when she looked again, scanning the lovely selection.

It was impossible to choose just one.

Until her gaze fell on the dazzling quartz band circling the large, round stone a few feet ahead of her.

Similar to the other banded stones on the strand, this one somehow stood out from the rest. Just looking down at the stone made her skin prickle with awareness.

This was the one.

She could almost feel its power, the stone’s heartbeat matching its rhythm to hers. A sensation that heartbeat matching its rhythm to hers. A sensation that strengthened the longer she looked down at the stone, drawn by its spell.

She shivered, stepping closer to the stone. Dark gray in color and smooth as polished glass, it bore an inch-wide band of snowy white circling its middle.

Pure quartz, she was sure, though the band sparkled with the brilliance of diamonds.

She tried to walk away, testing the vibrations, but her feet wouldn’t move. Her fingers itched, burning to close around the stone.

When she started to reach for it, the band around the stone’s center started to move, coming to life.

“Gah!” Margo leapt back, her eyes widening as strange symbols appeared and disappeared on the stone’s broad ring of white quartz.

The characters shifted and glowed, blazing like the sun one moment, then gone the next.

She saw why when the moon slipped briefly behind a cloud, darkening the strand. There weren’t any glowing symbols forming on the quartz band.

She’d been fooled by a trick of moonlight.

But she still wanted the stone, magical or not.

So she bent again to retrieve it, curling her fingers around its cold weight.

The stone turned white-hot in her hand.

“Agh!”
Margo jumped. Her fingers tightened around the stone, unable to let go.

Oddly, the fiery heat didn’t burn her. But a loud humming noise filled her ears and a series of shocks surged into her hand. The tingling jolts streaked up her arm, and raced across her shoulders and down her back, sizzling through her entire body.

It was like sticking wet fingers into an electrical socket.

Except that it didn’t hurt.

It was just weird.

And when the strangeness ended, she heard a faint jangling behind her. The light crunch of footsteps on stone and—she was sure—the soft rustling of a woman’s skirts. She also caught a distinct whiff of some kind of exotic, musky perfume. Almost like she imagined a Byzantine tomb might smell: dark and mysterious, with a hint of cold ash and lots of stale incense. The scent curled around her, intense and cloying.

Chills sped down her spine, icy and unpleasant.

Anxiety rose in her throat, almost choking her as the weird jangling came nearer and the rich, ancient-smelling perfume grew stronger.

The evil from the roadside was on the strand.

Margo . . .

Her name rode the wind again, the voice calling her, sounding pleased to spread such terror.

Whoever—
or whatever
—the entity was, she definitely knew Margo’s name. There could be no mistaking this time. This was for real.

The presence was coming for her.

Heart thumping, Margo turned to face the long stretch of moonlit strand behind her. Her blood iced when she saw what was there.

It was a solid black mass.

A humming, inky cloud of malice that hovered about a foot above the ground, and—her stomach clenched—it was the same shadow she’d seen near the bookshelves the afternoon at Ye Olde Pagan Times.

The day she’d “met” Magnus MacBride.

Margo clapped the stone to her breast, staring. She was sure she wasn’t mistaken. The presence brought the same dreaded energy. Worse, something pulsed inside the cloud. Iridescent specks spun at its heart, forming a vortex.

It was the small shapely form of a woman.

“Dear God.” Margo felt horror sweep her. The manifesting female looked frighteningly like Dina Greed.

Margo’s greatest rival in all things Scottish.

Except that was impossible.

Margo knew that her diminutive archfiend was already back in New Hope. And she couldn’t have died and moved on to another plane, thus having the power to appear now for the sole purpose of frightening Margo to bits. If anything dire had happened to Dina, Marta or Patience would’ve called with the news. Maybe even Ardelle Goodnight of Aging Gracefully.

They had looked out for Margo, always.

But she was alone now.

Wishing her friends were near, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, hoping the apparition would be gone when she looked again. It wasn’t, and at second glance she could see now that the creature wasn’t really Dina, however strong the resemblance. But the entity and her creepy black shadow were drifting closer to where she stood.

Her heart beat much too fast, making her blood chill. Shock pounded through her, blotting everything except the nightmare before her.

She couldn’t run.

Her gaze was somehow fastened on the whirling vortex. And her legs felt like cement. She was sure that someone invisible had nailed her feet to the ground. No matter how much she wanted to bolt, she wasn’t going anywhere. It was impossible.

She’d clearly been put under a binding spell, powerful witchery that would thwart any chance of escape.

Margo knew such spells existed.

Patience had once cast one on a purse snatcher outside Ye Olde Pagan Times. Her magic had held him in the shop’s vicinity until the police arrived.

Margo swallowed hard, fear closing her throat.

“Who are you?” Margo’s voice was a croak.

The specter smiled. “Look again, more closely.” She spoke in the soft lilting tones of a Highland woman. But her voice was full of malicious pride.

And each word oozed venom, however pleasingly musical her Scottish accent.

She was of petite stature and voluptuous, with large breasts and a welter of dark curling hair that shone like a raven’s wing. She had bold, flashing eyes. They were the color of rich, brown black peat. There the similarities to Margo’s rival ended. This woman didn’t favor Dina’s tartan-tart mini-kilt getups, with thigh-high black leather boots and clinging, low-cut tops. The woman in the vortex wore a swirling black cloak that looked tissue thin and was luminous, giving off tiny speckles of light.

Bands of silver and jet hung from her neck, wrists, and ankles. The delicate jewelry chimed together with her every move.

Her strong, stale perfume was almost overpowering. It soaked the air, reminding Margo more than ever of a musty ancient tomb or chapel.

Cold damp walls steeped with old smells like frankincense, myrrh, and maybe some gone-bad sandalwood.

“This isn’t happening.” Margo spoke with more bravura than she felt. If she rejected the woman’s power, she might have a chance. “You’re not here and I’m not seeing you. You’re a figment—” The woman laughed. “You’re the will-o’-wisp.” Shaking her head, Margo held out her arm, as if she could ward off the woman and her shifting black cloud.

“Look here. . . .” She took a step backward, then another. Every inch was like wading through thigh-high sand. “I don’t know who, or what, you are—”

“I am many things, many faces.” The woman’s tone chilled her. Her gaze was like a blast of burning ice.

“And you are the face I’m using to torture Magnus MacBride.”

“Magnus?” Margo’s heartbeat kicked into overdrive.

The woman’s eyes lit with amusement. “I see his name is known to you. As I knew it would be, for I’ve spent long hours at my craft, searching for the perfect vessel to break him.”

“I don’t know any Magnus.” Sweat trickled between Margo’s breasts on the lie.

“Ahhh, but that’s the sweetness of my revenge.” The vortex-woman laughed. It was a cold, brittle sound.

The black cloud drifted closer, the woman’s eyes revealing she was amused by Margo’s passion for Magnus.

“I have worked dark spells, showing you to him. He burns for you, yet”—the entity’s tone was pure evil—“he knows he can never possess you. Soon, desire will drive him to madness. His carelessness will bring his end.”

Margo gulped.

The woman lifted a hand, examining her talonlike fingernails.

“I know something of magic. I can block your spell.” Margo’s heart hammered and her palms were slick with terror. She had no idea how to ward off such evil.

She also wished her voice had rung stronger. The malice in the entity’s eyes scared her more than anything she’d ever seen in her life.

She put back her shoulders, trying to look brave. “A friend of mine is a powerful sorceress.” Margo knew Patience wouldn’t mind the exaggeration. “She’ll hunt you down, turning all her skills on—”

“No one’s powers can touch mine.” The vortex-woman smiled, the tilt of her lips chilling the air.