Shot Through The Heart (Supernature Book 1) (3 page)

Buffy handed Mark a flyer for
Avartagh's Esoterica
, etched in arcane script.

"It's all mumbo-jumbo," said Mark.

Buffy laughed. "That's a bit rich for someone who reads a load of vampire comics," he said.

"It's escapism," said Mark, with a shrug.

Buffy raised an eyebrow. "Well," he said, "some of the things that Séan told me would make your hair stand up."

"I don't really buy all that stuff," said Mark.

"Aye, well," said Buffy. "Big business in it." He held up the vampire comic. "I sell a ton of these."

Mark was eager to change the subject - he wasn't easily spooked, but heading into the north of Scotland thinking about vampires wouldn't help ease his mind. "Are you not worried about the internet or piracy?" he asked.

Buffy shrugged. "This is Inverness," he said. "I'll start worrying when they know what to do with a mouse and an internet connection, other than look at porn."

Mark laughed - he'd forgotten how well they got on together.

"So, what are you doing in Inverness?" asked Buffy. "Other than passing through?"

Mark exhaled. "Researching my book," he said. "I got a publisher to pick up my PhD thesis and take it on as a full-length book. Working on the second just now, though it feels more like it's the first proper one."

"Well done, mate," said Buffy. "What's it about?"

"The Highland Clearances," said Mark.

"Oh that," said Buffy, looking away.

Mark shook his head in disbelief. "Buffy," he said, "you've lived here practically all of your life. I thought you lot had the Highland Clearances in your blood?"

Buffy smiled and took another swig of lager. "If it's not got vampires or mutants in it, then I'm not interested," he said.

"Didn't you do history at school?" asked Mark.

"Geography," said Buffy. "I hated it, mind."

Mark shook his head. "My research assistant has decided to not turn up to an interview," he said. "She's left me with loads of interviews to redo."

"I hope it's nothing serious," said Buffy.

"Hardly," said Mark. "I knew I should have done it myself, but the stuff she's given me so far was pretty good. That's the risk, I guess."

"How's Sharon?" asked Buffy.

"
Sarah's
fine," corrected Mark. "Well, not fine - we've got a six-month-old baby and she's not coping well."

"Oh, congratulations," said Buffy. "Boy or a girl?"

"A girl called Beth," said Mark. "She's great but a bit of a handful."

"Sarah still at the university?" asked Buffy.

"Yeah," said Mark, with a sigh. "She's head of department for English Language."

"Wow," said Buffy.

"Yeah," said Mark, before taking a long drink. "Makes me feel kind of inadequate. I took five years to get my PhD, she did it in less than three. Then she got lucky - there were a few retirements when she started, so there was a lot of upward momentum."

"You don't sound bitter," said Buffy, grinning.

Mark shrugged. "I'm not," he said. "It just hurts the old male ego, that's all." He finished his can and crunched it up.

"Another?" asked Buffy.

Mark shook his head. "I'd best head back to the train station," he said. "I'll need to get some water after that."

"Are you going to be in the area long?" asked Buffy.

"We'll see," said Mark. He gave a Buffy a business card -
Mark Campbell, Historian
.

"Very impressive," said Buffy. "I'll text you my number."

"See you around," said Mark, "maybe next time I'm in town."

Mark left the shop and walked back along the arcade, his mind blown by the coincidence of meeting Buffy and the lager. It was so easy to lose touch with people, so easy to get lost in the minutiae of every day.

He stopped outside the Esoterica shop and looked through the window. The proprietor sat at the counter on a tall stool, hunched over a large artist's sketchbook. He was a strange-looking man, tall and skinny with wild ginger hair escaping from his head at obtuse angles.

Mark took the business card out of his pocket and looked at it.

He decided to get a coffee at the station.

As the rugged Scottish countryside rolled past, Mark felt the start of a lager hangover, despite the coffee and panini he'd grabbed at the station. He hadn't got a power of work done on the second train from Inverness. All he'd achieved was to get his notes out of order and find a few gaping holes in the manuscript.

"Next stop is Kinbrace," came the bored voice over the intercom, part of Mark's brain recalling that the mainline train to Inverness had an automated announcer - not so for the Far North Line.

The rest of his brain panicked. He threw his stuff into his laptop case. He'd had a table to himself for most of the journey, and had filled it with papers, his laptop and his notebook - a limited edition that he'd bought to celebrate the book deal, now into its last hundred pages.

He put the final items in his laptop case and collected his rucksack from the rack near the entrance. He lay them down in front of the door, and went to unhook his bike from its rack. Struggling with the catch, he felt the train slow as it approached the town.
 

He was starting to panic that he wouldn't get off - the guard was at the other end of the small train and he wasn't anywhere near ready. The doors opened and he still hadn't managed to get his bike off the ramp. He kicked out at his rucksack, knocking it over between the doors, desperately trying to buy himself some time. Finally, the catch came free.

Grabbing the bike - heavier than he thought it should be - he almost threw it from the train. He collected his rucksack and laptop case, managing to get them off just before the closing door warning went off.

He stood on the platform out of breath. He was the only one to alight, but the train hadn't been busy. He watched it trundle off down the single tracks, heading north and further away from civilisation. As he looked around, though, Mark couldn't imagine anything further away than Kinbrace. It appeared to be a very small village - a few houses with a train platform and a level crossing. There was a road sign showing the routes leading away - the only place Mark recognised was Ruthven, seven miles distant. He saw a brown sign advertising something called Badanloch Lodge.

He strapped his laptop case around himself, hung the rucksack from both shoulders and carried the bike across the tracks. He saw a solitary car flash its headlights and made a beeline for it, figuring it would be Elizabeth's butler. As he neared, he saw that it was more of a truck, or a ute as an Aussie TV soap would have it - a double cab, the rear open to the elements. It wasn't a modern vehicle, either, early 90s at Mark's best guess, and not a make that he recognised.

Mark was dwarfed by the man that got out of the car, easily seven foot.

"Ivor, is it?" asked Mark.

The giant grunted, took Mark's luggage and put it inside the truck. He grabbed the bike and effortlessly picked it up, carefully placing it in the open section.

As Ivor drove, Mark marvelled at the continuing daylight despite the late hour. He remembered a family holiday as a kid when they'd stayed near Inverness - they were so far north that it didn't get dark all night. The only other time he'd seen that phenomenon was as a student, when he'd stayed out till three in some Edinburgh nightclub after final exams one year. It was light when they'd got out, and he and Buffy had gone for some idiotic japes up Arthur's Seat, not getting home till six in the morning.

Mark watched the fields pass on both sides, nothing much but sheep and the occasional tree. The mountains loomed in the distance, lurking behind smaller hills, observing the world for time immemorial, unjudging. It was barren scenery - he'd always felt a close affinity with the Scottish countryside, stark and hostile as it was.

Just after Ivor navigated an immobile flock of sheep that filled the single track, Mark spotted a small plantation to the right, a regimented rectangle of native trees that looked incongruous with the rest of the landscape. They passed a collection of buildings on the left - which Mark presumed to be Badanloch Lodge - and then took a left fork from the main road, heading for Ruthven and Ruthven Castle.

Ruthven village looked like a typical small Scottish settlement - a row of houses on either side of a long main street, a shop and hotel, a mixture of Victorian houses and modern white-harled semis. Mark spotted a tea room as they left the village and headed out into more countryside.

To the left, a large loch appeared, shimmering in the late evening sun. Just ahead loomed a castle on an island, separated from the mainland by a narrow stretch of water. Ivor pulled the car in across from the castle.

"Is that Ruthven Castle?" asked Mark.

No reply.

It was a formidable building, looking as if it was hewn from the rock of the island. The square central section rose four storeys high with giant towers protruding from each corner. The ground floor ran along the edge of the water, easily four times the length of the central part. There were lights on in the central tower, but the rest was shrouded in darkness.

Ivor guided him from the truck, leaving his possessions. There was a drop from the road to a ford spanning the gap between the castle and the mainland, though it was currently under three feet of water. They descended a steep set of steps, then got in a rickety old boat. Ivor tugged at the oars, taking far fewer strokes than Mark would have thought necessary before they were over the other side of the ford. Ivor up-ended the boat, covering it in a dark green tarpaulin, then climbed a set of stone steps, covered in moss and lichen.

Ivor wordlessly led him inside, a great looming presence. The ground floor was a long corridor with rooms off both sides. Another passageway led under the stone steps, which ascended up three flights. Ivor led Mark slowly up the stairs, then down a much shorter corridor to a room at the end.

Lady Elizabeth Ruthven sat in an armchair in the bay window of a first-floor drawing room. The walls were lined with oak panelling and the ceiling was at least four metres high. Mark was surprised, the room lacked the standard stag's head on the wall. Two large settees sat across from each other, perpendicular to a large fireplace, a well-laid fire sat unlit.

She was almost nothing like Mark imagined her. He guessed that she was in her late thirties. She had flowing red hair in long spiralling curls, though there were no traces of grey. She was thin with white skin - the sort that would burn easily in the sun - and wore a long, flowing, purple dress. Her piercing green eyes warmed as she smiled at Mark. She stood up from her chair, almost to the same height as Mark. She held out a hand to shake, her nails painted green like her eyes.

"Lady Ruthven," said Mark. "It's a pleasure." He didn't know why he said that, it just sort of came out. It was an alternative to staring at her chest - either the dress or the bra pushed up her breasts. In his face was the only way Mark could describe the presentation.

"Call me Elizabeth," she said, suddenly acting coy and looking at him sidelong. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

Mark smiled. "Just a glass of water," he said.

Elizabeth directed her gaze at Ivor. "Two glasses of iced water please," she said. "Then leave us in peace."

Ivor nodded and left them to it.

"Well, at least he listens to you," said Mark.

Elizabeth grinned, her prominent cheeks curving up to meet her eyes - Mark caught himself staring at her chest again, having to fight himself to avoid looking. "Poor Ivor lost his tongue," she said. "Mouth cancer, I'm afraid."

"I'm sorry," said Mark. "Is he okay?"

Elizabeth nodded. "He's fit and well," she said. "They managed to catch it early, but not early enough." She sat on a sofa and patted the seat next to her. "Please, sit down."

Mark sat and looked away from her, starting to feel like a fly falling into a spider's web. The window portrayed a glorious view across the castle grounds, small in contrast to the sprawling vista of the loch. "Which loch is that?" he asked.

"Lochs," said Elizabeth. She leaned across to get a better view, brushing up against Mark. He moved away from her, practically climbing over the arm of the settee. "There are actually two lochs. The main one is Loch Badanloch, which stretches from the village, and this island sits on the point where it joins Loch Nan Clar. Further over is Loch Rimsdale. This island itself is called Rubha Mor. I imagine that's where my family's name comes from, an Anglicisation of the Gaelic."

"What kind of loch are they?" asked Mark. "Sea?"

Elizabeth smiled and leaned back against the opposite arm, running a hand through her hair, revealing her toned arm as the sleeve of the dress flapped backwards. "It's not a sea loch," she said. "It's actually a natural reservoir. The water level is at its lowest just about now - it dries up for summer, usually around midsummer's night."

"So, your castle is cut off from the mainland for most of the year?" asked Mark.

Elizabeth nodded. "Yes," she said. "It's possible to walk across a couple of days a year, but otherwise we're reliant on Ivor, though I seldom leave myself. The loch acted like a natural moat back in the day, but now it just makes the castle look like a folly. The cost of installing a bridge these days would be prohibitive, plus there would be an Act of Parliament to overturn."

Before Mark could ask any more, Ivor appeared, carrying a tray with two frozen glasses and a pitcher of water, the ice cubes chinking as he walked.

"Thank you," said Elizabeth. "That will be all."

Ivor nodded then left them to it.

Mark's stomach rumbled as he spotted a few biscuits on the plate. He wolfed down two. He was starving - he should have got something more substantial in Inverness.

Elizabeth bit her lip suggestively. "Are you hungry for something?" she asked.

Mark frowned. "I'll cut to the chase," he said, wiping crumbs from around his mouth and ignoring her suggestive behaviour. "You called me this morning to say Kay hadn't turned up for the interview."