Page 18

Farlan (Immortal Highlander Clan McKeran Book 3)

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

Outside attorney William Carter’s office, Grace Johansen watched lunch hour traffic pour through the streets of downtown Monterey, California. Although the clear skies and cool air of late spring made everything seem bright and crisp, impatient drivers had to dodge jay-walking tourists and clusters of soldiers on liberty. Frequently hitting their horns to express their displeasure, the drivers mostly scowled. More of that was to come with summer rapidly approaching, which drew a hefty influx of vacationers hoping to bask in the sun while enjoying the peninsula’s chilly breezes. For them, the novelty of wearing a jacket in July never palled.

Maybe that was why Grace had shivered through her mother’s funeral; she’d forgotten to bring a sweater to the cemetery.

While signing the last of the paperwork, she thought of New York City, where she had lived and worked since she had dropped out of high school. It seemed more like a thousand years since she had left the seaside beauty of Monterey behind to go to the east coast. She’d been seventeen when her mother had signed her first agency contract. Back then Tonje Johansen had told her not to worry about finishing her education. Grace’s sole purpose was to earn as much money as she could and send it home.

Everyone says you’re just like those supermodels on TV, her mother had said. All you have to do is dress up, stand there and smile, so it won’t even be hard work.

“I wish I had better news for you, Ms. Johansen,” Carter said, his gaze lowering as if in regret. A spindly-limbed man with obvious hair plugs, he had an unconscious, reptilian habit of running his tongue over his thin lips. “Unfortunately, your mother’s lifestyle proved quite expensive in her last years. I’m afraid what was left of her money went toward paying the final expenses. ”

“My money,” Grace said as she handed him the file of signed documents.

The lawyer’s muddy hazel eyes went from discreetly admiring her breasts to stare at her face. “I beg your pardon?”

“All the money she spent came from me.” She placed the pen back on his blotter and sat back in her chair. “My mother didn’t work and had no income. I paid for everything.”

“I see.” He licked his lips twice as he watched her watch him.

Carter seemed to be waiting for her to justify why she’d done that, but she had no interest in confiding in him. She’d also learned that silence often intimidated more than words, and supposedly gave her a mysterious aura, at least according to the fashion magazines that talked endlessly about her. All she cared about was keeping people out of her life.

He’ll probably offer to take me out to dinner in hopes of talking me into retaining him or getting me drunk enough to go home with him.

“Mrs. Johansen never mentioned that you were supporting her. I assumed that she had received… Well, I was mistaken.” He cleared his throat and tried to sound more sympathetic as he added, “You can probably sell most of her things at a high-end consignment shop, if you’d like me to recommend– ”

“Are we finished now?” When he nodded she rose and tucked her clutch under her arm. “Thank you. Good-bye.”

Carter surged to his feet. “If you don’t have any plans for dinner, perhaps I could–”

Before he finished she walked out of his office, ignoring the wide-eyed secretary who stuttered something about a nice day.

Outside, the slant of the sun in the damp, nippy afternoon air made Grace take a head-clearing breath and review her immediate situation. She had another two days before she’d have to check out of the motel; her compact rental car was paid for only through the end of the week. To purchase all that and her plane ticket she’d had to empty her checking account.

How much cash did she have in her wallet? Grace checked. Sixty-one dollars, enough to buy a week of fast food meals, or a month’s worth of ramen, yogurt and juice. She knew because occasionally she’d had to live on even less between gigs.

She should have been worried about her lack of funds, but the reason she needed money was gone. Although her agent had threatened to kill her if she quit, she had no intention of returning to New York City and continuing her career. None of that concerned her; the only thing that mattered was getting some long-awaited answers, and then.. .

I’m done. Finished. The yawning darkness of the future held nothing in it anymore.

Grace put on her sunglasses and walked to her rental car. With the sun pouring over her everyone she passed stared. They would have done the same if it had been midnight. Men generally liked to gawk at her perfectly proportioned body and long legs while women eyed her face, hair, purse and shoes as if they were checking the mirrors in their car. No one smiled at her, however. Seeing the most beautiful person they’d probably ever encounter only reminded them of what they’d never have.

Grace would have gladly traded her looks for someone who genuinely cared about her, even just a little, but that was never going to happen.

Since puberty she had been tall and slender with long, wavy fair hair, big brown eyes, and absolutely symmetrical features. Even during the worst of puberty she hadn’t suffered with blemishes, and had no scars, birthmarks or anything else to mar her skin. Her ivory linen suit, one of many sample ensembles given to her by grateful designers, made her smooth tan appear a light golden brown in contrast. The latter had come from an airbrushed application of sunless tanner that her last magazine job had required, which was only just now beginning to fade.

A designer had once called her the most perfect woman he’d ever met. The men she’d dated had been less complimentary.

“Look, I don’t need you to make conversation,” one marketing director had told her when she agreed to go as his plus one at a product launch party. “These are important people, and you could say something that will make me look bad. Just stick by me and look beautiful. That’s all you’re really good for anyway.”

A wolf whistle came from the corner ahead of her, where two men in Army uniforms had stopped in their tracks and were staring at her.

Grace didn’t bother to show them her brick wall face; she liked soldiers. Only they understood what it was like to have a regimented life governed by an unwavering, demanding duty.

Only mine is finally over. “Thank you for your service,” she said as she walked past them.

“Thank you for being the most gorgeous blonde I’ve ever seen in my freaking life ,” one of them called after her.

He meant that as a compliment, but appearing flawless and stunning had been a job requirement. Because Grace had been a public figure she could never go outside unless she looked as good as she did walking a runway or posing for a shoot. Everyone thought nothing of snapping pictures of her without asking permission. It bemused her to think that if she didn’t go back to modeling she wouldn’t have to spend two hours in the morning doing her hair and makeup anymore. Never again would she have to wear uncomfortable clothes to represent a label that had paid her to be their walking mannequin, either. She could go bare-faced and shop at thrift stores. She could even live in her old flannel pajamas if she wanted to.

No one will ever again tell me how I should look.

Driving to her mother’s house took a little more weight off Grace’s shoulders. Once the thrift truck arrived and removed Tonje’s wardrobe and personal belongings, she could turn over the keys for the mini mansion to the realtor. In two weeks the new owners, a dermatologist and his husband, would be moving in. They had liked the maximalist furnishings and endless mountains of knick-knacks in the over-decorated house so much they’d agreed to buy everything. Their combined offer had paid off Tonje’s funeral and mortgage. Grace had given her mother all the funds she’d needed to pay cash for the place five years ago; the big house had cost every penny she’d earned from a global perfume campaign contract. Her mother had never once mentioned taking out a home loan.

I need you to send me more money so I can pay some overdue bills, Tonje had demanded only last month. Take extra jobs if you have to. The prices are going up like crazy here.

Grace parked the rental in the garage and braced herself before she walked inside the upscale nightmare. Since she’d left home her mother had evidently been like a magpie on amphetamines when it came to buying and hoarding pricey, kitschy things. Every room contained dozens of furnishings stacked with countless objects in every shade, as if someone had projectile vomited a rainbow around the place for hours. A minimalist by necessity, walking through the place was what Grace imagined a first-time acid trip would be like.

Tonje’s overdue bills had evidently been from endless shopping sprees.

Her mother’s compulsive buying showed in the confusing clutter in every room. Animal pattern prints and hand-painted porcelain knickknacks vied with Turkish wall tapestries and embroidered silk window treatments for attention; creating such visual chaos it became instantly exhausting to stand and look in any direction. Dated and signed pieces enclosed in plexiglass cases lined walls and shelves for visitors to admire but not to touch. Crystal sun catchers added to the dizzying spectrum by casting a cascade of prismatic light into every room .

Dusting all the junk must have been Tonje’s full-time job; maybe that was why she’d never bothered to work since Grace began earning what she called the big money.

Upon arriving she had switched off the automatic air freshener dispensers her mother had placed in every room, which had perfumed the air so heavily with a sickening artificial jasmine stench her eyes had watered. She’d had to open all the windows for a day to air out the stink. Once she could breathe without choking, Grace had lowered and closed all the blinds, which had the extra benefit of dimming the cacophony of color a little.

This was where most of the hefty income she’d earned by modeling had gone, into lining her mother’s nest of overpriced junk.

Grace had never cared about money; with the albatross of her mother hanging around her neck she could never afford to. Since coming home and seeing how Tonje had been living, however, she kept thinking of the series of tiny studio apartments she’d had in New York. Trying to keep up with her mother’s constant demands for money had left her unable to afford anything more than the cheapest places. Everything she owned could still fit into a carry-on bag, a habit she’d maintained for the day her mother would tell her that she could quit modeling and come home. Yet Tonje had never been satisfied.

I raised you by myself, remember, after your father dumped us, her mother had shouted at her the one time she’d tried to discuss her spending . I had to go on welfare a bunch of times, trying to take care of you. Now it’s time to fucking pay me back, Worthless.

The nasty nickname Tonje had given her had been out of spite, or so Grace had assumed. Her mother had taken after her father, inheriting his short, thick-set build, dark coloring and sharp features, as if someone had carved her face from lemon tree wood and left some of the thorns intact. Even before Tonje had gained all the weight, she’d been buxom, with broad hips and pendulous breasts. It had been easy to interpret the ugly looks she gave Grace as coming from jealousy. Everyone noticed how different they were, too; a neighbor once asked Grace if she had been adopted.

You must take after your father, honey.

Grace hadn’t minded looking so different from Tonje, but she had confronted her mother one time about her cruel name-calling. She’d started working at a boutique after school and sometimes modeled outfits for the ladies, who told her she was a natural clothes horse, whatever that meant. It gave her a sense of pride in herself that she’d never before experienced, which prompted her to challenge Tonje the next time she’d been nasty to her.

I’m earning good money now, she’d reminded her mother. So you can’t call me Worthless anymore.

You think a hundred bucks a week is good? Tonje had slapped her so hard she’d knocked her into a wall, and then grabbed her chin and dug her fingernails into her skin. Until you earn two hundred times that, the big money, you are completely fucking worthless.

When another girl at school had asked her the next day what had bruised and scratched her face, Grace had blamed herself. I had a nightmare and woke up like this.

In the kitchen of her dead mother’s house Grace took out a jar of instant coffee she’d had to buy. While she heated a mug of tap water in the microwave, she looked around to make sure nothing needed to be cleaned. Her mother had evidently never used it. Upon arrival Grace had found the refrigerator and pantry empty; unused expensive dishes filled the cabinets. After going through all the charge card statements she learned that Tonje had stopped cooking and dined out for all three meals every day, regularly going to expensive gourmet restaurants. She’d often invited some of the women who lived in the neighborhood, always paying for them as well. According to the medical records her doctor had sent to Grace, her mother had also gained two hundred pounds over the last six years, which correlated to how much money she had been sending home.

The extra weight must not have concerned Tonje, for she’d kept stuffing herself.

For her last meal Grace’s mother had eaten at one of the most expensive seafood restaurants in the area. The receipt showed that she had gobbled up among other things a dozen oysters on the half shell while drinking a bottle of a rare champagne formerly reserved for Tsars. According to Carter, Tonje had become violently ill later that night and had to be rushed to the hospital. Four days later she had died from a vibrio infection she’d gotten from the raw shellfish.

My mother ate herself to death, and I paid for that, too.

Sitting down with the coffee she’d made, Grace sipped it and checked her phone. Two texts from her agent, of course; the second had come after she’d left word with his secretary that she would not be returning. That one contained so many f-words it seemed he’d gotten the message. Eight other texts had been sent by different designers wanting to know if she would be available during Fashion Week in September; the rest were from print ad and beauty product marketing agents who wanted her for their projects. Her agent must have been hanging up on everyone. At the very bottom of the voicemail list was one from Renard Beaumont, the owner of the castle where her grandmother had disappeared seventy years ago.

He's going to tell me I’m crazy, just like the police did.

Grace reached into her jacket and took out the locket she’d stolen from her mother’s jewelry box when she was a child. When she opened it a folded piece of yellowed parchment fell out onto the table. Although she had read it hundreds of times, she unfolded it to once more see the message written on it in tiny, smudged charcoal.

I’m not dead. I walked into an enchanted hall in McKeran’s Castle and fell into a time spell trap. There is no escape from here. I’m still with the clan and their people from the 12 th century. Please help us ~ Inga Holm

On the back of the strip of parchment, she’d drawn a sketch of a building’s interior with a tiny star in one spot, presumably the entrance to the spell trap. Grace had often been tempted to look for a lab to test the message to see how old it really was, because if it dated back to the twelfth century that would prove that Inga’s message was real. Yet part of her still wondered if it was all a hoax, just as the police had long ago surmised.

My father was never good enough for her, Tonje had often ranted. She always complained about how little he made at his job. That’s why she left us, because she found herself a rich man.

Grace’s mother had always believed that Inga had not only abandoned her but had killed her father in the process. After his wife had vanished, John Holm drank himself into an early grave, Tonje claimed, forcing her to be placed in foster care. That abandonment made Tonje hate her mother so much she always blamed her for everything, including her own failed marriage to Grace’s father, her drinking and her money problems.

That worthless bitch ruined my life.

Tonje’s drunken rages had terrified Grace throughout her childhood. Countless times she’d seen her mother tearing up photos, smashing dishes and destroying other things that had belonged to Inga until she exhausted herself, after which she broke down into noisy sobs and cried herself to sleep. Sometimes she’d made Grace come out into the backyard and watch as she burned yet another pile of her grandmother’s clothing and shoes.

If she ever comes back, baby, don’t worry. I am not letting her anywhere near you, Tonje had promised, savagely wiping the tears from her face before taking another drink from the vodka bottle in her fist. My fucking mother is dead to us forever .

Grace had managed to save the locket and one small photograph of her grandmother Inga from Tonje’s destruction and had secretly carried both with her everywhere. In the picture the missing woman was wearing the locket, the same one that had been found in the castle the day after she’d vanished in nineteen fifty-four.

It’s a hoax, Ms. Johansen, the police detective she’d spoken with yesterday had assured her. The locket was found in the castle three months after your grandmother disappeared. Maybe she came back and planted it before she started her new life somewhere else.

Now Grace dialed Renard Beaumont’s number, which rang three times before a male voice answered the line with, “Hello, Ms. Johansen. I hope you’re not calling to ask me about visiting the castle again.”

Beaumont sounded ordinary enough, but something about his voice made Grace shudder.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Beaumont.” Willing herself not to hang up on him, she twisted the locket’s gold chain around her slim fingers. “I was just hoping that you might have changed your mind. All I want to do is go to the spot where my grandmother disappeared, and see if I can find any evidence of what happened to her.”

“I am sorry, Ms. Johansen, but as I told you, significant damage to the property during the spring storms has made it unsafe. I don’t even go in there anymore.” He cleared his throat. “Why don’t we meet for dinner? I’ll tell you what I know about Mrs. Holm’s disappearance. You’ll love this little place down by the wharf.”

As he rambled on about the restaurant, Beaumont seemed to be hoping the gourmet food would tempt her. He probably thought a pistachio-crusted rack of lamb was the way to her heart. Judging by the number of times it had shown up on her credit card receipts, Tonje had loved it.

“I’m afraid I have to leave tonight,” she lied. “Thank you anyway.” Ending the call, she dropped the phone in her bag.

A knock on the front door heralded the arrival of the thrift truck, and Grace spent the next hour supervising the removal of her mother’s clothing and accessories. About half the garments in the gigantic walk-in closet still had the tags on them, she noted. Tonje had kept everything in excellent condition, saving the original boxes and dust bags for her shoes and purses. Watching them go proved very satisfying; Grace imagined a lot of shoppers would be very happy to buy her mother’s precious things at thrift store prices.

You might have been the most selfish person in the world, Mother, but in the end even you did some good .

A cold, disembodied voice in her head answered that with, Yeah, sure, like spending all your fucking money and leaving you poor as shit. Now what are you going to do, Worthless?