Eostre and Easter

Heather Graham

Slush Pile

Copyright © 2025 Heather Graham

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN-13: 9781234567890
ISBN-10: 1477123456

Cover design by: Connie Perry
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America

The Highlands of Scotland!

Such a magical place, and Angela Hawkins Crow loves the country, the landscape, and especially the beauty of the Highlands in Spring.

But this time . . .

She’s there because people have disappeared. And the local police have found indications that they’ve been taken somewhere in a sparsely populated area in the mountains, far from real civilization with no idea if they’re still alive or . . .

And the history in the area is far from good. Because once upon a time, ‘witches’ were persecuted with heated intensity by the king.

But strangely, that will help Angela as she travels misted paths, dense with foliage, filled with the shadows of the coming night.

She and Jackson will discover that the coming of spring might have meant things through the ages . . .

And that things of beauty can always be twisted into things that are . . .

Deadly

Eostre and Easter

​Dusk was falling, falling quickly. And to accompany the shadowy darkness, a light fog filled the air, creating an eerie feel in the silence, high atop the mountains.

​Angela Hawkins Crow paused, standing dead-still on the trail she had taken, surprised she had such a sense of unease. She loved the Highlands of Scotland, the wild and rugged beauty of the landscape, the greenery that became so rich and abundant with the entrance of spring each year. The trails where one could be alone with their thoughts, the clearings where you could sit and see the sky and the wonders of the earth and trees around them. Spring, Easter on the horizon, and the incredible lush beauty of the Highlands!

She had always loved the wildflowers that grew in colors both pastel and radiant, dotting the green here and there. But today, as dusk began its descent to night . . .

​Midst, shadow, darkness, and eeriness seemed to prevail.

​She gave herself a serious mental shake. She’d been an agent for years; she’d been through every form of training possible; she carried a big gun. She was one of the founding members of the Krewe of Hunters herself, for God’s sake! She wasn’t easily frightened or spooked; she spoke to those dead who chose to speak and especially those who had remained to help the living!

​But people had gone missing from the area, most from the valley below, but personal objects had been found on the roads that led up to the mountains and peaks. Yes, there might be a few predators in the area, but red foxes and the Scottish wildcats were not responsible for the disappearances that had taken place over the last few weeks. Nor were the adders—the only snake to inhabit the British Isles—responsible for complete disappearances, nor even the falcons.

​Two young women, not reported at first because they had made their livings on the streets and, well, even when their friends became concerned, it hadn’t caused much of an uproar at first. Street people often moved on.

​But then an elderly woman had disappeared and another young woman who had been doing an essay on the beauty of the mountains, traveling through on her own. And the local sheriff and park rangers had called them in because they had found nothing and the young woman doing the essay had a father in local government and he created an uproar, not just for his daughter, but for all those who had disappeared. And, as often happened, Sophia Randall’s father was friends with Adam Harrison, the man who had seen the strange talents in certain agents and formed the specialized unit known unofficially as the Krewe of Hunters, and Sophia’s dad had no problem in asking for American help. And so . . .

​Here they were. A visit to Scotland! Spring! A time and a place she loved, except . . .

​A strange feeling suddenly swept through her. It wasn’t fear. It was knowing that someone was behind her.

​She spun around. And she knew instantly as well that the person behind her was not among the living. Well, they had been hoping for help from the dead, from a remaining soul.

​In turn, she scared or startled the spirit, a beautiful young woman in a period dress that placed her death hundreds of years before now. Her eyes were a crystal blue; her hair, swept into a braided bun at her nape, was midnight dark and lovely.

​“Dearest Lord above!” the apparition cried.

​“It’s all right!” Angela said quickly. “Yes, I see you, but . . . I’ve no desire to harm you or frighten you, I’m so sorry!”

​Strange words. She could hardly harm a remaining spirit, but . . .

​“I’d hoped!” the girl whispered. “I’d hoped to find someone living, to touch them somehow . . . they’re out there! Bloody wretches they be, accosting those who are down and out or those who are unable to fight them! They come from all over and I know that they’re planning something terrible. You’ll see, you’ll see, in the clearing ahead . . .”

​“Wait, slow down, please!” Angela said. “In the clearing ahead—you think that they’re holding people in the clearing?” she asked.

​The ghost shook her head. “You don’t know, you can’t know. In my day . . . it was horrible, so horrible. If you looked at someone the wrong way, you were accused of witchcraft. And it was there that . . .” she broke off, wincing with the memory. “Interrogation and torture, and then our broken bodies were burned . . . and some there, some right there in the clearing. And now—”

​Angela stared at her, stunned and waiting. And she knew, this young woman had been caught up in the witchcraft craze.

​She knew something about it, of course. They’d dealt with the past before in Salem, Massachusetts, and probably would again. And she( knew, of course, that things had gotten absolutely horrible here under James VI of Scotland, who became James I of England.

“You were caught in the witchcraft craze?” Angela asked quietly.

The young woman nodded sadly. “They say that King James was first twisted into his beliefs when his mother, Mary of Scots, met her violent end, beheaded by her own cousin, Elizabeth. And then . . .”

“He was betrothed to Anne of Denmark, she tried to reach Scotland and almost died in a storm. He sailed to bring her back to Scotland himself and they were almost killed, and a ship was lost when violent storms kicked up again,” Angela said, keeping her voice low, though she wasn’t sure why. “James blamed it all on witchcraft, and now, historically, we can look back and see that the ‘witches’ burned here in Scotland were far more than those hanged in England and per capita, well . . . the belief in such things, fostered by a king, caused a horror equal to or greater than that found anywhere. And I’m so sorry for what was done to you!” Angela told her.

“Thank you. I am Catriona MacGregor, and I have met so few through the years who, like you, see me!” the young woman told her. “For in my day . . .”

“I would have been executed as a witch,” Angela said. “But Catriona, no one dies for being a witch anymore. Scotland is part of Great Britain, but the parliament is theirs and no government is perfect, but such horrendous things—”

“As burnings for witchcraft happen anymore?” Catriona asked, shaking her head. “Nay, true. Yet there are those out there—just people, members of humanity—who are simply evil or seek something or fall prey to those who still might harbor ridiculous beliefs! And I fear this has happened! I have seen them . . . I have seen them, pushing, forcing young women, a few older women, an old man . . . they have taken them somewhere, I know not, I tried to follow but got lost in the trails.”

“People are missing. And my job is to find them, Catriona.”

“You’re an American,” Catriona said.

“Yes, but my husband and I and others are part of a branch of law enforcement that works in Europe when necessary. And friends called upon us—”

“Then it is ever fortunate that I have found you! Because, at this moment, I cannot tell you where the missing people are, but I can tell you this! People can pervert any idea, no matter how simple and lovely it might be, and twist it into something else. Once upon the time, there were different ideas among the ancients. But the rites I believe being twisted were once sweet and good. Eostre was worshipped and adored. She was the goddess of spring, of beauty, or rebirth. But someone has taken that idea and turned the mind of many and . . . well. Come with me. And I will show you what I fear! Come . . . and we will take great care lest . . . they cannot hurt me, but . . .”

Angela nodded. She was still living. And while she still didn’t understand exactly what was going on, it seemed something horrible and dire indeed was planned for those poor souls who had gone missing.

*

“Trust me, I love my country and the countryside with a true patriotic passion,” Detective Michael McLean told Jackson Crow. “But the very richness of the countryside, the twisting trails in the mountains . . . well, if these people have been taken to a hideout somewhere in the denseness of the area, finding them will take a tremendous force. We’ve searched, of course. We’ve been desperately pulling in manpower, but . . .”

He paused, shaking his head. He smiled then. “We’ve heard that your unit, and your Blackbird extension, can be miracle workers. But I remain perplexed. You’re not from here, you can’t know the cliffs and crags and countryside as we do. We’re in the most sparsely inhabited part of the country, you know.”

“I do know all that, but my wife and I have been here many times—”

“And you two were among the first in your unit? You manage the unit?”

Jackson nodded. “Supervisory Agent,” Jackson said. “And we have come here often in our lives, Irish and Scottish ancestors in the mix.”

McLean seemed to be a good man and a good detective. He couldn’t quite stop himself from lifting a brow, something which caused Jackson to smile. He knew, of course, that his Native American ancestry was apparent in his features.

“Mom’s side of the family,” he told McLean.

“Of course!” McLean said. “So—”

“Angela is already out seeing what she might find on the trails,” Jackson said. “This cabin you have chosen for a ‘headquarters’ is quite perfect, allowing us a central zone from which to seek more clues. He pointed to a map on the wall that indicated areas where personal possessions belonging to the missing had been found. If there is more to be found, something that might indicate a direction, Angela will find it.”

Naturally, he didn’t add the fact that Angela might be seeking a deceased soul to help them along--the dead often saw what the living didn’t.

But then again, the dead were souls who remained on earth—still part of humanity and in a way, still subject to the human experience. They just didn’t know everything. But in this situation, they could hope. And so, Angela had gone on a walk. Jackson had remained to learn everything that Detective Michael McLoud could tell them.

“We’re ever hopeful and grateful for any and all help,” McLoud said, nodding at he did so, the soft burr of his accent seeming to accentuate his words.

And that, of course, was as it should be. Jackson had never given a damn about ‘jurisdiction.’ Help was help. This was McLoud’s case; they were there to give whatever assistance they could.

“I saw something, popped up in the news on my phone once we’d crossed the ‘pond,’” Jackson said. “Do you know anything about a group, a religious group or a cult, I guess, who have been speaking about the ancient goddess of spring, Eostre?” he asked McLoud.

McLoud made a sniffing noise, smiled and shook his head. “Aye, that I have. But there’s nothing dangerous in it. Aye, most Scots are Presbyterians, Anglicans, Catholics, Jewish, even Muslim, perhaps . . . but every country has a few who either twist what’s good in the vast majority of known religions—and those who create their own. Supposedly, there’s a surge now for people to worship some of the ancient gods and goddesses—not just here, but across much of Europe.”

“So, these people are worshipping a god or goddess—”

“Eostre, the ancient goddess of spring. But, even if so, the ancient rites having to do with spring were all about happiness, new life, the end of winter . . . joyous celebrations, nothing dangerous. Aye, man, in fact, bunnies and eggs were associated with the ancient goddess and the coming of spring! Things we associate with the Easter holiday now!” McLoud said, still grinning. “History! It will get you every time.”

History.

And human nature.

Most people, across the world, just wanted to go through life with love, perhaps family, perhaps friends, a job they liked, a few adventures and rest and relaxation along the way, maybe raising great kids who would go on to be decent and good and just by being, make the world a better place.

History—and human nature.

There would always be that few who “fed the wolf within them” with greed, perhaps, fury . . . or those who were just psychotic.

And those who followed them, who perhaps believed in whatever cause they saw as the one they must follow.

He stood up. “We’ve got to get out there,” he told McLoud.

McLoud was startled. He stood as well. “But we’ve men coming to help; they’re having a party of six, men and women who best know this terrain. They should be out here soon and with such a party—”

“We can better divide to search, yes, I understand that. But I need to get out there now, sir. I need to get out there now.”

McLoud nodded. “I don’t believe—”

“I don’t really believe anything yet. Gut instinct on this, McLoud. I need to find Angela!” There was a bag of candy sitting on a table near the door. Little pieces of gummy candy of some kind. He snatched it up and looked at McLoud.

“I’ll leave a trail!”

Jackson didn’t wait for McLoud’s nod. He was out the door.

He tried Angela’s phone. Worthless. No service here in the high wilderness.

He was just going to have to find her.

*

“Take care, take care, quiet, quiet!” Catriona’s spirit warned as they hurried through the trees. “Don’t just step out; remain hidden!”

Angela lowered her head and smiled. She’d been an agent well for over a decade now and she’d worked some particularly tough cases—and even been in some pretty tight spots.

She knew to remain hidden.

And yet she appreciated the care given her by the young woman. She had suffered horribly in her own life and death and still displayed a deep concern for others.

“There, stop, look out . . . the trees can shield you!” Catriona said.

The twisted trail they had taken was rich with Douglas fir trees and it was easy to stay behind the thick branches—and still see the clearing ahead. And as she looked out, she frowned.

Strange shapes out on the clearing had been created by branches. They weren’t formed into crosses, but more like large stands of the letter X. She could see that vines had been draped around the heavy branches as if . . .

As if they were there as bounds to keep someone tied to the stands?

Worse.

Beneath each of the large creations were piles of wood and kindling.

As if it was intended that whatever was tied to the stands was meant to be burned. And of course . . .

“Aye, so wretched to behold. Dear lass, I am ever so afraid that they mean to tie those they have taken to those stands and then . . .”

Catriona sobbed softly and Angela turned to her. She couldn’t really take the ghost into her arms, but she could stand and sweep her arms around the air, as if she did so.

“Whatever it is, we will stop it!” Angela promised her.

“But can we?” Catriona whispered desperately.

Angela fell silent, moving a half step deeper into the lush foliage of the fir.

Someone was stepping out from another trail, man in jeans, T-shirt, and light denim jacket, clothing that might have been worn in just any country as spring began it’s sweep over the earth. He appeared to be in his late thirties, blond, fit, about five-eleven, and with a quick step. He was carrying a giant container that seemed to be something very old and ceramic, bringing it to set next to one of the standing branch formations.

A second man, this one with dark hair, perhaps an inch taller, similarly dressed, followed. He was carrying what appeared to be a very old ceramic container, one that might have contained oatmeal or the like for a large party.

But Angela doubted they were planning a mass meal of any kind.

A third man appeared, a redhead. And a fourth, sandy-haired, younger than the others, perhaps barely out of his teens. The containers were being brought, one by one, and each was set by a station. Angela reached down to the side of her waist, beneath her dark blue jacket, assuring herself that her Glock was safely in its holster. But more men appeared until there were seven, all carrying the ceramic bowls.

Then, an older man wearing robes that made him appear like an ancient druid appeared, lifting his hands to the sky, speaking as he moved along, thanking the gods that the chill of winter was gone, praying that spring might come again, that the gods would take what was needed and use blood and ash to renew the wonder of the earth.

You’ve got to be kidding me! She thought.

But no one was kidding.

As he spoke, a line of people dragging crying hostages along appeared in the clearing. The man continued to talk, sometimes in English, sometimes in Gaelic, in German, she thought, and in French.

He’s culled his following from all over! She thought.

She felt Catriona’s hand on her shoulder. The ghost who had so long ago felt the flames of man’s inhumanity to man was terrified for the living being dragged forward. One seemed to be an older man. Two were young women who appeared in ragged clothing, another an older woman, and another, another young woman, blond and lovely, and while the others were also young and pretty, Angela had seen a photo of Sophia Randall and she was certain that she was seeing her then.

The breeze shifted slightly.

And she knew what was in the ceramic containers.

Gas. Gas to pour on the wood and kindling so that it might burn high and bright and deep into the night.

Angela knew she had to calculate and calculate quickly. It appeared there were seven hostages to be attached to the standing X stakes. There was the high priest person, adoring his goddess of spring in half a dozen languages. There were the healthy fellows who had delivered the ceramic bowls, and then another fourteen or so people who had forced the hostages along.

Yep. She had a gun. She could pick the toughest looking of the crowd, but no matter how good she was—or how horrid a thought a random mass killing might be—she could still fail to save anyone and die in the doing herself. And she had children to worry about!

“Can you cause a breeze, snap a branch, that kind of thing? Make others a little eerie, feeling your presence?” she asked Catriona.

“Oh, aye, that I can. But—”

“They must not get the hostages tied and the gas on the wood!” Angela declared.

Lifting her arms high to the eerie beauty of the dusk turned to night, Angela stepped out from the cover of the fir.

“Eostre, Eostre! I hear thee, I hear thee!”

Everyone stopped.

Stopped and turned to stare at her, stunned. And before she could allow them to react with instant fury and violence, she spoke again, sauntering toward them, speaking as she did so.

“Eostre, I hear thee, and I will speak through my lips for the fury that you feel! You fools!” She addressed the standing crowd, looking from the men around the X structures to those who were herding hostages.

“Eostre is the goddess of life and light and spring!” Angela announced. “The ancient recognized her power and they sacrificed to her through work and prayer, by tending to the young of all creatures she brings to life when it is spring. She is furious, furious! That you would so dishonor her with something so ugly as cruel and horrendous death!”

The priest man sprang forward.

“Do not believe her! A demon speaks through her, one who would have darkness and cold and death for us all, a demon—”

“Oh, really!” Angela was glad she had a damned loud voice and could project. “Really! Nay, sir! You are the demon, mocking all that Eostre represents! You, sir, are an evil that she will not tolerate, will not accept.”

“Nay, nay, nay!” the man raged. “Take her! Take her quickly, for she is trying to disrupt the purity of our sacrifice! She is—”

“Feel it! Feel her touch!” she cried. “For Eostre, the goddess, she moves among you, she reaches out and touches you!”

Catriona’s spirit was moving among the living; first, those who held the hostages, and then, she was onto the men by the X stakes, stroking their cheeks, managing to ruffle the red hair on the one man.

“Feel her, feel her, feel her!” Angela cried. “And let them go, let them go!”

“Kill her!” the priest raged, staring at Angela.

And for a moment, it seemed as if they were a tableau, frozen in time.

*

Jackson had taken trail after trail. Then again, he had spent time with his father’s people, the Cheyenne, and he knew how to look for signs within a wilderness. But he had the bag of gummies—a clear trail for anyone else.

It didn’t take him long to follow Angela’s first direction, to see she had stopped for a bit, and then taken a turn through what appeared to be just a thicket at first onto a different, truly narrow trail with mounds of firs and pines and spruces.

Then, he heard the movement. From the brush, he held his peace, watching as men carrying great ceramic bowls walked by and then . . .

He held back; he saw the priest. And the others walking forward . . .

Something. Something had to be done.

And it was.

He watched Angela step out and begin to speak. Damned good job, but she was good at what she did and yet he knew she was stalling them because she couldn’t have possibly just stood there while people were burned alive.

And he saw something else . . .

First, just mist against the coming, shadowy darkness.

And then he knew. Angela had found a soul who had remained, and that ghost was helping her now. But would that be enough to sway people? Could McLoud and his people come quickly enough?

“Kill her! Kill her, kill her!” the priest raged and ranted. “She is evil; she seeks to stop the sacrifice the earth must receive to renew!”

“Eostre! She is spring, she is life!” Angela roared. “You can feel her around you!”

He had a silencer. And he could take down a few of them but probably create chaos that would get the innocent killed.

​But with a silencer . . .

​He took careful aim.

​And he hit a high, dangling branch on a fir tree with almost perfect timing.

​It crashed down just as Angela declared, “I speak for Eostre! And she is all around us and she is angry!”

​People jumped and scattered. One woman who had been among the ‘herders’ screamed and ran toward the forest.

​Two more joined her. They would—or wouldn’t—be stopped by McLoud’s men, but they had appeared terrified and not terribly into the idea of burning other human beings.

​And still . . .

​It was time. He stepped out of bushes, Glock aimed at the priest.

​“I’m Jackson. Laird of the trees!” he announced. “And you stop this right now, high evil being, or wear a bullet between your brows.”

​“I’m out!” someone shouted.

​Three others began to flee from the scene. From a distance, he heard screams and shouts.

​McLoud’s people were on the way.

​But the priest suddenly let out a shout of rage and reached for one of the hostages, dragging her toward a large, staked X and one of the cauldrons . . . one that bore the stench of gasoline.

​And if he fired . . .

​He’d take the chance of creating an inferno that killed many.

​But if he didn’t . . .

​A shot rang out. The priest screamed in pain and fell, releasing his hostage.

Angela. She’d had the right angle, and her shot had crippled the man, catching him in the ankle and nearly blowing off his foot.

And as his hostage sped far from the X structure, the priest, the gasoline, and the others, there was a loud shout of warning.

​“Scotland police! You’re all under arrest! Do not make us run after you!”

​McLoud had come. Jackson smiled and walked into the clearing, directly for his wife.

​Officers were swarming around them. The cult of a maligned Eostre was being rounded up; the hostages were being reassured by the police.

​He strode straight toward Angela. “Goddess, eh?” he teased.

​“Not me!” she replied, flipping back a stray length of her long blond hair. “But, in a way, I did speak for one!” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Catriona. She led me here! She kept them still, brushing them up! Of course, the hitting the branch on that tree was a nice stroke of genius, my love. Jackson. Okay, whoever that horrid priest is, he might be a cripple in the future, but . . . it is spring! And we’re in Scotland and the kids are with Mary down in Stirling, but we can drive to Edinburgh, and we can go to St. Giles for a service and hide eggs and give them their baskets and . . .”

​“Aye, that we can,” he told her, taking on an accent and grinning. “We can. Do you think you’ll still love the Highlands?” he asked her.

​“I will still love the Highlands,” she assured him, smiling. “I have a friend here now!”

​And as she spoke, the ghost of Catriona came toward them, carefully watching the chaos around them.

​“You see me, too,” she whispered.

​He nodded gravely, looking at Angela as he spoke to the ghost. “I see you, and I thank you, with all of my heart,” he told her.

​“Nay, dear sir, for what you have given me here today . . . a chance to be a part. A beautiful part of . . . life.”

​Life.

​Whether one celebrated Easter, Eostre, Passover, or simply the beauty that could exist in being decent to one’s fellow man . . .

​Life. Spring made one realize the beauty of life.

​McLoud hurried toward them. “Y’did it! You stopped it before it could happen! My thanks to y’both!” he told them sincerely. “Privileged, dirt poor . . . everyone alive. All right, my people are herding in those who will be arrested and caring for the hostages and getting that evil whatever to hospital. We snagged the few who disappeared into the woods—they came straight at us. So now . . . I know a place down in the city that you’ll love! May we have a night?”

​“Oh! Aye!” Angela told him, grinning.

​Naturally, he groaned, but he told them, “Follow me! Even though before, I was following you.”

​“How did you—” Angela began.

​“Candy,” McLeod told her.

​“Pardon?” Angela asked.

​“Trailblazer here,” he said, indicating Jackson. “Gummies! Anyway, shall we?”

​“Of course.”

​He started off. Angela paused, whispering.

​“Catriona, can you—”

​“Ah, lassie, no!”

​“Are you—”

​“Leaving in a ray of sunlight?” Catriona asked. “Nay, lass. I will be here, protecting my Highlands, seeing that evil never tries to seize the beauty of spring, of what we celebrate as Easter, the beauty of rebirth, all that rises from the dead, as you have allowed so many to do!”

​With a wave she was gone.

​Angela looked at Jackson and smiled.

​He slipped an arm around her. They had started with Eostre. But now . . .

​They would celebrate Easter, and all the beauty of spring and the life that the season brought to the world.

About The Author

Heather Graham

Heather Graham

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, Heather Graham, majored in theater arts at the University of South Florida. After a stint of several years in dinner theater, back-up vocals, and bartending, she stayed home after the birth of her third child and began to write. Her first book was with Dell, and since then, she has written over two hundred novels and novellas including category, suspense, historical romance, vampire fiction, time travel, occult, sci-fi, young adult, and Christmas family fare.

She is pleased to have been published in approximately twenty-five languages. She has written over 200 novels and has 60 million books in print. Heather has been honored with awards from booksellers and writers’ organizations for excellence in her work, and she is the proud to be a recipient of the Silver Bullet from Thriller Writers and was awarded the prestigious Thriller Master Award in 2016. She is also a recipient of the Lifetime Achievement Award from RWA.  Heather has had books selected for the Doubleday Book Club and the Literary Guild, and has been quoted, interviewed, or featured in such publications as The Nation, Redbook, Mystery Book Club, People and USA Today and appeared on many newscasts including Today, Entertainment Tonight and local television.

Heather loves travel and anything that has to do with the water, and is a certified scuba diver. She also loves ballroom dancing. Each year she hosts a Vampire Ball and Dinner theater raising money for the Pediatric Aids Society and in 2006 she hosted the first Writers for New Orleans Workshop to benefit the stricken Gulf Region.  She is also the founder of “The Slush Pile Players,” presenting something that’s “almost like entertainment” for various conferences and benefits. Married since high school graduation and the mother of five, her greatest love in life remains her family, but she also believes her career has been an incredible gift, and she is grateful every day to be doing something that she loves so very much for a living.