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pulled the covers up to her nose. She didn’t know why Ben Foley irritated her so much. Or maybe she did. And that’s why she wanted to pretend he didn’t exist.
    Sheep hopped over imaginary fences as she forcefully blocked out that lean, predatory visage. Men like him were trouble, and women like her knew it. Concentrating on shaggy ewes, she prayed for sleep, even though sleep brought nightmares.
    ***
    They’d used the cover of darkness to bring in another shipment. Drug smuggling was easy in this parochial little town, but the death of the Colombians made him extra cautious. The earlier squall had blown itself out in a violent blast of fury. Now moonlight glittered off malefic rock, and hate coalesced like smoke. He could read minds and control thoughts, but not even he could manipulate the dead.
    He’d killed McCabe because he’d known too much, but how had the corpse ended up in Sorcha Logan’s arms? Breath constricted in his chest. Stabbing darts of unease pricked his spine. Did she hold the powers of necromancy?
    He frowned. Spat. No, Sorcha was pitiful. Blind. Gifted with powers and too stupid to use them. But the dead warded her, even the McCabe boy.
    He despised her. Her frosted looks, her insipid blue eyes. He focused his anger, tried to keep it leashed so it didn’t give him away. He was powerful, not her. He knew things. He saw things.
    With the ferocity of lightning, a vision flashed inside his head. The lash of a belt cut through the night, and his ribs stung in memory. Slash! Slash!
    I’ll beat the devil out of you, boy!
    He doubled over, retching against the stones. Blindly, he groped for the protective amulet he kept in his pocket, clutched the topaz and rebuilt the barriers that kept the memories at bay. The stone grew hot in his hand as if physically absorbing his pain. It had been a long time since that particular nightmare had escaped.
    Heat poured off his body as he regained his composure.
    You couldn’t read minds of people who closed themselves off to you. He wished he could. And except for brief glimpses, Sorcha was a blank wall. Others…he drew in a sweet calming breath. Others were easy. You picked out their greatest fear, plucked it like a fiddle string and made them dance.
    Sorcha’s turning up ruined everything and now he intended to pay her back. But first he needed those journals. Why hadn’t he known about them years ago?
    The tendons in his neck stretched taut as he searched for Sorcha’s presence but came up blank. Iain Logan was shielding her. Stupid bugger. He laughed. Fifteen years ago, the fool had been too dull-witted to live. Now, in death, he’d found himself a crusade.
    Poor little Sorcha. Pitiful little Sorcha.
    Ghosts were powerless in this world. He fingered his knife, felt the razor edge burn his fingers. Nothing was going to get between him and the future he’d planned. Nothing .
    The witch had to die.

Chapter Three
    “Damn.” Ben Foley stretched out his limbs, his fingers brushing the drapes behind him. He yawned until his jaw cracked. Sat forward, propped his elbows on his knees, and peered through the 90mm Altazimuth Refractor telescope. A small fishing boat bobbed on the waves, hauling in the day’s catch. The nets sparkled like a thousand tiny mirrors signaling for help.
    He grunted and, slumping back, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He must have fallen asleep hours ago, after staring out at the Firth of Forth all last night and most of the day. His worst fucking nightmare.
    Waves crept closer up the shoreline and his heart sped up, shaking away the last of his fatigue. Tremors took control of his hands and his mouth felt full of cotton.
    Aversion therapy.
    He was going through his own personal form of aversion therapy. Millions of gallons of seawater doing their twice daily dance up the shore to mess with his psyche.
    “Get off your ass, Foley.” He stood abruptly, kept his head low to prevent bashing it on a three-hundred-year-old beam.