Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
For a moment, I don’t know where I am. Darkness presses in, thick and heavy, swallowing me whole.
I’m cold, uncomfortable. The air is close and sooty.
Then the world crashes back around me—lost, scared, fainting—and I bolt upright with a shout.
“Wheesht, lass.” A hand finds my shoulder, firm but careful, steadying me. “Hush now. You took a fall.”
A male voice. Thick accent. Gruff—roughened, but not rough. The low, steady hum of it soothes something primal inside me.
My pulse slows as I take stock. A blanket anchors my legs, its weight grounding me. The fire crackles low. And this person…he’s helping me.
“Did I faint?” I try to ask, but it comes out a croak.
I was so cold before. Can that make you pass out?
“Sorry, lass,” he says, almost tenderly.
Sorry?
But then his hand is back, the perfect amount of pressure, telling me to take my time. “’Twill be all right. I swear it. But you must rest a wee bit longer.”
His certainty unwinds something inside me, and I let him ease me deeper into the chair. A pillow, crackling like straw, cushions my head.
“Aye, that’s the way.”
I flex my fingers, curling and uncurling them, then point and relax my toes. I hate losing control in the best of circumstances, but here I’ve just lost it completely. In front of a stranger.
I clear my throat, try again. “What happened?”
“You’ve traveled far,” that husky voice says.
I nod. He must’ve heard my accent.
I thought I’d caught up on food and sleep, but my body feels wrong. Heavy. Bloated and dull. Like I’ve been stuffed with wool.
Thirst hits hard and sudden, desperate and all-consuming.
“Water.” The word rasps from my throat. “Please,” I add, steadier this time. “I need water.”
Liquid pours into a cup, and relief shivers through me.
I blink, trying to clear my head. I need to see. Need to know where I am. The black spots gradually fade from my vision, but the room stays dark. Shadows pool in the corners, the only light coming from the fire and a few flickering candles, their flames jittering over rough-hewn walls.
I clear my throat. “Is the electricity out?”
“Beg pardon?”
A metal cup appears before me, and I gulp greedily, water dribbling from the corners of my mouth.
A quiet, amused chuff. “Easy, lass.”
I rest the cup against my belly with a sigh. “The power. Did the storm take it out?”
I peer at him, trying to resolve his features in the dim light. It must seem like I’m staring.
And then—I am staring.
At how familiar he is.
He shifts, watching me watch him. “You speak of power?” he asks in that voice, and I want him to say more. But he doesn’t. He’s waiting for me.
I swallow hard. He looks like the ghost from my room. The guy in my dream.
Then I see his clothes. The tunic, laced at the collar. The kilt.
A rush of adrenaline slams through me. I sit up so abruptly the cup clatters to the ground.
“You.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just dips his chin. “Aye.” He squats at my knee, gathering the cup. “And you.”
My breath hitches. “You were in my room. I saw you.”
A pause. “As I saw you.”
I knew it. And yet, hearing him admit it unnerves me.
Ghosts are supposed to be seen. They don’t do the seeing.
And this one…this one just touched me.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Okay. I’m done now.” I’d thought the whole supernatural thing was exciting. It’s not. “When I open my eyes, you’ll be gone.”
“’Tis nae like that.” His voice is hoarse. Uncertain. “Please, dinnae be afraid.”
His hand finds my shoulder again. Tentative now, barely there. I flinch, but his thumb strokes slow circles, and heat blooms through me, down to the bone.
He’s solid. He’s warm. How can he be a ghost?
I inhale deeply, cracking my eyes to a squint. Our gazes collide. He snatches his hand back, like he’s just as shaken as I am.
A cold trickle of fear spirals through me.
The taish is created at the moment of death.
Oh.
Oh no.
A dull ache clenches my throat. “Am I the one who’s dead?”
“No.” A quick, sharp shake of his head. “Nobody’s dead, lass.”
I dreamed of him. Maybe this is just another dream. I pinch myself—isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?—then pinch again, harder. It hurts. But I don’t wake up.
“Be easy,” he murmurs.
His hand hovers over mine before settling, a whisper of warmth on my skin.
This time, I don’t pull away.
He holds my gaze as his fingers glide over mine. Like blood rushing into a numbed limb, sensation floods me. I feel everything.
The calloused pad of his thumb, tracing circles over my palm. The light catching his nails, clipped short, on hands large and rough-hewn with scars.
A strong hand. A farmer’s hand.
He shifts closer, and the scent of him—earth and wool and wood smoke—fills my lungs.
Other smells follow, vivid and familiar. Barn hay. Damp animal fur. Oiled leather. The smells of my childhood.
It comforts me. I exhale.
But then unease creeps through me. This place didn’t smell like that before I fell. It would’ve hit me the moment the door opened.
We stare at our hands. He’s frozen in place, fingers cupping mine so lightly it’s like I’m a wild bird he’s afraid might fly away.
A peculiar urge tugs at me. To lace my fingers through his. To hold on.
But the longer I feel it, the less it makes sense.
Fear seeps in at the edges. I’m both drawn and repelled. Like a magnet hovering just out of place.
“If neither of us are ghosts,” I whisper, “then are you really real?”
His face goes still. He pulls from me.
“Wait—” But then I freeze, mesmerized.
He’s reaching for my face.
“We’d best test it, shall we?” His voice is a low rasp as his knuckles brush my cheek.
A shuddering sigh escapes me before I can stop it.
“You’re so bonnie,” he murmurs.
I should be creeped out. But he looks startled, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
I laugh, nervous and awkward. But he doesn’t. Not even the hint of a smile.
When he pulls away, a strange, aching loss grips me. A flicker of something crosses his face. Like he feels it too.
Slowly, tentatively, he reaches for me again. Cups my cheek.
A tug pulls deep in my belly—like I’m falling all over again, and he’s gravity itself.
“Seems we’re both quite alive,” he whispers.
I am. Unbearably alive.
Invigorated. Exhilarated. Like a cool breeze has swept the cobwebs from my mind.
But as clarity descends, so does a sickening realization. He was in my room, watching me. And yet he’s not a ghost, which means—
I jerk back. Cold suspicion spikes in my veins. “Are you some kind of stalker?”
His brow furrows. “Stalker?”
A rush of fear pitches my voice higher. “Yes, stalker. Were you stalking me?”
He shakes his head, quick and panicked. “I’d not do such a thing.”
He looks so genuinely thrown, so utterly confused, it throws me off-balance too.
Either he’s telling the truth, or he’s a really talented liar.
“So then, what?” I press. “How do you know me? Or are you saying this whole thing was just an accident?”
Relief floods his face. “Aye, yes. Precisely that. ’Twas an accident.”
I gape. That’s…convenient.
But there’s something about his expression—uncertainty creeping in, mirroring my own—that makes me hesitate.
He looks just as lost as I feel.
And for a moment, just a breath, it’s like we’re in this together.
I shake my head hard, rejecting the thought. That’s some victim-thinking right there.
“How could showing up in my room be an accident?” I demand.
His gaze pleads with mine. “You must believe me. I mean you no harm. When I saw you as I did, I was as amazed as you.”
For a long moment, we simply stare.
And somehow, against all logic, my body trusts him before I do. My chest loosens. I release a deep, shuddering exhale.
“Okay, I’m listening.” A beat. “I’m not saying I believe you,” I add quickly, “but you have a lot of explaining to do…” I lift my voice at the end—a question as I realize I still don’t know his name.
But he understands.
The corner of his lip quirks in a shy, almost hesitant half-smile. “Callum.”
His name feels old. Strong.
I keep my expression stern. “I’m Rose.”
Something flickers in his eyes.
“Now, Callum.” I cross my arms. “I have to know. Was it, like, some high-tech hologram thing? How did you appear in my room like that?”
He exhales slowly. “’Tis magic. More magic than I’ve the knowing of.”
I let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Magic.”
“Aye.”
“Right.” I smirk. “And I thought ghosts were preposterous.”
But Callum doesn’t laugh. He just watches me, somber and still.
A shiver races up my arms.
“Seriously, though. Did you use a projector?” But that wouldn’t explain how he could see me. Is there a hidden camera in my room?
Panic surges again as my gaze snags on his weird, old-fashioned outfit. “Were you watching me?” I snap. “And why are you dressed like that?”
His smile fades. “Aye, I have much to explain. But first, Rose…” His voice softens. “You’re certain you’re well? You’re safe?”
My skin prickles. “Am I safe?” I huff a nervous laugh. “You tell me.”
“I’ve been worried some harm might come to you. After I first saw you, for days I—”
“Wait, what?” I freeze. “I just got here.”
The door crashes open. Wind howls through the room, snuffing out candles in one violent gust.
A woman’s shriek shatters the darkness. “Beware!”