22
Brock Kincade stood at the edge of the cemetery, staring out at the freshly upturned dirt of his father’s grave. Moonlight washed the cemetery in pale cream and opalescent white. The carved headstones formed shadows almost as black as the night itself. But Brock was no longer afraid. The creature that had frightened him since he was a child was gone. Forever.
His horse gave an impatient huff and stamped his hooves, no doubt anxious to be back in the stables with a blanket on his back and fresh oats in his bucket.
“All right, you lazy beast,” Brock muttered and stroked a palm over the animal’s neck as he mounted up.
He departed the quiet churchyard and trotted back up the winding hill to Castle Kincade, the shallow moat filled with rainwater and the ancient wooden bridge lowered to a
