Juliet Dark - The Angel Stone

“It turns out there’s just not a whole lot written about Mary McGowan.”

“I know,” I told her. “I’ve been looking, too.”

“Really? To help me with my project?” Nicky beamed as if she wanted to nominate me for Teacher of the Year.

“Well, she sounds fascinating. I’ve never heard of a seventeenth-century female folklorist.” I didn’t mention that my interest in her stemmed from the fact she’d recorded the origin story of my demon lover. “Where did you first hear of her?”

“In this book I found in a used-book shop in Edinburgh.” Nicky removed a book from her backpack. It was bound in soft burgundy leather, its spine stamped with a pattern of intertwining heather and thistles and the title, Scottish Ballads of the Borderlands , and the author’s name, Mary McGowan. I turned to the title page and my heart skipped a beat. On the facing page was an engraving of a rustic scene—the ruins of an arched doorway overgrown with thistles and climbing roses. It was the door from my dream. I read the caption beneath the doorway.

The hallow door from the ballad of William Duffy .

“I’ve read the whole book twice,” Nicky was saying, “but I don’t know what I should do next.”

I tore my eyes away from the illustration and looked back at the title page; the book had been published by McGowan & Sons, Edinburgh. It was the fifth edition. The first edition had been published in 1670.

“Look, the publisher has the same name as her and they published the first edition. Perhaps she was the wife or daughter of the publisher. Why don’t you try writing to The Center for the Book in Edinburgh? They might have records about McGowan & Sons that contain information on Mary McGowan. While you’re waiting to hear from them, you should go back to the book. All these other ballads—Tam Lin, The Twa Corbies, Proud Lady Margaret—they’re all pretty standard except for William Duffy, which I haven’t been able to find anywhere else. Maybe there are details in that ballad that reveal biographical information about Mary McGowan. If you compare it to Tam Lin, which it so closely resembles, and examine the details that are different, you may be able to find out some clues about the author. Here …” I held out the book for Nicky regretfully. I liked the feel of the book in my hand, its leather cover smooth and warm to the touch, its pages softly dog-eared, and wanted to conduct my own research into Mary McGowan and her story that had somehow traveled into my dreams. But I couldn’t take it away from Nicky when it was the only copy of the William Duffy ballad.

“You can keep it,” Nicky said. “I made a copy of the William Duffy ballad and the title page so I could makes notes on it.”

“Oh, of course you couldn’t write notes in this,” I said, stroking my thumb along the smooth beveled curve of the pages. “But are you sure? It’s such a beautiful book.”

“To tell you the truth, Professor McFay, I bought it for you.” I looked up, surprised, and saw that Nicky was blushing. “As a thank-you for helping me get the scholarship to St. Andrews in the first place. I thought you’d like the ballads and, well, when you read William Duffy you’ll see why I thought it was perfect for you.”

She smiled slyly, and this time I was the one to blush, as if Nicky somehow knew of my dreamlike dalliances with William Duffy.

Thanking her, I kept the book in my hand as we walked together out of Fraser Hall. I was surprised to see that it was dark already.

“It’s getting dark early already and cold!” I shivered in my light corduroy blazer. “It feels like it was summer five minutes ago.”

“Winter comes on quickly up here,” Nicky said, giving me the rueful look the natives reserved for city people. I noticed she had on a heavy red-and-black-checked fleece jacket. “You should dress warmer,” she said.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, rolling my eyes. It made me happy to see Nicky feeling confident enough to hand out advice to her teacher—and I was touched that she would care. A year ago Nicky was nervous and unsure of herself, fearful that she very well might end up like her mother—a teenage mother with a drinking problem—and she would have if I hadn’t been able to avert the curse my ancestor had placed on her. “But speaking of motherly advice, I don’t think you should walk around the campus by yourself. I’ll walk you to your dorm.”

“No need, Professor McFay. I already called Night Owl.”

“Night Owl?”

“Yeah, didn’t you get the email from the new campus safety committee? They brought in a security outfit from town called Night Owl to escort students at night.”

I recalled receiving a half a dozen emails from the new committee Frank had formed with the Eastern European Studies professors, but, caught up in my own concerns, I’d ignored them all. Could the Night Owls be the vampires? But they weren’t from town …

“Here’s my Night Owl now,” Nicky said, pointing behind me.

I turned quickly, afraid that one of the vampires would be behind me, but found instead the wide, cheerful face of Mac Stewart. He blushed when he saw me.

“Professor McFay, I didn’t know the call was for you. I’d’ve been here sooner. Where can I escort you? If it’s off campus, I can go get my car.”

“The call’s from Nicky here,” I said, glancing at Nicky, whose eyes were flicking between Mac and me with undisguised curiosity. “But it’s nice to see you again, Mac. You and your family were so helpful this summer, looking for those missing fishermen.”

In truth, the Stewarts, who were an ancient clan of stewards pledged to guard the woods, had helped to apprehend an undine who was seducing fishermen.

“It was the most exciting time of my life!” Mac declared. “That’s why I convinced my dad and grandpa to start this security company to watch after people in the town and on the campus. See …” He patted the owl emblem stitched on the pocket of his plaid flannel shirt. “I named it after you.”

“Huh? I don’t get it,” Nicky said. “What does an owl have to do with Professor McFay?”

“Um, it’s sort of a private joke …” I said, glaring at Mac. I’d run into Mac one night when I was patrolling the woods after shapeshifting into an owl. When an undine tried to drown him, I transformed back into a human to save him. Unfortunately, when he woke to see a naked woman with owl feathers in her hair, he decided I was an owl princess and declared his undying love for me. “… Um, because I stay up so late … um, grading papers, which I have to go do now. You make sure Nicky gets back to her dorm safely, Mac.”

“But what about you, Professor?” Nicky objected. “You shouldn’t be walking alone on campus, either.”

“That’s right,” Mac eagerly concurred. “Why don’t you walk with us to the dorm and then I’ll walk you home?”

The last thing I wanted was to be alone with Mac Stewart, but what kind of a role model would I be if I walked around the campus by myself at night when I was urging my students not to?

“It will be my pleasure to escort Professor McFay home.”

The voice, silky and urbane, came from the shadows beneath a nearby pine tree. A tall man-shaped figure detached itself and glided forward. It wasn’t a man, though; it was Anton Volkov, Eastern European Studies professor and vampire.

“Mr. Stewart.” He acknowledged Mac with a nod and a slight quiver of his long patrician nose. Mac tended to smell like chewing tobacco and hay. “Miss Ballard, I enjoyed your paper on The Master and Margarita . Such an original take on the devil.” And then, turning his glittering eyes on me, he bowed. His blond hair looked silver in the moonlight. “Professor McFay, I’ve missed your company at our security meetings.”