Some things in life are sent to test us. That’s how the age-old saying goes, but it never serves to offer comfort or a valid explanation of why bad things happen to reasonably decent people. At times it’s a build-up of small events, at others there’s a large one that knocks people over so they struggle to get back up. For Iona, it was both.

A hospitalised cousin, an incarcerated aunt, and a family that were so far away their presence was being felt less and less. The more time she spent in the city the more she began to feel alone and isolated. She could handle the everyday mundanities of customers and their woes, what she was beginning to feel anxious about was the silent, shadowy enemy that moved in the margins, and her new hostility with the two largest groups in the city. The Tulloch family had always been an island that only a select few were permitted on, one had to be born into it to truly belong, but what they had failed to realise was that islands were only safe if you didn’t leave. In the city, hundreds of miles away from home, the only protection she had was herself and the shop. Despite her hubris, leaving made her uneasy.

It had been a mundane few weeks of quiet. Customers came and left, purchased and inquired, and for a brief few days she could allow herself to believe everything was fine. One day, begun like any other, the shop melted away before her eyes, turning into a dark, dingy room with a scent strong enough to make her wince in pain. There was dark paint on the walls, a few meaningless symbols here and there, and posters of bands stuck off-centre on top of each other. The floor was strewn with clothes, damp towels, books, tapes, and other bits of youthful miscellany. On the bed sat an adolescent, legs crossed, gaping at Iona with wide eyes and even wider mouth.

“Holy shit, it worked,” he gasped as he stared holes through her.

Confusion blurred her senses as she frantically tried to get a grasp on the situation she found herself in. What had worked? Why was she in a teenager’s room? Where had the shop gone? Who was this bairn? Scrutinising him more carefully she observed the greasy, shoulder length hair, dyed unsuccessfully black with wheat roots clearly showing, baggy black t-shirt with another strange word and symbol on it, paired with ripped jeans that served to make him look like a bairn in his father’s suit. What captured her attention the most was the book lying open in his lap. Large, leather bound, and singing out to her like a morning bird was a book with wrinkled pages and magic oozing from the worn spine.

“What have ye done?” she questioned, growing alarmed.

“See for yourself,” he motioned to her wrist.

Slowly she lifted the limb and felt a weight drag it back down. Sitting against her bone was a large iron shackle, a few links of a chain hanging from it before disappearing into the air.

“What is this?” Iona demanded.

The teenager opened his palm and showed her a key of the same dark metal as the shackle on her wrist. There was a hole on the side of the iron cuff, and glancing at the key she realised they were a perfect match.

“You’re my servant now,” he beamed.

Iona had never wanted to hit a bairn, but the urge to harm the one in front of her was overwhelming. Servant? What did he mean? Pushing past him she went to peruse the book he had carelessly abandoned on the bed. It was opened at a page with a spell she had only ever been told about with revulsion. She had been under the impression all possible copies had been destroyed, or accounted for, but here one was, staring up at her triumphantly. A spell to enslave a witch was not something to be laughed at. It was almost always dangerous for both involved. She looked at the iron shackle despairingly, and then turned her full and heated gaze to the teenager.

“Take this off me,” she commanded as calmly as she could manage.

“Why should I? It took me days to get it to work.”

“This isn’t a game, lad, what you’ve done is dangerous.”

“I don’t think so,” he shrugged and brushed past her to close the book.

Despite her own misdemeanours at his age, she couldn’t remember being so nonchalant and obtuse. She was well acquainted with the ins and outs of enslaving spells like this one, which meant she was painfully aware she couldn’t do anything to harm him or release herself. From all corners, she was well and truly stuck. The teenager turned around and surveyed her.

“I was afraid you were going to be a man,” he announced casually, “You’re not as fit as I was hoping, though.”

“I’m also not as forgiving,” she warned.

“You can’t harm me,” he accused, pointing to the book, “It says so in there. You have to do everything I say until I release you.”

“Or until your power runs out. I’m assuming a lad like ye doesn’t have much, and it takes a lot to tether a witch like me. I’d give ye a day, maybe two before ye tire out.”

She didn’t like the smile that spread across his features. One of pure, horrific, triumph.

“I’m not a witch, so I have no power,” he quickly bent to the ground and scooped up a red stone, thrusting it in her direction, “But I was told that this does.”

Red beryl was the rarest gemstone in existence. It commanded up to tens of thousands of pounds per carat mined. It also happened to be one of the most powerful. Like the Morrison’s pearl, it gave mortals the ability to cast spells, and apparently ensnare witches. It took a lot of power to enslave a supernatural being of any ilk, but if someone anchored the spell to the gemstone’s power then they wouldn’t have to worry. Iona was well and truly trapped.

“Told by whom?” she seethed.

She didn’t really need to ask, and suspected that the answer would be as vague as all of the others she had received on the topic. Her provocation of the shadow had been batted back, and she had lost.

“They said you’d be curious,” he mused, “And that I was to tell you that they would see you soon.”

If she didn’t kill whoever it was at first sight then she would be an idiot. After all of the trouble they had created for her they had better come prepared to that rendezvous.

“Enough about them,” he huffed, “Let’s talk about what you’re going to do for me.”

She scowled in return but knew she had no choice.

***

There had never been a more repulsive name than Blair Cox. Every time she heard it the anger boiled inside of her. Thankfully, for a teenager, the boy was relatively dim-witted and seemed unfamiliar with the witching world, a fact she wasn’t complaining about. His first ask for her had been to rid him of his chronic acne, and to give him a toned physique. A potion or two had granted his wishes and he seemed content. The next wish was a lot of money, and then a car. She could grant riches but she could not grant a driver’s licence to someone who wasn’t yet seventeen. He said he didn’t care and so he got the car, and his first trip to the police station, and his first bailing out, all before dinner. Iona had been using magic since she could walk and never once had she used it to get herself out of trouble with the law. It wasn’t meant to be used for such trifling matters.

She took great pleasure in telling him that love could not be procured out of thin air, and he would have to try and win the heart of the girl he liked the mortal way. After a week of casting spells to do homework, get him out of trouble, and prematurely age him she was at the end of her already thin patience. It couldn’t continue. Slipping charges was one thing, but the way he was going he would soon realise there was almost nothing she couldn’t grant. The wish to stop bullying may one day turn into make the bully pay or kill the bully. Power corrupts even the young, and she was sure his newfound sense of omnipotence would destroy him.

One day, as they were both in the park, she noticed the direction of his gaze. A group of people, much the same age as him, were sitting under a tree drinking and gossiping, daring and teasing. Before she could launch into the warning that she couldn’t make people fall in love with him he spoke up.

“I want that blonde girl on the end to come over here and kiss me.”

Taking away a mortal’s free will; another sin. She was surprised it had taken this long.

“What if she doesn’t want to?” Iona implored, hoping to provoke some better sense.

“Who cares? I’ve told you what to do, now do it,” he commanded curtly.

Sighing heavily she turned to the young girl and silently apologised. Just as she was bid, the young blonde stood up and left her friends, heading straight for Blair who stood waiting eagerly. Iona walked away to observe the scene in disapproving silence. Instead of watching Blair live out his first kiss, her eyes found their way to the group the young girl had left. There was one boy in particular, stocky and well-built, who had white rage in his eyes. Iona was beginning to think it may not have been the girl that was the immediate draw.

“Miss Tulloch?” a familiar voice came from her side.

Taking her eyes from the unfolding teenage drama she turned around and was met by Albin Morrison.

“It is you,” he surmised, “This is the last place I thought to see you.”

“It’s not my usual haunt,” she conceded drearily.

“I saw you with that young man,” he motioned to Blair who was still enjoying his first experience, “Is he a relative?”

She shook her head tersely, “He’s a problem.”

Turning her gaze back to Blair she saw the distance between him and the stocky boy closing rapidly. Iona stood and observed as the girl was taken away from Blair and thrown none so gently out of the way. The stocky lad got close to Blair’s face, pushing him and throwing intimidating words. When she heard commands in her head she scowled, but had no choice but to obey. Both Iona and Albin Morrison watched as Blair Cox beat the stocky lad half to death.

“What’s going on?” he queried, “Why would you do that?”

She thrust her wrist in his direction and saw his eyes widen in recognition.

“What can I do?” he asked earnestly.

For a moment she was taken aback. Why would he offer to help her? After everything that had happened at the Morrison mansion, everything she’d done to Harold Morrison and his ilk, why did he care what some teenager made her do? Iona decided very quickly she wasn’t in a place to question his altruism.

“Come to the shop at nine tonight,” she uttered desperately before walking away and re-joining Blair just as the police arrived.

***

The hours ticked by as she waited in the shop for the clock to show the right time. The second hand clicked smugly as it ground down the time before a knock came at the front door. Carefully she made her way to the threshold and cracked the door. Expecting to only see one Morrison brother, it was hard to hide her surprise when she saw two waiting outside in the gloomy, amber tinted night.

“Come in quickly,” she suggested, stepping out of the way.

To their credit it didn’t take both long to act, and the two bundled into the shop as she closed the door firmly behind them. If her family were to ever find out that she had let immortals into the shop then Duncan’s punishment would be a light one.

“Should I be worried?” Leif queried through the murk.

“Follow me,” was all she said.

Carefully she led them to the back room, the one reserved for customers, mortals in need of her help, and now for her. The lights were on, Duncan’s stone, and the tome of curses were hidden away, but the bunches of herbs were still hanging up drying, small glass bottles held strangely coloured liquid, and some reference books on herbs lay open on the worn wooden counters.

“Why are ye here?” Iona directed at Leif.

“Albin told me what happened and I made him bring me along.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, the events that took place in the Morrison mansion still fresh in her mind.

“Why?” she pushed, stubbornly.

“To see if I could be of any help.”

“Why would ye help me?” she demanded angrily.

Her hackles were up. All of the suspicions she’d entertained about the middle Morrison brother were threatening to erupt. It had never made sense, he had never fit in with any image she made for him. He had been nothing but helpful since she arrived in the city, and all she had ever paid for it was one small favour.

“Albin, could you leave us for a moment?” he asked his younger brother gently.

Albin didn’t need to be told twice and he silently left the room back into the main shop floor.

“Harold and I are not the same person,” he began, “What happened between the two of you has nothing to do with me. He asked for something unreasonable and faced the consequences, and I don’t hold what happened against you. Harold conveniently forgets that others live by a set of rules that he doesn’t.”

She remained sceptical, but after remembering that Leif had intervened during that same encounter she began to relent. Her muscles began to relax and she stifled a great sigh. Who was she to be picky about who helped her? She would happily grant Albin and Leif as many favours as they required if they could break her bond to Blair Cox.

“I would gladly help you any time you asked,” he added, “Beyond the bounds of give and take.”

There was something in the way his voice changed, or the way his gaze shifted that made her falter. The moment was soon gone when the door knocked gently and Albin re-joined them. She was thankful for his interruption.

“Sorry,” he shrugged, “I don’t much like it out there. Who knows what I might touch.”

“Nothing that could kill ye,” she confirmed, hiding the smirk from her lips.

“Albin said some boy has chained you,” Leif encouraged.

She held her wrist out and felt the icy kiss of the iron, hear the chains clink together in a sluggish, slow tone.

“May I?” he motioned to her limb.

She nodded her acquiesce and held out her arm for him to inspect. Gently he grasped her hand and began to examine the iron shackle, turning it around on her skin, tracing his fingers over the chain, and rubbing his thumb over the keyhole.

“How long have you been like this?” Albin asked.

“Nearly a week,” she sighed.

“I don’t understand how this happened,” he admitted, furrowing his eyebrow, “I thought it took a lot of power to trap an old magic witch. He only looked mortal to me, how can he be doing this?”

“He’s anchored the spell to a red beryl. It supplies all the power needed to maintain the spell, whilst that wee shit reaps all the benefits,” she growled.

“Red beryl is rare,” Leif piped up, still inspecting the iron cuff, “Where could he have got it?”

“The mutual acquaintance of your brother and I.”

Both of the brothers looked at her questioningly, which in turn surprised her. Surely they had met the mysterious benefactor who had given Harold Morrison the Leslie pendant?

“Do you know them?” Albin was the first to ask.

“I was hoping ye had seen them,” she admitted.

Leif shook his head before the cuff recaptured his attention, “Harold was very vague about where he’d gotten that relic from.”

“Even more so than usual,” Albin agreed, “and we don’t usually ask. Going back to the young lad, he’d need a spell to do this, wouldn’t he? Was that provided for him as well?”

She nodded, remembering the leather book he smugly reminded her of.

“It certainly looks like you’re surrounded by enemies,” Leif surmised, a small smile on his lips, “It’s a good thing you have two allies here.”

She threw him a disbelieving look, causing his grin to deepen. He still held onto her hand, and slowly ran his fingers over the smooth, darkened iron.

“I presume breaking this won’t release you.”

“Ye can’t break it,” she answered, “It’s more of a metaphorical shackle, a representation of my servitude. To break the iron, ye have to break the spell.”

“And how do we do that?” Albin queried.

“Can’t you just kill him?” Leif piped in, earning him a disapproving scowl.

“If I kill him then I die,” she confirmed, “and it’s against clan law to harm mortals.”

“Even when they do this?” Leif checked, jangling the chain.

“He can only be about sixteen or seventeen, brother,” Albin interjected, “Nothing better than a child. We all make mistakes at that age.”

Iona commended the youngest Morrison on his balanced mind. She didn’t presume to think that all of the Morrisons were as tyrannical and selfish as the eldest, but Albin seemed calmer and held a silent air of wisdom about him that she hadn’t seen during their first few encounters. A sudden gentle brush against the skin at her wrist made her inhale sharply with surprise as she whipped her head back around to Leif who still observed the shackle It appeared rather than focusing his attention on the iron band, he now traced his eyes around the markings on her arms. She remembered he had shown some interest in them during their first meeting.

“How can we free you from this bond?” Albin queried.

“There are two ways. First is retrieving the key he keeps that will unlock the shackle, and the second is to destroy the stone the spell is tethered to.”

“Can he release you of his own will?” Leif checked, gently returning her arm.

She nodded, “If someone can persuade him.”

Iona was sure that no amount of charm would get Blair Cox to release a magical genie that granted his every desire.

“So, we just go and steal the key,” Albin surmised, “Where does he live?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted with frustration, “I’ve only been summoned there once, and I’m not familiar enough with the city to know where it was. I know what school he attends.”

“I can find his address if you tell me his name and where he attends school,” Leif offered, pulling out a similar phone to the one that she had destroyed before.

Iona didn’t question the morality or the ethics of telling him the name and school of a teenager. Her patience was at an end, and she was so desperate to be free that she was sure there weren’t many limits on what she was willing to do. If they wanted to harm Blair then they would have to wait until she was finished with him first. She gave the information willingly and watched as Leif stepped outside and began to phone someone.

“Do you truly not know who did this, or who gave my brother that relic?” Albin queried, concern lining his brow.

She shook her head, “I don’t know anything about them, only that they’re getting closer.”

“Are they like you?”

“They’re better,” she sighed.

It had been easy to notice from the first time she had tried to see them. Iona wasn’t strong enough yet to erase herself from future eyes, or past ones, but that person was, and no doubt much more. As angry and frustrated as she was, if they ever came face to face she had lingering doubts that she would be able to defend herself, let alone defeat them. Unease had slowly escalated into fear and a horrid sense of vulnerability.

“How is Olivia?” she inquired, trying to take her mind off her darker thoughts.

“I swear I haven’t seen her since that night,” he promised, panicked, “Not in that way. I was going to ignore your advice at first, but the more I thought about it the more I realised that you were right. Harold always says that loved ones are weaknesses and that they can always be used against you. I never saw the spiritualists as an enemy until they harmed Olivia. My brother’s enemies will always be my enemies, and when I realised how dangerous that could be for her, my stubbornness disappeared. It was difficult at first, but I believe it’s for the best.”

“Sacrifice is never easy,” she conceded, “but if ye care about someone then ye want what’s best for them. Your family connections may always bring ye trouble, and unfortunately there’s nothing anyone can do about that, but ye can protect those ye care about from it.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to protect her if it wasn’t for your help,” he admitted earnestly.

“Ye can consider us even now.”

He nodded and smiled at her. Iona had always observed that the youngest Morrison brother had a certain sense of juvenility about him, which at times jarred against the air of wisdom and knowledge. It was hard to dislike him, or even feel suspicious, but now she felt a niggling sense of sympathy. He didn’t appear to be vindictive or spiteful, and he had proven that he wasn’t selfish, yet he was made to sacrifice his happiness for the sake of his brother. She was no stranger to the problems that family brought with it, but she felt that he had been dealt a fouler hand than most.

“Can I ask what the relationship is between you and Leif?” he inquired gently.

In one of her more unguarded moments she thought that she would like an answer to that question just as much as he did. It didn’t seem as though it should be complicated, but it took her a few moments to form an answer.

“One of give and take,” was all she said.

Iona didn’t mention that he had been feeding her information in return for one single favour, or how uneven the score was between them. The give and take that Leif Morrison had coined between them didn’t really seem to encompass everything that had gone on. Their earlier exchange still lingered and began to confuse her. What else would he have said had he been given more time? What had he meant that he would help her over and above give and take?

“You don’t have to lie,” Albin offered, “I won’t judge you.”

“There’s nothing else going on,” she blurted, “He’s been informing me about matters in the city, and I’ve helped him find someone. That’s all.”

As it slipped from her mouth even she wasn’t convinced. She felt Albin’s questioning gaze on her and found she was uncomfortable in thinking too much about it. Having it exist in the corner of her mind, only having Leif show up occasionally, was easy to take for granted, and to never spare more than one passing musing to. However, what he’d said before, the way he’d said it and the way he’d looked at her, that small encounter had thrown everything under a new light. One that made her hesitate.

“I only asked because I thought it was more,” he trailed off pensively.

“What would make ye think that?”

“My brother doesn’t interject on many people’s behalf,” Albin explained, “I was as surprised as Harold was when he intervened in the mansion. Leif also doesn’t seek many people out, not by choice, but you said that he’s been telling you things you want to know. All of it made me think there was something deeper to your relationship.”

Iona swallowed a growing lump at the back of her throat. He was wrong. There was nothing more going on between her and an immortal. What could there be? They were useful to each other, and although Leif hadn’t called in as many favours as he was owed, it didn’t mean that one day they wouldn’t be even.

“It’s just a business relationship,” she confirmed, “It can’t have escaped your notice that there aren’t many people in this city who’d be willing to help me. I need to have at least one connection.”

“I see,” he nodded slowly, but she could sense from his tone that he didn’t.

The door swung timely open and Leif came in, replacing the phone back in the breast pocket of his jacket.

“I have an address,” he confirmed, letting a smirk lay on his lips, “And I have a plan.”

***

Spells were a tricky thing. Curses, enchantments, blessings, and charms, all were complex at their core, like a thousand branches of a tree overlapping and meeting, separating and spiralling off. It took work to cast one, and even more concentration to maintain it. Some were purposefully made with loopholes, ways to get around them, whilst others had them unintentionally built in. Given its dangerous potential, Iona had done a lot of studying on enslavement spells. At the time she had internally questioned why she had to know so much about them when they were practically extinct. Now she realised with frustrating certainty. With spells there was no such thing as absolute extinction. They were copied down in so many diaries, books, and tomes that it was impossible to know the location of every one of them. It became worse when there wasn’t just one variation but twelve, or twenty, or more. All of the time she spent in the family library trundling over pages with microscopic writing, and hand-written notes in the margins, was not time ill spent.

Enslavement spells were difficult at the best of times, and even harder to maintain. Depending on the power of the witch one wanted to capture depended on the concentration and equipment required to maintain the chains. The owner of the spell received a key to the shackles, what a lot of people failed to realise was that the key was the deed to the witch. If you no longer had the deed, then you no longer had the witch. It was implied in the title of the spell that the witch was enslaved to the person who cast the spell, but just like the genie in the lamp, it was the person who possessed the lamp itself who could command the mythical being inside.

Leif Morrison appeared outside the shop early the next morning, before opening. Iona hurried to let him in, fearful he would be seen.

“You’re early,” she hissed.

“There may be a small problem,” he admitted.

She raised her eyebrow in questioning.

“My man couldn’t find the key.”

Iona cursed the teenager. She hadn’t returned to his house since she had first been summoned there, and had also never seen the cursed key since.

“It means he probably keeps it on him,” Leif continued, “We did, however, find the red beryl.”

He procured the stone from his pocket and held it out for her to inspect. The light had been so dimmed in Blair’s room that she hadn’t had an opportunity to truly marvel at its beauty. It was raw, hewn from the earth as an uneven chunk, with an uneven number of sides, but corners worn smooth. It had been through many hands in its day, and she could sense the same natural humming coming from it that she used to be able to hear back on the main estate. It was given many names and heard as something different by every practitioner of old magic. For Iona the song of the earth was gentle, mellow, but not without its crescendos. To still be able to hear it so clearly from a mineral showed its power.

“We can destroy this, and then you’ll be free,” he announced.

“Ye can’t!” she exclaimed, causing his brows to furrow, “It’s far too powerful for that. I didn’t realise it before. That beryl is capable of many more things than containing me. Destroying it would be sacrilege, and almost impossible. To eliminate something like this would need an equally powerful witch, and I can’t destroy it due to my involvement.”

Leif stopped to think, plunging the quiet shop into a thoughtful silence. Iona didn’t ask how he had managed to retrieve the red beryl, or who he’d gotten to do such a thing, and she found she was more at peace ignorant of the methods.

“If he’s no longer in possession of the object that’s fuelling the spell, does that change anything?” Leif queried.

“Change it how?”

“You said that there are two ways to break the spell; either by using the key or destroying the stone. Doesn’t this mean they have equal weight in regards to maintaining it?”

Iona began to contemplate. He had a good point. Each object could affect the spell, so what happened if the two were under different ownership?

“I think it might be based on the principle of shared ownership. If someone is in possession of either object then they share in the benefits of the spell,” she theorised, suddenly feeling a sickening sense of vulnerability as she looked at the stone in the hands of an immortal.

“So, he couldn’t use you to harm me?” he queried.

She shook her head.

“Then I think it’s time for a confrontation,” he announced, taking her by the hand and placing the beryl back in his jacket pocket, “I know how adept you are at those.”

Before she could say anything in objection, or to defend herself, she was being led out of the shop and along the street.

***

Leif Morrison had arrived at the shop so early in the morning that the school bell had yet to ring. She recognised the building due to the amount of time she’d spent in or near it, helping Blair Cox get out of detention, subduing his teachers or other students, or get away with not receiving any homework to do. They watched from across the street as the pupils all filed lazily through the gates, with untucked shirts hanging out and loose ties flailing in the wind. Both kept their gaze sharp for Blair, who could easily blend into the crowd given the monotonous sea of uniforms.

“Do you trust me, Iona?” Leif asked abruptly, turning to face her with an unreadable expression on his features.

It was the first time he had ever called her by her name, and for some mundane reason that was what she chose to focus on in an attempt to ignore the question. Trust? Did Tullochs ever trust anyone who didn’t share their clan name? Did she trust Leif?

Yes. She realised that now. Despite the teachings that had been drilled into her since childhood, despite her natural tendency to be suspicious, and over and above her previous obstinacy that he had his own agenda, not once had he let her down or done anything that would make her suspicious.

“Yes,” she answered simply.

To her surprise he looked taken aback by the answer, as if he were expecting the opposite one, but simply nodded and motioned for her to stay where she was. Slowly, her gaze followed him as he crossed the road and smoothly went up to a pupil, who she immediately recognised as Blair Cox, and separated him from the rest of the gaggle. Together they crossed the road, and as soon as the teenager saw her waiting his step faltered and his brows drew together in an annoyed frown.

“What are you doing here? I didn’t summon you,” he spat.

“We’re here to negotiate,” Leif announced, pulling out the red beryl.

“W…where did you get that from?” Blair sputtered, “Take that from him,” he directed at Iona.

She glared murderously but let Leif have his fun. A pang of happiness jolting through her blood as she realised her theory of shared ownership was correct.

“I’m afraid with this in my possession we have an even command,” Leif stated smugly.

Blair scowled, “What do you want?”

“I want you to give me the key, and in return you can keep this red beryl. I presume you know how valuable it is?”

Iona started. What was he thinking? If he returned the red beryl then what was stopping the shit from casting another spell, something that could cause more damage? He had asked her to trust him, but she was beginning to get a niggling feeling she may have been too brisk. Blair began to contemplate, tearing his eyes between the glistening red beryl and Iona’s equally heated gaze. She couldn’t tell in those moments if he was going to agree to the deal or not.

He shook his head tersely, “Money runs out eventually. I don’t care about that stone, it’s just a means to an end. You can keep it if you want to get her to do your bidding as well. I don’t mind sharing.”

“I’m afraid I do,” Leif admitted.

A sneer ingrained itself onto Blair’s features, one so unbecoming that it had Iona worried. She had thought that the power she allowed him to benefit from would go straight to his head and she had been right. What Blair didn’t know was that his opponent, in this case, was someone he had no chance against.

“There’s nothing you can do, she’s mine and I can tell her to do whatever I want. I’m never giving you the key, so you can just keep the stone.”

Leif moved so quickly even Iona hadn’t realised until she felt a small breeze brush against her cheek. In an instant he was back at her side dangling a black cord in his hand, the small iron key oscillating unevenly from side to side. When Blair Cox realised what had happened, he staggered back, clutching at the collar of his shirt. Leif had been right in his suspicions, Blair had kept the key near him at all times, hidden beneath his baggy t-shirts and school wear.

“I gave you a chance, Mr Cox,” Leif explained, taking her wrist and fitting the key inside the iron shackle, “And I’m afraid to say that she’s certainly not yours.”

As soon as the small key was turned in the lock the iron shackle fell from her wrist and dissipated into the air with the shadow of a rippling sound. She had her freedom, after a week of torturous enslavement, and she was wrathful. As soon as the iron bracelet was gone she focused her attention on Blair Cox, the arrogant, pathetic, spiteful shit who had thought it was a brilliant idea to enslave a Tulloch witch. She would ensure that the lesson was well and truly learned. 

He began to claw desperately at his throat as his breaths came in short, sharp snatches. His eyes bulged and his greasy skin began to turn a violent shade of crimson as he attempted desperately to breathe. Iona brought him to his knees, his skin now tainted an unbecoming violet. Suddenly, someone’s hands took her own and she heard a voice far away call her name.

“Iona, Iona,” it repeated, every syllable more desperate than the last, “Look at me, Iona.”

Begrudgingly she turned her gaze to Leif Morrison who stood holding both of her hands in his, forcing her to look directly into his grave stare.

“You know you can’t kill him,” he reminded gently, “He is just a child who didn’t know any better. Ending his life won’t teach him anything.”

Iona knew he was right, and the reasonable side of her began to fight against the wrathful opposite. The anger that was quick to engulf her had made her many enemies, some she regretted and others she didn’t, but she knew that killing this foolish teenager would land squarely in the pile of regrets. Relenting, she loosened her grasp of Blair Cox’s throat.

“If I ever see ye again, or hear that you’ve cast any other spell, I’ll finish the job,” she warned the lad, who gasped frantically for air as she released him.

Quickly he managed to stagger up and haul himself back across the road, retreating behind the boundaries of the school where he must have thought he was safe from her wrath. Breathing steadily, she looked back at Leif, and knew she should thank him for stopping her. She allowed herself to admit that she probably would have killed the lad if he hadn’t been there, but something inside prevented her from uttering those two simple words. Gently he returned her hands, and dug around in his pocket for the red beryl. Both knew how powerful it was, and Iona slowly began to realise that he had known Blair wouldn’t have accepted it in exchange for her freedom; you couldn’t place a value on infinite wishes. She saw the awed way in which the middle Morrison brother gazed at the impressive stone, and began to dislike the way her thoughts were headed.

“Ye can keep the beryl,” she announced begrudgingly, “But it means that everything is even between us.”

He stopped gaping at the beryl and met her gaze curiously, unsure if she was in earnest or not. It was no small gesture for her to relinquish such a precious, powerful artefact, and if her grandparents were to ever find out she shuddered to consider the punishment. However, her previous conversation with Albin Morrison had shed light on things she would have preferred to keep in the dark. There was a debt between her and Leif. He had given her information and she hadn’t really paid for it. His first favour had been a minor one, but what if one day it wasn’t? As much as she trusted him, she didn’t trust his brother not to find out about their arrangement. She would not be an Olivia, reaping the consequences of Harold’s enmity with the spiritualists, and she would not be manipulated into siding with the immortals because of her connection to Leif. The immortals could not cast spells, and so the red beryl would be in relative safety in their care.

“I appreciate the gesture,” he told her, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips, “But it’s better kept in Tulloch hands.”

He took her hand and pressed the stone into it, curling her fingers around it gently.

“Iona, there’s no score or debt to settle between us,” he explained, “I’d like to think that our relationship reaches beyond that now. I’ll admit, I helped you at first in the hopes it would prove useful in the future, but I haven’t helped you for selfish reasons in many months. It’s not favours and precious gems that I want.”

Perhaps it was something in the way he said it, or something in the way he squeezed her hand, whatever it was sent her heart thumping in her chest. Friends didn’t grow on trees, and people that she trusted were even rarer, much like the red beryl that now lay in her hands. However, eventually, one was bound to appear before her, and she found that she was relatively ill-equipped to accept it.

Next chapter

Scots vocabulary

(old) Hen – Hen is a Glaswegian word for a woman of any age. Usually used in greeting, such as “Are you alright, hen?”, “What can I get you, hen?”. It’s mainly used by strangers to people they’re not that familiar with.

Decked/To deck – a Scottish slang word for a fall/to fall down. Example; “Did you see the way he decked it?”

Story

Despite encouragement from Reid, it took me a while to work up the courage to confront the monster that I’d created. I don’t mean that, Fionn isn’t a monster, but I certainly built him up to be one in my head. I hated that I was relieved he was spending more time in storage than the shop. When a situation or conversation promises to be hard; avoid, avoid, and avoid some more.

Despite his promise, Reid hadn’t been in since we’d had that conversation, but it’d only been a few days.

As I was trying to build a script in my head of what I’d say to Fionn when I did eventually grow enough of a spine to confront him, the bell above the door rang and a confused looking customer walked in, white business card nestled in their fingers. I expected to see the usual glance of wonder, the slight glistening of doubt. This customer’s eyebrows were drawn into a very bemused frown, almost like they thought they were in the wrong place.

This small shift in facial expression threw me for a few seconds. Chronos, lolling on the glass counter attempting to paw something off onto the floor, even perked up at this unusual reaction.

Disoriented, the customer wobbled their way to the counter, glancing down at the card in their hands every few seconds like it’d change or disappear. They smile at me, unsure, before placing the business card on the glass counter. I’ve seen so many of these over the years that even before it snaps onto the scratched glass, I know something’s off about this card. There’s too much writing, too much detail. The font is wrong, the colour of the text. Christ, even the paper it’s printed on is cheap and already beginning to curl at the edges. I may have seen too many of the Madam’s business cards.

Before Chronos can swipe it away like it’s an errant mouse I pick it up to inspect. Although the word Madam is mentioned on the original cards, that’s it, there’s nothing else. The one the customer had brought in had an address, one that was on the other side of the city and not the street which the shop occupied. If it hadn’t been for the “Madam Norna” at the top I’d have thought this person was meant to turn up at the hovel Madam Anora dwells in.

I don’t really know what else to do, and Chronos is unhelpfully quiet. The customer has come to see a Madam in an antique shop, and by the stiff smile plastered on their face I don’t think I can just turn them away. So, I take them upstairs to see my boss. They’re just like any other customer, a weird problem that has an even weirder solution. They leave with thanks, hopefully never to return.

After they’ve gone, I dig out the card they’d brought in and show Madam Norna, wondering if she has any clues. Even if she does her facial expression, as ever, remains stoic. It’s not like she’d tell me anyway. She says she doesn’t know who or what it is and tells me Chronos and I should go and investigate.

Chronos…can leave the shop?

I hesitated for a few moments, staring intently into her eyes, waiting for the punchline. I should know by now that it never comes. For the first time, Chronos and I were going on an adventure.

I went downstairs to get the wee shite and tell him what the rest of his day was shaping up to be. He wasn’t too happy when I suggested we buy a harness for him at the pet shop across the street so we could go walkies. I wasn’t too happy when he smugly explained to me that he’d be carried when necessary. Wee fucker.

Walking down the street with a cat at my side doesn’t feel like the weirdest thing I’d done, but it probably is. Rather than take a few buses, it was decided, by the wee shite, that we’d take the train instead. This was the portion where he demanded carrying and we both sat being shaken by the train whilst I swatted away curious passengers before Chronos could do it, drawing blood in the process. I was quite glad he was black; a lot of the older passengers gave us both a wide berth. I even heard some old hen fret over where she’d put her lucky ring.

Eventually it’s our stop, and being carried like he’s an emperor, Chronos and I exit the station and eventually find our way to the address listed on the business card the customer left. I couldn’t tell if Chronos was as surprised as I was by the place actually being an antique shop. A real one. Maybe not real, but normal. I bet the things inside wouldn’t kill someone if they bought them.

I was a bit disoriented, like the wind had been taken out my sails. I’d expected this to be a shady wee shop, with a shady Madam imposter, who the real Madam Norna would sort out in what way she wished. There was a bloody café next door to this quaint looking antique shop. I dare not say it was nicer on the outside than the actual shop, even though it’s true.

I decided to go inside and held the door open for Chronos to follow me. There was no sign saying dogs, or animals, weren’t allowed, and even if there was, good luck arguing with the wee shite.

Sterile was the word that came to mind. A place cleaned so often that its soul has been swept up with the dust and dirt. Everything had a place; everything had an order. There was space to move, sections that were labelled and signposted. Floors that were clean, corners free of spiderwebs. There were no nooks to hide away in, no items that’d catch your eye because they were out of place, nothing that would beckon or call. I expected to feel magic, to feel the pull of something I couldn’t explain, the echoes of history, time, and memories. I could feel nothing but the boredom that echoed around me off the clean floors, pristine mirrors, and polished glass. This was the shop with no one to make it messy.

The one similarity between this shop and the real one was the door labelled private that was visible behind the wooden counter. There had been no bell on the door, but a few minutes after we’d entered this door opened and a woman, dressed as a tribute act to Madam Norna, appeared and beamed at me when her eyes found me amidst the order of this shop.

She greeted me cheerfully, not realising that Chronos was on the floor at my side, and introduced herself as Madam Norna, before asking me what she could help me with. Chronos nearly had to pick my jaw up. What the fuck was this woman doing?

Assuming my silence was the overwhelmed kind, the kind some of the customers to the real shop experienced, she assured me that no problem was too weird, no situation too unusual, she had a remedy for them all. Did she? Because I was finding that hard to believe.

The more I began to connect the dots, the more sinister this entire thing was. Why can nothing ever be funny? Were customers coming here with their real problems, and she was giving them fake remedies? Was this allowed? Wasn’t she interfering with their fates if she did that? Who had she inadvertently harmed with this charade?

Fake Madam Norna began to look concerned when I still hadn’t said anything, and taking his cue, Chronos decided to join in by jumping onto the counter, and I saw the flash of recognition in her eyes as soon as she saw his black tail swishing back and forth.

The concern evaporated from her expression, and she stared at me with fear screaming from the depths of her mind.

She immediately claimed she didn’t mean it, that it was a joke, a prank, no harm done, please don’t sue her. Christ, that was going to be the least of her worries. I questioned why she was pretending to be the Madam, what good was coming from this pretence?

There wasn’t much money in the antique business, according to the fake Madam. People had less money to spend, people weren’t coming as much, and the few clients she arranged special sales for were dwindling. The business was struggling to stay afloat, so she’d had to do something. When one of her pals began having a strange problem the real Madam’s card had come into this pal’s possession, and they’d gone to the real shop together. Whilst waiting for her pal to finish with my boss the fake Madam had soaked everything about the real shop in, noticed the customers buying things, and noticing how her pal came out burden free, with her prescribed solution working a treat.

Assuming it was all a scam and that my boss had just been lucky with her solution, or it was some sort of coincidence or placebo effect on her pal, the fake Madam put her plan into action. She’d printed out similar looking business cards with her shop’s address and made sure they were in circulation. Soon enough people began to arrive at her shop wanting her help with strange problems, and she was more than willing to give them the same service she assumed we had. A forgery. Business had been looking up ever since.

Before I could launch into a tirade about how she didn’t understand what she was messing with, how she was hurting people more than she appreciated, or to forget all of that and encourage her to stop, I felt a gentle breeze on the back of my neck as the door opened behind me.

I briefly glanced around to see an older woman in such a bad state I couldn’t help but pat my pockets for my phone, assuming we’d be needing an ambulance. There was no blood or anything, but her eyes were bloodshot, her fingertips red raw where she had been picking or biting them. She appeared manic, unhinged, so I took a few steps away. Even Chronos got up, his fur standing on end, mirroring the tension in the shop.

Taking the words right out of my mouth, this older woman accused the fake Madam of being a liar and that her “help” had only made things worse. There were a few seconds where I thought I might have conjured this woman, and honestly, I’m still not completely convinced I didn’t.

The fake Madam began to stutter out an apology, but this either wasn’t quick enough or wasn’t good enough to this disgruntled customer as she began charging towards where the fake Madam stood. I didn’t know if she had a weapon on her, and I didn’t want to find out because Chronos and I were standing around. It was only the shallowest thought, the stupid inappropriate kind you get when you’re in a serious situation but your brain doesn’t want to process.

If only there was a rug on the floor I could pull and trip this woman up.

There was a clatter of limbs on the wooden floor, the rattle of China plates in glass cabinets glancing off each other with the small earthquake caused by the woman’s fall. There was no rug, nothing sticking out or on the floor, nothing that could reasonably have decked this woman, but there she was, face first on the polished wood.

Seeing an opportunity, I went and helped pick the woman up off the floor, and after rummaging around in my pockets procured the real Madam’s minimalist business card and promised that if she went there, she’d get the help she needed. Disoriented and embarrassed after her fall, she nodded her head dazedly before leaving. Don’t ask where I got the card from, there’d been a lot of things appearing out of thin air that day.

I eventually turned to the fake Madam and warned her if she carried on there’d be more irate customers bent on revenge. The next time, I wouldn’t be around to help diffuse the situation. I didn’t mention Fate, or the dangerous consequences of interfering in its business, I think the disgruntled customer had made my point quite well.

She fell over herself reassuring me that she’d stop, swearing on her mother’s life she’d never be so stupid again. I couldn’t tell if that’d always be true, but at least she knew what the consequences would be if she carried on and if she was stupid enough to carry on, then that was on her.

Before Chronos and I left to return to the strangeness of the real shop, I checked this fake one for an owl, but only saw a stuffed one placed behind a glass cabinet. It’s glassy eyes too blank to be the ones I was looking for. This woman didn’t know how lucky she was.

On the way back to the real shop I began to wonder if the reason why Chronos had been sent with me and not Reid was because the Madam either knew or assumed I’d need a bit more muscle for protection. Was it the Madam who had set up the disgruntled customer? Things lined up a bit too nicely.

Upon arriving in the shop, I was greeted by the problem I had created for myself. Fionn. It would’ve been easy to walk past, to make a casual greeting and get on with my day, ignoring the problems that lurked in the unspoken words. But I’d just witnessed what happens when you let things go too far. Reid was right, we needed to talk.

Fionn and I sat in one of the many quiet nooks of the shop, the one I used to go to when things were bad, almost overwhelming. He was antsy, his eyes darted every which way, and his knee kept bobbing up and down like he wanted to get up and sprint. All this pent-up energy, like a dog who hasn’t been walked, seeped out in anyway it could.

I apologised to Fionn. I was sorry for what I’d done, for the deal I’d made. I confessed I hadn’t realised at the time how selfish it’d been, how much frustration and resentment it would cause. I’d wanted to keep him, I’d not wanted him to die, because that was all I had thought about. Me.

There was silence. His leg was still. Something prickled my eyes, but I blinked it back. This wasn’t about me.

He puts his head in his hands and takes a long, deep breath out, before looking at me straight in the eye and calling me an idiot. He’s not smiling but he’s not angry either. Fionn admits that things have been rough, that some days he’s frustrated and angry, trapped and suffocated. Those days he doesn’t like me very much, he blames me for his captivity, for his loss of freedom. The other days he’s glad to be alive and not food for the worms and maggots. He’s conflicted, pulled between hatred and anger, gratitude and being indebted that I saved his life. I begged Death themselves to save Fionn, stared one of the most powerful beings in existence in the face and begged for clemency, for Fionn. How could he ever repay that? He was never just angry at me, but at himself.

He reached out and took my hand, which I wish he hadn’t done because keeping those tears at bay was proven a task too difficult for me. He admitted thar despite his feelings, whichever end of the scale they were on, he was still my familiar, and still my pal. He needed more time to acclimatise, to sort himself out. Some days he’ll be fine, some days he’s going to be an arsehole, but he’ll be an arsehole who loves me, beneath it all.

I wish I could tell you that a weight was lifted off my shoulders, that I unloaded the burden of guilt. But that too, is going to take time. The air is cleared, for now.

Scots-ish language version

Despite encouragement fae Reid it took me a while tae work up the courage tae confront the monster that I’d created. I dinnae mean that, Fionn isnae a monster, but I certainly built him up tae be one in ma heid. I hated that I was relieved he was spendin’ more time in storage than the shop. When a situation or conversation promises tae be hard, avoid, avoid, and avoid some more.

Despite his promise, Reid hadnae been in since we’d had that conversation, but it’d only been a few days.

As I was tryin’ tae build a script in ma heid ae whit I’d say tae Fionn when I did eventually grow enough ae a spine tae confront him, the bell above the door rang and a confused lookin’ customer walked in, white business card nestled in their fingers. I expected tae see the usual glance ae wonder, the slight glistenin’ ae doubt. This customer’s eyebrows were drawn intae a very bemused frown, almost like they thought they were in the wrong place.

This small shift in facial expression threw me fae a few seconds. Chronos, lolling on the glass counter attemptin’ tae paw somethin’ aff ontae the floor, even perked up at this unusual reaction.

Disoriented, the customer wobbled their way tae the counter, glancin’ doon at the card in their hands every few seconds like it’d change or disappear. They smile at me, unsure, before placing the white business card on the glass counter. I’ve seen so many ae these over the years that even before it snaps ontae the scratched glass I know somethin’s aff aboot this card. There’s too much writing, too much detail. The font is wrong, the colour ae the text. Christ, even the paper it’s printed on is cheap and already beginnin’ tae curl at the edges. I may have seen too many ae the Madam’s business cards.

Before Chronos can swipe it away like it’s an errant mouse I pick it up tae inspect. Although the word Madam is mentioned on the original cards, that’s it, there’s nothin’ else. The one the customer had brought in had an address, one that was on the other side ae the city and not the street which the shop occupied. If it hadnae been for the “Madam Norna” at the top I’d have thought this person was meant tae turn up at the hovel Madam Anora dwells in.

I dinnae really know whit else tae do, and Chronos is unhelpfully quiet. The customer has come tae see a Madam in an antique shop, and by the stiff smile plastered on their face I dinnae think I can just turn them away. So, I take them upstairs tae see ma boss. They’re just like any other customer, a weird problem that has an even weirder solution. They leave with thanks, hopefully never tae return.

After they’ve gone I dig oot the card they’d brought in and show Madam Norna, wonderin’ if she has any clues. Even if she does her facial expression, as ever, remains stoic. It’s no’ like she’d tell me anyway. She says she doesnae know who or whit it is, and tells me Chronos and I should go and investigate.

Chronos…can leave the shop?

I hesitated fae a few moments, starin’ intently intae her eyes, waitin’ fae the punchline. I should know by noo that it never comes. Fae the first time, Chronos and I were goin’ on an adventure.

I went doonstairs tae get the wee shite and tell him whit the rest ae his day was shapin’ up tae be. He wasnae too happy when I suggested we buy a harness fae him at the pet shop across the street so we could go walkies. I wasnae too happy when he smugly explained tae me that he’d be carried when necessary. Wee fucker.

Walkin’ doon the street wi’ a cat at ma side doesnae feel like the weirdest ‘hing I’d done, but it probably is. Rather than take a few buses, it was decided, by the wee shite, that we’d take the train instead. This was the portion where he demanded carrying and we both sat being shaken’ by the train whilst I swatted away curious passengers before Chronos could do it, drawin’ blood in the process. I was quite glad he was black, a lot ae the older passengers gave us both a wide berth. I even heard some old hen fret over where she’d put her lucky ring.

Eventually it’s our stop, and bein carried like he’s an emperor, Chronos and I exit the station and eventually find our way to the address listed on the business card the customer left. I couldnae tell if Chronos was as surprised as I was by the place actually bein’ an antique shop. A real one. Maybe no’ real, but normal. I bet the things inside wouldnae kill someone if they bought it.

I was a bit disoriented, like the wind had been taken oot ma sails. I’d expected this tae be a shady wee shop, wi a shady Madam imposter, who the real Madam Norna would sort oot in whitever way she wished. There was a bloody café next door tae this quaint lookin’ antique shop. I dare no say it was nicer on the ootside than the actual shop, even though it’s true.

I decided tae go inside and held the door open fae Chronos tae follow me. There was no sign sayin’ dogs, or animals, werenae allowed, and even if there was, good luck arguin’ wi’ the wee shite.

Sterile was the word that came tae mind. A place cleaned so often that its soul has been swept up wi’ the dust and dirt. Everythin’ had a place, everythin’ had an order. There was space tae move, sections that were labelled and signposted. Floors that were clean, corners free ae spiderwebs. There were no nooks tae hide away in, no items that’d catch your eye because they were oot ae place, nothin’ that would beckon or call. I expected tae feel magic, tae feel the pull ae somethin’ I couldnae explain, the echoes ae history, time, memories. I could feel nothin’ but the boredom that echoed aroond me aff the clean floors, pristine mirrors, and polished glass. This was the shop wi’ no one tae make it messy.

The one similarity between this shop and the real one was the door labelled private that was visible behind the wooden counter. There had been no bell on the door, but a few minutes after we’d entered this door opened and a woman, dressed as a tribute act tae Madam Norna, appeared and beamed at me when her eyes found me amidst the order ae this shop.

She greeted me cheerfully, no realisin that Chronos was on the floor at ma side, and introduced herself as Madam Norna, before askin’ me what she could help me wi’. Chronos nearly had tae pick ma jaw up. Whit the fuck was this woman doin’?

Assumin’ ma silence was the overwhelmed kind, the kind some ae the customers tae the real shop experienced, she assured me that no problem was too weird, no situation too unusual, she had a remedy fae them all. Did she, because I was findin’ that hard tae believe.

The more I began tae connect the dots, the more sinister this entire thing was. Why can nothin’ ever be funny? Were customers comin’ here wi’ their real problems, and she was givin’ them fake remedies? Was this allowed? Wasnae she interferin’ wi’ their fates if she did that? Who had she inadvertently harmed wi’ this charade?

Fake Madam norna began tae look concerned when I still hadnae said anything, and takin his cue, Chronos decided tae join in by jumpin’ ontae the counter, and I saw the flash ae recognition in her eyes as soon as she saw his black tail swishin’ back and forth.

The concern evaporated fae her expression, and she stared at me wi’ fear screamin’ fae the depths ae her mind.

She immediately claimed she didnae mean it, that it was a joke, a prank, no harm done, please dinnae sue her. Christ, that was gonnae be the least ae her worries. I questioned why she was pretendin’ tae be the Madam, whit good was comin’ fae this pretence?

There wasnae much money in the antique business, accordin’ tae the fake Madam. People had less money tae spend, people werenae comin’ as much, and the few clients she arranged special sales for were dwindlin’. The business was strugglin’ tae stay afloat, so she’d had tae do somethin’. When one ae her pals began havin’ a strange problem, the real Madam’s card had come intae this pal’s possession, and they’d gone tae the real shop together. Whilst waitin’ fae her pal tae finish wi’ ma boss the fake Madam had soaked everythin aboot’ the real shop in, noticed the customers buyin’ things, and noticing how her pal came oot burden free, wi her prescribed solution workin’ a treat.

Assumin’ it was all a scam and that ma boss had just been lucky wi her solution, or it was some sort ae coincidence or placebo effect on her pal, the fake Madam put her plan intae action. She’d printed oot similar lookin’ business cards wi her shop’s address and made sure they were in circulation. Soon enough people began tae arrive at her shop wantin’ her help wi’ strange problems, and she was more than willing tae give them the same service she assumed we had. A forgery. Business had been lookin’ up ever since.

Before I could launch intae a tirade aboot how she didnae understand what she was messin’ wi’, how she was hurtin’ people more than she appreciated, or tae forget all ae that and encourage her tae stop, I felt a gentle breeze on the back ae ma neck as the door opened behind me.

I briefly glanced aroond tae see an older woman in such a bad state I couldnae help but pat ma pockets fae ma phone, assumin’ we’d be needin’ an ambulance. There was no blood or anythin’, but her eyes were bloodshot, her fingertips red raw where she had been pickin’ or bitin’ them. She appeared manic, unhinged, so I took a few steps away. Even Chronos got up, his fur standin’ on end, mirrorin’ the tension in the shop.

Takin’ the words right oot ae ma mouth, this older woman accused the fake Madam ae bein’ a liar, and that her “help” had only made things worse. There were a few seconds where I thought I might have conjured this woman, and honestly I’m still no completely convinced I didnae.

The fake Madam began tae stutter oot an apology, but this either wasnae quick enough or wasnase good enough tae this disgruntled customer as she began chargin’ towards where the fake Madam stood. I didnae know if she had a weapon on her, and I didnae want tae find oot because Chronos and I were standin’ aroond. It was only the shallowest thought, the stupid inappropriate kind ye get when you’re in a serious situation but your brain doesnae want tae process.

If only there was a rug on the floor I could pull and trip this woman up.

There was a clatter ae limbs on the wooden floor, the rattle ae china plates in glass cabinets glancin’ aff each other wi’ the small earthquake caused by the woman’s fall. There was no rug, nothin’ stickin’ oot or on the floor, nothin’ that could reasonably have decked this woman, but there she was, face first on the polished wood.

Seein’ an opportunity, I went and helped pick the woman up aff the floor, and after rummagin’ aroond in ma pockets procured the real Madam’s minimalist business card, and promised that if she went there, she’d get the help she needed. Disoriented and embarrassed after her fall, she nodded her heid dazedly before leavin’. Dinnae ask where I got the card fae, there’d been a lot ae things appearin’ oot ae thin air that day.

I eventually turned tae the fake Madam and warned her if she carried on there’d be more irate customers bent on revenge. The next time, I wouldnae be aroond tae help diffuse the situation. I didnae mention Fate, or the dangerous consequences ae interferin’ in its business, I think the disgruntled customer had made ma point quite well.

She fell over herself reassurin’ me that she’d stop, swearin’ on her mother’s life she’d never be so stupid again. I couldnae tell if that’d always be true, but at least she knew whit the consequences would be if she carried on and if she was stupid enough tae carry on, then that was on her.

Before Chronos and I left tae return tae the strangeness ae the real shop, I checked this fake one fae an owl, but only saw a stuffed one placed behind a glass cabinet. It’s glassy eyes too blank tae be the ones I was lookin’ fae. This woman didnae know how lucky she was.

On the way back tae the real shop I began tae wonder if the reason why Chronos had been sent wi’ me and no Reid was because the Madam either knew or assumed I’d need a bit more muscle fae protection. Was it the Madam who had set up the disgruntled customer? Things lined up a bit too nicely.

Upon arrivin’ in the shop I was greeted by the problem I had created fae maself. Fionn. It wouldae been easy tae walk past, tae make a casual greetin’ and get on wi’ ma day, ignorin’ the problems that lurked in the unspoken words. But I’d just witnessed whit happens when ye let things go too far. Reid was right, we needed tae talk.

Fionn and I sat in one ae the many quiet nooks ae the shop, the one I used tae go to when things were bad, almost overwhelming. He was antsy, his eyes darted every which way, and his knee kept bobbing up and doon like he wanted tae get up and sprint. All this pent up energy, like a dog who hasnae been walked, seeped oot in anyway it could.

I apologised tae Fionn. I was sorry for whit I’d done, fae the deal I’d made. I confessed I hadnae realised at the time how selfish it’d been, how much frustration and resentment it would cause. I’d wanted tae keep him, I’d no’ wanted him tae die, because that was all I had thought about. Me.

There was silence. His leg was still. Somethin’ prickled ma eyes but I blinked it back. This wasnae aboot me.

He puts his heid in his hands and takes a long, deep breath oot, before lookin’ at me straight in the eye and callin’ me an ijit. He’s no smilin’ but he’s no angry either. Fionn admits that things have been rough, that some days he’s frustrated and angry, trapped and suffocated. Those days he doesnae like me very much, he blames me fae his captivity, fae his loss ae freedom. The other days he’s glad tae be alive and no food fae the worms and maggots. He’s conflicted, pulled between hatred and anger, gratitude and bein’ indebted that I saved his life. I begged Death themselves tae save Fionn, stared one ae the most powerful beings in existence in the face and begged fae clemency, fae Fionn. How could he ever repay that? He was never just angry at me, but at himself.

He reached oot and took ma hand, which I wish he hadnae done because keepin’ those tears at bay was provin’ a task too difficult fae me. he admitted thar despite his feelings, whichever end ae the scale they were on, he was still ma familiar, and still ma pal. He needed more time tae acclimatise, tae sort himself oot. Some days he’ll be fine, some days he’s gonnae be an arsehole, but he’ll be an arsehole who loves me, beneath it all.

I wish I could tell you that a weight was lifted aff ma shoulders, that I unloaded the burden ae guilt. But that too, is gonnae take time. The air is cleared, fae now.

As Iona stood behind the counter she mused about the origins of the shop. The Tulloch family was so old, and with so many branches, that it wasn’t any wonder one of its many members decided to expand the family archive. She vaguely remembered in her home history lessons being told which one of her ancestors had decided to open the shop, but the name escaped her. Could they have fathomed it would still be standing in the same position hundreds of years later? Nothing lasted forever, nothing should, but the shop had certainly stood the test of time. She was sure, despite her inventory, there were still many objects, artefacts, and items hidden away, and that no one in the family really knew everything that was contained within. Over the years the shop had taken on a personality of its own, hiding cursed rings, and opening when it wished to, she wasn’t sure she liked the amount of control it was starting to have on her life.

After about an hour of no customers Iona decided her time would be best spent sorting through the rooms up the stairs. The sign on the door flipped in approval of her thoughts, and she felt herself silently huff in exasperation. With the door closed to outsiders she would be perfectly safe to complete a task that she had, so far, not had the time to do. With a steady stream of customers ebbing in and out of the shop on a daily basis the only time she had explored the rooms up the stairs had been to try and find out how far Duncan had become embroiled in the war for the city. There were many more items and books, in towers surrounding his own small corner, left unexplored.

There were three rooms up the stairs in the shop. One was a modest bedroom where the current occupier slept, and sometimes ate in Iona’s case. The other two were extensions of the larger archive back on the main family estate. The room where Duncan’s belongings were kept was more of a storage for items and books that posed no real threat, whereas the one Iona only entered once was where powerful and dangerous relics and objects remained. Going in had made her feel queasy, either in fear she would touch something she wasn’t supposed to, or because the items in there emanated such an overwhelming aura it had affected her physically.

Whatever the reason had been, she had decided that she would enter only when absolutely necessary. Thankfully, her perusal didn’t cause her to open that particular door, and so she chose the other one where Duncan’s belongings were being kept until the family saved enough grace to release him from his punishment. She hadn’t been to the hospital since Claire had been put on the first train out of the city, but her family would become suspicious if they found out her visits to the hospital had increased and so she had stayed away – the less they thought about their wayward grandson the better.

The storage room had been chaotically packed with everything one could imagine. Towers of books dating back to the previous century, personal diaries of family members who had served their time in the shop, battered old leather suitcases with the locks broken, a wardrobe she was sure wasn’t full of clothes, a small corner dedicated to her cousin’s belongings, and many more things besides. Iona decided working clockwise would be the best systematic way to sort the chaos that had erupted in the modest sized room. There were small pathways between mountains of miscellanea, one misjudged step could send more items sprawling into another creating a headache of a domino effect. Unfortunately for Iona, she brushed too closely past an empty coat stand and sent it falling to the floor, but not before it had caught Duncan’s belongings in the corner sending them spilling like pieces of a broken plate. 

Sighing with frustration, and cursing the person who had attempted to organise the room, she climbed over more obstacles until she reached the sprawling pile of Duncan’s belongings. There was nothing of particular value, his sketchbook that contained a picture of their teenage selves, some pens and pencils, clothes, fiction books, and toiletries. As she was bundling up the clothes to stuff them back in his rucksack something heavy fell from between the imperfect folds and fell to the floor with a loud thump. It was a scarlet stone, the outer layer appeared to be clear quartz, but its heart was as red as the blood flowing through her veins. Held within a clear plastic bag, it was accompanied by a folded note with writing scribbled onto it. At first, she thought it was a family relic he had been about to sell to the next highest bidder. She picked up the bag carefully, reading the handwriting through the plastic. She realised it was words to a spell, no doubt to activate its properties, but the further she read the more the panic began to rise.

Dropping the plastic bag from her hand she staggered back and straight into another tower of manuscripts and comic books from the 70s. In her panicked senselessness she frantically checked the markings on her arm to see if they were still there, intact from the last time she had taken a passing glance. Was one branch missing, was a part near her hand less populated than she remembered?

Trying to overcome her panic was difficult, and she had to fight against her instinct to flee from the room. Slowly she breathed, inhaled and exhaled rhythmically so she could think without hearing her heartbeat thud behind her ears. Her gaze found the stone, still in the plastic bag, lying on the ground a few feet away from where she stood. She swiped a scarf from another pile of outdated clothes and wrapped her hand in it, before gingerly reaching out and grasping the plastic bag by its top corner. Ignoring the feeling that she had come too close to losing something very important to her, she finished the handwritten note that was keeping the stone company. It was Duncan’s unpractised hand, paired with the fact she had found it amongst his belongings, set alarm bells ringing around her. What was he doing with a thing like that? What had he intended to use it for? She shuddered to think.

***

The shop was slowly growing into a dangerous place for her to be. It seemed a fitting lesson to give someone who had scoffed at the idea of being in charge of it, of looking down upon it as a demeaning task. Iona sat in the private room at the back of the shop, amidst the drying bunches of herbs, the brewing concoctions, and the Tulloch tea leaves. Two items sat before her on the worktop, surrounded by sharp knives, sieves, and chopping boards. She decided she would take her chances with a sharp knife over either of the two objects. One was the cursed tome she had confiscated from a secretive mortal a few weeks previously, and the other was an equally cursed mineral she had found amongst her cousin’s personal belongings, accompanied by a note written in his own hand. If it hadn’t come with his instructions on how to use it, she would have thought her family had been cruel enough to send it to him. 

Witching families like the Tullochs had a set of rules to live and conduct themselves by, any breach of those rules would result in a punishment. Duncan had broken many minor ones, and that translated to temporarily being removed from the living world. What Iona was beginning to understand was that her grandparents hadn’t even touched on the severity of his misdemeanours. If beginning a serious relationship with a mortal wasn’t bad enough, he could add creating a forbidden stone to the ever-growing list.

The blood red stone that remained in its plastic bag was a forbidden object to make by any of the witching families. To do so could result in something more permanent than a comatose state. Yet, that was exactly what Duncan had done. He had created a stone that, when it came into contact with another witch, swallowed their powers indefinitely. It was considered one of the greatest sins a witch could ever commit, and was on par with harming mortals unnecessarily. Both could result in a death sentence. Once these objects were found they were immediately destroyed, and so there were none in recorded existence, except the one that sat in front of her intimidatingly on the worktop. According to legend they were not easily made, and it took a great deal of stamina and power to create them. Duncan had always played the fool, but had evidently been underestimated by the family. The note was instructions on how to complete the stone, and the various formula and theory scribbled in corners was of Duncan’s own devising. He had created it from scratch. She was at least thankful to him that he’d kept it within a plastic bag, because if she had touched it the markings on her arms would be gone, and she would be mortal.

Gingerly she picked up the plastic bag and held the stone up to the light, for a moment letting her curiosity overcome her revulsion and fear. Unlike a natural mineral, one that had been created was always in flux, always changing its nature and appearance until it was finished. The inside moved and writhed in the light, flowing and ebbing as an ocean on a blustery day. It possessed a strange kind of beauty, and for a few moments she allowed herself to commend Duncan on his craftsmanship. If he had put as much effort into maintaining the shop as he had into the gem then he probably wouldn’t be in the position he now occupied. Slowly she placed it back down on the table and sighed to the empty room. 

It was as dangerous as it was beautiful, and the poignant question still remained; what had he planned to do with it? Without asking him she would never know, and she doubted Claire knew either. The temptation to wake Duncan up swept over her but she brushed it off. There would be no explanation that would placate her disappointment that he had fallen so far from the family path.

Perhaps she didn’t understand the lengths to which he had hated being a Tulloch, or the strength of his desire to lead another life. Beginning a very mortal relationship, not having his life decided for him, and having a family of his own who would accept him for everything that he was, it wasn’t that Iona didn’t understand all of those desires, but she had never experienced them as poignantly as, it appeared, Duncan had. Had he created it to use on himself? Or had he sensed the increasingly powerful presence that could be felt in the margins of all the city’s problems? She could never be certain. One thing she was sure of was that she had stumbled upon one more thing that she couldn’t tell her grandparents.

***

Iona was beginning to think that her particular generation of the Tullochs were prone to making disastrous mistakes. She may have begun the cycle, but Duncan had continued it. Another day came, another sun rose in the sky to be blocked by the clouds, and the shop opened as routine, regardless of if she could concentrate or not. The stone haunted her, in sleep and in everything else. She had kept it with the cursed tome in the private room, still having told her grandparents about neither. Unsure why she was being so secretive about the book of curses, she decided that until her emotions were made clear she would continue to withhold the information.

“Excuse me?” a voice ripped her from her undesired reverie.

An old woman was standing on the other side of the counter, looking at Iona with an expectant gaze. She was older, perhaps no more than fifty, with real diamond earrings glistening in her ears, and an equally smart jacket and handbag to accompany them.

“Sorry,” Iona uttered, “Is there anything I can help ye with?”

The older woman appeared to be more at ease with the shop than most of the other customers who wandered in. Her gaze was not easily captured by items, and there was no sense of awe about her tone or the way she carried herself.

“I used to be a regular here when Isobel was in charge, but I haven’t visited in quite a few years. Does she still work here?”

Iona shook her head, “I’m afraid she doesn’t. Is there something I can help with?”

“Perhaps. I used to come in here to have my fortune told, she was very good at it. Do you still provide that?”

Although Iona had scoffed at the idea of knowing the future of one’s life, due to recent events her mind was beginning to turn. She could no longer blame the mortals that wanted their futures laid out in vague terms. Isobel had been talented at divination, she could remember that, whether or not she could live up to those standards was something she wasn’t sure of. Each witch had talents, seeing the future was not one of hers. Her immediate hesitation only served to give the customer some hope.

“You do, don’t you?” she smiled, a sparkle lighting in her eyes.

“Yes and no,” she conceded, “We are supposed to offer that service, but I’m afraid I’m not very good at it.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t need the answers to life’s big questions at my age,” she chuckled, “It was just for nostalgia’s sake.”

“If ye insist then I can,” Iona offered hesitantly.

Her grandparents would say she needed the practice, but in an age when science was worshipped as fact and fortune tellers condemned as charlatans she begged to differ. Eagerly, the older woman nodded and Iona led her through to the private room where the herbs and the dangerous objects lived. The tome and stone were hidden away from the sight of mortals, but not completely from Iona’s mind. Asking the older woman to sit she began to rummage through one of the drawers until she found the mirror that she was looking for. It wasn’t a special mirror by any means, not unlike a woman would have on her vanity table, or hung on the wall for the occasional brief glances before leaving. She placed it on the table between them and looked carefully at the woman sitting opposite.

“Could ye place your hand on the edge?” Iona invited.

Smiling nostalgically the woman did as she was bid and Iona peered into the clear surface, hoping she would see anything but her own gaze reflected back. The hope wasn’t in vain as she began to see glimpses of someone else’s life, images like photos in an album or moments captured for posterity. The more skilled diviner could see more than just images, they could be present in the memory itself, but for witches like Iona who had spent more time peering into a pestle and mortar flashes were all she could hope to get. 

Pasts and futures never came in order, and it took a great deal of study to put them chronologically. The age of the customer often helped, but if one saw an event where their appearance was unchanged it was difficult to tell if it had already happened or was yet to come.

A child clutching a stuffed bear in one hand and a mother’s in the other was ushered to a bomb shelter in one vision, whilst a proud and beaming woman with more grey hair than the one before her possessed was holding a grandchild in another. It was easy to get drowned in the past, and equally so with the future. Both were fluid in that they changed and altered. The rule of thumb was that only good news was divulged. Dates of death, accidents, and other equally painful events were best kept to oneself. In every session there were always a few headstones or cremation curtains that appeared from the woods of time, and discerning which ones had already come to pass was, at times, difficult. Headstones with dates helped.

“I’m sorry about your husband,” Iona uttered, “His death must have been quite a shock.”

“And you said you weren’t very good,” she gave a small smile but there were tears in the corners of her eyes.

Death was relatively easy to see due to the mark it made on a person’s timeline, it was a big event with many spiralling consequences. It was the details like marriage, order of grandchildren, and whether or not they would win the lottery that were the most difficult things to see. From what Iona could discern from the chaotic images the woman had a difficult childhood, with her father lost to war and her mother lost to grief and struggling to cope on her own, even from an outside perspective it was painful to watch. The husband that she’d lost had been a lifeboat on what had been a stormy sea. As frustrated as his stubbornness could be, she loved him more than anything, even in death. Her children had been a great comfort, all three of them, and it must pain her that one was more distant than she would have liked.

“Ye must be looking forward to a grandchild,” Iona commented.

“Am I?” she baulked, surprised by the news.

Iona broke her gaze and looked up in confusion; she must have placed the date wrong.

“Your middle daughter is pregnant, or if she’s not now she soon will be.”

“Well, it’s about time,” the woman smiled happily, “Honestly, three years of marriage and not one child. They wanted to enjoy married life first, apparently.”

She stifled a chuckle at the typical response from someone of an older, more traditional generation.

“What about the eldest one, any sons-in-law I should look out for?”

“A few potentials, but ye might have to wait a while longer.”

Bad news was no news. Iona didn’t say that it was only after the woman died that her eldest daughter would finally meet someone she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. There was a debate amongst the witching families that false hope was crueller than no hope, and Iona would agree in every situation but this one. What happened after the customer died was of no worry to her now, and no customer wanted to worry about their death. People wanted reassurance from fortune telling, not facts or dates, but hope and comfort that their lives, and the lives of their loved ones, wouldn’t be hellish. That was exactly what she had been taught to give them.

“I suppose potentials would be an improvement.”

“Was there anything else more specific ye wished to know?” Iona queried.

The older woman hesitated. For a dreadful moment Iona thought she would be asked for a date of death, but it passed as quickly as the woman’s hesitation.

“Will I ever see my son again?” she croaked painfully.

“Yes,” Iona confirmed, wiping all emotion from her face, “You’ll be reconciled.”

Life was never as fair as mortals thought it should be. Not everyone’s life had a balance of good and bad things, and no one would ever be able to explain why. The woman before her had a difficult childhood and adolescence, and now in her twilight years she seemed fated to relive some of her earlier pain. The estranged son would be reconciled to his concerned mother only during a battle with cancer Iona wasn’t sure he would survive. It was a fact that she didn’t need to know. The older woman pierced her with a scrutinising gaze, as if she had some important secret written on her forehead.

“Just like Isobel,” she surmised, “I could never tell when she was lying either.”

“Family habit,” Iona replied.

“Do you know how she is? We used to be good friends before I moved away.”

Iona faltered, a fresh wave of guilt rendering her mind unable to make words.  After a moment or two to recover herself she managed to stutter a reply.

“S…she’s well.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear it,” the older woman said as she stood up to leave, “Tell her Elizabeth Doherty sends her regards. I’m sure she’ll remember me, I used to be in here every month.”

“I’m sure she will,” Iona replied and hoped she didn’t sound as disbelieving as she felt.

***

Where she couldn’t visit the hospital where Duncan lay as freely as she would wish, she could visit someone else who was perhaps more deserving of her time. She had only been once since her arrival in the city and it had been as awkward then as it felt now after a few weeks had passed. Her visit had been a while ago, and so she didn’t expect anyone to recognise her. After giving the person’s name to the receptionist she made her way into the day room and had a horrible sense of Deja-vu as she glanced around at the other inmates. There was something almost deranged in the air, as if she was walking in to someone else’s fevered, nonsensical nightmare. There were waves of confusion, fear, anger, and injustice which she hadn’t sensed on her last visit.

The person she had come to see still sat in the chair facing out towards the immaculately kept garden. The subdued winter colours pervaded everywhere, and Iona found she was curious to see what it looked like in the blooming summer months. Pulling a chair from a nearby table she sat beside the older woman and took a glance over her. She still didn’t acknowledge Iona’s presence, and her gaze never left the dark green shrubbery or the rain-stained window. There had been no visible change to her demeanour or her appearance, which Iona thought she should be thankful for.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long since my last visit,” she piped up, “Things have been unusually hectic.”

With confiscating a bible of curses, bundling Duncan’s fiancé and unborn child to another city, and wrestling with the dangerous stone she had found in his belongings, on top of completing her normal customer duties, she felt she didn’t have the time to breathe. She should be grateful that she had heard nothing else from the spiritualists or the Morrisons.

“Someone came in to see ye yesterday,” Iona continued, “An Elizabeth Doherty, she said you would remember because she was in quite often to have her future told.”

She had hoped that the mention of a name from her past would perhaps earn her some form of recognition or reaction, but Isobel sat motionless, staring out into the garden. Briefly Iona followed her gaze, half expecting to see something, but the garden was empty and the rain still came down heavily, bouncing off the concrete slabs to create a light mist. Saddened, Iona turned her gaze back to Isobel and continued her one-sided conversation.

“I’d like to hear your thoughts on something I found in Duncan’s belongings. He was creating a stone that takes a witch’s powers, and I want to find out why.”

Her confession was followed by an expected silence, and Isobel continued to stare out into the garden. Perhaps she held a grudge for what happened all those years ago, perhaps her silence was intentional and signalled that she didn’t wish to speak to her attacker. Iona still vividly remembered how it had all happened, it was a recurring nightmare that invoked a strangling sense of frustration and shame. There would be nothing she could do in her lifetime to make up for what she took away.

There were the normal excuses that her mother and uncle had been more than forthcoming with; she was young, it was an accident and not intentional, and that she hadn’t really known what she was doing. The first two were true, the third was so far from the truth that she hadn’t dared admit it to herself for years afterwards. She had been seventeen, and it was her first time to the big, lively, liberating city where all of the interesting things happened. Back in the village near the family estate there was one pub filled with the ageing local populace, and a night down there was what they called fun. In the city there was every kind of bar imaginable, with cocktails, spirits, mixers, and so much more. There were nightclubs where people her own age would go to mingle, dance, kiss, drink, and talk, listening to music so loud it engulfed everyone in the room. Iona wanted to experience that, and she didn’t care that she was underage. She was a Tulloch, and she could do what she liked and fool whichever mortal got in her way.

Isobel had been in charge of the shop then and was more than happy to receive a visit from another member of the family. Her older brothers occasionally came down, but her niece and nephew were still a little young to be freed from the family estate. Until the summer of Iona’s seventeenth year when she was put on a train and shipped down to her aunt in the city for a long weekend. It was meant to be an educational trip, one where she would learn the ins and outs of running the shop, what was kept there, and what services they provided to the city customers. Iona hadn’t been interested in the slightest, arrogant in her position as heir that she would never be demeaned so much as to be sent to the shop. There were many things she had been wrong about back then.

Instead she had wanted to go out at night, and had expected her young aunt to support the idea of teenage freedom. She had been disappointed. Isobel refused to let her go, saying she was underage, knew no one else in the city, and that it was a dangerous place to be at night. Iona had scoffed and questioned what could possibly hurt her? Still, permission wasn’t forthcoming, and so she resolved that she would sneak out when her aunt had gone to sleep. It was an easy thing to do, what was her magic for if not to help her in situations like this one?

When she had dragged herself back to the shop in the early hours of the morning, just as the dawn was about to break over the horizon, Isobel had been furious. Iona accepted the lecture, but what she didn’t accept was the threat to tell her grandparents what she had done. Her aunt was tame compared to her grandmother, and she didn’t want to be punished on her return. Like all deviants she had played the penitent for the rest of the morning, but as soon as her aunt’s back was turned, she rummaged around in the private room, quickly concocting something to make her forget about what had happened the previous night. She had seen the instructions in a book on the family estate somewhere before, and her memory was good, at least she thought it was. After brewing some of Isobel’s own tea she slipped in the draught and watched as Isobel drank it all. Waiting eagerly in anticipation Iona lingered beside her aunt for the first few moments, expecting the memory loss to begin taking effect. What she hadn’t expected was for her to collapse into a writhing mass on the floor, gurgling and cracking as if all her bones were being broken.

Iona had staggered back and watched in horror, thinking Isobel was going to die rather than just forget. That was the moment that would never end for Iona, and one that continued to plague her. It couldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes, but to her seventeen year-old self it may as well have been hours. After the fit had stopped Isobel lay lifeless on the floor behind the counter, her eyes glazed over with sickening finality. Panicked, Iona had rushed to lock the door to the shop so no customers could enter, and stood with her back pressed to the glass, her heart thumping against her ribs wanting to jump up her throat. What had she done? What had happened? It was just a forgetting draft, it couldn’t possibly have this much of an effect.

The next phone call she made would continue to be the worst of her life. The only reason she had given her aunt the potion was so she wouldn’t have to call that person. The call was tense, the details had blurred over time but the memory of the tone had not. The moment her grandmother stepped from the private room not half an hour later Iona wanted the floor to swallow her and never let her go. What was worse is that Iona was never scolded, never shouted at or lectured, but was made to be a witness to the painful process of watching as Isobel was committed to a home for people who couldn’t look after themselves. The family passed it off as very early onset dementia, but Iona knew that it was the forgetting draft. It had been too strong, or the dosage too high, no one would ever really be sure, but it had ruined Isobel’s life.

Iona had looked back over those events many times since, and she was sure it was only to torment herself. A few weeks later Duncan had been banished to take his aunt’s place in the shop, and unbeknownst to the family another cycle of mistakes had begun. When Duncan’s mistakes finally caught up with him it had caused Iona to rethink what she had done to Isobel. As far as her knowledge at the time went, her own misdemeanour was many times worse than the many Duncan had completed pooled together, yet he sat in a hospital bed and she was still free, in a restricted sense, to live. At first, she had allowed herself to think she had escaped punishment because she was the heir, and they couldn’t banish her to slumber if they one day expected to hand the family reigns over to her. Those thoughts had been persistent until she thought more deeply. She had been punished, just not by her grandparents. Iona would have to live the rest of her life knowing what she did, knowing that she had taken the future away from one of her family members, and in some ways that was a punishment.

Iona had been arrogant regarding Duncan. She had thought he had deserved his punishment for going against the family rules time and time again, but she never had any right to judge his mistakes. In the wider picture they were just as bad as each other, and were living through their respective punishments. She still dreaded to think what further things her grandparents would do to him should they ever find out about Claire, or the stone.

There wasn’t enough words to express how apologetic she was to Isobel, and there wasn’t enough time in the world to show her how repentant she was. At the end of the day what had been done couldn’t be reversed, and as a result Isobel Tulloch had been deprived of the rest of her life. The burden of that knowledge would weigh Iona down for the rest of her life – that was her punishment. Both Tulloch grandchildren had learned the hard way that Clan law was there for a good reason. One day Duncan would be awoken, but Iona had a sense that he wouldn’t meagrely step back into line. He’d had a plan, she was sure of it, although the details remained obscure.

“I’m sorry,” Iona uttered, “I don’t think I’ve ever said that.”

Her heartfelt apology fell on deaf ears. Inhaling quietly she squeezed her aunt’s hand and stood up prepared to leave.

“T…take care,” a small, almost unrecognisable voice croaked, “they’re…close.”

She baulked and looked at her aunt, only to find her gaze directed away from the garden and straight back into Iona’s. For a moment it seemed as though Isobel had regained some of her senses, her eyes shone with a sense of knowledge that no one had seen from her in years, but just as soon as it was spotted it receded back into oblivion. Isobel blinked lethargically and focused her gaze back on the garden. The moment was gone with frustrating ease, but Iona didn’t need to ask who they were. The invisible force that lingered in the shadows of the war, who was backing the spiritualists with dangerous nonchalance, and could erase themselves from the past. Isobel could feel them too, and she knew that they were coming.

***

It was easier to forget the larger problems when a stream of small ones kept occurring. Mortals with headaches, stress, nerves, and every other malady besides. They were easy to solve, and Iona was thankful that something in her life was. On a quiet day, a few days after her visit to Isobel, a man stalked into the shop with a purpose. He didn’t look around him, he didn’t hesitate at the threshold like so many others did. He made a straight pathway from the door to the counter where she stood and stopped abruptly, foisting a phone in her direction.

“It’s for you,” he announced blankly.

Iona narrowed her eyes and observed the stranger. The only thing she knew for certain was that he was mortal because he had been able to cross the threshold. He appeared in all senses of the word to be an average one, in his mid-forties with a widow’s peak and thinning hair on top, a slight gut where too many beers had gone in during football games, and an expensive looking watch peeking from underneath the cuff of his worn winter coat.

Carefully, she took the bulky phone from his hand, briefly marvelling at the technology, before putting it awkwardly to her ear.

“Good morning, Miss Tulloch,” a deep voice called.

“Who is this?” she demanded curtly.

“It’s Harold Morrison, I presume you haven’t forgotten me since our last meeting?”

The arrogance dripping from his tone was obvious even on the phone and she clenched her teeth in frustration.

“Despite my best attempts,” she retorted, “Why all the theatrics?”

“As you’re well aware my friends and I are unable to enter your shop, and I saw little other solution to get you to meet with me.”

Iona’s gaze turned to the door where she saw a man in a dark suit lingering at the threshold, unable to get any further. By his build and hair colour she could tell it wasn’t the eldest Morrison brother but one of his many so-called friends.

“This is hardly a meeting.”

“This is just the invitation,” he corrected, and she could hear the smirk in his tone, “If the mortal in front of you leaves the shop unaccompanied my friend waiting outside will kill him. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Temper surged through her and she had to struggle not to hurl the phone at the wall. She wondered for a brief moment if what he threatened would actually happen, but then realised she was unwilling to find out. Her frustration was palpable. She hated being forced to do anything, and the only time she was willing to swallow her pride was before her grandparents and no one else.

“Ye can’t be ignorant of what happened the last time someone thought to summon me into their presence,” she growled.

“I wouldn’t dare to summon a Tulloch witch,” he gasped sarcastically, “I’m inviting you to join me with some insurance you’ll accept that invitation.”

Iona regretted a few things, some she acknowledged and others she dared not. Killing one of the spiritualists on her first day had been a niggling regret, one she knew would only be amplified if she let the innocent mortal in front of her march outside to his certain death. Even if she had only met with the eldest Morrison once, his reputation was far reaching, and reputations weren’t usually based on empty threats.

“Where would ye like to meet?” she spat.

“I knew you’d be sensible,” he commended, “My man outside will show you the way.”

“If he so much as touches this mortal I’ll ensure he doesn’t live long enough to regret it,” she warned before hanging up.

After placing the phone on the counter, she drove her fist into it and watched as the pieces splintered off in every direction. She motioned for the mortal to follow her outside. The shop locked securely behind them and she motioned for the suited man to show the way. Without another word the mortal went on his way.

After bundling ungracefully into a Mercedes saloon car with leather seats and privacy windows she was chauffeured through the city to the suburbs, passing mansion after mansion until she stopped outside of one. The Morrison mansion was the epitome of luxurious residences for the rich and affluent. A private driveway, neatly trimmed grass, and more windows than she dared to count. It appeared to be better suited to a hotel than a house for just one family. What could one expect from an immortal family who were real estate tycoons? Not even the Tulloch main estate was this large. 

Trying to hide her awe, she followed her escort inside into the tiled floor of the foyer, littered with large, antique mirrors and paintings, a vase or two of flowers on top of the lacquered tables. There were people floating from one room to another, some dressed in suits whilst others looked more casual, but all, she was sure, were part of the Morrison nest. Immortals were known to keep both immortals and mortals around them at all times, variously called a coven, a gang, and a nest. It was as if they could never be alone or just wanted the constant adoration of those weaker than themselves.

Rooms for pleasure and gaming were littered around downstairs, and after a while she stopped looking in all of them. The stares that followed her through the building only served to put her more on edge and waft the flames of her anger. Their short journey stopped as they entered a neat looking living room with polished leather sofas and a clear glass table in the middle. The room was cavernous, with a set of spiralling stairs at the back corner, more mirrors on the walls, and even more antiques placed conspicuously around.

Harold Morrison sat lounging on the sofa directly in front of her, flanked by two men bulky enough to be body guards. What he needed them for was beyond her. She spotted Leif standing beside a table, looking at her with what she would recognise as an apology, but she couldn’t be sure given her current circumstances. Albin eventually emerged from a door at the back of the room and paled when he saw her. She was greatly outnumbered, but only a handful of the people in the room were actually immortal, the rest were idiots.

Iona knew she was going to have a battle with her temper during their exchange and braced herself.

“Miss Tulloch,” Harold welcomed, a sickening smile gracing his sharp features, “I’m so glad you accepted my invitation.”

She remained staunchly silent, her manners purposefully left in the shop.

“Still eager to get straight to business, I see,” he commented slyly.

“What do ye want?” she questioned.

“I want to ask you for a favour.”

Despite herself she glanced at Leif who shook his head shallowly, indicating that it had nothing to do with him. As much as she wanted to believe him, the same sense of mistrust kept plaguing her. She sighed internally. Why did everyone in this city think that Tullochs were fairies who granted wishes?

“I don’t do favours,” she stated.

“Of course I wouldn’t expect you to grant me a favour without anything in return. You can ask for anything you wish, I’ll even stop attacking the spiritualists if that’s what you want.”

“I’ve made my views on this petty squabbling between ye very clear,” she reminded, “There is nothing ye have that I want.”

“I think you may change your mind,” Harold stood up and walked over to a young man standing near him, “You see, I want you to turn my friend here into an immortal, and in exchange I’ll return this family relic of yours.”

She gave the eldest brother some credit, he knew how to make an impact. Every time she felt sympathy for Duncan and his plight someone always came along and reminded her of what an idiot he had been. The frustration was also directed at herself for being too scared to enter the room with the powerful objects, she might have been able to see if there was anything more missing. All of those thoughts paled in comparison to the ones that spiralled in her head about the requested favour. Turning someone into an immortal was no small task, and it was another one of the witching sins.

There were two ways immortals could exist; one was being born, like the Morrisons; and the other was to be made into one by a witch who practiced old magic. Immortals weren’t born very often or the world would be overrun with them, and the witching families still alive who practiced old magic were almost as rare. It just so happened one was standing in front of them. She felt herself pale and her heartbeat begin to slow, dissipating the anger that had been fuelling her since the shop. Slowly she breathed and tried to calm her racing thoughts. Her priority should be the relic, which she could feel from where she was standing as it sat neatly in Harold’s hand. A pendant with leather strap, it appeared to be simple enough, but it was always the simple things that posed the most danger. She had taken an inventory of that damned shop many times and never come across it. 

Had Leif lied when he said that Duncan had never sold any of the Tulloch family relics to the Morrisons? She had been in the city for a few months and had never found any evidence of a connection between Duncan and the immortals; he had seemed to favour the spiritualists. Playing both sides wasn’t out of the question. Then she began to remember the events that had passed since her arrival. The powerful enchantments, curses, and spells that had been in circulation, provided by a mysterious benefactor. Iona was becoming more confident that nothing was missing in the shop, she would have noticed, like an out of tune key on a piano similar to when she had entered at first and realised something was missing. It couldn’t be a coincidence that this powerful object had come out of nowhere when the spiritualists were also being fed the same objects. Isobel’s warning that someone was close repeated.

“Let me see the relic,” Iona requested.

Harold Morrison narrowed his eyes, uncertain of her intentions. She wondered for a moment if a small part of him was frightened of her, one of the only witches alive who was strong enough to kill him. Nodding slowly he handed it to one of his suited servants who came to show her. Without touching it she perused the pendant more closely. An archaic silver symbol she thought she recognised dangled form the leather strap. A sense of familiarity brushed over her gently but there was nothing nostalgic about it. She didn’t pretend to have memorised the entire inventory of the shop, or the family archive, but she was sure that it wasn’t of Tulloch origin. The family archive was a mixture of family created objects and ones they had confiscated or collected along the way. Although she was sure it seemed familiar, it certainly wasn’t something she had come across in her many afternoons in the archive. Upon looking at the back she saw a name carved in, like a hallmark. 

It was only visible to other witches, and hence had been missed by the immortals. The name read Leslie, but Iona was sure it was a mark of Clan Leslie, another old witching family of the Highlands. Their territory was Elgin and Moray, and many generations back they had frequently intermarried with the Tullochs. This was one of their family relics, not hers, but she was curious as to how it had arrived in the city. She remembered the item because it was documented in one of the tomes on the estate. A somewhat stupid family member had wished to know what others were thinking, every single thought and emotion to be like an open book, and so they had created the pendant. Whoever was wearing it could hear the innermost thoughts of those around them. It was a curse, however, as many people who had worn it in the past had been driven mad enough to kill themselves. It was tame compared to other objects she had seen.

Nodding slowly she waved it away until Harold Morrison was once more holding it. As long as he wasn’t wearing it, she didn’t have a problem.

“Who gave that to ye?” she queried.

“That hardly matters,” he replied.

Which she took to mean the mysterious stranger who was pawning relics, otherwise he surely would have said Duncan’s name, but why had they told the eldest brother that it belonged to the Tullochs when they must have known it didn’t? Had Harold Morrison been manipulated? Whoever had given him the relic must have known she would realise it didn’t belong to the Tullochs, therefore he would have no leverage with which to ask her for a favour.

“I can’t turn your friend into an immortal,” she announced.

Harold Morrison had not been expecting this answer and the flash of white rage that passed his features indicated to Iona she would have an argument on her hands.

“It’s a sin, and certainly not worth that relic.”

“I must admit, I think this is the first time I’ve ever witnessed a great Tulloch bow in defeat. How about you, Leif?” he goaded.

Iona dared not wait for the younger brother’s answer, “Provoking me won’t get ye what ye want. It’s no easy thing to make someone an immortal, and I think my life is worth more than your friend’s,” she narrowed her eyes, “but why don’t ye just ask the person who gave ye that relic, they should be powerful enough to do as ye ask.”

“You know them, do you?”

Enough to know they have ye in their palm, she thought but didn’t answer.

“I was hoping we could do this amicably,” he sighed, “Show Miss Tulloch to the guest room, it appears she needs some time to think about her situation.”

Two men from near the door moved towards her. Between one breath and another they had fallen to the floor, crippled. The sounds of every single inch of their bones being broken resonated throughout the room, along with their screams. Iona had already made an enemy of the spiritualists, and now it looked as though she was going to make an enemy of the immortals as well. Tullochs were not untouchable, or indestructible, and only time would tell if making an enemy out of Harold Morrison would be as bad for her as it had been for the spiritualists, but she was not, under any circumstances, going to be forced to do anything for him. She didn’t hesitate and went straight for Harold Morrison, toppling him straight to the floor and keeping him there, pressure on his bones. Immortals could still feel pain, although their thresholds were a little higher than the average mortal’s.

“If anyone moves I’ll kill him,” she announced abruptly, “And Mr Morrison here knows that where I can give immortality, I can also take it away.”

She didn’t mention that it would probably kill her to do either. The surge of justice that she felt as she watched the eldest Morrison brother pinned to the floor was exhilarating, almost sweeping her away in its blissful current.

“I’m going to make a few things perfectly clear,” she seethed, “I am not one of your people, I am not your ally, and I am not your pet that you can summon at will. Tullochs do not grant favours to immortals, and we don’t take kindly to threats. If ye ever do either again you’ll find yourself with an uncomfortably short lifespan. As for the person who gave ye that trifle, ye can tell them I’m waiting, and they can come and get me whenever they please instead of hiding behind ye and the spiritualists. Do ye understand?”

Harold Morrison growled in frustration, which only served to increase the pressure she was putting on his bones, muscles, and internal organs. Iona towered over him, ignoring the flicker of regret that ushered in the back of her mind where the reasonable side of her resided.

“Fine,” he bit out.

She released him momentarily. Quicker than anyone could see he stood up and went directly for her throat. Being immortal had its unfortunate advantages, and speed was one of them. Just before she could break the hand that came hurtling for her throat someone else intercepted it on her behalf. With wide eyes she looked at Leif Morrison who had appeared beside them, grasping his brother’s hand with a tight grip.

“That’s enough, brother,” he begged, “It’s not worth it.”

Harold Morrison was used to getting his own way. She remembered Leif telling her that during one of their first encounters. What she had never spared a thought to was what happened if he didn’t? Adamantly ignoring the possibility that she had made a mistake, and lost her temper too quickly, she didn’t linger in the Morrison mansion. Everyone rushed to jump out of her way as she left, stepping over the broken bodies as she went.

**

She had always condemned Duncan as an idiot. He had embroiled himself in the war for the city, allying with the spiritualists, or at least inadvertently helping them. Had the Morrisons ever known the extent of that help? Whatever mistakes Duncan had made, he had never been targeted by the immortal family or despised by the spiritualists. Iona had managed both in the space of four months. Who was the greater idiot? She may be safe in the shop, but what about outside? Would Harold send someone after her? Was she really afraid if he did? Immortals may be hard for her to kill now but that wouldn’t always be the case. The more power she cultivated the more things she could accomplish. Folk of the old magic ways hated immortals because they were unnatural, they flouted the laws of the earth, and there were many instances of hunts and purges throughout history. She wouldn’t be condemned for killing any of them. On the contrary, she would be praised.

The possible threat that Harold Morrison posed was nothing compared to the shadow that brushed past him. Who were they? Why were they selling spells and relics to both sides of the war? What did they stand to gain from it? So many unanswered questions, and no one to help her solve them. A small sense, biting away at the back of her mind, kept thinking that whoever they were was doing this to torment her, and to ensure she made an enemy of everyone in the city. She hadn’t made it hard if that was their purpose. Should she have provoked them? Probably not, but somewhere inside of her she was still the arrogant teenager who had done what she wanted regardless of consequence. Or perhaps she was just sick of waiting for whoever it was to show themselves. In either case the threat had been sent and it could not be revoked.

Both she and Duncan had made more mistakes than either was willing to admit or even divulge. Only time would really tell if they were mistakes at all.

Next Chapter

Scottish vocabulary

Tenement – a type of housing in cities of Scotland. Multi-storey (usually 4 floors), tenement like buildings that are usually flats. According to my brief research into the topic they were built to deal with the influx in population Scottish cities saw in the 19th and 20th centuries, and are still around today. Depending on the area’s socio-economic standing depends on how much these flats cost to live in. In Glasgow especially they are everywhere.

Story

There’s nothing like a 2-page brochure to get your heart racing. I don’t know what I expect to happen by staring at the same words on a glossy page. My future just slotting into place? A light bulb moment where I immediately know what direction I want to take my life? Is there even any point?

We’ve been having career talks at uni, companies coming in to give us the corporate bullshite about how it’s great to be a small cog in a huge machine, forgotten and underpaid. The university itself makes it very obvious they’d love more of our money so we can get extra letters at the end of our names. More of my pals are making plans, accepting jobs, mapping out their futures, and I’ve been…watching, torn between wanting that life and knowing I can never have it. What was the point in these brochures, these talks, these job applications, when my future was out of my control? The strangest thing was that I wasn’t even that bothered. At some point in the last few years, I’d come to prefer knowing that my life wouldn’t follow the mundane steps of everyone else. And although I don’t like the methods, still don’t like the concept of the Madams, I do feel lucky to see a different side of the world than that of 9-5. I can’t imagine ever going back to full-time normal.

When the bell above the door goes, I put away the brochure, thankful of any distraction that wasn’t Fionn lurking darkly amongst the antiques. I found it difficult to hide my surprise when Reid walked in alone. I was about to make a dig, a casual “hello stranger” or “do I know you?” when Fionn beat me to it, except without the joking.

With sarcasm that I could taste on the tip of my tongue, he said that he was honoured Reid would visit the shop, snarkily reminding him that he was spending all of his time with his special pals and neglecting the people that really mattered.

Fionn and Reid used to bicker, to snipe at each other, but there was never venom in their words, never bitterness. But that was before. Reid looked as shocked as I felt at the attack, so much that he didn’t reply. Before my fox familiar had a chance to retaliate, or the wyvern gathered the energy to have another go, I proclaimed loudly that it didn’t matter. Reid and I needed to go to visit a customer that had come in the previous day about a ghost problem.

Ah, I forgot to mention that. The previous day a lassie, a few years older than me, had come in to see the Madam about a haunting she claimed was happening in her flat. Now, I’ve been at this for long enough to know there’s no such things as ghosts. Cursed objects, paintings that change themselves, people who are actually animals, but not ghosts. That’s a step too far.

Madam Norna said that she’d send someone to investigate the flat in the next few days. Since Fionn couldn’t leave the shop, and Chronos wasn’t one for trips outside either, it meant I had to wait for Reid to appear. We see him out the window a few times a week, but he rarely comes in the shop, until that day.

Recognising an escalating situation when I saw one, I steered Reid out of the door before his scowl deepened and he thought of a snarky response to Fionn’s attack. No sooner were we outside and on our way to the bus stop he asked me what the fuck Fionn’s problem was, and I didn’t know how to answer.

After a few moments of silence, I told him there’d been teething problems with Fionn’s new way of life. I reminded him that he wasn’t in the shop as much as he used to be, and we all just missed him. Me especially, but I thought that detail was best left unsaid.

We’d all made a promise not to lie to each other, but there was definitely a way to diplomatically tell the truth. A way Fionn hadn’t bothered with. There was no point in getting angry or frustrated with Reid, or attacking him for his absence, that wouldn’t get us anywhere. Even though my mind had been focused on Fionn and his changing attitude and personality, I didn’t like Reid’s sudden prolonged absences, or the endless line of “special pals” he had.

My words diffused Reid’s oncoming bad mood, and he admitted that he hadn’t been around and going forwards he’d try to be in more. I felt like there was more he wanted to say, he went to open his mouth a few times, looked at me as though I was telepathic and could read his mind, before the bus arrived and our conversation was put on hold.

Our conversation ended, because no one wants to be that person on a bus, and when it did start up again as we alighted at our stop the focus was on the reason why we were making a house call to a customer.

The customer lived with two other lassies, and recently one of them had passed away suddenly. Reid and I immediately agreed that it was probably a memory, but both of us were confused as to what the Madam expected us to do about it.

We were buzzed into the red brick tenement where the customer and her pals had their flat. Both of us were relieved when they lived on the first floor and not the top. Our footsteps echoed up the stone stairwell as we marched up to the door and rang the bell. The flat was like any I’d been in before, I even lived in one similar, with high ceilings, white painted mouldings, and large windows that let what little light any Scottish city gets from a sun that refuses to dissipate the clouds in.

This was no student flat, this place was clean, neat and tidy, with bookshelves, coffee table, clean sink, and even cleaner carpets. There were no clothes strewn around, no empty takeaway containers, and underwear drying on any place they’d hang. Not that my flat looks anything like that…I swear.

I didn’t see anything strange in the flat, no ghostly apparition, no strange sounds. When I glanced at Reid, he also shook his head. I asked the customer where the most activity had been and she said it’d been everywhere, but mostly it was in the dead lassie’s room. Her family hadn’t been to the flat yet to pack up her belongings, so everything was where it’d been when she’d died.

I can’t explain the strange sense of wrong I felt as I went into a stranger’s bedroom. Maybe it’s because I was uninvited by the owner, or because I knew I was there to snoop and pretend I knew what I was doing. The thought that I shouldn’t be there caused my teeth to grind together and kept Reid on edge as he skittered around the edges of the room, not daring to touch anything.

Both of us were so on edge that when we heard a sneeze from somewhere else in the flat we jumped out of our skins. The customer explained that her remaining flatmate was home, but since their other flatmate’s death didn’t come out of her room much, and when she did spent a lot of time in the one we were in. We nodded in understanding and carried on with our half-hearted search, neither of us knowing what we were supposed to find or what would trigger the apparent memory to appear.

After drawing my eyes over some stuffed toys, a laptop, a few sketchpads, and plants that looked surprisingly lively considering their owner was gone, my gaze snagged on the cover of a book that was on the bedside table, bookmark slotted in the pages. It looks like quite an old book, one you’d find in a charity or used book shop, with wrinkled spine and browning pages and the smell of age and decay. The title was the biggest thing on the cover and dwarfed whatever cover art there was.

Death’s Greatest Love and other Tales.

I find my hand reaching out to touch the book and I don’t realise I’m doing it until the customer asks if I’m familiar with the story. My hand stops before my fingers can feel the battered cover and I glance over shaking my head. Reid does the same after he comes over to look at the book.

Just as the customer is about to tell us about the book with the strange title, we hear the sound of something falling to the floor in the living room where we’ve just been. All of us rush to where the noise is and finally, we see the silhouette of a lassie, the one who’s smiling in the pictures she keeps in her room. She’s not smiling now.

This lassie is as real as any human I’ve ever met, and beings not so human. She’s not translucent, she’s not floating, it’s like she’s still flesh and blood. I’ve only ever seen one memory and it looked similar, a quiet silent presence, melancholy but at peace.

This lassie, if she was a memory, was far from those things. She stood amongst the debris of the bookcase that had been standing in the corner, its contents scattered on the floor. Books fallen open, more plant pots broken with dirt spilled on the carpet, the fairy lights that hung from the edges of the shelves tangled and smashed.

I expected a full-on poltergeist moment, to be thrown across the room, to get hurt, but the memory of the lassie didn’t appear to be angry. Her brows were drawn together, and she looked frantically at the customer, shaking her head as though to say that it’d been an accident. I briefly wondered if memories couldn’t actually talk, because this one looked as though she desperately wanted to.

Instead, the customer filled the silence with their desperate plea to us to get rid of the ghost. Shite, did she think that’s what we were there to do? Had Madam Norna said that’s what was going to happen? Did I know how to get rid of a memory?

Reid and I desperately stared at each other hoping the other would have a solution to our current predicament. Once again, we were saved be something else. The third flatmate, the one who’d sneezed earlier, had emerged from her room and frantically shouted at us to stop and to not harm her pal.

It’s been a while since I’ve encountered a memory, and I forgot the most important thing about them. They only exist because someone wants them to, someone can’t let them go, so they can’t let go. In time they fade, wounds heal, and grief is lessened. If the customer had gone to the Madam in the hopes of getting rid of the memory, that could only mean that the remaining flatmate was the one who was unable to let go.

The customer asked her flatmate if she was crazy, and that they couldn’t carry on living in a haunted flat. The ghost needed to move on. Reid, with as much grace as a bull in a China shop, told the customer that it wasn’t a ghost. I threw him a sarcastic glare, but he didn’t seem to realise his mistake.

The flatmate, a lassie a wee bit younger than the customer, still dressed in her pyjamas, confessed that she didn’t want their flatmate to move on, and that she shouldn’t have died in the first place. A few days after the flatmate had died, this lassie had found a book at the uni library. Amongst many other mischievous things, it’d told her about memories, and how they needed an anchor to hold them in place. So, the lassie became that anchor.

The customer stood stiffly, her eyes darting between the memory of her flatmate, and the flesh and blood one who’d been desperate not to let her pal go. I began to feel queasy as I watched the drama unfold, and slowly began to realise that I didn’t have a leg to stand on.

After sorting her thoughts, the customer launched into an angry tirade, calling her pal selfish for doing such a thing, and that the dead needed to find peace, not be tied to a world they’re no longer a part of. Their flatmate was dead and gone, she deserved to move on and not worry about the people she left behind. The customer demanded that the memory be let go.

My tongue felt a few sizes too big for my mouth and I couldn’t talk. Whatever arguments or observations or reasons I had died in my throat. The barbed words may not have been directed at me, but I felt the sting of them all the same.

It fell to Reid to explain that memories fade with time, no matter how hard people want to cling on. With nothing further to do, no further help to give, we left the two lassies with their memory.

We both stood at the bus stop waiting on the bus, watching as the cars drove by going about their lives as though there was no such thing as loss, or grief, or death, or deals. I stared at the ground, pretending I wasn’t weighed down by shame. Noticing my declining mood, Reid pointed out that what I’d done for Fionn wasn’t the same as what the lassie had done for her dead flatmate.

I agreed. What I’d done was worse. At least the memory would fade, she could eventually move on and find peace. I’d trapped Fionn in a cage made of antiques and history, somewhere he could never leave alive. I’d taken his freedom so I could keep him around, and to put the sour cherry on top of this awful cake I regretted what I’d done, and dreaded being around him. It sounded like a fitting punishment to me.

Reid let the silence settle before he cleared his throat and squared his shoulders, as if he was about to fight someone. Despite his posturing he was looking down at his hands, picking at his nails to ease the discomfort of what he was about to say.

In what can only be described as a sheepish fashion, Reid told me what he’d been trying to tell me earlier. I wasn’t the only one affected by Fionn’s death. After watching one of his closest pals die in his arms, Reid had begun to re-evaluate his life, began to scrutinise it, began to see what was missing. He began to feel like he hadn’t really been living, he’d been bouncing around causing trouble, and getting into it in equal measure. Then when he’d found the shop he’d been drawn in just as everyone else had.

But when Fionn had died for a few moments, Reid realised how fragile his life really was, how short it could get cut. Even though foxes, and other creatures, had a longer lifespan than humans, they were still relatively easy to kill, given someone had the will and knowledge. He didn’t want his life to revolve around the shop.

A storm of emotions swept through my thoughts. Frustration, anger, understanding. I couldn’t really be angry because hadn’t I been struggling with the same thoughts? The difference was that I didn’t have a choice. I had taken away that choice from Fionn and he was suffering. How could I expect Reid to join our club of misery?

If he had re-evaluated his life and found that it was lacking romantic partners, then he was free to have fun with however many he wanted. I wasn’t going to cling to him like a limpet onto a rock. I hadn’t been able to let Fionn go, and it’d caused pain and misery. I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

Reid promised that he’d be around more, in the shop at least once a week. But that wasn’t going to solve my problem with Fionn. Reid looked at me then, a small smile of sympathy tugging at his lips. He told me that the only person who could fix my problems with Fionn was me, but that neither of us would ever be able to get passed this if we didn’t talk about it.

Fuck, I really hate it when he’s right.

Scots-ish language version

There’s nothing like a 2-page brochure tae get your heart racin’. I dinnae know whit I expect tae happen by starin’ at the same words on a glossy page. Ma future just slottin’ intae place? A light bulb moment where I immediately know whit direction I want tae take ma life? Is there even any point?

We’ve been having career talks at uni, companies comin’ in tae give us the corporate bullshite about how it’s great tae be a small cog in a huge machine, forgotten and underpaid. The university itself makes it very obvious they’d love more of our money so we can get extra letters at the end ae our names. More ae ma pals are makin’ plans, acceptin’ jobs, mapping oot their futures, and I’ve been…watchin, torn between wantin’ that life and knowin’ I can never have it. Whit was the point in these brochures, these talks, these job applications, when ma future was oot ae ma control? The strangest thing was that I wasnae even that bothered. At some point in the last few years I’d come tae prefer knowin that ma life wouldnae follow the mundane steps ae everyone else. And although I dinnae like the methods, still dinnae like the concept ae the Madams, I do feel lucky tae see a different side ae the world than that ae 9-5. I cannae imagine ever going back tae full-time normal.

When the bell above the door goes I put away the brochure, thankful ae any distraction that wasnae Fionn lurkin’ darkly amongst the antiques. I found it difficult tae hide ma surprise when Reid walked in alone. I was aboot tae make a dig, a casual “hello stranger” or “do I know you?” when Fionn beat me tae it, except withoot the joking.

Wi’ sarcasm that I could taste on the tip ae ma tongue, he said that he was honoured Reid would visit the shop, snarkily remindin him that he was spendin all ae his time wi’ his special pals and neglecting the people that really mattered.

Fionn and Reid used tae bicker, tae snipe at each other, but there was never venom in their words, never bitterness. But that was before. Reid looked as shocked as I felt at the attack, so much that he didnae reply. Before ma fox familiar had a chance tae retaliate, or the wyvern gathered the energy tae have another go, I proclaimed loudly that it didnae matter. Reid and I needed tae go tae visit a customer that had come in the previous day aboot a ghost problem.

Ah, I forgot tae mention that. The previous day a lassie, a few years older than me, had come in tae see the Madam aboot a haunting she claimed was happenin’ in her flat. Noo, I’ve been at this fae long enough tae know there’s no such things as ghosts. Cursed objects, paintings that change themselves, people who are actually animals, but no ghosts. That’s a step too far.

Madam Norna said that she’d send someone tae investigate the flat in the next few days. Since Fionn couldnae leave the shop, and Chronos wasnae one fae trips ootside either, it meant I had tae wait fae Reid tae appear. We see him oot the windae a few times a week, but he rarely comes in the shop, until that day.

Recognisin’ an escalatin’ situation when I saw one, I steered Reid oot ae the door before his scowl deepened and he thought ae a snarky response tae Fionn’s attack. No sooner were we ootside and on our way tae the bus stop he asked me whit the fuck Fionn’s problem was and I didnae know how tae answer.

After a few moments ae silence I told him there’d been teethin’ problems wi’ Fionn’s new way ae life. I reminded him that he wasnae in the shop as much as he used tae be, and we all just missed him. Me especially, but I thought that detail was best left unsaid.

We’d all made a promise no tae lie tae each other, but there was definitely a way tae diplomatically tell the truth. A way Fionn hadnae bothered wi’. There was no point in getting’ angry or frustrated wi’ Reid, or attackin’ him fae his absence, that wouldnae get us anywhere. Even though my mind had been focused on Fionn and his changing attitude and personality, I didnae like Reid’s sudden prolonged absences, or the endless line ae “special pals” he had.

My words diffused Reid’s oncoming bad mood and he admitted that he hadnae been arouod and going forwards he’d try tae be in more. I felt like there was more he wanted tae say, he went tae open his mouth a few times, looked at me as though I was telepathic and could read his mind, before the bus arrived and our conversation was put on hold.

Our conversation ended, because no one wants tae be that person on a bus, and when it did start up again as we alighted at our stop the focus was on the reason why we were makin’ a house call tae a customer.

The customer lived wi’ two other lassies, and recently one ae them had passed away suddenly. Reid and I immediately agreed that it was probably a memory, but both ae us were confused as tae whit the Madam expected us tae do aboot it.

We were buzzed intae the red brick tenement where the customer and her pals had their flat. Both ae us were relieved when they lived on the first floor and no the top. Our footsteps echoed up the stone stairwell as we marched up tae the door and rang the bell. The flat was like any I’d been in before, I even lived in one similar, wi’ high ceilings, white painted mouldings, and large windaes that let whit little light any Scottish city gets fae a sun that refuses tae dissipate the clouds in.

This was no student flat, this place was clean, neat and tidy, wi’ bookshelves, coffee table, clean sink, and even cleaner carpets. There were no clothes strewn aroond, no empty takeaway containers, and underwear dryin’ on any place they’d hang. No that ma flat looks anythin’ like that…I swear.

I didnae see anythin’ strange in the flat, no ghostly apparition, no strange sounds. When I glanced at Reid he also shook his heid. I asked the customer where the most activity had been and she said it’d been everywhere, but mostly it was in the deid lassie’s room. Her family hadnae been tae the flat yet tae pack up her belongings, so everythin’ was where it’d been when she’d died.

I cannae explain the strange sense ae wrong I felt as I went intae a stranger’s bedroom. Maybe it’s because I was uninvited by the owner, or because I knew I was there tae snoop and pretend I knew whit I was doin’. The thought that I shouldnae be there caused ma teeth tae grind together, and kept Reid on edge as he skittered aroond the edges ae the room, no darin’ tae touch anythin’.

Both ae us were so on edge that when we heard a sneeze fae somewhere else in the flat we jumped oot ae our skins. The customer explained that her remaining flatmate was home, but since their other flatmate’s death didnae come oot ae her room much, and when she did spent a lot ae time in the one we were in. We nodded in understandin’ and carried on wi’ our half-hearted search, neither ae us knowin whit we were supposed tae find or what would trigger the apparent memory tae appear.

After drawin’ ma eyes over some stuffed toys, a laptop, a few sketchpads, and plants that looked surprisingly lively considering their owner was gone, ma gaze snagged on the cover ae a book that was on the bedside table, bookmark slotted in the pages. It looks like quite an old book, one you’d find in a charity or used book shop, wi wrinkled spine and brownin’ pages and the smell ae age and decay. The title was the biggest thing on the cover and dwarved whatever cover art there was.

Death’s Greatest Love and other Tales.

I find ma hand reachin’ oot tae touch the book and I dinnae realise I’m doin it until the customer asks if I’m familiar wi’ the story. Ma hand stops before ma fingers can feel the battered cover and I glance over shakin’ ma heid. Reid does the same after he comes over tae look at the book.

Just as the customer is aboot tae tell us aboot the book wi’ the strange title we hear the sound ae something fallin’ tae the floor in the livin’ room where we’ve just been. All ae us rush tae where the noise is and finally we see the silhouette ae a lassie, the one who’s smilin’ in the pictures she keeps in her room. She’s no smilin’ noo.

This lassie is as real as any human I’ve ever met, and beings no so human. She’s no transluscent, she’s no floatin’, it’s like she’s still flesh and blood. I’ve only ever seen one memory and it looked similar, a quiet silent presence, melancholy but at peace.

This lassie, if she was a memory, was far fae those things. She stood amongst the debris ae the bookcase that had been standin’ in the corner, its contents scattered on the floor. Books fallen open, more plant pots broken wi’ dirt spilled on the carpet, the fairy lights that hung fae the edges ae the shelves tangled and smashed.

I expected a full on poltergeist, tae be thrown across the room, tae get hurt, but the memory ae the lassie didnae appear tae be angry. Her brows were drawn together and she looked frantically at the customer, shakin’ her heid as though tae say that it’d been an accident. I briefly wondered if memories couldnae actually talk, because this one looked as though she desperately wanted tae.

Instead, the customer filled the silence wi’ their desperate plea tae us tae get rid ae the ghost. Shite, did she think that’s whit we were there tae do? Had Madam Norna said that’s what was goin’ tae happen? Did I know how tae get rid ae a memory?

Reid and I desperately stared at each other hopin’ the other would have a solution tae our current predicament. Once again, we were saved be somethin’ else. The third flatmate, the one who’d sneezed earlier, had emerged fae her room and frantically shouted at us tae stop and tae no’ harm her pal.

It’s been a while since I’ve encountered a memory, and I forgot the most important thing aboot them. They only exist because someone wants them tae, someone cannae let them go, so they cannae let go. In time they fade, wounds heal and grief is lessened. If the customer had gone tae the Madam in the hopes ae getting’ rid ae the memory, that could only mean that the remaining flatmate was the one who was unable tae let go.

The customer asked her flatmate if she was crazy, and that they couldnae carry on livin’ in a haunted flat. The ghost needed tae move on. Reid, wi’ as much grace as a bull in a china shop, told the customer that it wasnae a ghost. I threw him a sarcastic glare but he didnae seem tae realise his mistake.

The flatmate, a lassie a wee bit younger than the customer, still dressed in her pajamas, confessed that she didnae want their flatmate tae move on, and that she shouldnae have died in the first place. A few days after the flatmate had died, this lassie had found a book at the uni library. Amongst many other mischievous things it’d told her aboot memories, and how they needed an anchor tae hold them in place. So the lassie became that anchor.

The customer stood stiffly, her eyes darting between the memory ae her flatmate, and the flesh and blood one who’d been desperate no tae let her pal go. I began tae feel queasy as I watched the drama unfold, and slowly began tae realise that I didnae have a leg tae stand on.

After sorting her thoughts the customer launched intae an angry tirade, callin’ her pal selfish fae doin’ such a thing, and that the deid needed tae find peace, no be tied tae a world they’re no longer a part of. Their flatmate was deid and gone, she deserved tae move on and no worry aboot the people she left behind. The customer demanded that the memory be let go.

Ma tongue felt a few sizes too big fae ma mouth and I couldnae talk. Whatever arguments or observations or reasons I had died in ma throat. The barbed words may no have been directed at me, but I felt the sting ae them all the same.

It fell tae Reid tae explain that memories fade wi’ time, no matter how hard people want tae cling on. Wi’ nothin’ further tae do, no further help tae give, we left the two lassies wi’ their memory.

We both stood at the bus stop waitin’ on the bus, watchin’ as the cars drove by goin’ aboot their lives as though there was no such thing as loss, or grief, or death, or deals. I stared at the ground, pretendin’ I wasnae weighed doon by shame. Noticin’ ma declining mood, Reid pointed oot that whit I’d done fae Fionn wasnae the same as whit the lassie had done fae her deid flatmate.

I agreed, whit I’d done was worse. At least the memory would fade, she could eventually move on and find peace. I’d trapped Fionn in a cage made ae antiques and history, somewhere he could never leave alive. I’d taken his freedom so I could keep him aroond, and tae put the sour cherry on top ae this awful cake I regretted whit I’d done, and dreaded bein’ aroond him. It sounded like a fittin’ punishment tae me.

Reid let the silence settle before he cleared his throat and squared his shoulders, as if he was aboot tae fight someone. Despite his posturin’ he was lookin’ doon at his hands, pickin’ at his nails tae ease the discomfort ae whit he was aboot tae say.

In what can only be described as a sheepish fashion, Reid told me whit he’d been tryin’ tae tell me earlier. I wasnae the only one affected by Fionn’s death. After watchin’ one ae his closest pals die in his arms, Reid had begun tae re-evaluate his life, began tae scrutinise it, began tae see whit was missin’. He began tae feel like he hadnae really been livin’, he’d been bouncin’ roond causin’ trouble, and getting’ intae it in equal measure. Then when he’d found the shop he’d been drawn in just as everyone else had.

But when Fionn had died fae a few moments, Reid realised how fragile his life really was, how short it could get cut. Even though foxes, and other creatures, had a longer lifespan than humans, they were still relatively easy to kill, given someone had the will and knowledge. He didnae want his life tae revolve aroond the shop.

A storm ae emotions swept through ma thoughts. Frustration, anger, understandin’. I couldnae really be angry because hadnae I been strugglin’ wi’ the same thoughts? The difference was that I didnae have a choice. I had taken away that choice fae Fionn and he was sufferin’. How could I expect Reid tae join our club ae misery?

If he had re-evaluated his life and found that it was lacking romantic partners, then he was free tae have fun wi’ however many he wanted. I wasnae gonnae cling tae him like a limpet ontae a rock. I hadnae been able tae let Fionn go and it’d caused pain and misery. I wouldnae make the same mistake twice.

Reid promised that he’d be aroond more, in the shop at least once a week. But that wasnae gonnae solve ma problem wi’ Fionn. Reid looked at me then, a small smile ae sympathy tuggin’ at his lips. He told me that the only person who could fix ma problems wi’ Fionn was me, but that neither ae us would ever be able tae get passed this if we didnae talk aboot it.

Fuck, I really hate it when he’s right.

Iona was beginning to understand that life in a city was never quiet, never as peaceful as it had been back north on the family estate. The main branch of the Tulloch family had a reputation amongst the locals of the Highlands for being herbalists and listeners, an old family who occupied important positions within the community. In the city where history was faded and life was fast, no one knew of her name, who she was, or what she did. They saw her as a young woman who’d taken over a shop that no one could remember not being there. Iona felt she liked the anonymity at times. She could venture outside to the supermarket, the park, or the other shops, and no one would ask her about the health of her grandparents or what tincture she would recommend for high blood pressure. It was nice having no one know, or want to know, your family business.

There was an uncharacteristic stream of customers flowing and ebbing out of the door one Saturday, just as the first winter frost settled outside on the ground, causing it to sparkle like broken glass. It would be a crisp winter, she could feel it on the tips of her fingers whenever she went outside. The shop became colder with every waft of frost that was let in through the open door, and soon she was forced to turn on the heater at her feet, strategically placed there by one of her predecessors. Towards noon the shop began to quieten, as it does when shoppers were in need of food, and the shop began to grow warmer.

During that quiet hour someone came into the shop, bringing cold once more through. Iona spared a brief glance at the new customer before returning to counting up the orders that had been placed earlier that morning.

“Excuse me,” a polite voice spoke up.

“Can I help ye?” Iona queried.

“I’m looking for Duncan,” she asked hopefully, trying to peek around to the door that led to the private room.

“I’m afraid Duncan no longer works here.”

Iona didn’t think she had ever seen someone’s demeanour change so abruptly as the young woman’s before her, for young she looked. Dressed in a large, fur-lined winter coat, she had wheat coloured hair, and dark, mossy green eyes that now sparked with indignation.

“Which one are you then?” the woman demanded.

There was a certain tenseness emanating from the other side of the counter, and Iona began to feel a strange tingling sensation in her gut. Why was this mortal looking for Duncan? What had he done, said, or given her that made her immediately hostile when she was told he wasn’t in the shop?

“You’re not Iona, are you?” the woman continued.

She kept her silence, not knowing what to say or to make of the strange circumstances she now found herself in. There were only two other customers in the shop but she wished for them to leave in case someone got hurt.

“Who are ye?” Iona demanded icily.

“I’m Duncan’s fiancé,” was the answer, “and I’m pregnant with his child.”

***

Iona had spent the rest of the summer deep in study. Ever since she had returned from the city, she had decided that it would be best to keep her head down and out of the way in the hopes everyone would forget what had happened. Her final year of school would resume soon, as would her normal duties. 

Shouting wasn’t as rare an occurrence as one might have hoped for on the family estate, but heated arguments were a rarity. With ceramic mug in hand, one father had made a few years back, she made her way down the stairs to the kitchen for some much-needed tea, and perhaps a biscuit or two if she could get away with it. On her way down the stairs, she heard raised voices seeping out from the main living room. Without thinking her feet slowed midway down the staircase, and she took the rest of them quietly, avoiding the creaking and groaning parts she knew well. The door to the living room was opened a crack, no bigger than the width of someone’s wrist, and through it trickled strained and heated words. Iona stood at the foot of the stairs, knowing she should keep on her way to the kitchen, but she found her legs wouldn’t move from the spot. With mug in hand she faced the door, saw light erupt from the gap, and listened to the argument that raged beyond.

“How many times have we told ye to stop being so careless? Ye’re not just anyone, ye’re a Tulloch, and that comes with duties and responsibilities,” her grandmother’s stern voice lashed out.

“What does it matter what I do? It’s not as if ye expect great things of me,” Duncan’s irritated reply came.

It wasn’t the first time Iona had stumbled across an argument between him and their grandparents. For at least a year he had railed against the family teachings and created havoc amongst the local mortals by giving them charms, casting spells on people they hated, and creating other magical mischief. It was against the family rules, and every time he had been caught a swift rebuke had come, but it had deflected from him as a stone does a thousand-year-old tree. He continued to go against the family teachings, and the worst part of it was that he didn’t seem to care.

“That’s not true, we’ve never said that,” her grandfather interrupted.

“We may not expect great things but ye’re still a Tulloch and we expect familial loyalty to our ways and customs,” her grandmother spoke up, “I don’t care to know what’s going on in your head, or even why ye think breaking the rules is acceptable, but I won’t have any more of it. This family has existed for more than a thousand years, and I will not see it brought down by a rebellious, foolish young man who thinks he’s above his own family.”

Grandmother’s words were always pointed, bordering on heartless. She was a proud woman, even more so of her heritage and ancestry. As the matriarch of the Tulloch family she had been given an ancient duty to ensure the survival of the bloodline, and in her eyes Duncan was endangering that role with his opposition.

“Mother, I’m sure it’s just a phase,” Iona recognised her uncle’s level-headed words. He appeared to be the only one in the room not engulfed by temper.

“I don’t care if it is, I’ve had enough of it. Ye need some discipline, lad, a purpose, something to focus on and keep ye out of trouble,” grandmother continued, “There’s a position that has recently become available.”

Everyone in the room knew what she spoke of; it wasn’t far from anyone’s mind. Iona felt herself tense and she gritted her teeth against the guilt that threatened to overwhelm her.

“You can’t be serious,” Duncan exclaimed, for the first time in the conversation showing an emotion other than contempt, “I’m not going there!”

“Ye’ll do as ye’re told!” grandmother barked.

“Say something!” Duncan aimed at what Iona assumed to be her uncle.

Iona’s uncle was the most reasonable Tulloch living, yet even Iona knew he wouldn’t oppose those who were in charge. To Iona’s expectations, and no doubt Duncan’s chagrin, he remained silent.

“Ye’ll all regret this!” Duncan spat before the door swung open.

As soon as their eyes met Iona cast hers down to the ground, unable to look him in the face with any real courage. She heard him snort in derision before brushing violently past her after he had slammed the door behind him.

“Make sure his things are packed” she heard her grandmother command.

On the day Duncan left her grandparents were nowhere to be seen. Instead, he was being taken to the train station by her uncle, with what few things he had decided to pack. Iona, knowing she should have courage and denying that it was partly her fault, went to see him in his room before he left. She didn’t need to knock on the door before the voice floated out inviting her to enter. One suitcase was standing forlornly by the door, whilst Duncan was on his bed stuffing notepads and pens into a rucksack. The room seemed bare, as if he hadn’t really lived in it in a long time. Iona rarely ventured in, there was no reason to, but she had remembered it being warmer and more welcoming than the cold and hollow aroma that enveloped her as she watched him pack his belongings.

“Ye didn’t have to come and say goodbye,” Duncan began as he put the remaining things in the bag.

In truth she didn’t know what to say. An ordinary farewell felt like it would be more of a blow than what had happened already. It was too mundane to really encompass the spiral of emotions that had haunted her since her grandparents made the decision to send him away. An apology felt like it fell short, and a well-wish wasn’t personal enough. Her eyes slid around the empty room, as if looking around would give her some inspiration of what to say in this unfair situation.

“Don’t strain yourself, Iona,” Duncan snorted as he stood up, smiling lightly.

Her sight began to go blurry as she felt the unwelcome sensation of her eyes sting. It had been a cold, dark, miserable summer for her, and when she had returned from the city, she thought things would go back to normal, but now she knew that could never be. Nothing would ever be the same again. She sniffed desperately, turning her face down to the ground. Duncan crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her, squashing her to his chest like he did when he was teasing her.

“I’ll miss ye, too,” he soothed.

This time there was no teasing, no embarrassment, and no swift rebuke on her part. She let the tears fall whilst she hugged him tighter, wishing more than anything he didn’t have to go, and that it wasn’t her fault.  He pulled way and began to wipe away her tears with the cuff of his sleeve.

“Take care of yourself, Iona,” he uttered gently, “I’m not going to be here to distract their attention anymore. They’ll be more severe with ye, I can tell.”

That wasn’t the reason she was sad he was leaving. It was true, her grandparents spent most of their time keeping track of Duncan’s various misdemeanours, leaving Iona to quietly develop in the shadows without their great expectations drowning her, but with him gone and all of their critical attention focused on her, life would become even more regimented and strict.

“Ye know where I’ll be if ye need to talk,” he whispered in her ear before he picked up his suitcase and left her in the cold and empty room.

***

Iona stood still. Her eyes scoured over the young woman standing before her with such outrageous claims. The large winter coat hid her figure underneath, so whether she was thin or pregnant was impossible to tell. She was pretty, probably a few years younger than Duncan himself, and quite well spoken. However, Iona had never heard of a girlfriend from any of her family, and there had been nothing in Duncan’s possessions to suggest he had one, no pictures, no phone number, no anything. In her shock she had remembered their last meeting at the main estate all of those years ago. They hadn’t seen each other since, so long that Iona had forgotten that meeting. Duncan was a rebel, he’d always done things to annoy the family, but even this was a bit far. The young woman was mortal, utterly and completely mortal, without even looking at her Iona knew the family would disapprove immediately.

What should she say? What could she say? Despite all of her inner arguments about the plausibility of the situation, she knew deep down that Duncan was capable of anything. He had come to the city and soon been coaxed from the family path, selling relics, taking sides in a war that had nothing to do with him, and now maintaining a romantic, serious, relationship with a mortal.

“I’m afraid the shop is closing,” she announced to the remaining customers.

After shooing away everyone else the door locked closed behind them and she rounded on the young woman.

“Who the hell are ye?” she demanded.

“I already told you, I’m Duncan’s fiancé.”

“I meant your name, your family, where ye come from,” Iona bit out.

“Why do I have to answer?”

“Because you’ve come in here claiming things that can’t possibly be true,” she growled.

“Why can’t they be true?” the woman squawked, “Because he was a witch?”

Iona’s chest turned tight. The lengths to which Duncan had gone against the family rules were much larger than she had ever imagined. The one rule that had been seared into her mind, repeated over and over again so no Tulloch would ever forget; you never told a mortal about the family ways. She exhaled tightly.

“How much do ye know?”

“Everything,” the young woman replied, a frown drawing her eyebrows together.

“Ye better come this way then.”

***

Iona was further surprised by the ease with which the young woman made her way through the door to the private room beyond, and how nonchalant she was at the various bunches of herbs and hanging charms that were strewn about. It was evident that she had spent a lot of time within. In order to have some more time to think through her panic Iona brewed some tea and let it simmer longer than necessary before she served it.

“Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot,” the young woman announced as she added sugar to her cup, “I shouldn’t have come in all guns blazing, but I thought Duncan had abandoned me. I haven’t heard from him in more than a month.”

“Is that normal?”

“He would disappear from time to time saying he had family errands to run, but it’s never been this long.”

Although it was Iona’s idea to pour the tea her stomach rolled around queasily whenever she thought about taking a sip, and so she let it grow cold.

“I’m Claire, I don’t think I said that,” she announced gently.

“Ye were right before. I am Iona. I assume Duncan spoke about us?”

“Only sometimes. He didn’t seem to like talking about it so I didn’t force him.”

Claire took another sip of tea. It wasn’t surprising that Duncan didn’t like speaking about a family who had sent him away. Iona didn’t know how much the Claire knew about their way of life, the family history, or what the current rules were, but there was no doubting that she was pregnant. Once she had taken her jacket off the bulging bump had been obvious as it strained through her jumper. Whether it was Duncan’s or not remained to be confirmed.

“How much did he tell ye about our family?” Iona queried.

“A lot,” Claire confirmed, “You’re all witches and your family goes back more than a thousand years. Everything is very strict and secretive, and there are a lot of rules.”

“There are a few concerning mortals,” Iona commented.

“You’re not allowed to be romantically involved,” Claire confirmed, “Yes, I had that one thrown in my face several times when we first began seeing each other. I managed to convince him otherwise.”

Her answer intimated to Iona that Duncan had at least tried to maintain the family rules, but had given up on them in the end. What was it about this mortal that had made him do so? She didn’t appear to be anything special as far as mortals went.

“Did he tell ye what would happen if our family found out about your relationship?”

“He said they wouldn’t be very happy, but there wasn’t anything they could really do about it,” Claire answered.

Did he truly believe that or was he just saying it? Duncan knew all too well what the family was capable of doing to those who disobeyed its rules, and ironically he was now a prime example.

“You know where he is, don’t you?” Claire inquired.

Iona remained silent, still uncertain about what to say. There hadn’t been an incident concerning a mortal in the family for at least a hundred years, and the last time it had ended badly, as Duncan had been reminded every time he had gotten into trouble at home. It was clear that Claire knew information she shouldn’t, but whether to tell her the truth about Duncan was a matter Iona couldn’t make up her mind on. She was sure that the family knew nothing of Claire’s existence because something would have been done about it if they had. It left Iona in a difficult situation. She knew what would happen to Claire and her unborn child if her grandparents were to hear of it, yet lying to them about it would earn her a swift punishment. If a similar situation had ever happened in their family history then it was wiped from the records, either out of anger or of shame. What the child would grow up to be was something Iona didn’t know.

“How long have ye two been in a relationship?” Iona deflected.

“Three years. Tell me where he is, Iona! They didn’t….didn’t….,” Claire’s eyes began to tear up as she thought of the worst scenario.

“He’s not dead,” was all she permitted herself to say.

“Where is he?” she begged, “Please.”

Iona hesitated. What she should do and what she wanted to do were spiralling off in opposite directions. The Tulloch family legacy was very clear about its members becoming embroiled with mortals, and the solution one of her ancestors had chosen a hundred years previously was to remove the mortal. Their memories had been cleaned and they had been sent away to marry someone else. As easy as it would be for Iona, she felt a bitter taste ride up the back of her throat when she thought of it. Claire was pregnant, any harm that came to the mother might affect the child. On the other hand, the young woman was clearly very important to Duncan, and the child was, by blood, a Tulloch too. How could Iona wipe away its mother’s memories and send them off to fend for themselves?

“He’s at the hospital,” Iona answered quietly, “My family put him in a coma as punishment.”

“Punishment for what?” Claire demanded, “Being with me?”

“They don’t know about ye, and if they did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Iona told her with a grim expression, “Duncan broke other rules and so he was punished.”

“By being put to sleep?”

“It wasn’t my decision,” Iona answered, as if it absolved her of all blame.

“I want to see him.”

Reluctantly Iona told her where to find Duncan and she stormed out of the shop, leaving Iona questioning things she would rather leave alone.

***

In the two days since Claire’s departure Iona had distracted herself from thoughts that were best left buried. Claire hadn’t returned and there had been no frantic phone call from the hospital claiming a stranger was trying to wake him up. Iona hadn’t reported the incident to her family, and she was now of the mind that an omission of fact wasn’t lying. The shop had eased back into its traditional daily flow of customers, and she pretended to herself that she wasn’t afraid of every young pregnant woman that decided to come in. As she was sorting one of the displays a man approached her. Not old by any means but he walked with a languidness that was more befitting of the elderly.  The grey pallor to his skin, and the slight gaunt look of his features, alarmed Iona.

“I was wondering if you could help me,” he began, “I’m feeling quite run down and weak recently, and my mother told me there might be a herbal remedy.”

Iona had seen tired people, it usually coincided with stress or anxiety, but none who had ever come to her for help with their fatigue had ever looked as haggard as the man standing in front of her. There was no colour to him, as if she was watching him through a black and white camera. He was drawn in and appeared to be about to keel over if someone brushed past him too vigorously.

“How long have ye been feeling like this?” she queried, trying to hide the concern from her voice.

“A week or two,” he shrugged with surprising nonchalance.

She was surprised he had enough strength to get himself dressed in the morning. Her eyes began to scrutinise every detail she could see and reach out for the ones she couldn’t. There was something imbalanced in him, like a roof that was missing one single tile. It was so subtle she had a hard time grasping at it. She led him to the counter, pretending that she was going to make him something to restore his strength, when in reality she was going to feed him something that should block whatever was happening to him. He wasn’t a spiritualist but there was a scent of magic on him.

After telling Andrew MacMillan to return the next day she watched him carefully as he exited the shop and bumbled his way out of sight. Like a doorbell had started ringing, Iona turned her attention to the familiar faced man who lingered outside of the shop. Sighing heavily, she marched to the door

“He’s an unlucky one,” Leif Morrison commented as he watched the man continue down the street.

“How?”

“He’s been cursed,” the middle Morrison brother answered.

“Can ye tell just by looking at him?” she queried.

Iona tried to ignore her own lack of knowledge. She hadn’t been able to identify that he’d been cursed, but the strange sensation he emanated like perfume could be explained if that were the case.

“I’ve seen more than a few cursed men,” he answered, smiling lightly, “and been one myself once or twice.”

She baulked internally. It must have been a powerful witch to cast a curse that would affect an immortal. It was safe to say that none of the curses cast upon him had inflicted any fatal damage.

“Did you release him?” Leif queried.

Not yet, she thought, although it would be easier now that she knew what it was she had to release him from. The more worrying matter was the person who had cast it and where they had gotten it from. It seemed she would have to do some digging around in Andrew MacMillan’s life.

“I get the impression this may be interesting,” he commented.

She gave him a sidelong glance of disapproval. It wasn’t long before his face turned unusually serious and he looked at her straight, which served to make her stomach roll around in queasiness.

“I actually came here to ask you to do something for me.”

As much as it would continue to irritate her for the near future, as soon as the words left his mouth she felt stung. Over and over she had told herself Leif Morrison had an agenda, and that, like everyone else in the city, wished to use her for his own purposes. Although the irritation was more directed at her own naïve stupidity, she felt her back go rigid and her muscles tense.

“Why should I?” she demanded.

“We both know you owe me a few favours in exchange for knowledge about the city and the war,” Leif reasoned.

“Ye told me all of those things of your own free will,” she corrected, “We made no such deal at the time.”

“You won’t indulge in a little give and take with me? I thought we were beginning to have a good rapport.”

Iona gritted her teeth. It was true that Leif Morrison was her only source of information about the city and all of its supernatural inhabitants. She had already offended the spiritualists so much that none would ever help her, and could she really afford to cut off another useful source? Her grandparents would skin her alive if they thought she had anything remotely to do with Immortals, but as Mr Morrison had put it, give and take was a natural, if not informal, way of two parties getting what they wanted. She grimly wondered if that was how Duncan had begun.

“What is the favour?” she asked, not bothering to hide the strain.

“I need you to find someone for me.”

Although the phrase didn’t sound sinister, for some reason images or the eldest Morrison brother popped into her head. Was this favour as innocent as it appeared or was there something more menacing lurking behind it?

“I need their name and date of birth,” she bit.

With some finesse he pulled out a small piece of paper and handed it to her. Hating that she had been forced into a corner by an immortal she snatched it from his hands and stormed back into the shop.

Thankfully there were no customers to hide away from, and as a reaction to her growing foul mood the sign on the shop door flipped to closed. The spell to find someone was easy to cast but her growing sense of unease was harder to dispel. What would Leif Morrison do to the person he had asked her to look for? Was it even him who wanted them found? Although there had never been any evidence of a working connection between Harold and Leif, Iona still found it hard not to consider that one may do the bidding of the other. For a brief period of time, she had allowed herself to forget what Leif Morrison was and how dangerous this city could become to someone who sat on the fence. He was an immortal living in a city that was trying to eject him like a bad flu, if he could be owed a few favours by a powerful witch then that was no bad thing. Much to her irritation, Iona had been right all along, the middle brother had an agenda, and she had just been too gullible and easily charmed to see it.

Hastily she scribbled down the address and marched outside and foisted it at him, boiling on the inside on account of her own foolishness.

“Aren’t you coming with me?” he asked when she turned around to head back into the shop.

“This is your business, not mine.”

“I thought you’d be worried in case I did anything harmful to this person. That’s why you’re angry, isn’t it?”

The ease with which he read people would have frightened her if she wasn’t its current recipient. It was a woman’s name on the paper, and from the brief glimpse Iona was given she knew they were mortal. Her curiosity had begun to bleed into her thoughts, momentarily overcome by her anger, but it was quick to rouse itself once an invitation had been extended. The smirk that had settled on Leif’s lips made her blood boil. Once she had grabbed her coat from the stand, she and Leif Morrison made their way to the address she had written down.

***

It wasn’t far from where the shop was, situated on a busy cosmopolitan street with designer boutiques and outlets strewn strategically here and there. Iona had never ventured into this part of town, but knew from overheard conversations that this was the place that the crème de la crème of the city’s inhabitants went because they were the only ones who could afford the prices.

“Should I be worried that you agreed to help me?” Leif began on their walk.

“Ye backed me against a wall,” she pointed out.

“Did I?” he glanced at her with some sense of sarcasm, “You were the one who pointed out that I had given you answers you wanted of my own free will and that was completely true. You don’t owe me anything, yet when I mentioned give and take you changed your mind. That leads me to believe that I’m useful to you.

“The knowledge you have is,” Iona corrected.

Mr Morrison began to laugh lightly, “I almost forgot that you burned your bridges with the spiritualists, and they’re the only ones who could answer your questions besides myself. You’re less cunning than Duncan.”

At the mention of her cousin’s name a wave of unease washed over her, momentarily making her feel sick. She quashed it instantly. That was a problem for another day, if it was a problem at all. Claire still hadn’t returned to the shop and Iona’s phone call to the hospital confirmed that she had gone straight there after her abrupt visit. If Leif noticed her discomfort he didn’t say anything.

“Believe me when I say that’s not a bad thing,” he continued, “Especially if you don’t wish to profit from this war.”

Profit? That was exactly what had been happening. During her first conversation with Leif he had told her that Duncan approached the Morrisons demanding money in exchange for relics but they had refused, so he had begun to help the spiritualists instead, no doubt for the same price. At the time she had been confused why he wanted money when the Tulloch family had plenty. Claire’s appearance explained his strange behaviour. One unanswered question was what he intended to do with the money? Support Claire and their child or send them away so they would never be discovered? There were too many possibilities and not enough people to confirm them.

“We’re here,” Leif mentioned as he came to a stop in front of a fancy café.

Café may not have been the right word and wasn’t according to the sign. An artisan patisserie was what they were calling it now, but all Iona could see was a bakery with a lot of hubris and slices of cake that cost more than a large cup of coffee at a decent café. 

“I never bought you a coffee this time, did I?” he said as he opened the door for her.

She threw him a disbelieving glance, refusing to move from the street. Smirking confidently, he took her gently by the hand and showed her inside. Slickly he placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her over to a table, which she sensed to be a carefully chosen one. Iona had seen the woman who they’d come to visit. However, what she didn’t know was why Leif wasn’t going over to her when he was the one who wanted her found.

“I’ll be back,” he mentioned as he walked off in the direction of the counter.

Confusedly, Iona kept her eye on the woman, every so often glancing at the mysterious immortal who had brought her here. She would need to repay him for the coffees at some point.

It was only for a moment but she heard something, a faint whisper as if someone was leaning over and uttering nothings in her ear. It made her flesh crawl, like ice had been brushed over it. The whispers continued, growing increasingly sinister, although she couldn’t make out what they were saying, if they were really speaking at all. Slowly her eyes began to seek out the source somewhere in the café, and when they came to settle upon the handbag of the woman Leif was looking for, sitting at a table near the window, she knew she had found it. Looking closely at the woman sitting alone she felt a strange sense of remembrance, like they’d met before.

“You recognise her then,” Leif surmised as he sat down with the coffees, following her line of sight to the window.

Iona turned to look at him with a frown, “Why are ye looking for her?”

“She stole something from one of the family’s safes.”

“What is your family doing with something as sinister as whatever that is?” she queried, attempting to ignore the whispers.

Leif pinned her with an intrigued look, “I would hardly call a gold pearl sinister.”

When the door to the café opened, and brought the frosty air with it, her attention was momentarily captured. However, when she looked a second time, she had to struggle not to let her shock fall across her features. Andrew MacMillan scanned around the coffee shop, evidently looking for someone, and in her panic, Iona turned away from his gaze before inconspicuously following his path. He sat beside the woman who Leif had been looking for, and who had something excreting dark intent inside her handbag.

“What a coincidence,” Leif breathed as he took a drink of his coffee.

Iona couldn’t tell if it really was a strange coincidence or whether there were other, more immortal, forces at work. She didn’t bother to ask but fixed her eyes on the couple by the window.

“How valuable is this gold pearl to your family that they would send ye to personally retrieve it?” Iona questioned.

Pearls, although of some monetary value, were not worth an immortal chasing, especially not a solitary one.

“Very valuable. It’s enchanted,” he confirmed, “Why the interest in the pearl and not your cursed customer?”

It so happened she had a great deal of interest in both. A family of immortals owned an enchanted item, something that could cause problems in the future, and a woman who had stolen it was meeting with Iona’s customer. Remembering back to the note with the woman’s name on it their surnames didn’t match, but when she saw their rose gold wedding bands glistening in the light from the window she concluded that they were married.

“I think that woman is the one who cursed my customer.”

“Because of the pearl?” Leif checked, “It has power but one needs a curse in order to use it.”

“I think she has a few of those in her handbag. I can feel them from here.”

She could feel Leif tense as he stole a glance at the woman’s bag lying on the floor by her side. Iona couldn’t blame him for becoming alarmed, curses fuelled by enchanted objects could harm immortals.

“What’s your advice?” Leif croaked.

“She can’t throw a curse at you on the spot, they take preparation,” Iona tried to calm him, “We need to confront her. Mortals with the ability to curse another mortal isn’t something anyone wants running around the city.”

She took a glance at Leif who was still visibly tense and couldn’t hide the satisfied smirk that danced across her lips in triumph. As casually as she could manage, she stood up and made her way around the table, stopping beside her escort. 

“Do ye want me to go over there first?” she whispered as she leaned over, hoping it looked as though she was asking him if he wanted anything else.

She ensured the smirk was still lighting up her face, and once he saw it, he snorted with laughter. Leaving him, she made her way over to the counter where the barista was cleaning the machines. From that viewpoint she could see everyone in the café, all the customers taking their fill of overpriced cake and drinking special gourmet coffees. There weren’t many people inside and the place was rather empty. Carefully she cast the spell, one she had only read about and never had to use. She had always imagined it like a siren song, although less deadly, that sung whoever heard it to sleep. Iona was accomplished enough that she didn’t have to utter the incantations out loud. As everyone in the café was coaxed into unconsciousness, Iona felt her arms begin to tingle in the familiarly painful way they did. This time it burned so hotly she thought she may lose concentration of the spell. Growth never came at opportune moments.

Thankfully, as she succeeded in ignoring the pain, all those in the café drifted off, overcome by an unconsciousness which she had set on them, with only three exceptions. As soon as the woman saw what had happened she grabbed her bag and bolted for the door, which Iona locked abruptly before she could use it.

“Sit back down, Miss MacArthur,” Leif suggested as he stood up and neatened his tie.

Like a rabbit caught between two foxes, Aileen MacArthur clung to the door, wishing it would disappear so she could flee. Reluctantly she sat back down at the table, opposite her supposed husband and waited for Iona and Leif to join her.

“By your escape attempt I think it’s safe to assume you know why we’re here,” he surmised.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Aileen MacArthur claimed.

“If you don’t consider cursing your husband and stealing valuable objects wrong then I wonder about your other moral standpoints,” Leif threw back, “This can be quite simple if you allow it to be. Return the pearl to me and release your husband from his curse.”

“He deserves it,” was all she said.

The whispers from the bag had intensified as Iona stood towering above it, only half listening to their exchange. It had been many years since she had felt something so menacingly powerful, so full of hatred and vengeance. There was no possibility of it just being one curse, not if it oozed murderous intent as it did like bitter juice from a squeezed lemon.

“No one deserves to be cursed like that,” Iona mentioned, maintaining her stare with the bag.

“He cheated on me!” she cried, “The man who promised never to hurt me, to honour me and be faithful. Anyone who breaks an oath deserves to be cursed!”

“It’s a harsh punishment,” Leif added, “and perhaps not one that fits the crime.”

“What would you know about punishment and crime, Mr Morrison?” the woman spat indignantly, “Your family is rich, influential, powerful, and they get away with much worse than this.”

Leif held her gaze calmly, almost with a hint of pity, and repeated his desire for the pearl. Huffily she put her hand in her bag and brought out a small silk pouch, which thudded as it hit the table, and one old, black leather tome which sounded as though it was heavier than a few bricks. With enviable dexterity Leif took the silk pouch from the table and peaked inside, confirming that his family’s pearl was there. After he had put it in his breast pocket, he went to pick up the voluminous book. As quickly as she could manage Iona’s hand snatched out and grabbed his wrist to stop him from touching it.

“Don’t!” she hissed, “The book’s been cursed as well.”

The whispering wasn’t normal, especially from a single volume, but now that it was out in the open, she could practically feel the tendrils of a curse reaching out to anyone who was within touching distance. A curse bound to a book that looked older than she cared to imagine, it corrupted whoever it was possessed by. Created by pure selfish, harmful intent, Iona had never seen anything like it. With some urgency to his movements, Leif took a step away from the table.

“Where did ye get this from?” Iona demanded from Aileen.

Crossing her arms she looked out of the window and huffed in refusal. The petulance, the need for vengeance, and her amplified emotions were all signs of a cursed mind, one easily possessed by the book that lay on the table. Without touching it Iona opened the hardened leather cover and flipped through the pages, recognising the language as the same as some of the oldest in the Tulloch collection. She had been under the impression that all of the old books were accounted for, somewhere in the world, yet this one had come from nowhere. It had no family name on it, no author, and nothing inside but curses and dark enchantments. The family would want to see it.

Quickly she took off her jacket and threw it over the book, wrapping it carefully so she wouldn’t need to touch it.

“Will that work?” Leif checked.

She nodded briefly. Her work wasn’t done with its confiscation, she would need to look for the curse used on Andrew MacMillan and find a way to release him. She could never have expected such work to come from one customer.

“Did the spiritualists give this to ye?” Iona questioned one last time.

The way Aileen flinched upon hearing the name confirmed what Iona had been thinking. No doubt the same someone who had been supplying them with powerful spells had also been so generous as to give them this poisonous volume. Not for the first time in her life Iona began to feel the first trickles of helplessness, and she didn’t like it. Holding the dark bible carefully in her arms, protected by her winter jacket, she left the café, followed, at a distance, by Leif Morrison.

“You won’t make her release him from the curse?” he uttered.

“I can’t use the same force on a mortal as I did on the spiritualists.”

“Mortals can’t cast curses,” he pointed out.

“They can,” Iona corrected gently, “There are many forms of magic, and not all of them run through bloodlines or rely on ancestor worship. A mortal can cast any spell they like if they have an enchanted object on hand and it doesn’t make them a witch.”

She could tell that the new knowledge made Leif Morrison uncomfortable, perhaps even afraid, but he would never dare show it. He continued to keep a comfortable distance between himself and her, so long as she was carrying the book of curses. The walk back to the shop seemed longer than it should be, but she blamed it on the increasingly heavy book she cradled in her arms. The confidence she had that the curse couldn’t affect her if her skin didn’t touch the covering leather began to wane the longer she kept it close. The sight of the shop in the distance was a welcome relief.

“Wait here,” she told Leif as she barged into the shop, bundling into the private room and practically throwing the heavy tome on one of the tables.

She breathed a sigh of relief before beginning to inspect the markings on her arm. As she had felt whilst casting the spell in the café, they had spiralled upwards towards her shoulder, almost touching it.  Where they had grown the skin was red and raw, and she dared not touch it knowing through painful experience that it was sensitive. She would need time to think about the book, but more importantly she would need orders on what to do with it. After taking a few nervous glances back, just to ensure it was still where she had thrown it, she went back outside to re-join Leif.

“What will you do with it?” he queried, considerably more relaxed than he had been throughout the short walk.

“I don’t know yet,” she sighed.

“We never had that coffee did we?” he noted suggestively.

She let a small smile play on her lips before motioning for him to lead the way. Iona came to understand that there was a connection, of whatever kind, between the middle Morrison brother and the small café in the park at the end of the road. It was the second time he had taken her there, but even she had to admit that the coffee was exemplary. They sat at the same bench as they had done the first time, but instead of the cacophony of flowers in bloom, the colours were more muted this time as winter frost settled over them, causing them to hibernate.

“I noticed something earlier,” he began, “When I mentioned Duncan’s name. You seemed upset.”

He had noticed after all. She came to realise that if you had been living as long as he no doubt had then reading people’s emotions must be no different than being told about them. The subtleties that were lost to those with finite lifespans must seem glaringly obvious to those who had an infinite one. It was the first time she felt envious of them.

“Do ye know what happened to Duncan?” she turned to face him.

“He disappeared a few weeks before you arrived,” Leif answered confusedly, “I don’t know anything more than that.”

Where immortals may have the ability to tell if a person spoke truth or lies, that particular skill was lost to someone like Iona. He could be lying to her, and to let herself think otherwise, to think the best of him, would be setting herself up for hurt. They had been useful to each other, and would no doubt continue to be so, but they had no relationship beyond that.

“I have a lot of questions about Duncan, and no one able to answer them,” she confessed, taking a sip of the bitter coffee.

“Has something happened?”

Iona didn’t know whether to trust Leif Morrison, but for the first time in her life she was tired of carrying secrets which only led to more secrets. She was surrounded by the damn things with no one to talk to.

“A woman came into the shop claiming she was carrying his child.”

Silence followed the truth as her companion took a few seconds to understand the fact.

“That’s bold,” he acknowledged, “but she isn’t necessarily telling the truth.”

“True, but she knows too much about the family not to be connected with him somehow.”

“Is she mortal?” Leif questioned.

Iona nodded.

“I was under the impression the witching families had certain rules about their relationships with mortals,” he mused.

“There is, but Duncan was never one for following them.”

She felt a cold breeze brush past her, distorting the steam that was rising out of her cup. The moment was peaceful, calming, a place where she could try and reason out the events that had led her there. Strong spells, rogue family members, pregnant women, and books filled with hateful and powerful curses, looking at it as a whole, it felt that the fabric of the supernatural world was disturbed, like someone throwing a rock into a pond and spooking all of the wildlife. Iona found she was not looking forward to meeting with whoever had thrown the rock.

“For siblings, you’re quite different,” Leif observed.

“Duncan’s not my brother, he’s my cousin,” she corrected, “My father’s brother’s son.”

Leif nodded in understanding, “Younger or older brother?”

She gave him a disapproving glance and he chuckled knowingly. The middle Morrison brother had been in the world long enough to know how inheritance worked, especially in families like the Tullochs. The eldest in each generation inherited the chieftain position, regardless of gender. Since her grandparents were still alive, they were the current commanders, but once they had passed it would move onto their eldest. Depending on which brother was older depended on which of their children was heir to the Tulloch family. Although not a secret, as such, she felt it was information best kept to herself.

“I’ve been thinking ever since our first meeting that you didn’t know what happened to him, but that’s not true, is it?” Leif checked.

She nodded, “I know what happened to him, but nothing about the events that led up to it. He was punished for insubordination and removed from the shop before he could cause anymore havoc. He used to do it at home but I suppose my grandparents finally ran out of patience.”

“I’m confused as to why they would put someone who has a habit of breaking rules in charge of the family shop,” he mused aloud.

“He was banished,” Iona admitted, “From the family home, and favour. I think grandmother hoped sending him here would bring him back into the fold but it appears to have done the opposite.”

“The Tullochs haven’t changed much,” he muttered before taking a swig of his coffee.

She snorted in amusement, “Maybe ruthlessness runs in the blood.”

“I’m all for that,” he returned her mirth.

They sat in silence for a while, watching as the mortals went about their daily, less complicated lives. They had problems of their own, as Iona was well aware, infidelity in the case of Aileen MacArthur, complex family relationships, work stress, money worries, and health concerns. She supposed she wasn’t one to judge whether one problem was more important than another, but at times she envied them for all their normalcy when her life was the alternative.

“What will you do about that woman and her child?” he queried, “Will you inform the rest of your family?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed.

“Are you afraid they’ll harm them?”

She shook her head, “I’m more afraid of them taking an interest. That child is half-mortal, it should have a chance of having some life away from the family, especially one its father never liked being a part of. If I can give it a chance of a mortal life then I want to.”

“Without informing your family?” he asked, a sly tone to his voice.

She refused to answer, knowing that if she said it out loud, she would conjure images of how well Duncan’s insurgency had gone. Instead she began to chuckle lightly.

“Ye were right again,” she conceded, “I did spill my secrets to ye.”

“Secrets have a short lifespan,” he informed her knowingly, “but I promise nothing you’ve said to me today will ever be repeated to anyone else.”

“Are ye giving me your word?” she asked slyly.

The corner of his mouth lifted up in a crooked grin, “Yes, and as you know Morrisons always keep their word.”

They sat in the park longer than she guessed. She had loathed the city when she had first alighted from the train, sensing the poisonous atmosphere where rotten things and people dwelled, but she was beginning to see that the city offered opportunities of liberation and freedom that living under the Tulloch family roof had never done. But with that sense of peace came one of unease. Duncan had quickly become seduced by the same freedom she was now indulging in, and he was lying in a hospital bed until it pleased her grandparents to wake him up. Iona didn’t have the confidence that the same fate wouldn’t befall her if she ignored the rules too many times.

***

It was a fortnight before Claire reappeared in the shop, after which it was abruptly closed. Her baby bump had grown, and Iona estimated that the world did not have long to wait for a half-mortal half-witch child to enter it. She invited Claire into the private room to talk but there was something about her rigid posture or the way her eyes burned with a fierce sense of determination that indicated to her there would be no brewing of tea.

“Wake him up,” Claire commanded.

“I can-,”

“You can,” she interrupted angrily, “Duncan said you were more powerful than him, and that one day you would be head of the family, so why can’t you?”

Iona closed her mouth and began to grind her teeth. What had he been thinking? What good had it done him to tell her such personal things about their family? She was more irritated that it was now being thrown in her face.

“I’m not head of the family yet,” Iona seethed, trying to hide her outrage, “I don’t have the authority to go against the chieftain’s decision. Duncan’s punishment was decided and carried out by them. I’d be breaking Clan law if I woke him up.”

“He said you were different,” Claire glared murderously, “He said you would change things.”

“I don’t have the power to,” she stated.

It was hard to admit that Iona was tempted by the prospect of waking him up. It wouldn’t be easy considering it was an enchantment cast by the chieftain, but it was possible through some effort. However, it all boiled down to the balance between her selfishness and her stupidity. Duncan had gone against Clan law, he had broken them numerous times, ones the family did and didn’t know about, and he now lay incapacitated, trapped in a comatose state, because of it. Iona wasn’t sure if her position as heir would protect her from a similar punishment.

Clan law was absolute. She had already gotten away with a few minor misdemeanours but openly disobeying a chieftain’s decision was not something that could be as easily overlooked. On a similar thread Iona didn’t want to end up like Duncan, she didn’t want to be punished. It was he who had broken the rules time and time again despite numerous warnings from every corner, so didn’t he deserve his punishment? It was with a heavy and conflicted heart that Iona made her decision.

“Ye need to leave this city, Claire, but Duncan can’t. He’s safe in that hospital. No one will harm him, I can promise you that. The family’s ire won’t last forever, one day he will wake up, and when that day comes, I’ll send him directly to ye.”

There were so many secrets surrounding her, so many lies, so much deceit and cruelty, and all of it was because she carried her family name. Her family were not warm, they were ruthless, and cared more about preserving the bloodline than they did about caring for its members. Once ensnared no one could get out, least of all someone who had that same blood flowing through their veins. She wasn’t going to lie to her grandparents, but she certainly wasn’t going to tell the truth. Omission of fact wasn’t lying, and although she wasn’t convinced her grandmother would see it that way, it was the limit of the risks she was willing to take.

“There are things, family matters, which ye don’t understand. I won’t tell the family about your child because I can’t guarantee what they’ll do to you or it. Believe me, the Tulloch family is not a friendly place to outsiders. I wouldn’t wish my upbringing on anyone, and I’m sure Duncan feels the same way. Ye have a chance to escape where we can’t, and that child has a chance at a mortal life, a happy one where it won’t be burdened by a long stretching family history, the responsibilities, and the enemies that come with it. If ye care about Duncan, and if you care about your child’s future, you’ll do as I suggest.”

“I can’t leave him just lying there!” Claire exclaimed, tearing up.

“You have to,” Iona reasoned, “Even if I were to wake him up my family would hunt him to the ends of the earth, both of ye would always be looking over your shoulder. Leave the city, have your child, and wait until Duncan is released from his punishment. I’ll ensure that ye and the child will want for nothing.”

“I love him, Iona.”

“So do I, but do ye think he’d want ye or your child anywhere near danger? He’s my family and I’m helping ye for his sake. Will ye do as I ask?”

With tears streaming down her face Claire nodded slowly, holding her stomach as if it would give her the comfort that Duncan couldn’t.

Next Chapter

Scots vocabulary

a nosy – an intrusive look, usually in the search for gossip.

evils – a glare

Story

You’re not going to believe this but I had a run-in with Reid’s latest…I don’t even know what to call them by this point. I think if Fionn and Chronos hadn’t been there to witness it I wouldn’t have believed it happened.

Chronos and I are at the glass counter, the travel size monopoly board laid out between us. Somehow, I was still losing. The Madam Nornas spent their lengthy lifespan helping people and fixing problems whilst this wee shite was becoming a master at every card or board game in existence. At least I have the next few hundred years to improve.

Fionn has emerged from storage, dusty, covered in spiderwebs, sporting a few bruises here and there I dare not ask about, and is currently amongst the aisles. He seems in a better mood today given he’s exchanged more than two words with me. All of us, in general, are minding our own business.

I barely notice a lad lingering outside, glancing down the street one way and then the other as though wating for someone. Maybe it happens a lot and I’ve never noticed. My attention is pulled back to monopoly, but every so often I glance up to see if he’s still there. Perhaps a customer?

I eventually glance up and he’s staring straight at me. I immediately look away, stung that I’ve been caught having a nosy. I’m apprehensive when the bell goes, but just assume he’s a new breed of customer arguing with himself if he’s going to give into the superstition outside rather than after he’s come in the door. I take a peek to find he’s still staring at me. Not the antiques, not the floor, not down the aisles wondering which one to choose, not in his pocket for a business card. Directly at me.

I feel the panic prickle at the back of my neck. Do I know him, and I’ve just forgotten? Mercy to all the gods out there that he mentions his name so I don’t have to ask. He doesn’t look familiar.

He walks over to the counter where Chronos and I are bent over a small monopoly board. If he notices, he doesn’t react.

He asks if I’m Maya.

Ah, fuck.

I nod, still praying he’ll remind me who he is.

He says that he’s Douglas, Reid’s boyfriend.

If someone’s attention span could make a noise, it was Fionn’s. I could feel, let alone hear, his ears perk up at this comment. I was honestly surprised he didn’t appear from one of the aisles like a rabbit poking it’s head out its warren.

Douglas takes a look at Chronos, his hand twitching, but thinks better of it as the wee shite’s tail whips back and forth, as if batting away a fly. I ask him if he’s waiting for Reid, and he confirms he is.

I’m about to ask something equally mundane to fill the silence when he stares me down and asks what the “deal” is between Reid and I since Reid was always talking about me. I wasn’t so dense I thought the correct answer was “just pals”, even though that was the truth. I said it anyway.

Douglas rolls his eyes so far back into his head I think he’s going to lose them and then snorts derisively that he’s heard that before. Why did he fucking ask then? It didn’t take me long to realise that although Fionn and I had made bets, commented on, even worried over Reid’s love life, that I didn’t want to get involved. I try not to sigh loudly in exasperation but assure Douglas that nothing can or will ever go on between Reid and I beyond friendship because I’m not interested in that kind of thing.

Oh, so you’re gay then? he questions, looking hopeful.

I should’ve just said yes, but instead, I replied:

“Something like that.”

This wasn’t the answer Douglas wanted, and if looks could kill, I’d have been dead on that monopoly board. I’ve never been so thankful to hear the bell above the door. I’m also rarely that happy to see Reid, but he strode in, fumbled over an apology, or excuse, I couldn’t tell, and then dragged his special pal back out the door. Douglas threw me suitably pathetic evils before both were out of sight.

It didn’t take Fionn 5 seconds to appear from one of the aisles, and although it was partly at my expense, I couldn’t help but feel a bit of joy from seeing his devilish grin returned. Eventually he confessed he was surprised it hadn’t happened before with Reid’s queue of relationships, but that it was hardly my problem. There’ll probably be a new one next week anyway.

I didn’t feel like it was my place anymore to agree, or to judge. The entire encounter left a bitter taste in my mouth and an apprehension settling into my bones. I hoped it was an anomaly rather than a portent of things to come.

I didn’t have long to ponder or fret, as when the bell above the door went again a large, stained grey sheet managed to get through the door, hiding whoever was behind it. I didn’t recognise the hands that gripped the corners for dear life to stop it from falling, but when a voice called desperately for help, I recognised Flora’s gentle lilt anywhere.

Fionn and I managed to manoeuvre both Flora and her mysterious luggage through the door where she removed the grey sheet to reveal a tarnished gold frame, intricately decorated with grape vines and leaves. Inside was an oil painting of a red brick cottage cradled by some ivy growing up the sides, and hens pecking at the land to the front. I’ve never been one for art, although I can appreciate a beautiful painting when I see one. But as we all know by now, it’s beauty probably wasn’t the thing that was going to hurt.

I asked Flora what it did, or what it was, but it was difficult to ignore the distance Fionn and I had put between us and the large painting. Flora laughed at us and said that it wasn’t dangerous, she was only giving it to the shop because it was too big for her house. It was a bit like an electric photo frame, the ones that show you an endless loop of your last family holiday or event. The only difference was that the frame cycled through paintings instead of photos.

Fionn and I nod and continue to stare, but it doesn’t change, the wee red brick cottage doesn’t disappear. Maybe it’s shy. Flora thanks us and leaves and whilst Fionn goes and fetches the Madam I continue losing my game of monopoly to a cat. In the midst of being a sore loser, I glance over at the frame to find that, as Flora said, it’d changed.

The cottage and hens and ivy have disappeared, replaced by a baby’s cradle. Made of dark, polished wood, the marks and fading show that it’s been well-loved by a family or two in its time. A wee girl, no bigger than 2 or 3, has her hands on the edge and is desperately trying to peer over and inside to where, presumably, a baby lies squirming in its swaddling clothes.

This isn’t a modern setting, there’s no light bulbs or electrical sockets. Not a piece of plastic in sight. I abandon the game and drift over to the frame, prepared for the next picture, the next snapshot.

The cot has disappeared, replaced by a small bed. A wee bairn is poised to hobble its way over the wooden floorboards to the wee girl from the first picture who stands with arms outstretched a few steps away, a bright smile lifting her features.

A few years have passed by the next painting. A grave looking family sit around a table, empty plates getting cold despite the fire blazing away in its place. Every lock of hair around that table is brown, the adults and the bairns, except for one. The wee lassie, the one in the cot, the one who took her first steps, has a shocking head full of ginger hair. Some of the family look disgusted, others look angry, and it’s obvious that the ginger haired bairn is not as related to the others as she should be. Whoever painted the picture did an excellent job of making the older looking man, presumably the patriarch, appear sheepish. But if you look closely, just under the table, you can see the wee girl holding her half-sister’s hand tightly.

And that’s how they stay. The two girls, two sisters, grow up close, playing together, reading together, having lessons together, running errands for their family, visiting pals with their Ma. They attend their first dinner, first ball, first assembly. Time goes on and the two girls grow into adults. The letters to each other pile up, and soon one box isn’t enough to contain them all.

I notice Madam Norna come and stand by me as the picture begins to change. She says nothing and watches the unfolding story with me.

The next one is a church. The alter is draped in bright colours, the priest or minister dressed up to match with colourful robes and golden embroidery. Two couples stand before him wishing to be married. The sisters glance at each other through the solemn ceremony and stifle a chuckle. Both sisters leave the church and their maiden names behind and start on their lives as wives and mothers.

They live close, in the town they grew up, close to their family and friends. When one’s about to give birth to yet another bairn, the other is just around the corner. Their bairns grow up together, walk together, learn to talk together. The sisters share everything in life, every milestone and birthday and heartbreak and loss.

Until a loss comes that puts an end to things forever. The younger sister, the ginger haired one, grows paler and smaller. Her energy is taken from her and there are days she can barely get up from bed. The older sister is more frequently around at their house, taking care of the bairns and doing what she can to help the household and nurse her sister back to health. But she knows. Knows that time is running out.

The younger girl dies in her sister’s arms, her bairns and husband surrounding the bed where she breathed her last.

The last painting shows the older sister sat in front of a canvas, paints strewn around her, brush poised over the surface already saturated with colour in the shape of a red brick cottage. Just before the images reset, she makes eye contact with me and smiles a wistful, melancholy gesture that shows her pride and anguish like they’re two sides of the same canvas.

There are a few moments of silence as I digest what I’ve seen, and Madam Norna lets it linger before she explains what it is, although I’m pretty sure myself. The set of paintings were done by the older sister so no one would ever forget the younger one. It was a tribute to the greatest relationship she ever had, and one she vowed to never forget.

She asks me what I want to do with it. I tell her it’d be a waste putting it in storage where no one can see and admire it. Even though it takes up most of the narrow aisles, it was more important for someone to find it.

Together we moved it further into the shop, propping it on one of the many wardrobes where it was difficult to miss. It was only at that point that I realised Fionn hadn’t come back down from fetching the Madam.

She noticed me looking about and explained that he’d gone into storage. I asked her if she thought I’d done the right thing when I’d made the deal with Death for Fionn’s life. I don’t really know where it came from, but it’d been somewhere in my mind, and with Reid preoccupied who else was I supposed to discuss it with? I’d been trying not to let it get to me, not to let his misery infect me, not to look at him and hate myself for being so selfish.

The Madam paused and I could feel her eyes on me. I like to imagine for the first time in centuries she didn’t know what to say but given her reply I doubt it.

She confessed that there was no right and wrong in a situation like that. A lot of circumstances in life can rarely be boiled down to black and white, right and wrong. There’s only outcomes and consequences. Fionn was alive, and that’s what I’d wanted.

Was this what I wanted? A ghost in the shop haunting me? I whispered it, uttered that I wasn’t sure I should’ve interfered. I felt awful and relieved that I’d said it, that I’d acknowledged those dark thoughts of mine. Fionn wasn’t Fionn anymore. Even though I’d interfered and “saved” his life it was like a part of him died that day anyway. I hadn’t saved Fionn but a shell of him, a shadow. All I did was make him miserable. I stole his soul and expected him to live fine without it.

What if he’d have been better off dead?

The Madam had nothing to say, and I didn’t really want her to say anything. These weren’t her burdens; she wasn’t the one who had put their foot into something they should’ve left alone. And she was right. There was no answer that’d make me feel better, that’d turn Fionn back to the way he used to be or make me accept him for who he was now. There was no right because there wasn’t really a wrong.

Madam Norna took my hand and together we watched the scene of the two sisters play out again, from the cradle to the grave, and I wondered, in the same circumstances, if all of us wouldn’t make a deal with Death to save the ones we love.

Scots-ish language version

You’re no gonnae believe this but I had a run-in wi’ Reid’s latest…I dinnae even know whit tae call them by this point. I think if Fionn and Chronos hadnae been there tae witness it I wouldnae have believed it happened.

Chronos and I are at the glass counter, the travel size monopoly board laid oot between us. Somehow, I was still losin’. The Madam Nornas may have spent their lengthy lifespan helpin’ people and fixin problems whilst this wee shite was becomin’ a master at every card or board game in existence. At least I have the next few hundred years tae improve.

Fionn has emerged fae storage, dusty, covered in spiderwebs, sportin’ a few bruises here and there I dare no ask aboot, and is currently amongst the aisles. He seems in a better mood today given he’s exchanged more than two words wi’ me. All ae us, in general, are mindin’ our own business.

I barely notice a lad lingerin’ ootside, glancin’ doon the street one way and then the other as though watin’ fae someone. Maybe it happens a lot and I’ve never noticed. Ma attention is pulled back tae monopoly, but every so often I glance up tae see if he’s still there. Perhaps a customer?

I eventually glance up and he’s starin’ straight at me. I immediately look away, stung that I’ve been caught havin’ a nosy. I’m apprehensive when the bell goes, but just assume he’s a new breed ae customer arguin wi’ himself if he’s gonnae give intae the superstition ootside rather than after he’s come in the door. I take a peek tae find he’s still starin’ at me. No the antiques, no the floor, no doon the aisles wonderin’ which one tae choose, no in his pocket fae a business card. Directly at me.

I feel the panic prickle at the back ae ma neck. Do I know him and I’ve just forgotten? Mercy tae all the gods oot there that he mentions his name so I dinnae have tae ask. He doesnae look familiar.

He walks over tae the counter where Chronos and I are bent over a small monopoly board. If he notices, he doesnae react.

He asks if I’m Maya.

Ah, fuck.

I nod, still prayin’ he’ll remind me who he is.

He says that he’s Douglas, Reid’s boyfriend.

If someone’s attention span could make a noise, it was Fionn’s. I could feel, let alone hear, his ears perk up at this comment. I was honestly surprised he didnae appear fae one ae the aisles like a rabbit pokin’ it’s heid oot its warren.

Douglas takes a look at Chronos, his hand twitchin, but thinks better ae it as the wee shite’s tail whips back and forth, as if battin’ away a fly. I ask him if he’s waitin’ fae Reid, and he confirms he is.

I’m aboot tae ask somethin’ equally mundane tae fill the silence when he stares me doon and asks whit the “deal” is between Reid and I since Reid was always talkin’ aboot me. I wasnae so dense I thought the correct answer was “just pals”, even though that was the truth. I said it anyway.

Douglas rolls his eyes so far back intae his heid I think he’s gonnae lose them and then snorts derisively that he’s heard that before. Why did he fuckin’ ask then? It didnae take me long tae realise that although Fionn and I had made bets, commented on, even worried over Reid’s love life, that I didnae want tae get involved. I try no’ tae sigh loudly in exasperation, but assure Douglas that nothin’ can or will ever go on between Reid and I beyond friendship because I’m no interested in that kind ae thing.

Oh, so you’re gay then? he questions, lookin’ hopeful.

I shouldae just said yes, but instead, I replied;

“Something like that.”

This wasnae the answer Douglas wanted, and if looks could kill I’d have been deid on that monopoly board. I’ve never been so thankful tae hear the bell above the door. I’m also rarely that happy tae see Reid, but he strode in, fumbled over an apology, or excuse, I couldnae tell, and then dragged his special pal back oot the door. Douglas threw me suitably pathetic evils before both were oot ae sight.

It didnae take Fionn 5 seconds tae appear fae one ae the aisles, and although it was partly at ma expense, I couldnae help but feel a bit ae joy fae seein’ his devilish grin returned. Eventually he confessed he was surprised it hadnae happened before wi’ Reid’s queue ae relationships, but that it was hardly ma problem. There’ll probably be a new one next week anyway.

I didnae feel like it was ma place anymore tae agree, or tae judge. The entire encounter left a bitter taste in ma mouth and an apprehension settlin’ intae ma bones. I hoped it was an anomaly, rather than a portent ae things tae come.

I didnae have long tae ponder or fret, as when the bell above the door went again a large, stained grey sheet managed tae get through the door, hidin’ whoever was behind it. I didnae recognise the hands that gripped the corners fae dear life tae stop it fae fallin, but when a voice called desperately fae help I recognised Flora’s gentle lilt anywhere.

Fionn and I managed tae manoeuvre both Flora and her mysterious luggage through the door where she removed the grey sheet tae reveal a tarnished gold frame, intricately decorated wi grape vines and leaves. Inside was an oil painting ae a red brick cottage cradled by some ivy growin’ up the sides, and hens peckin’ at the land tae the front. I’ve never been one fae art, although I can appreciate a beautiful painting when I see one. But as we all know by noo, it’s beauty probably wasnae the thing that was gonnae hurt.

I asked Flora what it did, or what it was, but it was difficult tae ignore the distance Fionn and I had put between us and the large painting. Flora laughed at us and said that it wasnae dangerous, she was only givin’ it tae the shop because it was too big fae her hoose. It was a bit like an electric photo frame, the ones that show you an endless loop ae your last family holiday or event. The only difference was that the frame cycled through paintings instead ae photos.

Fionn and I nod and continue tae stare, but it doesnae change, the wee red brick cottage doesnae disappear. Maybe it’s shy. Flora thanks us and leaves and whilst Fionn goes and fetches the Madam I continue losin ma game ae monopoly tae a cat. In the midst ae bein a sore loser, I glance over at the frame tae find that, as Flora said, it’d changed.

The cottage and hens and ivy have disappeared, replaced by a baby’s cradle. Made ae dark, polished wood, the marks and fading show that it’s been well-loved by a family or two in its time. A wee girl, no bigger than 2 or 3 has her hands on the edge and is desperately tryin’ tae peer over and inside tae where, presumably, a baby lies squirming in its swaddling clothes.

This isnae a modern setting, there’s no light bulbs or electrical sockets. No’ a piece ae plastic in sight. I abandon the game and drift over tae the frame, prepared fae the next picture, the next snapshot.

The cot has disappeared, replaced by a small bed. A wee bairn is poised tae hobble its way over the wooden floorboards tae the wee girl fae the first picture who stands wi’ arms outstretched a few steps away, a bright smile liftin’ her features.

A few years have passed by the next painting. A grave looking family sit aroond a table, empty plates getting’ cold despite the fire blazin away in its place. Every lock ae hair roond that table is brown, the adults and the bairns, except fae one. The wee lassie, the one in the cot, the one who took her first steps, has a shockin’ heid full ae ginger hair. Some ae the family look disgusted, others look angry, and it’s obvious that the ginger haired bairn is not as related tae the others as she should be. Whoever painted the picture did an excellent job ae makin’ the older lookin man, presumably the patriarch, appear sheepish. But if ye look closely, just under the table, ye can see the wee girl holdin’ her half-sister’s hand tightly.

And that’s how they stay. The two girls, two sisters, grow up close, playin’ together, readin’ together, havin’ lessons together, running errands fae their family, visitin’ pals wi’ their Ma. They attend their first dinner, first ball, first assembly. Time goes on and the two girls grow intae adults. The letters tae each other pile up, and soon one box isnae enough tae contain them all.

I notice Madam Norna come and stand by me as the picture begins tae change. She says nothin’ and watches the unfolding story wi’ me.

The next one is a church. The alter is draped in bright colours, the priest or minister dressed up tae match wi’ colourful robes and golden embroidery. Two couples stand before him wishin’ tae be married. The two sisters glance at each other through the solemn ceremony and stifle a chuckle. Both sisters leave the church and their maiden names behind and start on their lives as wives and mothers.

They live close, in the town they grew up, close tae their family and friends. When one’s aboot tae give birth tae yet another bairn, the other is just roond the corner. Their bairns grow up together, walk together, learn tae talk together. The sisters share everythin’ in life, every milestone and birthday and heartbreak and loss.

Until a loss comes that puts an end tae things forever. The younger sister, the ginger haired one, grows paler and smaller. Her energy is taken fae her and there are days she can barely get up fae bed. The older sister is more frequently roond at their house, takin’ care ae the bairns and doin’ whit she can tae help the household and nurse her sister back tae health. But she knows. Knows that time is runnin’ oot.

The younger girl dies in her sister’s arms, her bairns and husband surroundin’ the bed where she breathed her last.

The last painting shows the older sister sat in front ae a canvas, paints strewn aroond her, brush poised over the surface already saturated wi’ colour in the shape ae a red brick cottage. Just before the images reset, she makes eye contact wi’ me and smiles a wistful, melancholy gesture that shows her pride and anguish like they’re two sides ae the same canvas.

There’s a few moments ae silence as I digest whit I’ve seen, and Madam Norna lets it linger before she explains whit it is, although I’m pretty sure maself. The set ae paintings were done by the older sister so no one would ever forget the younger one. It was a tribute tae the greatest relationship she ever had, and one she vowed tae never forget.

She asks me whit I want tae do wi’ it. I tell her it’d be a waste puttin’ it in storage where no one can see and admire it. even though it takes up most ae the narrow aisles, it was more important fae someone tae find it.

Together we moved it further intae the shop, proppin’ it on one ae the many wardrobes where it was difficult tae miss. It was only at that point that I realised Fionn hadnae come back doon fae fetching the Madam.

She noticed ma lookin’ aboot and explained that he’d gone intae storage. I asked her if she thought I’d done the right thing when I’d made the deal wi’ Death fae Fionn’s life. I dinnae really know where it came fae, but it’d been somewhere in ma mind, and wi’ Reid preoccupied who else was I supposed tae discuss it wi’? I’d been tryin’ no tae let it get tae me, no tae let his misery infect me, no tae look at him and hate maself fae bein’ so selfish.

The Madam paused and I could feel her eyes on me. I like tae imagine fae the first time in centuries she didnae know whit tae say, but given her reply I doubt it.

She confessed that there was no right and wrong in a situation like that. A lot ae circumstances in life can rarely be boiled doon tae black and white, right and wrong. There’s only outcomes and consequences. Fionn was alive, and that’s what I’d wanted.

Was this what I wanted? A ghost in the shop haunting me? I whispered it, uttered that I wasne sure I shouldae interfered. I felt awful and relieved that I’d said it, that I’d acknowledged those dark thoughts ae mine. Fionn wasnse Fionn anymore. Even though I’d interfered and “saved” his life it was like a part ae him died that day anyway. I hadnae saved Fionn, but a shell ae him, a shadow. All I did was make him miserable. I stole his soul and expected him tae live fine withoot it.

What if he’d have been better aff deid?

The Madam had nothing tae say, and I didnae really want her tae say anythin’. These werenae her burdens, she wasnae the one who had put their foot intae somethin’ they shouldae left alone. And she was right. There was no answer that’d make me feel better, that’d turn Fionn back tae the way he used tae be, or make me accept him fae who he was noo. There was no right because there wasnae really a wrong.

Madam Norna took ma hand and together we watched the scene ae the two sisters play oot again, fae the cradle tae the grave, and I wondered, in the same circumstances, if all ae us wouldnae make a deal wi’ Death tae save the ones we love.

It was winter. Why was it always winter there even in June? It was all so long ago that what truly happened had mixed with the murk of time, so she wasn’t quite sure what was real anymore. The air was cold, frosty even, and she tried not to shudder against its tenaciousness. The sun was bright outside, but even the rays could not penetrate that little cottage and banish away the demons that had come to stay.

The kitchen they both stood in was small, a cupboard compared to the one on the main estate. There was a kettle on the stove, an old one she was sure was an antique, one of many family heirlooms that had never made it to the dump. It was a darkened, hardy thing that required a towel to protect the hand of whoever took it from the heat. She thought at the time it needed cleaning, but then realised it had probably never been so much as threatened with water let alone washed with soap. She stood awkwardly, not sure if it would be too presumptuous of her to take a seat at the small, chipped wooden table that stood beneath the window, facing the only road that led to the cottage. Discoloured lace curtains hung to cover the window but after many years of being stained by sunlight they were a revolting yellow and looked close to falling to pieces. She had seen many webs in the corners of the low ceilings, spiders lurking behind the wooden planks that supported the floor above. Despite its potential for comfort, there was nothing remotely inviting about the cottage itself.

Bringing her back to her senses the kettle began to sing, but to Iona’s ears it droned, lifeless, as was everything else under the cottage’s roof, taunting her. An older woman, although not so old then, wrapped a tea towel around the handle and hauled the bulbous thing from the stove to pour it into a teapot that had been cracked for years, the flowers on the side fading until they were barely recognisable. Iona remained still, watching intently as a rabbit does a roaming fox, wondering if she would be noticed, contemplating if she would be caught. The tea was left to brew whilst the kettle was returned to another ring on the archaic stove.

The woman looked at her and Iona’s body tensed. Even if she wished to, she doubted she could have moved more than her eyelids in those moments. The gaze that was thrust on her, the eyes that spotted her from across the room were almost vacant, a chilling sense of carelessness that she could never remember seeing in such intensity before. Iona tried not to shiver.

“Well,” the woman began, leaning back on the edge of the counter, scorn filled her eyes as well as her tone, “You’re a real Tulloch now.”

She woke up. Despite the vast knowledge of the Tulloch family no one had ever been able to find out why distant memories one would rather forget made their way into dreams. It was cold in her room, just like it had been in the cottage all those years ago, but the similarity only made her feel exasperated. Sighing, her hand reached up to rub eyes that felt dry, like she’d been sleeping in a draft all night. It was still dark outside as winter continued to trickle in, stealing the long daylight hours of summer. She would have blamed the city for her nightmares, but they’d haunted her back on the main estate. Why was that one surfacing now? It was hard to tell when something was a premonition or just a mind deciding to waltz down memory lane during the midnight hours. Knowing she wouldn’t get back to sleep she whipped the cover from her body and gasped as the chill in the air reached her skin.

***

It was like she had never been asleep. The nightmare sapped her of all strength and concentration, and her already thin patience was growing more strained the longer she was made to stand behind the counter observing as customers came in. She wished, hoped fervently, no one with a serious problem would venture in because she didn’t know if she could be or do what they needed. It was shaping up to be a long morning.

The customers trickled in and flowed out like a sea at low tide, and as she stood behind the counter it felt as though the world was moving at a faster pace than she was. That dream, that place, and that time, they had all been buried so deeply she thought she would never remember them again. What had invoked it? Why that memory?

“Excuse me?” a raspy voice called out to her so for a moment she thought she was still asleep.

Falling out of her stupor she looked across the counter to see an old woman with lavender coloured hair and a knitted rose scarf wrapped around her neck to match. Her wizened, marked skin did nothing to hide the kindness and contentment that swam in her eyes like a fish around a tank. She emanated enthusiasm for life, one of such intensity it could only belong to someone who had seen plenty, of awful and blessed, but still be unjaded by it. Iona’s grandparents could do with taking a lesson from this customer.

“You were somewhere else entirely,” the older woman commented.

Iona smiled awkwardly in reply and kept her gaze level, expectant. The woman handed over a small bracelet made of clear quartz, a sun and moon charm dangling from the elastic daintily. There was no doubting Isobel’s craftsmanship, which meant it had been languishing in the shop for at least a few years. Iona took it from the wizened hand and began to put the purchase through as the old woman fished out her purse from her leather handbag. In the typical way usually reserved for the elderly, or the compulsively exact, she began to count out the change on the counter, murmuring to herself how much she had put down. Patiently Iona waited, impatiently the younger woman in the queue behind began to fester.

She was young, perhaps more so than Iona, with freshly manicured nails, carefully done make-up, and a scowl to ruin what beauty she possessed. Briefly she met Iona’s gaze and rolled her eyes, as if they were in on a secret at the elderly woman’s expense. There could be no favouritism between customers and Iona tried her hardest to keep her gaze level, smothering all emotion like disapproval and irritation. As the counting of change continued the young woman became increasingly vocal about her disapproval, even going so far as to click her tongue loudly, glancing around her for support from the other customers. She received none.

Eventually the change was counted to the exact penny and Iona took it gratefully, thanking the old woman once more before seeing her leave. The disapproving young woman came marching up to the counter wearing an exasperated smile.

“I don’t know how you put up with that,” she snorted, “I mean if you’re going to give the right change do everyone the courtesy of counting it before you’re served.”

Just as Iona was about to give a sharp retort her eyes came across the item which the woman wished to purchase, and the words stopped dead at the back of her throat. Where the hell had that come from? She had taken multiple inventories of the products in the shop, and in the family archive upstairs, to accurately account for every family relic, cursed object, and enchanted charm she could find. She had never come across the ring that sat neatly on the counter before her, but she knew exactly what it was.

“Where did ye find this?” she queried the young customer, keeping the edge from her voice.

“Over there with the other small pieces of jewellery,” she motioned vaguely at the corner.

This ring was not one of Isobel’s creations, no one really knew where it had come from. It would be worth a great deal if someone were to ever find out how old it was, some of the stories stretched back to the 10^th and 11^th centuries. It, by some means of enchantment, changed with the times and so always looked new, shiny, and alluring. That wasn’t the only hazardous thing about it.

“It’s quite unusual, isn’t it?” the young woman commented, looking pleased with herself that she had snapped it up before anyone else.

Iona stifled a dark chuckle as she began to put the purchase through. She knew she should be torn. Knowingly selling something like this to someone seemed like it should be a mistake, a situation where she should make an excuse and refuse to hand it over. It was a rare ring, not quite one of a kind, but there weren’t many left in the world. Despite not knowing its origins there was one thing she did know about it. Back in the day, when witches didn’t adhere to rules and some strayed from the path of altruism, they used their powers to create objects that would hurt, terrorise, and curse. Over the centuries they had been tracked down and locked away by influential witching families, like the Tullochs, but those families were also rare and so not all these objects had been confiscated.

The enrapturing ring made of pure sterling silver contained one single fire opal. It was delicate, intricate almost, in the design on the thin band, but what the wearer didn’t see was the spell secretly carved on the inside. It was a cursed object of sorts, but some also said it was a blessed one. The reason was because it could both bless and curse the wearer. Someone, many centuries ago, had been very clever when they forged it. They had cast it so that it reversed the fortunes of anyone who wore it. It could be easily taken off, but very few people ever realised that it was the root of all problems or gifts.

Iona didn’t know the young woman’s circumstances, whether her wheel of fortune pointed the right way or not. From the way she was dressed to the glittering engagement ring on her finger Iona would say her luck wasn’t the worst. It should make Iona hesitate, and maybe she would have if the nightmare hadn’t stuck in her mind since last night. What she was more curious about was where the ring had come from when it hadn’t been in the shop before. Some books said it had a mind of its own, turning up and disappearing at will, others said it was only visible to the person who it had chosen as its next victim. No one really knew the truth, and with such a powerful force, who was Iona to interfere in its plan? As much as she wasn’t supposed to pass judgement on customers, she knew she’d already done so with the young woman. One day youth would no longer be on her side, she would wilt and wither and become just like the old woman she had cruelly mocked. However, in the meantime, let the ring have its fun, see if a lesson can’t be learned.

Iona wrapped the ring in tissue paper and handed it to the unsuspecting young customer. For a moment Iona felt a chill of dread grip her stomach before it was gone. The young woman’s fate was none of her concern, she understood from her brief encounter with the ring. She watched as the customer disappeared and forcefully quashed the whisper of guilt that ushered its way through her mind.

***

The nightmare that had plagued her during the darkest hours of the night remained clearly in her thoughts for the proceeding days, appearing in flashes and snippets. She had gotten no deeper into the memory in the sleeps since, but that scene, that hour, stubbornly stayed. Customers became distractions and she busied herself about the shop more, replenishing stock as soon as it sold out, checking herbs and making remedies, anything to keep her mind occupied and busy.

After an unusually long day in the shop, she went to lock the door and turn the sign around to deter any further customers. Just as she was about to reach for the bottom bolt, she saw someone running up the road carrying what looked to be a body in his arms. Silently she waited, watching, wondering if she was going to be dragged into the affairs of mortals as well as every other faction in the city. As they got closer, she thought she felt a flash of recognition. It was only when they stopped outside of her door, unable to get any further, that she drew a name from her memories. Albin Morrison stood at the boundary of the shop, a young woman draped over his arms, unconscious. Iona stared at him through the glass door for a moment before she unlocked it and stepped across the threshold, remaining within the barrier.

“You have to help me,” he panted, desperation brimming over his eyes.

She glanced at the young woman, as pale as death but not yet dead, and then back to the youngest Morrison brother in expectation.

“Please let us in,” he begged.

“No,” was her blunt retort.

The young woman in his arms was mortal, but there was something strange about her, like a feeling or a scent, a tiny part of her that was off kilter. Iona couldn’t tell what it was without closer examination, which she didn’t intend to do outside of the shop.

“She’s human!” he cried, “You help mortals. That’s the reason you’re here, isn’t it?”

The cogs in her head began to turn. There were no rules in case something as strange as this ever happened, no set protocol to turn to, and certainly no senior members of the clan to ask. Albin Morrison had a valid point, one she had iterated many times to immortals and spiritualists alike, and yet here she was refusing to aid. Who was the young woman, and what was her connection to the Morrison brother? Disliking the politics and bureaucracy swarming around the city between one faction and the other, Iona let down the barrier to the shop and permitted him to carry the young woman through to the back room where the jars of herbs and vials of essences lived. Her intention had been to let him in and throw him straight back out, but instead he lay the woman on one of the empty tables and continued to hold her hand, as if letting go would cause her to evaporate into thin air.  Knowing that getting him to leave may take up valuable time, she shooed him away from the woman curtly and began her inspection.

She had lovely copper hair that cascaded in ringlets around her head like a man-made halo, with busy freckles on every part of her exposed skin, and full rose lips that were glossy and well maintained. However, it was not the woman’s appearance that she was most enraptured by but the discomforting aura that she had emanating from her like heat from a road in summer. It was twisted, grotesque in a way Iona hadn’t felt for a while. It was powerful magic, an almost forbidden enchantment that she had been made to believe was unknown to most outside of the Tulloch family. It was the second time since she had arrived in the city that a spell was too powerful for its own good.

Iona was under no illusion that the spiritualists were innocent, she felt the first hints of their magic before she began to delve into the miasma. It didn’t really matter which one, although they had to have had help to cast something as powerful as this.

“What is it? What’s wrong with her?” Albin Morrison’s concerned voice piped up from behind her.

Iona turned to him with a frown, “Tell me what happened.”

“I was walking her home, we’d just been out for dinner, and then all of a sudden, she collapsed. I didn’t know where else to take her.”

“The hospital never crossed your mind?”

The youngest brother looked away sheepishly, reluctant to meet her probing gaze. He must have suspected something supernatural else he wouldn’t have brought her straight to the Tulloch shop.

“This isn’t the first time something like this has happened,” he confessed with reluctance.

She began to bite the inside of her lip. The war up until now had been a word bandied about freely since she had arrived but there had never been any evidence that any such battle existed. It was truly despicable each side were resorting to using these unfair tactics. If this was a battle between immortals and spiritualists why were mortals being dragged in?

“Who is this woman, Mr Morrison?” she demanded coldly.

“Can you help her or not?”

Iona remained stubbornly quiet. She was beginning to think the youngest Morrison brother was not as wily as the elder ones.

He sighed, “She’s my girlfriend, Olivia.”

She tried desperately to hide her surprise but felt that it shimmered as obviously from her face as her anger did. An immortal in a relationship with a human? She had never heard of such a thing. They could have their fun, burn through as many of them as they wanted, but at the end of the day immortals would outlive everything, including their paramours. Trying to regain her composure, Iona took another glance at the sleeping beauty on her table and stifled a sigh of exasperation.

“I can help her,” she announced, “but I have a condition.”

“Anything, I’ll do anything you want.”

She was certain he was the only Morrison brother she would ever hear those words from.

“If I help her then you’ll end your relationship,” Iona stated.

From the crestfallen look on his face Iona was certain that had not been one of the things he had been expecting to hear. He visibly paled and then looked away, glancing longingly at Olivia lying near death on the table. She could see his mind turning, looking backwards and forwards, reliving fond memories he assumed there would be more of in the future. Such a demand was perhaps unreasonable, but from the knowledge she had gathered as a Tulloch it was obvious that an immortal’s relationship with a mortal wouldn’t last long by definition. If that immortal was a part of the most hated family in all the city, then her life would constantly be in danger from some external force. One she had no hope of triumphing over.

“She’s human, they’re not made to live in both our world and their own,” Iona reasoned, “If ye truly care about her then you’ll break things off. I can help her this time but there may be an instance in the future where I can’t, and then you’ll lose her permanently.”

An immortal couldn’t be the client of a Tulloch witch. Even though she was unconscious Olivia was the true customer. Her life was in danger because she was associating with an immortal in a city where they were waging a war on people who could wield any magic they wished. As a Tulloch Iona had a responsibility to help a mortal, even if they didn’t realise they needed it. If she had to persuade Albin Morrison to give up his girlfriend to complete her duty, then she would.

“The spiritualists did this, didn’t they?” he queried quietly.

She had expected anger, outrage, something that would make him like his oldest brother, but instead he appeared to be weary, as if a great burden was on his shoulders.

She nodded.

“Why is it always me they target?” he asked, more to himself than her.

“Because you’re the only one who has something precious to lose.”

Like many immortals before, Iona was under no doubt that Harold and Leif Morrison went through men and women like they went through identities, humans were only kept until they were inconvenient. It didn’t appear to be the same case for their younger brother.

“If I agree she’ll wake up?” he checked.

“Ye have my word.”

“And you have mine. From now on she’ll never see me again.”

If only that was enough to keep Olivia completely out of danger. Even if their relationship was to come to an end the spiritualists would continue to target the mortal in the hopes of exploiting any lingering feelings. Iona would have to do more than just wake the poor woman up.

She began busying around the room, collecting herbs, candles, and talismans. Her concentration would need to be completely focused on breaking the curse placed on Olivia. It was a trap, a horrible dreamland that she couldn’t escape from. If she died in the dream she would die in reality, any injuries she received would mark her skin. It was truly despicable, and as far as she knew frowned upon in the community. Very rarely did a mortal escape unscathed. Yet another primitive spell had surfaced in the city, and Iona knew she wouldn’t get any answers from the Mistress, or the past.

Iona took Olivia’s hands and felt the blood orange markings on her arms tingle and burn in places, as if they were writhing about beneath her skin, trapped there but wishing to be free. She focused her mind on the aura, the curse that had buried itself deep within the mortal’s mind. The muttering in her own voice seemed far away to her, as if she had transcended the small room, the shop, even the city, and was straining to hear from a great distance. The world behind her eyes was murky, streaks of light slashing left and right across the blackness that enveloped her. Her tattoos began to sting, painfully this time, but it only made her grasp the hand harder. There was no way she was going to let a curse cast by a spiritualist defeat her.

Time stretched so seconds felt like hours, and her body began to feel heavy, the skin on her arms set on fire from the power it would take to break the curse. After a few more mutterings the blackness imploded, shattering like glass thrown on a stone floor. The silence in the little room of the shop was heavy to her ears, although the blood that pumped around her head made her feel dizzy.  It had taken more effort than she would ever admit to free Olivia of her curse. Her aura was cleansed, and she no longer emanated spiritualist magic. In a few hours she would be awake.

“It’s done,” Iona stated, “but there’s one more thing.”

She walked heavily over to one of the counters and rummaged around in the only disorganised looking drawer. Every stone, crystal, and carved figure accomplished something different. The genuine ones were rarely put on display in the shop because they were far too powerful to be circulated around mortals. Eventually, Iona picked up a blue quartz that looked more like a sapphire than a mere mineral. It glistened in the dimming light outside as the moon took its place in the blackened night sky.

“This is a stone that deflects any magic cast upon the wearer back to where it came from. I think even if you distance yourself, she’ll still be in danger. Make sure she wears this, or at least always keeps it near her,” Iona told him, handing him the stone.

“I will,” he nodded determinedly, “I promise.”

Shortly afterwards she let Albin Morrison out of the shop in the dead of night and watched as he carried Olivia out of sight. It left Iona to ruminate on the circumstances surrounding their relationship. How it had come about, how long it had been going on for, and how much the mortal woman knew about the Morrisons, was of no interest to Iona, but what had got her thinking was the dangerous space Olivia occupied. The threshold between the supernatural world and the mortal one was a carefully guarded secret. It was a no man’s land, nomad country, making it the most dangerous. Helpless to protect herself from immortals and spiritualists, but having some more knowledge than everyone she knew, life could become very confusing and be cut very short. Even Tullochs were not encouraged to associate romantically with mortals as it would eventually involve divulging things that were best kept hidden.

It was not only mortals and immortals where this gap lay, even within species some sort of missing space was present. A place where they were neither one thing nor another, where they knew some things but were not permitted to be involved or know about others. The Tulloch clan were notorious secret keepers, even amongst its own members, but anyone marrying into it was dealt an even worse hand. Iona had seen it for herself, felt the bitterness, experienced the pain and confusion, yet was made to remain quiet. Why is it that people always get hurt the most because of the people they love?

***

The weeks went by, and she heard nothing more from Albin Morrison or his vulnerable girlfriend, Olivia. Whether he had kept his word to end their relationship also remained a mystery, but Iona didn’t feel inclined to pursue the inquiry. She had made it very clear to the youngest Morrison brother that if he continued to see the mortal she would continue to be thrown into harm’s way. If he truly cared for her then he would break it off. The nature of their relationship remained a matter of curiosity to Iona, who when thinking on the matter further wondered what his brothers thought of his connection. Harold hadn’t seemed like the type to turn a blind eye. Perhaps he didn’t care, and thought of it as a mere dalliance, she would never know.

Iona found herself doing something rather mundane and peculiarly mortal. She had never lived on her own before. The housekeeper had always bought the shopping, cleaned the rooms, and organised meals when she was still living on the main family estate, but now that she was in the rooms situated above the shop, she found herself perpetually starving and without much in the way to eat. It wasn’t that she couldn’t cook, she just found that she was terrible at it. For a Tulloch it was expected that they could mix herbs, cast enchantments, and know all the properties of every mineral in existence, but the ability to cook a nutritional meal had been something excluded from her education.

The supermarket was a busy, crowded palace where all the perishable goods people could ever want resided. Why were there five different cans all containing beans, but with increasing prices? What could someone possibly want with an entire cut of beef that was due to go off that very same day? Why were there so many things to eat for breakfast? Her mind had boggled when she had first wandered in. The local supermarket at home was less than a quarter of the size of the one she frequented in the city, and there were no choices of brands, there was one of each item. Once she had put everything she needed into her basket, she made her way to the checkout. After unloading her items onto the conveyor belt, she waited until the woman in front of her was finished being served.

The customer in front rummaged around in her purse for all the change she could scrape together and counted it out to the cashier. With an absent mind Iona gave a brief glance over and noticed something glistening wickedly on the woman’s hand. The blood flowing through her veins began to curdle as she took a closer look at the person stood in front of her in the queue counting out change.

“I’m so sorry, I do have the right money, it’s just been a bit tight lately, you know?” she began to natter to the cashier, “I just lost my job, and then my fiancé called off the wedding…,” she trailed off.

The customer, with no tolerance for the elderly, who had come into the shop a few weeks previously, was standing in front of Iona in the supermarket, doing the exact same thing that she had ridiculed the old woman for doing in the shop. Iona stifled a small shudder at the ring’s apparent sense of justice. The emotions that had flashed through her the first time resurfaced as it caught her eyes, twinkled ominously in the glaring lights of the supermarket. She should have taken it from the young woman when she had bought it, refused to sell it, but she had been in a foul mood that day and so hadn’t. Even though her mood had levelled out, she still was not inclined to take the ring back. She didn’t try to ignore the little bubbles of satisfaction as she watched the young woman meticulously count out pennies. Perhaps the legends were right in that it did have a mind of its own, and if that were so then she didn’t have a right to interfere. It had hidden itself from her and chosen the woman.  Iona may be a Tulloch, but she didn’t want to try her luck going against a cursed object as mysterious and unknown as that ring. The judgemental and impatient young woman had been doled out justice by a trinket which she had innocently bought. It was a brutal lesson, but one that would hopefully be long lasting. The hard ones usually were.

***

It was always cold, even in June. Why was it always cold there? The cottage was small, the fires always crackling somewhere, and the heating was by no means inferior despite the rural location, but there was always a chill. The nightmare had plagued her intermittently for a week, and after a long battle to ignore it, there came a point when she acknowledged that there may be a reason it kept recurring.

She hadn’t wanted tea; she could remember that. The only thing she had kept thinking about was how much she wanted to leave, as if the sense of a long, awkward conversation was on her mind. Every time the older woman had looked at her, she would tense, her jaw clench together desperately. The way she leaned back against the counter, the judgemental and harsh way she regarded Iona across that small kitchen was something she had never managed to forget.

“Well,” she had half sighed, “you’re a real Tulloch now.”

Those words, so simple, yet filled with so much bitterness and hatred that they rang down through the years into the present like a restless ghost. Iona had never forgotten them, and she knew by now that she never would. They were ingrained, burned almost, into her memories. She may have called it a nightmare, but it wasn’t only fictional dreams that plagued people when they were asleep.

“I was always a real Tulloch,” she had said in reply, breaking eye contact with the older woman by looking at the chips in the floor tiles.

“Ye don’t know what it means to be a real Tulloch yet,” the woman muttered as she turned around to the teapot and began pouring the dark amber liquid into cups.

“I know more than ye do about it,” Iona threw sharply.

The teapot clanged down on the countertop so hard she thought it was going to break. The woman rounded on Iona, eyes flying open in her rage.

“Don’t act so high and mighty with me, lass, who do ye think I am?”

“The woman who abandoned me?” she shot back bitterly.

The older woman’s eyes grew wider as she pushed herself off the counter to propel forward and close the gap that had seemed so large before, but now was not big enough for Iona’s liking. In her shock, and with a mind that she was about to be hit, she stood up abruptly, the painted wooden chair’s faded legs screeching on the stone floor as she did so.

“How dare ye!” the older woman spat, “How dare ye accuse me of that.”

“It’s true, isn’t it? Ye scuttled away to your rabbit warren and left me at the main estate. They’re taking better care of me than ye ever could here in your hovel.”

It was vicious, but then, teenagers often were. Her memories of that fight were as pointed as her words had been. Regret still lingered there, as it did in many of her unhappier memories, but this one had chosen to stand out recently. Teenagers are often very self-centred, and Iona, despite her heritage, was just like any other. All she could think about was herself and how she bad been left, not about the woman who now lived in reduced circumstances when before she had enjoyed the same privileges.

“I gave birth to ye, Iona, not them!” she screeched, slapping her palm to her chest so hard Iona was sure it would leave marks.

“Maybe you should act a bit more like it then,” the young Iona spat back before storming out of the door, nearly taking it from its hinges as she slammed it shut.

Distantly she heard a light tapping, a sound that didn’t fit with the energy or the force of the memory. Her eyes opened weakly, and she looked around at the shop trying to regain her bearings after having immersed herself in the unpleasant memory. She had hoped that by doing so she would be permitted to sleep unhindered by its reappearance. It was mid-afternoon by her reckoning and there were no customers in the shop. She allowed her body to relax from the tenseness that had set in her muscles at reliving the memory, the emotions along with the physical reactions. The regret was harder to let go of.

Her eyes floated around the shop, looking for the tapping sound that had grasped her tightly and liberated her from her memories. Considering that there were no customers present she grew more concerned at the noise until something eventually caught the corner of her eye. Casting her gaze out of the window she noticed an unwelcome but familiar face peering in through the glass, both hands holding cardboard cups steaming in the late autumnal chill. Again, she thought about ignoring him, but she knew he wouldn’t leave if she did. Lethargically, she made her way outside, closing the door behind her to the shop. Leif Morrison handed her one of the cups he was holding, his eyes scouring over her face as if he had seen something that sparked his interest.

“Are you feeling well?” he inquired.

“I was,” she retorted curtly before taking a sip of the coffee. It was the one from the park, she remembered the bitterness well.

“Evidently,” he smirked in an irritatingly knowing way, “Perhaps the day you’re civil to me will be the day to begin worrying.”

“I’m always civil,” she reminded, “I’m just not always polite.”

This elicited a snicker from the middle Morrison brother. It had been a few weeks since their paths had crossed, and for some reason she was curious as to why the sudden gap when it seemed that not a week could go by without their meeting somehow. The last Morrison she had met had been carrying a mortal woman in his arms demanding her help, but that had been the last she had heard from any of them. Emerging from her thoughts she noticed the look that he was giving her, expectant with a lining of confusion.

“What?” she demanded.

“This is the first time we’ve met when you haven’t demanded to know what I want from you,” he observed mirthfully.

She didn’t wish to admit that his company was not completely unwelcome this time. She was grateful that his interruption had prevented her from falling further into that memory. Standing with him outside the shop and drinking coffee was a welcome distraction, and prevention from returning to obsess over the events of that day. Leif Morrison inhaled deeply beside her, taking in the steadily growing winter.

“I don’t know what’s plaguing you,” he admitted freely, “and I know you wouldn’t tell me if I asked, but I will say this. Talking about problems is an undervalued resource.”

Tullochs were that resource for customers daily, often multiple times, yet when it came to internal issues there was no such thing as conversation. Who could Iona talk to in the large city who would listen? Who would understand? Tullochs weren’t ones for friends.

“Why are ye here?” she queried, a small smile playing on her lips.

The corner of his lip tugged with humour, eyes sparkling with the mirth that she felt she needed in that moment. The fresh air was rejuvenating and breathing it in instead of the shop air improved her mood. Yet, she knew as soon as she stepped foot over the threshold back inside, her sudden buoyancy would abruptly deflate.

“I heard what you did for Albin and his girlfriend.”

Iona took a strategic sip of the coffee, remaining steady to her reputation of being secretive. After all their meetings Iona still couldn’t fathom the middle brother’s agenda, if he had one at all. If he was the agent of Harold, his own self, or something else entirely, Iona had yet to find out.

“He told me that you saved Olivia’s life in exchange for him never seeing her again,” he paused thoughtfully, “I’m glad someone managed to separate them. He would never listen to me on the subject, and if Harold had ever found out then the end would have been much less kind.”

“Your brother wouldn’t have approved?” she checked.

“For all his liberties my eldest brother is intolerant to lasting affection, especially with mortals. Dalliances are inevitable, but anything further is prevented.”

Iona recalled the first and only time she had met the eldest Morrison brother. His reaction when she had rebuked his invitation to talk had seemed one of irritation, as if no one ever dared to oppose him or speak to him in the manner that she had. Her observations fitted with Leif’s description of Harold – an immortal who was used to getting his own way. She didn’t want to contemplate what he would have done to Olivia if he had found out about her relationship with his youngest brother.

“He has stopped seeing Olivia, hasn’t he?” Iona ensured.

Mr Morrison nodded, “Of course. We are a family who keep our words when we have given them. It’s a matter of pride.”

She nodded vaguely and took another sip of the deliciously bitter coffee.

“Why did you help Albin?” he asked, and she could hear the curiosity in his tone.

“I didn’t,” she corrected, “Customers can never be immortals. I helped Olivia.”

“And if I asked for your help, with no mortal involved?”

Iona spared him a glance, unsure whether he was asking in earnest. She had been worried about some hidden agenda of his, the reason why he had been mysteriously helpful to her ever since she had arrived in the city. She may tell herself that she helped Olivia, and that it was the mortal who was her official customer, but it had been Albin who had asked her for aid. The two were not independent of each other; in helping Olivia she had granted Albin’s wish. It was a technicality that could be easily explained to and accepted by the family, helping Leif Morrison when there was no mortal in sight could not. Did she owe him a favour or two for all the information he had given, even if it was of his own free will? Was that why he continued to seek her out and feed her information she needed? More unusual was her inability to answer him directly. The answer was no, he was not a mortal therefore he couldn’t be a customer, so why couldn’t she say those words?

“There’s no need to fret,” he reassured calmly, “I hopefully won’t ever have to put you in that position.”

Iona disliked the uncertainty his voice seemed to hold, even if he didn’t hear it himself. 

“Is that why ye keep telling me things about the city, and your family?” she blurted.

“Perhaps,” he acknowledged, “or maybe I think if I share enough with you it’ll be reciprocated.”

He laughed lightly as she threw him a look of disbelief.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed a figure making their way to the shop, and she held the door open when they arrived telling them she would be inside soon. Even though her coffee wasn’t finished, she had duties to attend. A small part of herself admitted that she had enjoyed this particular coffee with Leif Morrison, but that small part was hushed rather quickly. Just as she was about to turn back inside the shop Mr Morrison said one more thing to her.

“One day, Miss Tulloch, you’ll tell me your secrets of your own free will.”

“Ye can’t possibly predict that,” she threw back as she opened the door to the shop.

“I predicted that the first coffee I bought you wouldn’t be the last, and I was right,” he reminded smugly.

“Coffee doesn’t equate to secrets,” she smirked as she closed the door.

Next Chapter

Scots vocabulary

Greeted/to greet – to cry i.e. she went greeting (crying) to her Ma’.

Whuppity Stoorie – one of the few Scottish folktales that remained intact in its original form when I incorporated it into the podcast. The story Maya tells here about Whuppity Stoorie and the auld wife is the actual tale. Thsi story has been described as the Scottish version of the better known Rumplestiltskin. I got my version of the tale from the Scottish Storytelling Centre, although can’t seem to find a link now.

roaster – idiot

Story

Sometimes, all you need is time to yourself. A rare commodity in the shop these days. Before anyone starts thinking the worst, Fionn is still in the shop. He’s taking to spending a lot of his time in storage. He’s probably been through all the items in the shop a hundred times over by this point and needs new things to look at. What better way to waste time than by getting lost in storage? Chronos and I take turns checking he’s still in one piece because neither of us know the small print on my deal with Death. Only alive was stipulated, how did that work if he was mauled to “death” by a storage monster?

Reid, as you’ve probably guessed, is with his boyfriend. No, girlfriend. No, no, definitely boyfriend…or was it a thruple this week? I’ve officially lost track, and a few bets with Fionn, and now Chronos has joined in. Let’s just say the only fox I regularly see is the one on my ring.

It does mean I’ve had a few rare days of complete solitude in the shop, and recently something’s been sticking out. The book. The one with the strange landscapes and deceptive words. The one with my name in it. The one the red-haired lassie was inside and is now roaming around because I couldn’t keep my curiosity in check.

I began to leave it lying around in the hopes that someone, I didn’t care if it was a customer or not, would see it and give me all the answers I need. Nope. That book’s like the bloody shop, except worse. Only I can see it! I’ve almost given up, there’s no way I’m ever going to figure out her name unless someone tells me.

I say that but I’ve kept my ears open. That was how I found her the last time, a pal of a pal, but what’s the chances of being that lucky the next time? And what’s the point? I still don’t know her name to put her back in the damned book.

I still keep it within sight, as if I’m punishing myself.

Thankfully, I had better things to worry about that day. One of ma pals is a member of the drama club at uni, and that night I’d been invited to their performance at the student union. I’d already been to a few and they were always a good laugh, although whether that was the performances or the free-flowing booze was up for debate. Regardless I was in for a good night.

The stage is set, complete with red velvet curtain. People sit at wee round tables with their pints taking up most of the space. The room is dark, the stage casting shadows all the way to the bar. The theme of the performances are Scottish folk tales. The ensemble cast comes out dressed as kelpies, brownies, old hags, and well-known ghosts. The audience laughs and sniggers where appropriate, because what’s a good Scottish legend without humour?

I take a sip of my drink and wait for the next tale to come on. A man dressed as a pig, complete with curly tail, a woman with mob cap and apron, and a 6-foot-tall lad in clothes that were a few hundred sizes too wee for him entered: the narrator an ever-present guide at the side of the stage.

The pig-boy laid on the ground, belly up, his four trotter-feet pointing up as if he’d been knocked over by a quadbike on the farm. The woman and 6-foot-tall lad, who we were told was her “wee laddie” or her son, fretted over the swine.

The narrator tells us that this is an auld wife whose husband went away for market day and never came back, leaving her with only her wee laddie and a single pig. The pig, by the looks of it, was on its last legs, which would’ve been bad enough if it weren’t pregnant. If it died her entire source of income from all the pigs would be gone. She fretted and fretted until she saw a mysterious figure walk down the road.

Enter stage left my pal, adorned with green velvet dress, flaming ginger hair, and a strange misshapen staff. She approached the auld wife, her wee laddie, and the sickly pig and announced that she knew all about what was happening and how terrible it was. But the auld wife didn’t need to fret because she had just the solution.

The auld wife in disbelief asked her if she could really help fix the pig.

The red-haired lassie nodded vigorously but inquired what she’d get in return for saving the swine.

The next words will haunt my nightmares to the end of time.

“I’ll give ye anything!” the auld wife cries.

Aye, that always ends well. Satisfied with the answer the red-haired lassie steps towards the pig, produces a small glass bottle with black liquid in and puts three drops into the creature’s ear, or the flap of fabric that was supposed to be its ear. Immediately the man-pig jumped up on all four trotters and started making oinking noises to show it’d fully recovered.

The auld wife was ecstatic and thanked the red-haired lassie, asking what it was that she wanted. Food, clothes, drink?

The answer was a shake of the head and a pointed stare at the wee laddie. She’d take him.

The auld wife’s face fell in dismay as she protested. A deal is a deal, a promise is a promise, the red-haired lassie reminded. The auld wife began to cry. The lassie relented a wee bit and said that if the auld wife could come up with her real name in three days then her wee laddie would be returned to her.

If this is ringing bells in anyone’s mind, then they’re not alone.

For two days the auld wife greeted and fretted and knew there was nothing she could do. On the third day she rose and went on a walk through the woods where she used to bring her wee laddie. She followed the sounds of water, of a stream, and began to hear singing. The voice belonged to the red-haired lassie, who sat beside the stream spinning wool on her wheel. The song, conveniently, had her name in it.

The auld wife snuck away and bided her time until the lassie returned. On her third guess, the auld wife told the red-haired creature her name and the wee laddie was returned to his mother. Thwarted, the lassie retreated and was never seen again.

Except I knew differently. Somehow, she’d ended up trapped in a book in the shop. And that red-haired bitch’s name was Whuppity Stoorie. I’ll admit, I’d never heard of this folktale, one of many no doubt. It’s more or less the Scottish version ae Rumpelstiltskin.

I barely sat through the rest of the performances, burning to leave and track Whuppity down and finally get her back in that damned book. But I had to wait until the next day when I could go and get the book from the shop.

After the performances were over and I was a few glasses deep in drink, I helped my pal get out ae her various costumes and makeup. As everyone was saying goodbye at the end of the night I was standing a wee bit away from the entrance, wondering if I was going to make it home without falling over. I felt a presence, but the drink prevented me from getting startled. I knew who it was, the woman has a presence. Madam Anora stood a few feet away, looking at me bemusedly, no doubt also wondering if I was going to fall doon.

I slurred out words demanding to know why she was here. She complimented my pals’ performance but mused that the story we’d been told about the Whuppity Stoorie wasn’t all there was to it. Like most things in this world, there was more than there appeared.

Looking back on this interaction I’m not sure it was even real, or a hallucination. My pal called me over so we could get a taxi, but when I turned back around to tell Madam Anora where to go there was nothing but shadows. I stumbled back over to my pal, hoping I’d be too drunk to remember the encounter. Which obviously, I wasn’t.

The next evening, with a wee bit of a hangover, I nip into the shop to get the book and head to the last place I’d heard mention of her. Another pub, different to the last one, barely within the city bounds. I open the door, assuming I’m going to have a long wait on my hands to confirm if she’s still haunting this place, when I see a flash of red hair and the shimmer of a green velvet dress heading out the opposite side of the pub to where the toilets are.

I quickly squeeze in between the already forming crowd, there’s a big football match on and everyone’s clamouring to get a better look at the screen. I finally get to the back where she’s disappeared only to hear the clink of the fire escape door close. The alarm hasn’t gone off, so I follow. It doesn’t occur to me that she might aof silenced the alarm, but I’m relieved when I push the bar and open the door to silence.

I’m spat into a side alley with uneven cobbles waiting to trip up the unsuspecting, and industrial sized bins pushed into bare brick walls so bin lorries can squeeze past once a week. Over the slamming of taxi doors and clip of high heels on pavements, I can hear two people hissing at each other. I immediately think it’s Whuppity up to her old tricks, trying to manipulate someone into giving her something of worth. I’m hidden by a large bin, and when I emerge onto the cobbles, I indeed find Whuppity talking to someone, a middle-aged man whose balding head caught the amber light trickling down the alley from the main street.

I proudly announced that she could stop now, that it was all over, that I knew her name. Whuppity whipped around to me, a storm of emotions running across her delicate features before she landed on pleading. I smirked. I’d won, finally, after all these months. I wasn’t such a fuck-up after all.

I told the older man that he could go, and that whatever she’d offered him wasn’t worth what she’d take from him. He looks at me blankly when Whuppity begins to beg me not to put her back in the book and that I don’t understand what I’ve walked into. By this stage I’m fishing the book out of my bag, unable to stop smiling. The more desperate she sounds the happier I become. I anticipate the great burden being lifted off my shoulders, no more book, no more thinking about her red hair and green velvet dress, no more frustration at not being able to talk about it or get help. No more feeling like an absolute roaster – at least concerning this.

Whuppity eventually surmises that I must’ve heard the story, the folktale that she’s in, and she tells me that it’s not true. She didn’t trick the auld wife and steal her laddie, that was all a lie that was made up to discredit her. This caught my attention and my smirk began to falter.

Whit did she mean?

The older man, still standing in the background, mutters under his breath that she would say that. It’s not so much that he’s said anything that bothers me, it’s that he’s still here. Why hasn’t he left? I could feel my elation dampen as I began to really look at the situation before me.

Whuppity says that the tale about her isn’t true, that it was all a lie made up by the auld wife’s absent husband. In reality the auld wife and Whuppity were pals. Yes, she helped her with things like the pig, but it was never in exchange for anything as extreme as her bairn. The husband had only married the auld wife for her money, and regularly left her home alone to fend for herself. Whuppity eventually found out that he planned to kill his wife after they’d had a son because their pre-nuptial contract stated that the husband wouldn’t get any of the money she had in a family trust should she die without bairns. Since she had a son, he would inherit the trust when he came of age, and in the meantime, it’d essentially be the husbands.

Maysmile had all but died. Should I believe her? Could I? People will say anything in a desperate situation.

Whuppity pointed to the middle-aged man she’d been talking to and stated that he was the husband in the tale. After she’d saved the auld wife from his grasp, he’d trapped her in the book as revenge and made up the tale so if she ever was freed in the future no one would ever trust her.

There’s not exactly a date on the folktale, but I must say the man was looking pretty good fae someone that must’ve been a few hundred years old. Not as good as the Madams, but still impressive.

The old man snorted in derision and refuted the claims, saying that it was a folktale, a fable, weren’t they all made up?

I didn’t need Madam Anora’s cryptic warning that night to tell me that something wasn’t right. She’d said the tale wasn’t as it appeared, which fit into Whuppity’s narrative. Why Anora had interfered at all was something to think about later.

I felt the book’s weight in my hands, and the more I hesitated the heavier it became. Did Whuppity want revenge on the husband for trapping her in it?

I asked her what she’d give me in exchange for my help. She stared back blankly. After a few moments of confused silence, I told her that she’d have to give me anything I asked for, and in exchange I’d give her vengeance.

The man really should’ve left earlier. Whuppity nodded ever so slightly, if I wasn’t paying attention I would’ve missed it.

I threw the book in front of the man and the pages began to flip over with dizzying speed, skimming over the fantastical landscapes he had no doubt created himself to be Whuppity’s prison. He shouldn’t be too bothered by it then. He realised what was going on too late to run. The flipping pages created a vortex of sorts, a magnetic pull that he didn’t have the strength to resist.

When the tip of his finger disappeared into the spine, the book snapped shut and the cover changed. On top of the waterfall, overlooking the strange city, was a balding, miserable man.

I kept the book as insurance. I reminded Whuppity, more harshly than I’d intended, that should she renege on her side of our deal, I’d release him.

Should I have acted as I did? Was it my place to interfere? Couldn’t I just have destroyed the book and washed my hands of the whole situation? Perhaps that’s what a Madam Norna would’ve done. Perhaps that’s what I should’ve done. Why do I feel like I chose to be more like Madam Anora? Rather than altruistic I was self-serving. Whuppity owes me a favour. I have no idea what I’m going to ask for, if I ever will, but I get the sense that I may need it someday. Madam Norna’s can be left with nothing for their work, for their sacrificed lives, but I don’t intend to be the same.

Scots-ish version

Sometimes, all ye need is time tae yourself. A rare commodity in the shop these days. Before anyone starts thinkin’ the worst, Fionn is still in the shop. He’s taking tae spendin’ a lot ae his time in storage. He’s probably been through all ae the items in the shop a hundred times over by this point and needs new ‘hings tae look at. What better way tae waste time than by gettin’ lost in storage? Chronos and I take turns checkin’ he’s still in one piece because neither ae us know the small print on ma deal wi’ Death. Only alive was stipulated, how did that work if he was mauled tae “death” by a storage monster?

Reid, as you’ve probably guessed, is wi’ his boyfriend. No, girlfriend. No, no, definitely boyfriend…or was it a thruple this week? I’ve officially lost track, and a few bets wi’ Fionn, and now Chronos has joined in. Let’s just say the only fox I regularly see is the one on ma ring.

It does mean I’ve had a few rare days ae complete solitude in the shop, and recently somethin’s been sticking oot. The book. The one wi’ the strange landscapes and deceptive words. The one wi’ ma name in it. The one the red-haired lassie was inside, and is noo roaming aroond because I couldnae keep ma curiosity in check.

I began tae leave it lying aroond in the hopes that someone, I didnae care if it was a customer or not, would see it and give me all the answers I need. Nope. That books’ like the bloody shop, except worse. Only I can see it! I’ve almost given up, there’s no way I’m ever gonnae figure oot her name unless someone tells me.

I say that but I’ve kept ma ears open. That was how I found her the last time, a pal ae a pal, but whit’s the chances ae bein’ that lucky the next time? And whit’s the point? I still dinnae know her name tae put her back in the damned book.

I still keep it within sight, as if I’m punishin’ maself.

Thankfully I had better ‘hings tae worry aboot that day. One ae ma pals is a member ae the drama club at uni, and that night I’d been invited tae their performance at the student union. I’d already been tae a few and they were always a good laugh, although whether that was the performances or the free flowin’ booze was up fae debate. Regardless I was in fae a good night.

The stage is set, complete wi’ red velvet curtain. People sit at wee round tables wi’ their pints taking up most ae the space. The room is dark, the stage casting shadows all the way tae the bar. The theme ae the performances are Scottish folk tales. The ensemble cast comes oot dressed as kelpies, brownies, old hags, and well-known ghosts. The audience laughs and sniggers where appropriate, because whit’s a good Scottish legend withoot humour?

I take a sip ae ma drink and wait fae the next tale tae come on. A man dressed as a pig, complete wi’ curly tail, a woman wi’ mob cap and apron, and a 6 foot tall lad in clothes that were a few hundred sizes too wee fae him entered; the narrator an ever present guide at the side ae the stage.

The pig-boy laid on the ground, belly up, his four trotter-feet pointin’ up as if he’d been knocked over by a quadbike on the farm. The woman and 6-foot tall lad, who we were told was her “wee laddie” or her son, fretted over the swine.

The narrator tells us that this is an auld wife whose husband went away fae market day and never came back, leavin’ her wi only her wee laddie and a single pig. The pig, by the looks ae it, was on its last legs, which wouldae been bad enough if it werenae pregnant. If it died, her entire source ae income fae all the pigs would be gone. She fretted and fretted until she saw a mysterious figure walk doon the road.

Enter stage left ma pal, adorned wi’ green velvet dress, flamin’ ginger hair, and a strange misshapen staff. She approached the auld wife, her wee laddie, and the sickly pig and announced that she knew all aboot whit was happenin and how terrible it was. But the auld wife didnae need tae fret because she had just the solution.

The auld wife in disbelief asked her if she could really help fix the pig.

The red-haired lassie nodded vigorously, but inquired whit she’d get in return fae savin’ the swine.

The next words will haunt ma nightmares tae the end ae time.

“I’ll give ye anythin’!” the auld wife cries.

Aye, that always ends well. Satisfied wi’ the answer the red-haired lassie steps towards the pig, produces a small glass bottle wi’ black liquid in and puts three drops intae the creature’s ear, or the flap ae fabric that was supposed tae be its ear. Immediately the man-pig jumped up on all four trotters and started makin’ oinkin’ noises tae show it’d fully recovered.

The auld wife was ecstatic and thanked the red-haired lassie, askin’ whit it was that she wanted. Food, clothes, drink?

The answer was a shake ae the heid and a pointed stare at the wee laddie. She’d take him.

The auld wife’s face fell in dismay as she protested. A deal is a deal, a promise is a promise, the red-haired lassie reminded. The auld wife began tae cry. The lassie relented a wee bit, and said that if the auld wife could come up wi’ her real name in three days, then her wee laddie would be returned tae her.

If this is ringin’ bells in anyone’s mind then they’re no alone.

Fae two days the auld wife greeted and fretted and knew there was nothin’ she could do. On the third day she rose and went on a walk through the woods where she used tae bring her wee laddie. She followed the sounds ae water, ae a stream, and began tae hear singin’. The voice belonged tae the red-haired lassie, who sat beside the stream spinnin’ wool on her wheel. The song, conveniently, had her name in it.

The auld wife snuck away and bided her time until the lassie returned. On her third guess, the auld wife told the red-haired creature her name and the wee laddie was returned tae his mother. Thwarted, the lassie retreated and was never seen again.

Except I knew differently. Somehow she’d ended up trapped in a book in the shop. And that red-haired bitch’s name was Whuppity Stoorie. I’ll admit, I’d never heard ae this folktale, one ae many no doubt. It’s more or less the Scottish version ae Rumpelstiltskin.

I barely sat through the rest ae the performances, burnin’ tae leave and track Whuppity doon and finally get her back in that damned book. But I had tae wait tae the next day when I could go and get the book fae the shop.

After the performances were over and I was a few glasses deep in drink, I helped ma pal get oot ae her various costumes and makeup. As everyone was sayin’ goodbye at the end ae the night I was standin’ a wee bit away fae the entrance, wonderin’ if I was gonnae make it home withoot fallin’ over. I felt a presence but the drink prevented me fae getting’ startled. I knew who it was, the woman has a presence. Madam Anora stood a few feet away, lookin at me bemusedly, no doubt also wonderin if I was gonnae fall doon.

I slurred out words demandin’ tae know why she was here. She complimented ma pals’ performance, but mused that the story we’d been told aboot the Whuppity Stoorie wasnae all there was tae it. Like most things in this world, there was more than there appeared.

Lookin’ back on this interaction I’m no sure it was even real, or a hallucination. Ma pal called me over so we could get a taxi, but when I turned back aroond tae tell Madam Anora where tae go there was nothin’ but shadows. I stumbled back over tae ma pal, hopin’ I’d be too drunk tae remember the encounter. Which obviously, I wasnae.

The next evening, wi’ a wee bit ae a hangover, I nip intae the shop tae get the book and head tae the last place I’d heard mention ae her. Another pub, different tae the last one, barely within the city bounds. I open the door, assumin’ I’m gonnae have a long wait on ma hands tae confirm if she’s still hauntin’ this place, when I see a flash ae red-hair and the shimmer ae a green velvet dress headin’ oot the opposite side ae the pub tae where the toilets are.

I quickly squeeze in between the already formin’ crowd, there’s a big football match on and everyone’s clamourin’ tae get a better look at the screen. I finally get tae the back where she’s disappeared only tae hear the clink ae the fire escape door close. The alarm hasnae gone aff, so I follow. It doesn’t occur tae me that she might ae silenced the alarm, but I’m relieved when I push the bar and open the door tae silence.

I’m spat intae a side alley wi uneven cobbles waitin’ tae trip up the unsuspecting, and industrial sized bins pushed intae bare brick walls so bin lorries can squeeze past once a week. Over the slammin ae taxi doors and clip ae high heels on pavements, I can hear two people hissin’ at each other. I immediately think it’s Whuppity up tae her old tricks, tryin’ tae manipulate someone intae givin’ her somethin’ ae worth. I’m hidden by a large bin, and when I emerge ontae the cobbles I indeed find Whuppity talkin’ tae someone, a middle-aged man whose baldin’ head caught the amber light trickling doon the alley fae the main street.

I proudly announced that she could stop noo, that it was all over, that I knew her name. Whuppity whipped roond tae me, a storm ae emotions runnin’ across her delicate features before she landed on pleading. I smirked. I’d won, finally, after all ae these months. I wasnae such a fuck-up after all.

I told the older man that he could go, and that whitever she’d offered him wasnae worth what she’d take fae him. He looks at me blankly when Whuppity begins tae beg me no tae put her back in the book and that I dinnae understand whit I’ve walked intae. By this stage I’m fishin the book oot ae ma bag, unable tae stop smilin’. The more desperate she sounds the happier I become. I anticipate the great burden bein lifted aff ma shoulders, no more book, no more thinkin’ aboot her red hair and green velvet dress, no more frustration at no bein’ able tae talk aboot it or get help. No more feelin’ like an absolute roaster, at least concernin’ this.

Whuppity eventually surmises that I mustae heard the story, the folktale that she’s in, and she tells me that it’s no true. She didnae trick the auld wife and steal her laddie, that was all a lie that was made up tae discredit her. This caught ma attention and ma smirk began tae falter.

Whit did she mean?

The older man, still standin’ in the background, mutters under his breath that she would say that. It’s no so much that he’s said anything that bothers me, it’s that he’s still here. Why hasn’t he left? I could feel ma elation dampen as I began tae really look at the situation before me.

Whuppity says that the tale about her isnae true, that it was all a lie made up by the auld wife’s absent husband. In reality she and Whuppity were pals. Yes, she helped her wi’ things like the pig but it was never in exchange fae anythin’ as extreme as her bairn. The husband had only married the auld wife fae her money, and regularly left her home alone tae fend fae herself. Whuppity eventually found oot that he planned tae kill his wife after they’d had a son because their pre-nuptial contract stated that the husband wouldnae get any ae the money she had in a family trust should she die withoot bairns. Since she had a son, he would inherit the trust when he came ae age, in the meantime it’d essentially be the husband’s.

Ma smile had all but died. Should I believe her? Could I? People will say anythin’ in a desperate situation.

Whuppity pointed tae the middle-aged man she’d been talkin’ tae and stated that he was the husband in the tale. After she’d saved the auld wife fae his grasp he’d trapped her in the book as revenge and made up the tale so if she ever was freed in the future no one would ever trust her.

There’s no exactly a date on the folktale, but I must say the man was lookin’ pretty good fae someone that mustae been a few hundred years old. No as good as the Madams, but still impressive.

The old man snorted in derision and refuted the claims, sayin’ that it was a folktale, a fable, werenae they all made up?

I didae need Madam Anora’s cryptic warnin’ that night tae tell me that somethin’ wasnae right. She’d said the tale wasnae as it appeared, which fit intae Whuppity’s narrative. Why Anora had interfered at all was somethin’ tae think aboot later.

I felt the book’s weight in ma hands, and the more I hesitated the heavier it became. Did Whuppity want revenge on the husband fae trapping her in it?

I asked her whit she’d give me in exchange fae ma help. She stared back blankly. After a few moments ae confused silence I told her that she’d have tae give me anythin’ I asked for, and in exchange I’d give her vengeance.

The man really shouldae left earlier. Whuppity nodded ever so slightly, if I wasne payin’ attention I wouldae missed it.

I threw the book in front ae the man and the pages began tae flip over wi’ dizzying speed, skimmin’ over the fantastical landscapes he had no doubt created himself tae be Whuppity’s prison. He shouldnae be too bothered by it then. he realised whit was goin’ on too late tae run. The flippin’ pages created a vortex ae sorts, a magnetic pull that he didnae have the strength tae resist.

When the tip ae his finger disappeared intae the spine, the book snapped shut and the cover changed. On top ae the waterfall, overlookin’ the strange city, was a baldin’, miserable man.

I kept the book as insurance. I reminded Whuppity, more harshly than I’d intended, that should she renege on her side ae our deal, I’d release him.

Should I have acted as I did? Was it ma place tae interfere? Couldnae I just have destroyed the book and washed ma hands ae the whole situation? Perhaps that what a Madam Norna wouldae done. Perhaps that’s what I shouldae done. Why do I feel like I chose tae be more like Madam Anora? Rather than altruistic I was self-serving? Whuppity owes me a favour. I have no idea whit I’m gonnae ask fae, if I ever will, but I get the sense that I may need it someday. Madam Norna’s can be left wi’ nothin’ fae their work, fae their sacrificed lives, but I dinnae intend tae be the same.

Iona Tulloch travels to the city from her family’s estate in the Highlands on a mission she has no choice but to accept. She finds two supernatural factions locked in a territory war over every pavement slab and building. Despite her family’s policy of remaining a neutral entity, there are things they don’t know, facts that ensure remaining free of the conflict is near impossible. Forced to stay in a city that holds bad memories,and completing tasks she deems beneath her, Iona has to learn what it truly means to be a Tulloch witch.

Chapter 1

If you look hard enough, you’ll find a skeleton in everyone’s memory. If you’re particularly unlucky you may find more. Some skeletons were more grotesque than others, and Iona was sure her steadily growing gang would win against most rivals. No Tulloch witch could live their life without collecting a few here and there, and she had begun early on. It was one thing to know they were there, but it was another to acknowledge their presence, to recall the memory where they were born. On that day, a month after she had arrived in the city, she visited one of her skeletons.

They lived in a home where they were given the best care money could buy and looked after for every waking moment. Iona had been very young when she had been dragged here the first time. Now she went voluntarily. Perhaps it was to torture herself, or perhaps she wanted a reminder of what her arrogant pride could accomplish. More reasons were bobbing erratically near the surface of her mind but she ignored them and entered the care home before she could change her mind and return to the shop. When she went inside, she gravitated her way to the reception and gave the name of the person she was there to see. As they were checking their database for a list of residents, Iona took the opportunity to look around at the welcome foyer.

It hadn’t changed much since she had been forced inside long ago. There was a community notice board with flyers announcing comedy and film nights, some dancing classes, and a few reminders about lost belongings. The colours of the walls were off-white, a few markings here and there that stood out sorely. The lino on the floor was scuffed and gouged in places, with corners sporadically missing. It appeared to Iona that it needed updating.

The receptionist announced she had found the resident Iona had requested to see and told her to go straight through to the day room, pointing in its direction past the grand staircase. Taking a deep breath to calm her quaking nerves, Iona walked further into the closet her family had chosen to keep one of her skeletons in. 

As she neared a large room that had a TV on with an old musical playing and some conversations merging with each other to create a cacophony of confusion, one of the staff members, dressed in nurse white and blue, approached her and asked who she was here to see. After telling the nurse the name her gaze was directed to a lone woman sitting in a substantial armchair that looked out into the lavishly maintained garden, with some flowers still in bloom.

“Have you visited before?” the nurse queried tonelessly, better than her counterpart in the hospital at hiding her judgement.

“Not in a long time,” Iona breathed as she stared at the woman she had come to see.

The nurse nodded slowly out of habit rather than empathy. Every time Iona walked into a health care establishment it seemed she was to be judged by the staff for being neglectful.

“Come with me and we’ll see how she’s feeling today.”

A part of Iona wanted her to be feeling bad so she would have a valid excuse to leave. In the years since she’d been here, Iona had forgotten how stifling it was. There were many old people sitting in chairs talking with each other, speaking with other visitors who had come, and some just staring blankly into space, as if their body was vacant of their soul. It smelled of detergent and other cleaning products, with the smallest musty hint of age. Most of the residents were white haired and wrinkled, with the few exceptions whose hair retained most of its colour. It was a bright room filled with delicate paintings of landscapes and abstract flowerpots, some cards sat on tables from loved ones sending birthday wishes or get better soon sentiments. It did not appear to be a nasty place, like the news reported about care homes near on a daily basis, but everything was rather generic, there was no personality and no warmth of familiarity.

Iona followed meekly behind the nurse as she approached the woman in the armchair. Some brief words were exchanged before the nurse nodded to indicate she could approach. When she did the nurse disappeared. The face that stared out into space was one that she had not seen in many years, and one that still plodded around in her dreams from time to time. It was not as old and creased as many of the other residents that surrounded them, her hair was not as faded to white or grey, but now it had patches and streaks drawn neatly through, beginning from her temples and widow’s peak. The vacant gaze didn’t draw away from the garden, and even when Iona pulled a chair they didn’t move to acknowledge or greet.

She looked over how much the woman had changed, what she had transformed into from her former self. The guilt had been unbearable back then, and in the interim Iona had managed to forget about it, had been able to lock the skeleton in a memory that she never opened, but now she was in its presence, looking her skeleton straight in the eye, she thought the crushing sense of guilt would finish her. How had it grown in strength over the years? Wasn’t remorse meant to subside over time?

At first, she didn’t know what to say, or if there was any point in saying anything at all when it was clear she wouldn’t get a response. The silence was heavy, and still the woman gazed out into the garden.

“It’s been a while,” Iona rasped, “I’m sorry for that.”

Along with many other things, she thought darkly.

“Have ye been keeping well? Do the staff treat ye kindly?”

She knew they were all rhetorical questions for she would get no answers from the person she was asking. Exhaling slowly, Iona ignored her urge to flee as fast as she could. Children didn’t take responsibility for their actions because they didn’t have to, they could turn away and pretend it never happened. Iona was no longer a child, not that she had been back then either, but the shop had been placed under her care now, and after all of the years denying and trying to forget, perhaps it was time to let the skeleton free, if she could. 

“Everything’s well with the shop, despite Duncan’s best attempts. I feel as though there are more and more customers every day. It’s more exhausting than I thought.”

Suddenly a small commotion broke out in the day room between an older man and a younger woman. She began to sob uncontrollably whilst the man was ranting about one thing or another. Many questions were bandied about but one that Iona could hear involved the man asking who the woman was. She wondered if her skeleton would recognise her now, but instead her gaze remained concentrated on the garden. It felt as if there was no longer anyone in there, that the body was just vacant, running on a shell of what used to be inside. In that moment Iona felt more alone than she ever had before. So far away from home with no one to speak to or hear advice from, her time in the city was turning into a lonely existence.

“They’ve tried to drag me into the war, although it seems they succeeded with Duncan. We all know ye were far too clever for anything like that, though. I don’t understand why he did it. He was selling the relics for money, and I can’t fathom why. Did he ever come here? Did he ever tell ye?”

There were so many questions to be asked and yet no one capable of answering them. It only served to sadden her more. She managed to stay a while longer talking about random things that had happened, new customers who thought her herbal remedies were something sent from God, and others who paid too much money for a fake relic Iona had forgotten to remove. Normal conversation was draining, but a one-sided talk was an uphill struggle. Not once did the older woman in the chair move from her position, or acknowledge Iona’s presence. Instinctively she wrapped her hand around the woman’s and squeezed.

“I’ll visit again soon, I promise.”

Receiving no reaction Iona stood up and went to leave when the nurse who had shown her in stopped her briefly at the door.

“Was everything alright?” she queried politely, a smile shaping her mouth.

“Yes, thank ye.”

“Good, maybe she’ll perk up a bit now that she has two visitors.”

“Two?” Iona asked, masking the suspicion from her tone.

“We have volunteers who visit us every week, and one of them always pays her great attention. I think they took pity.”

At least she hadn’t been completely alone since she was condemned to the care home. Iona nodded absently and headed for the door, suddenly needing to feel the fresh air in her lungs and on her irritated, dry skin.

***

The shop had only been open a few hours when her next problem was blown in with the steadily growing winter chill. Many people often seemed reluctant to cross the threshold, as if it had taken them great strength to do so in the first place, only to instantly regret it when the scent of incense and dried herbs struck them in the face. In a world of rapidly evolving technology and attitudes, the Tulloch line of work was receding more and more into the shadows. It was a man who had stumbled in, looking around him with unintentional curiosity, as if trying to make up his mind what he had decided to wander into. Iona had glanced up from the customer log that she was filling in, and the handful of other customers had also stopped their browsing to look at the new entrant. She watched him carefully from behind the counter as he made his way through the arch and into the main room of the shop.

When Iona was younger, she had always found it fascinating how her grandparents, and the rest of her family, had sensed when a true customer had come through the door. Some just came in to pass the time, others were looking for odd gifts to give relatives that wasn’t a box of chocolates, and others had come in genuinely believing in the healing power of crystals and herbal concoctions. However, there was only one type of customer that was truly interesting, and that was those who needed help of a more individual nature. They always stood out from the rest in that they had a sense of bewilderment about them. If she could capture their thoughts at the time of their entering the shop, she was sure it would be one single question. 

How did I get here? 

As Iona grew up, she realised that the rest of her family didn’t have some extra sixth sense that told them the difference between customers. It was simply a matter of observation.

Eventually the man’s gaze found Iona standing beside the desk, pretending to fill in the customer log when it had long since lost its interest.

“Excuse me,” he said politely as he moved closer, “I was wondering if you could help me.”

“What with?”

“I’m having some trouble concentrating on things, and I was just hoping there would be some herbal remedy to help me focus.”

Iona often thought what it would be like to be a qualified medical doctor. Did they get the same statements said to them on a daily basis like she did? Did their patients expect a magical drug to cure their ailments? She took a moment to observe the man. He was young, perhaps having only recently seen the front end of thirty, with neat cropped hair that smelled of styling product. He was well dressed with pressed shirt and tie, but no wedding ring, so he took personal care in his appearance. Following on she noticed his clean-shaven square jaw that showed no signs of an evening shadow, and radiant skin that a fifty-year-old would be envious of. Everything from his broad shoulders to straining shirt buttons announced that he was a regular attendant of a gym. From all appearances it seemed as though he had his life in very good order. Someone who exercised regularly and undertook what she assumed to be a daily moisturising program shouldn’t have problems concentrating on anything. Iona glanced into his eyes and found them dilated, which if she had been anyone else would have evoked thoughts of drugs, but since she was a Tulloch it brought stranger ones. There was the beginning of red at the corners of his eyes, and he looked a small nudge away from going mad.

A memory dusted itself off and came to the forefront of her mind. She had seen something very similar before. It was when she had been in secondary school. A teen magazine, for fun, had published a so-called love spell that would make any boy fall at the girl who cast its feet. The magazine couldn’t possibly have known that it was real, to an extent. She had seen a boy in her year exhibit the same symptoms as the man before her. She restrained her sigh.

“When did this problem start?” she queried.

“A few days ago,” he answered after a moment of thought.

The timeline was too short. If it was the spell she suspected he shouldn’t be acting like this until at least a week, if not more, after it had been cast. Shifting around her priorities she made a new line in the customer book.

“There is something I can give ye that will help, although it may take me a day or two to make. Could I take a name and some contact details?”

“My name’s Philip MacBride,” he told her then relayed her a phone number she could get him on.

She managed to swindle his date of birth by saying some of the ingredients weren’t legally allowed to be given to anyone younger than eighteen, which he had seemed surprised about but agreed, so desperate to cure his apparent malady. All she needed was his name and date of birth, the others were just a formality. He thanked her and left the shop.  She looked after him and took a deep breath in. Life was never dull in the city.

***

There were many quotes about love dashed all over famous and infamous literature alike. Poems, songs, and novels had all been written about it many times over in thousands of different languages and styles. Humanity was obsessed with it, as if it were the ultimate goal in everyone’s life. Some were desperate enough to seek a solution through unnatural ways. However, one lesson learned by every Tulloch witch was that emotions and feelings could not be conjured by magic. Manipulation was about as far as their power would stretch, but making someone fall in love with someone else was a magical impossibility. It couldn’t be done. 

This didn’t mean the occasional witch hadn’t tried. There were a few love spells floating around, but love was used very broadly. Obsession, idolisation, and mania were all consequences of such spells. The enchantment that had been released in the latest edition of the teen magazine published when she was younger had evoked obsession, and it appeared that Philip MacBride was the latest victim.

In the small town where she had grown up it had been easy to find the teenager who had cast it on her school fellow. In the Highlands, witching families and their descendants were still well known, hence her family had confronted the caster and cured the boy without lifting a finger. In a city full of spiritualists all with access to grimoires and other materials it would be like finding a cream tile amongst white. It was a good thing a Tulloch never refused a challenge.

There was a spell, one of the very oldest in the Tulloch collection back on the main estate. She had seen it only a handful of times, held it in her hands using white gloves so as not to damage the paper it had been written on. Her grandmother had said it went back thousands of years, passed down from one Tulloch to the next by word of mouth before someone had made it more permanent. Taking the piece of paper Phillip MacBride’s details were written on, she placed it down on the ground before where she sat cross legged. The shop was closed for the morning so she could concentrate better on the spell, and so she wasn’t interrupted by trivial matters. In the back room, that only rare customers were permitted into, she drew two crude looking eyes on the uneven palms of her hands with jet black kohl. As soon as she had finished, the tattoos on her arms began to tingle in anticipation, as if they sensed the power already pulsating through the air.

Taking a deep breath, she hovered her hands over the piece of paper and stilled her mind, emptying it of other mundane, foolish thoughts. She pictured Mr MacBride’s face, his build, all of the small details she had noticed, including the niggling signs of an enchantment. Slowly she placed her hands over her eyes, enveloping her consciousness in darkness. The shop let her go, and when the veil of murk lifted, she was in an office.

People dressed in mono-colour shirts sat at small desks littered with lost hopes and graveyard dreams. Women curled their toes having discarded their high heels on the floor whilst they sat typing or looking at emails. The new world around Iona was fuzzy, as if she needed glasses but refused to wear them. She could make out people, shapes, objects, and faces, but nothing was as it should have been, there was very little detail, and the air itself was blurred. Amidst the uncertainty she recognised a familiar face. Phillip MacBride sat at his desk, a half-emptied cup of coffee perched at his side whilst he stared at the computer screen in front of him as though it was the centre of the world.

She realised very soon that he was not staring at what was on the screen, but rather his eyes were pointing in that direction and his mind was elsewhere entirely. He had said that he couldn’t concentrate, and the blank look he gifted the screen was proof enough. Iona began to look around the office at his colleagues. Anyone had the power to cast a stupid spell, but there was something more severe about the one cast on MacBride. It had taken hold far too quickly for an amateur to have cast it. The spiritualists were everywhere in the city, and not everyone could live and breathe in the bar they used as the nucleus for their cult. It was unlikely to be anyone outside of the office, she reasoned. It should be someone that had regular contact with MacBride, someone who had taken notice of him, become entranced and fixated enough to seek out a love spell. Iona’s eyes continued to scan. It wasn’t long before she found them.

It was a man, sitting at a corner desk near the window. She knew because he was the only one in focus. Her spell had been to find the caster of the enchantment by anchoring itself to the enchanted. Every so often the young man, no doubt one of many spiritualists, glanced at MacBride, then quickly away.  If she could see into his thoughts, she knew they would be full of hope, waiting for the object of his desire to come over and sweep him off his feet, declare love, and announce they were now a couple. Only naïve people cast love spells, and they were all naïve thoughts.

He was young, possibly younger than she was, with a fresh face and scrawny build. He wore square glasses that drowned his lean face, and the shirt he wore was baggy in every place she could see. He was plain in every definition of the word, and by his choice to cast a love spell lacking in self-confidence. Looking closer she tried to discern his name from the documents she saw lying on his desk. Adam Beattie. He seemed rather pleased with himself, allowing his mind to no doubt wander to the brilliant future he was going to have with his co-worker. Iona didn’t take joy in crushing the dreams of others, but someone needed to step in and break the enchantment before Phillip MacBride lost his mind.

***

The spell used on MacBride was crude in its nature, but far too powerful than it should have been. It caused obsession. The subject of the spell couldn’t stop thinking about the one who had cast it. The thoughts weren’t on anything in particular, although there was no possible way of knowing how it worked on each individual, but they were constant and unrelenting. There was room for nothing else, no other thoughts, so day to day living became a struggle, as did everything else. Nothing good ever came of the spells, and at one time in their history they were cast on unfaithful spouses to punish them for their infidelity. Spells of a similar nature occurred anywhere from a teenager’s magazine to a badly worded poem. The force that had policed the release and use of spells had declined so rapidly that the spells themselves were permitted to roam the earth in relative freedom, until one was used so badly it came to the community’s attention. It had been a while since she had been a part of such an occurrence, and back then she had simply been an observer.

Things were different now. She was alone in a city full of opportunities to use controlling and dangerous spells, and she was the only one who had the power to stop them. There was only one cure for a so-called love spell.  It needed to be broken by the one who had cast it in the first place. All hope was not lost for Phillip MacBride, there were various concoctions he could take that would protect him for a while, but it wasn’t a permanent solution. The only way was to persuade Adam Beattie to release the object of his affection from the web he had ensnared him in.

Iona had seen the name of the company on some papers scattered around Beattie’s desk and so after a walk through the park and an unfamiliar part of the city she finally came across the large multi-storey building. Like most of the new buildings that had been erected in the rapidly expanding metropolis the façade of the one she stood before was almost entirely made of glass. She had never seen so many windows. Despite the sky being clouded over in typical autumn fashion, the panes still reflected what sparse daylight there was available before winter slowly marched in. It was not made of the dull grey that the other companies had chosen, or what was left as a remnant of a time gone by. It had a modern feel from the automatic doors to the security barriers at the entrance. Workers in suits and heels hurried by after taking a long lunch. Iona stood and wondered how she would meet Adam Beattie.  It would take too long to wait until he clocked off, but she doubted going into reception and asking for his name would work very well either. As she was thinking she sensed a presence, different from the mundane hum of mortals that was usually in the background. She had sensed it before, not too long ago.

Shifting her eyes around she stifled an exasperated groan when her gaze set upon Leif Morrison, walking towards her with someone who resembled him too much not to be related. It was too late for her to hide because he had already spotted her, and a retreat was out of the question. Trying to keep her mind centred she waited until both men had reached her.

“I never thought to find you standing out here,” Mr Morrison announced as he reached her, a small smile playing on his lips.

The Morrison family’s real estate business stretched far and wide, causing her to assume that the building she lingered in front of probably belonged to them. It appeared that her life in the city was not permitting her to be long out of the company of the Morrisons.

“Allow me to introduce my younger brother, Albin,” Leif Morrison motioned to the man standing at his side.

Where Harold and Leif looked like mature adults, Albin still had something of a juvenility about him. The roundness of his eyes, the lack of growth on his chin, or the slenderness of his build, all of them contributed to a youthful appearance.  She was by no means fooled – he would be older than her grandparents. His features were softer than either of his brothers, and his eyes were nowhere near as sharp as Harold’s or as inviting as Leif’s. It was strange, they were transparent, comfortable, with an ease that she envied for almost a second.

“I had heard there was a new Tulloch in the shop,” the youngest brother said amiably.

How many more Morrisons could she expect to ambush her in the middle of the day? She smiled thinly in return but said nothing. Introductions on her part evidently weren’t necessary.

“Are you here on business?” Albin queried.

“You can ask but she won’t give you an answer,” Leif told his brother, a hint of mirth in his tone, “Miss Tulloch is very tight lipped.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she retorted dryly.

“As it was intended. Albin, you go on ahead, I have something further to take care of.”

The youngest Morrison brother glanced briefly at Iona, as if gauging her involvement, before nodding briefly and leaving the two of them alone. She had hoped that the coffee in the park would be their last incognito meeting, but she sensed the middle Morrison had something else on his agenda.

“You’re here about MacBride, aren’t you?”

She was taken aback. How could he possibly know of that name? She tried to keep her composure as her mind scrambled through all of the ways he could have found out, but nothing immediately came to mind.

“It’s not a secret. I can tell you how I know if you simply ask.”

Mr Morrison was enjoying himself immensely at her expense. The warm eyes sparked with amusement, as if he could see past the mask of calm and into the swarm of panic.

“How?” she muttered stubbornly.

“I was the one who sent him to you.”

She vaguely remembered MacBride telling her he’d heard that her shop procured herbal remedies, she just assumed he had heard it from another mortal. What was Mr Morrison’s connection with her customer? Were they so close that MacBride had confided in the immortal that he was having trouble concentrating?

“Did ye know what was wrong with him before ye sent him to me?” she questioned.

“No, not for certain but I had my suspicions. You can’t live as long as I have without seeing similar symptoms. It’s an enchantment, isn’t it?”

Reluctantly she nodded, refusing to give any more details until she got some of her own.

“How do ye know him?”

“We’ve met a few times for work. He was meant to be promoted this month to a manager, but his performance suddenly dropped, as did his concentration. He seems like a diligent worker, and when I met him a few days ago I knew something had happened. Are you here to speak with him more,” he paused looking at the building and then back to her, “or have you found the culprit?”

Stubbornly she remained quiet. He may be involved with her customer but she refused to tell him about the culprit, especially given that they were a spiritualist.

“I can help if it is,” he offered.

She glanced at him, tempted. Surely everyone would recognise the Morrison name, perhaps he could get her into the building without warning Beattie that she had arrived. After the extension of his offer she was torn. Tullochs worked alone, with blood, or with the occasional other witch, they did not ask for help from an immortal. She knew she hadn’t asked directly, but receiving help was still along the same lines.  Who was more important; her pride, or Phillip MacBride’s mind?

“There’s an employee I need to see,” she sighed in defeat, “He works in the same office as Mr MacBride.”

“I can get him for you,” Mr Morrison motioned in the direction of the entrance.

Iona followed him through the doors and to the reception desk where a smartly dressed woman with neatly pinned up hair stood smiling, ready to serve.

“Good afternoon, Mr Morrison. Was there something else you needed?” she questioned politely, recognising the middle son of a family she thought were simply rich, and not immortal.

“Yes, there was,” Leif smiled at the receptionist, “could you ask a-”

Leif stopped and briefly turned his face to look at her, expecting the name of the employee.

“Adam Beattie,” she muttered.

“A…..Adam Beattie,” Mr Morrison stumbled over the words before regaining his composure, “Could you ask him to come down to reception please?”

“Yes, of course,” she smiled whilst picking up the phone.

Mr Morrison leaned away from the counter and closer towards where Iona stood, looking around him casually.

“You couldn’t have warned me?” he muttered exasperatedly.

She refused to admit that it gave her a small sense of triumph that she had played Leif Morrison at his own game, just once. She shrugged in reply, eliciting a brief snort of humour.

“He’ll be right down,” the young receptionist announced.

Mr Morrison thanked her politely before turning to Iona.

“There you are. I hope it goes well.”

She was grateful that he didn’t linger. It was unclear whether Mr Morrison had put two and two together and guessed the employee of interest was a spiritualist, hence things would be difficult if his presence continued, or whether he simply didn’t wish to impinge on her task by being a long shadow at her back.

“Thank ye,” she uttered.

He smiled at her before walking off, and she found herself staring at his back for longer than was necessary. He was steadily growing into a mystery. Why was he helping her and wanting nothing in return? Did he intend to open a tab in her name so he could collect at a later date? Her mind naturally turned suspicious, but only time would tell if the middle Morrison brother had an agenda or not.

 A few minutes later Adam Beattie shuffled out of the lift and arrived at reception, looking around him with some confusion. After speaking to the receptionist, he glanced over at her and she could sense, even from a few paces away, that his muscles had tensed in fear. She thought he would run away. Gingerly, he made his way over to her, dragging his feet like a schoolboy knowing they were about to be scolded.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Tulloch,” he spoke in almost a whisper, his bespectacled eyes staring fixed on the ground, he then shook his head and blinked a few more times than was necessary, “although I’m not supposed to be saying that.”

His words evoked a memory she would rather forget, and a decision that would continue to haunt her for as long as she remained in the city. As she had expected all of the spiritualists had been told of her misdeed, and all were no doubt commanded to be her enemy.

“I’d like to speak to ye about something, Mr Beattie. Would ye mind coming outside with me?”

He looked at her for the first time, doubt clouding his enlarged brown eyes. She had killed one of his comrades with as much ease as she would swat a fly, so his reluctance was understandable, but there was no other way she could think of getting him away from the earshot of mortals.

“I promise I’m not here to hurt ye,” she reassured, “It’s about Phillip MacBride.”

He relaxed at the mention of the name and slowly followed her through the doors outside into the autumn chill. They found a bench that looked as though it was a regular smoking area for a few of the employees.

“I understand that ye know Phillip MacBride,” she prompted, not wishing to tell him she knew that they worked in the same office.

“Yes, very well. How do you know him?”

“He came to my shop the other day with a complaint and asked for my help.”

Adam Beattie’s eyes returned to the ground in front of them as if he were counting the number of cigarette butts discarded carelessly there. He did not appear to be a cunning man, nor did he seem powerful enough to cast the spell that had been put on Mr MacBride.  Looks could be deceiving but his presence was weak at best, his power just a flickering tea light someone used when the electricity had gone out.

“W…what complaint?” he stuttered, refusing to make eye contact.

By his tone she was unsure whether he knew about the side effects of the spell he had cast.  They rarely came with a list.

“He said he couldn’t concentrate on anything at work,” she began with the truth, “and that one of his colleagues was never far from his mind, even when he didn’t wish to think of them. I’ve rarely seen someone look so depressed. Mr MacBride was in line for a promotion but because his poor performance at work they gave it to someone else. He was quite distraught.”

Thankfully Adam Beattie seemed a naïve sort, still of a young age when he thought that everything could be gained with magic and there were no consequences waiting for him at the end of it. His feelings for Mr MacBride were pure enough, love spells usually began with the best intentions, and so exaggerating the truth was a plausible way of getting the information she wanted without resorting to the threatening manner she had a budding reputation for.

“No,” he whispered involuntarily.

“I think ye know why I’m here speaking with ye, Adam,” she announced gently.

He picked up his head to look at her, his face ashen with regret. Removing his glasses he began to rub at his eyes, wiping away the moisture that had filled them.

“It wasn’t meant to turn out like this,” he said, his voice tight with emotion.

They never are, she thought.

“I love him, very much,” he turned to her in desperation, a hint of pleading swimming in his eyes with the tears, “I didn’t mean for the spell to hurt him.”

“I know,” she replied gently.

“What can you do to fix him?”

“I can only do so much, the responsibility of setting him free lies with the one who cast the spell.”

Her own enchantment had shown that Adam Beattie was the origin of MacBride’s current predicament, but she was under no pretence that he knew anything about the spell he had cast. She was certain it wouldn’t have come from a grimoire just lying around, it was too powerful for that, and powerful spells were carefully guarded. On the other hand, Beattie looked torn.

“W…will he ever…feel that way?” he uttered so quietly she had to strain to hear.

How many mortals had suffered because of unrequited love? She couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to love someone you knew you could never have. It sounded dreadful just to think about it, but to have to work with them, see them every day, even hear about their own love life, must be unbearable. Instinctively she reached out and covered Mr Beattie’s hand, causing him to concentrate his watery gaze on her.

“Probably not,” she whispered, “but what you feel for him is just a shadow of what you’ll experience when you meet someone who is meant for you. All of this will be a memory swept away by that person, something to laugh about together in the future.”

Tears began to sweep down his cheeks as he listened to her words. Iona wasn’t quite convinced by the idea of soulmates, but mortals lived and breathed the word. All of them went about their lives, going through relationship after relationship in the hope of finding that special “one” who they could spend what remaining years they had with. It was far too easy in Iona’s mind. She wasn’t there to berate Adam Beattie for what he’d done, naivety wore off with experience and age, and she wasn’t there to add to his burden. If she could give him some semblance of hope to guide him through, she would leave satisfied she had done no harm. Spiritualists, however foolish, were people too.

“I..I’ll release him from the spell, I promise,” he sniffed.

“I know it must not seem it now, but you’re doing the right thing. Magic shouldn’t be used to manipulate people’s feelings, or deprive them of free will.”

“I swear I didn’t realise it would make him suffer,” he exclaimed desperately, as if not to have her think badly of him, “When I was speaking to the Mistress she said there was a blessing I could do to improve my chances.”

Iona’s jaw tightened. Why did all problems magic related originate from the young upstart? First it was the relic she refused to give back, and now she was handing out powerful love spells to desperate victims. What was she attempting to accomplish by being so careless? Instead of felling one of the spiritualists, perhaps Iona should have gone straight for their leader instead. She had an inclination it would have saved her a lot of grief in the near future.

“She gave ye the spell?” Iona checked, struggling to keep her tone soft and attitude sympathetic.

He nodded, “She helped me cast it.”

Even with her contributed power the enchantment was too strong. Was the spell of Tulloch origin? Was it another gift Duncan had callously loaned out? Although Iona didn’t know every entry in the vast collection of grimoires her family held, she couldn’t be certain it hadn’t come from there.  She silently cursed Duncan and his lack of responsibility.

After thanking Adam Beattie, she watched him return to his office, satisfied that he would do the right thing and free her customer from his current obsessive predicament. She continued to sit on the bench a few moments longer, admiring the autumnal beauty around her from the crisp leaves fluttering to the ground to the unusually clear sky that had appeared above them during their conversation. Winter was on its way, a teasing taste of it lingered on the gentle breeze, but until its arrival she would enjoy the gentle chill of this brief season. Her mood was contemplative. What should she do now?

***

The answer turned out to be simple. She had created an image for herself, a reputation that had rippled across the spiritualist community, and she would now use it to her full advantage. To the Mistress she was the new Tulloch who hadn’t taken the side of her people, who had condemned them instead and left them without anything to protect themselves against the looming threat. Why should she try to be anything different? Stubborn yet naïve people like the young Mistress were a danger in their own right, and Iona couldn’t allow her to continue to, knowingly or not, abuse her position and access to power.

Once again Iona found herself approaching the Cemetery Bell, a pub on the corner that oozed ancestor worship and juvenile magic. After the destruction of one of their cemeteries the air had cleared somewhat, another point that made Iona unpopular, but there was a feeling, like a clammy spring day when the weather is stuck between winter and summer, too cold for one thing but too warm for another. It was an uncomfortable sensation, and one she wished not to repeat for at least a season. She marched straight through the doors and accepted the tenseness that permeated around the room like the smell of spilled beer. There was nothing gradual about the silence; it was instant, as soon as her foot had crossed the threshold, they had sensed her and panicked. Some of the bolder ones began to slink out of the door, and she let them. As if on cue the Mistress clomped down the stairs tartly, eyes already brooding with outrage.

“You’re not welcome here,” she announced grandly.

“How quickly I’m gone depends on ye,” Iona replied.

The young woman glared in opposition but said nothing and so she continued.

“Ye have a love spell in your possession that you recently helped one of your followers cast. Where did ye get it from?”

The Mistress’s eyes bulged slightly at the accusation before hardening, “What have you done with Adam?”

Iona ignored the implication. Thoughts on her reputation as a murdering monster could wait until she was safe behind the barriers of the shop. Instead, she contemplated how to answer. Would it be best to continue with the threatening charade she had erected for herself the last time, or was going along a different path what was necessary to gain the cooperation of the leader of the spiritualists?

“Nothing,” she paused, “yet. If ye tell me who gave ye the spell it may remain that way.”

She had figured out they hadn’t stumbled upon the words in a dust covered diary. Someone, be that Duncan or a stranger, had given the spiritualists the spell, although she couldn’t understand to what end. Love spells were only harmful to those involved, third parties rarely had anything to gain.

“More threats?” the Mistress seethed, eyes narrowing with loathing.

Iona remained silent; it was obvious, by now, that she didn’t purely threaten. She had no intention of harming Adam Beattie, if anything he had been a second victim of the spell, but the Mistress didn’t know that, and considering past experience of dealing with the spiritualists, killing them was always on the table as her reputation had shown.

The young woman didn’t give up the name and stood stubbornly with her arms crossed over her chest, as much in outrage and anger as protection.

“You’d risk Adam Beattie’s life to protect whoever gave ye that spell?” Iona questioned, hiding the intrigue from her voice.

If it had been Duncan his name would have been forthcoming, which meant the person responsible wasn’t anyone she knew. Although it would have been annoyance she felt if it had been the former, the unease that slithered around like a coiled serpent in her gut when she realised it was the latter was discomforting. The Mistress refused to answer her query, and unlike the last time Iona knew when to stand down. Without a further word she turned on her heel and walked out of the Cemetery Bell and back to the shop.

***

The young Mistress had perhaps revealed more than she had intended. No name was forthcoming, but a confirmation of a suspicion that an external force had given a powerful spell over to the spiritualists had been. What had been their purpose? What could they have had to gain from the incident? Since her arrival in the city the only presences she’d felt were the spiritualists and their cemeteries of power, and the immortals with their never-ending lifespans, but no one else had crossed her mind, especially not someone of a calibre to be in possession of such an enchantment. Perhaps they had been a travelling witch, come and gone in less than a day, a busy one for Iona. Every family of witches, like the Tullochs, had their own distinct wavelength. Sometimes it was a sound, for others it was a taste, and for Iona it was a combination of both, but she had felt neither since her arrival in the city. It made her anxiety grow another head.

The shop remained closed as she wondered up the stairs and dug out the relic she had taken back from the spiritualists when she had first arrived. The Mistress had touched it, kept it near her at all times in fear of it being lost or stolen, and so, perhaps unbeknownst to her, she had left some of her essence on it, hopefully enough to wield for Iona’s purposes. The spell she was about to cast was primitive, old like all of the Tulloch ones were, but this was crude. To use something as base as a soul’s essence was one step away from the darkness that encroached daily on the lives of witches. What good you could accomplish was equal to the bad.

Holding it in her hands she could sense the small flicker of the young woman’s essence, a small piece of her life force that had become a part of the relic itself. It had remained buried in the family archive for generations before Duncan pulled it out and loaned it, hence concentrating on the Mistress was made easier. The images were flashes at first, snippets of someone’s life that was on fast forward through the days in no particular order, jumping to the future and then back to the past. It took concentration to focus on a particular point in a person’s life, and Iona currently wasn’t interested in the future but the past. 

Like a dog sniffing around to find the treat Iona eventually found the correct point in time, only a month prior to her arrival in the city. As she neared the meeting of the Mistress and her other supplier the memories began to blacken at the corners, like flame engulfing a picture. Soon the markings on her arm, orange and ruddy, began to twinge as if she had gained some new ones, her skin prickled as if too close to a fire. The sides closed in and soon Iona’s eyes were open looking at the wall of the family archive where she had begun.

Blinking curiously, she focused again on the relic, on the Mistress’s life before Iona had entered the city. The meeting of two people in the Cemetery Bell and the exchanging of information, goods, and well wishes. The closer she came to seeing the stranger’s face, their height, anything in detail, the blackness grabbed a hold of her and swung her back to the present. Again and again, it happened. 

Iona wasn’t a fool, she knew why it was happening, but her repetition of the motions was her attempt at denial because acknowledging the truth of them would mean acknowledging her dread. The swirling ruddy stains on her arm felt more like sunburn than a part of her, as if she could just peel them away.

It was a powerful witch who masked their presence in the present, it was an entirely new calibre who masked their presence from time itself. Whoever the Mistress was trading with, whoever had given her the love spell, was not someone to be handled lightly. Dread filled Iona’s stomach. Who were they and what did they want with the spiritualists?  Could she expect an introduction or were they purposefully hiding themselves from her? She was slowly beginning to understand that everyone in the city had an agenda. Iona just hoped she wasn’t on all of them.

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