Chapter One

Graystone Castle had been operating as a bed-and-breakfast for several years before the games came to the small town just north of Edinburgh. And as every hotel room, B and B, guesthouse and short-term rental in the area filled up with visitors, so did Graystone Castle.

Carly MacDonald checked in alone, smiling as she chatted with the man working behind the desk, Aaron Miller—according to the nameplate on the desk—a fellow of about thirty-five or so, medium in height and stature, with friendly brown eyes and a mop of thick brown hair.

He accepted her driver’s license and credit card politely, but she wanted to get him talking.

“This is fantastic!” she told him, as if she were unable to hide her enthusiasm. “Incredible and wonderful. I’m staying in a real castle! Oh, and of course, you...you work here? You own the place?”

She already knew he owned it. And if evil deeds were afoot as they suspected at headquarters, he was most likely the perpetrator. And with what had happened back in the States...

It was important that she keep up her charade, that of a starry-eyed American who was thrilled to be staying in a castle.

“I got lucky!” he told her. “The place was truly going downhill, and I managed to get a great loan. I mean, how many Americans get to buy a bona fide castle? Okay, so it’s no Buckingham Palace. But here’s a map for you.”

“Wait! You are the owner?” Carly asked, accepting the map of the place he handed her.

“I, um... Yeah. Sorry. Aaron Miller. And, yeah, it’s cool! And you can do lots of exploring and imagine the good old days—or not so good, sometimes. Bad things happened here, too. Of course, the place was built in the 1400s originally, and you know, the Scots and English were at one another’s throats forever! Disloyalty, well, you know. Hangings, beheadings...but I guess it was cool if you were royalty—on the right side of whoever had the most power! So. Here’s the courtyard in the middle surrounded by four walls. Three floors, the third being the museum part of the place—you’d be surprised how much medieval stuff you can still get at auctions and yard sales here. The second floor is guest rooms, first floor we have the kitchen—new and modern—the dining hall, the ballroom, the entry—where we are now—and the sports room with the great doors to the courtyard. So! I take it you’re here for the Highland Games?”

“Oh, yes. My grandparents were from Edinburgh!” Carly told him. “They’re gone now and I grew up in Daytona Beach, Florida. But...I guess I’m here in their memory! Thanks so much. I’d love to talk more about the history of the place. It’s so fantastic! I’m so jealous—I’d love to own a castle!”

He was looking at her oddly and she grinned. Genetics could be strange. Her father’s parents really had been born in Edinburgh and she knew the area well—part of the reason she’d been chosen to go undercover here. But her mother’s mom’s parents had been born in what they called Persia and was now modern-day Iran. She had inherited dark hair and amber eyes from that branch of her family, and she probably didn’t resemble at all what someone might think of as a Scottish American.

“I, umm—” he began.

“Right. I don’t look Scottish. Perfect American!” she told him, grinning. “A mix of many backgrounds. Hey, I had one great-great on my dad’s side who fought in the American Revolution. Anyway, whatever mix I am, there’s a part of me just still not believing I get to stay in a real castle—and wishing I could buy one!”

He laughed. “Does your family know you’re staying in a real castle?” he asked her.

His accent was strange. Scottish? Someone wanting to be Scottish or pretending to be Scottish? Maybe he was thinking that a Scottish accent was a better way to welcome tourists to a Scottish castle.

“Are you kidding? I didn’t tell anyone. Couldn’t afford to bring them on a trip like this—and it’s just one that, well, I’ve wanted forever.”

“So, no one knows you’re staying here. I’ll keep the secret!” He smiled. “And I got ya! I grew up in Chicago. I wanted a castle, too! Well, of course, honestly, I could never have afforded it if I hadn’t turned it into a bed-and-breakfast. Oh, yes, complete breakfast every morning. I hope you’ll love your stay.”

“Oh, I know that I will!” Carly assured him. “I know I will!”

“Happy to have you,” he told her. There was an odd note in his voice as he said the words, and something about the way he looked at her.

She smiled, accepted her key, hugged the map and headed up the steps to the second floor, ignoring the newly installed elevator—for the time.

Of course, considering what they were up against, the elevator itself might be a murder room. Still, if a killer was being clever at all, his mechanisms wouldn’t be so public and so obvious.

He’d grown up in Chicago. He’d always wanted a castle. And there had been something about the way he’d said he was happy to have her...

And happy, of course, that no one else knew she was here.

In her room, she first threw herself on the bed, pretending to love the ambience of the room. She stood after a minute, walking to the drapes, opening them, looking out at the courtyard. There were handsome lawn chairs grouped together within areas of beautiful foliage, a croquet setup, a tennis court and a nicely modern hot tub.

It was really the perfect vacation place.

But there was a camera in the room somewhere—that was the way the members of the Holmes Society worked. And she was being watched right then. That was something that could get the man arrested.

But there was much more at stake.

Human lives.

Still, she didn’t want to be watched. She had to find the camera and a way to innocently cover it. Hopefully, it wasn’t in the ceiling.

It wasn’t. It was conveniently close to the closet, hidden behind a hook. Perfect.

She hung her jacket on the hook, blinding the camera. This man might well be an acolyte of Holmes, but he was nowhere near as clever. Now...

If the room itself was rigged, he was going to have to assume he’d knocked her out or killed her with noxious gases.

And now, with the camera knocked out, she could assure her gas mask was within easy reach, still hidden among her things should he enter her room unannounced, but easily available when she needed it.

Cameras in the room might be enough to bring out local authorities. But how long would it take and just how deeply might they investigate? And if someone here was in danger...

Could they be found quickly enough?

It was time to roam the castle. She’d start with the third floor just like a good tourist. Out of her room, she took the next flight of stairs to the third floor, where the man had, indeed, displayed his many historic treasures. Against the raw stone of the castle walls, the items truly appeared to be museum quality. He’d done an amazing job. Tables displayed medieval combs, perfume bottles, tankards and more. Coats of arms, from many families, filled the wall, along with...

Shields. Knives, swords, crossbows...

She could only wonder if any of them had been used recently.

There were a few other people in the museum. A mom with two boys stood nearby, and she smiled as they acknowledged each other. A pair of older teens, a young woman and a young man, obviously on a date. And a man studying one of the old paintings on the wall intently, uninterested in the others.

So, has anything in this room been used recently?

And were the old dungeons in use again, with a rich cache of torture and killing machines, old and new? After all, H. H. Holmes had made use of something resembling a medieval rack.

This was a castle. And a killer was playing a cunning game.

She had to play it better. Play to naivete. Find her way to the basement...

Or, as it had once been and might now be, the dungeon.

A dungeon, equipped as the basement of the Holmes’s Murder Castle had been equipped in Chicago in the 1800s.

She had to find it.

Before it could be put to further use.

The driving time from south of London to Edinburgh could be as much as seven-plus hours—depending on traffic, just like anywhere in the world. Knowing that another agent was already in play didn’t make Luke happy. They all knew they were up against something so evil that describing it as heinous would be an understatement.

But he put a call through to Carly. She answered it cheerfully, greeting him as if he were a long-lost friend. He knew, of course, she was worried her calls might be heard, accessed or even recorded. Which would be fine. They both had new burner phones.

He and Carly had never met but he greeted her with the same enthusiasm. She went on and on, assuring him she was fine, telling him about a marvelous museum full of shields and weapons and even medieval household goods.

“Lots of hours of daylight left! Oh, feel free to call again. I’ll probably head to bed at about ten, which is hours and hours and hours away. There are games tomorrow, and I want to be there bright and early, so...”

Ten. Ten o’clock at night was the witching hour. She’d been letting him know she’d studied the situation and nothing happened during the daylight and early evening hours. Probably because the owner/manager/desk clerk had to keep his eye on those who were associated with locals or even playing in the Highland Games until he was clear to work on his Holmes Society business without failing as a host.

Luke had received the report regarding what they knew about the disappearances in the area. And what they knew about the man calling himself Aaron Miller.

The curious thing about the man was that his fingerprints gave them nothing. His face came up in no version of facial recognition. He was apparently American—despite his strange accent and speech—and he had purchased the place as an American through a bank in the Cayman Islands.

Who he really was, no one knew, but according to the law, he’d done nothing wrong. He had no record.

He had no past at all.

It had been Adam Harrison, founder of the Krewe of Hunters, who had heard of a friend disappearing while they headed to enjoy a stay at a bona fide castle. Adam had engaged Special Agent Angela Hawkins Crow to research the disappearance. She was second in field command to her husband, Jackson Crow, and a simple genius when it came to finding out information through a computer.

She hadn’t found his friend.

She’d found other disappearances. And since Luke had been the agent to discover the horror in the United States...

Luke was here now, driving as fast as he dared without bringing down the local authorities to reach the castle north of Edinburgh.

The concept behind the horror going on was still mind-boggling—even to him, and he’d seen a lot of the bad that humanity could perform during his years with the FBI. And yet, in this age of social media itself being a major influencer on the beliefs of millions—perhaps billions—of people in the world, the dark web finding followers shouldn’t be so shocking.

But that the means and methods of a historical serial killer could be embraced by a group—a society—still seemed to be something beyond horrid. While there had to be a main player—a founder for such a group—they were left to scurry around finding the membership and whatever castles or schemes the killers might have concocted to emulate Holmes.

At first, Luke had believed the so-called society would be based and working in the United States. After all, H. H. Holmes was known as America’s first serial killer. But then again, there were those—including the man’s great-great-grandson—who believed that Holmes had traveled to London and been known as Jack the Ripper there.

None of his guesswork or theories mattered right now. Mason Carter and Della Hamilton were working at a suspected site in France while he had been sent to London and Carly had been sent to Edinburgh. Since their “special” unit of the FBI was still under formation, most of their technical help had to come from headquarters in the States; when boots on the ground were necessary, it meant that they had to move quickly.

Halfway through his journey north in the United Kingdom, he wondered if he should have asked about getting a chopper for a lift to Edinburgh. He could have gotten a car from some agency in the area. Headquarters had let the local authorities know that foul play was suspected; they had been already aware, but local queries had given them nothing.

They were standing by and ready to assist.

But he’d decided that coming in as another American tourist was the best plan. He called Carly’s number and was grateful to hear her answer. She once again told him about the beauty of the place and how she wanted to head to the Orkneys afterward to study stone monoliths there that might have been precursors to Stonehenge. But he didn’t mention he was going to come in himself just in case their host was savvy enough to be monitoring calls and texts.

He didn’t have that much farther to go, just a few hours more, and she should be fine.

But he had to keep a strict hold on his use of logic and theory here.

Because he had been the one to go into the “castle” in the States. He’d been the one to find Special Agent Brenda Roberts on the table in the dungeon, and he’d been too late to stop the horror and torture she’d suffered. He tried many times to remember that he’d stopped the killer before he’d finished with Special Agent Julio Rosello, and that Rosello was now recuperating at a hospital in New York and expected to make a full recovery.

He just knew he’d never live with himself if he arrived too late again.

There had been two of them there. But Angela hadn’t discovered the dark-web society of imitating killers until after the case—well, until after the case that had only been the beginning. They hadn’t known then the disappearance they were investigating might have been the result of knockout gases and other forms of rendering a victim incapable of fighting back. They hadn’t known about the many cameras and listening devices and chutes to dispose of those too quickly done away with. They hadn’t been expecting a modern version of an H. H. Holmes Murder Castle, one that made subtle and cunning attacks so much easier and...

So much more enjoyable, according to Gary Houghton, the killer whose death Luke had been forced to order to save an agent’s life.

Watch them, watch them inhale the gas, watch their horror as they realize something has gone very wrong. They can’t reach help as the room is spinning. And then! Watch them when they see they’re bound to a table and next to it there are all kinds of knives and razors and then...

He gritted his teeth and gave himself a serious mental shake. He needed to be a true professional. He needed to remember both procedure and instinct. He needed...

He’d gone to the site this morning and they’d found the remains of the dead. That killer was still out there—somewhere. Billingham was on it.

But Carly MacDonald couldn’t really understand what she was up against yet. He needed to get there; he needed to concentrate.

And stop whatever was about to happen to her, no matter how aware and savvy she might be.

Carly found the stairs to the basement.

They were hidden behind a large board that had been covered with information regarding the Highland Games.

She pretended to be studying the names of contestants in the caber toss as others passed her, two women in their early twenties, giggling about “what men wear under their kilts,” and a married couple with a boy, talking about another son who was taking part in the games.

When they had passed her by, she slipped behind the large board. And as she suspected, she found the stairs.

Ancient, chipped stone. They led down to pure darkness.

Well, at one time, the basement or dungeon here had been a place for prisoners. She could imagine that during Scotland’s history much of it had been very bloody indeed. The space below had seen a great deal of pain, suffering and death.

She hesitated just a second, wondering that with all the death that had gone on...

The castle was advertised as haunted, of course. But so far, she hadn’t encountered any of the departed. Maybe they were there, just watching. Maybe they were enjoying the show.

She doubted that. Since her first encounter with a dead World War II soldier at Arlington, Carly had not met a single soul who was evil. That made her wonder, of course, if there really was a hell, a place of eternal fire, or perhaps just eternal darkness.

She did know that sometimes good souls stayed behind and befriended one another, and they seemed to have a mission that had to be completed before they moved on. Some stayed for their own families. Some stayed to help find their killers. Others stayed without really knowing why, other than to guard a place perhaps, or be there when they were needed, whatever place in time that might be.

“I could use a friendly haunt!” she said softly.

Wrong move.

No haunts appeared.

But a minute later her host was there, calling out.

“Hey! Hey, get back up here, please! This area is off-limits to guests. Way too dangerous. Please!”

Furious with herself, she forced a smile and started back up the steps. She had a coworker heading her way. When he arrived, one of them could occupy their host while the other headed down to the basement/dungeon.

She now knew the entry.

That would make it easy.

“Oh, hey, I’m so sorry!” she said, going up the stairs and looking at Aaron Miller as if she were truly upset with her lack of proper guest behavior. “I guess...I love the place! I am so, so fascinated. I realized there were steps behind the board—”

“Yes. Behind the board. Dark, dark steps! Hey, we have liability here, too, you know,” he said, truly annoyed with her. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to—”

“No, no, please, please! Don’t ask me to leave. I promise. I’ll stick to the well-lit areas where I know we’re allowed to be!” she swore.

He smiled at that. “No, I wouldn’t want you to have to leave. In fact, it would be great if you were to stay forever!”

He wasn’t lying, she knew. He’d love to have her forever—buried somewhere in the castle walls!

“You’re too sweet!” she told him. “And I promise, I’ll be a better guest! Oh, what do you suggest for a dinner place? I’m going to head out and get something to eat, and then I’m going to go to sleep to get ready for my early day tomorrow!”

“Oh, I like Micky’s—it’s casual, but truly local. They serve haggis!”

She smiled. “I hear that there’s fantastic fish in this area.”

“Nothing like Scottish salmon!”

“See you later!” she said. She started up the steps to the second floor and then asked, “How do you do it? You own the place, you run the place—”

“I have a great cleaning crew, and I have little notes to put on the registration desk that say ‘Back in five minutes!’ so that I can escape now and then and check on everyone’s welfare.”

“You do an amazing job!” she told him.

He smiled. “You haven’t seen the half of it yet!” he said lightly. In a teasing manner.

She smiled as if she were even more impressed. She’d never see the other half of what he did—not if she was half the agent she had worked hard to be.

She hurried back up the stairs, deciding she really would go and get something to eat. He probably hadn’t lied about the local restaurant being great.

But before she left, she returned to her room and moved things about, making sure she knew where everything was—exactly—so that she’d know if anyone had come in while she was gone.

Because Aaron certainly had access to his guests’ quarters.

Once out, she found her rental car parked in the sweeping drive that fronted the castle. With the restaurant’s address in her GPS, she drove toward food.

Food was definitely necessary, though she hadn’t thought about it until she’d been caught in the stairwell.

The restaurant was charming. The building that housed it was nowhere near as old as the castle, but it had a charming Victorian facade. She was greeted by a friendly young woman who led her to a table while welcoming her to the games and the area.

“I heard the salmon is good?” Carly said.

“The best!” the young woman said. Then she grinned. “Micky is my dad, and I do think we have the best place and food to be found for miles!”

Carly thanked her, and when a young waiter came to her table, she ordered the salmon.

When he was gone, she quickly dialed the number she’d been given for the Krewe “Blackbird” agent who was on his way to her.

He answered his phone on the first ring. When he spoke, she frowned. He sounded anxious.

“Carly. Are you all right?”

“Fine, thanks,” she assured him. “I’m out of the castle—that’s why I’m calling. I just wanted you to know I’m sure we’re on the right track.”

“You’re sure?”

He sounded doubtful. She gritted her teeth but refrained from an offended reply.

“Yes. Things he says...the way he says them. Yes, I’m sure. But I also wanted you to know I found the stairs to the old dungeons, the basement. But before I could head down, he was suddenly there. You can find them on the first floor if he’s not at the registration desk when you get there. He’s put up a massive wooden chalkboard-type thing to block them, but they’re right behind it.”

“Right. I’ll check in when I get there—soon, within a couple of hours—and we need to do some slipping around. I don’t know this guy, but I know the way a lot of what is being done works. We need to spell each other sleeping.”

“You mean—”

“Yes, slip into one room or the other, one sit up while the other sleeps and vice versa.”

“Oh.”

“Even then, we need to take extreme care. Gas masks—we can’t count on avoiding all the tricks, even as two people. We need to use extreme care.”

“All right. So, I’m having dinner and then heading back. I’ll see you when you get there.”

“Driving as fast as I can without a British arrest.”

“I’m fine. Take care.”

She ended the call and stared at her phone. She hoped he wasn’t one of the—albeit few, but out there—agents who didn’t think a woman could be as effective as a man.

If so, on this, he was wrong.

A man like Aaron would prey on those he saw as weak, as perfect victims. And she wasn’t any fairy-tale princess who needed saving from the tower.

Then again, maybe she was being a jerk, judging him before she met him. And maybe he had the right to be so cautious—she had read the reports. He had been the one to go in and end the reign of America’s most recent H. H. Holmes Society murderer.

Her food arrived quickly, along with a delicious cup of hot tea. She chatted with the waiter, smiled and told him she was there for the games.

He was excited and told her he was happy he worked the late shift—he’d be at the games the next day, too.

It was just starting to grow dark when she left the restaurant. When she entered the castle and headed for the stairs, she saw Aaron was at the registration desk.

“Best meal ever! Thanks for the advice!” she told him.

He nodded and smiled. “Local food! And reasonable.”

“It was great.”

With a wave, she headed for the stairs. She hesitated. She and Luke had talked about guarding one another in the bedrooms.

Still, she needed to go in.

She studied the room, glad she had set her trap.

He had been here. Her things, so carefully laid out, had been moved. She quickly looked at her luggage, digging through her clothing, hoping he hadn’t gone that far.

It didn’t appear as if he had found her gas mask, carefully wedged between her heavier clothing. He was damned good if he’d almost gotten everything back to the way she had set it up before leaving.

Well, he could just be a voyeuristic creep, she reminded herself.

No, this all fell into place too completely. His mention of Chicago, whether he was really from there or not. The way that he talked, even the way he had looked at her while he talked. The castle. The fact his name didn’t come up anywhere...

And he thought that mentioning Chicago, buying a castle, was so tongue-in-cheek, as if he laughed at his own jokes, inwardly certain she didn’t have a clue she was being teased by a serial killer—and that, indeed, she hadn’t seen the half of it.

Well, he was wrong. All that was left to do was wait.

To that end, she secured her gas mask beneath the covers in her bed, slipped out of her jeans, shirt and shoes and into a nightgown—before lifting her jacket from the supposedly secret camera and frowning as she looked at it, pretending to dust an unseen particle of something from it.

She crawled into bed then, pretending to close her eyes, to draw the covers over her head to protect against the smidgen of light coming into the room from the moon that had risen in the night sky. Of course, there were drapes, but for her purposes, she hadn’t drawn them.

She waited.

And she instantly smelled the slightly sickly-sweet odor that began to fill the room. She dipped her head deeper into the bed, finding the gas mask, drawing it to her face.

As she had expected, the door opened. She carefully looked out from her cocoon of covers.

It almost appeared as if a monster had arrived in the room.

Well, if he was all that she thought, he was a monster.

He arrived dressed all in black with a cowl over his head, eyes covered with a mask—and the gas mask he was wearing all in black as well.

He stared at her form as she lay on the bed.

And then he walked closer and closer...

When he reached her at last, he was laughing.

Which was good.

He wasn’t ready for it when she sprang up, slugging him hard in the jaw.

He reeled back, swearing, but quickly regained his composure.

“Oh, no, oh, no! You bitch!”

She leaped to her feet. But as she did so, her mask slipped, and for a moment, the room began to reel. His laughter cut through her like a knife.

He wasn’t quite as weak and spineless as she had hoped. Before she knew it, he was at her side, laughing still as he swept her up into his arms, warning her, “I told you. You haven’t seen the half of it, no matter who you really are, you bitch!”

Out of the room, she felt as if the weakness and dizziness that had seized her disappeared. But they were heading out; he was easily carrying her down one set of stairs and along the first-floor great halls until he reached the giant board and pushed behind it.

They were then heading down the stairs she had discovered earlier...but not been able to follow all the way.

She could have fought then.

But she waited.

She needed to see the basement—or dungeon—and just what it entailed.

First, it was huge, covering the length of the one hall.

It contained more strange torture devices than she had ever imagined; he would have done the Spanish Inquisition proud.

Human cages lined the ancient stone walls, along with chains. Scold’s bridles were lined on a stone shelf. The room even had a guillotine.

There were three different racks, all equipped with thick ropes.

One was not empty. A once-pretty girl lay upon it, sobbing and screaming as she realized he had returned to the area.

There was a table by the young woman’s side that contained every imaginable kind of blade, from heavy curved knives to slimmer shimmering blades that appeared like scalpels.

Several of them were covered in dried and crusted blood as if they had already seen use...several times.

It was time to fight. Her head was clear; they had reached his objective, where he had all kinds of weapons—but weapons she could use as well.

“Now! Now you’ll see the other half of it!” he promised.

She bucked hard against him, slamming his jaw with her right hand, startling him this time, since he had thought her knocked out.

A high kick caught him in the groin, and he doubled over in pain. Still screeching, he ran around the table, seeking his trove of knives.

He picked one up, ready to throw it.

She ducked. The missile slammed against the stone behind her.

“I will get you!” he vowed. “No!” he declared suddenly. “I don’t need to get you. I will make you so damned sorry and then I will cut you to ribbons, too! But first, watch!”

He grabbed another of the knives, this one a curved blade, like a bowie knife.

“No!” Carly shrieked, praying she could reach him and stop the blade before he could thrust it into the sobbing young woman tied to the rack.

She didn’t get a chance to move.

A shot suddenly rang out, a deafening blast of noise against the ancient stone backdrop where they all stood.

She realized her new partner had arrived.

And he had blasted the knife from the man’s hands with a perfectly aimed shot, sending him falling to the floor with shrieks of agony.

Carly stared at their rescuer but the light down here was low. She saw nothing but a tall man making his way toward the rack.

“You’re all right. You’re all right now!” he said gently, and Carly realized he was talking to the young woman on the table.

She kept sobbing, but begging him at the same time, her words barely coherent. “Get me out of here, please, please, please. I’m bleeding. I’m scared. I’m...”

“It’s all right!” he said.

By then, Carly was at his side.

“I’ll free her—you get him,” she said. “Please.”

He nodded to her, turning back to the H. H. Holmes Society member known to them as Aaron Miller. But even as he turned to reach down and drag the man to his feet, Aaron let out another deep and terrible scream.

He had another knife.

Special Agent Luke Kendrick instantly began the perfect move to wrest it from him.

But not before the man managed to thrust half the blade into his own chest.