The Reckoning Read online

  The Reckoning

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Book 50

  L.L. Muir

  Green Toed Fairy

  Contents

  Dear Reader

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Epilogue

  A note from the author

  Excerpt from WYNDHAM

  Get more books written by L.L. Muir

  GHOST SERIES LIST

  About the Author

  License notes…

  Dear Reader

  Dear Reader,

  This is my why.

  It is no wonder this book is as long as it is. A whole lot went into it. The story itself has been accumulating for four and a half years, since the inception of the series. I’ve been tucking little bits and pieces into a box in my brain while the first 49 books were written, while the master lists have been building, and while I was working on the sister series, The Curse of Clan Ross.

  Some of these details I’ve been carrying with me my whole life. And now that it’s finished, my brain feels lighter. That box is empty except for a few fragments that didn’t make the final cut. They cling to the hinges and wood slivers like bits of brightly colored ribbon I don’t have the heart to throw out.

  Somewhere in the midst of the story, I lost my father-in-law. It’s hard to call him that because he was so much more—a second father. I was blessed to be a member of his clan.

  Years ago, when Mr. Rogers died, I wept. I knew what it was like to have a man like that in my life. I knew exactly what the world had lost. And now that the movie is out, I can’t watch it. I know it will break my heart all over again.

  Unlike Fred Rogers, Kent never would have worn a red sweater. He never wanted to stand out, though at 6 foot 6, with that big grin, he didn’t have much of a choice. He wore a button up, short sleeved dress shirt every day, unless he needed to dress up. Those shirts got pretty thin at the end. You could read through them. But the new shirts he was given never seemed to make it to the front of the closet.

  He never read my books, but he loved that I wrote them. He’d married a book lover, so he saw them differently, I think. Nearly every time I saw him, he’d grin and ask how my books were doing. Most people asked “have you finished that book yet?” or “are you still writing?” “how’s the book world treating you?” But Kent asked how my books were, like they were people that deserved to be kept track of.

  If there is a weigh station at the pearly gates and I’m asked what I accomplished in my life, I won’t tell them how many books I wrote. I’ll tell them, “I loved Kent Lytle. And Kent Lytle loved me.” I feel like that’s going to be a golden ticket.

  ~L

  For Kent

  and for Soncerae

  Prologue

  Fall, 2009

  Pamela Lindsay and her twin daughters, Shannon and Sheena, arrived at 2 E Broughton Place, Edinburgh, just before ten o’clock on a Thursday. Pam shivered from both anticipation and the changing weather, but the tall Edwardian buildings and a narrow street meant there was no warmth to be had from the morning sun.

  She noted the distinguished gold lettering on a window that read Drummond & Wedderburn and nudged her grown girls in that direction. The door to the solicitor’s office was heavy and stubborn, and it took Sheena’s help on the fat brass handle to swing it open. Regrettably, the interior office wasn’t much warmer than the street, so Pam hoped their meeting wouldn’t take long.

  With the back of her pen, the receptionist indicated a glossy, coiled coat rack. Though she’d never asked their names, she pressed a button and announced Ms. Lindsay and her party had arrived. A door opened almost immediately and a much more friendly bloke hurried into the foyer to shake their hands and put names to faces.

  “Forgive the chill,” he said. “Maintenance on the boiler this morning. Please, come this way.” He led them into a conference room with Kelly-green carpet and a long narrow table with three chairs on each side. The air smelled like long-gone pipe smoke. “Do be seated.” He gestured to the chairs on the far side. “Mr. Drummond will be with you shortly. Would anyone like a coffee?”

  Though she would like nothing more than to hold a hot tea cup in her hands, Pam worried that, in her current state, she might spill it. So she shook her head. Her girls followed her lead.

  She tried not to look at them, since eye contact would invite conversation, and she was in no mood to answer questions about a past she barely remembered. They’d gone over all she knew two days ago when the letter from Drummond & Wedderburn arrived. There was no use going round and round about it when the reason for their summons was about to be explained.

  A thin man in a chocolate tweed suit stepped into the room, introduced himself as Porter, then stuck his nose in a folder and gave the contents his full attention while he blindly took a seat across from them. He roused again when a second man stepped into the room—taller, older, with a fluffy white mustache that had a patch of black hair in it about the size of a fingerprint. Pam wondered if the mark was natural or a bit of smudged ink.

  Porter stood and introduced the newcomer as Drummond. “This is Pamela Muir Lindsay and her daughters Shannon Lindsay Kerr and Sheena Lindsay.”

  Everyone shook hands amiably across the table, then the men took their seats. Porter pushed one of his fat folders along the table to Drummond, who opened it and glanced over the contents before laying it flat, then folding his hands and leaning his forearms on the papers, wrinkling them in the process.

  The odds of that dark spot being ink instantly improved.

  “Ms. Lindsay, we’ve requested this meeting so we may inform you of an inheritance of Walter Phineas Muir. A rather distant cousin?”

  Pam took a deep breath to help steady her shaking hands. “Very distant.” It was bad enough that she thought about Walter far too often. Seeing his name on the letter started her quaking two days ago. But hearing his name aloud, after thirty years, nearly had her reaching for the rubbish bin so she could retch.

  Her deep breaths didn’t help, so she sat back, rested her hands in her lap, and hoped for the best.

  She hadn’t informed the twins of her plans to reject anything and everything that came from that man, in case this inheritance was something she couldn’t refuse. Hopefully, it was only a few thousand dollars. Her pride was worth more than that.

  “The inheritance itself is a respectable sum. Seven figures,” Drummond said. Though he smiled, his brow was furrowed with worry. “But sadly, none of you were named as
beneficiaries.”

  Sheena’s gob dropped open, but thankfully, she said nothing. A million dollars or more? Pam knew she could never have turned that down, but on the bright side, she hadn’t been put in that position. All the same, she was confused. “Then why were we asked to come?”

  Porter pasted a pained smile on his face and lifted his chin as if bracing for a fight, which was ridiculous, when there was nothing to fight over.

  Drummond grimaced. “I hope you can forgive us, ladies, if any of what I’m about to say comes as a shock. Family secrets can be so upsetting. Even so…” He took a deep breath and looked at Shannon. “The sole benefactress of Walter Muir’s estate is the currently unidentified offspring, either of single birth or twins, of Shannon Lindsay Kerr.” He rushed to add, “We were hoping you would help us locate this person or persons.”

  Pam sought Shannon’s gaze. There was no need to speak aloud.

  Ye were right, Mother. Ye were right!

  In her head, the whispered thoughts of Sheena mingled with Shannon’s. So sorry. So sorry. So sorry.

  Pam smiled at both her girls, squeezed their hands, and faced the men. “The child was adopted by an American couple. There was no paperwork. There will be no trail to follow. And I can guess that this child wouldn’t welcome anything from Walter Muir in any case. I suggest ye give the money to a noble charity. Perhaps that would help compensate the world for the damage the man did it while he was alive.”

  Pam heard the screech of a chair’s legs, though no one had moved. It had come from the odd black box sitting at the end of the table. Was someone else listening to their meeting?

  Drummond no longer bothered to smile. “Can you tell me how you located these Americans? Or what city they were from?”

  Pam shrugged, then turned to Shannon, to let her daughter answer.

  “I believe ye’ve missed the point,” she said. “I wouldn’t have given up my own child without reason. And that reason was Walter Muir. I made certain there was no trail to follow. I made good and sure I couldn’t find the child if I wanted to.”

  Footsteps pounded in the hallway. The door burst open and smashed into the wall behind. “Lies!” Walter Muir, the devil himself, stood in the opening with a hand braced high on each side of the doorway as if he was trying to resist coming into the room. His gaze found Pamela, raked over her, then narrowed when he glared into her face. “Where is my grandchild?”

  “Hello, Walter,” she said, much more calmly than she felt. “I thought ye were dead.”

  “Where is my grandchild?” When she didn’t answer, he closed his eyes and shook his head. “Name your price.”

  She rolled her eyes and folded her arms.

  He finally noticed Shannon and Sheena and glanced between them. At 29, they no longer looked identical. But they had his black hair and his once-charming chin.

  “My daughters.” His features softened. “Which is which?”

  “I’m Shannon. And no, we’ll not own ye as our father. If I could cut ye out of me, I would.”

  We’ve done the next best thing. Sheena’s thoughts went to both her sister and her mother. And together, they shared that pang of sorrow that Pam would never have grandchildren—besides the one she would never know.

  Pam could tell by the look on Walter’s face that he was trying to listen in. But his twisted expression also proved he couldn’t do it. They’d prepared too well for this moment, though they thought it would never come after getting word Walter Muir was dead.

  Pam couldn’t resist the tease. “Getting old, Walter? Rusty? Which is it?”

  His eyes narrowed on her again. “I’ve got time, Pamela. You’ll let your guard down and go check on her. And when you do, I’ll be there, listening. Waiting. Watching.”

  She shook her head. “I spoke with some of yer other victims. We know ye’ve tried to breed yer own depositories of power, that ye sought out witches to seduce. Ye thought yer gifts were so great they couldn’t help but be passed down, to create the powerful Thirds—only to be collected when ye need them. But yer gifts weren’t so great after all, were they? Ye got only single grandsons with no power at all.”

  She noticed the lawyers’ bulging eyes, but she couldn’t worry about them at the moment. As she’d spoken, Walter’s anger grew until she feared he might lunge at her. But still, he held onto the door frame. Then suddenly, the anger was gone, replaced by hope, then a frightening, satisfied smile that made her panic.

  What had she given away?

  “Grandsons, aye.” Walter’s old brogue slipped only the once. “But not Shannon’s child. No, if it had been a boy, she would have kept him.” His face pulled to one side, creating a dimple that had seduced many a young witch, decades ago. He’d been in his forties when he’d found and beguiled Pamela. But now he was well over seventy years old with his dark hair turned gray. His expensive suit couldn’t compensate for age, and that dimple came with a ripple of wrinkles.

  His lips had thinned, his eyes had paled, but the look in them was much more disturbing than thirty years ago. And now, it wasn’t cunning that shone from his soul, it was desperation.

  Shannon had done the right thing. The child was safe. And even if Walter managed to eavesdrop on their thoughts, he wouldn’t find so much as a thread to follow. The only untruth was the part about the couple being from America, and what were the chances he’d learn that?

  So he knew the child was a girl. A daughter of a witch, who was the daughter of a witch. A Third. Just what he’d been hoping for. But that didn’t get him any closer to her.

  Please, God, let it stay that way.

  Chapter One

  February 18th, 2015. Four months before that fateful summer solstice…

  Sixteenth birthdays are hard.

  A mother doesn’t know what kind of party to throw. A formal dinner? A bouncy house? Something to remind the child she’s still a child and shouldn’t be in a big hurry to leave her family behind?

  In the end, DeAnne decided to cover both extremes by tying balloons all over the house, then preparing a nice sit-down dinner. There really wasn’t much else she could plan when her daughter, Soncerae, didn’t have any close friends she wanted to invite over.

  “Family,” Soni had insisted, “is all I need.”

  There wasn’t a trace of self-pity in her daughter’s tone. She’d sounded sincere. But Soni was a gifted little actress, and DeAnne suspected that, deep down, her daughter wished she had a gaggle of friends coming to whisk her away for a night of silliness.

  She took the pink polka dot cake out of hiding and carried it over to the table.

  “Perfect, and charming, and pink,” Soni said. “I’ll remember it always.”

  DeAnne scoffed. “It’s not as if it’s yer last birthday cake, aye?”

  “I know. It’s just that things will probably change this year. I might end up taking some college courses next winter. Maybe I won’t be able to come home for my birthday.” She gave her mom a pointed look. “Rhona MacColl is always saying how she never saw Lizzie much after she turned sixteen.”

  DeAnne pointed to the case of silver in a silent order for Soni to lay out the utensils, then returned to the kitchen for candles. “No one on this planet busies herself like Lizzie MacColl. I think ye’re safe not to kiss us all good-bye just because ye’re a day older than ye were yesterday.”

  This would either be the best birthday in history or the indisputable, irrefutable worst day of Soncerae’s life. And soon, she would know which.

  Mother had harassed her for a full month, wanting a list of wishes for presents, a list of friends to invite over, a list of anything at all that might help her plan for her sixteenth birthday party. But she'd had to settle for just the three names.

  Wickham.

  Loretta.

  Lorraine.

  Yeah, yeah, it was pathetic to only invite great aunts and a great uncle to such a big event in her life, but she had a reason for wanting them to come. She just had to make sure the
three didn't sneak a peek into her thoughts and realize what she wanted before she had a chance to state her case. She must put it to them delicately or she would frighten them. And frightened witches were impossible to reason with.

  The twin sisters had the gift of foresight, which might cause a problem. But they also had a calming effect on her parents, which would be essential to pulling off the Perfect Plan. Wickham, on the other hand, had real power, like Soni had herself. But she knew his specialty, and the Perfect Plan would dissolve like sugar in the rain if he couldn't be convinced.

  Her parents were always pushovers, in the end, no matter how much they tried to pretend otherwise. But it would take a witch, or four, to get them on board this time...

  Wickham’s beat up truck arrived right at six o’clock with all three siblings inside. Soni couldn’t tell if the churning in her stomach was from excitement, dread, or just plain hunger, but she put on a cheerful smile and opened the front door.

  Lorraine came first with a party hat for Soni. It dripped with tinsel and pink feathers and had a wee plastic tiara in the front. She bent over so the woman could place it, then waited for the usual three pats on her cheeks.