Forevermore Page 6

  “I bet,” she agrees. “Would make your tunes even more wicked.”

  I smile at her. “I’m actually thinking of entering the Strings of the Highlands festival,” I admit. “There’s a contest. So says Headmistress Worley.”

  Emma grins. “I think you should do it.” Then she glances at her phone and sees the time. “Och, I’m sorry, Ivy, but I’d best be on my way,” she says. “I promised my mum we’d have supper together. You can come to my house next. Mum would love to meet you.”

  I’m disappointed she’s going, but I nod. “Sounds like a plan.”

  I walk Emma back to the front of the castle, where she’s parked her scooter. As she straddles the machine and tugs on her helmet, she peers at me.

  “If you see anything else at all, call or text,” she says. She starts up her scooter, and the low purr bounces off the stone walls of Glenmorrag. She points at me. “I mean it, Ivy. Dunna hold out on me.”

  I laugh. “Promise.”

  I watch Emma ramble along the gravel path until she’s out of sight, then I head back to the rectory. I’m a little hesitant to step inside alone, but I make myself. No sense being a scaredy-cat.

  “I warned you tae leave!”

  Logan Munro is striding toward me, and I back against the ivy-covered stone wall. My throat constricts, and I can’t say a word. I expected him, yet I didn’t. I simply stare.

  “And now you’ve brought another gell here? Are you daft? Did you no’ hear me when I said this place wasna safe? No matter your new father is the laird — I want you tae leave. You’ve no business here.”

  My temper flares. “You don’t tell me where my business is!” I snap. “As I said before, I’m staying. So you’d better get used to sharing this big old castle with me!” I edge around him, hands on hips. I think about what Ian said, about Logan not knowing why he’s stuck here. “You know,” I add vehemently, “instead of being so pigheaded and mean, why don’t you just chill out, Logan Munro? I could help you, you know? Find out what happened to you? Figure out why you’re still here after all these years?” I wave my hand in the air. “But who am I kidding? You’re too busy being a bully to accept any help from me. Too busy shoving me into the freezer.” I exhale — hard.

  Logan stares at me with a mystified look on his face.

  We are at a stalemate for several moments.

  “I didna push you into that freezer,” he says. “And I dunna need any help. From you or anyone else.”

  “Why not?” I ask. “Ian Murray says you don’t remember anything about, well, your —”

  “My death?” Logan says with a little sarcasm. “Nay, I remember nothing at all. But it must not’ve been my time to go, otherwise I wouldna be here.” He looks at me, silver eyes blazing. “There’s nothing that you, a wee gell from another time and another land, can do to help me.”

  I frown at him. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I can do. But,” I continue, “I do know what you can do. And I want you to stop it. It’s not working anymore. So just … quit.”

  Logan Munro stares at me and blinks.

  Then, with a nod, he disappears.

  I head back to the castle, my emotions roiling, and my desire to compose extinguished. I didn’t think I’d ever get into a fight with a ghost, but my life is proving to be more and more surprising.

  Up in my room, I open my laptop and decide to see what I can find out about Logan on the Internet. Turns out, not much. Searching Logan Munro just brings up a bunch of modern-day people named Logan Munro, and most of them not even in Scotland.

  I suddenly wish for my dad. I miss him so much. I look at the framed photo of him I’ve placed on my bedside table. If ghosts can exist, I wonder, why didn’t Dad try to contact me? To find me? Is it because he wasn’t taken too abruptly? He’d been sick for a long time, and he’d put all his affairs in order before he passed. There was nothing for him to resolve. I swallow hard.

  Logan said his death happened before his time. Was it really murder? And if so, who killed him? And why?

  I sleep badly that night, dreaming of nonsensical things: talking hedge trimmers, icy-blue eyes that float around the castle, staring at me, following me.

  Then, sometime in the night, something bolts me out of sleep.

  I can’t breathe.

  I sit up, coughing, pulling at the neck of my T-shirt. Scrambling out of bed, I continue to cough, tears rolling from my eyes. It feels like something is choking me, but nothing is there. The lights flicker on, then off, and the room grows icy cold. Adrenaline rushes through me.

  “Help!” I let out a strangled cry as I reach for the door. “Someone help —”

  And just as suddenly, the feeling of invisible fingers against my throat passes. I slump to the ground, gasping for air. I wonder if anyone heard me cry out, but the castle remains silent and sleeping. Eventually, my fear subsides and I’m able to crawl back into bed, but I leave the lights on.

  Apparently ghosts can hurt people after all. And they can lie, too. I am enraged.

  The next morning, instead of going down to breakfast, I grab my raincoat and rubber boots to go for a walk in the light rain. Maybe the cold Highland air will soothe me. I walk along the edge of the seawall, and let the chilly drops patter against my face until my cheeks grow numb. I walk, think, and listen to music. Logan might be easy on the eyes, but I’ve had about enough of his interference in my life. I could have been seriously hurt last night. If I can solve the mystery of his death, maybe that will make him go away. It seems like the easiest solution.

  My thoughts are swirling. When I get back to the castle, I want to escape up to my room, but Mom calls me into the sitting room.

  “There you are, sweetie!” she exclaims. “I have something to tell you — I can’t keep it in any longer!” She grasps my hand, kisses my cheek, and pulls me to stand next to Niall, who has risen from his seat. I chance a quick peek at Grandmother Elizabeth, silent in the corner.

  “We have an announcement to make!” Mom says excitedly, and links her arm through her husband’s. A twinkle flashes in her eyes.

  “Aye, well,” Niall says, and his gaze rests on mine for a nanosecond. “It looks as though the MacAllister family will grow by one more, come the spring.” He pulls Mom close and kisses the top of her head.

  I blink. What?

  A sound — not exactly a gasp, but more like a … gurgle — erupts from old Elizabeth. I’m tempted to make the same sound.

  Mom smiles at me. “We’re having a baby! Ivy, you’re going to be a big sister!”

  Surprise has me so choked up, I can’t even reply. My gaze bounces between my mom and Niall. Mom’s smile cracks her entire face in two, and she anxiously awaits my reaction. No wonder she’s been pale and feeling “off” lately.

  “Wow,” I say, totally staggered by the announcement but trying not to look like an idiot. Or a party pooper. “Mom, Niall — that’s great!” I move to hug my mom, but she beats me to it and embraces me so tightly my hat is pushed off my head.

  Over Mom’s shoulder, I peer at Elizabeth MacAllister. Her eyes are locked tightly onto mine. Her face grows redder and redder and she keeps twisting that ruby ring around her finger.

  Suddenly, Niall sweeps his grandmother into his embrace. “So, Gran, what do you think? You’re goin’ tae have a great-grandchild of MacAllister blood,” he says, kissing her cheek. He pulls back and looks at her. “Can you stand another MacAllister running about the place?” he asks.

  “Any babe of yours, my love, is welcome here at Glenmorrag,” she says, but her stony expression implies otherwise. Then she looks directly at me. My insides freeze.

  “Come on, Ivy!” Mom says, putting her arm around my shoulder. “Let’s go into the village and shop. Just us girls.”

  It would do me good to get out of this castle for a bit with everything that’s happened. I agree, and Mom and I leave before Elizabeth can say anything.

  In the car, I almost open up to my mom about Elizabeth’s ha
teful looks. I almost tell her about Logan and how I’d been choked last night. But I don’t want to stress her out. Especially not now. I can’t believe she’s really going to have a baby. Me, a big sister at sixteen?

  We make it into town okay, even with Mom’s erratic driving. There, we stroll over the cobblestones, window-shopping. Mom loops her arm through mine and pulls me close.

  “So, what do you really think about the baby?” she asks.

  I pat her hand. “I think it’s great, Mom,” I answer. “I’m a little shell-shocked, but I’ll get used to it.”

  Mom beams. “I can’t believe it, Ivy. I never thought it would happen again. Any of this, really. It’s like a fairy tale.”

  For Mom, it truly is. For me? I’m not sure what to call my experience in Scotland so far. Not a fairy tale, but a horror story of some kind? Or a mix thereof?

  On our stroll, we pass the library, and I convince Mom to stop in. What better place to research Logan?

  Leaving Mom at the section of new parenting books, I cross the small, plaid-covered atrium and make my way to the reference desk. The scent of old leather and older paper permeates the place. I like it. A young librarian wearing a brown sweater and a yellow-and-orange plaid scarf sits staring at her computer screen.

  “Can I help you?” she asks, her you sounding more like yooh — an accent that’s almost familiar to me by now.

  “I’m trying to find some information about someone from around here who died about two hundred years ago,” I whisper. “It might have been an accident … or a murder.”

  The librarian points over her shoulder. “It’d be in Glenmorrag history books.” She inclines her head. “Just in that wee section over there. Not that hefty, I fear. You can also try the census books. They’re in that room, with the computer. Let me know if you need any help.”

  “Thanks,” I respond, and I head off to investigate.

  I scan the small amount of books on the shelves about Glenmorrag history, but none seems that helpful. Then I check a few of the census books in the 1700s and 1800s range. In the one dated 1750–1850, I happen upon Logan’s name.

  My heart leaps. Logan Munro, born to Mirrah Munro, in the year of our God and Savior, eighteen hundred and thirty-three.

  That’s all it says. Still, it’s a start.

  After we return from town, Mom goes to her room for a nap, and I’m eager to bring my strings back to the rectory. I won’t let Logan, or anything, frighten me away. With my favorite hat pulled to my ears, and my hair in a long, loose braid, I head out to compose.

  The rectory is, as usual, dreary and shadowy. I set up in the farthest alcove — the one with the most light shining through. I tune up, and begin. The whole while, the vision of a ghostly boy in high boots and a billowy white shirt haunts my thoughts. My anger at him, and his bewildering anger at me, drive my bow faster.

  Before I know it, dusk starts to creep in, and although the sun isn’t out enough for there to be a sunset, the sky turns several amazing shades of purple. I stop playing and gaze up, my violin resting on my lap.

  All at once, a cold sensation creeps over me, and a shiver shakes my body. I know — know — someone watches me. My heart pounds.

  Not ten feet away, leaning against the stone wall of the rectory, with arms crossed over his chest, is Logan Munro. And he doesn’t look so angry anymore.

  This time, I don’t blink. I don’t scrub my eyes to make sure I’m not imagining things — I know I’m not. I simply keep my gaze on Logan.

  He doesn’t look away, either. He’s illuminated enough so I can see the faultless cut of his jaw, his pale, smooth skin, and that dark wavy hair. I can barely draw a breath as Logan walks slowly in my direction.

  “I guess you dunna frighten verra easy, Ivy Calhoun,” he says.

  I force myself to clear my throat. “Uh, no,” I respond, surprised he knows my full name. I guess he’s been hovering around, listening in. “I don’t. Even when you try to choke me in the middle of the night.”

  Logan keeps his gaze locked on mine, frowning. “I did no such thing.”

  Now I’m confused. “You weren’t in my room last night? Choking me until I couldn’t breathe?”

  His frown deepens. “Of course not. Why would I do that?”

  “Because you want to scare me away. You want me gone. What did I ever do to you?”

  Logan’s eyes soften, and his intense gaze makes my insides seize. “ ’Tisna anythin’ you did to me. Far from it.” He shakes his head. “ ’Tis this place. Or somethin’ that resides within. As I’ve said before, Glenmorrag’s no’ safe. There’s somethin’ here … unholy. I sense it. And it’s gettin’ stronger, if it was trying to harm you last night. ’Twas not me, lass. I swear it.”

  Logan has moved closer still. He now stands mere inches away, and I can actually feel his energy taking up space. Somehow, I’m starting to believe him.

  “Things have happened here in the past,” he says quietly, his brow furrowing as if in deep thought. “Things that my memory won’t recall. Just be careful, Ivy Calhoun.”

  The way he says my name, with that potent accent, leaves me breathless. I simply nod. “I always am, Logan Munro.”

  That brings a slow, delicious smile to his mouth, revealing straight white teeth. I stand from my seat in the alcove. It brings us closer in proximity than I predict.

  Logan glances down at his booted feet, as if feeling shy. “ ’Tis a dangerous friendship to begin betwixt you and I, Ivy Calhoun. One that could be nothing more than heartache in the end. ’Tis how it is betwixt a human and a spirit.”

  That comment catches me totally off guard. While I’m thinking of how to respond, Logan asks, “Why do you play in here?”

  “I … don’t know. I guess I — it’s beautiful, in its own desolate sort of way.”

  “Beautiful,” Logan echoes, and his eyes linger over my face. I think my heart will slam right out of my chest. “Your music intrigues me,” he adds. “You know, I am a musician myself.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, slim flute.

  “I know,” I say. “I heard you playing. You play … very well.”

  Logan looks like he’s almost blushing. It’s hard to tell with a ghost, I guess. “My thanks,” he says, dipping his head. “That means a great deal, coming from someone with your talent.”

  Now I’m the one who’s blushing. I clear my throat, trying to take the focus off myself.

  “I’m still going to find out how you died,” I tell him, “and why you’re still around.”

  “Aye?” he responds, raising one dark brow.

  I clear my throat but maintain my gaze. “You can either help me or not. Either way, I’m doing it. It may even be tied to whatever else is going on around here. Got it?”

  A slight smile touches his lips. “Persistent gell, aye?”

  “Ivy? Who on earth are you talking to?”

  I glance toward the entrance of the rectory to find Mom and Niall ducking inside. When I turn back to Logan, he’s gone. Or at least, invisible. I’ve no idea what his ghostly capabilities are. I find myself disappointed.

  “No one, Mom,” I lie, gathering my case and music folder and walking toward them. “I was … voicing my music. Remember?”

  She laughs. “That’s right. But it’s getting dark out, sweetie. Come on, let’s go eat.”

  As I walk through the decaying archway covered in ivy, I pause and glance over my shoulder. I don’t see any handsome boys dressed in nineteenth-century clothing. But as I turn to follow Mom and Niall out, a voice — Logan’s voice — whispers low in my ear.

  “May I see you later?”

  I can’t exactly tell Mom that I don’t want to watch a DVD with her and Niall after supper because I have a date with a dead guy. That she and Niall actually want me to hang out with them is a miracle — or, guilt. Plus, Elizabeth is going to bed early, so I’d like to enjoy some time without her around.

  Settling on the floor of the sitting room, at my mom’s fe
et, I try not to act like I’m in a hurry to leave, but it’s hard. Finally, the movie ends, and I wish her and Niall good night.

  The moment I’m out of their sight I’m texting Emma, getting her up to speed on what’s going on.

  I want full details in the morn, luv, she texts back.

  Absolutely.

  As I hurry to the third floor, I’m suddenly unsure. Logan simply asked if he could see me later. Later could mean … much later. Couldn’t it? Maybe I misinterpreted his request? Later in ghost lingo could really mean weeks, or months.

  Oh, boy.

  Just thinking about his request, spoken in his intriguing accent, gives me butterflies in my stomach. Why am I having such a reaction to him?

  I open the door to my bedroom and he’s there, leaning against my bedpost. It’s clear he’s been waiting. A slight grin lifts the corners of his mouth. My insides flutter. This is so much better than my clothes and violin floating through the air.

  “So,” I whisper, closing my door, “why did you stop trying to scare me?”

  In the next instant, he’s there beside me. Maybe two feet separate us. He looks so very real that it takes all of my strength not to try and touch him. Either the room is hot, or my body temperature is rising.

  “Because I’m verra selfish,” he answers quietly. He searches my face, slowly and meticulously. I find myself holding my breath, afraid of what he might think once he inspects me thoroughly. I’ve never given too much thought to my looks, but right now, I’m acutely aware of them.

  His gaze returns to mine. “I suppose after all this time of watching you, I’ve grown to like you. No one’s ever offered to help me before.” He grins. “So I’ve appointed myself as your personal guardsman, since you willna leave, and since there’s something else about.” He pauses and looks at me expectantly. “If you’ll have me?”

  Wow. My own personal guardsman. And a cute one at that.

  Back in Charleston, I had some crushes and went on a couple of dates with a couple of boys. I even was kissed — once. It was nothing special. Never, in the whole of my life, has a boy ever made me feel the way Logan does. I’m pretty positive it has a lot to do with the fact that he is from another century. Modern-day guys seem to lack something, and I guess I never realized that until now.