THE WATCHER
by Grace Monroe
'The Watcher' - the third and penultimate book in the Brodie McLennan series - is due to be published at the start of October 2008. Here's a sneak preview of the Prologue - hope you all enjoy it! Linda x
PROLOGUE
Edinburgh Castle
Friday 21 December 2005
When Katya Waleski stepped out of the Great Hall at Edinburgh Castle, she had less than fifteen minutes to live.
The castle ramparts were bitter but the chill went deeper than her bones. The North wind whipped and bit her bare shoulders; she shivered - not simply because of the temperature. Katya knew she shouldn’t have gone out tonight. The relentless, irritating whisper in her head had told her as much all day long - she refused to listen.
Her companion removed his custom made evening jacket and placed it around her shoulders. Katya lengthened her spine like a cat and purred, more aware of the role she was playing than the man was of the performance he was receiving. Her wine glass was slippy with condensation; it almost fell out of her hand. Her usual poise had deserted her - did she intend to continue with this clumsiness?
Katya gazed into his eyes, showing him white even teeth; for once the smile left her lips. The champagne bubbles tickled her nose, languorously she twirled her curls; it was not often she got paid to enjoy herself. Katya closed her eyes. For a few long seconds she held her breath as she savoured the champagne. For a moment in time she felt like one of those silly connoisseurs; could she really taste blackberries?
It was of no importance; the alcohol eased the thin trickle of fear – but the voice refused to be silenced.
The biting North wind cut through her hair, a country girl, she could smell snow in the air. The stars shone in an almost cloudless black sky, the moonlight reflected off the snow giving the castle battlements an eerie glow. It was difficult to walk on the cobbled stones; they were icy under foot and the melt-water crept through her satin sandals. It was hard to keep her footing so she held on tightly to the arm of her escort.
Take a deep breath and relax, Katya, calm down now, she commanded.
From somewhere in the distance she could feel eyes upon her. Katya was used to being ogled but this felt – different. She scanned the castle walls. A lone piper circled the half moon battery, welcoming late comers to the ceillidh, serenading the lovers who sought intimacy in the ancient nooks and crannies of the castle.
Katya quivered at the caterwaul. You would need to have the blood of the Celts in your veins to be stirred by such a noise. The lament made the fine hairs at the base of her neck stand on end.
The wind had picked up, and it blew a solitary cloud across the moon, the dense ground cover which hid his static body began to crackle and bend. Branches scratched his cheeks, his jaw tightened and his neck stiffened as the gale began to howl. He could see the clouds rolling in over the river Forth. It was going to snow. He rubbed his leg to ease the paralysing cramp.
The first flake fell.
Didn’t that just say it all, though? A snow storm while he froze, waiting for that bitch.
The Watcher dug himself in deeperas something large scuttled by his ear; they say in Edinburgh you are never more than thirteen feet from a rat. He disciplined his mind to ignore the different types of creepy crawlies which might, at this very moment, be crawling their way up his spine or nesting in his ears.
His eyes followed a couple as they left the Castle early. The man staggered and leant on the railing of the wooden bridge; clutching to them, the man spewed his guts out. Flaming torches illuminated the massive stone statues of Scotland’s guardians - Wallace and Bruce looked down disapprovingly.
The Watcher knows that death stalks the Castle ramparts.
‘The lovers.' He spat out the words as he watched them strolling hand in hand towards the battlements, their heads nestling together like two turtle doves. The man’s hand crept underneath the jacket and fondled the bitch's tight high buttocks. He inched the dress up over her hip and stroked her silky smooth skin. The Watcher held his breath. His tongue crept out of the side of his mouth like a ravenous dog’s, flecks of spit formed at the corner of his lips. The Watcher stiffens. ncomfortable; he is forced to shift positions, the bed of leaves rustle beneath his weight.
With eyes only for each other, Katya and her beau stroll towards the canons overlooking Johnston Terrace. ‘Love is blind,’ hisses thir one-man audience. Using his top of the range German night vision goggles, and aided by the light reflected off the snow, he has a perfect view and settles himself down to enjoy the show.
It’s freezing, but Katya seems hot; The Watcher can almost see the sheen of sweat on her skin as he licks his dry lips. She caefully slips her lover’s jacket from her shoulders, as if mindful of the fact that it probably cost more than she earns in three months, and hands it back to him.
The Watcher holds his breath. As she uses her lovely white teeth to undo her lover’s zip, the jacket is placed on his arm as he leans against the canon to appreciate his girl. The red silk evening gown slips easily from her shoulders, and her head falls back in ecstasy. Her hands reach up to undo her lover’s black evening tie; he is more than willing to play ball. The tie soon lies around his neck as she opens his white pin tucked evening shirt. The Watcher admires their hardiness - it is seriously cold. He shakes his right leg to keep the blood flowing and places his free hand inside his trousers.
The man he watches is understandably aroused. He caresses her neck with light tender kisses moving his mouth down until he finds what he is looking for as her back arches in gratification.
Katya was a bad girl; her sensuous mouth was open wide with pleasure - whether real or feigned it didn't matter. The Watcher strained to hear her moan as he stroked himself faster and faster. Yes, Katya was a very bad girl.
Her lover/customer could bear no more. The Watcher observed him lay the jacket on the downturned barrel of the siege cannon. Gallantry is not dead, as he can surmise that the man does not want Katya’s back to stick to the icy metal.
The sex does not disappoint the audience; Katya’s hands quickly undo her lover’s trousers and they fall without hindrance to his ankles. Grudgingly, The Watcher concedes that his rival is a handsome specimen. They were good enough to be professional, he thought as she wrapped her long Eastern European legs around the man’s waist. She was panting, he could see her breath move in and out of her mouth like exotic smoke, and her back was inching along the cannon as her lover/customer thrust himself into her.
It was hard for The Watcher to remain still; he squirmed in the undergrowth unable to satisfy himself. The moonlight caught the girl’s red hair; it seemed to sparkle with excitement, her body was shining with sweat, the curves glistening.
The sex was vigorous and uninhibited - in spite of himself The Watcher felt a reluctant twinge of admiration. He bites his tongue as the girl slides further along the barrel; blood trickles out of the side of his mouth as a naked Katya finally reaches the mouth of the canon.
Taking out a camera he catches Katya’s final throes of ecstasy, her back bucks in pleasure as she slides off the end.
Slides off the end.
Dear God, she has slid off the end . . .
Her lover reaches for her as she tumbles over the ramparts - uselessly.
The Watcher is helpless - he cannot stifle his cry - it wasn't supposed to happen like that, like this. Shock heightens his senses, and he sees in slow motion Katya’s body bounce off the volcanic Castle rock. Her head cracks open as it hits the first rough edge. There will be no open coffin for this one. Like a rag doll, she rolls and bounces, each bump shattering another bone. There is no hope for the once lovely young woman.
The police find Katya Waleski in a ditch at the foot of the crag and tail structure known as Castle Hill. On her scraped and scuffed body a message can be discerned.
A bloody prophecy -
more will die.
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