Page 5 of Secrets of the Highwayman (Immortal Warriors #2)

I t was beyond her comprehension , beyond belief, beyond horror. Above her the light faded, and she cried out, her nose full of the smell of damp soil and rotting vegetation. She was tumbling over and over through a long dark shaft, with nothing to stop her, nothing to hold on to.

And then she landed in a heap at the bottom, her head ringing, her stomach heaving.

It was all wrong!

She was inside the hill. It had opened up and taken her inside, and that was just plain impossible. It was a dream, that was it. She’d open her eyes, and it would be a dream.

But when she peered through her eyelashes Melanie found she was lying in a narrow tunnel that seemed to have no beginning and no end, while above her was only darkness.

Before the shock could ease, and she could begin screaming, this isn’t true, a soft voice spoke.

“Welcome to the between-worlds, Melanie Jones.”

Melanie promptly closed her eyes again, tightly.

“Are you hurt?” the voice added, closer now.

Melanie opened her eyes. All around her there was light, brilliant light of an indescribable color, and it was forcing back the darkness, and within it she could see a figure bending over her. The figure had long auburn hair that hung down in a curtain about her sweet young face.

“I can’t be awake.”

The sweet young face had blue eyes, neon blue, but as she gazed into them, mesmerized, Melanie realized they weren’t young eyes at all but old. Ancient. They were like no eyes she had ever seen.

She shuddered and looked away, saying shakily, “The between-worlds? That’s not right, there’s only one world.”

The young woman laughed, but the sound didn’t make Melanie want to join in; instead, the hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up. She gave a sideways glance and realized that the figure was wearing a scarlet cloak, and beneath that a gossamer gown of iridescent silver rippled like liquid mercury as she moved. And her feet . . . weren’t feet at all. They were talons.

Melanie stared, openmouthed.

“St. Anne’s Hill is a door, and you have come through it. The door leads from your mortal world to the between-worlds, the realm that exists between life and death, and I am its ruler.”

“Like a queen, do you mean?”

“That’s right,” the creature with talons said, with a little smile. “You can call me Your Majesty.”

Your Majesty? Queen of the between-worlds? Melanie decided that was more information than she could process. She put her hands down on the ground—it was cold and damp—and pushed herself into a sitting position. Water was dripping, but thankfully not on her. The between-worlds? The realm between life and death? There must be another explanation, a more rational explanation . . .

With a start she realized that the brilliant light was receding. Anxiously she looked around for the queen.

“Where are you?”

“This way, mortal . . .”

The voice was behind her, moving away with the light.

Frantically, Melanie scrambled to her feet. “Don’t leave me here!” she shouted, and promptly knocked her head on the ceiling of the tunnel. “Ouch!” She felt woozy, but now the light was getting very faint, and soon she’d be all on her own.

“Hurry, mortal.” That melodious voice drifted back toward her.

“I want to go home,” she answered, even as she was moving after the queen.

“It’s too late for that, Melanie Jones.”

Melanie stumbled along the tunnel, trying to remember to keep her head down. Something scuttled in the shadows, like claws on a blackboard, and she made a little whimpering noise. The light drew closer and then, just as she was beginning to think she’d catch up, slipped out of her reach again. It was as if the queen didn’t want her getting too close.

“Where are we going?” Melanie’s voice echoed around her, and set off more of the horrible scuttling. She quickened her pace.

“. . . you’ll see . . .”

“I don’t want to see,” she grumbled, “I want to know .”

She walked on. She wanted to catch up so that she could argue and complain, scream and shout, and demand a proper answer. Instead, she was completely at the queen’s mercy.

Of course she could turn back, but . . . A glance behind her showed pure darkness, the sense of things she couldn’t see but were there, watching her. No, there was only one option, and that was to follow and see where the queen led her. And then, when the opportunity allowed, escape.

At least, she told herself, feeling light-headed, she’d have something to tell Suzie next time they spoke. Suzie seemed to think her sister’s life was as dull as dishwater, every day the same. Well, her eyes would pop when Melanie told her about St. Anne’s Hill, and the stone with the hole in the middle, and the between-worlds, the place that lay between life and death, and the queen with talons for feet . . .

“I must be crazy.” It was the only explanation. “Or . . . dead?”

Maybe she’d had a stroke and now she was dead and this between-worlds place was really just another name for hell.

“Melanie Jones!”

Melanie blinked. Up ahead the light was different, the color diluted, as though it were bleached, and . . . There was an opening! A door to the outside world! And—she took a deep breath—she could smell the sea.

Stumbling, gasping, Melanie ran toward it.

The queen must have exited this way because she was no longer anywhere in sight. Melanie burst through an arched doorway and out into the trees that lay between Ravenswood and the road.

She halted, confused.

It was nighttime. A huge moon hung in a cold sky. Melanie’s breath came from her lips in puffs of white, and there was an icy stillness to the air that told her it wasn’t late April anymore. This felt more like midwinter.

She turned, wondering if she should wait here by the entrance to the tunnel . . . but the tunnel was gone. Instead there was a small summerhouse, the interior dark and empty, and some prickly bushes. She walked around, but there was no sign of the queen with the long red hair.

A chill breeze swirled about her, and Melanie folded her arms as she tried to orient herself. She was very near the beginning of the gardens. Lights blinked through the trees, and there were voices, the rise and fall of many voices, and suddenly, music. Not modern stuff but orchestral music, pleasant but certainly not highly professional. The violin scraped slightly off the note, but she recognized the old, familiar Christmas carol: “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”

Melanie left the trees behind her and walked toward the house on grass that was no longer wild and unkempt. In front of her Ravenswood shone, but as she drew closer she realized the lights weren’t quite right. They were strangely muted, more like natural flame than electricity. Candles in colored glass lanterns hung throughout the garden, which was no longer a wilderness but a wonderland of trimmed hedges and shrubs and bare winter roses. There were walkways sprinkled with gravel, the edges ruler straight. Couples in costume were strolling, huddled in cloaks because of the cold but obviously enjoying themselves. It must be a fancy-dress ball, Melanie told herself. The same orchestra she had heard before struck up again, but this time it was something more lively. Looking up, Melanie could see into the big upper room where she been standing such a short time ago, looking out at St. Anne’s Hill. Now they were dancing up there—women in long gowns, with their hair up, and men in formal jackets with starched white neckcloths.

For a moment she simply stood and stared. It was beautiful, and it looked just like a movie set, a costume drama, or one of those reality shows where members of the public were placed in a period situation and told to act like their ancestors.

Suddenly a young girl in a long pale dress ran past her, her slippers tapping on the path, her fair ringlets bouncing. A boy was chasing her, and they were laughing. Neither of them glanced at Melanie, neither of them noticed her although she was standing in plain sight in her old jeans and sweatshirt and trainers.

Maybe they were just ignoring her, but Melanie didn’t think so. She had a nasty feeling it was because she wasn’t really here at all—not in the proper physical sense, anyway.

To test it she stepped forward just as another couple wandered by arm in arm, their cheeks rosy from the cold.

“Excuse me? Hello there!”

But they didn’t look either. They couldn’t hear her. They couldn’t see her. Neither of them glanced her way, not even for a moment. She was invisible, and it was terrifying. What was she supposed to do? What was her reason for being here? The queen of the between-worlds hadn’t handed her a book of instructions.

She found herself drifting closer to the house, drawn by the light and the noise. Besides, she was freezing, and the front door was open, beckoning her.

Inside Ravenswood it was surprisingly warm, although nothing like she remembered it. The marble floor was buffed, and the wood paneling and furnishings shone as if they were polished lovingly every day. Candles were everywhere, while great bunches of flowers stood in huge vases, their perfume stiflingly sweet. A door banged, and suddenly she was surrounded by a river of servants carrying covered platters. They surged by her, and for a moment the smell of food was overpowering.

“Did ye see him?” one of the young girls was saying in a loud whisper, her hair the color of curly cheddar. “How can a man be so pretty! I don’ blame the mistress for wantin’ him. I wouldn’ say no m’self.”

“From what we’ve ’eard, you’ve already said yes more ‘an once!”

More giggling, a flurry of activity, and in another moment the servants were gone, and she was alone again.

Curious, Melanie peered into some of the downstairs rooms, but apart from a foursome playing some sort of card game and the supper table being laid, there wasn’t much to see.

She turned to the stairs, resting her hand on the newel post, and looked up.

And froze.

There was a man up there on the landing, a dark shape against a branch of candles. He stood so still and silent, so watchful. As if, like her, he didn’t belong. Melanie’s heart began to speed up.

He can’t see you, she reminded herself. Don’t be stupid, he can’t see you.

The man began to descend the stairs, slowly, his hand trailing on the banister as if he had all the time in the world. Her gaze was caught by a silvery gleam on his finger, a broad ring with some sort of heraldic design on it.

She recognized it. Recognized him.

Nathaniel Raven.

The many candles flared in the draft from the door, distorting his face, and then settling again. Strong jaw and high cheekbones, long, thin nose, his brown hair with its gold overtones tied back at his nape, his hazel eyes looking down at her.

Looking at her.

Melanie turned her head, hoping that she’d see whoever it was he was really looking at, but there was no one. Just the door standing ajar, and beyond that the winter garden dotted with colorful lanterns.

Reluctantly she turned back. He had halted only a couple of steps above her, and she could no longer pretend he couldn’t see her. He was looking straight at her.

How can a man be so pretty?

Had the servant girl been talking about Nathaniel Raven? Melanie didn’t think he was pretty at all, but he was handsome, oh yes, and there was something dangerous in his eyes. An attractive recklessness in his smile. She had known as soon as she saw the portrait that this man could break hearts, that he was exactly the type she should avoid. She just hadn’t realized he’d ever be a problem for her, being dead and all . . .

He came down the final steps, his eyes still on hers, and she backed away to make room for him. Afraid that if he actually touched her, she might go up in flames.

“Welcome, Melanie Jones.” There was a possessive note in his voice and a flare of excitement in his eyes. “Welcome to Ravenswood.”