IN SOME FAMILIES, NOT EVEN DEATH IS FINAL!
Growing up in an orphanage for boys, Guylan was told his parents were killed in an accident. After he proposes to his beloved Nela, he discovers there are much more then skeletons in his family's closet.
When a mysterious stalker invades Guylan's privacy, the doors to the truth of his past are revealed. He's the great-grandson of a powerful Scottish Druid who bestowed a blessing many years ago on Nela's family.
Was it a blessing or a curse? Guylan is soon faced with challenges forcing him to travel back in time to save the family he never knew. But changing the past directly affects the future. When all is said and done, will Nela still know him; be a part of his life?
Or will he have forever lost her love?
Olena Sincloud smiled, her ruby lips spreading over even white teeth. For a woman her age . . . at least in her late seventies . . . I thought she was well preserved, but then again I had the distinct suspicion I wasn’t looking at your average elderly person.
“Yes, I’m your grandmother,” she admitted in a soft tone, the deep, blue eyes filling with tears. “Welcome home at last, Guylan.”
I sat and stared, my mouth agape.
“I’m sure you must have many questions,” she said, ringing a bell for Harrington.
I arched a brow. “That’s an understatement.”
When Harrington opened the parlor’s double doors, I remained silent as he set two goblets of brandy on the table beside Olena’s chair. She reached for the one nearest her seat and indicated with a slight inclination of her head for me to take the other. “I know you said you didn’t want the brandy, but I insist.”
I took a sip of the amber liquid and let its heat and sweetness glide down the back of my throat, savoring the richness. Harrington again left the room and I finally found my voice. “Why was I given up?”
Her fair complexion colored. “It was necessary to do at the time, for your safety.”
“And exactly what was I being kept safe from? “I probed, my voice finding its strength.
“Not what, but from whom,” she said and sighed. “I know you must be very resentful . . .”
I interrupted her. “Resentment is keeping it mild.”
Olena sighed again and took another sip of her brandy. “Will you at least give me a chance to explain?”
I chuckled sardonically. “Why, grandmother, I’ll give you all the chance in the world . . . it’s an explanation I’ve been waiting to hear all of my life.”
Olena studied me. “You’re the spitting image of your father . . . my son, Xavior. You even become vexed the same way as he did.”
“Suppose we start with him . . . and my mother,” I said, sitting back in my seat. “How were they killed?”
“They weren’t . . . they were murdered.” She glanced at the hands she held in her lap. “Audra along with them . . . she was only seven.”
The blood drained from my face. “How . . . how were they murdered?”
“The authorities found them all dead in their beds.” She raised her eyes to meet mine. “Their throats cut.”
My stomach churned and I swallowed hard the bile rising to choke me. “Where was I?”
“You were with me,” she said. She pulled a linen handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at the lone tear that now slipped down a cheek. “It’s hard to have a son predecease you. It’s just not natural for a parent to bury a child.” She closed her eyes with her anguish. “I’d lost my mother about ten years prior, and as grief stricken as I was over her death, it was nothing compared to what I endured losing my son and his family. Every time I am made to think of that time, I bury them all over again.”
I sympathized with her, and leaned forward in my seat, reaching out to take her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
She entwined her bony fingers with mine. “It’s so good to have you home again, Guylan.”
“Why was I with you on that night, Olena?”
“Your parents were attending Audra’s piano recital and you . . . a rather rambunctious little fellow at the time, would have disrupted the entire evening. Xavior asked me if I’d take you back here . . . to the mansion to sleep overnight, since they would be late in returning. DeYonna was somewhat skeptical to let you spend the entire night. She was in the process of weaning you, but still breast fed you just before putting you down to sleep.” She cleared the emotion from her throat. “And then you wouldn’t leave without Luna, the German Shepard Xavior found a year prior on the night of a full moon. Your father loved such heavenly happenings and stepped onto the front porch to view the large, golden orb better. It was then he spotted a dog lying on the lawn, injured and dying. For weeks he nursed her back to health, in fact you watched him.” She searched my face. “Do you remember any of this, Guylan?”
I shook my head. “But the subconscious is a strange thing. I must have stored the incident away somewhere deep within and perhaps it was the catalyst for my love for animals and the need to want to heal them.”
“Xavior named the dog Luna,” Olena continued, “and she took such a shine to you . . . the two of you became inseparable. So, when I took you to my home that night, you insisted the dog come along as well.”
I stood and made my way to the fireplace, looking up at the portrait of Olena as a child . . . the very child who choked on a peppermint stick long ago and who was saved by Nela’s great-grandfather. In turn, Olena saved my life and I met Nela, fell in love and asked her to be my wife. It was all predestined to be . . . but why?
“Was the murderer ever caught?” I said, turning to look at Olena.
“No, but I know who did it.” She folded the handkerchief with trembling fingers and placed it on her lap.
“How do you know?”
“He left a calling card . . . a raven’s feather stuck to the front door. It meant nothing to the police, but Quentin, Zackery and I knew the raven’s feather was Mortimer MacRaven’s signature,” Olena said.
I frowned. “Who is Mortimer MacRaven?”
“He’s my father’s brother.”
My frown deepened. “Then why didn’t you tell the cops?”
“I couldn’t.”
“What do you mean you couldn’t? The bastard murdered my family. He should have paid for what he did,” I snapped.
“I agree, but to explain to the police what he was . . .” Olena’s voice trailed off.
My pulse raced. “Suppose you explain it to me, then.”
Olena cleared her throat. “When the Geis, the Druidal ancient training created and granted by a warrior patriarch, was given to Quentin by his chieftain father, Mortimer grew jealous. One night he broke into Quentin’s library and found the family book of secrets. He cast a spell upon himself to receive great power and riches, but because Mortimer was unskilled, something went terribly wrong with the incantation. All he managed was to conjure up evil, selling his soul to the dark fae.”
My knees went as weak as a blade of grass and I returned to my chair. “What the hell is the dark fae?”
“Worse then your most horrible nightmare,” Olena said. “They are the residents of the dark side of the fairy world and will stop at nothing to kill off humanity so they can rule the universe. Summoning them, as Mortimer did, was by far the total opposite of Druidic tradition, which at all times maintains spiritual balance, treating and holding the natural world . . . animals, trees, stones and star lore, hallowed and with respect. Druidry seeks answers to eternity, believing in the immortal soul and its connection of the mind, body and spirit. The universe, the land, as well as relationships and sexuality are held sacred. Mortimer’s deal with the demon fae was against all the things Quentin and the MacRaven family stood for.”
I shifted uneasily in my seat. “Paganism . . . it’s all pagan.”
“Actually, you’re very wrong, Guylan. There are many variations of Christian denominations and groups belonging to the Druid heritage and society. Druidism is practiced in Ireland, Wales, Northern France and Scotland, with several hundred groups worldwide.” She waved a hand in the air. “But, let me get back on track . . . to Mortimer. He went to Quentin for help, but by that time the deal had been set and nothing could be done.” Olena picked up the goblet of brandy and handed it to me. “Here, take another sip before you faint.”
I gulped down the last bit of liquor in the glass. “What did all this have to do with my parents?”
“For years Mortimer had the powers and riches he asked for, but one can’t dodge a deal with evil. As each day passed the demon fae haunted him, reminding him the time grew closer for him to pay his dues and Mortimer didn’t want to comply.” She paused, downing the last of her brandy as well. “Again Mortimer asked Quentin for help, and again nothing could be done. Quentin refused to have anything to do with the dark side.”
“So he took his revenge out on my family?” I concluded.
Olena nodded. “He knew that would be the ultimate way to hurt Quentin and the rest of us since Xavior had already received the Geis. But most important for him was being able to offer such a powerful soul to the dark fae. It would appease them and another deal could be struck that would buy Mortimer more time.”
I swallowed hard the lump in my throat. “So, Mortimer lives now . . . off my father’s soul?”
“More or less, yes,” Olena said.
My heart raced. “Tell me more.”
She stared past me, into space. “It was a hot July night, hotter than any I can remember since. The air was humid, thick and still. Too still,” she added, her gaze resting on mine. “You cried most of the night, aggravated by the heat and wanting to feed from your mother. You broke out in a rash all over your chest and bottom. I had to soak you in Chamomile bath milk, to keep you cool, and dress you only in a diaper. Your little arse was so raw, I should have kept the diaper off as well, but you weren’t completely toilet trained.” Olena paused a second before she went on. “The night gave way to a thunder storm, which frightened the dog. I ended up having to put Luna out back, in the gardener’s shed, because she pranced and howled. After Xavior arrived home from Audra’s recital, he called to say the storm knocked out the power in his part of town and not even a fan could be used. I offered for him to come to the mansion, but his reply was Audra was already asleep and he didn’t want to disturb her. Little did I know it would be the last time I’d ever hear my son’s voice.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “My guess was Xavior left the windows open about the house, to catch the small breeze brewing after the storm, and Mortimer was able to enter through a downstairs opening.” Olena clenched her hands into fists. “How he navigated through the house, unheard and in the dark, still haunts me. I don’t think Mortimer visited Xavior and his family but a handful of times, so to know the lay out, especially in the dark . . .” her voice trailed off and she shuttered. “I guess evil has its way of getting beyond ordinary obstacles. He was also clever enough to make it appear as a home invasion . . . a robbery. After he murdered them in their beds he ransacked the house. I believe he was also looking for the ring and the book of secrets.” Her voice broke off into a sob. “Audra must have awakened and tried to hide. Her body was found on the closet floor.”
The horror of the deed made me physically ill. I hid my face in my hands to control the raw emotion merging from what I imagined happened that night.
“Then Mortimer must have gone looking for you . . . since you were next in line, after Xavior,” she said. “Everything in your nursery was turned upside down.” She choked out the last of her words hoarsely. “If I hadn’t taken the dog with me that night they might all still be alive.”
I raised my gaze to hers. “Why is that?”
“There was something very special about Luna, besides being an excellent watch dog. She slept beside your crib, watched your every move. Somehow she managed to escape from the shed and make her way all across town to the house she shared with Xavior. It was her howling on the front porch, beneath the door with the raven feather stuck upon it, which alerted neighbors to call the police. Luna felt something was wrong and that’s why she headed back to your home, but arrived too late. I know if she had been in the house that night, she would have alerted Xavior to Mortimer’s intrusion.”
“Thank heaven I was with you,” I said.
Again she nodded. “And if you were to stay alive I had to hide you. What better place then one where evil would be skeptical to tread but a . . .”
“A Catholic orphanage,” I finished her sentence.
“Exactly, holy ground, but not just any Catholic orphanage,” she said. “One where I knew you’d be watched over and loved by a family member.”
I frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Olena stood and walked over to the large bay window. “It was the best I could do under the circumstances. Leaving you was hard enough; you were all I had left. I wanted to make sure you were cared for by someone who would look out for you with a heart. So, I entrusted your care to my sister, Anya MacRaven.”
My frown deepened. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“It wasn’t the name she went by in the convent.” She turned to look at me. “You would know her as Sister Margaret.”
My ears rang, splotches of light flashed before my eyes.
“Guylan,” Olena called to me. “Take a deep breath.” She made her way to her chair and rang for Harrington.
The next time I opened my eyes I was laying on the sofa, a cold compress on my forehead.
Olena sat in her chair, watching me. “How are you feeling now?”
I sat up, the room spun for a moment and I swallowed hard, taking the glass of water she now offered me. I took a swig and leaned back against a pillow. “Why didn’t Sister Margaret tell me?”
“She wanted no part of the family and fled from us when she was only sixteen to join the nunnery . . . said she had to pray for all of our souls. But my father always kept tabs on where she was, how she was faring. Just before Xavior was murdered, Quentin received news from one of his contacts Anya had returned to the area and was at St. Bernards in Anglewood.” Olena’s mouth was tight and grim. “When we realized the murderers identity, Quentin instructed me to take the ring, the book, two more things Mortimer was after, and you to St. Bernard’s Home for Boys.”
“Why didn’t Mortimer harm you and Quentin?” I said.
“Quentin immediately cast himself into a suspension chamber, where Mortimer couldn’t touch him. I entrusted Luna’s care to my dear friend, Myrtle Johnson. Many years later I learned the dog ran away, on the night of a full moon and was never found. And your grandfather, Zachery Sincloud and I fled to Northern France, where we stayed with a group of Druid priests until we could escape further to Scotland. Somehow Mortimer found us and ambushed Zachery as he traveled back from meeting a contact.” She shivered. “Every part of him was ripped to shreds . . . like a pack of wolves, or something much worse, had descended upon him, tearing him to pieces. The two men traveling with Zackery were spared, no doubt so they could relay to me who it was that murdered my husband.” Olena paused to compose herself. “I didn’t think anymore could have been taken from me than it already had, but when I buried the love of my life, I buried a part of me as well.”
How would I feel if I lost Nela? I cringed inside at the thought and again I consoled Olena. “I’m so terribly sorry.”
She nodded. “So am I, Guylan.” Olena sighed. “I was then hustled off to Caledonia, Scotland, where the MacRaven’s still have family and Druidic ruins dot the moors. That’s where I’ve been living all this time, on the grounds of a monastery,” she concluded.
“Why did you come back?”
“I was summoned by my sister. She notified me of your visit and the questions you were asking. I knew if you were coming around with such questions you had to have seen something, felt something. At any rate I knew you were in danger and I returned to the states immediately.”
“But why . . . why am I in danger now, after all these years?”
She reached into the same pocket where she kept her handkerchief and pulled out a newspaper clipping, handing it to me. “Because of this.”
I opened the folded paper to reveal the engagement photo of me and Nela.
“You’re the spitting image of Xavior, it isn’t hard to see you’re his son and Mortimer knows his time on earth is coming to a fast end. That newspaper announcement led him to your whereabouts. Since you’re no longer guarded by holy ground, you’re an easy target.”
“Why didn’t you come for me when I was a child, take me with you to France?”
“It would have been way to risky . . . as it was Mortimer found us and murdered Zackery. Being with Anya was the only real solution, and when I handed you over to her care, I made a deal with her. I promised you would never be a part of the MacRaven gift and I’d never return for you, if she would take you and keep you safe.”
I looked at the ring on my finger. “Why then did she give me the ring?”
“That was what she promised to do, if I kept my word,” Olena said. “I knew one day you’d need it, for protection. I believe Anya did as well.”
“And the book . . . why did you give her the book?”
“To keep it from Mortimer. In the wrong hands the book and ring could be used for something other than good. The evil Mortimer possessed would transmit the bad, changing the book and ring’s powers from what they were originally destined to be.”
I looked down at the raven-crested ring I wore. “What powers does this ring hold?”
“You’ll learn all in good time,” Olena said softly.
“Mother Superior told Sister Margaret to burn the book, why do you think she didn’t?”
“I’m not sure myself. All I can think is, in spite of Anya’s disgust for what our father is, she knew in time it would be essential for him to speak to you, once you grew to be a man, and the book would help you achieve what needed to be done.”
I arched a brow. “Which is what?”
“Again, all in good time, Guylan.”
I took an exasperated breath. “Then I assume Quentin MacRaven is still alive.” Mentally I calculated his age. “He’s got to be about . . .”
“A hundred and seven,” she finished the sentence for me. “And he continues to live in a state of suspension.”
My eyes widened. “But I saw him several times.”
She frowned. “You couldn’t have.”
“But I did,” I protested. “He’s been following me for months, dressed as he is in the portrait hanging in the hallway. It’s the reason I went to Sister Margaret.” I explained to her about the silence accompanying each of his appearances, and the note I received in the library. “It was in the same handwriting as the one I received tonight, giving this address.”
“I was under the impression Anya told you to come here when she brought you the book, which she admitted to doing.” Olena’s expression hardened. “It looks as though I’ve gotten here just in time.”
My head began to throb. “I don’t understand any of this.”
“Everything will be explained to you soon, Guylan, but right now I need the book Anya gave you.”
“I’ve left it at my apartment.”
Olena reached for the bell and summoned Harrington. When he entered the room she gave him instructions to fetch the book.
I stood in protest. “I’ll get the book.”
“That would be way too dangerous at this point,” Olena strongly informed me. “Now, give your keys to Harrington and you come with me.” She stood and reached for my hand. “It’s time you’ve met your great-grandfather, arch-Druid, Quentin MacRaven.”
My eyes clung to hers. “He’s here?”
Olena gave a taut nod. “Where else would he be?”
Reluctantly I handed my keys over to Harrington and followed her up the large staircase to the second floor. The cherub and flower wood carvings upon the thick, oak banister were a costly craft. Rich hued, oriental carpeting paved the path to another staircase. The paneling on the walls and the expensive artwork made my modest wallet scream. I couldn’t help thinking how I’d been made to pinch pennies all my life, eating macaroni and cheese for supper every night and renting cold water flats, all the while my family was rolling in wealth.
Olena read my thoughts. She stopped short in front of me and looked up into my eyes with a challenging gaze. “How do you think you came by the scholarship to medical school?”
I frowned annoyed. “Through my good grades and extra hard work, that’s how.”
“Well, you were a smart one, I’ll give you that, but there were smarter. It was the nice lump of money I donated to the college that really saw you through.”
My eyes widened in astonishment. “I don’t believe you.”
Olena shrugged. “I don’t care if you do or don’t, it’s the truth, as well as why you were singled out by a certain Horace Manchester, searching for a roommate to share his very nice three bedroom apartment . . . and only asking you for a quarter of what the rent really cost.” She turned and made her way up the last set of stairs. “And then there was the bank position you worked part time at while in your last two years of college.”
The heat stung my face. “Are you saying you had something to do with me being hired?”
She cast me a glance over her shoulder. “The bank is one of the many businesses the Sincloud family own, Guylan.” She stopped at a door, her large, blue eyes locking with mine. “You were watched over and compensated for . . . grant you, not as luxuriously as you would have been if you lived here, nor could the family’s money do much for you while you were growing up at the orphanage.” Olena took an audible breath. “My dear sister wanted you to appear as all the others so there’d be no animosity toward you by your peers. But you were never in danger of being homeless, starving or unable to reach your goals once you left St. Bernard’s orphanage.”
“Am I supposed to be grateful for that?” I snapped.
She shrugged again. “Be what ever you feel you should be, just know you weren’t left out in the cold . . . never were you abandoned.”
I combed my fingers through my hair and glanced around the narrow hallway. “Why are we in an attic?”
She reached for the knob and turned it. “This is Quentin’s chamber.” Pushing the door open, she stepped in and flicked a wall switch.
I was stuck for words at what I saw. The room was large and the windows stained glass. Walled bookshelves, from floor to ceiling, were filled with leather bond books of all sizes. To one corner of the room sat an antique mahogany desk and chair, a Tiffany lamp and a quill pen, inkwell, an opened journal and a photo album were atop it.
“Everything is just as he left it thirty-five years ago,” Olena said, making her way across the large room, to a curtained wall. She pushed aside the green, velvet drapery to reveal a glass encasement.
I neared the large container, my heart racing at what I saw inside.
“He looks quite peaceful, don’t you think?” Olena whispered. “But grant you, looks are deceiving. Within my father is troubled. He knows there is much to say and do, in so little time.”
My voice failed me as my eyes wandered over the suspended form inside. Naked, except for a small cloth covering his genitals, Quentin MacRaven floated inside the glass coffin. He was a tall man, broad shouldered and hardy looking in spite of his age.
“Who’s looked after him all this time?”
“Harrington’s father, Manning Harrington Sr. He was the curator of the museum and hid Quentin’s chamber amongst the other iniquities stashed in the basement. In return for his help, I paid Manning a monthly stipend and allowed him, his wife and son to live here in the mansion.” Olena glanced down at her father in the encasement. “As long as he stays in the chamber, he’ll continue to look seventy-two, the age he was when he climbed in there.”
“Unbelievable,” I gasped, placing a hand on the glass case. Energy like an electrical current coursed through me, crackling and sparking like a downed power line. I pulled my hand away, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.
“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Olena said in awe. “Nothing can touch him; not even time.”
“Can he get out of this thing?” I walked around the glass container, glimpsing Quentin MacRaven from every side.
“No. He’s too weak . . . been in there too long.”
“Why did he chose to stay here, enter this . . . this . . . glass chamber, instead of escaping with you and Zachery?”
“He needed to stay here for you, to keep the powers alive within you. If the connection was broken before you were skilled, all would be lost.”
I raised my gaze to hers. “Again you talk of powers and skill.”
“Quentin will explain all that too you.”
I frowned. “I thought you said he’s too weak to get out.”
“He is . . . or was, but now he can transmit as a hologram using the energy that’s just entered the room.”
My frown deepened. “And what energy would that be, Olena?”
Her lips thinned. “Yours, Guylan . . . it’s your energy Quentin can use.”
