Indentations marred those walls—indentations from dozens of guns and arrows and cannons. But the walls were more than ten feet thick and the time of medieval war had come to an end before even the most deadly of cannon balls had managed to do real damage. The castle had never surrendered; the Karney family had, upon occasion, negotiated. Due to the canny bargaining on the part of the lords of the castle, it remained a great structure, a living museum, and a testament to history.
She was all that and more, Devin thought.
She was where a family held together, through war, through trial, through whatever came.
She was where a family really loved one another.
Rocky’s arms came around her.
“It’s still our honeymoon, you know. Do you long for a white sand beach and warm seas?” he asked.
“I thought we’d stay right here—maybe take a few side trips. But, I know of this particular place where I’ve had a tremendous amount of fun. I think you have, too. Wondrous fun.”
She turned into his arms, came on her toes, met his eyes, and then whispered in his ear. “It’s a tub. A big old claw-foot tub!”
“I’m feeling the need for a bath, I must say,” he told her huskily.
Devin smiled. The eclipse was coming.
But, she knew, everything in her world was light.
They were who they were. Hard times would come again.
But for now…
There was that glorious old tub.
“Lead the way, my love,” she said.
And he did.
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The Silenced
Krewe of Hunters
By Heather Graham
Hannah O'Brien, who grew up in the house and now runs it as a B and B, has always had a special ability to see a pair of resident ghosts. But when a man is murdered in the alley behind her place, she's dismayed when his spirit appears, too, asking for help.
FBI agent Dallas Samson has a passionate interest in the murder, since the victim's a colleague whose death is connected to the smuggling ring known as Los Lobos—the wolves. Now Dallas is even more committed to chasing them down….
Unaware that Dallas has certain abilities of his own, Hannah calls her cousin Kelsey O'Brien, a member of the FBI's Krewe of Hunters, an elite unit of paranormal investigators. The present-day case is linked to a historical mystery involving salvagers, a curse and a sunken ship. Danger and desire bring Hannah and Dallas together, but to survive, they have to solve the mysteries of the past—and stay alive long enough to solve the crimes of the present!
* * * *
Lara Mayhew held her cell phone to her ear as she hurried along the length of the National Mall. She moved as quickly as she could; she had never intended to be out so late—or so early, whichever it might be. The buildings she loved dearly by day seemed like massive, living creatures at night, staring at her in the mixture of darkness and light. She loved the White House, the Capitol Building, the Mall, and maybe, more than any of them, the Castle building of the Smithsonian with its red façade and turrets.
They just suddenly all seemed to be looming hulks of evil. It was the hour, of course.
She told herself she was being ridiculous.
The ringing finally stopped in her ear. Meg didn’t answer; Lara reached her friend’s answering machine. Of course. Why would Meg be up at 2:30 A.M.?
That was all right; she could at least leave the message that might save her friend from worry when she disappeared.
“Meg, it’s me, Lara. I just wanted to let you know I’m going home. Home, home—as in leaving in D.C. and heading for Richmond. I’m going as soon as it’s morning. I’ll talk to you when I can. Love you, my friend. Don’t say anything to anyone else, okay? I have to get out of here. Talk soon.”
She clicked the END button on her phone and slipped it into her bag. Meg was her best friend. They’d both been the child in their families—and they’d wanting siblings. They’d decided once that they’d be like sisters. And they were.
She wished that she had reached Meg. That she could have heard her voice.
She walked briskly on the dark and empty
sidewalk and yet she was certain she heard all kinds of noises around her. Furtive noises.
Try to get a grip, she warned herself. She wasn’t prone to being afraid—not without very good reason.
Yet the night…scared her. And for no real reason.
Maybe because what she suspected was bone-chilling?
She toyed with the idea of calling 9-1-1. And say what? She didn’t have an emergency. She was stupidly walking around on dark and silent city streets and she was just suddenly afraid of trying to reach home in the late night/early morning hour.
She told herself she was going to be fine; reminding herself that she was near the White House, for God’s sake, the Capitol, the Smithsonian buildings—and the Washington Monument. Despite the darkness and the shadows, she was fine.
She’d just never been in the area so late. Then again, there had never been a night quite like this one. She’d been so upset about what she suspected that she hadn’t thought about time—in making her indignant retreat, she hadn’t had the sense to be afraid when leaving.
She hadn’t thought to call a cab—since they wouldn’t be plentiful on the streets at this time.
She mulled over her feelings about what was going on, the situation that had caused her to spend so many hours talking and talking. Of course, she and Congressman Walker had often stayed together late. Not this late. Well, maybe this late, but usually, he saw that she got home safely. And most of the time, she had left feeling exhilarated.
She had adored him; she worked on media and spin—but, she was also an advisor, a problem solver.
She remembered about a month ago when she’d first begun to feel uneasy. She’d wanted to call Meg then, but she hadn’t. She hadn’t because Meg had been in the middle of her training. So she had done the next best thing; she’d headed home to Aunt Nancy’s for a day and then done a quick whirl of the things that she and Meg had done as children and when they had breaks at college—their trail. All things that were cheap and historic and wonderful. And she’d left a message in the hollow of the broken gravestone, as they done when they were children. One day, who knew—she might go pick the message back up—if her suspicions proved to be grounded.
She was suddenly angry with herself. She wasn’t naïve. She had just so whole-heartedly believed in what she was doing. Then she had begun to realize that there were little erosions in her beliefs—that became big erosions.
And maybe worse.
She thought about her friend again—wishing Meg had answered her phone.
They had been such dreamers. Meg, for law enforcement, she for order. Her love for history and the story of America had made her understand government—to the degree any government could be understood—and she still believed in the passion for justice and freedom that had forged her country. There had been painful lessons along the way; among them, a bloody Civil War, which had taught them some of those lessons.
Longing to work in D.C.—to fight for justice and equality herself—she had found Congressman Walker, a man who was a dreamer, too.
And an idealist. One who did, however, recognize, that in a country where different people had different ideals, compromise was often necessary.
What to do, oh, lord, what to do….
Today, she’d been shocked, absolutely shocked. Of course, before, she had thought she had simply been imagining things. And then today, with all the talk about Walker’s Gettysburg speech, what would be said…now that Congressman Hubbard was dead.
She should have been more careful. She shouldn’t have suggested that she was worried about the fact that such a decent man had so conveniently died.
Leave. Go home. That made the most sense. Get the hell out—as in first thing in the morning. Go home, lick her wounds, and think about the proper thing to do here—think about what she really wanted in her future.
It was ridiculous, she told herself angrily, that she should give up her passion because of this—good was still out there.
She hadn’t given up. She just needed change for a while; there was more in the world, and she needed to sample some of it. Then, one day, perhaps, she’d come back, using words to champion the right man or woman again.
How did she find safety herself—and tell the world her suspicions? She had no proof. She’d be laughed out of court; no lawyer would take her on.
There was always the media. The hint of suspicion out there could change everything.
There was also the possibility of being sued for slander—since she had no proof.
There was Meg, but she had to reach Meg first.
And the faster she walked, the more she was afraid.
Get out of Washington—it is a nest of vipers!
She still believed in the dream. In men and women who couldn’t be bought.
But there were other things she could do.
Take a job with a local company doing media. She was good. Richmond was a great city with plenty of work. Harpers Ferry grew every year in tourism. Then again, Harpers Ferry was still small. Maybe her own home, Richmond, would be best. And she loved Pennsylvania—Gettysburg! They’d gone there so often, and made interesting friends.
No! Not Gettysburg. Not after tonight!
She needed somewhere that was far, far, away from D.C.
That might be best!
She did love the Blue Ridge Mountains. There were smaller towns out that way that still flourished on tourism. She’d find work with a tour company or something. Anything other than this.
Baltimore?
Maybe she was right that she needed to go far, far, away—much further than the states of Virginia, Maryland, or West Virginia.
She looked around the shadowed streets, still walking as swiftly as she could. She had worked very late before. She hadn’t been nervous those other nights; not at all. Congressman Walker was by all means a good man. It just seemed now that he was a man who could be swayed—who could be fooled and manipulated into changing like a chameleon. Into working with others to undermine what he had once believed in.
But he was, at heart, a good man.
No matter what she had learned today. No matter what she expected. No matter her disappointment—her shock! She had to believe he was a good man.
A good man? Was he really innocent of any knowledge of what might have happened when it came to a man being dead?
She could be wrong; she was probably wrong. But the suspicion was there that someone in that political camp had wanted Congressman Hubbard out of the picture—and now he was.
It was just a suspicion—probably unfounded!
Her fear tonight was simply because of the shadows and the darkness. By day, tourists and lawmakers alike filled these streets. Children laughed and ran around on the grass. The Smithsonian’s Castle stood as a bastion to the past and the country’s rich history—as the U.S.A. became a full-fledged country, one that withstood the rigors of war and knew how to create the arts and sciences crucial to a nation of dreamers as well.
She loved her country—which is why she’d wanted her position on Capitol Hill so badly.
No more.
She could see the Washington Monument ahead of her in the night, shining in the sliver of moonlight that beamed down. Yes, she loved Washington, D.C., too.
But, it was time to leave.
Her heels clicked on the sidewalk. She prayed for a taxi to go by.
A beat-up van drew near and seemed to slow down as it passed her; she walked into the grass, suddenly very afraid. With her luck, she’d be worried about the possible fate of the nation—and get mugged by a common thief.
Not long ago, they had found a young woman on the shores of the Potomac River. Naked, her throat and body ripped open, torn to pieces. Police and forensic scientists were having a problem because river creatures had played havoc with her body. No “persons of interest” were being questioned in the death; the police feared they were dealing with someone suffering with a “mental disorder.”
Lord, she was stupid,
taking off in the middle of the night like this! It was just that…
She’d been so upset, so indignant, so…perplexed that personal danger hadn’t even occurred to her!
She barely dared to breathe. Why had she suddenly stood up and said that she’d be no part of any of it—she’d leave town quietly, but she’d be no part of it.
Get a grip, she told herself. Those she knew might be hardcore politicians; they weren’t suffering from mental disorders. Wait—not true. Anyone in politics was suffering with a mental disorder!
She tried to laugh at her own joke. No sound came.
She quickened her pace; her feet, legs, and lungs hurt. She kept her phone in her hand. She tried to look fierce as if she was ready to press an emergency number for help at any moment.
Her heart was pounding.
It was a van.
Everyone who watched TV knew that evil men in vans caught victims on the street and drew them in by a side door and then…
The van drove on.
She felt giddy with relief and smiled at her own sense of unjustified panic.
A moment later, she saw a sedan in the street. It slowed and she squinted, looking toward it.
“Lara!” A deep male voice called her name. The car slid to a halt. He called to her from the driver’s seat of the sedan. “Come on; I’ll give you a lift!”
She had to know him; she should have recognized the voice. It was just muffled in the night air. It didn’t matter; she was being offered a ride by someone who was obviously official. Someone she knew; someone who knew her.