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I turn the photo over, realizing that it’s meant to be a post card. The address is blank, but there is a note scrawled in the blank space.
My hometown, 1972.
My brow hunches. I get out of the car, arching a brow at Hades. “Is this some kind of riddle?”
He adjusts his tie and gives me a long look, plucking the photo from my fingers.
“It’s the only thing my mam left me. I know where Whitewraithe is, of course. Everybody knows that it’s probably the most haunted place in all of Scotland.” He sucks his teeth. “It just so happens that Ma was raised here. And I’m pretty damn sure that this is where she came back to when she fled my father.”
I blink at him, surprised. “So your mother may be here? This a whole castle full of your relatives?”
“Someone is here,” he says, his expression dark as midnight. “But as for who, that’s anyone’s best guess. Uncle Malcolm will still be alive, if we are lucky.”
I puff out my cheeks, peering up at the white wall just in front of us. Walking toward it, I reach out a hand and feel the coarse limestone underneath my fingertips. To my surprise, it’s quite cool to the touch and almost a little damp.
“Lass.”
I look back at Hades, swallowing tightly.
“I’m ready.”
I hold out a hand to him, smiling softly. He looks taken aback by the gesture, but he hurries to catch my hand in his. I curl my fingers against his and bolster myself as he guides me to the gates.
