Page 87 of The Highland Heist
“How can the two of you speak so casually when we’re quite literally walking through the forest at night toward a castle where the man who tried to murder me could be in wait?” Tony’s voice pitched higher than usual, the tremor betraying his unease.
“Would it help to speak more formally, sir?” Blake quipped, sparing a glance over his shoulder as they stepped into the castle’s clearing.
“Never mind,” Tony muttered, deflated.
Grace, brushing a stray leaf from her sleeve, interjected with an air of pragmatism, “If Mr. Kane came this way after meeting us earlier, it’s a clear sign he knows he’s not supposed to be here without an official escort.”
“And,” Frederick added, “he’s either searching for the will or—”
“Preparing his sister to frighten us tomorrow,” Grace finished, her gaze lingering on the looming stone walls.
“I usually avoid performances before the curtain officially rises,” Blake said, striding toward a small door at the base of one turret. “But in this case, I think an early viewing might be worthwhile.”
The door creaked open with a groan that reverberated like an ominous note on a church organ, revealing a spiral staircase winding into the castle’s depths. Blake raised his lantern, the flickering light licking at the cold stone.
“Now, Lady Astley, where did Mr. Locke suggest we begin our search?”
“Upstairs,” Grace said, her voice hushed as her gaze darted toward the narrowing staircase. She placed a hand lightly on Blake’s arm. “And Blake, just so you know—I wouldn’t advise splitting up.”
“Oh?” Blake arched a brow, his tone the picture of polite curiosity.
“Novels,” Frederick cut in, deadpan. “Bad things happen when parties split up. Ghosts, murderers, malevolent housemaids—it’s always worse alone.”
Blake’s grin was wicked. “Good advice. Since we are possibly making contact with a fictional ghost in the land of myths and legends, we ought to stick to the rules of fiction, indeed.”
“Laugh all you like,” Grace’s voice lilted with her own good humor as she followed close behind him up the stairs, her fingers brushing the cold stone wall for balance. “But just wait and see. My fictional knowledge has been proven true more often than not.”
“I’ve no doubt of it,” Blake replied, casting a glance over his shoulder. The lantern light deepened the mischief in his eyes. “Fiction usually comes from somewhere very nonfictional.”
Frederick smiled at their whispered banter, a pleasant distraction in the deepening darkness of the stairwell. The air felt damp, thick with the scent of earth and stone, and much cooler than an early July evening. It creeped into his bones, nearly inciting a chill.
When they reached the first landing, a hallway stretched out before them to the right, the passage dark except for the faint moon glow casting pale light through the windows.
“Douse your lantern,” Blake whispered, extinguishing his own. “Too easy to spot.”
Frederick obeyed, leading the group through the shadowed hall. The massive windows they’d admired earlier that day now seemed eerie, their pale light giving shape to the wide, yawning darkness on either side. However, the windows’ placement above the stairs offered a clear view of their next move.
Frederick turned to address the group when a strange sound filtered in from somewhere above them. It sounded like something scraping against stone as if stone-upon-stone or metal-upon-stone. Frederick stopped in his tracks, his ears straining.
“Well,” Blake muttered, his voice low but still managing to sound irreverent. “If I were a spectral horse trying to lure someone to their doom, I’d definitely start with that noise. It’s the right mix of creepy and obnoxious.”
Grace shot him one of the most confused looks. “We’re not near enough to water for kelpies, dear Mr. Blake.”
“Ah,” Blake had the decency to look utterly flummoxed. “So what’s the proper culprit, then?”
Grace caught on to his teasing. “Perhaps a brownie. They’re shy creatures, but famously helpful. They might tidy up while we search.”
“Convenient,” Blake said with a wink at Frederick. “Imagine waking up to a cleaned castle after all this nonsense.”
The banter dissolved as they reached the grand staircase. Grace pointed toward the upper floor. “Locke mentioned the laird’s favorite room—at the end of the hall.”
Frederick’s gaze caught on the mantel nearby, where two kelpie carvings loomed, their wild eyes gleaming in the moonlight like warnings.
They climbed the stairs, their footsteps a slow, groaning rhythm on the ancient wood. Each creak seemed louder than the last, as if the castle itself whispered for them to turn back.
At the top, the air grew sharper, colder, the fine hairs on Frederick’s arms standing to attention. The corridor stretched out before them, lined with closed doors on either side. At the very end, a set of double doors waited with anything but welcome.
“Stay close.” Frederick’s voice breathed near Grace’s ear bringing her a step nearer, and that is when he noticed something that sent a chill through his body.
