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Chapter 25

Lawrence stood in front of the main keep, surprised at how well preserved it was after so many years. As tourists wandered through the courtyard, he marveled that people now paid to visit a place that had once been his home. Back in his human life, he could never have imagined such a thing. Nor could he have imagined returning here centuries after he should have been dead and buried.

Wandering to the stone building that had once housed their horses, Lawrence entered the empty room and stopped in front of the plaque. They had it correctly, at least, having identified the building as the former stable. The wooden stalls were gone, making it a drafty, lonely place, with the exception of an errant tourist here or there.

He moved to where his stall would have been, easily conjuring visions of Arion despite the centuries that had passed since he’d last seen the chestnut destrier. A gift from his father, he had been both as swift as his namesake and the most loyal of companions. He’d also been one of the first in a long succession of loved ones who he’d seen leave this world.

Turning toward the door, Lawrence made his way back to the keep. Taking the ticket he’d purchased, Lawrence opened the map, not because he needed to find his way around, but because he was curious to read the history of Bowden Castle as told through the Heritage Preservation Trust.

Once the seat of the mighty Clan Karyn, dating back to 1121, Bowden Castle changed hands many times throughout the years—

He closed the brochure, the chill crawling up his spine having nothing to do with the unseasonably cool August weather. Or not so unseasonable, he chastised himself.

This was Scotland.

Lawrence still couldn’t believe he was here.

Just as he prepared to enter the great keep—or “main building,” as it was labeled on the map—his pocket buzzed. Taking out his phone, he stepped to the side to answer.

Finally.

“Everything OK?” he asked his brother. That Torr was calling, and not Laria, immediately worried him.

“It’s fine. Relax.”

He was trying. For the first time in centuries, he truly was trying.

“What’s up?”

“We may have a lead on the Cheld. Laria is inside the Stedelijk Museum as we speak asking—”

“You’re in Amsterdam?” he asked, surprised. They’d been in South America two days ago.

“The little bastard is cunning. He’s cloaked again, so we’re using good old-fashioned detective methods to root him out. Turns out he lived here for a time and used to work at the museum. When he lost our trail, he was either stupid or cocky enough to come back.”

“He likely thinks the cloaking will protect him. Any sign of Rowan or Drake?”

“None. Although it looks like we’re not the only ones taking an interest in the renegade. Do you remember a guy by the name of Seth Johnston?”

“He was the one who accompanied James Monroe to Paris to negotiate the Louisiana Purchase—”

“Where he was turned and subsequently went missing. Yep, that’s the one.”

“From Kentucky, if I remember correctly?”

“I think so. We can’t all have superior memories. But luckily I have skills in other areas—”

“Torr.”

His brother no doubt planned to put those skills to use in a city known for its tolerance of the many vices he enjoyed, but that didn’t mean he needed to hear about it.

“Anyway, Laria and I ran into him at the airport. One guess as to why he’s in Amsterdam?”

Torr’s flair for the dramatic had always amused him, but at times he would prefer a more forthright approach.

“He’s also hunting down the Cheld?” he asked dryly.

“Good guess. And do you know why?”