The Serpent in the Stone

The Serpent in the Stone - By Nicki Greenwood

Chapter One

Twenty years later, Sara Markham still struggled to erase the images of her father’s blood.

She rubbed at her aching temples. Last night, she’d relived the old nightmare again—Robert Markham, a noted archaeologist, found murdered at his ransacked university office. The papers and networks had a field day with it, splashing photos and speculation around like they were playing at a water park. No one stopped to think about the family whose life had been ripped apart. No one had any answers. Or clues. Or leads.

Until now.

Yesterday, in his safe deposit box, she’d discovered a stone amulet and a beat-up book of fairy tales. What those things had to do with her father’s murder, she couldn’t have said, but they had been worth hiding in a little steel box for two decades. God, I want coffee.

The ocean breeze misted across her face. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries drowned out by rushing waves and the whine of the speedboat’s engine. Sara touched the stone pendant, secreted away under her sweater with the silver locket her father had given her on her tenth birthday. That was the day all hell had broken snarling off its chain and rampaged through her once-normal life. Celebrating it had been unbearable. Forgetting, impossible.

The amulet and her father’s work were definitely connected. He had never in his life done anything without purpose. Now, the trail of clues had led her, her sister Faith, and their own team of archaeologists here: Hvitmar, Shetland, a tiny uninhabited island at the archipelago’s northernmost tip. She hoped—and feared—she’d find the answer to that lifelong “Why?” hidden under the soil of this lonely scrap of earth in the middle of the ocean. Maybe then, they could put his soul to rest at last.

Faith spoke over the noise of the engine. “Lambertson says the island is normally quiet. Nothing but seals and birds. The earthquake last month opened a fissure wide enough to see the field wall buried a few meters down.”

Faith’s flaxen hair caught the sunlight as they sped along. As twins went, they were polar opposites: Sara with the chestnut hair and hazel eyes of their mother, Faith as blond and blue-eyed as their late father. Like night and day, particularly in the way they handled the secret they’d shared since that tragic birthday. Sara thought it a curse. Faith embraced it. But they’d always had each other.

After all, they’d never met another gifted person with whom to share the burden—let alone a multi-gifted one. Paranormal power bonded them as surely as blood.

Dustin Sennett looked back over his shoulder from the driver’s seat. “There it is. Looks nice and inviting,” he said, pointing.

Sure enough, the profile of Hvitmar reared up from the sea ahead. Sheer cliffs on its southern end sloped off gradually to the north.

Sara crossed her fingers. Not superstitious. Just...cautious.

“You don’t think Lamb will try to hand this off to Flintrop’s firm if we find something, do you?” Faith asked. Her tone snapped with dislike. She and their competitor, Alan Flintrop, had dated briefly, but Flintrop, L.L.C had been scooping projects out from under Gemini, Limited’s nose too long for that to last. And this, of all projects, was too important to lose.

“Lamb knows how much we want this,” Sara said, though she wasn’t so sure herself. Their old mentor and Robert’s onetime partner, James Lambertson, had offered them the project and even loaned them two men from his own London-based firm to help. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t call on Flintrop’s larger, better-supplied firm if their find proved major. She seethed just thinking about it.

They neared the dock at the island’s southern end. When they reached the pilings, Dustin cut the motor and moored the boat. Thomas Callander began unloading supplies. Sara shouldered her own pack and stepped onto the dock, surprised at the warmth in the air. For late winter, it sure felt like spring. At least they wouldn’t freeze on this project.

The fissure lay on the island’s north end, a mile or so from the dock. She groaned at the thought of trudging that whole distance loaded down with supplies, but there was no other boat access. Their larger equipment had been flown in a couple days ago. Absorbed in planning, she walked along beside Faith without seeing her surroundings, until her sister paused and nudged her arm. “What?”

Faith jerked her chin ahead of them. Sara looked up to find a tent staked near the southern cliffs.

Someone had beaten them here.

She marched toward the tent, fully expecting to see Alan Flintrop and his smug, toast-of-New-York’s-anthropology-circles smile. Instead, she found a man in a denim jacket and blue jeans, sitting in a camp chair and writing in a small leather book. She dropped her bag. “Who are you?”

The man looked up, and she formed a quick impression of stubble and magazine-worthy good looks. His storm-blue gaze traveled over her figure, sending tiny frissons of awareness—and hazy recognition—through her body. A fringe of chocolate brown forelock couldn’t quite hide the thin scar over one of his eyebrows. He didn’t seem surprised to see her, which sent her hackles up instantly as he laid aside his book and stood up. “Ian Waverly,” he said, and held out his hand.

Suspicion elbowed her interest aside. That name. Why did she know that name? She slid her hand into his.

Slam. She felt her eyes change color from hazel to emerald, the way most people felt rippling gooseflesh across the skin. The influx of power sent a chill up her spine. His grip tightened on her hand, convulsive, and then his thoughts rushed into her mind in a flurry of images.

Her grade school playground. Todd Garrett was picking on her sister again. He’d plucked Faith’s locket, a golden one, from around her neck and was taunting her with it. When Sara reached out, her sister’s necklace flew unaided across the schoolyard and into her hand. She looked up, scared and shocked at what she’d done, and her gaze locked onto that of a boy with storm-blue eyes.

Sara screwed her eyes shut to cut the images off. She reopened them cautiously, though she knew they would have turned back to their normal color the moment she closed them.

This man knew what she was. If he remembered. If he believed what he’d seen. She’d guarded the secret of her gifts ever since that first instance, that unprepared childhood fumble. Fear sliced through her and she stamped it back.

What in God’s name was he doing here? Fighting to control the dread galloping along her nerves, she risked another look at him. The expression on his face spoke volumes.

Hell yes, he remembered.

****

Ian hadn’t wanted to believe what he’d seen then, and didn’t now. Hating the savage righteousness clawing through his gut, he pulled his hand from hers and fisted it, as if digging his nails into his palm could stop the proof in its tracks.

This was why he’d followed her to Shetland. This was why he’d volunteered to do a birding project on this godforsaken little speck in the ocean. Hell, he’d been torn between watching her and avoiding her for the past twenty years. He’d often wondered—against his will—what happened to her after they graduated high school. Did she still have her power? Had he been mistaken?

No question now. Her eyes had changed color. This woman, this slip of a woman, had power just like—

He stifled the rest of that thought and forced a smile. “We work at the university together. I teach in the biology department. Wildlife,” he added, tilting his head toward the cliffs, where scores of seabirds circled in the salty air.

“Sara Markham. Doctor Markham,” she said. Her gaze scoured him.

She’d grown. Obviously, she’d grown, what the hell had he expected? But time had been unfairly kind to Sara—Doctor—Markham. He tried to ignore the curves of her body and the way her hair blew loose around her shoulders. The way she held herself rigid in the flight-ready pose of cornered prey. She looked like a wild creature herself, belonging more to wind and water than to his childhood nightmares.

Like a selkie. The ferryman who brought him to Hvitmar had told him stories about the mythical seals-turned-women that haunted the Shetland coastlines and took human mates. Crazy stories.

Not so crazy right now.

They weren’t alone. Behind Sara stood another woman, tall and blond, with a knapsack over her shoulder and an interested stare on her face. On her right were two men, carrying bags of their own. “I’m doing a study on the local birds,” Ian said at last.

Sara crossed her arms. “On my island? That’s quite a coincidence.”

Her island? The image of the selkie evaporated in a cloud of territorial insult. He forgot what she was. “This island is big enough for two researchers,” he said. “You don’t interfere with my birds, and I won’t interfere with your dig.”

Her voice went frosty. “You know about the dig?”

“Yeah, I know about the dig.” And even now, part of him wished more and more that he’d never learned of it.

The blond woman bent and hoisted up the pack by Sara’s feet. “We’ll go set up the tents,” she said, and she and the men hurried away.

Sara followed their retreat with an open-mouthed look as though she wanted to call the others back. Then she came toward him with slow, deliberate steps. Her eyes were hazel, not the bright green from before. He found himself wanting to step back anyway. She studied his face, her own as pale as porcelain, but her full lips firmed. “Luis Rivero.”

“Yeah,” Ian said, thinking of his friend back at the university. Luis worked in Sara’s department. It was he who had told Ian of her upcoming assignment in Shetland.

“Man can’t keep his mouth shut,” she muttered. With uncanny insight, she fired, “Are you following me?”

“No,” he lied. “I’m here to study birds. Think you can handle that?”

She backed off one step at a time, with a look that seemed to go right through him. Torn between hostility and unbidden curiosity, he watched her turn to walk away.

Well, you got what you wished for, he told himself. What was he supposed to do with the proof, now that he had it?

It was sure as hell too late to give it back.

****

“He’s cute,” Faith said as she and Sara checked Sara’s tent stakes.

Sara shoved a lock of hair behind her ear and tried to trade fear for focus. No such luck. Her belly was in knots. “Are you nuts? I’m telling you, that man is the same kid who saw me first use telekinesis!”

Faith gave one of the tent ropes an experimental tug and said, “I don’t see why you’re all wound up about it. If he didn’t blow you in when we were ten, what makes you think he’ll do it now? He might even think he dreamed it.” She grabbed another stake, looking much calmer than Sara felt. Uncharacteristic for Faith, whose temper had legendary changeability.

“You didn’t see the look on his face,” Sara snapped. “He remembers, Faith.”

“Well, since he’s here, you should at least have asked him if he wants to come down for dinner,” chided her sister. “He’s alone up there, or didn’t you notice? No army on his heels, waiting to arrest you for being you. You could examine him more closely for nefarious intent.” Faith wiggled her outspread fingers with what Sara assumed she meant to be scathing sarcasm.

Sara refused to admit that she hadn’t noticed much beyond the pulse-pounding look he’d given her...and her reaction to it. Part terror, and part...well, she wasn’t willing to admit what that other part might be. “Sure, I’ll just waltz up there and volunteer to become a government guinea pig,” she said. “What if he’s working for a lab, and waiting to dissect me once he’s proven what I did? I’m not about to make myself his best pal.”

Faith shot her a look of impatience. “Honestly. Don’t you think you’re overreacting even a little bit?”

Snatching a mallet, Sara pounded the last corner stake into the ground. “Need I remind you that his presence here endangers you, too? Mom doesn’t even know what we are, and I trust him a lot less.”

Jabbing toward her with a tent stake, Faith said, “If you won’t go up there, I will. Come on, Sara, this is just crazy.”

Sara flung a hand toward Ian’s camp. “You want him? Go get him. Just don’t cry to me when he goes mad scientist on you. If we’re lucky, we’ll finish this dig without having anything to do with him.”

Her sister secured a last rope, then stood up. She shook her head. “It’s been years. You might consider actually talking to him before you decide he’s out to lock us up.” She stiffened, and her gaze swept the moor. “Did you hear something?”

“No.” Sara checked, but Thomas and Dustin had returned to the boat for a second load of supplies. Faith often heard things Sara couldn’t, but she knew Faith wasn’t using her psychic power at the moment. Worried that Ian might be watching them, she turned in a circle. Nope, nothing. At least, nothing she could see. “Birds?”

“Maybe.” Faith waved a hand through the air as if testing it for vibrations. “I could have sworn— No.” Her mystified tone returned to normal. “If you’re so worried about Ian, you should go up there and keep an eye on him. Just saying.” With that, she walked away to her own tent.

Feeling chastised—and irritable, because Faith was right—Sara watched her go, then swept aside her door flap and entered her tent.

It smelled of old canvas. At the moment, it looked like a bomb had gone off. Crates, chairs, and her camp table had been scattered on the tent floor. Her cot stood waiting for setup in the corner. In a few hours, the disaster would be transformed into a tidy microcosm of sleep, study, and on-site labwork.

First things first, then. She’d need somewhere to sleep after the long day ahead. She pulled the cot open and locked it in place. She’d forgotten they were so small.

A flash of Ian’s eyes barged into her memory. Vivid. Intense. She’d never seen such a blue. Even now, the warmth of his hand seemed to linger on hers.

Damn it! Get out of my head! She tossed her sheets onto the cot to rub her palm on her jeans as if she could wipe away the remembered feel of his skin against hers. “You have no business being in there,” she said aloud.

“Are you talking to the cot, or someone invisible?”

She turned around. Thomas stood in the tent doorway, scratching his sandy-blond head.

She gave him a wan smile. “Sorry. A little internal argument. Too many things to do, and not enough caffeine in my system.”

“Equipment’s set up for survey, and Dustin’s working on preliminary photos. Anything else?”

“No, that should do it. I’ll be out after I tame the tent mess.”

When Thomas left, she went back to spreading the sheets out on her cot. Faith’s scolding rang in her ears. If she weren’t so cautious, they’d have been lab experiments by now. She hugged the wool blanket to her body, pressing her fingers into the rough fabric.

She’d never been on a dig alone. Teammates kept each other out of trouble, called for help when it was needed, and prevented injuries. What if something happened to Ian, with no one around to know it? She grimaced, not wanting that on her conscience no matter what his intentions were.

What the hell was he thinking, coming out here alone in the first place? Birds. Yeah, right. She pitched the blanket on her cot, and stalked out of the tent.

Faith met her before she’d gone more than a few steps in the direction of Ian’s camp. “Good, you’re out. Ready to start surveying?”

“I was going to... Never mind. What needs doing?”

“If you had something to do—” Grinning, Faith tilted her head toward the south end of the island.

Sara raised a hand to cut her off. When Faith wouldn’t stop grinning, Sara added a glare that she hoped Faith interpreted as Shut up and quit looking so smug. “It can wait.”

So could giving that man a piece of her mind. First chance she got tomorrow.

****

What in hell is this? Ian wondered. He was locked in a room he didn’t recognize, barely able to see and without a clue what was happening.

The small room’s murkiness closed in on him, coffinlike. He tried the door again, but the handle still wouldn’t budge. The air boiled with hissing voices that made his skin prickle. A sharp metallic scent stung his nose.

Blood.

“Okay, not liking this now.” Determined to escape, he crept forward into the space. His questing fingers landed on what felt like a bookshelf, littered with heaps of scattered volumes. As he paced along, he kicked a few more of them and they slid across the floor.

He groped blindly, and winced when he touched something sharp that sliced across his fingers. His hand fell upon a banker’s lamp. He switched it on, squinting as the room came into focus.

A scarred cherry desk stood before him, all its drawers ripped out and the contents tossed on the floor. Broken glass. Shredded paper. File drawers thrown open and kicked aside.

The surface of the desk bore a blackish stain. He reached out to touch it.

A hand slapped down on his shoulder in a vise grip. He whirled around.

A man loomed over him, his face stark-white, his blue eyes burning. Blood covered him from head to foot.

Ian swore and wrenched backward over the desk in a futile effort to escape.

The man gripped Ian’s shirt in both hands and hauled him closer. Ian’s heart thundered in his chest. His attacker’s eyes shone like knives in the gloom. “Hhhhelp her.”

Ian gasped and sat bolt upright on his cot. The nightmare faded, giving way to the soft pre-dawn gray of his tent interior. His heartbeat crashed in his ears. Panting, he raked a hand through sleep-tousled hair.

He examined his stinging hand, half-expecting to see blood where the glass had sliced it in his dream.

Nothing.

He tried not to admit to relief. He’d never experienced real pain in a dream before, and he hadn’t had a nightmare in years. Must be coming to this place, seeing Sara. Everything was messing with his senses.

Your own fault, he scolded himself. He’d been the one to follow her. He’d been the one to ask for Shetland.

What the hell was he thinking?

He grappled for his watch on the table beside his cot. Almost five o’clock. With a sigh, he swung out of bed and onto his feet to start work.

****

Hvitmar had been made with a shapeshifter in mind.

Sara ran as a wolf, with the wind whistling through her fur and reveling in the shape. It brought her speed. Power. Joy in the simple act of being alive. Freedom she’d never known as a human. She galloped along the shoreline, her broad paws eating up the ground. The air was crisp with the scents of earth and ocean. Cries of seabirds rang out in the sky.

Ian’s birds, she thought with a snort.

She hadn’t even gone in the direction of his camp yet. Skirting the dig site to avoid leaving tracks, she’d explored the northern edges of the island. Gulls scolded her, and she spied a seal dozing among the rocks offshore.

She decided to head up to Ian’s camp before the fog burned off and left her visible to any observers. She’d start by asking him down to breakfast, a safe enough opening. Then she’d follow it up with Get off my island and see how he took that.

But first, she owed her sister an apology for their spat yesterday. She set off toward Faith’s tent.

Sara approached it with caution. A long yawn came from within. Tongue lolling, she padded to a halt outside and snuffed aloud.

She heard a rustle. The door flap opened and her sister ducked out, struggling into a heavy wool sweater. “What are you doing outside like that?” Faith whispered.

Sara didn’t bother to shapeshift back to her human body. She twitched an ear and glanced around the foggy moor, then back to her sister.

Faith crossed her arms. “All right, so no one’s up. I hope you didn’t leave tracks everywhere for me to scuff out.”

Sara shook her shaggy lupine head.

Faith looked southward toward Ian’s camp, then smiled at her. “You’re planning to go see him, aren’t you? Told you, you should.”

Sara flattened her ears. God, she loved having ears that flattened. Very eloquent.

“Get out of here before the guys get up. Say hi to him for me.”

Sara sent her a last, annoyed glare before loping away.

****

Ian tossed a fleece vest on over his thermal shirt, then hooked an extra set of carabiners to his climbing harness. He glanced around his tent before realizing he must have left his rope bag hanging outside last night. In his hurry to record data on yesterday’s climb, he’d dropped most of his gear and gone straight into the tent to write as soon as he got back.

Outside, he threw the coil of rope over his shoulder and headed for the sea cliffs. He’d spotted a nest sheltered in a crag about halfway down, and itched to get a closer look.

When he reached the cliff edge, he looked out over the ocean. The view took his breath away. The sunrise had just begun, burning off the fog and painting the few clouds with a champagne-pink blaze. Unst made a faint, misty shadow on the horizon. This, he could handle. To hell with people and supernatural powers and all that head-case stuff that made living day to day such a pain in the ass. A view like this made it all go away.

He’d learned from a young age to spot good holds, and which surfaces were secure enough for a chock or cam that would support him. The southern cliffs of Hvitmar were high and challenging, but not impossible. He hitched up his anchor points and auto-belayer, then secured a mat at the cliff edge to prevent rubbing on the rope. “All right, lady,” he said, “let’s see what else you’re hiding.” He hooked the rope to his belt, then started over the edge.

Once he found his seat in the harness, he touched the toes of his shoes against the cliffside and pushed off, feeding the rope along and rappelling downward. The sun went from pink to brilliant red and began to turn golden. Birds squabbled far below on the beach at the cliff base.

He had almost reached the site of the nest when the rope gave a twang, followed by a sickening lurch. Ian jerked his head up. More than a body length above on the rope was a telltale frayed strand hanging loose. “Shit, shit, shit,” he whispered. How the hell had this happened? The rope had been perfectly sound on inspection last night. Jamming his fingers into the nearest crevice, he twisted his hand sideways just as the rest of the rope snapped.

His body plunged downward, until his handhold yanked it to a halt. Fire seared up his left arm from shoulder to wrist. He snarled in agony. His shoes scraped madly against the cliff, seeking a purchase as the remainder of the rope slithered past him on its descent. Don’t look down, Christ, don’t look. He swallowed back his fear and thought fast. Stones crumbled under his feet and plummeted away. He dangled against the side of the cliff, trying to lie flat against the stone. Winds battered dangerously against his body.

No one would hear him in this wind, even if he screamed.

“Son of a bitch.” He had to look.

No footholds, no handholds, nothing at all. Smooth as glass for far too much space underneath him. More than a hundred feet below lay the rocky cliff base. His arm throbbed and threatened to pry his handhold from the rock. Panting, he closed his eyes against stinging sweat and pressed his forehead against the stone.

When he checked, upward didn’t look any better. The next closest handhold was half a body length up. Even if he swung, he didn’t think he could reach it, but he had to try. His hands were sweating, and he couldn’t reach his belt bucket to rechalk.

Face it, Waverly, you’re screwed. His handhold began to loosen, sending shards of pain down his arm. He took a breath and used what leverage he had to push sideways.

His fingers slid out of the crevice.

He went backward, slipping away from the cliff in a free fall. He didn’t even have time or breath to scream.

Wind whistled past him. The cliffside went by in a speeding blur.

Ian knew he was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it.