Vanessa counted out the coin, fully aware she’d pay half as much at any reputable establishment in London, but she was beyond caring, what with a bath and a hot meal so close at hand. “You called this Carrie’s room before,” she mentioned, more to make conversation than anything. “Is Carrie the name of the apparition who will be keeping me company?”
A dark, almost sympathetic expression softened Bess’s moon-round face as she used a free hand to tuck a pale lock of hair back into her matronly cap. “Oh—well—that’s just a bit of local superstition, isn’it? Nothing to worry about. A lady like ye’ll be perfectly safe.”
Local superstition was exactly what drew her to the Highlands for Christmas, but Vanessa thought it best not to disclose that to Bess just now.
What had the woman meant, a lady like her? Someone wealthy, perhaps? English? Or female?
Either way, fate had left her little choice but to find out.
CHAPTER 2
Johnathan de Lohr was awoken from his blank torpor by the sound of a delicate sneeze.
It was time again. The solstice maybe, when the sun flared and tugged at the planet in such a way the tides became wilder. The storms became more violent. The creatures of the earth more feral.
Untamed.
And those dead like himself, cursed to still inhabit this plane, were called to be restless.
Reminded what it was to be human.
Only to have it ruthlessly taken from them again.
He materialized—for lack of a better word—by Carrie’s old bed in time to have a dust sheet snatched right through his middle by a large, apple-cheeked woman in a matronly apron.
He didn’t recognize her at all.
“We’ve a water heater but no piping to the rooms, far as we are from civilized Blighty,” she said, snatching the last of the covers off a tall wardrobe as a portly man with wild tufts of greying hair dumped an empty metal basin on the floor with a derisive clang.
Ah, there was Balthazar, or at least one of his kin. John had known generations of them to come and go, but this iteration he’d seen when the man was younger. Much younger.
The innkeeper stomped out with nary a word and was replaced by a lad of maybe fifteen with longish unkempt dark hair and a cauldron of steaming water, which he poured into the tub.
Wait, they’d let the room? His room? This was not to be tolerated.
He could make himself visible, of course, on a night like tonight, could take to wailing and thundering and all manner of ghostly things. He might even be able to summon the energy to touch or move something. To breathe on or even grab at someone with icy fingers, terrorizing them away so he could regain his own tranquility.
It took so much from him, though, exerting his will in the realm of the living.
Waking always discombobulated John. For a moment, the chaos of the round woman’s tidying, the noise of a full inn and the water crashing into the metallic basin, along with the press of three or more bodies in such a small chamber overwhelmed him. A storm screamed and battered at the ancient window, the snow knocking like the very fist of a demon in gusts and surges.
The blasted woman—whom he assumed was the current Balthazar’s wife—had tossed the dust covers out the door and was now rushing toward where John stood in front of the bed, with a fresh pile of sheets and new pillows.
He didn’t like the odd sensation of people walking through him; it rankled like that odd tickle one felt when bashing their elbow, but without the pain.
Unable to easily avoid the rotund woman in the cramped space, he retreated a few steps until he found himself standing inside the wardrobe, his vision hindered by the closed doors and the darkness inside them. Much better. Was this piece new? He tried to remember if he’d seen it the last time he’d lingered here. They’d no doubt procured it to cover the door that led to—
Another small sneeze interrupted his thoughts. “Forgive me,” begged a British female voice before a delicate sniff. “Dust always makes me sneeze.” She cleared her throat. “It is kind of Dougal and Mr. Pitagowan to draw a bath. I feel it is the only way I’ll ever be warm again. And the room is really so charming, I’m certain I’ll be comfortable here. I might not have survived a march to the Cairngorm Tavern.”
John closed his eyes as a strange, incandescent vibration shimmered through him.
The new feminine voice was husky and smooth, like smoke exhaled over the most expensive brandy. It slid between his ribs like a smooth assassins’ blade, nicking at a heart that hadn’t ticked for at least a century. It both stirred and soothed him in equal measure.
“Like I said earlier, miss, this isna kindness, it’s a service. One ye paid generously for, so enjoy it with our blessing and warm yer wee bones before ye shiver right out of them.”
John had always been an appreciator of the Scottish brogue, but this woman’s pitch could likely offend sensitive dogs. It was especially jarring after the crisp, clear notes of British gentility.
He poked his head back through the wardrobe doors to find who belonged to such a sound, and realized immediately why he’d missed her before.
Dressed in the most peculiar plain grey wool cloak that’d been soaked through, the slip of a woman had flattened herself against the grey stone wall just inside the door, her skirts protecting an oddly shaped brown case on the floor beneath her. A plain, dark felt hat shadowed her features in the room only lit by two dim lanterns, but he could tell it had obviously not kept her ebony curls dry. The impression of a sharp jaw and shapely lips above a thick black scarf drew the rest of him from the wardrobe to investigate.
She’d been out in that bastard of a storm? This waifish girl? No wonder the Pitagowans had interrupted his peace to prepare the room for her. The laws of Highland hospitality—if there still was such a thing—would not have allowed them to deny anyone sanctuary.
“You have my gratitude all the same, Mrs. Pitagowan,” the woman said.
God, how he had missed the dulcet pronunciations of the gently bred ladies of his homeland. It’d been so long. He wanted to bid her to speak, to never stop.
“I told ye, call us Bess and Balthazar, everyone else does.” The innkeeper trundled over to the door and accepted a tray of tea, which she set on the small stand next to the bed. After, she squeezed around her husband, who’d returned with yet another cauldron of water, to the small brick fireplace on the far wall. Rolling up her sleeves, she squatted to arrange a fire.
“You must call me Vanessa, then.”
Vanessa. John tested the name on his tongue, and he thought he saw the woman tense beneath her layers.
Could she hear him already? The sun hadn’t gone down yet.
“Where are ye from, lass?” Bess asked, carrying on the conversation.
John found himself equally curious.
“My family resides in London, mostly,” Vanessa answered. “Though I am compelled to spend most of the time at our country estate in Derbyshire.”
John thought her reply rather curious, not only the phrase but the bleak note lurking beneath the false cheer she’d injected into her voice. Compelled. An interesting word.
If Bess thought it odd, she didn’t mention. “Where were ye headed in such a storm, if ye doona mind me asking?”
“Not at all.” Bending to drag the case with her, Vanessa rested it by the tea-laden table, out of the way of Balthazar’s and Dougal’s stomping feet. “I was on the road to Fort Augustus on Loch Ness when the blizzard overtook us.” She poured herself a cup of the steaming brew as she answered.