The Shadow and the Night: Glenncailty Castle, Book 3 by Lila Dubois Page A

Tristan took her right hand and started pushing her toward the castle, keeping his eyes on the darkness by the garden wall.
    “Tristan who are you talking to?”
    “My brother.”
    “Your…brother.”
    “Yes, I’m talking to my dead brother’s ghost. There’s something bad coming. My brother is warning me about it.”
    “Your…dead brother…is warning you about…some ghosts.”
    “Once we’re safe, I’ll explain.”
    Melissa sighed. “I doubt that.”
    “ Tristan, now! ”
    “ Merde .” Tristan cupped Melissa’s chin and forced her to look at him. “Run. I know you don’t believe any of this, but please, run.”
    She searched his face, nodded once, took his hand and started running.

Chapter Seven
    They bolted through the gardens, then pounded up the steps at the back of the castle. Melissa grabbed a door handle, but it was locked.
    “The kitchen,” Tristan said.
    She followed him as they leapt off the patio and circled around to the kitchen. Tristan’s hands were shaking as he took his keys from his pocket. The wind was icy cold, cutting through her clothes and making her grit her teeth. She huddled closer to Tristan, looking up at the sky to see if it was about to rain. The wind was making a sound that was reminiscent of a scream as it tore through the trees.
    She had no trouble understanding why the mood had changed. The night seemed less hospitable than it had ten minutes ago, but it was a change in the weather, nothing more.
    As they stumbled into the dark kitchen, Melissa tried not to think about what he’d said. She liked Tristan, and that kiss had done things to her that she hadn’t anticipated. But if she let herself dwell on the fact that Tristan had a seriously overactive imagination and a slightly skewed view of reality, it might kill off these delicious feelings she had for him. The mass delusion was one thing, since it was clear that Tristan was a victim of whatever had caused the others to react so strangely, but the dead brother…
    That was worrying.
    Tristan flipped on the lights. He paused, hand in midair and focused on something in the dark corner. He nodded. Melissa turned away, not wanting to watch him have conversations with imaginary people.
    “I will make us something.” Tristan finished flipping on lights and then took a pot from under one of the long metal counters and set it on a burner.
    “Maybe I should just go to my room.”
    He shook his head. “We should talk.”
    “There really isn’t anything to talk about.”
    “There is.”
    He was still rattled—he kept folding and unfolding his arms, and his “s” sounds had turned into “z’s” as his accent thickened.
    “Okay.” Melissa sat on the counter near where he was working. “What are you going to make?”
    “Something with chocolate.”
    “Then I’ll definitely stay.”
    She was content to watch him as he added water to the pot then set a metal mixing bowl on top to create a double boiler. He chopped up a bar of high-grade chocolate with a huge knife, then scraped the flakes into the warm bowl.  
    “Stir this.” He handed her a spatula, and Melissa slid off the counter to stand at the bowl and obediently stir. He took a few forgotten croissants and started cutting them.
    “Tell me about your arm.” He was cracking eggs into a dish and adding cream.
    “Are you making French toast?”
    “You mean pain perdu ? I am not using yesterday’s bread, but I am going to dredge and fry the croissants, then add chocolate and fruit. So it is the same technique, but will be much richer with the buttery croissant.”
    “That sounds amazing.”
    “It will be, but I am not distracted. Tell me about your arm.”
    Melissa wrapped her left arm across her waist, her muscles protesting the movement. Now that she was thinking about it the pain was right there, a reminder of something she’d rather forget.
    “I was in Ivory Coast, the country, not just the area.”
    “The Republic of Côte