Pulling free, she grabbed the shovel from the floor and swung it at his head. He stopped it with one hand, tossed the shovel deep into the crypt, and shoved her against the wall. She flailed with her fists and then lifted her knee. He pinned it between his thighs. She was trapped. She sagged against him, waiting for the blade to plunge, but the only thing she felt was a hard body in damp clothes holding her still.
“Impossible,” he muttered, releasing her. He stepped back, the dagger still red with his blood. “Who are you?”
“I’m Bree. Who are you? Why did you do that?” she asked, staring at his hand.
“To be sure.” He wiped the blade on his kilt and slid it into a sheath at his side. “Where’s Druan?” he demanded.
“I don’t know anyone named Druan,” she said, wincing as she touched her stinging face. At least he’d put the dagger away.
He frowned and leaned closer, studying her cheek. She stood, not breathing, as warm, calloused fingers brushed her face and dark eyes reflected the lantern’s golden glow.
“It can’t be.” He stared at his hand as if it had betrayed him. “You fell hard,” he said, his voice softer, with an accent she couldn’t place. “Are you okay?”
No, she wasn’t okay. There was a dead man talking to her. And he looked familiar. “You tried to kill me.”
“I’m sorry.”
Sorry he’d tried, or sorry he’d failed?
“Where am I?” he asked, muddy fingers grazing the crypt wall.
“Where? New York, near Albany…” She gulped. “Earth.”
“How did I get here?”
“New York, the crypt, or earth?”
“How did I get in a crypt?” he asked quietly, and she knew the question wasn’t intended for her. A better one would be how he’d gotten out—alive. She looked at the disk, still in the lock. Locks weren’t made just to keep things out. They also kept things in. Her stomach took a hard dive. A ghost would be one thing, but ghosts didn’t bleed.
He spun back toward the burial vault. “What year is this?”
She told him, watching as the color drained from his face.
“No.” He rubbed his hands across his forehead, leaving a streak of blood. “A hundred and fifty years.” The words were barely a whisper. Clasping his chest, he moved toward the open door of the crypt. He didn’t move like a normal man; he flowed, like water over rocks in a stream. As if each muscle moved in perfect harmony with the others.
“It’s still here,” he said, staring into the night.
“What’s still here?” Before the question left her mouth, an image of charred earth, smoking and desolate, reared up like a serpent from a forgotten dream. One of her premonitions? She was still reeling when he walked back to where she stood.
“How did you find me?” he asked, his voice gruff again.
For someone who’d just been freed, he wasn’t very gracious. “I followed the map. Who are you? How did you get inside that chest?”
“Chest?” He looked at the burial vault. “I can’t remember,” he said, licking his lower lip.
He was lying. Bree knew it as surely as she knew she wasn’t dreaming and he wasn’t dead. This man wasn’t a ghost. He was a thief. He’d probably stolen her treasure when she wasn’t watching. He couldn’t have locked himself inside, which meant someone had left him for dead. An accomplice? Or was it a joke? He was wearing a kilt.
“Where’s my treasure?” she demanded. She’d searched too long to let anyone steal it.
He swayed and grabbed the wall.
“What’s wrong?”
“The time vault… I need to lie down.”
Time vault? Did he mean the burial vault? “Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor?” Thief or not, she couldn’t refuse him help if he was injured.
“No.” He grabbed her arm, and she felt the strength held in check, although he looked ready to drop. “You can’t tell anyone about me.”
Was he hiding from the person who had locked him in the chest? She’d seen a man in the woods several days ago and a shadow in the graveyard earlier tonight. Then there was the shriek last night that made her skin feel like it had turned inside out.
He leaned his head against the stone. “Need rest.”
Rest? Where? If she called the police she’d have to tell them about her treasure, and she couldn’t take him inside. He didn’t look capable of walking, much less hurting anyone, but that dagger proved he was dangerous.
The man’s eyes closed and his face paled. She’d made countless bad judgment calls in her life, and this might be the worst, but she couldn’t let him pass out here, and she wasn’t about to lose her treasure. The thief must know where it was hidden or who’d taken it.
“Let’s get you inside the house.” It wouldn’t be the first time she’d taken a risk. Besides, her friend Jared should be back from his trip soon. He could give her a hand. Bree retrieved the lantern and carried it back to where the man waited. He raised his head, giving her the first grateful look since she’d freed him. “Do you need help?”
He nodded stiffly, his expression grim.
She moved closer, and he dropped an arm over her shoulders, leaning his body into hers. He smelled like dirt and leather and rain. A feeling settled in her chest, like recognition, and she wondered if she was dreaming. She put her arm around his waist. Solid. Real. Wet? How had he gotten wet? It hadn’t rained in weeks.
“Wait,” he whispered. “The time vault. I have to cover it… can’t leave the key.”
Why? Questions bombarded her, but she left him leaning against the wall and approached the burial vault. Bree reached for the lid, and her breath caught when she saw the inside of the chest. It was green, like the stones on the outside, but there was no time to explore. She’d have to come back later. She closed the lid and pulled the disk from the lock. Nausea rose in her throat as the metal grew hot in her hand. She wanted to hide the disk, bury it where it would never be found.
After the queasiness subsided, she struggled with the stone cover, then he was there, pulling with her. The lid scraped as it dropped into place. If this was his weakened state, she couldn’t imagine him full strength. She was crazy to consider taking him inside, but if he was going to kill her, he would’ve already done it when he had the dagger against her jugular vein. He not only hadn’t hurt her, he’d even seemed concerned about her fall. Or was she making excuses because the mystery of a lifetime stretched before her, beckoning like the yellow brick road?
He leaned against the vault, and a trickle of water dripped from his hair onto his face. There was a knot on the back of his head. “How did you get hurt?” she asked.
“I don’t remember.”
The knot looked big enough to cause amnesia. Maybe he wasn’t lying.
He held out his hand. “Give me the key.”
“The key?” She looked at the antique disk that had hung on her great-great-grandmother’s mantel for generations. “It’s mine.”
“Please.”
She didn’t know why he wanted it, but judging from the pallor of his face, if they didn’t get inside soon, she’d have to drag him or call for help. She could get her disk back after he fell asleep. He put it in the worn, leather pouch hanging over his groin, a sporran. She’d never seen a real man wear one, but then again, she’d never seen a real man in a kilt.
He slipped his arm around her shoulders again, and they staggered into the still September night. No frogs croaked or crickets chirped. No owl’s eerie call. A stab of unease prickled her spine at the lack of sound. They were both panting by the time they made it to her back porch. Having him pressed to her side, body to body, was doing strange things to her senses, and his scent made her long for something she didn’t understand. She opened the back door, and they moved into the kitchen. “Do you want something to eat? Water?”