Somewhere My Lass by Beth Trissel

Neil hid the sudden palpitations of his heart behind sarcasm.
    Fergus squared his jaw. “I’m in the Library of Congress now.”
    Considering Fergus was smart enough to hack into a high security Government facility, Neil couldn’t just discount what he said and sat coiled in tension.
    Fergus returned his focus to the laptop. “Mora’s the one with the blow to the head. Maybe she misremembered.”
    “Maybe.” Neil was attributing a heck of a lot to that bump on the head.
    “Holy moley.” Fergus looked up, squinty eyes bulging behind his glasses.
    “Now what?” Neil was almost afraid to ask, yet undeniably intrigued.
    “The castle burned. Just like she told you.”
    Goosebumps scattered down Neil’s arms beneath his sleeves. “So she knows a lot about the clans. They probably teach that stuff in Scottish schools.”
    “She had a tutor,” Fergus reminded him.
    “One clearly obsessed with Highland history.”
    “She said he’s from the Lowlands. Edinburgh to be precise.” Fergus had a comeback for everything it seemed.
    Neil blew out his breath in exasperation, but an insidious dread knotted in his gut.
    “And it’s not just what she knows, it’s the way she knows it,” Fergus added.
    Neil understood exactly what he meant, though he felt strongly inclined to disagree.
    Lowering his voice, Fergus said, “Maybe she’s in tune with the spirit of some Scottish lady who lived back then.”
    Neil eyed him sharply. “Is that a screwy way of saying Mora’s possessed?”
    “The thought has occurred to me.”
    “Your weird mother again.”
    Fergus sat up straighter. “Just because Mom’s into spiritualism and you’re Episcopalian.”
    “Mora’s Catholic, but I’m not carting her off to a priest to be exorcized. She’s already afraid of being burnt at the stake.”
    “Exactly.” Fergus waved one hand at the star filled ceiling. “Who on earth worries about that now days? Besides, I didn’t suggest you should take her to a priest. Mom has this cleansing thing she does.”
    “Stuff it,” Neil growled.
    Fergus scanned the screen. “Cripes!” he startled, using one of his comic book idioms. “The MacKenzies took some relics from a chapel belonging to the MacDonalds.” He stared at Neil. “Maybe that demon dude wants his stuff back.”
    “You think a ghost trashed my room and murdered my housekeeper?”
    “Maybe he was looking for you.”
    Chilled fingers twisted Neil’s insides. “Are you gonna suggest Mora is a ghost too?”
    “Give me back m’ cross ye harpy!” she cried.
    Fergus grimaced. “I don’t know what she is.”
    Wrenie appeared in the hallway, her sopping blue and white waitress uniform clinging to ample curves, short black hair pasted to her forehead, black lipstick smeared. Her heavily made up eyes were even further encircled with black liner that stood out in her white face, her gothic look awash from the wetting she’d received.
    Neil made a mental note to offer Wrenie a bit more compensation for her services, but it wasn’t her soggy state that caught his eye. In her pale hand, shining against her black fingernails, hung the silver cross. The antique relic was suspended from a short chain attached to a pearl necklace.
    Hard on Wrenie’s heels, wrapped in a white towel, red hair spilling over her, was Mora. Even in the low light, the fury in her eyes was evident. Neil looked from the shaken women to the enraged one.
    “What in the world?” he said.
    Wrenie held out the crucifix to Neil. In a halting voice, she asked, “Do you know where Mora says she got this?”
    The cross was vaguely familiar, but there must be more than one of them in the world. “Should I?”
    “Apparently.”
    Mora quivered beneath the towel. “Ye gave it to me yerself, Neil, on our betrothal. Told me never to part wie it,” she said, a catch in her voice.
    “Good God.”
    Fergus directed his attention to Mora. “Why, Mora? Why did he say that?”
    “He dinna tell me. And now he can’t