Christina Skye - Bound by Dreams

“I don’t believe in ghosts, Brigadier. Only in things that I can pinpoint in my government assessments or track in a range finder.”

“My old nanny told me the abbey ghost is said to walk the parapets on moonless nights. And there was a story about thirteen bells, but the details elude me.”

The viscount’s brow rose. “Right now I’m only interested in recent history,” Nicholas said flatly. “Things that might affect our preparations for the summit.”

The brigadier didn’t turn. “But your family history may become very relevant, Lord Draycott. You may have forgotten enemies from your work and arrest in Asia. I believe you were held captive in a place called Bhan Lai for several years.”

Nicholas nodded coldly. This was not a subject he would discuss casually with the brigadier or any other person. And Nicholas didn’t believe his long-finished work in Asia would affect the summit in any way.

“I believe that your younger sister, Elena, died in the Philippines during your captivity. She was a lovely woman. I met her once at a ball held at Chatsworth. Her death was a terrible loss,” the brigadier said slowly.

Nicholas fought back shock and fury. Who was this man to dredge up Elena’s death? His sister was in no way relevant to the security of the upcoming Balkan event. “Your point, Brigadier?”

“That the past has a way of coming back to haunt us, usually at the most inconvenient times, Lord Draycott. From people you least suspect.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. If we’re done here, I have a good deal of work to finish.”

“I am finished for now.” The brigadier flashed a last glance across the grass, where sunlight touched the dense forest. “A beautiful estate, to be sure. I only hope that none of us has reason to regret the summit being held here at the abbey. Good day, Viscount Draycott.”

NICHOLAS BREATHED a sigh of relief as the brigadier’s big SUV thundered off. “Drag the abbey into the twenty-first century indeed,” he muttered. There would be no drilled walls. No ghastly Day-Glo modern alarm fixtures or camera kiosks installed during his lifetime. Everything could be updated while preserving the historical appearance of the house and grounds, and Nicholas was counting on his old friend for guidance in that task.

But there was no sign of Calan. He wasn’t at the stables or near the power equipment.

The viscount turned, circling past the beautiful roses and green lawns he loved so well. There was still no sign of his friend as he climbed past the moat to the edge of the high woods. Calan had been about to tell him something when the brigadier arrived.

Now Calan was gone, off stalking the grounds for information. The viscount wondered what form he was in at the moment. He didn’t relish the idea of facing down a snarling beast with wintry blue eyes.

Even now Nicholas knew only part of Calan’s real story. His Changes, as he called them, were linked to his bloodline by an ancient curse that came into play when a boy reached manhood. The whole idea seemed borderline—until you stared into the creature’s keen eyes and realized the intelligence that blazed there.

No animal could focus with such clear intensity. Yet Nicolas had seen the beast twice, and he still had goose bumps at the memory. He gathered that something about the usual pattern had gone wrong in Calan’s case. The Change had begun too early and too hard, and the boy had nearly died in the process.

Calan would tell him nothing more. Now, as an adult, he had settled into a rootlessness that saddened Nicholas.

So where are you now?

At the top of the hill the forest began, dense with oaks that dated back generations. From here the grounds fell away, offering views of two counties and the glimmer of the English Channel to the south.

As Nicholas stood beneath a great oak, he was struck with the odd feeling that he was no longer alone.

Then he saw the outline of a leather shoe, half-hidden beneath a giant rhododendron bush. A second shoe was pushed into the foliage nearby. Human footprints dotted the damp earth beyond.

And then vanished abruptly.

Marking the very moment of change, foot to paw, body caught midleap.

Nicholas stood motionless. He felt the hand of nature brush him along with the call of something dark and unexplainable. The woods around him fell silent, as if in hushed awareness of a predator stalking nearby.

Nicholas knew exactly who—and what—that predator was. He didn’t like the idea of a savage creature prowling the abbey grounds, but for now his home would be safer for its presence.

So he hoped.

WET FERNS COVERED the ground. Broken stems from hard rain left a green smell that marked the passage of a man only hours before.

He followed the track, every sense fully alive. The prints held gravel bits from the coast, car oil, the rancid hint of grease.

More prints dotted the ground beneath the abbey’s stone fence. Here he stopped, gathering the smells like small stones, holding each until its meaning was locked into his mind.

The sun brushed his shoulders and the stirring from the woods called to him, but he waited, gaining a clear impression of the men who had crossed the fence in the night.

Their footprints had the stink of beer about them even now. Spices clung to their shoes. Chemicals. Harsh cigarettes and the smell of seawater.

The mix burned through his blood. All of this he would remember.

Then he caught the softer trace of her—the woman who had come back to save him. His skin tightened in sharp response to the memory. He moved closer, testing the smells. Her footprints carried the clays of high mountains and the pine forests of France. Nothing of the sea marked her smell.

She had no scent connection with the men from the car.

Was there relief in the knowledge?

Either way, his search here was done. The sun had already passed to the far side of the valley.

He turned in a tight circle, hungry to know who the woman was, and what had formed her scent of regret and bitterness, mixed with her tears. She called to him and he had to know why.

There was only one way to find out.

Twilight was gathering as something jumped the stone fence near the road, following the woman’s trail down into the streambed.

KIERA WINCED as she closed her laptop.

Her last e-mail to her sister was done. If Kiera didn’t keep in frequent contact, her sister had vowed to come after her, for backup and moral support. Standing up, she stretched carefully. There were cuts on her arms and legs and her face was scraped in three places. She knew she had come close to serious harm at the hands of her attackers. The responsible thing to do?

Simple.

Call the local police and report everything, including the fact that she had been trespassing at the time.

Right. And how she would explain that? Next would come the questions about her own background and what had drawn her onto Draycott grounds at night.

She shoved a hand through her short, curly hair. The color of a good crème-brûlée topping, her mother always said. Kiera was the only child with hair that wasn’t jet-black, and her father had teased her once with the possibility that she was a changeling.

Hard to believe that she had cried for a week, even after all of her family tried desperately to explain it had been a joke.

But now her mother was gone. Her father, always so hale, had lost his spirit after her mother’s death. Now he lived with full-time care, and a short walk left him at the edge of exhaustion. After two heart attacks, his doctors had warned the children to prepare for the worst.

Kiera couldn’t imagine losing him, not so close on the heels of her mother. But life had taught her that change came whether you liked it or not. She had begun to prepare, hoarding her years of rich memories like a shield.