Iona wasn’t a forgetful person. Despite all that had happened in the past month the book of curses still lay as heavily in her mind as it did on the table in the back room. The stone, although smaller in size, proved to be a matter of greater anxiousness. She didn’t know what to do with it, but knew that if she were caught with it in her possession she would be punished. Her duty was to destroy it, but how could she when it left so many unanswered questions thickly in the air? After a month of walking past them, of moving them from one position to another, of flipping carefully through the crinkled, beige pages, she finally made up her mind.
As much as she knew she should destroy the stone not only to protect Duncan from any further punishment but to conform to the rules of witching law, she couldn’t bring herself to do anything but hide it away where she was sure none but her would know where to find it. The tome of curses was relatively easy so solve in that she would let the decision fall to someone else. She blamed some sense of curiosity for the reason she had kept it a secret for longer than was appropriate, but in reality, it was more out of a sense that it was powerful enough to protect her should she need it. Although she felt as though its curse hadn’t touched her in the same way it had done its last victim, even being in its presence had an effect on her.
Curses weren’t a form of protection, and the longer she spent with the book the more she found she was willing to forget that. The phone call was short and abrupt, the consequence was a trip to the most powerful room in the shop to deposit it in one of the warded boxes, and keep it there until she was given further instructions. She could tell by the tone that her grandmother was curious as to its content and knew that it would need to be documented and recorded in the archive, but for once it was to be hidden away until the correct way to handle it was found. It was with a somewhat sneaky sense of relief that she closed the door to the room.
And that was where Iona thought it ended. A few days went by where routine returned, as did mortal customers, and for a blissful few moments she allowed herself to think that she was experiencing some calm before the inevitable storm that lay behind. It didn’t last nearly long enough. One afternoon, half an hour before closing, a familiar presence walked into the shop, welcomed openly by the four walls themselves. When Iona glanced at the door it was only to confirm what her own resonating blood was already telling her. The person who had just come in, large rucksack in hand, was her uncle.
He passed straight through the archway separating the two rooms and came to stop in front of the counter, placing his bag on the floor and a warm smile on his face.
“Uncle,” she stated, trying to ignore the bubbling suspicion at the back of her mind.
His face fell visibly, “You’re not pleased to see me.”
Iona couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement, “I’m just surprised, no one told me ye were coming down.”
“It was a sudden decision,” he admitted as his eyes danced around the shop.
Those were rare in the family. Her grandmother possessed a keen sense of foresight, and Iona had often thought that there were no such thing as sudden decisions when it came to the old matriarch, only well thought out ones. If Iona hadn’t been hiding many things, and breaking many rules, she would have been overjoyed to have a conscious, walking Tulloch with her, but as it stood, her paranoia began to sour her happiness. Was he here to check on her? Did they suspect that she had fallen down the same rabbit hole as Duncan had? Had they found out about her strange relationship with an immortal?
“I’m glad you’re here,” she forced a smile on her face, and hoped that she would come to believe it.
***
Iona’s uncle was very different from his older brother, her father. Where she could remember her father being laid back, humorous, and nonchalant at times, his brother was practically the opposite. He had been born the second son with few hopes he would inherit the chieftain position, and so he had been brought up as a support, never to take the lead. He knew Clan law better than anyone else did and appeared to take it very earnestly. Iona remembered the conversation she had overheard the day Duncan had been banished to the shop, and had observed the conspicuous silence of her uncle on his son’s behalf. He was a very serious man, but he wasn’t a cruel one. It wasn’t his fault that he had been brought up to believe that Clan law was absolute, and that their values and teachings must be upheld, no matter the personal cost.
After closing the shop, she had taken her uncle’s belongings into the private room and begun dinner in the kitchen whilst he had sat at the table recounting the events that had happened on the main estate in her absence. Iona listened with half an ear, still thinking about the real reasons her uncle was in the city. Were her grandparents worried about the book of curses? Did they not trust her to deposit it in the archive and instead use it for her own personal vendettas? Had they disapproved of her tactics when dealing with the other inhabitants of the city?
“Iona?” her uncle pulled her from her troubling reverie as she was sweeping a stray pea around her plate over dinner.
“What is it?” she questioned.
“Is something troubling ye?”
More than ye know, she sighed internally. There were many things that had been troubling her lately and one always built on another until it threatened to crush her. Never in her wildest thoughts had she imagined that managing the shop, and the city, would be so time consuming.
“Some small things, the book I told Grandmother about being one of them,” she admitted, “Is that why they sent ye here, to deal with it?”
Her uncle hesitated, “The reason’s actually a wee bit more serious than that.”
If she could see her face she was sure she had paled as soon as she’d heard the words. Had they found out about Claire and her child? Had they found out the other multitude of secrets she was keeping to herself? The way her uncle had to build himself up to say his next sentence was torturous to watch.
“There’s a matter I need to discuss with ye,” he continued, “I’m sure you’re already aware of it, having been in the city for a while now.”
Her lungs constricted for a painful moment before releasing a small exhale. There were a lot of things she had become aware of during her time in the city, some the family should know, and others better kept swept under the rug. Iona kept her silence, encouraging him to elaborate.
“Recently something’s changed, an imbalance has been created. You’ve felt it, haven’t ye?”
The only imbalance the family ever took seriously enough to speak about was an imbalance in the fabric of nature, the void where all of their power came from. With a sense of shame and embarrassment Iona admitted to herself that she hadn’t really noticed if there was one, having been drowned by her own, and Duncan’s, secrets. Imbalances were normal, but they always evened out, as was the world’s nature, but if one was so strong as to concern her grandparents then it was worth taking a note of. It didn’t take any great stretch of the imagination to theorise the origin. Imbalances were almost always caused by power falling outside of the witching community, mainly mortals, or other branches of magic, casting spells that were too powerful for them to handle. Those hadn’t been rare occurrences in the city.
“I’ve noticed it more than felt it,” she admitted carefully.
It was only in that moment that Iona realised she had never once spoken of her experiences with the mysterious shadow in her life with her grandparents. She knew the origin of the imbalance, yet she had never thought to mention the problems it had created.
“There’s something I haven’t told Grandmother,” Iona hesitated, “Someone’s been handing out powerful spells and relics recently to the supernatural community in this city.”
Her uncle’s eyes widened with surprise before she could see his mind begin to turn.
“How long has this been going on for?” he inquired.
“Ever since I arrived here, but I thought it was only coincidence at first. Spells that were cast were too powerful, but they were small and of no lasting harm. It’s gradually worsened.”
The Leslie pendant still remained with the Morrisons, and perhaps with time they would eventually realise what it granted to the wearer, but it was anyone’s guess what kind of spells the spiritualists had been given. Iona found it hard to believe that whoever was trying to interfere in the war would have only donated a handful of powerful, but equally insignificant, spells. The tome of curses locked away in the archive upstairs was evidence enough that the hidden enemy was slowly escalating their attempts.
“Ye mean the book of curses?” her uncle queried.
She nodded.
“Do ye know who’s behind it?”
“I’ve never met them although I’m certain they know me. The spiritualists have met them but refuse to tell me anything.”
Iona didn’t mention that the immortals also had an acquaintance with the same mysterious figure in fear that it would arouse more suspicion. Rather than her uncle’s presence giving a sense of comfort, it began to make her feel ill at ease. She had harboured doubts that she could defeat whoever was lingering in the background of the war for the city, but now that her grandparents had deemed it necessary to send her uncle, it made her feel as though the situation was worse than she had realised. An imbalance serious enough to warrant interference from Clan Tulloch was not a light matter. What was the purpose of the shadowy figure? Why create an imbalance in the fabric of nature? Did they stand to gain something from it or were they just out to create havoc?
“They’re very powerful,” Iona continued, “I tried to see their face by using an object they’d touched but they’d erased themselves from the memory. I haven’t been able to get any closer to them. It feels as though they have everyone precisely where they want them to be, as if this city is a board, the opposing sides are the players, and this is all just a game.”
If that were the case then she wondered what role was reserved for her, someone who had tried to sit on the fence, and made enemies out of the opposing sides. She glanced to her uncle sitting across the table and observed his usual pensive look. She wasn’t sure what authorities had been bestowed upon him to handle whatever was going on, and she wasn’t entirely put at ease by his creased brow and troubled grimace. Iona couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else, some other reason why he had been sent down in person rather than leaving it up to her. Perhaps her grandparents knew that whoever was responsible was more powerful than she was, or perhaps they just didn’t trust her enough to solve the problem. She couldn’t blame them considering she hadn’t reported anything about it.
“What’s grandmother anxious about concerning the imbalance?” Iona asked curiously, “It’s not the first time it’s happened. What makes this one stand out?”
Her uncle inhaled and turned his gaze up to look at her. She could see he was contemplating what to tell her and what to keep back, as he always did. Unlike his son, and Iona, her uncle had her grandparent’s absolute faith and trust. He had followed every rule laid out for him, and completed every task he was asked to do. Despite her formal position as heir, there had been many a time when she thought it would be taken from her and given to her uncle. He was certainly more deserving than she ever would be.
“Do ye remember the story in our family about one of our ancestors who turned himself immortal?” he began.
The Tulloch line stretched as far back as written history and beyond, many myths, legends, and bedtime stories had been created from ancestors who had lived many hundreds of years before her. Some could never be proven but made for good lessons, whilst others were fact and usually good for moral warnings.
“Vaguely,” she conceded, “but there’s no evidence to suggest that it’s true.”
It was a bedtime story filled with morals and the consequences to those who broke the natural laws. Tullochs drew their power from the earth, an art that was now referred to as old magic, and respected the laws of nature. Everything had a lifespan, and after that time was over they returned to the earth. It was the natural cycle of life, and to break that cycle was to commit a grave sin. To practice old magic, one must understand the cycle and respect it above everything else. Iona had always wondered at the irony that it was old magic who created immortals, yet it was against its main principle.
There was one tale in particular, of a Tulloch witch many hundreds of years ago who had decided to break the cycle. Using all of his power he had made himself immortal, thereby breaking Clan Law. He had disappeared and had never been seen since. His name was crossed from the family tree and forgotten by those who came after. Immortals couldn’t wield magic, and so he had given up everything his family believed in, and everything they had given him, for a life that would never end. It was meant to teach Tulloch children that one must never break the cycle by prolonging anyone’s life, but it was just that, a story.
“It is true,” her uncle admitted, “And it’s not something ye usually find out about until ye become Chieftain.”
She didn’t need to ask how her uncle knew, but it did make her wonder what else she didn’t know now because she wasn’t head of the clan.
“He lived during the 17th century and was the third son. From early on in his education he showed an interest in immortality. He would study everything he could, and he even began to experiment on the local villagers. Eventually he succeeded and used it on himself. The family tried to stop him, but he escaped and took a few of the family relics with him. As punishment, and to try and make him return, they killed a local witch that he was in love with. He vowed revenge on the family and disappeared.”
As disturbing as the story was, she felt that somehow it didn’t quite fit. Why after four hundred years would he appear now? What did the war for the city have to do with the Tullochs? Was his purpose to draw them out? Surely he could just descend on the family estate, which occupied the same part of land as it had done when he had been a witch? What made her grandparents think it was the ancestor? It hadn’t been Tulloch family relics or spells she had been observing. Ignoring her own doubts, she acknowledged that her grandparents probably had their reasons for suspecting it might be him.
“But he shouldn’t be able to use magic if it is him,” she pointed out, “Once you create an immortal you sever their bond with the earth. His powers would have been forfeit.”
“There are other forms of magic that don’t require a connection to the earth.”
It was an unwelcome thought. From Iona’s perspective she couldn’t see the point of all he had been doing, if it was her ancestor. If he had sworn vengeance on his clan he was conducting it in a very roundabout way.
***
Her conversation with her uncle made her realise that secrecy ran in her blood. There were many of them hidden in the branches of her family, ones she was not senior enough to know about. If she hadn’t been eager to take up her position as Clan Chieftain when the time came then recent events made the task seem more repulsive. At least she was gaining experience in keeping secrets from other family members.
She allowed herself to admit that it was a nice change to have someone else around the shop who knew what everything was and how to help customers. It had been a relatively lonely life since she had taken up the position, but now that her uncle was around to help the day went by much quicker, and more customer orders could be completed. There was a name that had not passed between them, and it was one Iona felt like an elephant in the room. It was near closing time two days after her uncle had arrived, and as soon as she bolted the door, she turned around to him.
“Visiting time at the hospital is soon.”
He abruptly stopped sorting the glass cabinet of gems and stones and continued to stare at them as if doing so would make them neat and tidy. Iona flinched at his reaction, afraid that she had taken a step too far.
“We can go toge-”
“I can’t go,” he intoned, still staring at the gemstones.
Iona faltered. Her uncle wasn’t an abrupt person, but she could see the rigidness that had set into his shoulders. She couldn’t tell if he had been ordered to stay away from his son, or he was disappointed in him and so had no desire to see him languishing.
“Not allowed to, or won’t?” she questioned.
“I can’t,” he rasped.
Pushing from the door she went to stand beside her uncle, hand hovering above his shoulder. Peering into his face she saw tears at the corners of his eyes that caused her heart to clench in pain. If Iona had been tempted to wake Duncan up, to break Clan law to do so, then the desire must be almost unbearable to the father. His silence at the time of the banishment hadn’t merely been a sign that he didn’t care, but of servitude, of knowledge that anything he could have said wouldn’t have changed the decision. Her uncle was not the heir, and he was not the chieftain, he was just another son who had created a branch of the Tulloch tree. As a result, he had no sway or influence with the decisions of his chieftain. They commanded and he had no choice but to obey, even with regards to his own son.
“If I go, I’m afraid of what I’ll do,” he whispered painfully.
Iona placed her hand on her uncle’s shoulder, feeling his palpable anguish. He turned around and embraced her tightly, like he used to do when she was a child. Iona couldn’t remember when the last time someone had embraced her like her uncle did. It was hard to hold affection for her grandparents who ruled her life in every way possible, and since coming to the city she had been isolated and alone with very few people who she trusted, and even less who she could wholly depend on. Feeling her eyes sting she wrapped her arms around her uncle’s large torso and squeezed. Slowly the tears dripped down her cheeks for everything that had happened, to Duncan, what she had done to aunt Isobel, for the helplessness she had been made to feel, and for the growing sense of unease and isolation that had been steadily building since her arrival. The relief she felt at having her uncle in the shop nearly crippled her.
“Iona?” her uncle questioned when he heard her sniff.
“I’m fine,” she reassured and held on tighter.
***
Together they had made dinner, and Iona couldn’t remember the last time she had so much fun or laughter. They reminisced about her childhood, the various things she and Duncan had got up to as much younger children, and the mischief he and her father had done at the same age. After dinner they began to speak more about Duncan, the small details she hadn’t known about his various misdemeanours at home, and how her uncle had tried to hide or control them. The one man she thought always obeyed the rules was slowly becoming very human. She had often observed that there weren’t many things a parent wouldn’t do to protect their children, and it was comforting to know that her uncle was just the same.
“He was always determined to flaunt the rules. I always blamed his mother, but perhaps it was my fault,” he theorised.
“How?”
“He saw what the rules did to his mother, and to yours, and to what extent they controlled everyone in the family. Maybe he wanted to change things.”
Iona had a clearer picture of Duncan now than she ever had when he was staying on the estate. He had continued to flaunt the rules in the city, away from prying eyes. What her uncle said sounded logical, as there had been very little evidence of him obeying them. She was torn whether or not to mention Claire and her child, his grandchild. Despite seeing a new side of her uncle, there was one thing that hadn’t changed. He was so adamant in upholding Clan law that he wouldn’t see his son in fear he would break those same rules. His sense of responsibility would mean that if he knew of a grandchild, he would tell her grandparents, and she couldn’t run the risk of trusting him enough not to. Every Tulloch had paid a personal price for carrying their name, every one of them had responsibilities, and Iona was reassured in her decision of sending the child away to lead a normal life, away from their family.
“It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do,” her uncle confessed, pulling her from her thoughts, “To stand by and watch as they condemned my only son to his punishment.”
She could find nothing comforting or reassuring to say to someone who had seen his son punished in such a brutal way. Iona knew what it was to feel helpless, but she feared it dulled in comparison to the strength of feeling her uncle harboured.
“Why was he punished so severely?” she queried for the first time since it had happened.
There had been many times since she had come to the city when she had questioned its severity, especially considering what she had done was far worse. Her grandparents didn’t know about Claire and her child, or the stone Duncan had created to take a witch’s powers, all they had been aware of was that he had been giving, or selling, family relics to people who shouldn’t have them. Many times she had thought on the alternatives to his punishment. Why hadn’t they recalled him back to the estate and put him under house arrest? Why hadn’t they locked him out of the archive so he couldn’t sell them even if he wanted to?
“Your grandmother lost her patience with him,” her uncle told her with a grimace, “She’d warned him many times to fall into line and he refused to listen. She has a short temper, as you’re aware.”
There was a very good reason why Iona was afraid of her grandmother, and Duncan’s punishment only reinforced it. All those years ago it had been the reason she hadn’t wanted Isobel to tell about her sneaking out to pubs and nightclubs, and it was the reason now that she wasn’t informing her of the great-grandchild that was due.
“Why was I never punished?”
The words fell from her mouth so quietly she was unsure if she had said them out loud or not. It had been an area of anxiety and of guilt every time she had been to see Duncan or Isobel. Her crime had always been far greater than Duncan’s, yet she wasn’t the one lying in the hospital. She felt her uncle’s eyes on her, gauging why she had asked after so many years.
“Ye were very young when that happened,” he reasoned.
“That’s it? Because I was young, I wasn’t punished for what I did?” she interrogated, “What I did surpasses all the wrong that Duncan’s done.”
Her uncle’s eyebrows drew together and she saw pity in the creases of his face. He had aged. She had never really noticed before but after not seeing him for months on end she could observe the small details. The dry, weathered skin seemed paler, and there were silver threads of hair glistening under the kitchen light. His face was drawn in where before it had been full, and there was a lingering sadness in his eyes that never seemed to fade.
“Ye can’t compare them in that way, Iona,” he explained gently, “As weak as it may sound to you your age was a factor. Every young Tulloch makes a mistake or two, it’s a consequence of our heritage.”
“Duncan’s not exactly old,” she pointed out.
“Listen,” her uncle leaned forward on the table, and pinned her with an authoritative stare, “Ye never intentionally did that to Isobel. Ye didn’t set out to harm her, ye were young and inexperienced with the use of potions. However, that wasn’t the only factor. It hadn’t even been a year since your father had passed. Mother and father were reluctant to punish ye because their grief was still fresh, and because ye were the new heir.”
She had known the reason all along. Her position as the heir gave her certain protections that weren’t handed to Duncan, the son of a second son. She remembered vividly the years after her father’s unexpected death, how drear the estate had been, and how long her grandmother had gone into mourning for. Iona hadn’t used it as an excuse for her actions during her first trip the city, grief was no excuse for what she had done, but whether she liked it or not her father’s death had protected her from punishment. Her theory that living the rest of her life with the knowledge she had ruined someone else’s was proving to be painfully wrong.
“Duncan stubbornly broke the rules, many times, despite warnings from everyone. Insubordination like that can’t go unpunished for long.”
Iona began to feel queasy that one grandchild’s life could be balanced against another. She was the heir, so did that make her more precious than Duncan who wasn’t? They punished him with a sickening ease, yet what she had done had been brushed quickly under the mat, or incarcerated in the home with Isobel, never to be spoken or discussed. The feeling that she had gotten away with an equal crime to Duncan just because of her place in the family hierarchy caused the dinner to sour in her stomach. When her uncle’s large, clammy hand reached across the table and took her own she was forced to look into his pitying gaze.
“I wouldn’t spare anymore thought on it,” he advised sagely, “What’s done is past and there’s nothing we can do to change it.”
Although the words were meant to be comforting it sounded more like a curse. Anyone who lived would always make mistakes, no matter how hard they tried to prevent them. People with good memories were cursed to remember their mistakes and live through the consequences. Iona was cursed having to live the rest of her life knowing she had taken someone else’s away from them, and knowing the only reason she wasn’t punished for her mistake was due to her position as heir apparent, a luxury that Duncan had been without. If he had been heir what would her grandparents have done? Would he still be in the same position, or would his mistakes have been brushed under the rug like hers was? It was impossible to tell. Perhaps her uncle was right, time spent thinking about their fates was time wasted. The past couldn’t be changed, even by a Tulloch.
***
Carefully, she placed the bundle in her arms on the countertop in the private room and took a protective step back. She continued to dislike the effect the tome seemed to have on whoever was near it, regardless of skin contact. With an impressive level of dexterity her uncle peeled off the darkened white sheet she had used to cover it and stared at the embossed, worn leather covering for several moments. As she heard his sharp inhale, she realised he could hear the poisonous whispering just as strongly as she could.
“I didn’t think these existed anymore,” he breathed.
“You’ve heard of them?” she queried.
He nodded vaguely before flipping open the cover of the book. Instinctively they both took a few steps backwards, despite knowing nothing could fly out to harm them. The pages looked to be well worn, browning and crinkled, but that could simply be the curse placed on the book itself bleeding into the paper.
“They’re very rare, and according to history they’ve all been destroyed,” he informed.
“Except this one,” she pointed out, “Where does it come from? Who creates things like this?”
“A very embittered witch. To collect and create curses isn’t something that’s ever been encouraged. Although it’s not a crime, it’s frowned upon, and whenever one of these is found it’s destroyed. No one really knows where they come from because they’re never marked by the author.”
“Will this one be destroyed?”
“Probably,” he nodded, “But the other witching clans need to be informed of its existence first before a decision is passed down. It takes a lot of power to destroy one of these, especially one this old. We’ll need to keep it in the archive for now, moving it’s too dangerous.”
He flipped the book closed and covered it with the blackened sheet, patches of darkness colouring what was once a clean cotton duvet cover, but had been poisoned by the curses held within. The entire tome seeped dark intent and misery, and Iona was disappointed that it would remain in the shop.
“Where did you say ye got this?” her uncle checked.
“I confiscated it from a mortal woman who had used it to curse her unfaithful husband. I think she was badly affected by it. She wouldn’t tell me where she got it from, but I have an inclination it was the spiritualists, which means it must be the mysterious benefactor I was telling ye about.”
“I wonder what they want,” he mused.
It was something Iona couldn’t answer as she had been wondering the same thing since she had been made aware of their presence. Something else that had been plaguing her mind was why the spiritualists hadn’t used any of the spells and items they had been given to defeat the immortals. The tome of curses could certainly have incapacitated the Morrisons for many years, even placing it in their presence would have wrought havoc, yet they had kept it to themselves. Had they warned the spiritualists not to use any of them, hoping that its presence would be enough to create the imbalance? Or had they simply made an ally out of the spiritualists because they could, the book just a gift to sweeten the pot? Until the faceless figure showed themselves, all that Iona could hold onto were theories.
***
Late that night, once her uncle had gone to bed, she climbed out of hers and went to rummage around in the spare bedroom full of equally harmless objects. There were a few more things she would continue to keep from her family, especially her uncle, and Duncan’s forbidden stone was one of them. Despite her best attempts to try and forget about it, with possible danger from a mysterious force lingering in the shadows, threatening to tear the fabric of their world, Iona felt she needed something that could protect her and her family. Carefully, she picked up the clear plastic bag by its corner and gazed at the sparkling stone. The inside of it continued to churn and whirl like milk being turned into butter, throwing itself up against the clear sides of its prison as the sea collides with the sharp cliffs. Anyone looking deeply into it would think it was mercury, appearing solid but becoming liquid as soon as it was moved. Whatever the original properties of the mineral Duncan had chosen, they were long gone, and now the stone was meant for one purpose only.
Gingerly, she opened the bag and fished out the handwritten note, squinting her eyes to read the smallest margin notes and reading over sentences more than once because his writing was nigh on illegible. Slowly she began to understand the complexity of creating and finishing such an object, and realised that if Duncan had simply applied himself to the family rules as much as he had applied himself to going against them, then he would have done very well for himself. Whether he would have been truly happy or not was something only he could have decided. Iona placed the plastic bag down on the floor in front of her, held her palms over it and began to concentrate, every so often glancing at Duncan’s instructions for reassurance.
If what she had done to Isobel had been deemed an accident, she was certain that what she was doing now couldn’t be viewed as anything but intentional. It was the first time she had broken Clan law, and the witching rules, and she found she did so with surprising ease. Where Duncan had begun the stone, Iona would attempt to finish it, proving to herself that, sometimes, rules were restricting.