Chapter 71
Fraser Castle, Scotland—Elliott
The fog wrapped around Elliott like a living thing—damp, heavy, and alive with unseen energy.
The cold bit through his jacket, clawed at his skin, while the air burned down his throat.
He lifted an arm in front of his face, but the world had been swallowed whole.
There was nothing to see, just thick, suffocating white.
The sudden roar of colliding wind and mist shattered the silence. The ground—or space, or whatever held Elliott—spun violently. His lungs fought the pressure, chest tight as if crushed in a vice. Just breathe, damn it. Focus. I’ve done this before.
But this wasn’t like before. The sound was deafening, and his pulse thumped so loud it rivaled the wind’s scream. His ears popped—once, twice—and pain knifed through his skull.
And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
The sensation of speed vanished. The spin slowed. His boots struck something solid. He bent forward, hands braced on his knees, gasping for air that tasted faintly metallic. The fog thinned, curling around his legs and retreating into stillness.
He straightened slowly, his pulse quick but steady now. What the hell was that?
This hadn’t been an ordinary crossing through the mist—it felt deeper, as if he’d slid between worlds instead of simply sideways through time. The energy still hummed faintly in his bones, a low note that wouldn’t quiet.
He blinked hard, searching for the others through the haze, dread gnawing at his gut. Please let Mere be all right.
Then, Meredith stepped forward from the fog, her eyes clear and bright as if nothing had touched her. Relief sagged his shoulders. She looked radiant, almost ethereal, and he had to release the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
Moments later, David and Braham appeared, both looking remarkably unaffected.
“That was the easiest fog crossing I’ve ever had,” David said, tugging at his coat collar like he’d just braved a soft drizzle.
“Same here,” Braham agreed.
Elliott forced a tight smile. “Lucky you.” His voice was steadier than he felt.
He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets so they wouldn’t notice the tremor in his fingers.
He needed grounding. Something that felt solid and familiar.
He inhaled deeply, drawing in the scent of damp earth and stone, and silently worked through the 5–4–3–2–1 mindfulness exercise to calm anxiety.
Five things he could see—a pink umbrella, a pair of worn running shoes, a rolled newspaper by the door, Meredith’s photo smiling from the sideboard, and a set of green child-sized mittens draped over the banister.
Four things he could feel—moisture clinging to his hands, the sure weight of his boots on wood, a wool scarf brushing the back of his neck, and the familiar emptiness gnawing at his stomach.
Three things he could hear—the slow tick of a clock, the even rhythm of Meredith’s breathing, the faint click of her boot heels.
Two things he could smell—pine and peat.
One thing he could taste—coffee, bitter and real.
He exhaled slowly, chest lifting and falling. His jaw unclenched. Damn, that was rough.
“Meredith,” David said after a moment, “do ye remember yer first trip here?”
Her lips parted in a fond, weary smile. “How could I forget? Your mother accused me—rather dramatically—of taking Elliott out in the freezing cold and jostling him around in a sleigh for hours. Then she told me his assistant and chauffeur were tending to him, and I wondered what I’d gotten myself into. ”
Elliott smirked, some of the fog from his mind clearing. “But ye didn’t leave.”
“Alice made me tea and showed me the door to the cellar,” she said.
David chuckled. “Ye were a real trooper that day, Meredith. Elliott put ye in an uncomfortable position, but ye handled it with grace. I was impressed.”
Meredith’s eyes softened. “I saw his wine cellar,” she teased, “and I decided I never wanted to leave. He sealed the deal by turning on the charm—and when Elliott turns it on, he’s impossible to resist.”
He lifted a brow, the corner of his mouth pulling upward. “I figured ye wouldn’t walk away after seeing the wine.”
“It’s far too late to be angry over that level of manipulation,” she said, leading the way toward the kitchen. At the door to the cellar, she stopped, her hand lingering on the knob. “While we’re down here, I’d like to box up a few bottles for Remy’s homecoming.”
Elliott watched her fingers rest on the doorknob longer than necessary, and he recognized the stall. Her nerves were hiding beneath practicality. He tamped down his impulse to reach for her hand. She needed control, and he wouldn’t interfere.
“We’ll box up whatever ye want before we leave,” he said instead, keeping his tone light.
Finally, she opened the door, and cool air rolled out. The familiar oak scent greeted them like an old friend.
“Some of these bottles,” Meredith said, trailing down the aisle, fingertips skimming the dusted glass, “are older than the clan itself. For a vintner, this is sacred ground.”
Elliott smiled. Watching her there—hands on his history, reverent and grounded—steadied him more than any breathing exercise had. “And now it’s yers.”
She turned, the light catching her eyes. “You only gave it to me because you knew I’d never sell it.”
He grinned, mischief surfacing despite everything. “Nah, I knew ye’d drink it.”
Her laughter echoed softly against the stone.
They moved together toward the rear door, and David flipped on the switch. A copper glow filled the tunnel beyond.
“The headlamps are in that box by the door,” Braham said.
They donned them, beams cutting through the shadows. Elliott adjusted his scarf, his palm brushing at the nape of his neck. He hadn’t realized until then how damp with sweat it was.
“Does anybody remember the order from last time?” David asked.
“I think Clay sketched it,” Meredith said.
“Let’s go random,” Elliott replied, the pulse at his throat speeding up. “If it doesn’t open, we’ll call him.”
David placed each brooch into a slot while Elliott steadied his breathing. When the topaz was added to the torc and placed around his neck, the metal felt heavier than it should have.
“Do ye remember what Violet did?” David asked.
“She rubbed the stone,” Elliott said, his voice taut. His hand hovered a second before moving, slow circles that matched the pounding in his veins.
The deep grind of gears and stone filled the tunnel. The entire structure shuddered. The door began to move. A rush of air escaped—a sigh of centuries—and the smell of damp earth seeped through.
Elliott’s fingers twitched around the torc.
The door opened wide, and they stepped inside.
A faint drip of water echoed somewhere in the shadows, marking time in the stillness.
Elliott’s gaze drifted to the far wall, and his heart sank. “Everything looks the same,” he said quietly. “Except the light’s gone.”
He walked forward, boots crunching against grit, until he reached the dead corner. The emptiness there hit him like a betrayal. His chest tightened. He scooped up a handful of pebbles and hurled them. The rattle against stone reverberated through the chamber, mocking him.
Nothing.
He waited. One minute. Five. The air grew chilly enough to prick his skin. Somewhere above, an old pipe groaned, the sound like a weary sigh.
Meredith perched on an old wooden chest, and Elliott sank down beside her. His movement was a fleeting rustle, immediately consumed by the cave’s silence. “How long will you wait?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I don’t know,” he said. His throat felt scraped raw from the stillness. “Ye don’t have to stay, Mere.”
She turned toward him, her expression soft but unyielding. “I’m not leaving,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “We’ll wait together—until they speak or refuse to.” Her voice faltered, then steadied. “But if the light’s gone… how will they even know we’re here?”
“They made this room,” he said hoarsely, his voice a rasp against the stone. “Erik told me it would always stay open.”
Meredith rose, brushing dust from her trousers. “Maybe they need an enticement,” she said, then left the cave.
Elliott dragged his palm over his mouth—the skin tasted of dust, sweat, and the metallic tang of unease. His other hand worked unconsciously over the torc at his throat. The silence gnawed at him.
She reappeared, three bottles cradled in her arms, their glass catching stray light from their beams. “Let’s see if gifts work,” she said, aiming for levity, though the tremor in her voice gave her away.
A strange warmth tugged at Elliott—part smile, part ache. “If fine wine doesn’t tempt cosmic beings, nothing will.”
She carried the bottles to the corner where the light had once been, nudging them into place until they sat just so. Then there was nothing left to do but wait.
The minutes bled into hours until even time seemed to lose its cadence. He watched Meredith’s profile in the dim light—the slump of her shoulders, the fatigue gathering beneath her eyes, the stubborn line of her jaw. Love, guilt, and awe twisted in his chest.
And something inside him broke loose. The tension that had been coiled for hours snapped without warning.
Elliott shot to his feet. “Goddammit, turn on the fucking light!” His voice cracked in the middle, tearing at his throat.
“We demand an audience!” His words hit the walls like the pebbles he’d thrown—shattered, swallowed, and ineffective.
The fire that had spurred the shout drained out of him all at once. He slumped down again, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. For a long moment, he couldn’t even breathe. The back of his neck prickled with heat, and he pressed his palms to his eyes until stars swam behind them.
Hours bled together after that—time slipping through him. When he finally found words again, they rasped, hollowed out from waiting. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll wait longer,” Meredith said softly.
“We’ve waited long enough.”