Page 88 of The Highland Heist
The scraping had stopped.
Chapter 22
“Sounds as though the brownies have finished their work,” Blake whispered as Frederick led the way down the hall. “Efficient fellows, aren’t they. Not even two o’clock.”
Grace studied his face. The words were light, but the tension beneath them wasn’t lost on her. Blake was on edge, just like Frederick. Whatever had been making the noise had stopped, and the silence now hung heavy like the moment before a thunderstorm.
“That’s the room, I’d wager.” Frederick gestured with his doused lantern. “The one at the end of the hall.”
“Lovely,” Tony muttered. “Because there’s nothing ominous about approaching a dead man’s favorite haunt in the middle of the night.”
“Glad to see your humor’s resurrecting, Dixon.” Blake’s choice of words and deadpan expression nearly loosened Grace’s grin altogether. The man seemed determined to keep levity very much alive no matter the circumstances.
Unfortunately, the levity was short-lived when a faint creak echoed somewhere to their left. They froze. Tony may have whimpered, but Grace couldn’t be sure whether it was him or a door.
“Did anyone else hear that?” Tony’s whisper cracked.
Grace nodded, her fingers brushing the cold, uneven stone wall, as though it might provide some tangible barrier against the unknown. “It sounded like a door—”
Another swish followed by a high-pitched groan reverberated through the hall. One of the double doors up ahead swung open of its own accord. Grace swallowed through her tightening throat. It only seemed to open by its own accord. Flashes of memory of her ghost hunt in Havensbrooke came to mind.
That ghost hadn’t been real. It hadfeltreal, though.
She drew in a steadying breath. And neither was this one.
The room beyond the door was drenched in pale moonlight. Tall, arched windows cast shadows that stretched long and sharp across the stone floor, like claws reaching into the void.
“This feels like a very bad idea,” Tony muttered, sidling closer to Grace than he had been a moment ago.
“Stay together,” Frederick said firmly, reaching for her hand. His grip was reassuringly warm against the icy air.
On her periphery, Grace caught sight of Blake pulling his gun from somewhere inside his jacket. A gun. Very good idea. Not helpful with ghosts or kelpies or probably even brownies, but with a flesh-and-blood murderer, a helpful addition to their arsenal. She’d always found having a man with a gun in these sorts of situations very helpful.
Blake took the lead, as any man with a gun ought to do, and approached the open door as if he trained to do something very similar. It was rather fascinating to watch and incited all sorts of questions she’d have to reserve for later.
Just before they reached Blake at the door, a strange whisper filtered across the cold air. What was it? Grace looked up at Frederick, who had an ever-tightening grip on hand.
“Oh, absolutely not,” Tony hissed, backing up a step. “I draw the line at ghostly whispers in the dark.”
The whisper came again from the left where the hall turned down into darkness. Every hair on Grace’s head answered the call of fear, very much like she’d felt the first time she’d read Poe’s “The Raven.” Naturally, she’d followed it up with every other story of his she could find, thus ensuring an entire week of sleepless nights haunted by beating hearts, madmen, and the occasional black cat.
She forced logic to the forefront. What had the whisper said? It sounded like, “Alastair?”
Frederick frowned but said nothing, his jaw tightening as they stepped into the room after Blake. Grace felt the tension evaporate almost instantly. She’d never felt quite so attune with a dead person before in her whole life. Laird Blair’s favorite room was a library.
“I believe this particular ghost hunt was tailor-made for you, darling.” Frederick sent her a smile, his gaze still alert.
“It only proves all the more how much he and my mother had in common.” She took in the heady, familiar scent of old leather and ink mingled with just enough dust to threaten a sneeze.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, their contents a delightful chaos of ancient tomes and newer, well-worn volumes. Interspersed among them were intricately carved wooden creatures—Scottish selkies, kelpies, and even a particularly regal faerie queen mid-flight.
“Well, Laird Blair was nothing if not committed to the theme,” Blake muttered, his voice low as he surveyed the room. The pistol in his hand was held so naturally that, had Grace not watched him draw it, she might not have noticed it at all.
She shouldn’t be surprised he had a pistol. After all, he was the one who’d taught her how to use one.
“Do you think he commissioned these?” Grace released Frederick’s hand and walked to the nearest shelf, running her fingers over a carving of a stoic-looking brownie clutching a broom. “They’re all so unique.”
“We’re not here to catalog a dead man’s mythical menagerie,” Tony grumbled. “We’re here to find a will and save Lillias.”
