“Yes. The boundary is probably another half a mile away from the first wall. This is all definitely his.” I’d seen enough. “Let’s look at the next one.”
The thatch was not the golden straw I’d seen in pictures of cutesy English country cottages, but straggly mounds of dull, mossy-looking vegetation that was presumably supposed to be authentic. It sure as hell looked as if it’d been around for centuries, even though I was quite sure thatch had to be replaced every so often. It suited the sombre environment much better than the picture-postcard variety would have.
The second house was bigger, but only slightly. It had two windows, and a larger table, along with a shelf above the fireplace, and a rustic cupboard in one corner. Peeking in the cupboard, I discovered an assortment of objects with which to cook or to eat and drink from. The furthest end from the fireplace had a crude but solid bed frame, this one set with a lumpy mattress. A chest at the base of the bed contained woollen blankets.
I swallowed. “This isn’t open to the public. There’s no reason for these houses to be restored and repaired like this unless they mean something to Dalziel. Or am I imagining things?”
Luc ushered me back outside. “No, you’re not,” he muttered. “It’s all a bit Jamie Fraser, isn’t it?”
I smothered a snort. “Please tell me you haven’t watched that.” I would only admit under torture how addicted I’d been to that show. Hot men in kilts and fighting. What wasn’t to love?
His lips quirked upwards. “A few episodes. Sophie was keen. I didn’t mind. That Sam bloke was a bit of all right with his shirt off.”
“Who’s Sophie?”Ahh, shit, that sounded like jealousy.
Apparently Luc thought so too. “Calm your tits. She’s an ex. My most recent one.”
“I’m calm,” I groused, irritated he already knew me so well.
The mocking slant of his eyebrows told me he didn’t buy my bullshit response.
To change the subject, I headed towards the small church. Unlike the others, this had a slate roof, in decent condition. Inside, it was starkly devoid of decoration, with plain glass in the windows, unremarkable pews, and a simple white cloth covering the altar. There were stubby candles in holders, and a feeling of calm in the building. Not ever having been burdened with religion, I could still appreciate the atmosphere, and the quiet dedication to the upkeep of this modest place of worship.
Luc shook his head. “I don’t understand. I wouldn’t have pegged Dalziel as religious, or sentimental. I thought vamps lost their humanity over the years, but this argues the opposite.”
“Maybe it’s not about the buildings so much as the memories?” I ventured. “Can we have a wander through the graveyard? It’s not very big, and it’s not like we have any time constraints.” I glanced at him. “You don’t mind, do you, doing this? Must be boring for you.”
He pulled me against him, our bulky coats in the way of a proper embrace, and took my face in his hands. “If this is your family, babe, how could I be bored?” He scrunched his nose, then dropped a quick peck on the end of mine. “C’mon, let’s rummage through a spooky graveyard like the spooky, scary creatures we are.” He gave me a toothy grin, his canines noticeably longer and sharper than usual. I gazed at him wide-eyed.
“Can you do, like, a partial shift?” That was dope as fuck if he could.
“Yes, I can. You like?” The glint in his topaz eyes was so hopeful, it slammed a fist into my guts.
I nodded. “Do some more?” I wanted to quench my instinctual fear of his wolf, and maybe this would help. I watched as he raised his hands to head height, holding them in a loose clench. He winked at me, and before my amazed eyes, talons extended from the tips of his previously-human fingers. “Oh, wow,” I breathed. “That’s epic.”
Luc took a measured breath and I witnessed his teeth and claws retract, leaving him human again. Or human-like, I reminded myself. He was still an apex predator no matter the skin he wore. Yeah, that didn’t help my fear. An old graveyard in winter sounded heaps less dangerous.
The graves were all on the far side of the little church from the houses, many of them with toppled headstones leaning against each other like drunken old men supporting a friend home. Most were covered with lichen and ivy, weathered beyond hope of reading the inscriptions. But in the far corner, under the branches of a rowan tree, were a handful of cleaner grave markers, untainted by moss and leafy detritus.
Suddenly wary of what I might discover, I entangled my fingers with Luc’s, and was heartened when he gave them a gentle squeeze. We approached together, and he didn’t let go even when I crouched down, coming down with me.
I inhaled a shaky breath. Wellfuck.
In loving memory of Lucan Millar. Born February 13, 1713. Departed this world April 28, 1715.
Also of Fergus Millar, beloved son. Born August 8, 1714. Gone too soon, May 14, 1717.
In memoriam, sweet Lizzie Millar. Born January 28, 1717. Angels took her, October 17, 1718.
Three tiny children, all with the surname Millar, and all dead before their third birthday. This couldn’t be a coincidence. I managed to choke out a sentence. “Let’s see the others.”
There was a double grave, possibly that of Dalziel’s parents, as the dates and names fitted, and one for Elizabeth, wife of Dalziel Millar, cherished only daughter of Stewart and Elizabeth Crawford, which needed no explanation. Her date of death was shortly after that of her youngest child, Lizzie. Christ, he’d lost all his kids and his wife within five years. I tried to imagine the pain he’d gone through, and my breath stuttered as I suddenly realised the devastation I would feel if I were to lose Luc. An agonising knife-strike to my heart had me tearing my hand away from the solid warmth of Luc’s grip and mumbling something about needing a minute.
Stumbling blindly away from him and the graves, I took off down the path back the way we’d come, desperate to put some space between us while I figured this latest development out. I picked up my feet and tore through the abandoned hamlet, only halting when I reached the original stone wall. I retraced my steps and ducked inside the first empty cottage. The tumbledown roof and crumbling walls didn’t offer much protection, but I huddled into a corner and attempted to hold back the heaving sobs that were threatening to bubble up from my very soul.Oh god, I love him. I really do. I’m totally and completely in love with Luc Bradshaw.I couldn’t be, not this soon, and yet I knew it was the truth even as some small part of me still wanted to argue. Logic and time had nothing to do with this; Luc was who I was meant to be with. His arrival in my life might have been accidental, but I was convinced he was my—
My what? The wordmatesprung unbidden to my mind, and I rolled it around, testing it out for size. I couldn’t argue that it fit, as snugly as Luc and I fit, whether entwined in the heat of passion or sitting side by side in a car tearing through the night, or even awkwardly on the floor at the top of Dalziel’s tower, wary of each other’s genetics, but still unarguably, irresistibly drawn to each other.
“Oh god,”I groaned softly. I was nineteen years old, for fuck’s sake. I had my whole life ahead of me, presuming I found a way through the whole Red Wyverns mess. I was eighteen months out of school, and barely had a handle on my diet, let alone knew what I wanted from my future. How could I be in love with ‘the one’? On top of that was the ever-present terror that I’d discover I was indeed immortal and at some point I’d be abandoned by everyone who’d ever known me. Didn’t take a genius to work out the fear of abandonment was a very real trigger for me.
