Christmas At Draycott Abbey, by Christina Skye

Christmas At The AbbeyDear reader,

As the eve of Christmas has passed, my story is done. The candle flame has guttered and Adrian walks once more.

On this long night he and all within the weathered granite walls will be tested, just as they were tested long before….

I hope you will join me as a new tale unfolds now. Purchase Christmas At Draycott Abbey at

I’ll be waiting for you at the abbey…..

Christina Skye

Ian Sinclair stood in the darkness, watching rain hammer at the French doors and the ancient granite bridge. Tonight the abbey was quiet, deserted and dark. No Viscount Draycott and family in residence. No glittering social nights or charity events.

Just shadows. Only silence and a sense of history so strong it was almost physical. This was how Ian preferred the old abbey.

Lightning tore at the sky, outlining the great oak and the home wood beyond.

Wind lashed at the old casement windows as the storm’s fury grew. Odd weather for December, Ian thought. There had already been flooding reported near Winchelsea and Rye. But no snow.

Very odd.

Suddenly the dog near his chair sat up. Dark ears pricked back as the big animal stared out into the night. Then the dog shot upright, racing forward to press against the glass doors.

“What is it, Churchill? What do you hear?”

Ian stood up slowly and rubbed his leg. Was it more terrorists?

More people from one of a thousand missions he had carried out for the government over the past ten years?

The tall man by the fire closed his eyes. He was twenty-nine, damn it. He was getting too old to run down assassins and jump off roofs. The last mission in Paris had proved that.

The big brown dog turned and then sat down, body rigid. He was well trained, experienced from long years working with Ian. And that single movement meant only one thing.


Ian’s face was grim as he slid his Beretta into his holster and went to calm the dog at the door.

No one was expected here at the abbey. No visitors or deliveries of any sort.

As he smoothed his dog’s lean, angular head, Ian sensed the keen intelligence and the need to hunt.

Ian understood that need too. Sometimes, when the madness came in the late hours and the dark memories piled up, he too needed to hunt. Only the feel of the cold night air and the pounding of his blood would help him forget…

So they would hunt tonight.

“Go. Find them,” Ian ordered, throwing open the door. “I’ll be right behind you.”

The dog bounded out in one powerful leap.

Ian stood for long moments, studying the distant woods. Was there a light, up near the Witch’s Pool?

He pulled on his old tweed coat, feeling a sharp stab of warning.

Wind swirled through the room and the firelight jumped dizzily behind him.

His eyes hardened as another light brushed the darkness on the high ridge beyond the moat.

He prayed that the hunting would be good this night….



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