Chapter 7

7

“Have you known Graeme long?”

Iain showed no sign of returning to his inn-keeping duties. Far from it, he folded his arms and looked at Kendra, waiting expectantly. And the friendly expression on his red-cheeked face made it impossible for her to brush off his question.

Too bad she didn’t know how to answer him.

So she hedged, tucking her hair behind an ear and pretending to examine the photograph of the Josephine trawlermen and the other old pictures. They crowded the entry hall, grouped in collections. And they offered a good excuse for her to peer at the wall.

With luck, the innkeeper would take the subtle hint and return to his public room and the lovely, polished bar awaiting him there.

“Did you and Graeme just meet, then?” He proved what she’d always heard about Highland Scots being exceptionally curious people.

Pennard wasn’t anywhere near the Highlands, but Iain’s soft, musical voice gave away his heritage. Like Graeme, rich Highland blood flowed through his veins, giving him the oh-so-typical burr.

Kendra inhaled and looked away from the photographs, turning to face Iain. Instinct told her he wouldn’t go away until she answered him.

“I’ve known Graeme a while.” She just didn’t say how short that while had been. “But this is my first time to visit Pennard.”

That was true.

And it seemed to please the innkeeper, because he beamed.

“Then you’ll know Graeme’s family has been here for centuries.” There was pride in his voice. “They once ruled these parts, the MacGraths. Graeme keeps to himself and doesn’t speak much of his illustrious forebears. But”—he paused, looking back at the closed outside door—“he’s surely told you about Castle Grath?”

“Of course,” Kendra opted for a white lie.

She also gave him her most confident smile.

But her mind filled with the image of Graeme on the high dunes at Balmedie Beach. His stance had struck her as almost territorial. There’d been something possessive about his attitude, as if he owned every grain of sand on the broad, sweeping strand. A man who believed each blade of grass on the dunes should bend to his will. Such thoughts were fanciful, but they’d come to her at the time.

And hadn’t Janet called him the MacGrath?

Kendra took another deep breath, trying to still her racing mind. If Graeme was some kind of laird or chieftain, he hadn’t said a word. Nor had he mentioned anything about an ancestral castle.

Not that it was any of her business.

But Iain was looking at her as if it was. “There’s a photo of Grath by the door.” He headed that way, leaving her little choice but to follow. “Here she is, in all her fallen glory,” he announced, looking at a large, framed black-and-white picture of a gaunt, ruined tower. “No one has lived there since medieval times. The MacGraths aye seemed to fight on the wrong side of battles in those days, and they made a lot of powerful enemies because of it.”

“They were rough times, I know.” Kendra’s mind flashed again to Balmedie. When she’d first glimpsed Graeme on the dunes, for a beat she’d been sure he was wearing a plaid, much like the Highland chieftains of old. She also would’ve sworn he’d had a long sword strapped to his side.

Such a weapon would suit him.

The image made her pulse race. He would’ve been a magnificent medieval warrior. Proud, bold, and fearless in battle.

Iain tapped the picture glass, indicating Grath’s ruined tower. “Some say it was Alexander Stewart, son of Robert II and known as the Wolf of Badenoch, who did the most damage to Grath, leaving the castle uninhabitable. That would’ve been round about”—he rubbed his chin, thinking—“the late 1300s.

“Thon Stewart was a right troublemaker, rampaging far and wide if the mood took him.” He paused, nodding and smiling at two locals who’d chosen that moment to leave the pub restaurant and walk past on their way to the door. “Whoever slighted Grath”—Iain turned back to Kendra—“left a romantic ruin, wouldn’t you say?”

“It is that.” She stepped closer to the photograph, agreeing completely.

Who wouldn’t?

Little more than a shell, the tower stood etched against a stormy sky. Once circular, only a crescent of age-worn stone remained. Three tall windows, lined vertically, showed the tower had boasted at least four floors. Traces of a winding stair could be seen near the top window, the shallow steps leading to nowhere.

“Where is it?” She traced the barely recognizable stair with a finger. “I didn’t see a ruin anything like this on the drive from Aberdeen.”

“You wouldn’t have.” Iain was looking just as intently at the photograph as she was. “Castle Grath is farther along the coast, a bit beyond the headland to west of here. The high bluff hides the tower. You’d have seen it if you’d driven on past Pennard.”

“I’m sure Graeme will take me there.” She hoped he would.

The ruin was just her cuppa.

Half-standing walls, one holding the outline of a long-disused fireplace, stretched away from either side of the crumbling tower, proving Castle Grath must’ve been impressive in its day.

Above all, the ruin was spectacularly situated on the edge of a cliff, high above the crashing sea. And whoever had taken the photograph had used an artist’s eye to capture the moody setting at its most magnificent. The dark sky boiled with low, angry clouds, while the rough sea gleamed, each long breaker bearing a crest of white. Somewhere the sun must’ve pierced a cloud because the castle’s silhouette appeared limned by eerie silver light.

The play of shadows and darkness and the strange luminosity gave the picture a sense of the surreal. The longer Kendra studied it, the more she expected to see the motion of the sea. She could also imagine the clouds moving, drifting past the tower toward the distant horizon.

“Wow.” It was all she could think to say.

The innkeeper didn’t look surprised. “Aye, so say many folk seeing Grath for the first time. Wait till Graeme takes you there. It has an even greater impact when you see the ruin up close.

“There’s more to the site than the photo shows.” He smiled, nodding again to another local just leaving the pub restaurant. “If you know what to look for, there are piles of grass-grown rubble that were once the earthwork defenses of an earlier fortress.”

“Really?” Kendra lifted her brows, hoping he wouldn’t guess she’d instantly recognize the grassy lumps and weed-grown mounds at such a site. He understandably believed he was introducing her to things she didn’t know. She didn’t want to lessen his pleasure in the telling.

“Och, aye.” Iain bobbed his head. “The castle was protected by the promontory on three sides, but there’s a semicircular ditch that might’ve once been a mote. And the well is easy to spot even though it’s been filled with rocks and debris over the years. The ruins of kitchens, storerooms, and other outbuildings are also scattered about, some quite well preserved. Most exciting of all”—he leaned toward her—“is a stretch of wall with a few pillared archways. Graeme once told me he thinks they must’ve been part of a covered walk to Grath’s medieval chapel.”

Kendra was sure that was true.

As the cliff-top ruin’s site exposed it to the fierceness of the elements, long-ago MacGraths would’ve appreciated shelter from wind and rain when they made the journey from the keep to their chapel.

Kendra flashed another glance at the picture, imagining Graeme striding out from the tower door on just such a stormy afternoon as when the photo had been taken. He wouldn’t have been troubled by the day’s wild weather, she was sure. In fact, she suspected he’d love the rush of the wind, the heavy smell of rain in the air.

He’d embrace the wildness.

She knew that as surely as she could still taste his kiss.

Her pulse quickened on the admission, a sudden wash of heat blooming on her cheeks. But it was true. His kiss had branded her, doing so much more than saving her from Gavin Ramsay’s oily come-on.

Even now, talking about something as innocent as a cliff-top castle ruin with a talkative but kindly Scottish innkeeper, she could hardly think of anything except how badly she wanted Graeme to kiss her again.

Actually, she wanted more.

And that threw her completely. She’d always kept a good grip on her emotions. Her love life—she managed not to wince—had been anything but wondrous in recent years. She just didn’t have the time and energy for a relationship, her interests always elsewhere.

Until now…

When she found herself attracted to a Scotsman and in a situation where so many barriers stood between them that she doubted she could tear them down even if she had Herculean strength.

She made it a rule not to break her word.

Zack and Ghostcatchers had her solemn oath never to reveal her assignments. Doing so could cost them thousands in lost contracts. Worse, any disruptions in her work could risk the much-needed solace for the disgruntled spirits she sought to help.

A romance with Graeme was out of the question.

Hoping Iain wouldn’t see her discomfiture, she assumed her most carefree expression. Then she tucked her hair behind an ear in an annoying habit she’d often tried to curb, failing every time.

“Did Graeme take the picture?” She could tell the photo held passion. Whoever the photographer was, he was more than just talented. She could pick up the deep emotion captured in the photo.

“Nae, he didn’t snap it.” Iain shook his head. “Janet Murray made that picture. You’ve met her.” He glanced at the kitchen door, the one with the PRIVATE sign. “It was about ten years ago, I’m thinking. She used to dabble in photography back then.”

“Janet?” Kendra’s eyes rounded.

“Aye, herself and no other.” Again, a note of pride threaded the innkeeper’s words. “She was a bold lass in those days, afraid of nothing. You can see she was up there on a dark, windy day. Gales can rise then, blowing a body right off the cliffs before you even know what hit you.” He nodded sagely. “And the cliff path is dangerous in any weathers, steep and slippery as it is. Yet Janet went every day.”

Kendra listened with interest. “She must like hill walking.”

“She loved her husband.” Iain shot another glance at the kitchen door.

Kendra blinked, not missing the past tense. “Was he a MacGrath?”

“Nae, Dod Murray didn’t have a whit to do with the MacGraths’ or their castle.” Iain lowered his voice, this time glancing at the open door to the inn’s public room. The buzz of many male voices proved the Laughing Gull was still enjoying a full house. “Dod was a fisherman.” Iain returned his attention to her. “A right good man he was, too. Hardworking, few words, but a big heart, salt-of-the-earth type, if you know what I mean?”

“I do.” Kendra smiled. He could’ve just described her father. “But I don’t understand the connection to the Grath ruin. Or”—she spoke quietly—“is Janet’s husband buried there?”

It didn’t seem likely.

“Ach, nae, he’s not up there.” Iain shook his head. “Dod’s part of the North Sea now, bless his soul. His ashes were strewn on the waves. Janet hasn’t been up to Grath since he died. She used to go so she could see his boat coming in on the tide.

“Janet’s father went down with a herring boat not long after she married Dod.” Iain’s face grew serious. “She ne’er forgot that. It put the fear on her, it did. Dod tried to talk sense into her, but she wouldn’t have any of it, insisting she enjoyed the climb and that was all. Folk hereabouts knew better, of course.”

“What a tragic story.” Kendra had a terrible thought. “I hope her husband didn’t die at sea.”

To her relief, Iain shook his head. “He suffered a heart attack. And”—he straightened then, once again the cheery innkeeper—“I shouldn’t be filling your head with sad tales when you’re just arrived and surely wanting nothing more than your bed.

“I don’t want Graeme fashed with me because I kept you from your beauty sleep.” He winked, already starting for the door into the public room. “Not that a lass as bonnie as you needs the like.”

Kendra looked after him, feeling her face color.

Above all, she felt bad for thinking of Janet as so soured. From what she’d heard, the older woman had reason to be less than jovial. Her devotion to her husband and the emotion evident in her photograph of the ruin proved that she’d once been a woman of passion.

Kendra’s heart squeezed for Janet, a shiver slipping down her spine her as she looked out the window beside the Laughing Gull’s entry door.

Moonlight filtered through the clouds, silvering the narrow road and the marina just beyond. It was another world out there and one that beckoned to her strongly, just as the strange and mysterious had done all her life.

And—she glanced at her wristwatch—at a very early hour Graeme, would be calling for her, beckoning her in an entirely different way.

Her heart raced at the thought.

Good sense told her that when he arrived, the last thing she wanted was to greet him with puffy eyes. She didn’t wear morning well. She also hoped to use the time before breakfast to take a look at the deserted cottage a few doors down from the inn. Experience had taught her to visit such sites only when well rested.

So she tossed one last glance toward the open door to the public room and then the closed kitchen door before she hurried from the entry hall. She took the narrow stairs just as swiftly, glad that the carpet runner dampened her footsteps. It wasn’t likely that another guest would hear her passage and put his head round the door, but she’d traveled often enough to know better than to push her luck.

Some people just loved to talk.

She wasn’t in the mood for such conviviality.

And as she let herself into her small-but-tasteful room, she only wanted to shower and then dive into her bed, pulling the duvet over her head. Her wishes vanished like a pricked balloon when the room’s atmosphere hit her. Wary, she closed the door, chills coming over her.

Something wasn’t right.

The bed had been neatly turned down, as Janet had said. And the promised night dram waited on the bedside table, the tiny bottle and spotlessly clean glass surely a treat for those who enjoyed whisky. There was also a small packet of shortbread, which was much more to her liking. Her suitcase still stood beside the blue plaid chair by the window. And someone, most likely Janet, had thoughtfully lit the night lamp in the room’s teeny bathroom.

Her toiletries stood on the mirrored dresser, exactly where she’d placed them.

The hospitality tray also hadn’t been touched. The electric teakettle, tea packets, and extra packets of shortbread—all looked as they had when she’d first entered the room. Even the tray’s jar of hot chocolate mix remained where she’d left it after making herself a cup earlier.

Yet she felt a presence.

Whoever it was, the energy was strong, lifting the fine hairs on her nape. And—this surprised her—the longer she looked about, the more certain she became that the entity wasn’t in the room with her.

The vibrations came from outside, meaning the source was exceptionally powerful.

Knowing she wouldn’t sleep unless she knew who was causing such a rift in the atmosphere, she went to the window and pulled back the drapes.

She saw nothing.

She’d expected to see the spectral herring fleet, the boats crowding Pennard’s tiny harbor. At the least, she’d tipped on the phone box ghost. It wouldn’t have surprised her if he’d crossed the road and manifested beneath her window.

But Harbour Street was empty, its asphalt shimmering with nothing more ominous than the sheen of the light drizzle.

The few boats in the marina were equally quiet, their crews nowhere in sight.

Pennard was still, nary a ghost anywhere.

But there was a white minivan turning slowly onto Harbour Street from Cliff Road, the steep and harrowing nightmare-of-a-ribbon road that plunged down Pennard’s sheltering bluff.

Curious, she stepped closer to the window. At once, a flash of chills rushed up her neck. When the van drew to a halt near the stone slipway, parking behind her car, shivers also rippled down her spine. Whoever drove the vehicle was the source of the strong vibes she’d felt upon entering her room.

There could be no doubt.

With her heightened senses, she could see energy pulsing around the minivan’s exterior.

The strange luminosity was brightest where bold lettering adorned the van’s right-hand driver’s door. But the light rain and mist blowing along the road made it difficult to read the advertisement’s words.

Taking care to stay behind the curtain, she pressed her forehead to the window glass and cupped her hands around her eyes. But the only word she could make out was Heritage.

The rest was blurred by rain and mist. And just when she scrunched her eyes, trying harder to read the sign, the driver’s door opened and a tall, heavyset man climbed out.

Kendra blinked, certain he must be six and a half feet tall, at least six-four. He wasn’t a hunk. His loose black trousers did show off his long legs. But the effect was spoiled because his white shirt, long sleeves rolled, revealed a good-sized paunch. His thinning hair—red, Kendra guessed, but unable to tell for sure in the dark, wet night—also didn’t enhance his appearance.

Most notable of all, besides his height, were cheeks that shone like polished apples, making him look like an oversized teddy bear.

For a beat, Kendra doubted herself.

Surely such an innocuous-looking man hadn’t been responsible for the heavy air in her room. There had to be another source for the chills that swept her.

But she couldn’t deny the strange shimmer circling his van.

When he set his hands on his hips and looked up and down Harbour Street, surveying the village in a proprietary manner, Kendra knew why the Otherworld was marking him so clearly for her.

He had something to do with the Pennard Project.

But before she could focus strongly enough for one of her spirit guides—or a talkative Pennard ghost—to respond to her and reveal the connection, the man returned to his van and drove away.

Kendra’s chills vanished at once.

She rubbed the back of her neck, glad she hadn’t summoned Raziel, her main spirit guide in the Otherworld. A powerful entity who’d never had a human existence, his messages were often cryptic. Raziel believed she should find her own way. He held disdain for Kendra’s other supernatural contacts, Saami and Ordo, who’d once walked the earth and were more inclined to divulge information when called upon.

Unfortunately, Saami and Ordo enjoyed spirit guidance so much, they spread themselves thin. As a onetime flower child of the 1960s, Saami believed in sharing her love. Ordo, famed in the Viking Age as a far-traveling Norse trader, simply enjoyed keeping busy. They helped many sensitives like Kendra and so they weren’t always available when she needed them.

Raziel, intimidating as he could be, remained her last resort.

So she scanned the street again, making certain the energy she’d felt truly had vanished with the departure of the man and his minivan.

This time, her skin prickled anew when her gaze lit on the shadowed alley between the two cottages where Graeme had taken her earlier.

The mist drifting along the waterfront wasn’t thick enough to hide the man standing there.

He was Gavin Ramsay, staring after the departing minivan with venom in his gaze.

Kendra’s breath caught, her pulse quickening, ratcheting with edginess.

Worse, looking at him turned her blood cold and filled her with creeping ill ease. He wasn’t just an oily Romeo. He had an agenda. And whatever it hinged on, the in-between time when the veil separating the Otherworld and the mortal one was at its thinnest.

Kendra sensed his menace as surely as she knew the remaining hours of the night would fly by at light speed, ensuring she’d waken without enough rest. She’d be doomed to greet Graeme with puffy eyes and a fuzzy mind.

She handled mornings so poorly.

And even as she watched Gavin Ramsay saunter down Harbour Street, making for the cliff path to his house, she knew that she’d need all her wits when the morning sun peeked above the horizon.

She just wondered if Graeme knew the strength of his foe.

Somewhere deep inside her, a strong voice warned that she must alert him.

But how could she explain knowing?

Much later, in the small hours of the night, Graeme stood at the front window of his cottage and watched moonlight glimmer on the bay. He could hear the incoming tide washing over rocks on the shore and the soft chink of boats rocking at their moorings. Mist still hung in the air and a light rain continued to fall, the droplets glittering on the glass panes of his window. Harbour Street appeared quiet, though a few lights twinkled here and there, proving that some villagers hadn’t yet sought their beds.

Jock was also restless.

Well tuned to Graeme’s moods, the dog’s senses were sharpened. Jock had enjoyed enough lifetimes at Graeme’s side to read him. Just now, the dog’s perked ears and his pacing was a sure sign that he knew Graeme was planning to do something important.

Jock insisted on participating in vital matters.

It was tradition.

One they’d kept for centuries.

“We’re almost ready, lad.” Graeme looked to where the dog fretted on the far side of the lounge.

Small and tidy, it was the Keel’s best room, as Highlanders called such rarely used sitting rooms. And with so few visitors as came to Graeme’s door, he saw no point in not enjoying the lounge’s comforts. A peat fire always glowed in the hearth, and the armchair beside the fireplace was worn, welcoming, and never off-limits to Jock.

Instead of claiming a seat on the less-cozy sofa, Graeme left the lounge and went down the dark entry hall to the front door. Jock stayed behind, dropping onto his haunches and assuming his most grieved expression. It was an old trick, as well used as feigning sleep and employed in the hope that Graeme would remain at the cottage and man and dog could enjoy a few hours together before the hearth fire.

Jock’s strategy failed.

Admitting defeat, he padded down the hall, joining Graeme at the door.

“One look, old boy. That’s all.” Graeme reached to pat the dog’s head before he opened the door and stepped out onto the stoop. “I can’t risk doing what we must if there’s even a hint of Ramsay in the air.”

Unfortunately, there was.

Graeme caught his foe’s scent the instant he turned his face into the wind. The smell was faint but unmistakable: a trace of musk and citrus, the costly cologne tainted by an edge of sulfur only Graeme would detect.

Luckily, he could also tell that the whiff of scent was residue.

Wherever Ramsay had been on Harbour Street, he’d left now.

Even so, it didn’t hurt to make certain.

Graeme stepped from the stoop into the street, ignoring the drizzle. He looked across the road, opening his senses as he focused on the bay’s dark, glassy water. All appeared calm, with only a light chop stirring the sea. Moonlight silvered the road and the narrow stretch of shingle beyond. Otherwise, the village was still.

Not yet satisfied, he tipped back his head, clearing his mind. He inhaled deep, probing the night. The air smelled of the sea, cold rain, and peat smoke.

They were familiar smells and made his heart clench.

The essence of this whole coast, the scents reminded him of why he did what he did. They brought home the importance of keeping Pennard safe, preserving village dignity and the pride of place so deeply ingrained in every inch of this magnificent stretch of shoreline.

Graeme took one more deep breath, letting his senses search for his enemy.

Gavin Ramsay’s taint was barely discernible now.

“Ramsay’s no longer about, no’ now.” Graeme glanced at Jock, not surprised to see the dog tilt back his head and sniff the mist rolling down the street. Jock loved mimicking Graeme’s postures.

He growled on hearing Ramsay’s name.

The dog would keep excellent watch when they went into the Keel’s kitchen and Graeme retrieved his Book of Shadows, the ancient Grimoire—a tome of meticulous records—kept by his family ever since they’d been named Guardians centuries ago.

Guardians of the Shadow Wand, that was.

Graeme fisted his hands, wondering as so often, why his clan had to have such a dubious honor placed upon their broad, plaid-draped shoulders.

But he knew why.

In times of old, honor and integrity meant something.

Great and selfless acts done for the greater good were noted and rewarded unnumbered years ago when Scotland was yet young.

And all the railing against the past and the heroic deeds of his forebears wouldn’t change anything.

So he gave Jock’s ears one more rub and then started down the narrow path beside his house. The rock face behind his barrel shed needed checking. It was there, deep inside the cliff’s stone, that the Shadow Wand rested, not far from where young Ritchie Watt had flung himself in his haste to escape Graeme earlier.

To Graeme’s relief, the small area behind his cottage and, more importantly, the bluff itself, felt clean. There was no trace of any visitors. All he sensed was the low pulsing of the Shadow Wand.

He frowned, not surprised when Jock bolted in front of him, his hackles rising as he snarled at the wet stone of the cliff face.

“Thon relic cannae harm us, laddie.” Graeme wished that was true.

It would be true as long as the wand remained where it was.

The Shadow Wand was a highly polished relic of jet and amber, its spiraled length banded by narrow rings of clear, shining crystal. Once the most dreaded weapon of a dark druid named Morcant, the Shadow Wand earned its name for its terrifying ability to draw out a man’s soul if the wand was thrust into a victim’s shadow. The person was left hollowed and died, while the wand fed off the soul’s energy, gaining power for its wielder.

In time, Morcant fed the wand so many souls that a single victim no longer slaked the wand’s hunger.

Morcant soon learned that if he stabbed the wand into the shadow of a tower or stronghold, the souls of everyone within would be consumed by the wand.

When the dark druid’s thirst for power brought about his own demise at the gates of Castle Grath, Graeme’s ancestors took possession of the dangerous wand. The clan’s fate was then sealed, their path forever altered. The old gods, preferring not to delve too deeply into the lives of mortal men, gave the MacGrath chief a span of seven days to decide the Shadow Wand’s fate.

After much debate, clan elders wisely decided to bury the wand deep in the stone of a nearby cliff. There, it would never again see the light of day. Even so, the MacGraths vowed to guard and protect the secret site from anyone who would attempt to make use of the wand and its terrifying powers.

Pleased because the MacGrath chief wasn’t tempted to seize the wand’s power for himself, the old gods smiled on Clan MacGrath, naming them Guardians of the Wand. They were also entrusted with watching over the whole, formidable coast. And, not entirely to the chief’s liking, they were given the magical powers to do so.

From that time onward, every MacGrath chief possessed strong ancient magic and the knowledge to wield it for good.

It was a responsibility Graeme could’ve done without.

But it was also a duty he honored.

The consequences of shirking such a legacy were unthinkable. Even if Graeme occasionally did contemplate walking away, damning heritage and liability, Gavin Ramsay’s odious presence made any such relinquishing of his obligations an impossibility.

Ramsay was a direct descendent of Morcant.

And he’d inherited his ancestor’s penchant for causing trouble and his boundless quest for power. In recent years, he also seemed to be gaining Morcant’s talent for spellcasting and other witchery.

Graeme was certain of that.

He was also fairly sure that Ramsay had guessed Graeme’s most hedged secret.

That like his father before him and his father before him, Graeme had also been granted a lifespan of seven hundred years and a day.

His time ran out in seventy-five years.

He was the last MacGrath.

And he’d take his legacy with him, leaving no future Guardians to suffer his fate. Before he went, he’d fulfill one final duty, even if it wasn’t exactly what his responsibilities demanded of him.

He’d destroy the Shadow Wand.

The relic would never fall into Ramsay’s hands.

Graeme glanced at Jock and went back inside his cottage. He needed to study the Grimoire. A crack had sprung in the cliff face behind the Keel, and it was only a matter of time until the break widened, exposing the Shadow Wand’s centuries-old hiding place.

Most alarming of all, he hadn’t caused the crack.

It was the work of someone else.

And that meant trouble.

He’d been studying the Grimoire for ages, poring over its brittle pages and scrutinizing near-indecipherable text penned in old, faded ink, in search of a way to destroy the relic. Many of the tome’s strange symbols and illustrations were even harder to grasp than the ancient words. So far, he hadn’t found the answer he needed. He had hoped to have time to keep looking.

He’d have to search faster if Ramsay, or some potent energy drawn by his darkness, was responsible for the split in the cliff’s stone.

Too bad haste wasn’t known for improving matters.