Page 6 of The Forsaken (Echoes from the Past #4)

FIVE

Quinn woke up with a start. Moonlight streaming through the net curtains silvered everything in its path, including Gabe, who appeared almost otherworldly in its glow.

The house was quiet, or as quiet as a centuries-old house could be when it creaked and groaned like an old man complaining about his aching joints.

She lay still and tried to calm her racing heart.

She’d had the dream again. She was locked in the Talbot vault, and Brett Besson was taunting her through the locked door, condemning her and her baby to death.

She knew her fear was irrational, but the darkness of the night contributed to the feeling of being buried alive.

The beam of moonlight reminded her of the flashlight she’d used to illuminate the tomb and shine a light on Madeline’s remains.

Quinn slid out of bed and padded to the door, careful not to wake Gabe. A small smile tugged at his lips, and his dark lashes rested against his lean cheeks as he slumbered on, worn out by hours of digging.

She belted her dressing gown and made her way downstairs.

The ground floor was much darker than the bedroom, since the corridor had no windows, and the doors to the various rooms were firmly shut.

Quinn felt her way along the passage until she found the door she was looking for—Graeme’s study.

In centuries past, the study had been the heart of the estate, the room where all important decisions were taken and every farthing of estate funds flowed through.

During Graeme’s time, it had been a room in which to smoke a cigar while sorting through outstanding invoices or read a fishing magazine.

Graeme Russell hadn’t been much of a fisherman, but he’d subscribed to several fishing magazines, particularly ones dealing with fly-fishing in Scotland, and pored over them endlessly, probably more to get away from his bossy wife than because he was planning a fishing expedition.

Quinn crossed the room and sat down in the old studded leather chair.

It was a man’s chair: hard-backed, solid, and uncomfortably firm.

The two items from the grave rested on the desk.

She’d promised Gabe she wouldn’t touch them until they could do it together, but she was sleepless and frightened by her dream.

And the artefacts beckoned to her. She had realized something when she’d discovered Madeline’s remains in New Orleans.

As much as she hated her psychic gift, she wouldn’t give it up if she got the chance.

Her ability took her on an emotional journey, and often left her heartbroken and trembling with rage at the injustice of the victim’s fate, but it also gave her an opportunity to speak for the forgotten and the forsaken, and to give them a voice and a name once again.

Quinn studied the sword and the rosary, and opted to start with the sword.

The rosary was small and delicate, and easily transported and stored, but she wouldn’t dare leave the sword lying around, not with a curious little monkey like Emma in the house.

It would be too dangerous, unless they purchased a lockable container long enough to accommodate the sword.

The weapon weighed about four pounds, as Gabe had surmised earlier and later confirmed by weighing it on Phoebe’s bathroom scale, and was approximately three feet long.

It was a longsword with a cruciform hilt made for double-handed use.

The steel blade, surprisingly uncorroded by time, glinted in the moonlight, reminding Quinn that it had probably claimed its share of lives and limbs.

There had probably been an intricately patterned and possibly bejeweled scabbard that came with the sword, but there was no sign of it in the grave.

The sword had been unsheathed, as it would have been when ready for battle.

Whoever the young man had been, he’d been a warrior, and had been buried like one, even if his grave had been kept secret by those who interred him.

Quinn gingerly ran her fingers along the crossbar of the sword.

The pattern was worn, but she felt the etching and the shape of the cool multi-faceted gem that adorned the center.

The stone, the size of a pound coin, was a deep smoky blue, most likely a sapphire.

This was not the sword of a foot soldier.

It must have belonged to someone of consequence, someone who held a place in history, even if his name had been long forgotten.

Quinn felt a tremor as the steel began to divulge its memories, taking her to a bloody battlefield.