Excerpt of Awaken The Highland Warrior by Anita Clenney

Bree’s fingers tightened around the metal disk as she ran
through the graveyard, zigzagging past leaning headstones.
Her lantern swayed, throwing shadows on the crypt looming
before her, its stone walls the color of bones. Thick vines
crept over it, sealing in cracks left by time, while
gnarled branches from the twisted oak hovered like
outstretched arms. Protecting… or threatening?

An owl screeched overhead as she scurried up the crumbling
steps, wishing night hadn’t fallen, when shadows twisted
into monsters and spirits came out to play. The burial
vault lay open near the back of the crypt, waiting. Blood
rushed past her ears, a sound like all the angels’ wings
beating in unison. She moved closer and peered at the chest
inside. It was ornate, made of metal and wood, with green
gemstones embedded in each corner. It looked ancient, like
it belonged in a museum or a pyramid, or perhaps Solomon’s
Temple. The beauty of it struck her again, as it had when
she’d first discovered it.

She set the lantern on the edge of the burial vault and
studied the markings on the chest. Swirls and shapes like
writing shifted in the amber glow. Stretching out a finger,
she touched the surface. Warm? She yanked her hand back and
hit the lantern. It crashed to the floor, throwing the top
of the crypt into darkness. Dropping to her knees, she
scrambled for the light. A sound cut through the silence,
scraping, like fingernails against stone. She grabbed the
lantern, not daring to blink, then remembered the wind
outside and the claw-like branches of the old tree.

She placed the lantern securely on the vault cover she’d
pushed onto the alcove and unfolded her hand. The metal
disk she held was three inches in diameter and appeared to
be made from the same metal as the chest, not silver, not
gold. One side had deep grooves; the other was etched with
symbols. With trembling fingers, she lined up the disk with
the matching grooves on top of the chest and pushed. There
was a series of clicks as the notched edges retracted.

Bree whirled, but she was alone. Only stone walls stood
watch, their secrets hidden for centuries. It was sleep
deprivation, not ghosts.

She pulled in a slow, steadying breath and tried to turn
the disk. Nothing. Again, this time counterclockwise, and
it began to move under her hand. She jerked her fingers
back. A loud pop sounded and colors flashed… blue, orange,
and green, swirling for seconds, and then they were gone.
Great, hallucinations to go with the voices in her head.

Her body trembled as she gripped the lid. This was it. All
her dreams held on a single pinpoint of time. If this ended
up another wild goose chase, she was done. No more treasure
hunts, no more mysteries, no more playing Indiana Jones.
She’d settle down to a nice, ordinary, boring life. She
counted.

One.

Two.

Three.

She heaved open the chest.

Terror clawed its way to her throat, killing her scream.

The man inhaled one harsh breath and his eyes flew open,
locking on Bree. A battle cry worthy of Braveheart echoed
off the walls. Bree jumped back as metal flashed and a rush
of air kissed her face. Petrified, she watched him crawl
out of the burial vault, a wicked-looking dagger in his
hand. Her scream tore loose as she turned and fled.

Fingers grazed her shoulder, and she glanced back. The last
thing she saw before her feet tangled with the shovel was
the dead man reaching for her.