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“So why are we?”
“Because I want to show you something.”
My curiosity sparks.
The narrow walkway along the battlements leads to another set of twisting, uneven steps. But after nearly tripping down them, stopped only by Rory’s hand forever secure around mine, the area opens into a large stone courtyard. The cobblestones underfoot are as slick as dark glass, damp from the rain, while the only shelter at this part of the ruins is thick solid beams engulfed by greenery. Ivy twists along nearly every surface, casting the glossy cobbles with an almost greenish tint.
The courtyard is silent, even to the earlier sound of crashing waves.
The air throbs with difference.
It feels off-limits.
Rory stands in the middle, gesturing to a shadowed area along the back wall. “You may recognize this…?”
I step closer, squinting into the dark. That’s when I realize the courtyard is empty apart from one thing: a tall standing stone identical to those on the island.
My eyes widen. “How did you know…?”
Rory puts his hands into his blazer pockets, giving an elegant shrug. “It’s my job to keep track of them.”
It’s the castle’s last remaining guardian. The stone points upward, solitary and taller than both of us, its rugged texture flecked with age. It looks like it belongs here, a fixed marker through the centuries, and yet it feels achingly out of place, as a work of obvious mysticism that remains wholly intact.
As I step closer to the large standing stone, energy peels from it in slow, reverberant waves. It’s like basking in noise, like standing in front of an amplifier. “Is it dangerous?” I ask, hesitant as I approach and its energy pulses louder.
“No. The opposite, in fact. It’s protective.”
The closer I stand to it, the more it sings — deep and lush and bell-like. Warmth pools at my lower belly. “You… keep track of them?”
“I suppose my ancestors did all the hard work for me. They chronicled them for future generations.” He scans the stone with sharp gray eyes. “But whenever I’m near one, it’s like… well, I don’t know what you feel…”
“Like, something deep. Powerful. I hear it, but only when I’m really close to it.”
“Interesting.” Rory concentrates on the craggy stone facade. “It’s more visual for me, I think. Golden threads slicing through the universe — and they feel hot. Have to tug at the correct thread to see if it… gives. It’s so quick it’s automatic but I have to pay close attention. Meditation helps.” After a pause, he adds, “Not coming also helps.”
His words are a curiosity. “So this is why…?”
Rory tilts his head to the side, understanding. “Not entirely.” He refuses to elaborate.
He’d described the effects of the standing stone with sincerity but it’s different for me. I see no golden threads, and the only heat I feel is that which is building inside me.
I step forward, somewhat hypnotized.
“Can I touch it?”
“Of course. It’s just stone.”
The stone is rough beneath my fingertips, and while there’s nothing special about its typical worn surface, its energy instantly uses me as a conduit, shooting down my veins and raising the hair on my arms. It feels primal, power shimmering and pulsating throughout me, and striking deep within my core.
My breath quickens.
“It’s not a coincidence, is it, that Lochkelvin’s the one still standing.”
“Not when surrounded by these, no.” Rory inspects my face carefully. Even in the freezing North Sea air, my cheeks are red-hot, and my eyes feel wide and overcome. “Little saint… are you getting turned on?”
I lick my lips, yanking my hand from the stone. The sensation lessens, surging once again when I place my hand on the surface. I blow out an overwhelmed breath. “Appears so,” I mumble, glancing in fascination at the stone.
Rory approaches me slowly. “I mean, I’d had plans… me and you together in an empty courtyard…” His eyes shine with a predatory gleam. “But this is too perfect.”
