Page 92 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
Mercer slapped her across the face.
Remember Niina.
Another brutal punch took her breath away.
Edgar.
She gasped for air, her throat clawing for the bliss of oxygen as Mercer stole it with his hand around her throat.
“Who are you protecting?” he sneered.
Bear held her against him as Mercer pressed in.
“Did you give the papers to that lightkeeper? Is that who has them? Edgar?”
Rebecca couldn’t hide her wince. No! No, she hadn’t! But it hadn’t occurred to her that in trying to rid the region of her father and his greed, that Mercer would conclude she’d taken Edgar—or anyone—into her confidence to help.
“You did, didn’t you?” Mercer’s eyes sparked with awareness.
“No,” Rebecca whimpered. She truly had not, and now she must make Mercer believe her. “They don’t know anything. Please! Leave them alone.”
“Ohhh.” Mercer’s laugh was matched by Bear’s. “She loves them,” Mercer ridiculed. “She loves the old man.” Mercer palmed Rebecca’s face, shoving her head back against Bear’s chest. “Did you know how much your father despises that old lightkeeper? And that youlivethere with his apprentice? It disgusts me. It disgusts your father.”
Rebecca tried to comprehend Mercer’s words. He must have read the question in her eyes.
“Your mother—dear Annabel—oh, the stories I’ve heard. Her beauty. She may have been Hilliard’s wife and your mother, but she was Edgar’s lover and the bane of Hilliard’s existence.”
When she didn’t react, Mercer jerked her away from Bear, throwing her to the floor. The roughhewn floor dug into Rebecca’s skin, and her shoulder was bruised when it took the weight of her body upon impact.
Mercer stood over her, a cruelty emanating from him that bewildered Rebecca. He reached for a knife holstered on his belt and slid it from its sheath. A quick glance at Bear revealed his face draining of color beneath his beard.
Rebecca caught the glint of the knife as Mercer straddled her.
“Why don’t we have another discussion about where you hid those papers?”
Rebecca felt the edge of the blade lightly trail down her arm.
“Shall we?” Mercer’s question demanded an answer.
SHEA
Every step up the spiraling stairs was laborious. Her feet felt heavy as she lifted them. The humming had not ceased. The ethereal voice drifting down through the lighthouse was worse than if the ghost of Annabel had just moaned like most ghosts were supposed to do.
She hadn’t forgotten Pete—hadn’t forgotten that he had all but vanished. But the draw toward Annabel pulled Shea up. A century ago, this lighthouse would have smelled like oil—kerosene maybe?—and light would have brightened the interior. Heat would have radiated throughout the space. The wind and growing storm outside would have been met by the barrier of hope given off by the refuge of the lighthouse. But now? Now the wind was in charge, the lighthouse almost seeming to sway from the force of it. It had only been minutes before—hadn’t it?—that Shea had looked out across the lake and seen the calming rhythm of the waves. Now she could hear them increasing in volume, pummeling the shore as a storm rose up from its slumber.
“...soul my soul...” the voice hummed again, and Shea pushed herself forward. The bumps on her skin coincided with the chill in the air—air that almost suffocated her with its oppressive anticipation.
What did a person say to a ghost? To a haunted spirit back from the dead. Or if it were haunted, had it truly died? They said spirits didn’t pass over until they were at peace. Was this theresult? A tempestuous spirit of Annabel humming and teasing and toying with the senses?
And yet the very idea warred not only with Shea’s reason but with her faith. Her fledgling, worn-out, oft-ignored faith.
“Annabel?” Shea made herself call out.
The humming ceased.
The air went still.
Shea gripped the rail, only steps away from reaching the top and the narrow walkway that ran around the lantern. She swallowed hard, willing away her fear in exchange for the need to face her—faceit. That overwhelming sense that Annabel wasn’t real, that insteadshewas anit. A disembodied fragment of error passed on through the decades. Unrequited, mismanaged, abusive, selfish love that didn’t understand what it meant to love. To truly, wholly love with sacrifice. Love that didn’t taunt and torment, but that held steady when the wind blew, that shielded the other from the storm as best as one could, that did everything opposite of what Shea had done for Pete.
