Rampant

There was a certain intimacy in the woman’s voice that struck Zoë as odd. She had a confident, knowing look about her. Her chestnut hair was swept up and back in a ponytail, her eyes so dark brown they were almost black, her smile knowing, as if it held a secret. Her accent was less strong than the boat builder’s, local, but as if she’d traveled. The woman’s ears were heavily pierced and adorned with ornate silver rings. She was dressed in a Hard Rock Café T-shirt and jeans, not what you might expect from a postmistress, but Zoë supposed the normal rules didn’t apply out here.

“I’m Elspeth McGraw, I’m the caretaker for the cottage. It’s been in my family for years, but I live up at the top of the hill now. Let me get your keys.” The woman couldn’t seem to stop smiling to herself, as if secretly amused. Perhaps she was amused at the idea of a woman going on holiday alone. Zoë supposed it was fairly unusual.

While her hostess hunted behind the counter for the keys, Zoë scanned the place. Besides the post office counter, the shop sold newspapers, magazines, postcards, cold drinks, sweet treats and snacks. A massive ice cream cabinet on one side of the room looked as if it had been there for years. Behind the counter itself, she noticed an engraved panel on the wall. She scanned it quickly but then looked back, instead of moving on. Three symbols were carved on what appeared to be driftwood, nailed above the doorway that led through to the back of the shop, a doorway covered over by a long black velvet curtain. The symbols looked vaguely familiar.

Her mother had owned similar things, Zoë realized. That’s why. She’d had the same sort of designs on jewelry, candles and ornaments. She’d been a spiritual sort—called herself a pagan and was into all sorts of heebie-jeebie nonsense. Not that it had done her much good. She’d been crushed to death in her Mini Cooper when an articulated lorry jackknifed in her path. Zoë, as a result, had a much more down-to-earth attitude and quickly dismissed anything she considered mumbo-jumbo.

An odd smell wafted through the shop. Incense, probably. She caught sight of herself in a mirror. Her layered black hair was a mess. Her eyes looked startled, the pupils dilated, and her natural color looked higher than usual. “I’m a mess,” she whispered under her breath.

Elspeth turned back to her, a bunch of keys dangling from one finger. “You look absolutely perfect to me, sweetheart.”

Strolling out from behind the counter, she leaned her back up against it, elbows resting on the surface, breasts pushing out from her torso. It was a cheeky, confident pose, and when she proceeded to stare at Zoë from top to toe, slowly, she smiled and licked her lips. “It’s going to be a lot of fun, having you around.”

Her eyes were bright, as if she had some secret that she was nurturing.

Zoë felt that odd feeling again—as if a presence sidled alongside her—and it made her skin tingle with awareness. It also made her feel slightly out of control, as if she couldn’t trust herself to respond appropriately. I’m horny, that’s what it is. Horny as hell.

This time she couldn’t ignore the curious mixture of reactions she experienced. She was partly afraid of something she couldn’t quite rationalize, and partly seduced by it—and she didn’t understand why on earth she was feeling either.

Fazed, she gathered herself to leave. That’s when the door opened and the postmistress cursed aloud at the man who walked in.

2

GRAYSON MURDOCH PARKED HIS MOTORCYCLE, pulled off his helmet and looked over at the smart Audi cabriolet parked outside Her Haven. The woman he’d seen at the fork in the road was coming here? He gave a wry smile. That would explain the restless anticipation amongst certain Carbrey locals. Every time a visitor came to stay at the house their interest stirred. For most of them it was idle curiosity about the visitor’s reactions to the ghostly presence that resided in the cottage. It was a long-running sideshow for the locals. Amongst a select few, however, there was more to it.

He was one of those select few.

He’d stopped off at the farm shop on the other side of the village to pick up provisions. As a consequence, she’d made it here ahead of him. He’d wondered where she was headed, but he’d been distracted by her leaning up against her car, looking longingly into the forest like a wood nymph who thought she might have found home. Wistful, that’s how she’d appeared, and that keyed into something buried deep inside of him. In her it was a simple thing—a sense of loneliness, perhaps—for him it was somewhat more complicated, but it attracted him to her nonetheless. When he’d approached, she roused more than his aesthetic appreciation. There was a burgeoning sensuality about her that demanded his attention.

Glancing along the road toward the post office he caught sight of her as she went inside. Crawford Logan was watching. He turned away and disappeared into his workshop when Grayson eyeballed him. Dismounting, he pushed the bike close against the wall of the Cornerstone cottage and strode in her footsteps, covering the ground fast.

Elspeth’s eyes narrowed and she cursed him when he entered the shop, seemingly unable to hold back her annoyance that he’d walked in on them. The smell of ashes was high in the air. Grayson’s eyebrows lifted. She’d been performing a ritual in the middle of the day?

The visitor looked from one of them to the other, clearly startled by Elspeth’s reaction.

“Ah, Zoë, here’s your chance to meet your neighbor,” Elspeth said, quickly recovering from her initial response to his arrival. “The proverbial nosy neighbor, in fact.” Sarcasm rang in her voice. “Professor Murdoch is writing a book about us.”

“Not quite,” he corrected, for the visitor’s benefit. The woman—Zoë—looked at him with interest, her eyes sparkling. “I teach at the University in Edinburgh. I’m here doing research on local folklore. Grayson Murdoch, at your service.” He reached out and took her hand, squeezing it firmly.

“Folklore?” Her eyebrows lifted, and he recognized from her expression that she was a skeptic. That would soon change. If she was staying at Her Haven she would soon learn that the supernatural was all too real.

“Yes, the area is rife with the paranormal. I’m on sabbatical from my university post, researching for a book about historic local witches.”

“Witches,” the visitor repeated, with a chuckle.

Elspeth looked pleased that the visitor was so dismissive, but she kept her attention on Grayson. He raised his eyebrows at her, unfazed by her attitude. Being blasé wouldn’t cover her back when the time came, he reflected with no small amount of irony. “I thought you might be pleased about the attention a book would bring Carbrey, Elspeth. You’ll sell more…postcards, after all.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. She didn’t like that. Unlike most practitioners of the craft who were content to practice their magic while maintaining a normal life, Elspeth treated her normal life as a nuisance.

“Professor Murdoch here actually bought Cornerstone.” Elspeth interjected. “He paid good money for that house that’s dangling into the sea, the very last house on the row. Death row, the villagers call it.” She emphasized the word death and shot him a warning glance, her dark eyes swirling with evil intent.

Grayson gave a soft laugh. Elspeth still wasn’t quite sur

e what he was about, and Grayson liked it that way. Besides, she was pretty powerless without her coven and her master.

The visitor, however, looked perturbed by Elspeth’s comments, and who could blame her. “Death row?” she repeated. “How long have the houses got, before they become uninhabitable?”

“Long enough, with any luck,” he replied, then gave her a friendly smile, trying to put her at her ease. He sensed Elspeth had already got to her and didn’t want to unsettle her any more.