In the week after her uncle left, Iona felt his absence more keenly than she had anticipated. Waking up in the morning and sitting alone at the table over a bowl of cereal dampened her already constrained spirits. Sometimes it was difficult to get out of bed at all. The steady stream of customers did nothing to alleviate her melancholy, and it felt more like she was a robot living day after day as if programmed to do so than a young witch continuing her family tradition. She saw everything in shades of grey rather than in colour.
An area of continued sourness was the current state of her relationship with Leif, if that’s what it was. Friendship, relationship, arrangement, there had been many different labels swirling around her mind, but trying to make one stick that encompassed its complexity was proving more difficult. One thing less difficult to ignore was the niggling sense of urgency that she needed to clear up the misunderstanding and apologise for being so abrupt. As if sensing her thoughts the shop had ensured she remained busy at all waking hours, from a steady stream of customers to the items in the shop deciding they were going to act up, she hadn’t had a chance to leave and seek the middle Morrison brother out since her uncle had left. Their misunderstanding remained, and she knew after the cold way he had addressed her he wouldn’t be waiting outside of the door in the near future.
As much as she wished to clear up the misunderstanding she couldn’t ignore the biting of pride that accompanied her musings. Why did she have to apologise? Couldn’t Leif understand the consequences that could happen if her family were to find out about whatever it was they had between them? He was clever, and his family had eyes all over the city, so surely he would have known that her uncle had come to visit, and also understood the necessity for him to remain at a distance. Pride was always a strong component in the minds of the Tullochs, but it weakened considerably when they knew they were in the wrong. Iona was the one who had been rude and dismissive of whatever it was he had wanted to speak about, therefore the need to apologise lay solely with her, if the shop would give her a chance.
As she stood vacantly at the counter a man entered the shop, bumbling across the distance until he stood opposite her. She didn’t need to be a Tulloch to observe the easily recognisable signs of fatigue. From the dark bags under his heavy eyes to the glazed expression on his features, all pointed to a severe and prolonged lack of sleep. He looked to be in his mid-forties, but in reality was probably a decade or so younger. Dependent on the life someone led depended upon their rate of ageing, and from what Iona was observing, the man before her led a chequered existence. He was smartly dressed with a shirt underneath his neatened jacket, but they didn’t mean he had always been so.
“How can I help ye?” Iona queried.
“I’m having trouble sleeping recently,” the customer began, “and a friend of a friend told me you specialise in herbal remedies.”
Iona had met many insomniacs, all with different reasons why they couldn’t get or stay asleep. Usually it was stress or anxiety, their brains were unable to get a moment’s rest because of their busy schedule or big event coming up. In some other cases it was old age and after having led a busy and full life they weren’t used to not having a reason to get up in the morning. Whatever the origin it was almost always temporary. There was something different about the customer who stood before her, he was in considerably worse shape than most of the other insomniacs she had come across, causing her to hazard a guess she may need to give him something stronger, which required more of her skills and time.
“I do,” she conceded, “There’s something I can make that may help ye. It’ll take a day or two longer than usual since I’ll have to order in the herbs. Could I take your name and contact details?”
She handed him a notepad and pen, smiling as warmly as she could. When the man bent down to write his information Iona came face to face with something she hadn’t seen in many years, and that, to her, were mostly metaphorical. Everyone had skeletons, some more than others, and the more unfortunate had ghosts. She looked directly into its eyes, having no choice but to acknowledge its presence. It didn’t look much older than the customer himself, and there was no doubt in her mind that the two were connected. Were they brothers, friends, or something else entirely? By the looks of things it wasn’t the case of a friend or brother being unable to let go and move on, but rather a spiteful soul that wanted its pound of flesh. Their gazes remained locked in an icy stare until the customer stood up and returned the notepad.
“I’ll be in touch when it’s ready,” Iona announced shakily.
The customer nodded in gratitude and plodded out of the shop, his ghostly shadow so close they could have been conjoined twins. Iona tore her gaze away from the two as they marched out of the shop and concentrated on the notepad the customer had returned. David Morby was not sleep deprived, he was haunted.
***
Despite common opinion, and films, ghosts weren’t as common as one might think. They occupied an awkward bridge between the living and the dead. It was usually only under special circumstances that they were allowed to remain in the space in between, and it wasn’t somewhere one wished to remain for long. If they did they would turn mad, either with loneliness, longing, or desperation. Having no one speak to you for months on end, if at all, being forced to look as the people in your life move on with theirs, and being unable to prevent anything from happening or intervene was a difficult cross to bear for the majority of souls. The one condition the films did have right was that ghosts were simply the souls of people who had unfinished business, what they had continuously got wrong was that they didn’t have a choice. All ghosts in existence had chosen to stay invisible amongst the living, and it was usually for one of two reasons; they wished to keep a watch over their family, or they wanted revenge.
It had appeared obvious from the moments she had observed David Morby and his unwanted passenger that it was vengeance the ghost wished for. Unfortunately for the customer no amount of her sleeping draught would help him, and the solution called for harsher measures. Digging around in the lives of customer’s was always a part of the Tulloch calling, but interfering and prying into them was something Iona always wished to avoid. Often in the cases of ghosts there was no way to avoid becoming embroiled in whatever matter was incarcerating them in the space between life and death. In past generations, when the public was all too ready to believe in ghosts, it had been easy for the Tullochs to intervene and help both parties, but ever since science had invaded the western world and brought with it an annoying scepticism, no one believed in anything supernatural. It had made not only life difficult for those a part of that world, but it had made the duty more challenging. To ordinary, educated, mortals they were a herb and trinket shop for those who still clung onto superstition and nature’s healing properties, but to those rare beings in the know they were far more than that. They weren’t priests who exorcised phantoms and poltergeists, they were gifted beings who had been given the opportunity to help restless souls move on.
Thankfully the first step in matters such as these was to confront the ghost itself and encourage it to let go. If it refused then she would have the arduous task of trying to convince someone that everything they had been told about supernatural beings was wrong. She knew which eventuality she preferred.
Unlike the glamorous witches in the programmes on TV Iona couldn’t merely summon a ghost she didn’t know the name of, and so she was forced to find the human it had attached itself to instead. David Morby lived in a neighbourhood that she didn’t need to be told was down on its luck. The buildings were cracked, the paint on doors chipped, and most of the windows on the first two floors were protected by an iron grate. The shops that weren’t open had solid iron shutters that were covered in graffiti, and the only places that were open were small convenience shops that looked no more safe, and pubs. Unfortunately for Iona, David Morby’s personal cure for his insomnia was to remain in the pub until the early hours of the morning, when he was forced to leave. She had lingered in the shadows, invisible to the mortal eye, and been witness to more than one serious crime which she couldn’t report.
Eventually the customer stumbled out of the pub in the throes of a drunken stupor and began to drag his feet in the direction she hoped was where he lived. As she had expected the ghostly presence remained, and observing it from a distance made her certain that it wasn’t a guardian ghost sent to make everything well. Emerging slowly from the darkness of the alleyway, like a cat waiting for the mouse to make a run out of its hole, she made her presence known to the spirit, like a flash from a lighthouse in thick fog. The ghost stopped following David and turned around, his eyes finding where she stood across the empty street.
“We need to talk,” she whispered, knowing he could hear her.
Like the markings on her arms it was only those who were a part of the supernatural world who would be able to see her in her current state, and the mysterious poltergeist was one of them. Ordinary drunk mortals stumbled obtusely past her, but not through her and so there had been a few times during her night’s watch where she’d had to slip quickly out of the way. The ghost contemplated what he should do, but more importantly what she could do. Iona was certain that it didn’t know what she was, not the full extent. There were a few mortals who had the ability to see ghosts, but they were usually distant relatives of the clans, great-great-grandchildren of a fourth son or daughter who had some magic there but not enough for it to manifest as it did in the main line. Even they were few in their number. As the generations became diluted by mortal blood all traces of magic vanished, and although they may share blood with witches, it was just blood and no power. She hazarded a guess that since his ghostly state had begun he hadn’t met many people who could see him, let alone interact with him on equal footing. The spiritualists may have had contact, but she doubted they had agents in this part of the city, the one where neither they nor their immortal enemy had dared to venture. Iona could see him think about his options, whether to run, if he could run, or whether he should face her head on. To him she was the herbalist who his prey had visited for help sleeping, what danger could she pose? The answer was a lot, but it was best he didn’t know that.
After a few moments he separated himself from David Morby and crossed the road to where she stood waiting. She could see by his tense shoulders that he was prepared to run if he thought his afterlife would be in any danger.
“What do you want?” he queried cautiously.
“To talk.”
“How can you see me?”
I can do much more than that, she thought cynically, but put on her most gentle voice and banished the fearsome thoughts from her mind. Ghosts were a lot like sheep or deer in that they were easily spooked into fleeing, and were hard to catch up to.
“There are some people in the world who can see ghosts, and I’m one of them.”
Some witches assumed that ghosts were overwhelmed with everything that had happened to them, especially the more recent additions who came from a world where ghosts didn’t exist. The reason Iona didn’t tell him the truth was because she was afraid he would bolt once he heard the word witch. If he thought she was simply an intuitive mortal then he would be more relaxed.
“Come with me,” she encouraged but saw his reluctance, “David won’t be going anywhere until the morning.”
He grunted and followed her, ensuring there was a few paces of distance between them at all times. There must be a reason why he was acting so cautious, and she theorised she might not be the first witch he had met. Had he been in contact with the mysterious shadow? Had he seen their face?
Her questions would have to wait as her foremost priority was to help the customer. They found a small park, covered in darkness save from a few amber street lights that didn’t quite illuminate some corners.
They sat down at a bench under one of the streetlights, flickering every so often as if the bulb was at the end of its life. The park was surprisingly empty, but not without interference by the noise that permeated the streets during the twilight hours when respectable people were in bed. Shouts, out of tune singing, and other mumblings and ramblings surrounded them like the midnight flies.
“What’s your name?” she asked gently.
“Craig Smith,” he answered sheepishly, his eyes darting at every shudder of movement in the encroaching darkness.
If she didn’t know any better she would have thought he was waiting for a trap to unfold, ensnaring him and ending the afterlife he had chosen. Perhaps she was right and he had met the mysterious figure in the margins of the city, interfering with everything, both on a small scale, and a larger one. If that were true why bother a ghost as random as this one? Had they known that David Morby would go to the shop in the hopes of solving his problem? If so what was his role in their grand plan? What Iona found even worse about her situation was that because she had never met the shadow, she assumed everything that came into her life was connected.
She tried to pull herself back to the present rather than running down a path that may not lead anywhere useful. Craig Smith, the ghost, didn’t share the customer’s surname, so it was growing more unlikely that they were related by blood.
“How do ye know Mr Morby?”
After a slight pause, “Dave? We’re old friends.”
“How old?”
“Why do you care?” he huffed.
“I’m trying to help. Mr Morby can’t continue living this way, and neither can ye.”
“He deserves to be tortured after everything he’s done,” Craig spat bitterly, “He’s not the innocent victim here.”
Iona didn’t point out that one didn’t need to be innocent to be a victim. The wheel turned and spun, and although it was usually the innocent who were victims, there were times when the perpetrator switched roles. If his embittered words hadn’t shown her how deeply the anger ran, then the way he scowled, or his dogged following of David solidified her conclusions. Sometimes it was difficult to encourage a ghost to move on because they had deemed their unfinished business important enough to remain stuck between stages of life. How could any witch persuade them to let go when death itself hadn’t managed it?
“What happened between ye?” she inquired.
Craig looked at her in a gauging manner, trying to glean whether she was earnestly interested or simply asking to detain him further.
“We were best friends,” he began, “I considered him more like a brother, and I thought he did the same. Our parents didn’t care for us much and we were left to our own devices. By the time we left school we were part of a local gang.”
London wasn’t the only place where gangland ruined the lives of unfortunate people. Every city had some kind of gang culture, one that was surprisingly tolerated by the authorities, and ignored by the respectable. Entire boroughs of the city were skimmed over and left to their own devices, so long as no one was killed. Those who lost their lives remained unsatisfied if they wanted justice because there was none to be found, usually no one cared enough to investigate. It was a sad, sometimes short, existence, and one she knew relatively little about growing up in the Highlands.
“We were sellers at first, out on the street, doling it out, but as we got older we became more involved with sourcing and the supply chain. It was a harsh environment, kill or be killed, but we had each other, and because of that we progressed until we were near the top of the chain. Our climb made us a lot of enemies, both in the gang and from rival ones. I didn’t care though, because Dave and I were a team, we always looked out for each other.”
It had perhaps been an obvious direction for a story involving gangs and drugs, but such things were confined to the cities, not the quiet, uneventful countryside where she had grown up. Everything about David and Craig’s story could have been taken from one of many television programmes they broadcast. From ghosts, to gangs, to illegal drugs, it appeared that fiction wasn’t as far away from reality as ordinary people liked to believe.
“I was wrong,” Craig continued, “Dave only cared about himself, I was just convenient to keep at his side. As soon as things went wrong, as soon as there was trouble, he ran and left me behind. We were waiting on a delivery when a rival gang ambushed us. I got stabbed, and instead of helping me Dave ran and left me there to die. I was supposed to be his friend, his brother, and he never even looked back as he left. He even lied about what happened to the other members, and he was let off!”
Betrayal was a tale as old as the human race, perhaps stretching even further back. Iona had spent her life observing how easy it seemed for mortals to do, whether it was a friend betraying a friend, or a spouse deceiving a spouse. She could never imagine forsaking any of her family members as easily as ordinary mortals did. Craig and David’s story wasn’t a new one, and it wouldn’t be the last time it happened to two friends who had been through harsh times together. This ghost did want its pound of flesh.
“What happened after ye died?” she inquired.
With her question his rage momentarily abated, replaced by unease and fear. No one, at least no mortal, knew what happened after death until they died themselves. Tullochs, and the other old magic clans, were privileged in that they did. Through thousands of years of natural magic they had been granted the ability to see the Overseers. They, like ghosts, weren’t nearly as glamorous in reality as they were on the television. There were various theories as to what, or who, they were, but their most important function was to guide the souls of the dead. Beyond that was an area of forbidden knowledge, even to practitioners of old magic.
“I…I was a ghost. I could see everything but no one could see me. I didn’t see why Dave should get away with what he’d done, so I followed him.”
“That was it?” she pressed.
Progress was always made faster when the customer reached conclusions themselves. They both knew that an Overseer had been there when Craig had died, and they both knew he had chosen to remain amongst the living despite their arguments, he just didn’t know the extent of Iona’s knowledge on the subject.
“Why? What else is there?” he retorted petulantly.
“That someone came to see ye when ye died.”
As the words left her mouth Iona began to understand why he was so nervous, so suspicious of every shadow and shiver in the darkness. Overseers were harmless, they were told who to collect and they gave the same choice to every soul they came into contact with; remain or move on. The majority of mortals chose to go when they were informed of the alternative afterlife of being an observer of the world they were forced to leave. Some, the occasional few who couldn’t let go, were set free to become ghosts, with the warning that no mortal soul could remain in between forever.
It wasn’t a warning so much as a promise, for Overseers weren’t the only ones in the business of soul collection. Iona didn’t know what their intended name was, but the old magic clans called them Catchers after their job of capturing lost souls and forcing them to move on. She had never met one, and had only read descriptions of them in the Tulloch library, but where Overseers were compassionate and gentle, it was nothing but business with their hunting counterparts. According to the sparse legends there weren’t as many Catchers as Overseers, but no one knew how many existed at one time. Their sole purpose was to capture the souls of mortals who had refused to go with the Overseer. Iona was talking to one of those very souls, marked for hunting, following David Morby around when he had a price on his own head.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he huffed.
“If ye lie I can’t help ye.”
“How do you know about it?”
“It’s my business to know,” was all she said in reply.
“Yeah, there was a woman who was there when I woke up like this. She said I could go with her and move on or I could stay here. How could I leave when Dave got away with everything? Who would make him pay when only he and I knew what’d happened?”
Perhaps when the time came it was harder to move on than Iona presumed, or perhaps it was because she knew what the alternative was. Lost souls, also known as missing souls, were finite beings, just like mortals. Nothing was supposed to last forever, and souls weren’t made to. Just like the ancient buildings around the world they would decay over time, creating grotesque problems that had to be dealt with swiftly before they caused harm to the still living. Craig Smith knew why he was following his former best friend around now, but there would come a time when he wouldn’t. His memories, his personality, and everything he was before he died would erode until there was nothing left but a monster bent on revenge on anyone they found.
“Did she tell ye what would happen if ye didn’t go with her?” Iona queried.
Craig blanched at her words and for a moment she thought she was going to bolt. His whole body tensed in fear and for a breath of a moment she swore she could have glimpsed his realisation that his time was up.
“You’re one of them, aren’t you? That’s why you know so much.”
“Them?” she questioned.
“I can’t remember what she called them, collectors, apprehenders, I don’t know! The ones who take souls who don’t move on.”
“I don’t know what she called them, but I know them as Catchers. Ye don’t need to worry, I’m not one of them. I’m simply here to help you. If ye chose to move on of your own accord then the woman ye met will return.”
“I don’t know what’s so scary about those Catcher guys. I’m already dead, what can they do?”
“Make the rest of your existence unbearable, until they inevitably force ye to move on, and even I don’t know what happens after that. Souls aren’t meant to remain indefinitely, and only misery awaits the ones who cling on.”
She had never tried to persuade a ghost to move on before, it was a responsibility that, until recently, had been up to her grandparents and uncle. There hadn’t been a report of a ghost in the local area for a number of years, and so she had no experience of helping the spirits of the dead. Could they be reasoned with, or was this a matter that Tullochs could only do so much before the Catchers stepped in? Voluntary choices were always preferred, but if Craig Smith didn’t heed her, or the Overseer’s, warnings then the only path left open to him was with the Catchers.
“I don’t care,” he retorted stubbornly, “I’m not leaving until I have justice.”
“Events, and consequences, have a way of sorting themselves out. There are laws to the world, a balance that must be upheld. No action can happen without a consequence, it’s how it works. Mr Morby will get what he deserves, but that has nothing to do with whether ye remain here. It’s not for mortals to decide people’s punishments,” she informed.
“I’ve been dead for a year and nothing’s happened to him, none of these consequences you’re talking about have come about.”
“It’s not always immediate,” she reasoned, “Nature has a timetable that the rest of us can’t see.”
Craig shook his head, “That’s not good enough. I want him to suffer as I did, to feel as afraid and betrayed as I did.”
“Do ye think haunting him and preventing him from sleeping will get you those things? All you’re doing is making him confused and tired. The only person you’re hurting is yourself.”
“Shut up!” he cried as he stood up, “You may know a lot, but you don’t understand anything!”
She was experienced enough with mortals to know when she’d said too much. Emotional people could rarely be reasoned with, and anything that was said to them was either ignored or twisted to fit their reality. Although she was trying to help, there was another solution to her customer’s problem. Before she could say anything more Craig disappeared from sight. She was in no doubt that there was a Catcher who had Craig’s name in their minds, and finding him was inevitable. At the end of the day it was David Morby who was her customer, the ghost was simply the reason behind his visit. Iona could call a Catcher, tell them where Craig was, but something inside her recoiled at the idea, it felt like loading a canon and aiming it at a nursery. A sleeping draught capable of drowning out the guilt, and whispers of the dead, wasn’t beyond her capabilities, but it wasn’t a long-term solution. Only the world knew when Craig’s Catcher would catch up, but she needed time to think about her next steps.
***
After a few hours of snatched sleep, she awoke in the morning groggy from her early morning excursion to the part of the city where the gangs reigned supreme. It took her a while to shake loose the heavy feeling the body takes on when it’s been deprived of slumber, and well into the morning there were still times when she found herself swaying gently. The day came and went in a string of expectedly mundane queries and purchases, and by the time she had salvaged enough energy together it was already time for the shop to close. She hadn’t found the answers she had been hoping to, and still felt uneasy whenever she thought about her customer and his ghostly companion. One possibility was to summon the Overseer who had visited him in the hopes they could reason with him once more. The other possibility was to call a Catcher and inform them of where he was so they could complete their job. The final, nauseating, solution was to use her magic and destroy his soul. Despite all of the rules against harming mortals, when it came to ghosts who refused to move on the laws were suspiciously relaxed. Their main responsibility was to the living, not the dead. Iona had never known of a witch to ever have to resort to casting such a spell, and she swore she wouldn’t be the one to do it. Summoning a Catcher was better than that.
In the end nothing came of her worrying, as it always does, and the last person she had ever expected to help arrived at the shop an hour after she had bolted the door. She felt the presence before she saw it, as was normally the case, and when she turned around she saw Craig Smith standing underneath the archway that separated the two rooms of the shop. He looked sheepish, his gaze stuck to the floor instead of her.
“I thought about what you said,” he mumbled.
“What have ye decided to do?”
“I’ll go with that woman, not those Catcher guys. It’s not too late, is it?”
Iona shook her head, “It would only be too late if you’d lost yourself, which ye haven’t. May I ask what changed your mind?”
He hesitated, unsure of what to tell her. Iona certainly had a reason she hoped was the truth, but one could never truly tell what caused a ghost’s mind to change.
“I realised you were right,” he shrugged casually, “He’s not suffering any more than he did before. The only thing I was able to do was disturb his sleep, I didn’t make him feel guilty about what he did to me, I didn’t see him repent or try to make amends. He doesn’t even know I’m here. I figure since you know a lot you must be right about consequences. I choose to believe that he’ll get his comeuppance sooner or later, and I realise that doesn’t have anything to do with whether I stay or go.”
Iona was relieved to hear that some of her arguments had managed to penetrate the vengeful exterior. Thankfully he hadn’t been too far along in the decaying process that he was beyond reason.
“How do I call her?” he asked.
“All ye need to say is that ye want to move on and she’ll appear.”
“Is that it?”
“It’s not meant to be complicated,” Iona reassured.
Craig Smith took a deep breath, garnering all the courage that death had left him, and said the words that would summon his Overseer. There were a few tense moments of silence, and she knew Craig would worry that it hadn’t worked. A ripple in the atmosphere of the shop indicated to Iona that a supernatural being had passed through the boundary. The protection that enveloped the shop, forbidding anything but mortals and Tullochs from entering, could not keep out Death and her Overseers. One stood beside the glass cabinet filled with trinkets, jewellery, and stones, a facial expression of calm serenity. The truth was that no one really knew what Overseers were, who created them, or where they had come from. Some theories stated that they were mortal souls who had been picked to fulfil the task, others stated they were supernatural beings like witches or ghosts, something that had always existed. Tullochs and others like them may be permitted to see them, to summon them, but that was the extent to which they were welcomed. What came after a mortal soul moved on, where they had come from or what they received their orders from, remained a mystery to the old magic clans.
She was relatively young, possibly the same age as Craig Smith would always be in his afterlife. Tall and slender, she would have been beautiful if it wasn’t for something jarring in her presence, a sense or feeling that coated her every move and look with surrealism. Iona had never seen an Overseer in the metaphorical flesh, and they were somehow exactly as her ancestors had painted them. They had an airy feel to them, an intangible quality that caused them to blur the line between marionette and mortal. The woman standing in the shop was flawless, there was no mark, blemish or otherwise anywhere on her translucent skin. She had round doe eyes, with long eyelashes that would give any China doll a run for their money. However, a chill swirled around the room like a bad draught in winter, and although her looks were enrapturing, her presence made the room uncomfortable, as if she shouldn’t be there.
“You’re ready to move on?” she addressed Craig Smith directly.
He swallowed hard, “I am.”
The creature turned to Iona and inclined her head politely, “Thank you, Tulloch witch, for your aid.”
Any reply Iona would usually have offered died in her throat, and she simply nodded absently. Although the presence was quiet, Iona disliked the way it seemed to lull her into a sense of relaxation, dulling the fight or flight reaction that kept her alive. She felt she was in danger of not caring about any of her worldly worries and simply being carried off with the Overseer. The sooner she took Craig Smith the better.
“I need to tell you something before I go,” Craig spoke to her.
“About what?”
“I did more than just follow Dave around,” he admitted, “I met some of the other ghosts in this city and they spoke of something coming, someone with great power. I didn’t realise what they meant, but now I think I get it.”
“I don’t understand what ye mean,” she confessed.
“You’re Iona Tulloch, aren’t you? The reason you know so much is because you’re a witch. The other ghosts know you, and they seemed to think that the great power they could feel was coming after you.”
Iona felt uncomfortable sharing a room with an Overseer, but she would take hours of its company over the truth she’d been handed by a ghost. It wasn’t as if she should be surprised, she had suspected it all along, but to have it confirmed by an outsider, by someone who was unconnected, sent fear striking straight through her like the one o’clock gun at Edinburgh Castle. Why was she their target, why were they coming after her? Iona had made many mistakes in her life, but as far as she was aware she hadn’t made any enemies until coming to the city, and she knew them. Contrary to her beliefs, there was someone out there, a powerful someone, who had her in their sights, and although Iona didn’t want to admit it, the thought frightened her.
Before she could collect herself enough to ask more questions, the shop was empty. The Overseer had taken their soul, and Craig Smith was nothing more than a memory and an unsolved police file. The shop was empty, a place that was more of a fortress than anything else, but Iona, in that moment, felt that it wouldn’t be enough to protect her from what the entire world knew was coming.
***
It didn’t take long for the gauntlet to be thrown out of the shadows to land at her feet. In the days since Craig Smith’s departure to whatever lay beyond, Iona had been fearful of every whisper and the complaints of every customer. Were they all connected somehow? Had her entire time in the city simply been following the will of someone else? She thought about sharing her fears with her grandparents, but decided against it. There was no point since, like Craig Smith, there was nothing tangible to show them, no evidence, no name to give, no reason to cite for the enmity and interference. The figure in the shadows may as well be a ghost because no one had ever seen them, or at least was willing to admit they had. Iona was left fearfully battling every shadow and unrecognisable face, and there was nothing she could do to change it.
One quiet day, one that had started as any other might, everything unravelled. The shop wasn’t full but there were enough customers for what happened next to be dangerous. A man crossed the threshold unhindered because why would he be? He was mortal, and he had been in before. One limitation of the shop’s protection was that it only discerned by species, not mental state. Iona had just finished serving one customer when a familiar one walked up to the counter.
“It’s good to see ye looking better, Mr Morby. Do ye still need the herbal remedy?” she queried politely.
The small box of herbs underneath the counter were full of vitamins and other harmless things. She knew he wouldn’t be needing anything to get him to sleep since the reason behind his insomnia had gone with the Overseer. Rather than tell him the truth she had made up a placebo, something that she did more often than she would have liked in the hypochondriac city.
“You’ve been wanting to meet me for some time, haven’t you, Iona?” David Morby intoned.
As Iona looked closer she realised that it wasn’t the customer she was speaking to. There was a glazed quality to his eyes as he stared behind her at the wall. It was different from the time Harold Morrison had sent in a mortal to send a message because this one was magic in origin rather than fear. The mysterious figure had taken a mortal’s will away from them and had turned them into a flesh puppet. It was one of the witching sins, and Iona began to understand that her adversary either didn’t know, or didn’t care.
“It appears I’ll have to wait a while longer,” she retorted darkly.
“I’ve been eager to meet you in person as well, and the time has come to do just that. Meet me at the abandoned psychiatric hospital, the one they nicknamed the Scottish Bedlam.”
“What makes ye think I’ll come?”
David Morby began to chuckle, but the sound didn’t belong to him, it was forced and unnatural.
“We may not have met, but we know a little about each other by now. I know you’ll come.”
Iona gritted her teeth in frustration. It was hard to remember that Mr Morby was simply a puppet and not the person she truly wanted to hit.
“I’ll see you then,” David Morby said before taking a few steps back from the counter and pulling a gun out of his jacket pocket.
Her heart nearly jumped out of her throat as she locked eyes with David Morby, being unable to see any semblance of the man trapped inside. Some of the more astute customers began to scream and scramble for the door. Mr Morby didn’t prevent any of them. It wasn’t long before they were alone in the shop.
“Good job with that ghost, what was his name, Craig Smith? If I’d been in your position I would have just left him to his revenge, especially after what this one’s done. There isn’t anything more disgusting than a mortal who betrays his best friend.”
Iona remained silently tense, unsure as to where the exchange was going. What was the purpose of the gun? What did they intend to do with it? With only David Morby and Iona in the shop, the options were limited.
“You may not have been able to give Craig his vengeance, but I can,” David Morby said in someone else’s voice before he put the gun to his head.
In the confined space of the shop the sound of the gun firing rattled everything from her toes to her teeth. It had happened so quickly, and her senses weren’t fast enough to keep up, that by the time the trigger was pulled there had been nothing she could do to prevent it. The question would always remain, however many times she relived the moment. Was there anything she could have done? Couldn’t she have predicted that the gun was to use on himself? The thoughts were lost, for thinking them wouldn’t resurrect David Morby. He was gone, shortly after the friend he had betrayed, and, with some bitterness, Iona knew that justice had been served.
**
There were some places she thought she would never be, situations she assumed she would never experience. She made her way through the empty corridors, past abandoned stretchers and chipping paint. Everything around her was tinged a curdling shade of green, from the cracked lino on the floor to the industrial paint that covered the walls. The history was palpable as it called down to her through the generations of decay and abandonment. Lives unfulfilled and unlived, emotions that were hard to control, and lost hopes that would never return. The feelings remained where the people did not, and she continued to shield herself against the aura as she made her way through the old psychiatric hospital.
There must be some significance to the location, a connection with who they were or where they came from. It was impossible to deny the sense of curiosity and mystery that had surrounded the shadow across the city, one that made even Iona’s formidable grandmother uneasy. They were powerful, and although her curiosity was a strong luring point, it hadn’t managed to eclipse the sense of fear that threatened to overwhelm her and cause her steps to falter. For months she had wondered about them, who they were, why they were in the city, and how they came to have all of the artefacts they had sold. Her grandparent’s suspicions were still fresh in her mind. It may not be a stranger waiting for her at the end of her journey, but a distant ancestor who had broken one of the cardinal rules. He wanted vengeance on the family for what they had done, and perhaps he would take out his vendetta on her.
She came to the end of the corridor before her trepidation could skitter out of her control. Her hand hesitated as it grasped gingerly onto the cold, lacklustre metal handle. What was on the other side of the door? Would she regret pulling it open and going inside? Would she be able to come back out? Her breathing quieted and she listened to the imposing silence that stood around her. The entire building had an eerie presence, as if haunted by the ghosts of many lives past, and she feared she would be added to their number. As a Tulloch, she had a duty to go inside, to confront the mysterious force that had been lingering in the shadows for months, interfering with the balance of nature, but as a person she was afraid, and she let herself freely admit so. There were times in the city when she had felt alone, isolated, and friendless, yet none of that matched how she felt in the moment before she pulled open the door. If anything were to happen to her no one would ever know, if she were to die in the old hospital no one would ever find her, including her family. However, one could never separate the Tulloch from the person, they were one and the same, and neither existed without the other. She may not be as good a Tulloch as her uncle, but she prided herself on the fact that she wasn’t as careless as Duncan. She had a duty, and if she were going to be remembered for anything, she wanted to be remembered as brave enough to face whatever was waiting on the other side of the door.
Inhaling one final time, she put all of her strength into her arm and pulled the door open. Slowly she crossed the threshold into a large ward that had been stripped back to its skeleton. The paint had come completely off the walls to show the raw plaster beneath, the floors were bare concrete, and the beds and anything that once covered the windows were long since gone. It was a wide, cavernous, and chilly place that had her hair standing up on her arms beneath her jacket. There was a large hole in the roof where some of the daylight escaped through, and standing just underneath the hole, in the ray of light, was a stranger. Her heart leaped and, feigning more confidence than she would ever feel, she began to make her way down the empty ward. A woman was waiting for her at the end, invoking a sickening sense of familiarity that would have made her snigger at her own stupidity if the situation hadn’t been such a tense one.
There was an auld wives’ tale amongst witches that time slows down when you first meet someone that you’re fated to. It was very rare that you only met them once, and usually, at some random point that is easy to forget, you’ll have met them before. The memory was an obscure one but very recent. It was in the home where Aunt Isobel was kept. She and her uncle had gone to visit a few days before he had returned to the family estate. The volunteers who came to visit had just finished for the day and were starting to file out of the door. Iona had brushed past many but there had been one in particular that had been unusual. A sense, like a scent of strong perfume, had invaded her as she had brushed shoulders with the woman before her in the most poignant place she could imagine. There had been a moment back then, a brief blink of something significant, strong enough to make her turn around and look. At the time she had shrugged it off as mundane, but now she was beginning to realise that it hadn’t been.
Iona came to a stop more than a few paces in front of the woman. She was young, with hair as golden as freshly reaped wheat, twinkling with platinum and champagne strands, whilst her eyes sparkled like grass frozen by the first winter frost on a clear day. They were sharp, observing, and indicated a keen mind hidden behind them. Iona would have put them at roughly the same age, but the woman before her held herself with more poise and grace that surpassed her probable age. For the past few months she had known that whoever the mysterious force was, they were far more powerful and educated than she was. It was evident by the way the young woman’s ash coloured markings began to coil around her collar bone. Iona’s had only just reached her shoulder. Her power tainted the air, like someone brushing past with too much perfume on, and Iona could taste it on the tip of her tongue. It was metallic and bitter, much like a drop of blood. In that moment she no longer entertained the thought that she could be triumphant if their exchange came down to it.
“We’ve met before,” Iona concluded.
“We have, in a very sad and lonely place,” the woman acknowledged, “I didn’t think you’d remember.”
The concept of fate had been one of debate for as long as there had been witching clans and the ability of mortals to wield magic. Even more debated was that of fated people. They were beings that featured in the map of life, some theorised that there was no way you could avoid meeting them. Iona hadn’t really believed in it until she had met with the woman in front of her. If one could see a string of fate, she was sure they were attached by it.
“Who are ye?” Iona questioned.
The young woman sighed, “That’s a very long story. I hope you have time to hear it.”
There was a light rattling of chains from the corner of the room, shrouded in dust and darkness, a place where the light did not reach. Briefly her eyes flickered over to the place, expecting to see something, but saw nothing.
“I had a family quite a long time ago, so long that I can’t remember them very well. I was told my name by my guardian. They told me that I was deprived of my family by some very bad people.”
Iona remained silent, wondering briefly where the story was going. The young woman appeared calm, but the longer she spent in her presence the more she realised there was a storm behind it.
“Those bad people got away with destroying my family, but they’d spared me. If someone harmed your family wouldn’t you want revenge?” she put to Iona.
She knew the right answer, and she knew the reality. It was very hard to let go of hatred, and even harder to let go of a sense of entitlement that everyone should get justice for the wrongs that were done to them.
“I’d certainly want to see them pay,” Iona acknowledged.
Another light metallic rattle from the corner captured her attention once again, but was ripped away just as quickly by the young woman continuing with her story.
“Exactly,” she nodded determinedly, “You see, my name is Eilidh Harcus, and I’m the last member of my Clan left alive after your family massacred them.”
The blood froze, no longer pumping through her veins. The tips of her fingers began to go cold, and her breaths were nothing but ragged snatches of polluted air. There had been stories, legends in her family, of Clan massacres and purges, but they were centuries old, and none had been conducted in the last five decades, at least to her knowledge. However, her uncle’s visit had illuminated many things she would rather have not known, and one of them was that her family kept secrets from its members. Iona had never heard of Clan Harcus, not in any dictionary of witching families or lists of retrieved relics, there had never been anything with their name on it.
“You should be scared,” Eilidh spat spitefully, “Your family never finished the job properly, and I’m here to make sure they regret their actions.”
“I…I’ve never heard of Clan Harcus,” Iona croaked.
Eilidh’s eyes widened in a wrathful rage, “What do you mean you’ve never heard of us? It’s your clan’s fault that they no longer exist, or do you mean to say they’ve tried to erase that we ever existed in the first place?”
There had to be a misunderstanding, misinformation spread along the wrong pipeline until it had found its way to Eilidh. There were no clan massacres anymore, they were frowned upon and drew unnecessary attention to the witching community. Most of the witching clans had died out, only a few were left at best, but for one to be intentionally snubbed out was something else entirely. Iona remained in stunned silence, which only fuelled Eilidh’s outrage.
“What a sheltered life you’ve led,” she scoffed, “I wish I’d been lucky enough to have my grandparents shield me from all of this world’s evils.”
“Why would they do that?” Iona breathed.
“Because they’re greedy!” Eilidh snapped, “They wanted all of my family’s relics and were jealous that clan Harcus was becoming more powerful than Clan Tulloch, so they wiped them all out. All Tullochs are greedy, power grabbing murderers, and I won’t rest until I’ve reaped my vengeance.”
The air in the abandoned ward was becoming stuffy, threatening to suffocate her. The light from outside dimmed as it came down through the hole in the ceiling. The pipes, electrical wires, and wall insulation were all bare to the elements, like a fresh wound just opened by a sharp knife.
“But you don’t need to worry, what happened to my family had nothing to do with you. My argument is with your grandparents,” Eilidh Harcus confirmed, calming from her previous passion.
The revulsion Iona felt in that moment, if what Eilidh was saying was true, left her reeling. Her grandparents were many things; dominant, arrogant, quick to temper, but they weren’t cruel or genocidal. Her confidence soon began to wane until she was questioning everything she ever thought she knew about her family. Was this their legacy, the one that was so important to upkeep? A trail of blood that accompanied each generation, and grew until the Tullochs would be the only clan left?
“I know you must be shocked by all of this,” Eilidh cooed, “It can’t be easy seeing your family’s true colours for the first time. But it’s not like you haven’t experienced their narrow-mindedness yourself.”
Iona stared, bewildered, at Eilidh Harcus, wondering what kind of revelation she was going to break next.
“They’ve made you a slave to the family, and to your duty as heir apparent. They put their own daughter in a home when she became ill, and they’ve condemned their grandson to a hospital bed for the rest of his life because he rebelled against them.”
How did she know? How could she have known all of those things? A fresh wave of nausea soaked through Iona’s veins, racing through her body to make the world around her spin. She had greatly underestimated the enemy before her, the one who lingered in the shadows and pulled everyone’s strings as she wished.
“And they banished you down here to be surrounded by enemies that their orders made you create. Even you’re afraid of what they’re capable of,” Eilidh pointed out, “You sent Duncan’s fiancé and his unborn child away so they wouldn’t be found out, and you’ve hidden your relationship with Leif Morrison because you know they’ll disapprove.”
Another rattle in the corner jolted her from her shock, and when she saw a ripple in the air, a break in the mirage of the corner of the ward, her heart pounded faster in her chest.
“Who is that?” she demanded.
Begrudgingly Eilidh glanced over to the corner with narrowed eyes, laden with disapproving. Slowly, she took a deep inhale and then sighed, exasperated.
“I was going to wait, but he just won’t keep quiet.”
With a wave of her hand the air in the corner rippled, and out of the waves appeared Leif Morrison, shackled in irons and attached to the wall. He was desperately struggling against his bonds, but Iona could sense they were enchanted to incarcerate an immortal. His mouth wriggled and moved but wouldn’t open, another petty spell to hold his silence.
“What have ye done?” Iona baulked, “Why is he here?”
“Before you accuse me of anything, he isn’t hurt. I simply want him here as insurance.”
“Of what?” Iona growled.
“Of your help in destroying your grandparents.”
Any rough rebuke died in her throat. The air was banished from her lungs, and she felt her whole body sag in disappointment. Eilidh Harcus had never come after her because she was useful, she was only still standing because the argument was with her grandparents and not her. How had everything become so poisonous? The fabric of her life had started to crumble the moment she had stepped foot on the platform of the train station all those months ago, and it had all culminated in this moment.
“I…I,” she stuttered.
Eilidh held up her hand, motioning for silence, “Before you say anything, there’s probably something you should know. I’ve been watching you for a long time, I know everything you’ve done since arriving in this city. Your aunt’s regular visitor was me, and the one who sent Claire to you in the first place was also me. I saw where you sent them and have been keeping an eye on them. If you help me your aunt will live the rest of her life in peace, Claire and her child will continue living the mundane mortal life you arranged, Duncan will be released to join them and to see his child grow up, and you can start your relationship with Leif Morrison with nothing to worry about. That’s all you want, isn’t it? Your grandparents only want misery for their family, but you’re different, and if you help me then you can help all of them and yourself.”
It was easy to believe tempting words, to disregard the facts and replace them with convenient untruths. It would be even easier to trace all of their misfortune back to the misjudgements and mistakes of her grandparents. They had chosen to send Iona to Isobel all of those years ago, they had chosen to punish Duncan, and they had chosen to send the heir of the clan to a city in the midst of war. Every bad thing that had happened in her life could selfishly lead back to them.
Yet, on a similar thread, it couldn’t.
They had made their choices, but everyone else had made their own. Iona had chosen to feed Isobel the forgetting potion; Duncan had chosen to start a relationship with a mortal and to sell family relics to support his future family. No one had forced either of them to do anything. The shop had never been a punishment, or a banishment, but a lesson, one that was intended to help her grow into the person, the witch, that the clan needed their leader to be. Whether or not Eilidh’s claims about clan Tulloch were true remained to be seen.
“What do ye need from me?” Iona queried hoarsely.
“All I want is for you to return the red beryl. That’s all I need and it’ll all be over. Everyone can move on happily with their lives without the clouds hiding the sun.”
The red beryl Iona had confiscated from a foolish teenager sat somewhere in the family archive at the shop, recorded for posterity and left to gather dust. The memory invoked the same sense of outrage she had felt at being enslaved to a moody, hormonal teenager. Eilidh Harcus had been the organiser of the humiliation, and in her confusion Iona had forgotten that. Her grandparents had faults, and at times their methods were harsh, bordering on cruel, but Eilidh Harcus was not as high and mighty as she seemed to think.
“That’s it?” Iona checked.
She saw the look in Leif’s gaze, the begging expression that adorned his face. It took most of her strength not to release him from his bonds and send Eilidh straight to hell. If she could have managed it without getting herself killed in the process she wouldn’t have thought twice.
Eilidh nodded, “That’s all I need. Then you can step out of the way as I free your family from their dictators.”
“I can get it to you by tomorrow,” Iona intoned.
“Good, good. I’m glad we can be allies in this.”
The chains rattled violently and Iona allowed herself a glance at Leif who stood unsteadily, shaking his head from side to side. She wished she could tell him all would be well, that he would be released tomorrow, and that after that things would change. There were many things she realised she hadn’t said to him before, but it was too late for that now. After giving him a small smile, she turned around and walked out of the psychiatric hospital as bravely as he could.
***
Iona didn’t sleep that night. Instead she sat in the family archive, immune to its previous repellent power, looking through as many histories, diaries, and loose pages in search of the name Harcus. A part of her knew it was futile. If what Eilidh had told her was true, then there would be no evidence in her family’s archies that the clan ever existed. They had been very thorough if it were true. The red beryl sat on a shelf, surrounded by a thin layer of dust and regret, waiting to be picked up and delivered into another’s hands. It had been a symbol of her unwanted servitude, a situation that Eilidh Harcus had thrust her into for some unknown reason. There were still many secrets and unanswered questions surrounding the apparent heir of an unknown, forgotten, witching clan, but one thing was certain; she wanted revenge on Iona’s grandparents for what she had been told they’d done. Although Iona wanted to repel the facts, she didn’t find it hard believing that her grandparents were capable of such violence. They were always meticulous in their punishments. If they had dealt so finally with their own blood, then what qualms would they have when handling another clan?
She snapped the seventh history shut and threw it on the floor in disgust. Quickly she dug her fingers into the corners of her eyes, rubbing them until she could see blotches in her vision.
Eilidh had Leif. She had him chained up in that horrible place full of sorrow and misery, regret and abandonment, and there had been nothing Iona could do. Eilidh knew the location of Claire and her child, she had been a regular visitor of Isobel, and her knowledge about Duncan had been hard to swallow. Eilidh Harcus was aware of where every branch of the Tulloch family tree had sprung to, and that gave her all the leverage she would need. Iona wasn’t under the illusion that if she hadn’t decided to willingly help the last Harcus witch would have used threats to get the red beryl back. Iona loathed feeling too helpless to protect the people she cared about. How could someone like her be the heir to the Tulloch line? In that moment she felt she was lacking in every way possible. She wished that there was anyone else who would take the burden of being heir from her, anyone in the world who could take away her fear that she would lose everything that had ever mattered, and things she had thought didn’t.
If she wasn’t a Tulloch, if she were just a mortal, what would her life have been like? What would have happened to her if she’d rejected her father’s family and gone to live with her mother in her banishment? Would her life have been easier? Would she have less regrets and fears than she did now? It had been many years since Iona had wanted to see her mother but now she felt the pull stronger than ever. What would her father, the rightful heir, do now? He had been a calm, collected man, but he was prodigiously talented, and she could remember observing his family markings all the way over his shoulders and further. He should be here, not her. He should still be alive to inherit the clan, to give her more time to mature, to give her guidance when she needed it. Iona wanted a Tulloch, a better one than her.
But Clan Tulloch only had her. Thousands of years of heritage, history, and power, and it all rested on her shoulders. If she were to die now then her uncle would become heir, and Duncan would have to be woken up. If she died she wouldn’t have to worry about consequences, or rules, or laws, or family secrets. However, Clan Tulloch had lost enough family members in the last twenty years, and although her grandparents were at times cold-hearted, she knew how disappointed they would be if they lost yet another heir. As much as she despised her name, loathed the family ties and rules, and hated the secrets that were kept, she was a Tulloch, and she knew that meant something. Iona wasn’t going to be remembered for running, for shutting herself away in the archive to avoid the enemy, or for bowing down from a fight. She wouldn’t disappoint her father’s expectations or the rest of her ancestor’s.
Before she could decide to go to bed daylight began to cast itself across the night sky like the brightest dye. The shop would remain closed and Iona would get her belongings in order, leaving everything in the same way that she found it in case she couldn’t return. At first she had been repulsed by the idea of the shop, and held a grudge that she had been made to remain in the city tending to it, but now she realised that the shop wasn’t a punishment for Tullochs who strayed from the family path, or for spare family members with nothing to do, but a tool for learning, something that improved whoever stayed there. Iona had learned many things during her brief tenure, and made her peace, to a certain extent, with the past and the mistakes she made. She had made friends, killed enemies, and helped ordinary mortals, and although she couldn’t admit to enjoying every minute, she also couldn’t remember feeling so at peace. Despite all the bad, she wouldn’t turn the clock back and change anything.
Midday came and went by silently, and the short hand soon approached the hour of judgement. Iona carefully wrapped the stone in a small handkerchief, and enclosed it in a protective box. The lid closed with a resounding snap and taking a few breaths to calm her racing heart, she left the shop, and heard the door lock finally behind her. She didn’t allow herself to look back reminiscently, afraid that doing so would cause her to hesitate in moving forward.
Once more she entered the abandoned psychiatric hospital and felt the silent screams and wails fill the air as she passed ward after ward. The atmosphere was thick, exacerbated by her trepidation at going to meet Eilidh Harcus. The box containing the stone weighed more than it should, laden with her guilt and growing doubts. The double doors to the ward where Eilidh had Leif had been flung open, and at the end, standing triumphantly at the bottom, was the last surviving member of Clan Harcus.
Iona knew if her steps faltered now then all would be lost. With as much confidence and arrogance as she could manage, taken from her lifetime of experience, she marched down the empty, skeletal ward to stand in front of Eilidh Harcus. She appeared exuberant, as if she could almost grasp her enemies’ defeat. Iona allowed herself a quick glance to check if Leif was injured. He remained chained to the wall, his mouth forbidden from opening to form words. He began to shake his head, eyes bulging in pleading, but she ignored it.
“I have what ye asked for,” Iona confirmed, motioning to the box held in her hands, “but there are a few questions I want answers to before I hand it over.”
Eilidh deflated when she realised she would have to wait for the red beryl. Begrudgingly she shrugged her shoulders and nodded for Iona to continue.
“Why did ye interfere in the war between the spiritualists and immortals? What did ye gain from it?”
“It wasn’t money, like Duncan,” she pointed out slyly, “but power. Every time I helped cast one of those spells my power grew. There’s only so much growth you can accomplish on your own, as you know.”
Iona had to hide the irritated frown that threatened to bloom on her features. Eilidh had carelessly interfered in mortal’s lives because of her selfish desire for more power, and hadn’t faced any of the consequences that usually came with such a decision. Not being raised by a witching clan had made her careless of the rules their community lived by. If a Tulloch was to do what she had done then the punishment would be severe, other clans would demand it. Although Eilidh may be more powerful than Iona, her knowledge of their way of life was somewhat lacking.
“What about the Leslie pendant ye gave to Harold Morrison? Ye told him it was a Tulloch family relic.”
“I wanted to test you,” she freely admitted, “I assumed you’d be as greedy as your grandparents, so would agree to his ridiculous request to turn one of his friends into an immortal. I acknowledge my mistake. That was when I knew we could be useful to one another.”
Was that why she had given an enslavement spell to a teenager with the sole purpose to use on her? Despite her best attempts at sweetness and amiability Iona was beginning to see through the calm façade. There had never, or would ever, be camaraderie between them. Iona was not an ally, she was a means to an end, one that was easily removed if necessary.
“And Blair Cox?” Iona continued.
“You challenged me, remember? I was simply showing you the reply.”
Or putting me in my place, Iona thought darkly.
Having a mortal tether her to their every whim was something that would hurt any witch’s pride, especially Iona’s, and Eilidh would have known that. What if it wasn’t a mere reply, but another trap? Iona had nearly killed the young lad, and if Leif hadn’t stopped her she would have committed another sin. What if Eilidh was lying about her intentions with clan Tulloch? What if it wasn’t just her grandparents but all of her family she wanted to destroy in retribution? Did she see Iona as so weak that there was no need for direct confrontation, but to instead use her own flaws as her downfall? Things began to fall sickeningly into perspective. Iona may not have been able to shield her grandparents from harm, but she was the last thing standing in the way of the rest of her incapacitated and helpless relatives and their deaths. Duncan, Claire, their child, and Isobel; indirectly Iona had become their guardian, and if she were to fall then there was no one left to protect them. The added benefit of having her commit a crime was that the Tulloch family would be shamed and lose the respect they had in the community. Eilidh’s revenge was well thought out and decisive. There was no mercy to be found. What qualms Iona had about their meeting slowly melted away.
“What do ye intend to do with my grandparents?”
“That’s for me to know, and you to sit back and let happen,” Eilidh warned icily, “Now give me the beryl and I’ll be on my way.”
Iona slowly closed the gap between them and handed over the box, quickly stepping out of reach once the enchanted wood left her hands. The moments trickled painfully by, each second felt like hours. Every emotion washed across Eilidh’s face from menace to smugness, and Iona quietly watched them all as her family’s enemy opened the box and reverently took out the stone wrapped in a handkerchief. With slender fingers she opened the corners of the white cotton until the red beryl was exposed to the thick air inside the ward. The red reflected in Eilidh’s awed eyes, and the smallest smile of triumph danced across her lips. Slowly she picked it out of the handkerchief and rotated it slickly in her hands.
The scream was piercing.
Iona staggered back with shock, nearly stumbling to the ground. The icy pain that reverberated from the bare plaster walls was blood curdling, and she watched as Eilidh Harcus tried to drop the stone but was unable, like a limpet to a rock. The markings on her collarbone began to recoil like injured snakes until they disappeared altogether. The core of the red stone rippled and glowed as if it was made of mercury, crashing against its sides violently in excitement. The moment stretched into eternity, and it was one Iona knew she would never forget until her dying breath.
When the stone had finished doing its work it was allowed to drop to the floor, returning to the solid red colour it had been before. Eilidh grasped the hand that had held the stone with sheer panic. Frantically she pulled up her sleeves and gazed upon her bare arms.
“W…what have you done?” she screamed.
“What was necessary,” Iona bit coldly.
“This is a crime, punishable by death. I’ll tell the community about what you’ve done,” she threatened.
“If you’re willing to pay for your crimes then so am I,” Iona challenged, “Ye gave away powerful relics and spells to people outside of the community, harmed mortals with your selfish plans, and created an imbalance in nature. I prevented ye from doing any further damage, but I’ll gladly accept my punishment if ye accept yours.”
Eilidh screamed in frustration until it echoed around the empty cavern, resonating with the pain and confusion that once dwelt there. Iona felt like slumping with exhaustion onto the floor but kept her head held high. Duncan may have begun his work on the forbidden stone, but Iona had finished it. Upon completion she had remarked on the red colour when before it had been two-toned. With a quick enchantment at the shop both the forbidden stone and the red beryl looked similar, enough to fool an eye buoyed by hubris. It was a crime to take away another witch’s powers without sanction, but Iona didn’t care. She couldn’t stand by and watch as the people who had raised her perished, especially when she had a chance to stop it. On her own Iona wasn’t as powerful as Eilidh, and she knew she stood no chance of winning against her, but as an ordinary mortal without powers she was manageable. They may have been differing in skill level, but Duncan had given Iona the ultimate weapon.
“Give them back!” Eilidh screeched hysterically.
“I can’t,” Iona admitted, “Once taken they can’t be returned. Did ye truly think I’d stand back and let you murder my grandparents, and no doubt the rest of my family? Your lies were sweet, and certainly persuasive. If ye hadn’t been spiteful enough to have that teenager enslave me I may have believed ye. My grandparents do a lot of things, but one thing I know is that they don’t do things without a reason. Whatever the story behind your clan, there has to be an explanation that ye don’t know.”
“You’re a fool!”
“Certainly, but I’m a loyal one. Go and live your life, Eilidh, and try to forget about your hatred. You’ll be happier for it. Whatever happened to your family had nothing to do with ye, otherwise ye wouldn’t be here talking to me.”
The murderous look that Eilidh gave Iona would be one strong enough to send chills through her blood if she still had her powers. She found that without them, Eilidh was not as intimidating.
“You’ll regret this,” Eilidh spat as she brushed past Iona and ran out of the ward.
Iona found she couldn’t move until the pert footsteps had faded into silence. The atmosphere was still heavy and it surrounded her like a blizzard in the middle of winter. The forbidden stone lay on the cracked and chipped concrete beneath her feet, close enough she could feel its increased power, but far enough away that she didn’t feel threatened by it. Disbelief ran through her veins, and she knew it would take her some time to realise what she had done.
Instead, she focused on something else. Still undulating precariously in the corner was Leif Morison, the chains that had bound him now disappeared with Eilidh’s powers. He swayed gently on the spot as he looked at her, his usual pristine suit marked with dirt and some blood she was sure was his, tie notably absent, his kempt hair dishevelled and wild. She closed the distance between them, avoiding the stone and its spot on the floor, until she was standing right in front of him. Gently she grasped his collar and pulled his face closer to hers, pressing their lips together.
She admitted that the most tempting thing about Eilidh’s offer had been Leif. Being able to spend time with him without fearing she would be caught seemed bliss to her. He had been there when she had needed him, and their angry exchange during her uncle’s visit had plagued her ever since. She found that the one of the worst things she could lose was him. Considering his current state she was surprised at how responsive he was to her, possibly inappropriately timed, advances and she let herself fall into the kiss. When they pulled apart, she scraped her eyes over his appearance to see if there was any major injury she would need to try and fix. When he began to stagger, she grasped his shoulders and looked into his eyes with concern.
“You’re shivering,” she commented.
He cracked a small smile, “That’s you, love.”
Slowly she looked at the hands that were holding onto him and saw the tremors that shook them. She wasn’t cold but she felt exhausted and afraid. Despite her bravado to Eilidh’s face she was anxious about the consequences of what she’d done. It appeared that her talent of destroying other witches’ lives was growing as she added another notch to her belt.
She felt Leif wrap his arms around her and pull her closer, and she was more than happy to let him do so. It was impossible to tell how long they stood in each other’s arms but to Iona it wasn’t long enough before she began to hear a commotion from outside. Reluctantly she pulled out of his grasp.
“That’s your brother and his men,” she stated grimly, “I informed them of what had happened so they could come and get ye.”
Leif looked stung by her words, as if he had fathomed what she had left out. Iona had anonymously informed Harold where his younger brother was in case she hadn’t lived to save him herself. If she was being honest, she hadn’t been sure that Eilidh would be fooled by her fake red beryl, and if she hadn’t then Iona would be dead.
“I need to go,” she uttered, hearing as the footsteps approached.
Leif reached out for her arm to prevent her from leaving, “You don’t. I can explain what happened.”
Iona wasn’t convinced an explanation would be sufficient to clear her of suspicion, or to negate the enmity between Harold and her. Instead she gently shook her head and removed her arm. Taking a deep breath, she hurried over to the stone and used the handkerchief to pick it up, carefully replacing it back in the warded box. She glanced back at Leif who had found his pleading gaze.
“We’ll talk soon,” she reassured, smiled gently, and left out the maybe.
Coating herself in the same mirage as Eilidh had used to hide Leif she made her way silently out of the door of the ward and managed to avoid Harold Morrison and his men. He appeared to sense someone was there, she could tell by the way his step faltered, but he continued on regardless to retrieve his brother. There would be many explanations, and no doubt untruths, and she hoped that Leif wouldn’t divulge their relationship to his older brother. She had enough to contend with.
**
It had been a long and arduous week, and not for the first time she couldn’t wait until it was over. Iona sat in the back room of the shop, thankful that she had been able to return unscathed from her encounter. The box containing the forbidden stone lay in front of her on the wooden counter, surrounded by sharp knives, chopping boards, and herb manuals. No one but Leif and Eilidh knew what she had done. One would never speak about it, and the other had been warned not to. Regardless of the reason, Iona had committed a sin, broken long revered witching law. What would happen to her now? Was there a way for people to find out without her confessing? The more pressing question was what to do with the stone now? She had finished it only recently and hadn’t decided what would happen if she survived her encounter. If she was ever to be found exposed she would leave Duncan’s name out, there was no point in punishing him further, especially for something he hadn’t actually used.
Her conversation with Eilidh Harcus had been as illuminating as it was disturbing. Her family were adept at keeping secrets, and she felt that recently she was the living proof, but what did those secrets entail? How severe were they? None in clan Tulloch knew that the last member of another clan had wanted to kill them, and that was how it would remain until Iona found out the truth of the matter, even if she had to pry it out of her grandmother. Things had changed, she could feel it keenly. If the last few months in the city had taught her anything it was that too many bad consequences had been created by breaking the rules, too much pain had been spread because of the iron grip her grandmother had on the rest of the family. She wasn’t perfect, and she wasn’t as upstanding as she’d made herself to be. If Eilidh’s story was true, then she was a murderer.
It was only a brave, or stupid, witch who openly challenged the clan chieftain. They were the most powerful member of the family and they had been selected to carry on the heavy legacy of the Tulloch line. Iona was neither brave nor stupid, so a direct confrontation with the family matriarch was out of the question. No doubt the truth would come out in time, as it often did, but until that day came Iona would keep some secrets of her own.
The End
