Midnight Whispers - Paranormal Romance Read online

  Midnight Whispers

  Copyright © 2013, Catherine Bullard

  All Rights Reserved

  Warning: This book is non-transferable. It is for your own personal use only. If this book is sold, distributed, shared or given away, it is considered an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extend of the law.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations and places are solely the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, including events, areas, locations and situations is entirely coincidental.

  Sandstone Publishing Inc © 2013 All rights reserved

  The rain was falling softly, like a cloudy mist, coating Kyra’s fine black dress in a sheet of moisture. She barely felt the cold as she stood in the grass, her spine rigid as the priest’s voice droned on and on, reciting the funeral rites. Her eyes remained fixed on the two wooden caskets that sat next to the freshly dug graves, and she wondered how she could feel nothing at all. No anger, sadness, fear, or regret. She had loved her parents dearly, and their deaths had been both painful and unfair. Shouldn’t she feel something?

  When the rebels had taken control of her family estate she had felt something then. Overwhelming, undeniable fear. The terror had ripped through her like jagged shards of glass as they broke through the heavy oak doors, as they’d hacked and slashed at not just the furniture and family heirlooms, but at flesh and blood. The lovely tapestries her mother had hand-woven were sliced to ribbons, the marble statues her father had looked so fondly upon smashed beyond recognition. Spatters of blood had stained the rugs and the walls, and if one of the servants hadn’t grabbed her and smuggled her out, she knew her own lifeblood would have been spilt as well.

  It was only later she had discovered that her parents hadn’t made it out alive. The constable hadn’t permitted her to view the bodies—one of the neighboring nobles had been called out to identify, likely so that she could be spared the horror of their mutilation. She remembered being angry with that. After all, they were her parents. It was her duty to ensure they were taken care of. But no, she hadn’t even been allowed to handle the funeral arrangements. Everything had been taken care of, so that she’d been forced to sit aside like a lifeless, useless doll.

  Hot tears pricked her eyes now as she stared hard at the caskets. She longed to rush over, to rip open the lids and drink in her fill of their faces before they were forever lost to her. She knew in her heart that the sight would probably give her nightmares for years to come, but something inside her was restless, unsatisfied, despite the numbness she’d allowed herself to sink into these past couple of days.

  The tears scalded her cheeks, startling her into the realization that the rain had chilled her skin almost unbearably in contrast. She felt the moisture begin to cool on her cheeks, but did not wipe it away until after the priest had finished the rites and her parents had been lowered into their graves. As their only child, she was the first to step up and toss flowers into the graves—a parting gift for them to take to the afterlife. As she looked down into the deep, dark holes, she briefly contemplated what it would be like if she fell in and was buried with them. Would she be at peace, like they no doubt were? Or would she shriek and writhe as maggots crawled up the insides of her nostrils?

  Shuddering in revulsion, she moved away, for the first time thankful that she was alive, that they hadn’t dug a third grave for her today.

  At the end of the procession, her Aunt Sylvia approached her; a small woman with silver hair and round spectacles perched on a pert nose. Her black muslin dress was serviceable, though not nearly as graceful looking as Kyra’s taffeta gown. Kyra’s heart filled with dread—she’d known this was coming.

  “It’s very hard to know that they’re gone,” Aunt Sylvia said, taking Kyra’s arm. She brought the black lace parasol she held in her gloved hand up to shield them from the rain—an accessory Kyra should have remembered, but had forgotten.

  “Yes.”

  “I understand that the rebels destroyed everything and took all the family jewels and gold.”

  A lump formed in Kyra’s throat. “I have nothing.”

  Her aunt patted Kyra’s arm sympathetically. “You have me. My home is always open to you.”

  Kyra glanced askance at her aunt. Sylvia lived in a small cottage on a farm in the countryside—the same farm she and Kyra’s mother had grown up on. They were the daughters of an impoverished nobleman who had to resort to working the land to make a living. Kyra’s father had owned property out there at one time, and during his country escapades met and fell in love with her mother. She’d come here to live with her father, but Sylvia had been content to live her life on the farm as a spinster.

  “I have never lived on a farm,” Kyra said softly. “I’m not certain how I will do.”

  Sylvia smiled slightly. “I won’t work you to death, child. But you’ll have a warm roof over your head, a full belly, and clothes on your back. And you won’t be beholden to another noblewoman as a companion or a governess or have to deal with the whisperings of society.”

  Kyra nodded. That much was true. The nobles would likely be divided between sympathy and scorn over her downfall. They were like a ravenous pack of wolves; pouncing on every tidbit of gossip they could get their greedy paws on. Kyra had never taken to that sort of behavior, which was why she’d never made very many friends among them. There were certainly none now rushing to her aid when she was most vulnerable and in need of it.

  “What shall I pack?”

  ****

  They traveled by stagecoach a few days later, with what was left of Kyra’s belongings packed into the valise she had clutched in her lap. It was a miracle she’d had anything left at all to bring. The dress she’d worn at the funeral had been loaned to her and was now returned, and none of her black clothes had survived, so she was dressed in cream sprigged muslin, with a black armband around her wrist to signify she was in mourning.

  The grief had weighed heavily in her heart as she and her aunt had made the last of the arrangements, selling what they could and tying up any legal ends they had to with the family solicitor. Now that they were in the coach, moving away from the tragedy, she felt some of the weight lift from her body. Sitting close to the window, she inhaled deeply now that her chest was not so constricted with sadness, and tasted the spring air. It cleared away the ashes of death that seemed to coat her tongue so liberally these past few weeks.

  Her aunt nodded in approval. “I think the country air will do you some good, Kyra.”

  The stagecoach traveled a full day before they finally arrived. Kyra stepped out of the coach and onto a gravel path, wishing for a bath. She swore she could practically hear the granules of dust rubbing against her skin through the muslin.

  Trying to ignore it, her eyes traveled over the plot of land as she waited for her aunt to disembark, taking in the grassy field peppered liberally with tiny white and yellow flowers. Smack in the center was a charming thatched cottage with baby blue windowpanes and new paint on the walls. Not far off stood a stable and a pig pen, and from the smells wafting her way she gathered both were occupied.

  “What do you think?” her aunt asked after paying the driver and sending the stagecoach on its way. Kyra wondered how she’d managed to get the driver to drop her directly at the farm—usually stagecoaches had specific places they stopped at. But her aunt had always had a way about her.

  “It’s… charming,” she managed, trying her best not to wrinkle her nose.

  Laughing, her aunt patted her on the back, and then moved past her and down the path toward the house.
Kyra followed her in, and was shown to a small, but serviceable room at the end of the hall. After washing up, she allowed her aunt to show her around the farm, introducing her to the dairy cow, the plow horses, the chickens and the pigs. She was taught how to feed and water all of them, and where the tool shed was for days when they would have to muck out the stalls. She was shown where the vegetable patch was as well, and they dug up some carrots, onions and potatoes, and then took them inside for a beef stew.

  The sun had well gone down, and they were sitting at the small wooden table in the kitchen spooning up their bowls when Kyra heard an eerie howl. Her head came up sharply as chills ran down her spine.

  “Did you hear that?”

  Aunt Sylvia frowned. “Hear what?”

  “That howling.” It came again, more sharply this time. “There, that. Did you hear it that time?”

  Her aunt nodded. “We do get wolves roaming the nearby forest,” she said conversationally, but her eyes shifted uneasily. “I would strongly suggest you stay out of there after the sun goes down, or really at all. They are not known to be forgiving creatures.”

  Kyra nodded, but her eyes narrowed slightly at the undercurrent to her aunt’s tone—there was something she was not saying. “I’ll make sure to stay away.”

  They cleaned up and retired early, exhausted from the day’s travel. Kyra slid into sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. Immediately, a dream that was becoming familiar rose up to greet her—an image of her parents walking hand in hand on the manicured lawns of their estate, faces wreathed in smiles as their cheeks were kissed by the sun’s rays. Kyra was a young girl, rushing up to greet them, carrying a small bouquet of freshly picked flowers in her small hands.

  As always, even though she pumped her little legs as fast as she could carry them, the dream changed before she could reach them, the landscape melting from summery outdoors to pitch-blackness inside the manor. Shouts and sobs and death screams tore through the air, along with the battle cries of maddened men. Blood sprayed across the stone walls and carpeting, and she stood in the hall, cowering behind a corner, hoping that no one would find her.

  She heard footsteps shuffling; trembling so fiercely she was surprised the wall wasn’t shaking with the force of it. Torchlight illuminated the hall, and she saw the long shadow of a man. He came around the corner, and she gasped in astonishment. This was not the rebel she dreamed about—the one with blood flecked cheeks carrying an axe, who always swung it toward her head right before she woke up. This man was tall and muscular, with shaggy dark hair that nearly reached his shoulders and a day’s growth of beard on his swarthy face.

  As he turned to face her, yellow eyes gleamed out of the darkness, a hunger in their depths that both chilled her and sent streaks of lightning through her blood. As she stared into them something shifted, her vision wavered, and then the head of a wolf loomed over her, long incisors bared as he stretched his maw and howled.

  With a strangled scream, she jerked up, awake and in her own bed again. It took her some time due to the blood rushing in her ears to realize that the howl wasn’t a part of her dream. The sound of animals baying carried clear across the field and straight through her closed bedroom window.

  Sighing, she wrapped her arms around herself to still her shivering body and lay back against the pillow. The howls continued long into the night, and she did not get very much sleep.

  ****

  The next few days passed, and Kyra gradually settled into country life, becoming more accustomed to farm chores. She asked her aunt once more about the howls she’d heard that night, but Sylvia only shrugged and wouldn’t answer any questions except to tell Kyra to keep away from the woods. But the howl continued, and with each passing night Kyra became convinced that it was more than simple wolf cries.

  One morning, as she was feeding the horses, she thought about this. The howls were infused with a kind of emotion she’d never heard from animals—sometimes an overwhelming joy, others a crushing sadness, and yet others with a kind of fury that had the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. Each one tugged at her heart, building a longing within to find the true source of these sounds that she did not know what to do with.

  Sighing, she finished up with the horses, then returned to the cottage, stomping her boots on the mat before coming inside.

  “Ah, there you are, Kyra.” Her aunt was at the stove, cooking up the morning meal. “Would you mind fetching some water from the well this morning?” She pointed to the wooden bucket sitting by the door.

  “Not at all.” Kyra picked up the bucket. “I’ll be right back.”

  She stepped back out into the sunshine and went to the stone well sitting in the middle of the field. It took her three tries to get it onto the hook, and another two tries to fill it—she’d watched her aunt do it before, but seeing and doing were two different things.

  “Having some trouble?”

  Kyra jumped and turned, the bucket falling from her hands. She bit back a curse as she heard the bucket clank against stone as it fell down the well, and leveled a glare at the person who had interrupted her—a tall, lean man wearing dark brown trousers and a loose cotton shirt.

  “Whoa, there.” He took off his hat to reveal shaggy blond hair and bright blue eyes that twinkled with humor. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  Kyra propped her hands on her hips. “You could have waited until I’d finished pulling the bucket all the way out. Now what am I going to tell my aunt when I come home empty handed?”

  “Now, now.” He waved her concern away as he brushed past her. “I’ll get it out for you right quick.” Dangling the rope, he somehow managed to get the hook around the bucket handle, and hoisted it right up. He then fastened it properly, sent it back down, and filled it.

  “Here you go, miss.” He handed her the now-heavy bucket. “No harm done.”

  “Thank you.” She took it from him, frowning. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

  He grinned again. “I could say the same thing about you. My name is Jake. My family owns the big farm just around the bend.” He pointed past the wooden fencing about a hundred yards away to where a green and white farmhouse stood.

  Kyra smiled. “Ahh, I’ve seen it. It looks like your family is doing very well.”

  Shrugging, he turned back to her. “We do alright. Ms. Woodward is your aunt, I take it?”

  Kyra nodded. “Yes. I’ve been living with her a few days now.”

  “I see.” He studied her for a moment. “You don’t look like a woman who is familiar with the country life. If I were to judge you by your accent alone… I might say you were one of the gentry.”

  Kyra’s back stiffened a little at the slight censure in his voice. “I was…before the rebels attacked our home and killed my parents.” She felt her throat tighten, and forced herself to look away. “It’s why I’m living out here in the country…with my aunt.”

  His expression instantly softened, his eyes filling with sympathy. “I’m so sorry…I didn’t mean to...” He reached out to touch her arm, but she lifted her chin and turned away from him.

  “Of course you didn’t,” Kyra replied, waving him off as if she hadn’t just shared the worst tragedy of her life with a total stranger. “Good day, sir.” She walked away without a backward glance, wishing the lump in her throat would go away.

  ****

  “It seems you’ve received a package, Kyra,” her aunt announced early the next morning.

  Kyra was frying bacon on the stove, but paused to give her aunt her full attention. Sylvia clutched a bouquet of lavender in her hand. Who on earth would be sending her flowers?

  “It came with a note,” her aunt added, handing Kyra a scrap of paper along with the flowers. She took over the stove while Kyra moved off to the side to read it.

  My deepest apologies for offending you yesterday—it was not my intent. I hope these flowers will help convey both my regret to you and my sympathies.

&nb
sp; Sighing, Kyra tucked the note into her skirt pocket, then found a vase for the flowers and set it on the table. While she was arranging them, her aunt slid two plates onto the table with bacon and eggs.

  “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” she asked as they both seated themselves.

  Kyra hesitated only a moment—what harm could it do? She quickly regaled to her aunt the specifics of her encounter by the well.

  “Ah, yes, Jake.” Her aunt surprised her by smiling. “He is a very nice young man. The Whitakers come from good stock, after all. You mustn’t begrudge him his animosity toward the gentry, Kyra. He has good reason for it.”

  Kyra swallowed a forkful of eggs. “And what might that be?” She feigned indifference in her tone, but in truth she was curious.

  “One of his sisters was romanced by a young man, the son of an Earl. He got her with child, then broke her heart without a care before rushing off to marry a wealthy heiress from a highborn family.”

  Kyra lowered her eyes—she’d heard stories of that sort of thing happening all too often, and it was part of the reason why she’d never been able to look upon the majority of the men that ran in her social circles without disdain.

  “That is a sad story,” she said after a moment.

  “He sends her a small sum of money every month for the expenses of the child,” her aunt continued, “but her heart has never quite recovered from the betrayal. Of course it doesn’t help that the poor boy is the spitting image of his father. Amelia is about your age.” Kyra lifted her head. “It’s entirely possible that she could benefit from some female companionship.”

  Kyra finished her breakfast, then pushed back her chair so she could take her plate away. “Perhaps.”

  ****

  When she arrived at the well the next day, he was standing there, his shoulders propped up against the stone rim, his straw hat drawn down over his head. He lifted it, and she saw that quick flash of a grin.