Chapter 1 #3
The moment Lucy turned away from the shawl the world around her abruptly darkened, as if someone had extinguished the sun and painted everything dark gray.
Terror jolted through her as she spun around in that awful void, trying to see who was speaking that James-sounding voice.
The darkness enveloping her doubled, and then split into two scenes of her client’s property that appeared identical.
I cannae take you by force. You must agree to leave your world. The choice, ’tis yours.
“What are you on about? This isn’t funny.” Lucy’s voice echoed all around her, as if she’d been trapped in some huge metal container. She had absolutely no clue as to what was happening to her, or what was causing it. “What is this? What do you want from me?”
The strange voice didn’t reply, but one of the garden scenes changed.
She saw the views shift from the gardens to the street in front of Pamela Frazier’s new home, where Justin Brant’s black BMW pulled up to the curb.
In the next moment Lucy stood beside his car, watching him climb out and stride toward the garden.
What was her ex doing in her hallucination? Would she never be free of this silly plonker?
Lucy started to say something, but then realized he didn’t see her as he went past. She hurried to catch up with him, and then flinched away as he took a large gun out of his jacket.
He lifted the weapon as he continued forward, targeting something.
As soon as he stopped at the beginning of the spiraling pathway, he pointed the gun and fired twice.
“ No. ”
Running at him proved futile, as Lucy just passed through him as if she were made of vapor. She then turned and saw the two bodies sprawled further along the garden pathway, one of which had pale blonde hair and was wearing her clothes.
“Justin, no,” she whispered. “What have you done?”
“You ruined my life, Limey,” Justin said, sobbing the words as he came to stand over the bodies.
“You smashed all my dreams to pieces, and then you had the nerve to call me a lousy lover?” He kicked over Lucy’s body and fired four more times into her chest before popping out the clip and reloading another.
“Why would you do this?” Lucy stared at him, still gripped by disbelief. “Your life is over now, too.”
“All you had to do was help me, and we would have been happy together.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“Fucking selfish brat. And you made me kill another bitch, too.” As Pamela groaned, Lucy screamed and lunged between them, but Justin aimed and shot her in the back of the head.
“Now you’re a double murderer, are you satisfied?
No? Here’s one more to make it a triple. ”
She saw him turn the pistol to his temple, and tried one last time to stop him. Her hands passed through his as he fired that final time. He fell across the other two bodies and went still. Standing there and watching the blood seep from his head wound onto her corpse made her stomach heave.
“No, I don’t believe it. This didn’t happen.” She turned away from the gruesome scene. “He never shot me. I’m not dead. I’m right here.” Her voice raised to a shout as she looked all around the void. “I’m right bloody here, you evil prat, do you hear me? ”
Aye, lass, you’re alive and may yet live on. If you leave your world and come with me now, this man shallnae find you, nor slay the other woman.
Lucy’s eyes widened as she was yanked out of the horrific scene into the second view, which showed her picking up the shawl.
The vibrant silk first cocooned her and then disappeared with her.
Pamela Frazier came into the garden a short time later, looked around with a puzzled expression, and then left.
When Lucy looked over at the street again she saw Justin pull up and speak to her client, who shook her head. He then sped off.
“He didn’t do it this time.” She looked around her, wishing she could make out a face to go with the voice. “If I’m not there, he won’t kill me and my client? Is that what you mean?”
The voice said nothing.
It occurred to her that all this could be a dream, a hallucination, or some sort of exotic health issue. Or was she having a breakdown? Whatever it was, how could it seem so real?
“Where are you going to take me?” Lucy asked.
We shall journey back to Scotland in the fourteenth century. Take the shawl.
Suddenly she was back in the garden, standing next to the shawl, as if nothing had happened.
The silk seemed even more beautiful than before, and her fingers itched to touch it.
She wouldn’t have believed anything that had just happened except for her heart, which was telling her it was all true—just as it had steered her in the right direction all her life.
“I don’t want Pamela to die because of me,” she said, carefully lifting the silk shawl off the fence. “If these are my only two choices, then I want to go—even if it means living in the dark ages.”
At your behest.
The fabric proved to be incredibly heavy, as if it had been woven from dense wool instead of this infinitely soft silk.
The sunlight played over the gorgeous pattern, which seemed to sparkle now, as if copper and violet glitter had been woven into each strand.
Holding it gave her the sense of cradling something that was alive.
“You’d better hurry and get me out of here,” Lucy warned, “or I’m going to crack up.”
Static electricity made the silk curl around her forearm, and set off sparks the same color as its glittering strands.
It engulfed her other hand as she reflexively tried to pull it off her arm.
It appeared much bigger now than it had looked on the fence, and was plastering itself to the front of her body like a wet blanket.
As Lucy went still it seemed to stretch out in front of her, and then around her –
Maybe this was actually a very bad idea.
Before she could tug it off, the silk shawl on its own crept up over her breasts and covered her neck and face, and then it was all over her, wrapping around her like a dozen unseen arms, cradling her as if it were alive.
It didn’t hurt, but it cocooned her completely.
Too astonished at first to struggle, Lucy tried to call out for help, but nothing came out of her mouth.
When she tried to free herself, she discovered she couldn’t move, either.
Did my brain already go loopy, and I just didn’t realize it until now?
If she was losing her mind, all her senses rushed to assure her that her experience was quite real.
The air changed from warm and humid to freezing and flinty, making every breath she took hurt.
It never got this cold in Florida. The scents of the garden changed, becoming more piney and mossier.
The silk seemed to wrap in layer after layer around her, tightening like the coils of a lasso, or maybe a snake.
Shawls weren’t like boa constrictors. She should do something, now, before things got any worse.
Really, what could be worse than going crazy enough to believe she was being swallowed alive by a shawl?
Even as panic streaked through her, Lucy decided to trust the voice and her heart.
She was going to die if she didn’t leave right this moment.
In the next moment her boots left the ground as she was lifted by some enormous force, and then it hurled her through the air as if she had been shot out of a giant cannon.
She had nothing with which to compare this; it had to be the most startling event of her life—assuming she was still alive.
Why me? If her luck had changed, it couldn’t have been for the better. What did I do to deserve this shite?
Naught. Much. Mortals cannae choose their fate, but yours, ’twas especially cruel. That and you’re longed for, lass. Just as you long.
Lucy plummeted down, the silk streaming around her like ribbons in a hurricane while a strange calmness came over her. Maybe her luck had run out instead of changing. When she hit the ground, would it kill her? Would her death prove instantaneous? She hoped so.
Someone caught her in a pair of big, hard arms and tore the silk away from her face.
Lucy’s breath left her in a gust of reaction as she stared into eyes so black they seemed to swallow the light.
She didn’t recognize the man’s dark, starkly masculine features, and yet she had the bizarre sense that she’d always known him.
Stop acting like a nutter. You don’t know him .
Whoever he was, he came from people who were big, barbaric and brawny—like fourteenth century Scottish people.
Although he looked more Latino with those thick straight brows and wild mane of black hair so shiny it appeared wet, his roughly refined features had something like an Asian beauty to them.
The long, rough black and gray wool plaid draped over his broad, powerful shoulders and the heavy wool of his clothing suggested he hailed from a cold climate.
This had to be Scotland, because if he’d dressed like this in Florida the heat would have slow-roasted him.
He smelled of something she couldn’t put a name to but that made her envision dark, icy waters churning in the moonlight.
“Thank you,” she managed to get out.