Haunted Warrior by Allie Mackay Read Free Book Online Page B

them and bring them back to their original beauty. Until that day comes…”
    He let his voice trail away, piercing the youth with a look that said more than words.
    “Off with you now.” He gave the lad a light shove. “And tell Ramsay what I said. Then, if you’ve any sense, you’ll say him good-­bye.”
    His last words were lost, carried away by a quickeningwind as Ritchie tore down the path and disappeared onto Harbour Street. His running footsteps echoed through the evening as Graeme quietly closed the shed door. As always, he didn’t lock it.
    Nor was there a need.
    The Shadow Wand wasn’t kept inside Graeme’s barrel shed. It was an unlikely reason for Ramsay to send the youth to peek about the shed. Ramsay wouldn’t be so witless as to send a stripling like Watt to look for such a powerful relic.
    More likely, Ramsay hoped to strike Graeme where it would hurt and must’ve ordered the lad to damage the salt barrels or roll a few of them into the sea.
    Everyone knew Graeme loved the old barrels.
    What they didn’t know was that the cooper who’d made them had been a good friend of Graeme’s.
    But that was long ago.
    Remembering made him start determinedly down his cottage’s narrow side path. He’d been careless of late. Watching so diligently over Pennard and the coast, keeping out an eye for Ramsay’s growing influence, caused him to lower his guard at the Keel.
    Coming with ill intent, Ritchie shouldn’t have been able to set foot onto Graeme’s property. He should’ve been repelled at the street.
    So Graeme did what he should have done weeks ago and collected a pail from beneath the blue-­painted bench beside his door. Kept ready thanks to the moonwater that filled it—­gathered rain regularly replenished and set out to catch the moon’s silvery glow—­the pail felt light in his hand.
    Lightness that proved the moonwater still held a good measure of power.
    Not enough to keep Watt off the property, but it’d surely helped to prevent him from opening the shed door.
    Still…
    Stronger measures were required. The strengthening of Graeme’s protective shields around the Keel needed immediate attention. Preferably without the interference of a certain border collie.
    “You stay here.” Graeme gave his dog a look. “I’ll no’ have you shadowing me.”
    Jock, now sitting on the stoop, lowered his head solemnly, as if in agreement.
    Not trusting him, Graeme indicated the door, slightly ajar. “Away in with you, laddie. You’ve a fine, warm plaid before the fire and I’m no’ of a mind to have an audience just now.”
    Jock didn’t budge.
    And Graeme didn’t have the heart to scold him further.
    He did reach to rub the dog’s ears. Then he emptied the pail of its moonwater before crossing the road in front of his cottage. Harbour Street ended at the Keel, bounded by the high bluff at its back. Just beyond, a small cave marked Pennard Bay’s western edge.
    Little more than a gash in the rock, the cave wasn’t large enough to hold the picnic table on the pebbly strand before its entrance. A relic from the filming of
The Herring Fisher
, the table was popular with tourists because the cave offered shelter from wind and spray.
    Above all, its black-­glistening walls couldn’t be penetrated by curious eyes.
    The cave, Graeme suspected, had been used by his like for centuries.
    He certainly appreciated its positioning.
    As, he was sure, had every MacGrath Guardian before him.
    He headed that way now, already focusing on the task before him. Without looking back at Jock—­a singleglance over his shoulder would have the dog running to him—­he left the road’s end and stepped onto the strip of beach skirting the cave.
    Strong wind hit him at once, sharp and smelling of seaweed and brine. Cold, bracing air, thick with salt and seasoned with peat smoke, to Graeme it was a blend headier than wine. Wet stones shifted and crunched beneath his feet, and spray splashed against the larger