Page 4 of Alec

I think I’ll just live every day as well as I can, Olivia had told the therapist, and not worry about someday.

Once she reached the front entrance, Olivia took out the keys and unlocked the doors. As soon as she switched on the flashlight and crossed the threshold a strange sense of familiarity settled over her, as if she had finally come home. She could thank her trips during college to work in the French countryside for that; those summers had changed her life and set her on the path to discovering her passion for architecture from the medieval era.

I could happily spend the rest of my life in a place like this.

Olivia walked down the front entry hall, moving the flashlight from side to side as she inspected the floor, walls and ceiling. Dust and cobwebs dulled the red granite stone, but she could easily envision how it had appeared in the twelfth century. The structure had been built to withstand the harsh climate of the highlands as well as attacks by siege forces and weapons that might destroy a fortress made of wood. Since it had been constructed only a century after Castle Sween, which was thought to be the oldest stone castle in Scotland, it should have looked more rudimentary and primitive.

Had the clan brought in masons and builders from other countries?

As she walked through she imagined herself there, too. She’d be taller, of course, in a long gown made of silk, maybe in her favorite dark crimson color, which would bring out the red in her hair. She couldn’t see herself veiled with a wimple, but at home she still wore the embroidered slippers that one of the seamstresses at Guédelon had made for her tiny feet. Maybe this year she’d go to one of the local Ren Faires and see if she could buy a small reproduction gown. She sewed well enough that she could alter it to fit her diminutive form.

At twenty-seven I should be too old to play dress-up, but who cares? I can dream.

Although the air smelled a bit stale, and every step she took stirred up little puffs of dust, everything around her appeared to be in remarkable condition. Even the blackened metal torch sconces mounted on the walls showed only faint traces of rust, which given Monterey’s cool, foggy climate seemed very unlikely. Beaumont must have replaced the originals with distressed reproductions.

Why would he buy this place only to empty it out and shut it down?

McKeran’s Castle had a terrible reputation, which had started even before it had been torn down in the Scottish Highlands, shipped over to the U.S. and rebuilt in Monterey. Olivia’s research on the property had turned up several articles about the many people who had disappeared inside it since the turn of the twentieth century. No trace of the missing had ever been found, which had fueled all sorts of conspiracy theories. Local residents believed the castle was haunted, and the ghosts that occupied it were especially bloodthirsty. A few sensational tabloid pieces went so far as to claim that those who had built the stronghold had been cursed for murdering the beautiful young daughter of an important twelfth-century laird. Because of this heinous crime, the men of the McKeran Clan had been doomed to forever wander the corridors looking for new victims.

Olivia didn’t believe in curses; she knew archaic cultures used them as reasons to explain the tragedies that they didn’t understand. At the same time, she thought the salacious story might contain a kernel of truth.

A few accounts by credible historians had offered some details about the mysterious highland clan. In their time they had been highly regarded for their fierce prowess on the battlefield as well as their unwavering loyalty to the king. At the same time, they had remained reclusive, refusing to officially ally themselves with other clans. The McKeran got in even more trouble when their laird had refused to wed the daughter of Turo MacBren, the king’s mormaer. The most powerful laird in Scotland at the time, MacBren had attacked the clan several times while trying to force the marriage.

When MacBren and his wife were found murdered, and their daughter disappeared, their vengeful clan had blamed the McKeran and laid siege to their castle, resulting in several bloody battles that had claimed hundreds of lives on both sides. Seemingly overnight the entire clan vanished, probably fleeing the highlands to take refuge in another country. One scholar even claimed that the McKiernan Clan in Ireland had been founded by Tasgall McKeran, who had changed his name to Tighearnán mac Maenuigh to avoid war with the Scots.

Olivia wondered how a clan reputed to be so honorable could have murdered a young girl and then run off and hid. In any case, the end of the clan’s story had been written by their enemies, and as such could not be considered entirely accurate.

She stopped to consult the map, which was a printed floor plan with hand-drawn arrows indicating where she should go to find the damaged passage. The quality of the air had changed and now smelled surprisingly fresh, as if the banker had regularly aired out this section—or part of a wall or roof had collapsed. From the way Beaumont had referred to it she didn’t expect to find any serious issues, but if she saw any signs the area was unstable she would leave at once. The danger of working in a medieval castle was unpredictable; the deterioration caused by time often lay hidden beneath the surface and couldn’t be detected without special equipment. The red granite the highlanders had used to build the castle was also extremely heavy. If even a small portion of the structure suffered a failure and collapsed on Olivia, she could be crushed to death.

“I’ll run at the first crack I hear,” she promised herself as she followed the indications on the map, which took her into a hall on the left side of the entry foyer.

After a few minutes of walking through empty, dusty passages and seeing nothing but cobwebs, Olivia stopped and wondered if she should retrace her steps. A faint glow of light ahead of her appeared, from what seemed to be some flickering lights around the next corner.

That couldn’t be right.

“Mr. Beaumont?” Had the banker changed his mind and come in through another entrance? “Are you there?”

No one answered her, but when she turned the corner she saw burning torches mounted in the wall sconces. That made her throat tighten and goosebumps rise on her arms. In front of her the air moved oddly, as if heat waves were rising off the stone floor, and yet an icy draft crept around her ankles. An old dread fell over her, almost exactly like that she’d experienced when the man who lived at the end of the block had come and tried to get her to open the door while Mae was at work.

I should never have come here alone.

Instead of moving further into the passage or calling the man’s name again, Olivia spun around to run back the way she had come. Yet before she had taken two steps the unpleasant odor she’d smelled from Beaumont enveloped her, and a burst of red glitter landed on the ground in front of her. The floor began to melt as if the glitter were acid.

Before she could reverse directions and get away, a huge black pit opened up in the stone under her feet, making her drop.

With a scream Olivia flung out her hands and grabbed the edge of the hole in the floor. As she desperately clawed at the stone she bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood in her mouth. How could this be happening? A quick glance down revealed nothing but blackness under her, as if an impossibly deep sinkhole had soundlessly opened inside the castle. Her elbows and wrists hurt badly now from the strain of hanging, and her arms seemed ready to pop out of her shoulder sockets.

You have to avoid high-impact activities, Ms. Gibson, the orthopedic doctor she’d seen after being diagnosed in college had told her. I believe we can improve your condition over time, but your muscles as well as your bones will always be fragile.

“Help.” Someone had lit those torches, Olivia thought as she dangled. “Please, help me.”

“Of course, my dear,” a rasping, old man’s voice said.

A shadowy figure appeared above her, bending over as if to pull her out. Instead, he jerked the bag from her arm and slung it away, making her lose her grip.

“No.” Olivia clutched at the edge again, making her nails peel back and piercing pain ram through her fingers like white-hot needles. “Please, give me your hand—I’m going to fall.” She became horrified as the man lifted his foot over her hand. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sending you to hell,” he said, and then laughed and stomped on her bleeding fingers.

The sound of bones snapping came with an enormous burst of agony that shot up her arm and into her neck. She’d never experienced anything like it, and yet she knew if she let go she would fall to her death. She had survived her childhood, and what Mae had done, only to die in this horrible, inexplicable way?

“Why?” Olivia gasped out the word.

“It’s where you belong.” As he drew his leg back, light from one of the torches illuminated his deeply wrinkled face. “Do enjoy yourself for once, Gibs.”

Despite her broken fingers and utter terror, she became mesmerized by his eyes. The color of fresh blood, they glittered like wet rubies. He tossed something into the hole that looked like a piece of ice, and then kicked her in the face. That sent her slamming back into the other side of the pit, her jaw ablaze with pain now, before she dropped into the chasm.