Spirited Away
Spirited Away
Cindy Miles
Contents
For my husband, Brian, and my kids, Kyle and Tyler, for being such a wonderful family and the greatest part of my life.
For my grandma, Frances Harden. She's no longer with me, but man, she'd have gotten a kick out of this!
For my mom, Dale Nease, who has believed in me from the very first day I mentioned writing a book.
For my dad, Ray Nease, who taught me all about self-promotion at a young age. (Remember all those flyers, Dad?)
For my sisters, Sheri Dotson, Tracy Pierce, and Nikki Nixon. All stunning women whom I'm proud to call best friends.
For my brother-in-law, Jerry Dotson, the cutest Miami-Dade fireman at the station and a real hero (can I have that ride in the ladder truck now, please?), and my other brothers-in-law, Will Nixon and Jordan Pierce, who are both adorable knuckleheads.
For my Harden Family, who gave me the best childhood ever, and my Sumrall/Morris/Palmer Family, whom I'm so glad to have in my life.
For Hank Heller, my wacky cousin who shared many crazy adventures with me (beebees
do
hurt!).
Finally, for my aunt Dona Denmark, a fine writer in her own right whose true love affair with her husband, John, for nearly sixty years inspires me every single day.
Acknowledgements
So many terrific people have cheered me on, nudged me forward, and made this book take form and become a reality. For the following, I owe my sincere gratitude: Jenny Bent, a phenomenal agent who saw my potential and believed in me and my stories.
Holly Henderson-Root, for her enthusiasm and encouragement from the very start.
Laura Cifelli, for her expert guidance, quick eye, and editorial savvy.
Jolie Mathis, a sensational author, for her undying loyalty as a true friend, her sweet, funny spirit, and for all the fabulous brainstorming.
Cynthia Reese, for her unflagging support and sound advice, and for Babette de Jongh and the ladies at Romancinghistory, all superb critique partners and super writers.
Shay Chesser and Linda Davis, for trudging across many a misty moor and ruinous castle, just so I could "get the true feel of it" for my stories.
(Sheildaig! Sheildaig!)
Cathy Hendrix, for being my very first reader and super support system.
Julie Johnson Blake, my best childhood pal with whom I share so many wonderful memories (THE
OTHER! JAWS! SLEEPOVER!).
Betsy Kane, Molly Hammond, Evaline Chapman, Michelle Green, Olga Fogam, Amy Bailey, Valerie Morton, and the rest of the gang on PCU at St. Joseph's Hospital in Savannah, Georgia, for their inexhaustible support and friendship.
Michelle Hall, Robyn Edenfield, Loretta Kirby, and their families for their love and support.
All the folks at EGRMC in Statesboro, Georgia, who rallied my spirits and elbowed me to "write another book."
The Northumbria Police in England, for answering my endless questions regarding all things British and forensic.
Sue-Ellen Welfonder and Julie Kenner, for taking time out of their hectic schedule to read my book.
Leah Brown and Virginia Farmer, both excellent writers and my first critique partners who taught me so much.
Finally, to those superb writers before me who never cease to inspire: Charles Dickens, Washington Irving, Jane Austen, Lynn Kurland, and Erin Hart.
Thank you all for helping make my dreams come true!
Dreadmoor Keep, 1292
Northern England
Tristan cracked open an eye. He shook his head and peered through the hazy light. Slowly, he stood.
A single torch flame cast shadows across a floor littered with broken shell and rock. Stripped of his mail, he felt the chilling damp that clung to the air and seeped into his bare skin. He moved forward, but cold shackles held his wrists. With effort, he threw himself hard against the iron fetters. The chains held fast. Panting, he gathered what strength remained and grunted, pushing all of his weight against the bindings.
Blood pounded behind his eyes, his vision blurred. Rough stone wall caught his weight as he fell back, spent. His head hammered and his stomach rolled. The stench in the dank chamber threatened to make him lose what little remained in his stomach. He'd know that rancid smell anywhere.
'Twas his own bloody dungeon.
A soft groan came from the corner. Squinting, he made out the slumped form of his youngest knight. Beside him, his captain. Both were tethered to the wall.
"Jason?" His voice cracked through the silence. "Kail? Answer me." Neither made a sound.
"Come forth!" Tristan's bellowing command echoed off the stone walls. A warm stream trickled down his face and caught on his lip. The bitter taste of blood clung to his tongue and he spat it out.
God's teeth, he would kill whoever did this with his bare hands!
"Ah, the notorious Dragonhawk." The calm, smooth voice scolded from the darkness. "Such a temper. It seems to favor your family. Loud, disgusting heathens, the lot of you. No doubt your mother's Scottish barbarian blood." A man emerged from the concealing shadows. "Whatever shall I do with you?"
The blood drained from Tristan's face, a knot formed in the pit of his stomach. The breath lodged in his lungs, choking him as he stared, disbelieving, at his foster father. "Erik, what is this?" He pulled at his restraints. "Remove these shackles!"
"Nay, my bound giant. I do believe I have you"—he inclined his head toward Jason and Kail—"and them, exactly where I want you." Erik de Sabre reached for the scabbard strapped to his side and produced a sword—polished, gleaming, and lethal.
A sapphire stone in the hilt winked its apology at Tristan.
'Twas his own sword.
His body shook with rage. "What is the meaning of this? Erik!" He threw himself at his foster father. "Erik!"
De Sabre closed his eyes and swayed. A soft, murmured chant rolled from his tongue.
Tristan stared in disbelief. A curse? "What has befallen you? Are you mad?" He bucked hard against his bindings. "Erik, cease!" God's teeth, had he killed his men?
Erik de Sabre continued his chant, the strange words falling fast, slow, fast. Then with a jerk, he looked up. "I've waited years for this moment, de Barre. I gave you and those other scrawny lads twelve years of my life. I taught you everything." His eyes blazed. "I
made
you, Dragonhawk. Then you ... killed my boy. And you and your pitiful knights shall pay." He lifted the sword, eyes fixed on the stone. "I have carefully practiced the verse taught to me. It will bind you, Tristan de Barre, to Dreadmoor Keep for eternity. Never to sleep, nor eat."
He stroked his beard and turned, sinister eyes fixed, unblinking. "Never to draw your blade, nor ride a horse. Never again to taste the flesh of a woman, nor have her bear your children. A most perfect plan, indeed. Do you not agree?"
Confusion mixed with hatred and churned low in his stomach as Tristan met de Sabre's cold stare.
How could this be? His own foster father. "Christ, Erik. This is about Christopher? Damnation, we tried our best to save him!" He couldn't believe what he was hearing, or seeing. "You were like a father to me—to all of us!"
A brief flicker sparked in Erik's eyes, but was quickly extinguished. "You'll never know the pain I suffered when my only child was murdered, and whilst in your care, high and powerful Dragonhawk. 'Tis unfathomable. But you'll certainly know the pain of death, as will your men.
Along with an eternity of misery."
Tristan growled and stretched his iron fetters taut. "I don't believe in curses."
One corner of de Sabre's mouth lifted. "Ah, but you will. How does it feel, Dreadmoor, to know you are about to draw your last breath?" One eyebrow lifted. "And in the dungeon of your very own keep?" He took one step closer, just out of Tristan's reach. "I do wish your beloved family could see you now. Bound, like a mad beast, begging, frothing at the mouth—"
Tristan lunged, but the chains snatched him back. Enraged, he pitched forward again, straining against the manacles. His roar filled the dank chamber as he cursed in his grandfather's French-Norman tongue. "You're wrong, Erik! Your son's death was an accident, and you damn well know it! Don't do this, or you will die by my hands. I vow it!"
De Sabre's quiet laugh filled the chamber. "I think not."
Tristan held de Sabre's unholy gaze as his foster father hefted the sword. Gritting his teeth, Tristan hissed as the cold steel of his own blade slid between his ribs. Erik's face grew dark as he pushed the sword deeper.
He lowered his mouth to Tristan's ear. "If you're wondering where your mighty knights are, don't.
I've called for them. They're rushing here at this very moment." He gave the sword a push. "They'll be here to watch you die ..."
Tristan sucked in an agonized breath. Pain ripped through his body but he forced his eyes to remain on the man he once trusted with his life, a man whose mind was maddened from the loss of his son.
His words gasped from his lips. "I—will—not—yield."
De Sabre twisted the blade. "Aye. You will."
The chamber shifted and Tristan's vision blurred, shapes and planes faded, losing their color, their rigidness, settling into distorted figures, shadows ... and then darkness.
Northeastern Coast, England
Present Day
"You want me to do
what?"
Dr. Andi Monroe wiped the rain from her eyes and stared, disbelieving, at her boss. "You're kidding, right? A joke?" She pushed the hood of her weatherproofs from her head and pointed at the five-by-five-meter-square area of mucky earth. "You want me to pack up?
We've only been on this for three days, Kirk. We've still hours of recording to do, photographs, soil samples, and screening—and Jamie's just getting started with the GPS unit—"
A gust of wind whipped in from the moors and caught the corner of the rough canvas tarp. The stake anchoring it jostled loose and a sail of wet cloth slapped her face. "Oh, crap." Grabbing the flapping material, Andi fell to her knees, then pulled the small mallet from her tool belt and secured the tarp before it exposed the dirt-stained humerus and skull remains nestled in the spongy black soil. "Kirk, this is not the time for jokes. You know how excited I am about this find."
Kirk Grey, British-born with a clipped accent, squatted beside her and leveled his gaze with hers.
He grinned through the drizzle. "Dragonhawk."
A breath escaped her lips. She blinked. "What?"
Kirk's gray eyes crinkled at the corners. "Terrance Daughtry just rang my mobile. It appears last night's storm turned over a massive oak, centuries old, right in the Dragonhawk's lair." His smile widened. "A body of bones entwined in its roots." He feigned an exaggerated yawn. "What appears to be a rather large hoard of medieval weaponry accompanies the remains—I don't know all the details. Besides, I wasn't sure if you'd be interested, being so engrossed in this dig as you are, so I told him we'd have to get back—"
Andi laughed and flung herself into her mentor's arms. "Oh my God! Yes! Of course I'm interested!
You know how long I've wanted Dreadmoor Castle!" She pulled back and searched his face.
"When?"
"Tonight. But there's a catch, I'm afraid."
Narrowing her eyes, she rose, then stepped back and cocked her head. "What is it?"
Kirk shrugged and stood. "You'll be excavating the site for the rest of the summer." One eyebrow lifted. "Alone."
She suppressed a snort. "Another joke, right?"
He shook his head. "I fear I'm speaking the truth of it. Dreadmoor's a terrible eccentric, from what I hear. He doesn't want a throng of people traipsing over his land. Very private, that one. According to Daughtry, Dreadmoor hadn't planned on even reporting the incident. Seems, though, his curiosity got the better of him." Kirk rubbed his chin. "After Daughtry came out to investigate, Dreadmoor made it clear this project would be kept quiet. No museums, no Heritage Center involvement. So he's agreed to only one forensic archaeologist for the remainder of the summer." A smile curved his lips. "You."