All My Broken Dreams (Locksley Hall #1)

Chapter Fifteen

R obbie’s eyes adjusted to the dark enough to see the clock on the mantel. Midnight. She’d been asleep for nine hours?

She had lit the gas fire in Harry’s room to drive out the chill and musty smell, and then spent most of the afternoon cleaning the flat and unpacking. When that was done, her shoulder was killing her so she laid down on the sofa, bone weary, and dropped off to sleep.

It was dark when she woke, startled out of a dream by the sound of footsteps on the creaking stairs. The steps paused outside her door and she instinctively knew they belonged to Deacon. The front door opened and closed with barely a whisper.

Wide awake, Robbie flung back the throw and leapt from the sofa. She had taken off her jeans to clean the bathtub. They were hanging on the hook on the back of the bathroom door. She pulled them on, grabbed her duffle coat and reached for the doorknob.

Robbie hesitated, trembling, sweat cooling her palms.

He was still in the street. She could hear his footsteps echoing along the cobbles. Deacon Wake knew where her brother was, she could feel it. He was possibly going to him right now. Possibly shielding him from the organization that Mrs. Cameron had talked about.

Harry could have any number of reasons for skipping out and disappearing. He had a better relationship with their mother than Robbie did, but Sarah smothered him. He used to complain about it when he was a teenager. Their mother became hyper-vigilant when he turned sixteen, seeing danger around every corner. Her biggest fear was that her only son would be abducted. Since Harry was over six feet tall and a linebacker in school, Robbie thought Sarah was being paranoid.

But she wasn’t being paranoid because Harry actually did disappear.

Intentionally to get some space? Or was Sarah Listowel right and Harry had been taken.

Taken by a powerful father who decided it was time to claw his flesh and blood back.

And then there was the mysterious Deacon Wake. How was he involved? There was a connection between them that Deacon was hiding from her. No proof, just a gut instinct that told her this trip was important and could have the answers she needed.

Her hand hesitated, refusing to turn the knob. Where Deacon was going was none of her business, her illness reasoned. There was no sense in following him when she could just ask him when he got back.

Harry left a message because he needs help. If you let this chance slip away, Sarah will hate you for the rest of her life.

Only a powerful desire to prove her mother wrong was incentive enough to turn the knob and step into the foyer.

Then came the front door.

Her chest felt like it was stuck in a vise when she opened the door. The night air was crisp and fresh with snow. She hesitated, controlling the queasy sloshing in her stomach.

You don’t have to do this. He’s probably just checking on the cats. Go back inside .

Robbie took three deep breaths, closed her eyes and stepped outside.

The front door slammed behind her.

Only then did she remember that she didn’t have a key to get back in. Mrs. Cameron was going to have one made for her. The door to the flat was unlocked but the front door to the building wasn’t. She had no choice but to follow Deacon Wake. He was her only way back inside.

Snow misted the lamplight and softened visibility. She couldn’t hear his footsteps at first. Then there was a slapping echo along the cobbles. His pace was slow; she could easily catch up, as long as she trailed far enough behind to keep him in sight but avoid notice.

She followed him through a series of twists and turns down narrow laneways until he reached a stone gothic archway sealed with a heavy wrought iron gate. Deacon withdrew a key from his coat pocket and with a twist, he yanked it open and ducked inside.

Before it could swing shut, Robbie darted between the gap just ahead of the clang of metal connecting with stone.

The alley was constructed of brick, like a passageway of some kind. Deacon strode ahead through the swirling snow and then he vanished out of sight.

Casey Manderville lounged in front of the fire, his eyes closed, one arm hanging languidly over the edge of the sofa, while the other rested on his narrow chest.

His cousin was having another one of his spells. A half-empty decanter of scotch sat on the floor next to a crystal tumbler. Casey had been drinking again. Deacon thought he was off the sauce until Christmas. He tossed his cousin a glance as he made his way to the table where the others were seated.

Snow dusted against the windows. The drapes had not been drawn; a serious breach of protocol, signaling the general upset that Robbie’s presence had caused. Lamps were lit throughout the room and even with the fire, the room was dim.

They were all gathered in answer to Alastair’s summons. An emergency meeting to discuss the situation with Robbie Listowel. Deacon was expected to provide a full report of his conversations with the girl and tell them everything she had learned so far.

“She contacted the Dean of Admissions and was told there was no student by the name of Harry Listowel registered at Locksley Hall.”

“That’s right,” Casey drawled. “Harry had not earned his wings yet. He was still on probation.”

Deacon addressed his uncle. “That’s what prompted the search. She flew out here to find him because the Hall had no record. She would never have made the trip otherwise.”

The furnishings at Dugald Croft were upholstered in plush burgundy and the wood was dark. Glossy, highly polished, light gleamed against it unpleasantly. There were six of them ranged along either side of the table. Long stemmed glasses of ruby red wine and plates of oatcakes were on the table in front of each member of Fuil Bratach.

Behind each chair was the banner of the house they represented.

Deacon knew their names by heart though he would never be one of them. Seated at the far side of the table was Reginald Talbot. Blood name: Archer . Tall, distinguished, wearing a mask of boredom. Unwholesome tastes in sex.

Beside him to his right was Lester Hanover. Blood name: Gunner . Short, ginger hair, blue eyes that were ice cold and cruel. Vicious temperament.

To his right, Penelope Carmichael. Blood name: Wulven . A dark haired beauty, tall and deceptively aloof. Jealous to the point of madness.

Seated opposite those three were: Phillip Marchbank. Blood name: Falcon . Beside him was Millicent Dewhurst. Blood name: Raven . They were lovers from adolescence. Quite possibly related. No one talked about it.

The empty chair was for Casey Manderville: Blood name: Bannerman. The handsome, weak, silver-tongued son of Alastair Manderville and Deacon’s cousin.

The Chief of Fuil Bratach, Professor Alastair Manderville, presided over the table. Blood name: The Black. The title suited him in both looks and temperament. Deacon’s uncle had a bloody fire in him that scorched his hair red and singed his thick eyebrows black. Casey had his mother’s coloring: fair haired, green-eyed, blessed with the classical bone structure of a male model. Penelope was in love with him but Alastair would never permit their union.

The Black addressed his son. “Casey, do you mean to join us or continue to waste away in front of the fire?”

“Waste away. I hardly see the point in sitting at the table when I can hear everything perfectly well over here where it is vastly more comfortable.Besides, my cousin has a booming, grating voice that carries. Well suited to calling sheep from the fields.”

Muffled sounds of laughter rose from the group. Deacon flushed and clenched fists at his side. If Casey wasn’t such a weak puny thing, he’d give him a thrashing.

His cousin had a side to him that came from being spoiled and petted in childhood. He was not raised by Alastair, only coming to live with him at age sixteen, after his mother’s death. Deacon was five years older and working at Locksley Hall when the boy arrived, ill-tempered and imperious. Alastair had to send for him on numerous occasions to deal with the brat before he strangled him.

Deacon had delivered his cousin out of one scrape after another. Mrs. Cameron called him a daft lump for being taken advantage of by two mucky-mucks. He thought he was gaining a brother when Casey came to Dugald Croft. He still thought so at times.

“You may as well sit down, lad,” Alastair instructed him with a nod to Casey’s vacant chair. “Does she know where you’ve gone?”

“No.”

“She could have followed you.”

“She’s afraid to go outside. She’s in Harry’s old flat. She’s not coming out.” He rubbed his mouth unwilling to say more, but knowing he would have to. “She has a condition.”

“What sort of condition?” Millicent asked.

“She doesn’t like open spaces. Going out-of-doors. Makes her anxious.”

“Are you attempting to describe agoraphobia?”

“Aye, that’s it.” He reddened. “She told me what it was but the word slipped my mind.”

“It is more likely you had no hope of pronouncing it,” Casey trilled from the sofa. “Though I commend you for delivering such good news. The riddle is solved. A mental case is no threat to us. Harry’s body has been disposed of and we are a unified force against inquiry. Back to business as usual. Thank God, that’s over with.”

His voice was slurred with drink; he was likely unaware of what he had said.

Deacon bowed his head, stunned into shock, praying he heard wrong. Composing himself, he addressed his uncle.

“I thought Harry was at Arran Castle being reprogrammed.”

“We are not a cult, Deacon.” Lester raised his voice, ready to go to war over the slightest remark. “We don’t ‘reprogram’ our members. Listowel was given every opportunity to recant and he refused. Nevertheless, on Arran he was free to go to the very devil if he so wished.”

“He wasn’t going to change his mind, Deacon,” Penelope said with bored disgust. “I tried to reason with him–we all did. He had it stuck in his head that he had to do the right thing.”

“Whatever that means nowadays,” interjected Phillip. “I told him how pointless it was, the fuss over one minor mishap. Admittedly, it was not our finest hour, but we were all off our heads with drink when the man was killed.”

“And what would our arrest change in the long run?” Reginald asked plaintively. “Incarcerate us for the crime of eliminating one less scourge from the streets? Edinburgh was not going to miss one vagrant thief who had spent his days pilfering and defecating in alleys. I still maintain that we acted for the greater good.”

“The sheer gall of it!” Phillip cried. “That animal had the temerity to put his sticky paws all over our belongings. Caught red-handed, no chance of being innocent. He was looking for drug money, no doubt. If we hadn’t killed him, the drugs would have.”

Deacon stood up abruptly and stared at each one of them, disbelieving what he was hearing. This had to be a joke. An elaborate prank.

“You killed a man?”