a cold sweat erupted on his brow. He steeled his spine and forbore hunkering deeper in the covers, because he knew damn well hunkering would do no good.

"Lachlannnn." A wail, accompanied by the clank of chains. "Lachlannnn."

His lungs locked as the sound wound through the room, a slithering wraith. He struggled to release himself from the clinging tendrils of sleep, a tantalizing dream that still clutched at his heart. He didn't want to wake. Certainly not to this.

Stiffening his resolve, he opened an eye. Though it was a sight he'd seen many times before, it hit him and hit him hard, a fist, a twist to his gut.

A man stood over his bed, looming and dark, with ashen skin and empty eyes. He was tall with broad shouldersand long, sturdy legs. His hair was short, dark curls. He was dressed in tattered rags and draped in chains. Though he seemed solid, he wavered in the glow of the night lamp.

His features were familiar. They mirrored those Lachlan saw each day in the glass, though these were weary, wan, and lined with creases.

It was his father. William Sinclair.

Or what was left of him.

"Lachlan. You must save me."

He tried not to wince at the command. It was a heavy weight to carry, the responsibility for the immortal souls of one's ancestors, but it was one Lachlan bore. It ate at him that this father, and his father before him, rotted in hell.

Lachlan was the only one who could put their spirits to rest.

All he had to do