Haunted Warrior by Allie Mackay Read Free Book Online Page A

the dog with a look he used only on rare occasions. “Away with you now, and dinnae be coming back out here.”
    Jock didn’t meet his eye, his unblinking stare pinned on the white-­faced youth. But when Graeme angled his head, putting all his will into a silent command, the dog gave one last snarl and then trotted back down the path, disappearing around the front corner.
    Graeme released the breath he’d been holding.
    Ritchie Watt was good with a gutting knife and he held one in his hand now. It was the blade he’d been using to try and pry open the shed door. And the glazed look in his dark-­circled eyes left no doubt that if Jock had sprung on him, he would’ve used the knife.
    “Drop your blade, lad.” Graeme started toward him,hoping the boy didn’t do anything foolish. “You dinnae want me to take it from you.”
    “I’ll drop it in a pig’s eye.” Ritchie made a dash for the rock face rising steeply behind the shed. The knife fell from his hand as he flung himself at the cliff, scrambling for a foothold.
    “You’re no’ going anywhere.” Graeme reached him in three easy strides. He plucked the ruffian off the rocks, thrusting him back against the shed. “And you wouldn’t have made it into my shed if you tried for a hundred years. You know that, I’m thinking?”
    Ritchie gave him a surly look rather than answer.
    “There’s naught but old salt barrels in there.” The thought that Gavin Ramsay would send a lackey to invade his shed, prying into one of the few things he cherished as a semblance of normalcy in his life, stoked a fury Graeme didn’t want to unleash on a misguided lad like Ritchie Watt. “They’re from o’er two hundred years ago, when the herring fleets crowded this wee harbor.
    “Thon barrels”—­he leaned in, anger giving an edge to his voice—­“were once packed with
silver darlings
, the herring that meant bread and living for Pennard and this whole coast in those days.”
    “I don’t care about herring barrels.” Ritchie’s eyes glittered, his chin jutting defiantly.
    “You should.” Graeme glanced at the shed door and then at the youth. “I do, and my shed’s full of them. Whole barrels, half barrels, and a few firkins, sweet little quarter barrels, if you’ve forgotten so much of this place’s history, you dinnae ken what a firkin is.
    “They’re the salt barrels I restore and give out on loan to the Laughing Gull and anyone needing them for a ceilidh or other gathering.” Graeme released the youth, letting a hard stare hold him in place.
    “And there’s nothing inside the barrels except air,age, and a hint of brine.” He stepped closer, bracing a fist against the shed wall next to Ritchie’s head. “Tell that to Ramsay, and warn him that the next fool he sends to my house will suffer more than leaving here with his knife bent from prying into places it dinnae belong.”
    “My knife’s not bent.” Ritchie glared at him, his gaze flicking to the rock face where the herring knife had slipped from his fingers.
    The muddy ground was empty.
    Following his gaze, Graeme smiled. “Your blade’s here.” He held out the knife on his palm, watching the youth’s eyes round as he snatched the bent-­double weapon from Graeme’s hand.
    He suspected Ritchie knew he’d bent the blade.
    Just as the lad now knew that the boundary spells Graeme kept around his property worked better than any dark magic Gavin Ramsay could conjure. It didn’t matter that Ritchie and his like, or even the whole village, never dared voice such suspicions.
    Worrying about his supposed powers was enough to keep them at bay.
    At least, it had been until recently.
    So he reached for the shed’s door latch, lifting it with ease. “This shed is ne’er locked.” It
was
sealed against evil. But that wasn’t his point. “If e’er you feel a true interest in preserving old salt barrels, the door will open for you. I’ll gladly teach you how to get the salt crust and grime off