If you look hard enough, you’ll find a skeleton in everyone’s memory. If you’re particularly unlucky you may find more. Some skeletons were more grotesque than others, and Iona was sure her steadily growing gang would win against most rivals. No Tulloch witch could live their life without collecting a few here and there, and she had begun early on. It was one thing to know they were there, but it was another to acknowledge their presence, to recall the memory where they were born. On that day, a month after she had arrived in the city, she visited one of her skeletons.
They lived in a home where they were given the best care money could buy and looked after for every waking moment. Iona had been very young when she had been dragged here the first time. Now she went voluntarily. Perhaps it was to torture herself, or perhaps she wanted a reminder of what her arrogant pride could accomplish. More reasons were bobbing erratically near the surface of her mind but she ignored them and entered the care home before she could change her mind and return to the shop. When she went inside, she gravitated her way to the reception and gave the name of the person she was there to see. As they were checking their database for a list of residents, Iona took the opportunity to look around at the welcome foyer.
It hadn’t changed much since she had been forced inside long ago. There was a community notice board with flyers announcing comedy and film nights, some dancing classes, and a few reminders about lost belongings. The colours of the walls were off-white, a few markings here and there that stood out sorely. The lino on the floor was scuffed and gouged in places, with corners sporadically missing. It appeared to Iona that it needed updating.
The receptionist announced she had found the resident Iona had requested to see and told her to go straight through to the day room, pointing in its direction past the grand staircase. Taking a deep breath to calm her quaking nerves, Iona walked further into the closet her family had chosen to keep one of her skeletons in.
As she neared a large room that had a TV on with an old musical playing and some conversations merging with each other to create a cacophony of confusion, one of the staff members, dressed in nurse white and blue, approached her and asked who she was here to see. After telling the nurse the name her gaze was directed to a lone woman sitting in a substantial armchair that looked out into the lavishly maintained garden, with some flowers still in bloom.
“Have you visited before?” the nurse queried tonelessly, better than her counterpart in the hospital at hiding her judgement.
“Not in a long time,” Iona breathed as she stared at the woman she had come to see.
The nurse nodded slowly out of habit rather than empathy. Every time Iona walked into a health care establishment it seemed she was to be judged by the staff for being neglectful.
“Come with me and we’ll see how she’s feeling today.”
A part of Iona wanted her to be feeling bad so she would have a valid excuse to leave. In the years since she’d been here, Iona had forgotten how stifling it was. There were many old people sitting in chairs talking with each other, speaking with other visitors who had come, and some just staring blankly into space, as if their body was vacant of their soul. It smelled of detergent and other cleaning products, with the smallest musty hint of age. Most of the residents were white haired and wrinkled, with the few exceptions whose hair retained most of its colour. It was a bright room filled with delicate paintings of landscapes and abstract flowerpots, some cards sat on tables from loved ones sending birthday wishes or get better soon sentiments. It did not appear to be a nasty place, like the news reported about care homes near on a daily basis, but everything was rather generic, there was no personality and no warmth of familiarity.
Iona followed meekly behind the nurse as she approached the woman in the armchair. Some brief words were exchanged before the nurse nodded to indicate she could approach. When she did the nurse disappeared. The face that stared out into space was one that she had not seen in many years, and one that still plodded around in her dreams from time to time. It was not as old and creased as many of the other residents that surrounded them, her hair was not as faded to white or grey, but now it had patches and streaks drawn neatly through, beginning from her temples and widow’s peak. The vacant gaze didn’t draw away from the garden, and even when Iona pulled a chair they didn’t move to acknowledge or greet.
She looked over how much the woman had changed, what she had transformed into from her former self. The guilt had been unbearable back then, and in the interim Iona had managed to forget about it, had been able to lock the skeleton in a memory that she never opened, but now she was in its presence, looking her skeleton straight in the eye, she thought the crushing sense of guilt would finish her. How had it grown in strength over the years? Wasn’t remorse meant to subside over time?
At first, she didn’t know what to say, or if there was any point in saying anything at all when it was clear she wouldn’t get a response. The silence was heavy, and still the woman gazed out into the garden.
“It’s been a while,” Iona rasped, “I’m sorry for that.”
Along with many other things, she thought darkly.
“Have ye been keeping well? Do the staff treat ye kindly?”
She knew they were all rhetorical questions for she would get no answers from the person she was asking. Exhaling slowly, Iona ignored her urge to flee as fast as she could. Children didn’t take responsibility for their actions because they didn’t have to, they could turn away and pretend it never happened. Iona was no longer a child, not that she had been back then either, but the shop had been placed under her care now, and after all of the years denying and trying to forget, perhaps it was time to let the skeleton free, if she could.
“Everything’s well with the shop, despite Duncan’s best attempts. I feel as though there are more and more customers every day. It’s more exhausting than I thought.”
Suddenly a small commotion broke out in the day room between an older man and a younger woman. She began to sob uncontrollably whilst the man was ranting about one thing or another. Many questions were bandied about but one that Iona could hear involved the man asking who the woman was. She wondered if her skeleton would recognise her now, but instead her gaze remained concentrated on the garden. It felt as if there was no longer anyone in there, that the body was just vacant, running on a shell of what used to be inside. In that moment Iona felt more alone than she ever had before. So far away from home with no one to speak to or hear advice from, her time in the city was turning into a lonely existence.
“They’ve tried to drag me into the war, although it seems they succeeded with Duncan. We all know ye were far too clever for anything like that, though. I don’t understand why he did it. He was selling the relics for money, and I can’t fathom why. Did he ever come here? Did he ever tell ye?”
There were so many questions to be asked and yet no one capable of answering them. It only served to sadden her more. She managed to stay a while longer talking about random things that had happened, new customers who thought her herbal remedies were something sent from God, and others who paid too much money for a fake relic Iona had forgotten to remove. Normal conversation was draining, but a one-sided talk was an uphill struggle. Not once did the older woman in the chair move from her position, or acknowledge Iona’s presence. Instinctively she wrapped her hand around the woman’s and squeezed.
“I’ll visit again soon, I promise.”
Receiving no reaction Iona stood up and went to leave when the nurse who had shown her in stopped her briefly at the door.
“Was everything alright?” she queried politely, a smile shaping her mouth.
“Yes, thank ye.”
“Good, maybe she’ll perk up a bit now that she has two visitors.”
“Two?” Iona asked, masking the suspicion from her tone.
“We have volunteers who visit us every week, and one of them always pays her great attention. I think they took pity.”
At least she hadn’t been completely alone since she was condemned to the care home. Iona nodded absently and headed for the door, suddenly needing to feel the fresh air in her lungs and on her irritated, dry skin.
***
The shop had only been open a few hours when her next problem was blown in with the steadily growing winter chill. Many people often seemed reluctant to cross the threshold, as if it had taken them great strength to do so in the first place, only to instantly regret it when the scent of incense and dried herbs struck them in the face. In a world of rapidly evolving technology and attitudes, the Tulloch line of work was receding more and more into the shadows. It was a man who had stumbled in, looking around him with unintentional curiosity, as if trying to make up his mind what he had decided to wander into. Iona had glanced up from the customer log that she was filling in, and the handful of other customers had also stopped their browsing to look at the new entrant. She watched him carefully from behind the counter as he made his way through the arch and into the main room of the shop.
When Iona was younger, she had always found it fascinating how her grandparents, and the rest of her family, had sensed when a true customer had come through the door. Some just came in to pass the time, others were looking for odd gifts to give relatives that wasn’t a box of chocolates, and others had come in genuinely believing in the healing power of crystals and herbal concoctions. However, there was only one type of customer that was truly interesting, and that was those who needed help of a more individual nature. They always stood out from the rest in that they had a sense of bewilderment about them. If she could capture their thoughts at the time of their entering the shop, she was sure it would be one single question.
How did I get here?
As Iona grew up, she realised that the rest of her family didn’t have some extra sixth sense that told them the difference between customers. It was simply a matter of observation.
Eventually the man’s gaze found Iona standing beside the desk, pretending to fill in the customer log when it had long since lost its interest.
“Excuse me,” he said politely as he moved closer, “I was wondering if you could help me.”
“What with?”
“I’m having some trouble concentrating on things, and I was just hoping there would be some herbal remedy to help me focus.”
Iona often thought what it would be like to be a qualified medical doctor. Did they get the same statements said to them on a daily basis like she did? Did their patients expect a magical drug to cure their ailments? She took a moment to observe the man. He was young, perhaps having only recently seen the front end of thirty, with neat cropped hair that smelled of styling product. He was well dressed with pressed shirt and tie, but no wedding ring, so he took personal care in his appearance. Following on she noticed his clean-shaven square jaw that showed no signs of an evening shadow, and radiant skin that a fifty-year-old would be envious of. Everything from his broad shoulders to straining shirt buttons announced that he was a regular attendant of a gym. From all appearances it seemed as though he had his life in very good order. Someone who exercised regularly and undertook what she assumed to be a daily moisturising program shouldn’t have problems concentrating on anything. Iona glanced into his eyes and found them dilated, which if she had been anyone else would have evoked thoughts of drugs, but since she was a Tulloch it brought stranger ones. There was the beginning of red at the corners of his eyes, and he looked a small nudge away from going mad.
A memory dusted itself off and came to the forefront of her mind. She had seen something very similar before. It was when she had been in secondary school. A teen magazine, for fun, had published a so-called love spell that would make any boy fall at the girl who cast its feet. The magazine couldn’t possibly have known that it was real, to an extent. She had seen a boy in her year exhibit the same symptoms as the man before her. She restrained her sigh.
“When did this problem start?” she queried.
“A few days ago,” he answered after a moment of thought.
The timeline was too short. If it was the spell she suspected he shouldn’t be acting like this until at least a week, if not more, after it had been cast. Shifting around her priorities she made a new line in the customer book.
“There is something I can give ye that will help, although it may take me a day or two to make. Could I take a name and some contact details?”
“My name’s Philip MacBride,” he told her then relayed her a phone number she could get him on.
She managed to swindle his date of birth by saying some of the ingredients weren’t legally allowed to be given to anyone younger than eighteen, which he had seemed surprised about but agreed, so desperate to cure his apparent malady. All she needed was his name and date of birth, the others were just a formality. He thanked her and left the shop. She looked after him and took a deep breath in. Life was never dull in the city.
***
There were many quotes about love dashed all over famous and infamous literature alike. Poems, songs, and novels had all been written about it many times over in thousands of different languages and styles. Humanity was obsessed with it, as if it were the ultimate goal in everyone’s life. Some were desperate enough to seek a solution through unnatural ways. However, one lesson learned by every Tulloch witch was that emotions and feelings could not be conjured by magic. Manipulation was about as far as their power would stretch, but making someone fall in love with someone else was a magical impossibility. It couldn’t be done.
This didn’t mean the occasional witch hadn’t tried. There were a few love spells floating around, but love was used very broadly. Obsession, idolisation, and mania were all consequences of such spells. The enchantment that had been released in the latest edition of the teen magazine published when she was younger had evoked obsession, and it appeared that Philip MacBride was the latest victim.
In the small town where she had grown up it had been easy to find the teenager who had cast it on her school fellow. In the Highlands, witching families and their descendants were still well known, hence her family had confronted the caster and cured the boy without lifting a finger. In a city full of spiritualists all with access to grimoires and other materials it would be like finding a cream tile amongst white. It was a good thing a Tulloch never refused a challenge.
There was a spell, one of the very oldest in the Tulloch collection back on the main estate. She had seen it only a handful of times, held it in her hands using white gloves so as not to damage the paper it had been written on. Her grandmother had said it went back thousands of years, passed down from one Tulloch to the next by word of mouth before someone had made it more permanent. Taking the piece of paper Phillip MacBride’s details were written on, she placed it down on the ground before where she sat cross legged. The shop was closed for the morning so she could concentrate better on the spell, and so she wasn’t interrupted by trivial matters. In the back room, that only rare customers were permitted into, she drew two crude looking eyes on the uneven palms of her hands with jet black kohl. As soon as she had finished, the tattoos on her arms began to tingle in anticipation, as if they sensed the power already pulsating through the air.
Taking a deep breath, she hovered her hands over the piece of paper and stilled her mind, emptying it of other mundane, foolish thoughts. She pictured Mr MacBride’s face, his build, all of the small details she had noticed, including the niggling signs of an enchantment. Slowly she placed her hands over her eyes, enveloping her consciousness in darkness. The shop let her go, and when the veil of murk lifted, she was in an office.
People dressed in mono-colour shirts sat at small desks littered with lost hopes and graveyard dreams. Women curled their toes having discarded their high heels on the floor whilst they sat typing or looking at emails. The new world around Iona was fuzzy, as if she needed glasses but refused to wear them. She could make out people, shapes, objects, and faces, but nothing was as it should have been, there was very little detail, and the air itself was blurred. Amidst the uncertainty she recognised a familiar face. Phillip MacBride sat at his desk, a half-emptied cup of coffee perched at his side whilst he stared at the computer screen in front of him as though it was the centre of the world.
She realised very soon that he was not staring at what was on the screen, but rather his eyes were pointing in that direction and his mind was elsewhere entirely. He had said that he couldn’t concentrate, and the blank look he gifted the screen was proof enough. Iona began to look around the office at his colleagues. Anyone had the power to cast a stupid spell, but there was something more severe about the one cast on MacBride. It had taken hold far too quickly for an amateur to have cast it. The spiritualists were everywhere in the city, and not everyone could live and breathe in the bar they used as the nucleus for their cult. It was unlikely to be anyone outside of the office, she reasoned. It should be someone that had regular contact with MacBride, someone who had taken notice of him, become entranced and fixated enough to seek out a love spell. Iona’s eyes continued to scan. It wasn’t long before she found them.
It was a man, sitting at a corner desk near the window. She knew because he was the only one in focus. Her spell had been to find the caster of the enchantment by anchoring itself to the enchanted. Every so often the young man, no doubt one of many spiritualists, glanced at MacBride, then quickly away. If she could see into his thoughts, she knew they would be full of hope, waiting for the object of his desire to come over and sweep him off his feet, declare love, and announce they were now a couple. Only naïve people cast love spells, and they were all naïve thoughts.
He was young, possibly younger than she was, with a fresh face and scrawny build. He wore square glasses that drowned his lean face, and the shirt he wore was baggy in every place she could see. He was plain in every definition of the word, and by his choice to cast a love spell lacking in self-confidence. Looking closer she tried to discern his name from the documents she saw lying on his desk. Adam Beattie. He seemed rather pleased with himself, allowing his mind to no doubt wander to the brilliant future he was going to have with his co-worker. Iona didn’t take joy in crushing the dreams of others, but someone needed to step in and break the enchantment before Phillip MacBride lost his mind.
***
The spell used on MacBride was crude in its nature, but far too powerful than it should have been. It caused obsession. The subject of the spell couldn’t stop thinking about the one who had cast it. The thoughts weren’t on anything in particular, although there was no possible way of knowing how it worked on each individual, but they were constant and unrelenting. There was room for nothing else, no other thoughts, so day to day living became a struggle, as did everything else. Nothing good ever came of the spells, and at one time in their history they were cast on unfaithful spouses to punish them for their infidelity. Spells of a similar nature occurred anywhere from a teenager’s magazine to a badly worded poem. The force that had policed the release and use of spells had declined so rapidly that the spells themselves were permitted to roam the earth in relative freedom, until one was used so badly it came to the community’s attention. It had been a while since she had been a part of such an occurrence, and back then she had simply been an observer.
Things were different now. She was alone in a city full of opportunities to use controlling and dangerous spells, and she was the only one who had the power to stop them. There was only one cure for a so-called love spell. It needed to be broken by the one who had cast it in the first place. All hope was not lost for Phillip MacBride, there were various concoctions he could take that would protect him for a while, but it wasn’t a permanent solution. The only way was to persuade Adam Beattie to release the object of his affection from the web he had ensnared him in.
Iona had seen the name of the company on some papers scattered around Beattie’s desk and so after a walk through the park and an unfamiliar part of the city she finally came across the large multi-storey building. Like most of the new buildings that had been erected in the rapidly expanding metropolis the façade of the one she stood before was almost entirely made of glass. She had never seen so many windows. Despite the sky being clouded over in typical autumn fashion, the panes still reflected what sparse daylight there was available before winter slowly marched in. It was not made of the dull grey that the other companies had chosen, or what was left as a remnant of a time gone by. It had a modern feel from the automatic doors to the security barriers at the entrance. Workers in suits and heels hurried by after taking a long lunch. Iona stood and wondered how she would meet Adam Beattie. It would take too long to wait until he clocked off, but she doubted going into reception and asking for his name would work very well either. As she was thinking she sensed a presence, different from the mundane hum of mortals that was usually in the background. She had sensed it before, not too long ago.
Shifting her eyes around she stifled an exasperated groan when her gaze set upon Leif Morrison, walking towards her with someone who resembled him too much not to be related. It was too late for her to hide because he had already spotted her, and a retreat was out of the question. Trying to keep her mind centred she waited until both men had reached her.
“I never thought to find you standing out here,” Mr Morrison announced as he reached her, a small smile playing on his lips.
The Morrison family’s real estate business stretched far and wide, causing her to assume that the building she lingered in front of probably belonged to them. It appeared that her life in the city was not permitting her to be long out of the company of the Morrisons.
“Allow me to introduce my younger brother, Albin,” Leif Morrison motioned to the man standing at his side.
Where Harold and Leif looked like mature adults, Albin still had something of a juvenility about him. The roundness of his eyes, the lack of growth on his chin, or the slenderness of his build, all of them contributed to a youthful appearance. She was by no means fooled – he would be older than her grandparents. His features were softer than either of his brothers, and his eyes were nowhere near as sharp as Harold’s or as inviting as Leif’s. It was strange, they were transparent, comfortable, with an ease that she envied for almost a second.
“I had heard there was a new Tulloch in the shop,” the youngest brother said amiably.
How many more Morrisons could she expect to ambush her in the middle of the day? She smiled thinly in return but said nothing. Introductions on her part evidently weren’t necessary.
“Are you here on business?” Albin queried.
“You can ask but she won’t give you an answer,” Leif told his brother, a hint of mirth in his tone, “Miss Tulloch is very tight lipped.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she retorted dryly.
“As it was intended. Albin, you go on ahead, I have something further to take care of.”
The youngest Morrison brother glanced briefly at Iona, as if gauging her involvement, before nodding briefly and leaving the two of them alone. She had hoped that the coffee in the park would be their last incognito meeting, but she sensed the middle Morrison had something else on his agenda.
“You’re here about MacBride, aren’t you?”
She was taken aback. How could he possibly know of that name? She tried to keep her composure as her mind scrambled through all of the ways he could have found out, but nothing immediately came to mind.
“It’s not a secret. I can tell you how I know if you simply ask.”
Mr Morrison was enjoying himself immensely at her expense. The warm eyes sparked with amusement, as if he could see past the mask of calm and into the swarm of panic.
“How?” she muttered stubbornly.
“I was the one who sent him to you.”
She vaguely remembered MacBride telling her he’d heard that her shop procured herbal remedies, she just assumed he had heard it from another mortal. What was Mr Morrison’s connection with her customer? Were they so close that MacBride had confided in the immortal that he was having trouble concentrating?
“Did ye know what was wrong with him before ye sent him to me?” she questioned.
“No, not for certain but I had my suspicions. You can’t live as long as I have without seeing similar symptoms. It’s an enchantment, isn’t it?”
Reluctantly she nodded, refusing to give any more details until she got some of her own.
“How do ye know him?”
“We’ve met a few times for work. He was meant to be promoted this month to a manager, but his performance suddenly dropped, as did his concentration. He seems like a diligent worker, and when I met him a few days ago I knew something had happened. Are you here to speak with him more,” he paused looking at the building and then back to her, “or have you found the culprit?”
Stubbornly she remained quiet. He may be involved with her customer but she refused to tell him about the culprit, especially given that they were a spiritualist.
“I can help if it is,” he offered.
She glanced at him, tempted. Surely everyone would recognise the Morrison name, perhaps he could get her into the building without warning Beattie that she had arrived. After the extension of his offer she was torn. Tullochs worked alone, with blood, or with the occasional other witch, they did not ask for help from an immortal. She knew she hadn’t asked directly, but receiving help was still along the same lines. Who was more important; her pride, or Phillip MacBride’s mind?
“There’s an employee I need to see,” she sighed in defeat, “He works in the same office as Mr MacBride.”
“I can get him for you,” Mr Morrison motioned in the direction of the entrance.
Iona followed him through the doors and to the reception desk where a smartly dressed woman with neatly pinned up hair stood smiling, ready to serve.
“Good afternoon, Mr Morrison. Was there something else you needed?” she questioned politely, recognising the middle son of a family she thought were simply rich, and not immortal.
“Yes, there was,” Leif smiled at the receptionist, “could you ask a-”
Leif stopped and briefly turned his face to look at her, expecting the name of the employee.
“Adam Beattie,” she muttered.
“A…..Adam Beattie,” Mr Morrison stumbled over the words before regaining his composure, “Could you ask him to come down to reception please?”
“Yes, of course,” she smiled whilst picking up the phone.
Mr Morrison leaned away from the counter and closer towards where Iona stood, looking around him casually.
“You couldn’t have warned me?” he muttered exasperatedly.
She refused to admit that it gave her a small sense of triumph that she had played Leif Morrison at his own game, just once. She shrugged in reply, eliciting a brief snort of humour.
“He’ll be right down,” the young receptionist announced.
Mr Morrison thanked her politely before turning to Iona.
“There you are. I hope it goes well.”
She was grateful that he didn’t linger. It was unclear whether Mr Morrison had put two and two together and guessed the employee of interest was a spiritualist, hence things would be difficult if his presence continued, or whether he simply didn’t wish to impinge on her task by being a long shadow at her back.
“Thank ye,” she uttered.
He smiled at her before walking off, and she found herself staring at his back for longer than was necessary. He was steadily growing into a mystery. Why was he helping her and wanting nothing in return? Did he intend to open a tab in her name so he could collect at a later date? Her mind naturally turned suspicious, but only time would tell if the middle Morrison brother had an agenda or not.
A few minutes later Adam Beattie shuffled out of the lift and arrived at reception, looking around him with some confusion. After speaking to the receptionist, he glanced over at her and she could sense, even from a few paces away, that his muscles had tensed in fear. She thought he would run away. Gingerly, he made his way over to her, dragging his feet like a schoolboy knowing they were about to be scolded.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Tulloch,” he spoke in almost a whisper, his bespectacled eyes staring fixed on the ground, he then shook his head and blinked a few more times than was necessary, “although I’m not supposed to be saying that.”
His words evoked a memory she would rather forget, and a decision that would continue to haunt her for as long as she remained in the city. As she had expected all of the spiritualists had been told of her misdeed, and all were no doubt commanded to be her enemy.
“I’d like to speak to ye about something, Mr Beattie. Would ye mind coming outside with me?”
He looked at her for the first time, doubt clouding his enlarged brown eyes. She had killed one of his comrades with as much ease as she would swat a fly, so his reluctance was understandable, but there was no other way she could think of getting him away from the earshot of mortals.
“I promise I’m not here to hurt ye,” she reassured, “It’s about Phillip MacBride.”
He relaxed at the mention of the name and slowly followed her through the doors outside into the autumn chill. They found a bench that looked as though it was a regular smoking area for a few of the employees.
“I understand that ye know Phillip MacBride,” she prompted, not wishing to tell him she knew that they worked in the same office.
“Yes, very well. How do you know him?”
“He came to my shop the other day with a complaint and asked for my help.”
Adam Beattie’s eyes returned to the ground in front of them as if he were counting the number of cigarette butts discarded carelessly there. He did not appear to be a cunning man, nor did he seem powerful enough to cast the spell that had been put on Mr MacBride. Looks could be deceiving but his presence was weak at best, his power just a flickering tea light someone used when the electricity had gone out.
“W…what complaint?” he stuttered, refusing to make eye contact.
By his tone she was unsure whether he knew about the side effects of the spell he had cast. They rarely came with a list.
“He said he couldn’t concentrate on anything at work,” she began with the truth, “and that one of his colleagues was never far from his mind, even when he didn’t wish to think of them. I’ve rarely seen someone look so depressed. Mr MacBride was in line for a promotion but because his poor performance at work they gave it to someone else. He was quite distraught.”
Thankfully Adam Beattie seemed a naïve sort, still of a young age when he thought that everything could be gained with magic and there were no consequences waiting for him at the end of it. His feelings for Mr MacBride were pure enough, love spells usually began with the best intentions, and so exaggerating the truth was a plausible way of getting the information she wanted without resorting to the threatening manner she had a budding reputation for.
“No,” he whispered involuntarily.
“I think ye know why I’m here speaking with ye, Adam,” she announced gently.
He picked up his head to look at her, his face ashen with regret. Removing his glasses he began to rub at his eyes, wiping away the moisture that had filled them.
“It wasn’t meant to turn out like this,” he said, his voice tight with emotion.
They never are, she thought.
“I love him, very much,” he turned to her in desperation, a hint of pleading swimming in his eyes with the tears, “I didn’t mean for the spell to hurt him.”
“I know,” she replied gently.
“What can you do to fix him?”
“I can only do so much, the responsibility of setting him free lies with the one who cast the spell.”
Her own enchantment had shown that Adam Beattie was the origin of MacBride’s current predicament, but she was under no pretence that he knew anything about the spell he had cast. She was certain it wouldn’t have come from a grimoire just lying around, it was too powerful for that, and powerful spells were carefully guarded. On the other hand, Beattie looked torn.
“W…will he ever…feel that way?” he uttered so quietly she had to strain to hear.
How many mortals had suffered because of unrequited love? She couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to love someone you knew you could never have. It sounded dreadful just to think about it, but to have to work with them, see them every day, even hear about their own love life, must be unbearable. Instinctively she reached out and covered Mr Beattie’s hand, causing him to concentrate his watery gaze on her.
“Probably not,” she whispered, “but what you feel for him is just a shadow of what you’ll experience when you meet someone who is meant for you. All of this will be a memory swept away by that person, something to laugh about together in the future.”
Tears began to sweep down his cheeks as he listened to her words. Iona wasn’t quite convinced by the idea of soulmates, but mortals lived and breathed the word. All of them went about their lives, going through relationship after relationship in the hope of finding that special “one” who they could spend what remaining years they had with. It was far too easy in Iona’s mind. She wasn’t there to berate Adam Beattie for what he’d done, naivety wore off with experience and age, and she wasn’t there to add to his burden. If she could give him some semblance of hope to guide him through, she would leave satisfied she had done no harm. Spiritualists, however foolish, were people too.
“I..I’ll release him from the spell, I promise,” he sniffed.
“I know it must not seem it now, but you’re doing the right thing. Magic shouldn’t be used to manipulate people’s feelings, or deprive them of free will.”
“I swear I didn’t realise it would make him suffer,” he exclaimed desperately, as if not to have her think badly of him, “When I was speaking to the Mistress she said there was a blessing I could do to improve my chances.”
Iona’s jaw tightened. Why did all problems magic related originate from the young upstart? First it was the relic she refused to give back, and now she was handing out powerful love spells to desperate victims. What was she attempting to accomplish by being so careless? Instead of felling one of the spiritualists, perhaps Iona should have gone straight for their leader instead. She had an inclination it would have saved her a lot of grief in the near future.
“She gave ye the spell?” Iona checked, struggling to keep her tone soft and attitude sympathetic.
He nodded, “She helped me cast it.”
Even with her contributed power the enchantment was too strong. Was the spell of Tulloch origin? Was it another gift Duncan had callously loaned out? Although Iona didn’t know every entry in the vast collection of grimoires her family held, she couldn’t be certain it hadn’t come from there. She silently cursed Duncan and his lack of responsibility.
After thanking Adam Beattie, she watched him return to his office, satisfied that he would do the right thing and free her customer from his current obsessive predicament. She continued to sit on the bench a few moments longer, admiring the autumnal beauty around her from the crisp leaves fluttering to the ground to the unusually clear sky that had appeared above them during their conversation. Winter was on its way, a teasing taste of it lingered on the gentle breeze, but until its arrival she would enjoy the gentle chill of this brief season. Her mood was contemplative. What should she do now?
***
The answer turned out to be simple. She had created an image for herself, a reputation that had rippled across the spiritualist community, and she would now use it to her full advantage. To the Mistress she was the new Tulloch who hadn’t taken the side of her people, who had condemned them instead and left them without anything to protect themselves against the looming threat. Why should she try to be anything different? Stubborn yet naïve people like the young Mistress were a danger in their own right, and Iona couldn’t allow her to continue to, knowingly or not, abuse her position and access to power.
Once again Iona found herself approaching the Cemetery Bell, a pub on the corner that oozed ancestor worship and juvenile magic. After the destruction of one of their cemeteries the air had cleared somewhat, another point that made Iona unpopular, but there was a feeling, like a clammy spring day when the weather is stuck between winter and summer, too cold for one thing but too warm for another. It was an uncomfortable sensation, and one she wished not to repeat for at least a season. She marched straight through the doors and accepted the tenseness that permeated around the room like the smell of spilled beer. There was nothing gradual about the silence; it was instant, as soon as her foot had crossed the threshold, they had sensed her and panicked. Some of the bolder ones began to slink out of the door, and she let them. As if on cue the Mistress clomped down the stairs tartly, eyes already brooding with outrage.
“You’re not welcome here,” she announced grandly.
“How quickly I’m gone depends on ye,” Iona replied.
The young woman glared in opposition but said nothing and so she continued.
“Ye have a love spell in your possession that you recently helped one of your followers cast. Where did ye get it from?”
The Mistress’s eyes bulged slightly at the accusation before hardening, “What have you done with Adam?”
Iona ignored the implication. Thoughts on her reputation as a murdering monster could wait until she was safe behind the barriers of the shop. Instead, she contemplated how to answer. Would it be best to continue with the threatening charade she had erected for herself the last time, or was going along a different path what was necessary to gain the cooperation of the leader of the spiritualists?
“Nothing,” she paused, “yet. If ye tell me who gave ye the spell it may remain that way.”
She had figured out they hadn’t stumbled upon the words in a dust covered diary. Someone, be that Duncan or a stranger, had given the spiritualists the spell, although she couldn’t understand to what end. Love spells were only harmful to those involved, third parties rarely had anything to gain.
“More threats?” the Mistress seethed, eyes narrowing with loathing.
Iona remained silent; it was obvious, by now, that she didn’t purely threaten. She had no intention of harming Adam Beattie, if anything he had been a second victim of the spell, but the Mistress didn’t know that, and considering past experience of dealing with the spiritualists, killing them was always on the table as her reputation had shown.
The young woman didn’t give up the name and stood stubbornly with her arms crossed over her chest, as much in outrage and anger as protection.
“You’d risk Adam Beattie’s life to protect whoever gave ye that spell?” Iona questioned, hiding the intrigue from her voice.
If it had been Duncan his name would have been forthcoming, which meant the person responsible wasn’t anyone she knew. Although it would have been annoyance she felt if it had been the former, the unease that slithered around like a coiled serpent in her gut when she realised it was the latter was discomforting. The Mistress refused to answer her query, and unlike the last time Iona knew when to stand down. Without a further word she turned on her heel and walked out of the Cemetery Bell and back to the shop.
***
The young Mistress had perhaps revealed more than she had intended. No name was forthcoming, but a confirmation of a suspicion that an external force had given a powerful spell over to the spiritualists had been. What had been their purpose? What could they have had to gain from the incident? Since her arrival in the city the only presences she’d felt were the spiritualists and their cemeteries of power, and the immortals with their never-ending lifespans, but no one else had crossed her mind, especially not someone of a calibre to be in possession of such an enchantment. Perhaps they had been a travelling witch, come and gone in less than a day, a busy one for Iona. Every family of witches, like the Tullochs, had their own distinct wavelength. Sometimes it was a sound, for others it was a taste, and for Iona it was a combination of both, but she had felt neither since her arrival in the city. It made her anxiety grow another head.
The shop remained closed as she wondered up the stairs and dug out the relic she had taken back from the spiritualists when she had first arrived. The Mistress had touched it, kept it near her at all times in fear of it being lost or stolen, and so, perhaps unbeknownst to her, she had left some of her essence on it, hopefully enough to wield for Iona’s purposes. The spell she was about to cast was primitive, old like all of the Tulloch ones were, but this was crude. To use something as base as a soul’s essence was one step away from the darkness that encroached daily on the lives of witches. What good you could accomplish was equal to the bad.
Holding it in her hands she could sense the small flicker of the young woman’s essence, a small piece of her life force that had become a part of the relic itself. It had remained buried in the family archive for generations before Duncan pulled it out and loaned it, hence concentrating on the Mistress was made easier. The images were flashes at first, snippets of someone’s life that was on fast forward through the days in no particular order, jumping to the future and then back to the past. It took concentration to focus on a particular point in a person’s life, and Iona currently wasn’t interested in the future but the past.
Like a dog sniffing around to find the treat Iona eventually found the correct point in time, only a month prior to her arrival in the city. As she neared the meeting of the Mistress and her other supplier the memories began to blacken at the corners, like flame engulfing a picture. Soon the markings on her arm, orange and ruddy, began to twinge as if she had gained some new ones, her skin prickled as if too close to a fire. The sides closed in and soon Iona’s eyes were open looking at the wall of the family archive where she had begun.
Blinking curiously, she focused again on the relic, on the Mistress’s life before Iona had entered the city. The meeting of two people in the Cemetery Bell and the exchanging of information, goods, and well wishes. The closer she came to seeing the stranger’s face, their height, anything in detail, the blackness grabbed a hold of her and swung her back to the present. Again and again, it happened.
Iona wasn’t a fool, she knew why it was happening, but her repetition of the motions was her attempt at denial because acknowledging the truth of them would mean acknowledging her dread. The swirling ruddy stains on her arm felt more like sunburn than a part of her, as if she could just peel them away.
It was a powerful witch who masked their presence in the present, it was an entirely new calibre who masked their presence from time itself. Whoever the Mistress was trading with, whoever had given her the love spell, was not someone to be handled lightly. Dread filled Iona’s stomach. Who were they and what did they want with the spiritualists? Could she expect an introduction or were they purposefully hiding themselves from her? She was slowly beginning to understand that everyone in the city had an agenda. Iona just hoped she wasn’t on all of them.