Page 32 of Once Upon A Haunted Castle
Chapter Eight
Elle ran untilher lungs were about to burst. She doubled over in the dark forest, hands on her knees, gasping for air. A good hour, or more, had passed with her sprinting as though the ghost of, well, perhaps Bjork himself, were on her tail. Scary thing was, she knew him to be alive and most likely hunting her now.
He’d not stop until he had her. He’d made that clear when he stormed Castle Gloom and then again when the men who’d come for her at Dunstaffnage had shouted for her return.
Payment for a favor long since erased by the past.
Revenge for what he thought had been stolen from him.
All of it utter nonsense.
Elle owed Bjork nothing. Until he’d forced his way into her life some few years ago, she’d only ever heard stories about him. Horror stories, but stories all the same. Bjork believed himself to be the earl of their family’s lands in Norway. The one who was to be followed, but mother’s cousin had taken the title from him in a single battle. As payment for his loss, Bjork had demanded that her mother marry him, but she’d refused, sneaking off with the men in a raid, which landed her in Ireland where she’d met Padrig Cam’béal, and thought to strengthen their alliance with Ireland. Bjork had been fighting to get her mother back ever since, constantly raiding—until he’d seen Elle as a girl of perhaps fifteen. Then he’d decided her mother was no longer his prize, but she herself.
Throughout the years, her mother had always assured her he was a long way away. Oh, how wrong she’d been. The man would stop at nothing. Decades of losing had not stopped him. And now, she was certain, he could taste his victory.
Elle closed her eyes a moment, listening to the sounds of the forest, and hoping to catch just the slightest hint of a trickle of water. Her mouth was parched, body covered in slick sweat despite the autumn temperatures. Dizziness licked at the edges of her body. She flexed her hands, having fisted them tightly the entire way. They were tingly, nearly numb. And then she heard it. A slight trickling sound. With one last deep breath, she jogged toward the sound of the burn. She pulled the sword from her back, kneeling before the rushing water to dip her hands in its cool depths. She drank greedily, then scooped up water to splash over her neck and face.
Elle was tired. But she had to keep going. Had to find the bastard. Had to save her brother.
And not be captured by anyone else in the process. That wouldn’t do. That would defeat her entire purpose.
“Well…if I believed in ghosts, I might have said ye were one.”
Elle startled, jumping to her feet. Standing behind her was Bjork, an army of men behind him. He looked much the same. Savage. His hair was sandy in color streaked with gray. Scars marred his cheeks, meeting with the wrinkles of his eyes. His beard was long and woven into a braid that reached near to his chest. His clothes were thick leather, wool and furs, and blood streaked. The sun glinted off his weapons from head to toe. The man was a nightmare. Fierce and evil in his appearance as he was on the inside. She wouldn’t be surprised to see that when he smiled, blood from his latest victim dripped from his teeth.
Elle squared her shoulders, willing the trembling of her hands, the knocking of her knees, to quell. She held her head high. “So, ye found me.”
“How could I not? Ye crashed through the forest like a lame bull.” His grin widened and he opened his arms wide. “A bull to be sacrificed, and I the altar.”
Elle worked hard to return his smile, as though she didn’t care about his words or the threat that laced them. “Ye’re too generous.”
He grunted. “I am never generous.”
And didn’t she know it. “Release my brother. I will surrender myself to ye under those terms.”
Confusion flashed on Bjork’s face for a fraction of a second. “Your brother?”
“Erik. Release him. Dinna be coy. I know ye have him.”
At this, Bjork raised a brow. “I didna even know ye had a brother. Family news doesn’t travel fast.” He stepped closer to her. “Tell me about this brother.”
Elle felt her chest tighten. Her vision became blurred. She was tempted to accuse him of lying, but the steel in his eyes, the firmness of his words…she knew in her heart he was telling the truth. Still, she raised the sword, pointing the tip toward him.
Bjork raised his brow and chuckled. “As I see it, I’ve an army and ye’ve none. Even if ye swiped at me with that sword, ye’d not win. Ye’re in no place to make any negotiations.”
Elle swallowed. He had a point, but she refused to let him see that he scared her or that she believed he was right.
“Ye dinna scare me, Bjork.”
To that, he laughed all the more, a sound that grated down her spine like the edge of a blade. He slowly walked forward and while she wanted to step back, there was nowhere to go but into the burn. To swim from him. And that was what she did.
*
Beiste was tearingapart his room—and he knew it was all for naught. The lass had taken the sword, he was certain of it. She’d meet that Viking bastard along the road and he’d not be able to save her.
“Son.” Again that same ghostly voice he’d heard when he was bathing in the sea.
Beiste jerked around, completely in denial as to what he was seeing. His father, well, an apparition thatlookedlike his father, stood right before him. “Ye’re not real.”
