Praise for the novels of Heather Graham
An incredible storyteller.
Los Angeles Daily News
Graham does a great job of blending
just a bit of paranormal with real, human evil.
Miami Herald on Unhallowed Ground
A fast-paced and suspenseful read
that will give readers chills while
keeping them guessing until the end.
RT Book Reviews on Ghost Moon
There are good reasons for Grahams
steady standing as a bestselling author.
Grahams atmospheric depiction of a lost city
is especially poignant.
Booklist on Ghost Walk
Grahams latest is nerve-racking in the extreme,
solidly plotted and peppered with
welcome hints of black humor. And the endings
all readers could hope for.
RT Book Reviews on The Last Noel
[A] spooky post-Katrina mystery Dream
messages and premonitions, ghostly sightings,
capable detective work and fascinating characters
blend to make a satisfying chiller.
Publishers Weekly on Deadly Night
Mystery, sex, paranormal events.
Whats not to love?
Kirkus Reviews on The Death Dealer
Also by HEATHER GRAHAM
NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES
GHOST MOON
GHOST NIGHT
GHOST SHADOW
THE KILLING EDGE
NIGHT OF THE WOLVES
HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS
UNHALLOWED GROUND
DUST TO DUST
NIGHTWALKER
DEADLY GIFT
DEADLY HARVEST
DEADLY NIGHT
THE DEATH DEALER
THE LAST NOEL
THE SÉANCE
BLOOD RED
THE DEAD ROOM
KISS OF DARKNESS
THE VISION
THE ISLAND
GHOST WALK
KILLING KELLY
THE PRESENCE
DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR
PICTURE ME DEAD
HAUNTED
HURRICANE BAY
A SEASON OF MIRACLES
NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD
NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS
EYES OF FIRE
SLOW BURN
NIGHT HEAT
the
PRESENCE
HEATHER
GRAHAM
www.mira.co.uk
For Rich Devin, Lance Taubald, Leslie and
Leland Burbank, Connie Perry, Jo Carol,
Peggy McMillan, Sharon Spiak,
Sue-Ellen Wellfonder, Kathryn Falk and Rubin,
with much loveand to great memories of
streams and castles in Scotland.
Prologue
Nightmares
The scream rose and echoed in the night with a bloodcurdling resonance that only the truly young, and truly terrified, could create.
Her parents ran into the room, called by instinct to battle whatever force had brought about such absolute horror in their beloved child.
Yet there was nothing. Nothing but their nine-year-old, standing on the bed, arms locked at her side, fingers curled into her fists with a terrible rigidity, as if she had suddenly become an old woman. She was screaming, the sound coming again and again, high, screeching, tearing, like the sound of fingernails dragged down the length of a blackboard.
Both parents looked desperately around the room, then their eyes met.
Sweetheart, sweetheart!
Her mother came for her unnoticed and tried to take the girl into her arms, but she was inflexible. The father came forward, calling her name, taking her and then shaking her. Once again, she gave no notice.
Then she went down. She simply crumpled into a heap in the center of the bed. Again the parents looked at one another, then the mother rushed forward, sweeping the girl into her arms, cradling her to her breast. Sweetie, please, please !
Blue eyes, the color of a soft summer sky, opened to hers. They were filled with angelic innocence. The childs head was haloed by her wealth of white-blond hair, and she smiled sleepily at the sight of her mothers face, as if nothing had happened, as if the bone-jarring sounds had never come from her lips.
Did you have a nightmare? her mother asked anxiously.
Then a troubled frown knit her brow. No! she whispered, and the sky-blue eyes darkened, the fragile little body began to shake.
The mother looked at her husband, shaking her head. Weve got to call the doctor.
Its two in the morning. Shes had a nightmare.
We need to call someone.
No, her father said firmly. We need to tuck her back into bed and discuss it in the morning.
But
If we call the doctor, well be referred to the emergency room. And if we go to the emergency room, well sit there for hours, and theyll tell us to take her to a shrink in the morning.
Donald!
Its true, Ellen, and you know it. Ellen looked down. Her daughter was staring at her with huge eyes, shaking now. The police! she whispered. The police? Ellen asked.
I saw him, Mommy. I saw what that awful man did to the lady.
What lady, darling?
She was on the street, stopping cars. She had big red hair and a short silver skirt. The man stopped for her in a red car with no top, like Uncle Teds. She got in with him and he drove and then and then
Donald walked across the room and took hold of his daughters shoulders. Stop this! Youre lying. You havent been out of this room!
Ellen shoved her husband away. Stop it! Shes terrified as it is.
And she wants us to call the police? Our only child will wind up on the front page of the papers, and if they dont catch this psycho murdering women, hell come after her! No, Ellen.
Maybe they can catch him, Ellen suggested softly.
You have to forget it! Donald said sternly to his daughter.
She nodded gravely, then shook her head. I have to tell it! she whispered.
Ellen seldom argued with Donald. But tonight she had picked her battle.
When this happens you have to let her talk.
No police! Donald insisted.
Ill call Adam.
That shyster!
Hes no shyster and you know it.
Donalds eyes slid from his wifes to those of his daughter, which were awash in misery and a fear she shouldnt have to know. Call the man, he said.
* * *
He was very old; that was Tonis first opinion of Adam Harrison. His face was long, his body was thin, and his hair was snow-white. But his eyes were the kindest, most knowing, she had seen in her nine years on earth.
He came to the bedside, took her hand, clasped it firmly between his own and smiled slowly. She had been shaking, but his gentle hold eased the trembling from her, just as it warmed her. He was very special. He understood that she had seen what she had seen without ever leaving the house. And she knew, of course, that it was ridiculous. Such things didnt happen. But it had happened.
She hated it. Loathed it. And she understood her fathers concern. It was a very bad thing. People would make fun of heror they would want to use her ability for their own purposes.
So, tell me about it, Adam said to her, after he had explained that he was an old friend of her mothers family.
I saw it, she whispered, and the shaking began again.
Tell me what you saw.
There was a woman on the street, trying to get cars to stop. One stopped. She leaned into it, and she started to talk to the man about money. Then she went with him. She got into the car. It was red.
It was a convertible?
Like Uncle Teds car.
Right, he said, squeezing her hand again.
Her voice became a monotone. She repeated some of the conversation between the man and woman word for word. Perspiration broke out on her body as she felt the womans growing sense of fear. She couldnt breathe as she described the knife. She was drenched with sweat at the end, and cold. So cold. He talked to her and assured her.
Then the police arrived, called by neighbors who were awakened by her screams.
The two officers flanked her bed and started firing questions at her, demanding to know what she had seenor what had been done to her.
Despite the terror, she felt all right because of Adam. But then huge tears formed in her eyes. Nothing, nothing! I saw nothing!
Adam rose, his voice firm and filled with such authority that even the men with their guns and badges listened to him. They left the room. Adam winked at her and went with the men, telling her that he would talk to them.
A month later, the police came back to the house. She could hear her father angrily telling them that they had to leave her alone. But despite his argument, she found herself facing a police officer who kept asking her terrible questions. He described horrific things, his voice growing rougher and rougher. Somewhere in there, she closed off. She couldnt bear to hear him anymore.
She woke up in the hospital. Her mother was by her side, tears in her eyes. She was radiant with happiness when Toni blinked and looked at her.
Her father was there, too. He kissed Toni on the forehead, then, choking, left the room. An older man in the back stepped up to her.
Youre going to move, he told her cheerfully. Out to the country. The police will never come again. The police?
Yes, dont you remember?
She shook her head. Im sorry Im really sorry. I dont know who you are.
He arched a fuzzy white brow, staring at her. Im Adam. Adam Harrison. You really dont remember me?
She studied him gravely and shook her head. She was lying, but he just smiled, and his smile was warm and comforting.
Just remember my name. And if you ever need me, call me. If you dream again, or have a nightmare.
I dont have nightmares, she told him.
If you dream
Oh, Im certain I dont have dreams. I dont let myself have dreams. Some people can do that, you know.
His smile deepened. Yes, actually, I do know. Well, Miss Antoinette Fraser, it has been an incredible pleasure to see you, and to see you looking so well. If you ever just want to say hello, remember my name.
She gripped his hand suddenly. I will always remember your name, she told him.
If you ever need me, Ill be there, he promised.
He brushed a kiss on her forehead, and then he was gone. Just a whisper of his aftershave remained.
Soon her memory faded and the whole thing became vague, not real. There was just a remnant in her mind, no more than that whisper of aftershave when someone was really, truly gone.
InterludeWhen Cromwell Reigned
From his vantage point, MacNiall could see them, arrayed in all their glittering splendor. The man for whom they fought, the ever self-righteous Cromwell, might preach the simplicity and purity one should seek in life, but when he had his troops arrayed, he saw to it that no matter what their uniform, they appeared in rank, and their weapons shone, as did their shields.
As it always seemed to be with his enemy, they were unaware of how a fight in the Highlands might best be fought. They were coming in their formations. Rank and file. Stop, load, aim, fire. March forward. Stop, load, aim, fire.
Cromwells troops depended on their superior numbers. And like all leaders before him, Cromwell was ready to sacrifice his fighting man. All in the name of God and the Godliness of their landor so the great man preached.
MacNiall had his own God, as did the men with whom he fought. For some, it was simply the God that the English did not face. For others, it had to do with pride, for their God ruled the Scottish and Presbyterian church, and had naught to do with an Englishman who would sever the head of his own king.
Others fought because it was their land. Chieftains and clansmen, men who would not be ruled by such a foreigner, men who seldom bowed down to any authority other than their own. Their land was hard and rugged. When the Romans had come, they had built walls to protect their own and to keep out the savages they barely recognized as human. In the many centuries since, the basic heart of the land had changed little. Now, they had another causethe return of the young Stuart heir and their hatred for their enemy.
And just as they had centuries before, they would fight, using their land as one of their greatest weapons.
MacNiall granted Cromwell one thinghe was a military man. And he was no fool. He had called upon the Irish and the Welsh, who had learned so very well the art of archery. He had called upon men who knew about cannons and the devastating results of gunpowder, shot and ball, when put to the proper use. All these things he knew, and he felt a great superiority in his numbers, in his weapons.
But still, he did not know the Highlands, nor the soul of the Highland men he faced. And today he should have known the tactics the Highlander would use more so than ever. For MacNiall had heard that these troops were being led by a man who had been one of their own, a Scotsman from the base of the savage lands himself.
Grayson Davisturncoat, one who had railed against Cromwell. Yet one who had been offered great rewardsthe lands of those he could best and destroy.
Like Cromwell, Davis was convinced that he had the power, the numbers and the right. So MacNiall counted on the fact that he would underestimate his enemythe savages from the north, ill equipped, unkempt, many today in woolen rags, painted as their ancestors, the Picts, fighting for their land and their freedom.
Rank and file, marching. Slow and steady, coming ever forward. They reached the stream.
Now? whispered MacLeod at his side.
A minute more, replied MacNiall calmly.
When the enemy was upon the bridge, MacNiall raised a hand. MacLeod passed on the signal.
Their marksman nodded, as quiet, calm and grim as his leaders, and took aim.
His shot was true.
The bridge burst apart in a mighty explosion, sending fire and sparks skyrocketing, pieces of plank and board and man spiraling toward the sky, only to land again in the midst of confusion and terror, bloodshed and death. For they had waited. They had learned patience, and the bridge had been filled.