Chapter One
Present day
Like a siren’s call,Darach Chisholm followed those of The 79 still tethered to the moor, toward Soncerae’s fire. The wee witch’s white blaze glowed bright in the darkness, lending an eerie radiance to the fat flakes of falling snow.
More than half of his fellow warriors had already moved on, and tonight Soni would grant another ghost the opportunity to find a more meaningful existence.
’Twas a long-awaited blessing.For them.
Darach ignored the hum of speculation and listened instead to the moaning wind as he waited with mild curiosity to see who she would choose.
No’ him, certainly.
He’d merely come to observe her selection, out of boredom. Though he was happy for those who’d gone on to whatever destinies they’d earned, he neither sought nor desired Soni’s gift.
In a few more hours, he’d watch another cold, gray November dawn spread across the moor, as empty and bleak as all the days before it, and all that would come after.
He raised his face to the falling snow and tried to remember the tantalizing feel of snowflakes melting on his skin, but too much time had passed. He couldnae quite grasp the sensation.
The barrier between his mortal life and his lengthy existence on the moor grew thicker every day, blocking out who he’d been as deftly as the dense, snow-sky blocked the stars. Like a shield, the gray cloud-cover hung low and dark. As impenetrable as his wretched soul.
There could be no redemption for him, no matter how many boons he might win in the two days of mortality Soni offered. Being shackled to the moor, eternally cloaked in his sins, was little enough penance for what he’d done.
The low murmurs turned to loud conjecture, drawing Darach’s attention as the ghostly assemblage reached Soncerae’s fire. She was there, as always, in her pretty cloak, her lovely face glowing with excitement, presumably for the next ghost’s liberation from the moor.
She dinnae come alone anymore, as she used to. Two ladies of indeterminable age accompanied her, cloaked similarly to Soni. So alike they were, ’twas impossible to tell one from the other. Their smiles were soft, benevolent, and a little secretive as they perused the ghostly assemblage, and all that surrounded them.
Witches as well? Muirs, surely, since they appeared to be advanced versions of Soncerae. Darach had to admit the duo piqued his curiosity. Little enough did, anymore.
The snow, much lighter now, was swept away by the wind as the ghosts crowded closer, waiting to be called. ’Twas no question each deserved Soni’s generosity.
All but the one called 74. Naught but a number now, the name Chisholm hadna been spoken by his fellow warriors in nearly three centuries. And likely, wouldnae be, again.
Over the endless years on the moor, several of his ghostly companions had tried to befriend him. Of them, Gregor Mitchell had come closest to breaching Darach’s self-imposed isolation. But even he hadna fully penetrated the tainted Chisholm armor. No matter, now. Gregor was gone, and soon the others would take their leave, as well.
’Twas as it should be. There’d be no friends, no ties, no opportunities or expectations for him. And that too, was as it should be.
Folding his arms over his broad chest, Darach felt secure in the knowledge he’d never be afriendto anyone, again. ’Twas too costly, by far. And if ever a day dawned that he might somehow forget the price of friendship, he had only to look out at the stones, where the bones were buried.
Though the two brothers hadna escaped a painful, bloody death, they’d thankfully evaded whatever force had chosen, and tethered, The 79 to the moor. Hopefully, they’d rejoined their mither and made their peace. ’Twas a festering knot in Darach’s chest that he would never have the same reunion with his own ma, or the chance to ask her forgiveness. Nor ever know his da.
’Twas fitting, he supposed, for coaxing two innocents to their deaths.
“74!” Soni’s voice sang out above the wind and conjectures.
Heads turned as glances and low murmurs floated among the ghosts. A few seemed disappointed, some even irritated. All, surprised. But none as astonished as he. He took a step back. Then another.
“Darach Chisholm,” Soncerae’s voice, light and airy as a chime, contrasted with the sharp look she gave him. “ ’Tis no use pretendin’ ye dinnae hear yer number called.”
He shook his head. Nae! She couldnae mean to take him.
As if on cue, the assembled ghosts parted, creating a long, empty aisle to where Darach stood frozen, at the other end.
As the familiar green mist encircled Soni’s robe, ’twas as if he felt her power, somehow building insidehim.
“ ’Tis yer time, 74,” Soncerae crooned, as if coercing a child to an early bedtime. She held out her hand. “Come.”
“But…I dinnae wish tae go,” he argued.
