Shot Through The Heart (Supernature Book 1) (18 page)

"Busy," said Elizabeth. "I'm organising the ceilidh just now which is an onerous activity. You've probably noticed that I've been looking a bit frail over the last few days. It usually takes it out of me, but this year has been worse than ever. I don't know why, but it just has."

"I can't say I've noticed it," said Mark. "You certainly don't look old enough to have three daughters in their twenties, put it that way."

As soon as he said it, he regretted it.

Elizabeth leaned back in her seat, a coquettish grin on her face. She folded her arms, which only served to push her breasts up. "Are you intimidated by my age, Mark?" she asked.

"I'm not intimidated," he mumbled, before looking away.

"How old do you think that I am?" she asked.

Mark shrugged. "Late thirties," he said. "But I can't tally it with your daughters' ages."

She laughed. "Interesting," she said. "How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Thirty," said Mark. "Just turned."

"Have you ever been with an older woman?" asked Elizabeth.

The wine had clearly gone to Mark's head. "When I was a student," he said. "I was eighteen, she was thirty."

Elizabeth laughed before taking another drink. "You're an enigma," she said, the side of her mouth curling up into an impish grin.

Mark frowned. "How?" he asked.

"You told me that this is your first book that you're researching," she said. "I should point out that I managed to find your first book. A history of the Clan McLeod. A very interesting read, I have to say." Her long nails curled around the stem of the wine glass. "Why didn't you mention it to me?"

"I'm not someone that goes around selling how good I am," said Mark, scratching the back of his neck. "If people are interested in my work, then fine, but I'm not going to force people to read it or anything like that."

"Well, you should," said Elizabeth. "I read it. It's very good."

Mark smiled. "Thanks," he said. "It was my PhD thesis. It was pretty easy to flesh out into what you've read. This book I'm writing now is anything but."

"Well," said Elizabeth, taking a big drink of wine, "young Kay certainly intrigued me."

Mark frowned. "I thought that you hadn't met?" he asked.

"That's correct," said Elizabeth. "You've got a mind for facts, clearly. No, she was effusive in her praise of your work when we spoke on the telephone."

"Interesting," said Mark. He had no idea what he'd done to encourage Kay's support in such a way - she'd just been recruited on spec and yet had been out selling his work. He took a deep breath and decided to ask something that had been nagging at his brain for days. "Someone told me Kay had been drinking with your daughters in the village."

Elizabeth's forehead twitched. "Did they now?" she asked. "Well, as I said earlier, and I'm
sure
it's not escaped you, but I haven't been off this blessed island in a year. I'm sure your friend, Mr Rennie, would explain that to you."

"John Rennie?" asked Mark. "How do you know I've been speaking to him?"

Elizabeth laughed. "My daughters have seen you with him," she said. "Relax, John and I go back a long way." She took a drink of wine. "How is the book going, by the way? You must think that I'm awfully rude for not enquiring."

Mark let out a long sigh. "I'm worried about it," he said. "I'm feeling the strain and the pressure, that's for certain. If it wasn't for wee Beth, then I wouldn't have had to hire a researcher. I worry that I'm losing my edge." He took a sip of wine. "You know, for my thesis, I spent a fortnight on Skye, just speaking to people and getting a feel for the landscape. I'm worried that I'm getting soft."

"Oh, nothing of the sort," said Elizabeth. "I know how hard it can be bringing new additions into your household." She drained the glass and gestured for Ivor to clear the table. "I trust you will be gracing us with your presence tomorrow night?"

"What's tomorrow?" asked Mark, frowning.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "The ceilidh, of course," she said.

"Christ," said Mark. "I'd forgotten." He finished his own drink. "I have absolutely no idea whether I can make it or not. I will probably go back to Edinburgh."

"Oh," said Elizabeth, looking dejected.

"I'll get the train at lunchtime," said Mark. "It's about one o'clock, I think. Should be home by midnight."

"Well," she said, with an arch grin, "if you do come along tomorrow, you
will
dance with me."

Mark didn't know whether to take that as a threat.

Mark wasn't one for swearing.

His uncle had been a football supporter - one of the Edinburgh teams, he couldn't remember which - and he had sworn like a docker. Eff this and eff that, becoming percussive after a while. It made him determined to never swear. All through school, he focused on expanding his vocabulary, not limiting it, and had avoided profanity.

But, as he stood there in the summer rain contemplating his flat tyre, he was close to matching his uncle's output. His bike had been padlocked across the road from Ruthven Castle and he'd left Elizabeth at the entrance, watching him cross the water, expecting to wave him off. Having to turn around and admit that his tyre was flat pushed him even closer to swearing.

Elizabeth called across. "What's the matter?"

"Puncture," said Mark, not sure that it would carry, the wind having picked up again.

She frowned as she came to the edge of the flagstones, arms wrapped around herself. "I can get Ivor to give you a lift back to your hotel," she said. "It wouldn't be a problem."

"I could do with the walk," said Mark, conscious that he was feeling drunk. Again.

"But it's raining," said Elizabeth.

Mark pulled up the hood on his jacket. "I'll be fine," said Mark. "But thanks for the offer."

"Well, if you insist," said Elizabeth, looking slightly disappointed. "I'll see you at the ceilidh tomorrow."

Mark smiled. "We'll see," he said. He waved and then set off towards the village, wheeling the bike along, the thin mist of the summer rain soaking him through already.

He couldn't remember if he'd packed his puncture repair kit.

The moonlight shone on the countryside, lighting up the worsening downpour. The sun was unusually absent, hidden in the clouds. Given it was the day before midsummer, it should be setting over the mountains just about now.

The fields on either side flooding at the edges, the loch to his right was looking full and the ancient farm path he hurried down was filling with puddles.

Mark felt angry and stressed. He'd had a good evening with Elizabeth, who was cordial rather than anything more suggestive, but the food was too rich. He walked quickly, intent on ensuring he got back to work without too much impediment.

A howl came from behind him.

He shut his eyes - another encounter with the dog from the previous day was all he needed. As if haunting his hotel room wasn't enough.

He got his mobile out and checked the time - just after nine. Still very poor reception - he should have fixed that when he went to Inverness and got a SIM for another network, instead of getting drunk and buying lager and wine. He put it back in his pocket.

He heard another howl, closer. Answering calls from the field to his left. He couldn't tell how far away they were. Quickening his pace, he pushed his bike harder but the wheel was rolling on the rim now.

A dog howled in front of him this time.

He stopped dead, unable to see anything, and waited. He didn't want to get hunted down again - his body might never be found and or he might be eaten by wolves. Such a stupid way to die - nobody would know.

Three overlapping howls in front of him. He swallowed hard - three dogs. He caught sight of one appearing through the gloom, its fur bright orange, eyes glowing at him, almost smiling at him.

He felt his chest tighten and the valves of his heart sting, as another panic attack came on.

Turning around, he looked back at the island. Another two dogs had appeared across from the castle. He wondered which one had been stalking him. He glanced behind him, heart pounding, to see the dog trotting slowly.

It sped up.

Mark froze, his mouth dry. He stood there, desperately trying to kick his brain into gear and do something. The dog would cover the ground in seconds. He berated himself for not putting the puncture repair kit in his jacket - maybe he could have avoided the dogs that way.

He needed to get back to the sanctuary of his hotel room.

He crouched down and put his hands around his head, covering his ears.

He heard a sound from behind him, a gunshot.

Two of the dogs were lying low, off to the side of the path. One streaked past him, heading towards the sound.

Through the rain, John appeared, holding a tranquilliser gun, grinning. "I found your dog," he called. "I've been keeping an eye on the students and then this lot came out of nowhere. I'll get these buggers down to Inverness tomorrow. I'll see you in the bar. Mine's a whisky."

The dogs ran towards John, fangs bared. Kneeling, he took aim and fired two rounds. One of them skidded, falling head over heels. The others slowed to a halt.

"Run!" shouted John.

Mark didn't need to be told twice. Ditching the bike, he sprinted towards the village.

Mark got stuck into the whisky back at the hotel bar, his trembling hands throwing a double down his throat.

He sat in the corner, keeping himself to himself. The only other patrons were the blacksmith and another old man, sitting playing dominoes and tucking into pints of real ale.

There was still no sign of John.

He'd run over a mile - the furthest since school - and he was shivering from cold and exertion. He should really get out of his wet clothes, but his nerves were shot. He reconciled himself to the fact that he was following John's orders.

If John hadn't intervened when he did, he didn't know what might have happened. Those dogs were wild. He was so stupid, being friendly to one a few days ago. Idiocy.

Adam meandered into the bar, wearing a too-cool-for-school American indie band t-shirt over snow camouflage combat trousers. "Thought I'd find you in here," he said. "Pint?"

"Whisky," said Mark.

"Pint of whisky?" asked Adam.

Mark nodded. "I could do with one," he said. "A double will do, though."

"There are hundreds behind the bar," said Adam. "Take your pick."

"You choose," said Mark.

"Fine," said Adam, "you're getting the one with the funniest name." He wandered over to the bar, muttering something about
Knob Creek
.

The blacksmith looked over at Mark, finally acknowledging his presence. He gave a friendly wave - maybe Mark had just been too keen on privacy when he'd arrived.

He checked his watch - John should have been there by now.

Mark got up and headed over to the blacksmith and his companion. They smiled in recognition then continued with their game, taking turns to look up at Mark when not taking a shot. "Have you seen John?" he asked.

The blacksmith frowned, shaking his head. "Not for a few nights, son," he said, laying a domino out.

"I ken the laddie," said his friend. "Not been in tonight, that's for certain. We've been in aw night - we had a big plate of cullen skink for wur dinner and then got straight down to the dominoes. No' a sign of the felly."

"Have you got a phone number for him?" asked Mark.

Both of them shook their heads.

"No need to have a phone up here, son," said the blacksmith. "I rely on passing trade. Everyone pops in once a week anyway, and not much ever happens."

Mark returned to their table. Adam was still at the bar, chatting up the Swedish girls who had just appeared. He clocked Mark and headed over, thumping the whisky down on the table.

"Dirty Badger was the funniest name I could find," said Adam. "A little still on Mull. Microdistilleries and microbreweries are where it's at, my friend."

"I'll take your word for it," said Mark, before throwing the whisky down his throat. It burnt the sides but it felt good, a layer of cotton wool around his head, shielding him from what had just happened.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," said Adam.

Mark told him the story - from dinner with Elizabeth, to the dogs, to John saving him.

"I've seen the dog in here," said Adam. "Big thing, right? Like a wolfhound? But ginger?"

Mark nodded. "That's the one," he said. "There were at least three of them. One chased me yesterday."

Adam smirked. "Are you telling me that wild dogs are trying to kill you?" he asked.

Mark shook his head. "I knew this was a mistake," he said. "I knew you wouldn't believe me."

Adam bellowed with laughter. "I thought you were supposed to be an intellectual, man," he said. "You're sounding like Mystic Meg. Phantom dogs trying to kill you. Spooky panes of glass in a church. Devil worship."

The mention of the devil worship jolted Mark - back to the glass window and the figures in the background, people turning into dogs. His frazzled mind was putting things together - the only thing that made any sense at all was if the devil worshippers were werewolves. He looked at Adam, doubting he'd get any sympathy or interest from him.

Maybe they'd co-opted Kay into their cult? That made sense. He needed to get out there and confront them.

"It's all true," said Mark.

Adam took a drink of his pint and shook his head as he swallowed it. "I know what you're up to," he said, nodding his head.

Mark screwed his face up. "What am I up to?" he asked.

"You're at it with that Lady Ruthven, aren't you?" asked Adam. "This is all a smokescreen."

"I swear that nothing has happened between me and Elizabeth," said Mark.

"Elizabeth," said Adam, shaking his head. "I saw the way you were looking at each other up at that great big castle. You've had her, right?"

"I've done nothing of the sort," said Mark. "I swear."

"Aye, that'll be chocolate," said Adam.

Mark checked his watch - ninety minutes since he'd left John. Maybe he'd just gone home. He got up. "I'm heading back to my room," he said. "I need a bath and some sleep."