by Alys West
He nodded. He’d felt like that about his granddad. Even though he was in his eighties he’d seemed to defy the laws of ageing until the massive stroke which felled him. He’d died before Hal could get back across the Atlantic to say goodbye. “I know.”
She tilted her head until it brushed against his shoulder. “I know you do.”
For a long time he’d not known how to act around her but, at this moment, it felt absolutely right to put his arm around her shoulders. It was probably pushing his luck to pull her closer and drop his head down until it rested on hers.
“It’s just that I miss her so much.”
“I know you do.” His hand moved, stroking her back. It’d been so long since he’d held her. So many lost years. After a few short seconds she pulled away. Pushing her hair back, she gave him a weak smile.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. But you have to let her go, Jenna. I know how much you loved her but you have to move on. Nina would have wanted it.”
“I know.” She looked down at her hands. “There’s another reason.”
“What’s that?”
Jenna’s gaze slid past him. He turned to see bloody Winston approaching with two glasses of whisky in his hands. Jenna stood, went to meet him. The three envelopes were left, white against the weathered wood of the bench. Hal scooped them up to stop them blowing away. Slugging back a great gulp of beer, he did his best, while staring pointedly in the opposite direction, to catch every word they said.
***
This wasn’t awkward at all, Jenna thought, as she walked towards the druid. What the hell was she going to do if Winston insisted on staying to chat with her and Hal? Probably discover an urgent need to return to the session even though her arm really ached after playing only one set of reels and a strathspey.
“Are you alright?” Winston asked.
“I seem to be getting asked that a lot this evening. But yes, I’m okay.”
“Still need this?” He gestured with the drink, the amber liquid swirling in the glass.
“Absolutely.” Taking it from him, she took a sip, her eyes widening as the warmth assaulted the back of her throat. “What is it?”
He knocked half of his back. “Glenfiddich.”
She took another sip. This time it was less of a shock; the warm, peaty tones heating her tongue and spreading through her body. “It’s good.”
“I’ll ring you tomorrow.”
“You’re going?”
He nodded, glanced briefly at Hal and then slugged the rest of his whisky back. “There’s something I’ve got to do.”
“Oh, alright.” It felt wrong after what they’d shared. She needed to say something, make him realise that it meant a lot that he’d listened and been there when she fell apart. “Thanks for everything. For getting the letters, helping me read them.”
“There’s still one to go.”
“I know. I think I’ll need another dram before I face it.”
“Good idea but—” He hesitated, glanced at Hal again. “You know where I am if you need me.” Then before she could respond, he leaned in and kissed her cheek. His lips were warm against her skin, the touch so fleeting she’d barely time to register it before he was moving away, raising a hand without looking back, to say goodbye.
***
Archaeology Boy kissed her! On the bloody cheek! Hal’s fist tightened on his glass until the knuckles went white. What did that mean? He didn’t seem like the kind of man who’d hold back because they were in public. If they were together he’d have snogged her, wouldn’t he?
Winston walked off and Jenna turned back to Hal. She frowned, her gaze darting more than once to Winston’s back as he strode up the road.
As she sat down, Hal handed the letters back to her. He had to ask. “What’s going on between you two?”
“Nothing. We’re just friends.”
“He fancies you though.”
She glanced up at him, eyebrows raised. “He does not. I’m not his type.”
He had to put her on her guard. The smarmy git was pulling all the tricks in the book to get her into bed and she was far too nice to realise. “Trust me, he wants you. It’s obvious.”
“He might want a quick fling.” Looking down, Jenna swirled the whisky around in her glass. “But that’s all and I’ve made it absolutely clear there’s no chance of that happening. I’m not going to be another notch on his staff.”
“Staff?”
Her hand covered her mouth for a second. “Sorry, I meant bedpost.”
Staring into his half empty pint glass, Hal said, “I don’t trust him.”
“Neither did I when I first met him.” Jenna laughed, slightly high-pitched and a little off. “But he’s grown on me. He’s actually alright once you get past all that black leather, cool biker, too gorgeous for his own good nonsense.”
“I don’t like him getting these letters for you. You were talking about going back to Edinburgh when I first came home but I’ve not heard you mention it since. Are you still looking for a job?”
Raising her injured arm, the dressing protruding from the sleeve of her shirt, she shot him a look which would wither weaker men. “There’s not exactly been time.”
“No, sorry.” His fault. She was only at the Cathedral because he’d invited her. Up to now, she’d been entirely stoical about her injury. He’d not expected this quick flash of irritation. “But once you’re feeling better?”
“Yes, I guess I’ll get back to it.” She cradled her injured arm to her chest before she spoke again. “There’s something else. Another reason why I wanted to see the letters. You see, when I went to dinner at Uncle Andrew’s on Sunday, he offered me a flat in Edinburgh. Rent free for three months.”
Hal’s mouth fell open. He took a second to close it, and to make sure she’d seen his reaction, before he spoke. “Unexpected philanthropy from Orkney’s favourite property mogul? There’s got to be something in it for him.”
“I know. That’s what I think. He practically begged me to support his new plans for Nethertown. Spun me this line about how everyone values my opinion and respects what I did in coming home to take care of Dad—”
“That’s not a line. That’s true.” He leaned towards her, trying to meet her gaze. “People do think that.”
She shook her head as if she didn’t want to hear it. “He said he’d changed the plans to address the concerns Mum raised and then he offered me this flat.”
“As a bribe?”
Her beautiful blue eyes looked up at him. “Is it terrible that I think that?”
“Not when it’s Andrew Stewart we’re talking about. He’d sell his granny if it’d get him what he wanted.” Then remembering Andrew’s granny would be Jenna’s great grandmother, he added hastily, “Sorry, that was tactless. I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant.” Fleetingly she glanced up at him. “Before I decide, about the flat, about the Nethertown proposal, I need to know what happened between him and Mum and why she was so dead set against this development. Because something’s not right. I asked him on Sunday why he’d lied to me about scaling down the original plan out of respect for Mum’s memory.”
“And what did he say?”
“He told me I’d got it wrong. But I haven’t. Isla told me. She works in the planning department at the Council.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I thought I’d ask Pippa Lloyd. She co-ordinated the protest group. I know she and Mum were working pretty closely together before she died.”
“What about your dad?”
She sighed. “I guess I should try. He probably won’t talk about it though.”
He swilled the remaining inch of beer around in his glass for a long moment before he spoke. “Give it a try with your dad and we’ll go see Pippa.”
“We?”
“Yup.” He forced a smile. He didn’t want to do it but what choice did he have? If he didn’t help her then he was damned sure Archaeology Boy would.
“I think you should take the offer from your uncle whatever his motives. It’d serve him right if you took the flat and then refused to support his plans—”
“And instantly get a bill for three months’ rent? I don’t think I’ll risk it, thanks.”
“I know you. You’re much too honest to take it if you feel you’re being bought.” Turning towards her, he took her hand. It was cold and, without thinking, he hugged her towards him. “You’re frozen.”
Wriggling her shoulders, she snuggled into him. “I came out without my jacket.”
For a long moment, he simply enjoyed having her in his arms. Then, as his body started to react, he looked down at her and, trying to keep his mind on his words, said, “How about a deal? I’ll help you with this, go with you to meet Pippa, help you find out what your uncle is up to and you promise that once we’ve done it you’ll put all of this behind you and get on with your life.”
Lips pressed together, she looked up at him for a long moment. The strain of the evening was showing on her face but her eyes were as beautiful as ever. Then her frown deepened as she said, “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you can’t do it on your own.”
She stiffened, drew away slightly within the circle of his arms. “There’s Winston. He’ll help if I ask him.”
The urge to pull her against his chest and kiss her until that bastard’s name was the last thing on her lips was almost overwhelming. He coughed but his voice still came out more gravelly than usual. “He doesn’t know you like I do. I’m up for this. I’ll be Watson to your Holmes.”
“More like Mulder to my Scully,” she murmured as she drew away.
“Why do you say that? No alien abductions in Orkney. At least, not that I’ve heard of.”
Standing, she said quietly, “Just popped into my head.”
Picking up his empty glass, he unfurled his long legs and stood. “Deal or no deal?”
She blew out a long breath. “Okay, deal.”
“Good. You ready for some more tunes?”
“I don’t know that I’m in the right mood. I might go home.”
“Nah, come and give it one more go. If you don’t feel up to playing, we could sing some of the old songs. You know people’d like that.”
It was so easy to read her face, to see the hesitation and the quick flick of her eyes towards the road back to her flat. Then she nodded. “Alright.”
He didn’t want to let her go. As casually as he could, he dropped his arm around her shoulders. “You know you screwed up the words to ‘Black is the Colour’ again.” It was an old joke, one from the days in the band when he’d deliberately sing the wrong lyrics to get a reaction.
“I did not.”
“You did. It’s ‘Black is the Colour of my True Love’s Heart.’”
It was a pretty poor excuse for a smile that she gave him but it was better than nothing. “You are the only person who thinks those are the right words.”
“Then everyone else is wrong.”
Chapter 23
Winston pulled his bike into the disabled parking space at the Ring of Brodgar, locked his helmet and gloves away and strode up the incline to the stones. It was unusually calm, without even a whisper of breeze. The fading light cast the stones as black silhouettes against the grey sky.
The circle had been constructed with a deep ditch surrounding it. In the 4,000 or so years since the stones were erected, it’d become more of a heather filled dip. A section of it had been filled in, presumably by Historic Scotland who had responsibility for the site, to give access to the centre of the circle. There had originally been sixty megaliths forming the circle, only twenty-seven remained. There were a dozen burial mounds in the surrounding area. In the distance, barely visible in this light, were the Stones of Stenness. A few hundred yards away down the hill was the Ness of Brodgar where he had to be at 8.30 tomorrow morning for a site meeting.
Suppressing a yawn, Winston rubbed his hands over his face. He’d sleep when the dig was over and the storm witch was found. Until then, he’d have to drink more coffee and hope he didn’t fall asleep in a trench anytime soon.
He’d tried to settle when he got back to the B&B. After he’d Googled, ‘Rachel Stromness’ and not come up with anything even remotely helpful. After he’d interrupted the owner of the B&B’s television viewing to request the local telephone directory. After he’d scanned two pages and realised that almost everyone was listed by surname and initial. After he’d thrown the directory across the room, seen it bounce off the door and fall fluttering onto the carpet, he’d realised he needed to get out before he exploded. After he’d put his boots back on and left the slightly battered directory on the hall table, he’d got on his bike and ridden without thinking.
Habit had brought him along the familiar route to the Ness. Seeing the stones on the rise of the hill, he’d pulled in. He’d been to the Ring several times but always the place had been busy with tourists, gawking at the stones, taking photographs before getting back in their car or tour bus to peer at the next Neolithic site they didn’t understand. Each time the awen had made his body tingle and he’d left feeling pent up and agitated. At this time of night, he’d finally got the place to himself.
Apart from the midges. The windless evening had brought them out. As he slapped at another one feasting on his leg he remembered the old joke: ‘kill one midge and a thousand come to its funeral.’ He’d a way of handling mozzies though.
Tugging his staff from the leather thong at his neck, he drew on awen and felt it trickle up through his feet. He tapped his staff against the ground and, as it reconnected with awen, it regained its full height. Instantly, energy rushed through him, pulsing through vein and muscle. Concentrating, he spun it into a thread and directed it over his skin. It was the technique for shielding himself from others with magic but it happened to be equally effective as a midge deterrent.
Walking the perimeter of the stones he touched each of the ones which remained standing, testing their energy. Some retained their original power. If he was right, and there was no one who could either prove or disprove his theory, the stones were a conduit of awen or whatever the Neolithic people had called the earth’s energy. In the intervening years some of the stones, either through damage or lack of use, had lost that ability but in others awen was still present. Some stones felt sluggish from the thousands of years of disuse but others pulsed with the power within them.
Moving to the centre of the circle, he plunged his staff deep into the spongey, peat-rich ground and reached down with his awareness, pulling deeper on awen’s power. The stones magnified it and through them it radiated out like spokes to the burial mounds surrounding the circle. Then a single deeper channel opened up, running down the hill towards the Ness.
The archaeologist part of his brain made a note of that for future reference while his druid brain concentrated on using the awen to create a force field. The circle was over 100 metres wide, far larger than he could usually encompass, but with the stones increasing the strength of awen he pushed its circumference slowly out until the whole circle was enclosed.
The storm witch had water and air on her side. He needed to figure out what awen could do against that. Normally he’d have said plenty. After all, he had the power of the earth on his side. But in Orkney, completely surrounded by water, with the wind blowing straight in off the North Atlantic it was a whole lot more problematic. Even this narrow isthmus of land, where three of the key Neolithic sites were located, was surrounded by the wide expanses of the lochs of Harray and Stenness.
He needed to find a way to strip the energy from air and water to stop her using them. The force field would help but he’d have to get it over her first which would be easier said than done when she was at the centre of a storm of her own creating. And, even if he managed it, she could turn any residual air and water inside the field against him. Logically, the first thing he needed to do was to find a way to remove water and as much air as possibl
e from inside without leaving himself gagging for oxygen.
An hour later, he’d figured out a way to direct energy over the surface of the ground to stop her accessing water through the earth. Getting the existing water on the inside to evaporate was proving far trickier. So far all he’d managed to do was heat the air to sauna-like temperatures. He was drowning in sweat, exhausted and badly in need of a drink. And for once in his life, he meant water. Releasing the force field, he dropped his staff, slumped down into the heather and lay flat on his back.
The sky was a grey arc above him. Cloud covered much of it with a rim of pink over the top corner of the Loch of Stenness indicating where the sun had dipped beneath the horizon. Three weeks past the solstice and it still barely got dark.
He shouldn’t have held her. He should have let her sob at a safe distance. In fact, he should have left her to it when she got all pale and began breathing funny. That would have been the safe option. What the hell had got into him? He didn’t do taking care of, being understanding. It only led to disaster. His fingers traced the indents along his staff where the binding had been. He could have used awen to smooth them out, to return his staff to the way it’d been before but he’d left them as a reminder never to be that stupid again.
He should have foreseen what the letters would do to her, that they’d slice like knives, and made a hasty exit once he’d handed them over. The mistake was sticking around as she read them, watching as her face changed, the little colour she had draining away, her eyes turning into pools of tears until there was nothing left of funny, spiky Jenna. Only loss and sadness. He’d have been an utterly unfeeling bastard to let her cry all of that out on her own.
And then when she was supposed to be pliant and grateful after all those tears she’d needled him with questions about Cam and Glenard. He never spoke about them. They were no one’s business but his. He’d told Finn the basics, years ago when they’d been more drunk than was good for them and being a decent bloke, he’d never asked any more. Not Jenna. She’d been straight in there, poking around to see what came out. Then when he’d gone to buy a drink to shut her up, Hal moved in.
