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NEVER A SUNSET
By
Annalee Blysse
© copyright July 2005, Annalee Blysse
Cover art by Amber Moon, © copyright July 2005
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One
The haze of twilight lit the clouds. The rain had just stopped, so the air was heavy with moisture. Victrina took a deep breath as she stepped out of her apartment, thinking how much she'd miss this place when she left.
The truth was, Victrina loved all seasons in Boston, simply because they existed. The city was wrapped up in a long, drawn out spring that made an impression. A far cry from Barrow, Alaska. On the northern tundra, spring passed in the blink of an eye and summer dragged on for months on end. Where she'd grown up, the environment wasn't conducive to going for a walk any time of year. Boston was almost always perfect.
Noting the quiet streets, she smiled as she started walking. Then again, most Bostonians hadn't grown up on the North Slope. What was perfect to her was considered a miserable day down here.
New York City wouldn't be that different. Hopefully. In less than one month, she'd be moving. She'd already accepted a job offer on Wall Street and she was in for years of hard work. But she wanted to prove that a girl from the village could make good. More than that, she wanted to prove to her father that her scholarship to Harvard had been well deserved and not just money thrown at an Eskimo so they could make their quotas. She wanted to earn insane amounts of money and show him what she was really made of.
If asked, she told people why she wanted to live so differently from her life back home. A town that small couldn't keep her happy. There was no way she was ever going to settle down and become a brood mare for a man who didn't respect her, who didn't think she was good enough, who didn't feel her goals and accomplishments amounted to anything. What she kept private was the violence that had been part of her childhood home. She didn't want anyone to pity her.
She heard boots clicking on the cement behind her, heard distinct splashes through puddles that she'd avoided. Victrina turned, her eyes met with a tall man dressed all in black.
He nodded slightly, "Victrina Mechnikoff?"
Confused that he knew her name, Victrina confronted him, "What do you want?"
He grinned at her. His long hair was as dark as hers, and it shone beneath the streetlights. "You," he said, his voice low and husky and very seductive.
His black shirt hugged his chest, outlining sculpted muscles and sharply delineated abs. His jeans were fresh-from-the-rack black, and molded to his incredible legs and cock.
Electric blue eyes captured her senses, digging into her soul. Any anger she felt was replaced by a desire that consumed her body and mind. Her mouth watered and moisture pooled between her thighs. Her senses rang with excitement over the unknown. His clothes. His hair. The whole effect was very sexual, yet very dark. Foreboding.
And you can have me. But fear made her hesitate.
He waved his hand at a coffee shop on a nearby corner. "Can I buy you an espresso?"
Victrina was immediately relieved. Her body might be crying out for him to take her to the nearest hotel and make good on the sensual promise in his eyes, in his voice. She might want him to make love to him all night. But, the offer of an espresso was much easier to deal with.
She took him up on his offer and was soon seated across from him, sipping hot mocha, thinking ... who are you?
"Michael Levine," he said, staring deeply into her, as if he could see right through her.
"Pleased to meet you," she replied.
She couldn't understand the hold he had over her senses. She was as progressive as the next woman, but she'd never fantasized about jumping into the sack with a complete stranger. And she was having a difficult time keeping her mind off anything but sex around this man.
"I know," he said, angling his head slightly, licking his lower lip.
Victrina couldn't take her eyes off his face. His response was honest more than arrogant. She wouldn't have been surprised if he knew exactly what she'd been thinking. Her whole body vibrated with the sensuality of the moment. Michael's facial features were strong, yet as photogenically perfect as James Dean. You are the most handsome man I've ever seen.
"How do you know who I am?" she asked. "We haven't met before."
"I keep my eyes open. You have a promising career ahead of you." He waited for a moment, and when she didn't respond he continued, "I am looking for someone with your ... abilities. I'm here to offer you a position working for me."
Strange. The way he said "abilities" made it seem as if he alluded to something other than the fact that she was one of the top students in her class. Yet he had slightly toned down his flirting. Employers had been recruiting around the campus, so it was conceivable that he was really going to offer a position working for a company. A damn shame. She was still thinking of positions in the Kama Sutra.
"Work for you? Doing what?"
"I need a personal assistant."
Victrina thought for a moment. "In what capacity?"
"In every capacity. I won't sugarcoat the fact that I can be very demanding. I'd even expect you to check the mail, get the morning paper up off the lawn after it's rained. It irritates me when my paper is too moist to read."
Victrina almost laughed at him. Her goal in life was not to be a glorified errand girl. In fact that was why she'd gone to college to get her MBA. The last thing she wanted to do was end up spending her days at a man's beck and call. "I have already accepted employment, Mr. Levine. Your offer is too late."
"Call me Michael, please," he insisted. "And don't worry too much. I have a house full of servants that would do the most tedious errands. You'd supervise them, after all. Though I would have to warn you ahead of time that my butler hates waking up and getting the paper. He's like me ... a night owl."
That was strange--he'd addressed her concerns, without her having voiced them. But then again. That was a no-brainer. He'd probably assumed that a woman with an MBA wouldn't want to fetch his morning paper.
"I want to give a clear picture of what I'd expect of you as my personal assistant. However, I think the part of the job you'll be interested in is that I want you to be my financial advisor."
Victrina was suddenly intrigued. "What kind of business are you in?"
"Several, actually. They are outlined in the contract. If I were not available, you would have authority in my stead. However, I've got very loyal employees who've been working for me for quite some time. They don't need much by way of supervision. The main focus of your position will be investing the venture capital from my holdings in ways that will ensure my wealth works for me far into the future."
After Michael finished describing what he expected, he gave her time to read the contract he had drafted beforehand. She would be given free rein over designated accounts. Her salary would be very lucrative, and the most enticing section indicated that she would receive a healthy bonus based on her level of success with his assets. The better he did, the better she did.
Additionally, there would be no living expenses for the next five years. As his personal assistant it was expected that she'd live in the personnel quarters provided on his property outside New Orleans. As attracted as she was to Michael Levine, getting to know him better wouldn't be a problem. She was unattached, willing and wanting to experience life, and unwilling to be tied down. Come to think of it, getting to know him personally interested her as much as the job offer.
Her name was already typed on the document. All it needed was her signature. Victrina looked up at him, surprised. She couldn't blame him for taking for granted she'd sign on. The opportunity was more than she'd hoped for, considering she wanted to be a multimillionaire before she turned thirty.
"Before you sign, remember that I require absolute loyalty and discretion on all matters, business and personal." The tone of his voice carried a hint of warning. "There will be no getting out of this contract once you agree. Even if the Inquisition was reinstated and I was sentenced to death for being Satan's spawn, I'd continue to demand your loyalty."
Victrina chuckled.
"I'm not joking. I am--"
"I get it. You're demanding. And that won't be a problem." She could deal with a boss who expected a lot from her, and so long as he was honest, she could be loyal. And discretion she was used to. It was one reason she hadn't responded to his flirtatious opening lines.
He gazed at her, an ominous look in his eyes. "I hope that remains the case. My business pursuits are entirely legal, but I require a 'blood oath'."
"Blood oath?" she asked, thinking back on a mobster movie she'd sat through in a darkened movie theater. She set the contract down and shook her head. Having an employer that sounded insane gave her second thoughts. "Are you implying if I left my employment, you would have me killed?"
Locked in a harsh stare, images flashed through her mind. She saw a portly man in old-fashioned clothing of the European aristocracy. He spoke, in French, to a beautiful woman with long, flowing, burgundy hair. Despite her rudimentary comprehension of the language, Victrina got the gist of the conversation. The man shared the location of his "master", and was excited at the prospect of the financial reward promised for revealing his secrets.
The reward turned out to be his death. The woman latched onto his neck, draining him of blood. The woman was a vampire. A shadowy man arrived, and the woman told him that the Frenchman's master had murdered the man in her arms.
She couldn't understand the hold Michael had over her thoughts either. Victrina knew she wasn't remembering a movie she'd seen. Ridiculous as it sounded, it was almost as if Michael had shared the images with her. But, of course, that was impossible.
"I have taken very few lives over the years," he told her.
Very few lives? What is he, a homicidal maniac? Or is he just insane? She frowned suspiciously at the nonchalant look on Michael Levine's face.
"I protect the people who work for me. Leaving that protection is more dangerous than I am." He smiled then. "Ah, you think I am insane? No?"
"No, not at all."
He laughed loudly. "Never lie to me."
"Well. ... This wasn't exactly a subject of discussion when the Fortune 500 companies came to campus. Let's just say, I find your statements odd."
"And the opportunity isn't the same as what other companies have offered you. It's your choice. Until you sign. Think about it for a few days. Hire a private investigator to look into my business holdings. Have them look for skeletons in my closet," Michael said, winking at her. "Which you won't find because I'm not a homicidal maniac. I will reimburse you, either way. But I'm confident you'll accept the position."
Yeah, he looked confident all right.
Way too confident.
"Oh, and by the way," he said, "I'm a vampire. That is a secret I insist you keep, even if you don't accept the position."
Victrina couldn't help herself. She laughed.
FRESH BLOOD
By
Jennifer Colgan
© copyright November 2005, Jennifer Colgan
Cover art by Amber Moon, © copyright November 2005
ISBN 1-58608-767-3
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One
The sultry beat coming from the interior of After Dark competed with the staccato of Erica Talbot's heart as she approached the side door of the nightclub. The white stucco wall, along which the line of hopefuls waited, vibrated from the new age acid rock playing within. The bone-deep pulse made the other young women in the line loose-limbed and excited. They swayed to the beat even though whatever melody the song might have had was inaudible in the alley behind the club.
Erica wanted to act just like the others. She tried to adopt the distant, dreamy expression so many of them wore but she just didn't have it in her. She'd long ago resigned herself to having no rhythm, no sexy sway and no desire to hide the sharp intelligence that shone from her hazel eyes.
Tonight she'd traded her usual style, conservative pinstriped slacks and tailored button-down blouse, for a short leather skirt and a low-cut satin T that did little to hide the black push-up bra she wore underneath. Glitter-dusted stockings and ankle-breaking black stilettos completed her outfit and her golden blonde hair swirled in a wild updo that left her neck suggestively bare. She'd accented her lips with a shade of red that should have been illegal, and applied an extra layer of mascara to her already long lashes.
At least she looked like she fit in. Only her stiff posture gave her away. Anyone looking long enough would have figured out that she had nothing but disdain for the whole affair. This was not her world and it never would be.
It disgusted her that Elena might be found in a place like this. Might be--if she wasn't at one of the dozen other bars like After Dark that had sprung up over the past few years when the vampire population in Illinois began a disconcerting upswing. This was just the type of place in which her sister would feel right at home.
"You. You. Not you." The muscle-bound bouncer who held court at the metal fire door gestured one of the waiting girls out of line with a tilt of his bald head. The redhead in a black sheath dress, cloggy heels and black lipstick couldn't have been more than sixteen. The layers of kohl that ringed her eyes did nothing to hide the lack of wrinkles, or the hardened edge of lost innocence in her expression.
The vicious curse she hurled at the man--in a voice that spoke of a two-pack a day habit--shattered any illusion of gothic sophistication. She flipped him the bird and sauntered off, mumbling threats under her breath.
The last two women he'd let in lingered at the door watching the girl retreat with smug satisfaction. They thought they were better than her. Luckier. If only they knew.
Erica was next in line, and the bouncer eyed her as though he were appraising a cut of beef. She smiled and lowered her thick lashes in what she hoped was a demure, come-hither look. "Do you smoke?" he asked.
The question surprised her. She wondered if he meant tobacco, or if the question was some type of code she didn't understand. "No."
He looked her over again and then grasped her wrists with his enormous hands. Her first instinct was to jerk away from his grip, but she held her disgust in check. She had to get inside the club, even if only for a few minutes. When he turned her hands palm up revealing the unblemished undersides of her forearms, relief eased the adrenaline rush to her head. "No needle marks," he said. "Do you snort?"
"No!"
He looked at her face, and she held his bloodshot gaze for a tense moment. "You're in," he said finally, then turned to the others. "That's all for tonight."
A wave of recriminations traveled through the dozen or so women left in the alley. "Come back tomorrow." He sounded apologetic just for an instant. But when the women didn't immediately scatter, he cursed at them in a gravelly voice that made the skin on the back of Erica's neck tighten in fear.
He pushed her inside and shut the fire door with a clang that rocked the gritty plaster walls. At the end of the narrow hallway where the chosen ones waited, two other men stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking most of the view into the club. Behind them, blue lights pulsed in time to the music that seemed to have grown ten times louder. While the fifteen women jockeyed for position in the hallway, the bouncer and his two friends did a head count and started on the body searches.
Erica fought to disengage her gag reflex when the men squatted behind each of the women and ran their hands up under each girl's skirt from ankle to thigh. The others didn't seem to mind the frisking, but the thought of some stranger shoving his fingers between her thighs made Erica lightheaded. She bit her lip and sidled through the line, letting other women go ahead of her and shuffling around until she stood with the ones that had already undergone the search.
When the two door guards parted and motioned the girls into the club, Erica's dignity remained blessedly intact. She kept her head down as she passed the men and in seconds lost herself in the river of bodies that filled the dance floor.
Now she had her work cut out for her. In the pulsating light, the scene before her looked like an old-time nickel-movie, everyone jerking around in stop motion. In each flash of neon blue, Erica scanned the faces around her hoping to catch a glimpse of her sister.
The last time she'd seen Elena, her twin had short black hair, and blue contact lenses hid the natural hazel green of her eyes. To a stranger, the Talbot sisters wouldn't have appeared related at all. It still amazed Erica sometimes to think they'd come from the same womb. Even if she were in disguise, Erica would know her sister by the way she moved, her voice, the intensity of her gaze which even contact lenses couldn't hide. If Elena were here, Erica would find her.
She decided to make one complete circuit of the place, checking the bar, the restroom and even the waitresses who carried trays of drinks and plates of food. Who could eat in a place like this? The noise alone made Erica sick to her stomach. Maybe you had to be drunk to enjoy it. She figured a person certainly had to be drunk to want to party with vampires.
The only good thing about After Dark was the lack of smoke. The lighting was nauseating but the atmosphere inside was crystal clear. She wondered why. Certainly vampires had no fear of lung cancer. Maybe it was the flare of a match that made them nervous. Either way, Erica was grateful that she didn't have to squint through the acrid haze that polluted most of the human clubs.
Pale faces and half-clad bodies swam by in rapid succession until the details of their features began to blur. Erica finally reached the bar and clung to the leather pad that cushioned its edge. On either side of her, patrons leaned in comfort while they sipped drinks and attempted to talk over the pounding music.
Elena's wasn't among the faces that turned to appraise her, so Erica did her best to avoid eye contact until the barmaid slapped a red cocktail napkin down in front of her.
"What can I get you?" The woman was six feet of blonde, Nordic perfection. The only thing marring her appearance was the brilliant white tip of an elongated incisor that peeked out beneath her upper lip. Erica swallowed. Female vampires were known to be vicious, carnal creatures, much less likely to maintain a semblance of their human existence than their male counterparts. Erica formed her answer carefully.
"I'll have a martini."
"Dry?"
"Sure."
The bartender whirled away, her sleeveless sequined T-shirt glittering.
Erica clutched the edge of the bar tighter and stared at her featureless reflection in the polished laminate of the bar top.
I'm out of my mind, she thought. This had to be the last time she came to Elena's rescue. She'd peeled Elena off of too many filthy bar stools, and sat in the police station too many times, waiting for her sister to come teetering out of a holding cell reeking of smoke and sex.
The fact that this time was different just added to the hopelessness of the situation. This time the static-broken message on Erica's answering machine had sounded truly desperate, not just momentarily needy. "I've been hanging out at ... you know ... the vampire bar. Come get me, Ricki, I need you to help me figure out a way out of this one...."
Erica had listened to the message at least two dozen times and still couldn't make out the name of the bar, so she'd started with the letter A.
By the time the bartender returned with her drink, she'd decided it was time to move on to the next letter, which meant a place called Danger--Danger on the far side of town. As far as Erica was concerned, it might as well have been called Stupid--Stupid. That's how she felt.
At least she was reasonably sure no one would recognize her. She didn't know any vampires personally ... at least she hoped she didn't.
ETERNITY
by
Marie Morin
© copyright by Marie Morin, October 2004
Cover Art by Eliza Black, © copyright October 2004
ISBN 1-58608-307-4
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Dedication:
This one's for my fan, Shirley S, with apologies up front for any and all errors you may find here. I've never been to Great Britain except through books and my imagination, but I've done my best to be as accurate as possible and to portray the land of my forefathers with the affection and affinity I feel for it.
Chapter One
Joy filled Emily Hendrick's heart to overflowing. She had realized her dream. It had taken every penny of her inheritance and her savings. She had had to sell everything of any value she owned, and she was now in hock up to her eyeballs, but she was the proud new owner of a real Scottish castle.
Her joy sustained her throughout the terrifying flight from Georgia to NY and from there to England. Not that either leg of the trip was particularly eventful, but it was enough, in Emily's opinion, to strap her ass to a missile and trust that 'manmade' would hold together long enough to get where she was going, even if not for the added threat of lunatics roaming the world with nothing but death and destruction on their minds.
Her exultation not only sustained her through customs and the headache of renting a car--when her English wasn't exactly English--and piling her few belongings into it, her excitement grew as she drove out of Heathrow Airport and headed north.
It was disorienting to find herself on the 'wrong' side of the road whenever she managed to drag her mind, and her gaze, from the pictures lying beside her on the seat, but then she would remember, before she could cause a multiple car pile up, that she was supposed to be on the wrong side of the road.
"Left, left, left!" she muttered, trying to calm her wildly palpitating heart.
Her excitement diminished just a tad when she finally arrived at the village nearest her castle and discovered the land agent had already gone home for the evening. Curbing her impatience with an effort, Emily found lodging for the night and settled to wait one more night before she could see her beautiful baby.
She was pacing the cobblestones in front of Gregory MacGregor's office when he arrived the following morning. He was an older man, gray hair streaking his red beard and the hair that grew on his head like a monk's tonsure. "Mr. MacGregor?"
He turned from his door and looked her over again. "Aye."
Emily smiled with relief, surging forward. "I'm Emily Hendricks."
He frowned, as if trying to figure out why the name sounded familiar, then finally grinned. "The Yank?"
"Oh, I'm not a Yankee," Emily corrected him. "I'm from Georgia."
He looked disconcerted. "Russia?"
Emily gaped at him blankly. "No. In the United States. I'm the one that bought Castle MacKissack?"
He chuckled, nodding. "Oh, to be sure! Ms. Hendricks. I was expectin' ye yesterday." He unlocked his door and pushed it open. "Tha accent threw me fer just a bit. You're not a Yank, then?"
Deciding she really didn't want to try to explain, Emily ignored the question, following him into his office. "Actually, I did arrive yesterday, but you were already gone for the day. I had to spend the night at the … uh … inn." She watched him as he moved about the cramped office. "I'm really anxious to get out to the castle."
"Ye'll be wantin' ta take care of the paperwork before tha'?"
"Oh. Sure. I thought everything was already taken care of?"
He moved to a filing cabinet, flipped through a couple of folders and finally pulled one out and returned to his desk. "Just a couple more."
Emily glanced over the papers cursorily and signed her name at the bottom of each.
"Well, now, we've got everything in order now, I believe," he said, sounding somewhat relieved. "I'll just lock up an' take ye out fer a tour."
Emily frowned, but finally merely shrugged and went out to wait in the car. The pictures that she'd been sent of her castle were once more on the seat beside her and she picked them up, studying them lovingly while she waited.
The whining toot of a foreign horn jogged her out of her absorption and she looked up to see that Mr. MacGregor had pulled his car along side the one she was driving. He said something to her, but she didn't catch it. Smiling and nodding anyway, she started her car and turned it to follow him.
The accents were giving her more problems than she'd anticipated. In some ways it was rather like the U.S.--concentrate. Every few miles you encountered a slightly, or vastly, different accent. In the states, the accents usually didn't vary that much until you crossed a state line. It made it worse that they didn't seem to be having any easier time understanding her than the other way around. She had heard British accents that were really similar to her own, but that didn't seem to be the case in this particular area.
She shook it off. She'd get used to it after a while and, hopefully, they'd get used to her accent, too.
She was so busy admiring the countryside she almost rear ended Mr. MacGregor's car when he swerved and made an abrupt turn between two crumbling gates. She glanced at the gates curiously, but she was still rattled from the near miss and didn't get much of a look at them.
Almost as soon as they were through the gate, the narrow road began to curve and climb. The hair pin curves made it impossible to look anywhere except at the road and Emily kept a wary eye on the bumper of Mr. MacGregor's car. When he swerved off the road abruptly and parked the car Emily thought he'd run off the road. He got out after a moment, however, motioning to her, and she pulled off as well, glancing at the ruin casting its shadow over the patch of grass where they'd parked.
She supposed he'd decided to show her some of the sights along the road, but she really wasn't interested in sight-seeing at the moment. Sighing, she got out of the car.
He grinned at her, spreading his arms expansively. "An' here we are."
"Where?"
"The Castle MacKissack, lass."
Emily turned in a circle, looking out over the fields and finally faced the stone ruin. It looked vaguely familiar and a strange little knot formed in the pit of her stomach.
Narrowing her eyes against the sunlight that was spilling around the crumbling heap of stones and, in some places, through, she studied the wide ditch that curved around the front. A rusty set of bedsprings lay half in and half out of the muck at the bottom of the ditch. There was an abandoned appliance, as well, that looked like it might have been a stove, or possibly a washing machine. Wheels, tires, and an assortment of unidentifiable objects littered the ditch.
A narrow--very narrow--bridge spanned the ditch. It might have been wide enough for a car but looked barely wider than a walkway.
Feeling a wave of nausea wash over her, Emily opened the car door, leaned inside and grabbed the small stack of pictures from the seat. When she'd emerged once more, she shuffled through them and stared down at the western facade and 'main entrance'.
It bore an uncanny resemblance to the ruin she was staring at--except for the fact that there was water in the moat, instead of cast off belongings.
"Ahh, but she's a sight, ain't she?" Mr. MacGregor said, beaming at her.
Emily merely stared at him. "This isn't … this isn't … You're not saying...." She couldn't seem to get the words out of her mouth.
He nodded happily. "Speechless, are ye? It tis a sight! O' course this is just a minor holding of the clan MacKissack. Didn't see much action a'tall, but tis as fine a specimen of the mid ta late medieval period as there is standin' today."
"So … where's my castle? Is it close to here?"
He turned and looked her over as if she was crazy. "Aye. Yer standin' in it's shadow, lass."
Emily shook her head. "No." She stabbed a finger at the picture she held in one trembling hand. "This is my castle."
Frowning, he took the photo from her and looked it over. "Aye, that's the photos I sent ye."
Emily gaped at him, feeling a twinge of outrage beginning to work its way up through her shock and dismay. "But … But …. When were these photos taken?"
He frowned, scratching his head thoughtfully. "Well … I couldn't say. I'm thinkin' probably after the first great war, ta be sure."
"What war? The Norman Conquest?"
He chuckled at her joke. "Nay. It was na' here then. Me grandfather had a man up from London ta take the pictures."
"Your Grandfather!" Emily gasped disbelievingly.
"Aye. They're not as recent as I would've liked, but there didn't seem much sense in paying a photographer ta come so far when I found them."
Emily couldn't seem to do anything but gape at him, her mouth working like a fish that had suddenly found itself yanked from the stream.
"Come on then. I'll show ye around. I know yer anxious ta see it."
The tour didn't help Emily's feelings much. According to the brochure she'd gotten, the castle had been 'modernized'. The Scottish idea of modern didn't coincide with her own. In the center of each of the ten cavernous rooms the small castle boasted, a cord had been dropped from the ceiling. A bare socket and bulb dangled at the end. Theoretically, these were turned off and on by the string hanging down from the receptacle, but the string was rotted and broke when Mr. MacGregor tugged on them.
Shrugging, he dragged a flashlight from his pocket, flipped it on and flashed it around the room. "The generator's not on anyway."
"Generator?" Emily asked faintly.
"Aye. The power company run lines out this way, but the storm took them out a few years ago and they've not been ta put them up again."
"How many years ago?"
He scratched his head, frowning. "That would've been sometime along '75, I'm thinking."
"Nineteen seventy five? Or seventeen seventy five?"
He chuckled. "It's na' been so long ago as tha'. I'm sure there'll be no problem gettin' them up an' goin' again now tha' ye'll be fixin' the place up."
Seeing her glum expression, he urged her toward the hallway and pushed a door open about halfway down. "In door plumbing."
Emily didn't go in. She peered at the ancient bathroom from the hall.
"O'course it'll not be workin' without the generator ta pump the water," he added after a few moments.
The remainder of the tour passed like a nightmare. Emily felt as if she was struggling to run through a thick, gray fog, being chased by something unidentifiable.
When they'd left the castle and returned to the cars, Mr. MacGregor studied her curiously for several moments.
"There's no phone, I suppose," Emily managed to say around the knot of misery in her throat.
"Nay. Went down with the power lines," he said almost cheerfully.
She looked at him, fighting the urge to wrap her fingers around his throat and squeeze until his eyeballs popped from their sockets.
"I'm thinkin' a cell phone might work, but then again, maybe not."
"It doesn't matter since I don't have one," Emily said through gritted teeth.
He nodded, scratched his head.
"Well, I'll be off then."
Emily merely stared at him, thinking that it was a very good thing she didn't have a gun. Otherwise, she'd have been tempted to shoot him and toss his body into the ditch/moat with the rest of the garbage that cluttered it. "I don't suppose you know somebody that could fix the generator?"
He grinned. "Me nephew, Angus, is a fair hand at mechanics."
Emily turned to stare at her white elephant. "And maybe you could give the power company and phone company a call and put in an order for me?"
"Sure. I'd be happy ta. If ye like, I'll ask around about some workmen ta give ye a hand."
"That would be so helpful," Emily said, gritting her teeth at him in a parody of a smile.
His brows rose, but finally he nodded, tipped his hat at her and climbed back in his car.
She watched him until his car disappeared, wishing there was a cliff between Castle MacKissack and town that he could drive off of.
Gloom settled over her once he'd disappeared. Resisting the urge to simply flop down on the ground and squall, Emily got back into her car and began to study the brochure and pictures.
There it was, the print small, but readable. 'Photos taken around 1940.'
She supposed she'd noticed the caption, but she didn't really remember it, maybe because she had assumed that the castle would be taken care of, maintained as it had been in the photos? Or, maybe, because she'd been living in a dream world ever since she'd first set eyes on the advertisement?
Sighing, she studied her castle for a while.
Finally, realizing that she was going to have to stay in the thing, at least until she could find out if there was anyway she could get out of the deal and get her money back, she climbed out of the car and began lugging her belongings inside.
She was wandering through the echoing halls trying to do a mental inventory of everything that needed to be done when Angus MacGregor showed up. Relieved, she sent him to have a look at the generator and give her an estimate on what it would take to get it going.
She was at the top of the castle, staring into the distance, when he found her again. His suggestion was that she simply scrap it and buy a new one, but he finally agreed to see if he could jeri-rig it for her and get it going.
She would've far preferred simply abandoning the place and staying at the inn, but she couldn't really afford to. Stiffening her spine, she picked her way carefully back down the narrow, twisting stair that led to the tower and found the 'master's apartment'.
She'd bought the place lock, stock and barrel. The furnishings that came with it were from the 1700's, which had delighted her when she'd read it. In actuality, the pieces weren't in terribly good condition, but she supposed they could be cleaned up and restored.
So much for the idea of setting up a tourist bed and breakfast to help her pay for the place.
Shrugging off her morbid thoughts, she moved to the windows. They'd been painted closed, but fortunately the paint was cracked and peeling. She managed to get one of the windows open about two inches and another almost halfway up before it stuck.
She was lucky there was any glass windows in the place. The glass looked like it dated back to the 1700's, too. The panes let in daylight, but they were blurry, making it impossible to get much of a view.
What she mostly needed, she finally decided, was cleaning supplies. The place was coated in dust and cobwebs. The fabrics around the room were mostly rotted, but she'd brought some household linens. If the mattress on the bed wasn't rotted, too, she might be able to sleep if she could just clean the place up a bit.
The mattress, she discovered when she'd stripped the bed, was actually almost modern. It couldn't be more than fifty or sixty years old. There were a few holes in it and she suspected mice had made them, but after testing the bed experimentally she decided it would hold her weight without collapsing.
The bulb over her head winked a couple of times and finally brightened.
Emily stared at it, feeling her first upsurge of hopefulness since she'd arrived.
It went out again.
Sighing, she went back to cleaning.
A voice echoed hollowly down the hallway like the wail of someone long dead and Emily jumped.
"Miz Hendricks?"
Relieved when she realized it was Angus MacGregor, Emily put a hand to her pounding heart. "Up here!"
She met him in the hallway near the main stairs. He was grinning triumphantly. "I got it goin'."
"You did? But the light went out again."
He frowned, following her as she led him back to the room. After staring at it for several moments, he looked around and finally dragged a chair across the floor. Standing on it, he tested the bulb, twisting it first one way and then the other. He almost fell off the chair when it came on.
"It was just loose. It looks like it's about as old as me uncle though, so you'll be wantin' ta get some more."
He climbed down again. "If ye'll follow me ta the dungeon, I'll show ye how ta turn the generator off and on."
"Dungeon?" Emily echoed faintly.
"Aye. I guess you'd be callin' it a cellar now, but that's wha' it was built for, ta keep prisoners back in the old days."
Dismissing that, Emily focused on the real issue. "Can't I just leave the generator running?"
"It only holds enough fuel fer a few hours. I meant ta tell ye, ye'll want ta be gettin' a supply ta hold ye awhile."
"It figures," Emily muttered, following him down the stairs and into the 'modern kitchen'.
Picking up a flashlight, he opened a door at the far side.
"There aren't any lights down there?"
He shrugged. "None that I seen."
"This just keeps getting better and better," Emily muttered, following him down the steep stairs.
It felt like entering a cave. Beyond the narrow beam of the flashlight, there was nothing but darkness so profound it almost seemed solid. To her relief, she discovered the generator was near the foot of the stairs.
Squatting beside the generator, MacGregor pointed to a couple of valves and switches. After taking her through the process a couple of times and watching to make sure she had the hang of it, he stood up once more, fanning the beam of the flashlight around. "You'd think they would've … ahh. There's a light, right enough. Let's see if it still works."
Before she could agree or protest, he left her standing beside the generator and disappeared into the gloom, apparently searching for something to climb up on. Emily shivered, frozen to the spot, her gaze glued to the moving beam of light. Finally, she heard the scrape of wood on stone.
After a few moments, she heard the rattle of a chain against glass and then a weak light spilled forth, chasing some of darkness back a few feet. Blinking to get her eyes to adjust, Emily looked around nervously and froze.
"That's not … That isn't … Is that a casket?" Emily gasped in horror.
MacGregor uttered a yelp and fell off the rickety chair he was standing on.
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