The Edinburgh Seer Complete Trilogy Page 8

  Vera’s voice went higher, tighter. “Eighty pounds. Last offer.”

  “I want to know its provenance. Not its worth on the black market.”

  Vera’s eyes widened, but Aini didn’t wait for an answer. The walls were closing in, and that big man—Dodie?—had pulled something out of his waistband. A knife? A gun?

  “Take it from her,” Vera said.

  Dodie rushed her. His thick fingers ripped the brooch from her dress, tearing the outer layer of white and gold fabric. Not thinking, just doing, she grabbed for the brooch, but Vera pushed her toward the door.

  “Out with you, richie. I’ve no use for those who live well on English money.”

  Before they opened the door, Aini jerked hard and shoved Dodie. He fell, and the brooch flew from his hand. She leaped for it. Vera shrieked and came at her, ragged nails like claws. Diving for the brooch, Vera raked Aini’s arm. Heat and needles seared Aini’s skin. The door swung open behind her and strong hands wrenched her from the room.

  “It’s us, hen,” Thane said into her ear.

  Recovered, Dodie charged.

  Myles shouted a warning and Neve took Aini’s arm. Thane spun and smashed a boot into Dodie’s stomach as Vera shot from the room. The two men who’d first led Aini through the club came running from the back hallway. Before Vera could get to them, Myles, Neve, and Aini hurtled down the stairs in a series of teeth-clattering leaps.

  “Emergency!” Myles shouted into the crowd.

  Aini looked over her shoulder. Still on the balcony, Thane had the bearded man in some sort of headlock. The chubby man waved a knife at Thane. He kicked the man’s hand and the knife jumped into the air.

  Downstairs, a cluster of girls wearing feathers in their hair separated Vera from Aini, Myles, and Neve. Vera’s pretty face contorted as she made eye contact with Aini, but she didn’t call out.

  “This girl’s going to upchuck!” Myles shouted. “Unless you want groceries tossed all over your fab attire, I suggest you move it!”

  A girl in a mini skirt and three men with mohawks pushed people aside as they fought their way through the red lights, candles, sweaty dancers, and skull-numbing music.

  “What about Thane?” Neve shouted above the drums and trumpeting horns.

  “He’s a big boy.” Aini helped Myles push the door open. Guilt nudged her, but she figured a man who drugged bouncers could probably take care of himself.

  Outside, a mist that was nearly rain filled the air and weighed down Aini’s elaborate and quickly dying hair style.

  “Let’s go, girls!” Myles tried to grab Neve’s hand, but she didn’t notice.

  They tore into the street, dodging a car full of people singing along to the radio. A truck veered around them and blared its horn. The pavement glistened in the damp, slick under Aini’s stupid, fancy shoes. At a dip in the road, her ankle rolled, sending a shot of heat up her leg.

  “Hold on,” she called out.

  But Myles and Neve bolted past a pizza place with bright green walls, then a coffee house. They were headed for Candlemaker Row, for home. They couldn’t lead these maniacs to the townhouse.

  She tugged off her extravagant shoes and held them as she ran. “Stop! Wait!” The weak glow of the street lights teased her, not fully illuminating the wide road of George IV Bridge. It met with Candlemaker and the entrance to the graveyard. “We can’t lead them to the townhouse,” Aini said, panting.

  Myles slicked water from his face. “We’ll lose them in Greyfriars Cemetery.”

  Neve whimpered.

  “The spirits can’t hurt you.” Aini tugged Neve, trailing Myles.

  “I’m Scottish. We don’t like to tangle with ghosts.” Neve pushed the ends of her dripping braids out of her face.

  Aini’s stomach twisted. She was Scottish too. One half. She loved being Indonesian as well, but the color of her skin tended to make people around here forget her veins could hold blood from any number of countries.

  Greyfriars’ towering iron gate creaked as they hurried in. The rectangular windows at the top of the guard house doors were dark—it was after midnight—and the only sounds were the drips of rain on the trees that hulked over the old burial ground. At least, Aini hoped that was rain and not footsteps. Thankfully, the surrounding buildings’ buttery light illuminated the graveyard well enough to navigate the city of wet tombstones.

  “We can cut through the back, right, Neve?”

  Aini clutched the brooch like a talisman, the memory of the vision running through her head.

  The man handing Father the brooch.

  The stranger from the past and the carved stone.

  The knife.

  The stranger’s thoughts, the directions he’d purposely imprinted that almost seemed directed at her, a Seer.

  Myles started up the paved walkway past the western façade of the towering church with its arched windows and bone-colored walls.

  “If the gate to the Heriot School is open,” Neve said, “we can go through their grounds and come around the block the back way.”

  A chill swept past. A barely audible shushing sound rolled over Aini. Neve snagged her arm, both of them shaking. The walkway was too narrow for all three of them to continue side by side. Aini handed Neve off to Myles and stepped into the grass. Mud squelched between Aini’s bare toes. The scent of wet earth and ancient soot, clinging to gravestones like permanent shadows, rose into the air.

  Neve began singing nervously. “Macbeth’s Seer rises nigh.” Her timid voice strained over three minor key notes. “A stone reflected in his light eye, and he bumped the man upon the chair, ripped him up by the hair.”

  “What are you singing?” Aini asked. “You sound like Myles.”

  “Say thank you to the lady, Neve,” Myles said shakily.

  “It’s something my mum used to cant in the kitchen.”

  Aini’s foot splashed into a particularly disgusting patch of black mud and Neve’s eyes widened.

  “Did you know that you’re walking on 40,000 bodies?” Neve whispered. “When it rains like this, sometimes bones pierce the ground and come up under you.”

  Aini shuddered and edged around another cold spot. “Neve. Please. Save it for your tours.”

  Footfalls sounded behind them. Aini turned as Vera and Dodie rounded the pub at the cemetery’s entrance and stopped.

  Aini squeezed Neve’s arm.

  Myles swore.

  Vera smiled.

  Chapter 9

  An Ancient Feud

  On the club’s upper floor, Thane held the bearded man in a makeshift bear hug and kicked the knife out of the other man’s hand. The hairy lad wiggled out of the hold and caught Thane with an elbow. Salty blood ran into Thane’s mouth as he slipped his head left to dodge another strike. He drove well-worn knuckles into that fool’s beard, then spun to face the man’s larger associate, who howled and held his kicked, most likely broken, fingers.

  “You Dionadair?” Thane knew his smile probably looked a good bit like his father’s. His stomach rolled, but he straightened his shoulders. Sometimes cruelty was called for.

  The big man spat, the warm blood hitting Thane’s jacket and hand.

  Keeping the knife within his peripheral vision, Thane glanced at the dark splotch on his jacket. “You’ll need better aim than that to down me.”

  The man launched himself at Thane.

  Arms raised, Thane dove and blocked the man’s knife arm. Thane’s hand slid to the man’s wrist, where he kept the knife low and away from his body as he kneed the idiot in the balls. Clutching his groin, the man fell. Thane kicked him in the stomach and picked up the knife.

  Racing down the stairs and licking salty blood from his lip, Thane broke through the club’s crowd and rushed into the street. He prayed silently that his naïve lab partners wouldn’t head home. Shouting once in frustration, he headed toward the townhouse. He’d tucked his newly attained knife into his boot and the edge bit into his skin a little as he coursed into the mis
t.

  His blood shot through his veins, hot and raging. There had been Dionadair at the club still. Four of them, at least. Just the name Dionadair molded his hands into fists.

  The rebels had long been Campbell enemies. In 1819, Thane’s ancestor, wild-eyed antiquarian Donan Campbell, and the man’s assistant—Angus Bethune, founder of the Dionadair—uprooted the Coronation Stone somewhere north. The old stories claimed the stone would roar under the hand of Scotland’s rightful Heir. What roar meant exactly, the stories didn’t say.

  Thane’s ancestor, Donan Campbell, had insisted on bringing the potentially politically damaging stone back to the reigning king of the time. But Angus Bethune hid the artifact. Angus claimed the stone must be used when Scotland was ready for its true Heir.

  Whatever that meant.

  Donan Campbell had knifed Angus Bethune in the back for his treason. And since that day so long ago, the Campbells had continued the search for treasonous Dionadair.

  And two of those vicious rebels were closing in on Aini, Myles, and Neve right now.

  Numb with the adrenaline, Thane wished he could run faster. He was almost to Candlemaker Row when the memory of Aini’s mouth, nearly touching his own, burned across his mind.

  As they’d danced, everyone else was gray near her bright color. She surprised him at every turn. The violent defense of her father when she’d slapped Thane. Her determination in going to The Origin even after everyone tried to stop her. The courage in her walk as she left her friends and followed strangers in an effort to get answers.

  A thrill snaked through him, but he stomped it down, subdued it. If he became involved with Aini, he wouldn’t be able to stomach lying about his name, concealing his part in all of this. If he told her the truth…would she understand that he really had no choice, that this was his clan and he couldn’t escape? No. She wouldn’t listen long enough. And he wouldn’t blame her. Not when they’d taken her father. It didn’t matter if Lewis was working for the Dionadair, for the rebels. She’d see Thane’s involvement as a betrayal, because that’s what it was.

  Shaking his head to clear it, he rounded the curve in the road. A shout from Greyfriars Cemetery stopped him. He went cold all over. Aini’s voice echoed through the fog.

  Entering the graveyard, Thane rushed past leaning obelisks and domed, cracked tombstones. A flash of movement shoved his heart against his ribs. He jumped over a mud puddle near the kirk, the grand church’s pale walls nearly invisible in the soupy weather.

  The two Dionadair operatives loomed over Aini. They weren’t waving any weapons around, but they could’ve tucked them up sleeves or into waistbands. Neve trembled at Aini’s side and Myles took a step forward.

  If Thane moved in, the Dionadair would attack. Better to wait and see how this played out. He concealed himself behind a massive oak.

  Myles’s brow knotted. His shoulders were all up around his ears and he bounced on the balls of his feet, ready to spring. “What’s so important about a piece of jewelry that you’d waste one of us to get it?”

  “My sister wants that brooch, and she’ll have it.” The huge man’s pock-marked face twisted into a grin as he pushed his sleeves up.

  Aini’s slender fingers clenched the brooch, her knuckles white. Thane put a fist over his heart. She was thinking of her father, and for some reason, she’d latched onto this piece of old jewelry as a key to finding out what was going on with him. Thane shook his head, his chest aching for her. To be so lost, and yet so smart…

  Facing the man, she said, “I’ll give you the brooch if you tell me why you want it so badly. You wouldn’t rough up your own countryman, would you?” She took a shuddering breath. Drops from the trees ran down her face and into her mouth. “You’re better than a Campbell, aren’t you?”

  Thane fell against the tree, the strength gone from his bones. His surprise only proved how she blinded his judgment. Of course she hated Campbells. These days, she’d be crazy not to.

  The Dionadair woman’s voice cut through the mist. “Shut your gob, girl. You’re not even Scottish. You’re colonial. And rich as a sheik. Dark as one. You’re the furthest thing from Scottish.” Her voice grew shrill. “Now hand it over.”

  Squeezing the oak’s trunk until his fingers throbbed with the effort, Thane gritted his teeth. Racist rebel. Ignorant fool. Aini was a Scot through and through. Her pride. Defiance. The courage she’d shown. Her loyalty to her father. Thane fisted a hand and pounded the trunk. The stupid rebel woman’s ignorant comment would prick at Aini’s soul, he just knew it. The girl did everything she could to fit in here—following every one of the king’s directives with regard to the lab work, dressing like the other Edinburgh girls in stripes and leggings, working to shed her colonial accent.

  Aini raised her chin, courage shining like stars in her black eyes. “I won’t.”

  A proud grin spread over Thane’s mouth and his eyes shuttered briefly.

  “Dodie,” the woman said, her lips barely moving.

  Thane’s fingertips tingled. Dodie was going to attack.

  Leaving the oak, Thane ran at the man, hoping Myles would go for the woman. But Myles struck out at Dodie, his small fist connecting with the man’s stomach. Dodie didn’t fall. He just smiled and cracked the back of his hand across Myles’s jaw. The colonial dropped like a sack of tatties.

  Neve shrieked and called out for help.

  Vera leaped at Aini, but Thane was there in a breath, grabbing the woman’s hair and pulling her back. He threw the rebel to the wet grass as she shouted.

  Aini paled and looked to him. “What can I do?”

  He would’ve laughed at her business-like tone if this weren’t the situation it was. “Keep her there,” he said.

  In one fluid motion, he pulled the knife from his boot, came up behind Dodie, and put the blade to the man’s throat. The wet air dragged Thane’s hair into his eyes.

  Myles lay moaning near a dead man’s slab.

  Neve ran to Aini and the girls held the rebel woman, each latched tightly to an arm.

  Dodie struggled against Thane’s hold. The cutting rank of fear and sweat rose from the larger man. Thane couldn’t kill him. He’d never killed anyone. Not with his hands. His gut torqued, bringing a sour taste to the back of his throat. He wasn’t innocent. He’d doomed plenty with the weapon of information.

  Vera yanked her arms free. “Now what, tough man?”

  At least she didn’t realize Thane was a Campbell. If she said anything and exposed him…

  The vial of sleep-inducing gel in Thane’s pocket pressed against his side. Aini swallowed and clenched her jaw. Neve’s eyes were round as the moon. There wasn’t enough left of the gel to knock both these Dionadair rebels out. Could he bring them in? What would Aini and Neve say if he suggested it?

  Dodie struggled against Thane’s grip, so he tightened his hold. “I’m trying to decide whether to kill you or not. Suggest you behave your sweet, wee self.”

  The man made a strangled noise as the knife bit a little deeper into his skin. Hot blood trickled over Thane’s fingers.

  “We’ll go our separate ways,” Thane said to Vera. “You lost today. We keep the brooch. You keep this man with throat intact.”

  The woman stared, seething. Studying Thane, she pushed a strand of hair out of her face and pursed her blood-red lips. “Agreed.”

  Myles lay very still, his chest moving slowly up and down. He’d had a rough knockout, but Thane could tell he was awake.

  “Aini, take my place here please.” Thane gave Dodie a knee to the kidney for good measure. “I’ll help our friend.”

  Aini moved toward Thane, and he handed the knife off, his fingers brushing hers. Aini’s small hands were like ice, but she managed to keep the blade at Dodie’s throat as Thane walked over to Vera. The woman stared up at him, anger pouring out of her. This one would have to be dealt with. He grabbed her by the hair. Aini and Neve gasped. Did they think she deserved better treatment? Because Thane didn’t. It
was really for the woman’s own good anyway. If he held her any other way—the wrist, the shoulders—there was a good chance she’d strike out at him and he might have to hit her. He didn’t want to do that. Not really.

  “Neve, get the vial from my pocket,” he said.

  Neve twisted her hands together. “The what?” Her voice trembled like a poor recording of herself.

  “The vial.”

  Aini made a noise. Dodie’s eyes swung to look at Thane and the lout gritted his teeth.

  Thane clicked his tongue. “You’ll mind the lady’s blade unless you long for a good kick in the teeth.”

  Neve took three tiny steps and reached a hand in to find the gel. “Got it.”

  As Vera moved around under the clenched bunch of her hair, Thane pushed her to her knees. “Now open it. Don’t touch it, Neve. Drag the opening over Vera’s wrists.”

  “What are you doing?” Vera tried to turn and look up at him.

  His fingers curled and she yelped, now staring straight ahead and kneeling as still as a virgin at her prayers. Thane nodded, and Neve moved to follow his directions. People could say what they liked about positive reinforcement—money and lands—but pain did the job in a grimly satisfactory and rather timely manner. Thane took a breath of the wet, night air and wondered what sane people did on their Charlesday evenings.

  As Neve stepped away from Vera and capped the vial, Thane locked gazes with Aini. “Now, release him,” he said, gesturing at Dodie. “Keep the knife.”

  Thane freed Vera’s hair and she crumpled at his feet. The gel, once again, had done its work.

  Dodie stumbled toward her, a hand at his bleeding throat. Red trickled thinly through his fingers. It wasn’t a big enough cut to do anything. Just enough to make him think twice about doing any more fighting tonight.

  “What did you do to my sister?” Dodie demanded.

  Thane hurried the girls out of the cemetery, and left the Dionadair behind like ghosts—one silent, one shouting—among the tombstones.

  Myles mumbled something.