Mortal Souls

by Amy Hoff

  “I wouldn't think about it,” Dorian said, as if she’d spoken. “Especially not in winter.”

  “Ugh, it’s so creepy when you do that,” she said, but there was no force behind it. “We do live in a modern age, Dorian. I’m sure we’d be all right.”

  “It is not the modern age that worries me,” he said, visibly uncomfortable as he looked out the window. “I will feel better when I am back in the city.”

  Leah was surprised to see him this way.

  “Are you...scared, Dorian?” she asked, her eyes widening.

  He nodded.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The train stopped and Dorian indicated they needed to get out. Leah followed him, stopping at a tiny store to buy a packet of McCoy's Cheddar and Onion crisps and some Irn-Bru.

  “Hungry?” asked Dorian mildly.

  “Starving,” she said. “Do you think this place has food?”

  A smile ghosted across Dorian’s features.

  “Almost certain of it,” he replied.

  The long twilight of a Scottish summer evening lit their way to a whitewashed hotel. The ocean lay beyond it, blue and still.

  “The Angels’ Share,” Leah read the hotel’s sign aloud. “This isn't going to be like American Werewolf in London, is it?”

  “Oh no,” said Dorian, “Scotland only has wulvers.”

  “Right,” said Leah. “Leaving fish on windowsills for the poor. Always seemed odd that the only werewolf in Scotland was a creature whose only activity was giving food to poor people.”

  “People were starving,” said Dorian. “They needed something to believe.”

  “Strange,” she said. “Seems like the most terrifying monsters are the kindest.”

  “There is no such common rule,” he said. “It depends on the monster. Some ugly, some beautiful, some plain.”

  “Something about not judging a book by its cover,” said Leah.

  “Oh no,” said Dorian. “You see, we’re all monsters. That’s what you have to remember, above all other things.”

  They pushed the door open and went inside.

  The hotel was the standard, ancient structure found in the Highlands; small and white, with a wooden interior, tartan carpeting meeting white walls. Embers glowed in the grating of a rough stone fireplace. A border collie slept beside it, and the place was filled with the smoky scent of peat.

  Inside the bar, a few patrons sat nursing drinks or playing darts. The tables were wooden, the floor made of the same worn tartan carpet, and the walls and bar were of rich, dark wood.

  Leah was pleased to see a vast whisky selection, and even more pleased with the bartender.

  He was what dreams of Scotland are made of.

  The man was tall, with black hair that fell across his forehead and curled around his ears. His high cheekbones were dusted with a natural rose. He had fiery, strange whisky-coloured eyes. The shirtsleeves of his white button-down were rolled up to the elbow, exposing muscular forearms. His strong jawline, broad shoulders, and effortless air of insouciant confidence were an amalgam of every Scottish fantasy. He saw Dorian and smiled broadly.

  “Well. Dorian Grey,” said the bartender, “I didn't think I would ever see you around here again.”

  He stepped out from behind the bar and Leah was able to fully appreciate the view. He shook Dorian's hand.

  “Who's your pretty friend? Don't tell me you've sworn off all that angst and Taken nonsense,” said the man, his smouldering eyes levelled at Leah.

  “Never,” said Dorian. “This is my partner, Detective Inspector Leah Bishop.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said, canting his head with a sly grin. “I'm Robert Burns.”

  Leah did not realise her mouth was open til Dorian jostled her.

  “Steady there, Leah,” he said. “This one's taken.”

  “May I present Detective Inspector Leah Bishop,” said Dorian, bowing to the stranger, “Leah, may I present Robert Burns, Scottish national poet and the proprietor of this fine establishment.”

  A thousand images, hundreds of paintings, of poems, of stories went through her mind like a wind whirling autumn leaves. She thought of moments in his life, his songs, his words, and she stared at the man standing before her. His lazy grin, the merry, suggestive look in his strange, wide eyes, the man's obvious self-assurance, his lofty carriage...it must be him.

  “You can close your mouth now, Leah,” whispered Dorian. Leah shut her mouth with a snap.

  “This is the Robert Burns?” she whispered back, as if he wasn’t standing right in front of her.

  Robert smiled.

  “There are, after all, so many,” he said.

  “I once read,” she said, “that the body – your body – was exhumed, and you were in perfect condition, as if you were still alive –”

  “And that someone touched my cheek with a finger, and I collapsed into dust?” smiled Robert. “Yes, I was there. Fortunately, we can reconstruct from anything.”

  “Careful there, Leah,” said Dorian. “This one’s taken.”

  “Taken?” she asked. “Taken? He’s a selkie?”

  Robert laughed, and then offered Leah a half-smile that told her exactly why he had the reputation he did.

  “No,” he said. “I’m a vampire.”

  “Robert Burns is a vampire?” asked Leah, her eyes goggled. “Whisky, please, Bruichladdich, now.”

  Robert Burns winked at her and went to get a glass. Dorian put his hand under her elbow.

  They sat down. Or rather, Dorian primly took his seat and Leah collapsed in a heavy whuff across from him.

  Dorian opened the menu, all Victorian nonchalance.

  Leah stared at him.

  “Dorian!!!” she hissed.

  “Yes, Miss Bishop? The Loch Fyne oysters are good, but maybe fish...” he mused.

  “Dorian Grey, put that menu down right now,” Leah said. Dorian put down the menu.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “Robert Burns, Dorian, and he's a bartender in some nowhere place in the Highlands?! And you didn't tell me in advance?” Leah hissed.

  “He's an excellent cook as well,” said Dorian, “as to some nowhere place, I'm not sure that is true. I recommend the fish, I really do.”

  “You always recommend the fish,” she said, exasperated. “What do you mean, it's not some nowhere place?”

  “Well, you know how Magnus will be tried by the faerie tribunal?” asked Dorian.

  “Yes?” asked Leah.

  “You didn't expect that was a place in your world, did you?” he asked.

  “So this is –”

  Dorian nodded.

  “The entrance to Faerie.”

  “I might faint,” she said, clearly not about to do anything of the sort. “The things you never tell me. You could have warned me!”

  “And what would be the fun in that?” asked Dorian. “Robert has always been here, will always be here. He’s as much a part of Scotland as Ben Cruachan. He is immortal, like Desdemona, and like myself.”

  Robert set down two glasses of whisky on the table and took the chair next to Leah.

  “Truly immortal...the immortal bard. Take that, Shakespeare,” he said. “Nothing can kill me. Believe me, I've tried. I just keep coming back.”

  “As do we all,” said Dorian ruefully.

  “It must have been very difficult to have a war,” said Leah. “If nobody died, I mean.”

  Robert and Dorian exchanged glances.

  “There is always a way,” he said. “Have you read the Cask of Amontillado?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Leah, “Oh.”

  “Poe’s story of Fortunato and his friend,” Dorian said. “Appropriate. Yes. He’s bricked into a wall and left to die there.”

  “You people don’t mess around,” said Leah, and Dorian nodded.

  Robert touched the whisky to his lips. Leah watched, fascinated, as he ran his tongue out to catch the droplets.

  Dorian nudged her foot unde
r the table. Apparently Robert was speaking. She shook herself out of some interesting daydreams.

  “Punishments, for the Fae, tend to be very Greek,” he was saying, “Sisyphus rolling the boulder up the hill, Tantalus stretching out his hand for the grapes always just out of his reach, that sort of thing.”

  “There is death, and there is worse than death,” said Dorian, “and worse than death is often the fate of the fae.”

  “But if Magnus is given the death sentence, how would that be carried out?” asked Leah.

  “The severity of his crimes may call for it,” said Dorian, “and although we survive much, we cannot endure everything.”

  Leah looked at Dorian. His face was impassive.

  The three of them sat in silence, listening to the crackle of the fire. Leah reached down to pet the Border collie, who had since woken up and padded over, nudging her hand with its nose.

  “What’s his name?” asked Leah.

  “Dileas,” said Robert. “They’re all named that up here.”

  “What, every dog has the same name?” she asked.

  “Scottish law. The minute you cross the Highland border you’re issued with a Border collie named Dileas,” he said, merriment in his eyes.

  “Well, I haven’t received mine,” she said, petting Dileas.

  “City folk don’t get one,” said Robert. “You only get the dog if you’re brave enough to relocate to the Highlands.”

  Dorian coughed and shot Leah a look.

  “What?” she asked.

  “If you’re done flirting,” said Dorian.

  “We were having a conversation!” she protested.

  “His eyes are up there,” said Dorian drily.

  “He’s insufferable, you know,” Leah confided in Robert.

  “I know,” said Robert. “And you don’t know the half of it. Things were different once.”

  Before Leah had a chance to ask what he meant, Dorian had resumed speaking, voice tinged with irritation.

  “I see you’ve made a friend,” said Dorian.

  “Yeah,” said Leah. “Maybe I should get a pet.”

  Dileas had decided to fall asleep with his head in her lap. The room was warm, the wind whistled against the panes of glass, and the fire crackled on as she drained her whisky. Robert went to fetch the bottle, and a thought crossed Leah’s mind, leaving her grinning.

  “So tell me,” she said, as Robert poured whisky into her glass and set the bottle down on the table, “did you really have sixteen illegitimate children?”

  Robert grinned again. His smile could light up the darkness.

  “Sixteen! Is that what the number is now?” he said. “And no, it was twelve in total, although many died in childhood, more’s the pity. The times, you know. Some of them were legitimate. In fact, many of them have been great successes! I kept an eye on the exploits of my children, and their children's children, with great interest. Unfortunately, not a word of poetry in any of them!”

  “Must have been a one-time thing,” said Leah, sipping her whisky, relishing the way the peat-smoke flavour faded away on her tongue. “Did you know you have over 900 direct descendants?”

  Robert paled, if such a thing were possible.

  “I what?!”

  “Yeah,” said Leah offhandedly. “It’s more a surprise if someone in Scotland isn’t related to you than if they are. Well done. I suppose you’ve kept the Scottish race alive.”

  Robert did not reply, but downed his whisky and poured the next one to the rim of his glass.

  ***

  Gregoire put the kettle on the fire, humming to himself. He had purchased some candy through one of his suppliers, and hoped that Miss Bishop would return to partake of it with him. She was the first human in centuries that had not run away screaming from him, but he knew that was partly Dorian's influence. He smiled to himself and shook his head. Dorian. He remembered what the man used to be like. He had never met the brother but he was fairly certain all Untaken selkies behaved the same way.

  A loud, keening wail sounded outside in the darkness. Gregoire stood still.

  The sound came again.

  Gregoire crept outside, past his waterfall, and leaned out to look into the valley below.

  “I thought so,” he sighed, dismay etching itself upon his horrible features. “No wonder they were all the way up here, asking questions. It has returned.”

  The wind whipped the trees into a frenzy, their branches scratching and spidering against the window in the darkness. Everyone slept through this because it was a normal night in Scotland.

  Until it wasn’t.

  ***

  Leah sat bolt upright in bed and instantly regretted it, her hangover and the freezing room vying for her attention. She split the difference, grabbing the duvet and curling it around her, as she rescued the hot water bottle where it had fallen on the floor.

  A roar shook the windows, rattling the panes of the ancient hotel that had not yet heard of double glazing or insulation. She opened the window and looked out into the darkness. There was mist on the ground and a soft eldritch light glowing. She heard the sound again...a keening, wailing sound. Her blood ran cold.

  She saw a formless shape move suddenly in the fog, long black claws drawing shadows across the ground. She leaned out the window, trying to catch another glimpse, but all she could see were the white clouds rolling across the earth.

  Still, she knew what she had seen.

  “Get a grip, Bishop,” she said to herself. “You work with monsters. You're safe, and you've seen weirder.”

  She looked at the duvet and hot water bottle, her heart filled with regret.

  “Are you going out there? Yes, you are.”

  She threw off the duvet, gasping at the cold air even though it was a summer night.

  She dressed quickly, and went across the hall to Dorian’s bedroom. She knocked at the door, and after a moment, it opened.

  Dorian stood there, looking radiant and perfect in a smoking jacket, not a jet-black strand of hair out of place.

  “Don't you sleep?” she asked.

  “I was sleeping,” he said.

  “...Huh. The selkie power of perfect hair,” Leah snorted. “Anyway, I saw something outside in the fog. It was making a strange noise. Could be nothing.”

  Dorian gave her a look, steel behind the soft brown of his eyes.

  “It's never nothing, Leah,” he said. “Give me a moment to change into something more appropriate.”

  “If you come out here wearing some kind of Sherlock Holmes outfit, I swear to God,” muttered Leah, but she shut the door.

  The door closed softly, and Leah was alone in the hallway. She decided to use the bathroom, because who knew how long a selkie would take to get ready to his satisfaction after being woken up in the middle of the night.

  A voice spoke directly into her ear.

  He thrusts his fists against the posts

  and still insists he sees the ghosts...

  He thrusts his fists against the posts

  and still insists he sees the ghosts...

  The voice was as loud as if there was someone in the hallway. Leah turned, slowly.

  “Hello?” she asked. “Is someone here?”

  There was no response.

  A little discomfited, she went to use the bathroom.

  As she washed her hands, she looked up into the mirror.

  A woman was standing behind her.

  She whipped around. The room was empty.

  Tap.

  Tap. Tap.

  Slowly, she turned toward the window. I'm on the fourth floor, she thought.

  There was nothing there.

  Tap.

  Tap. Tap.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  She wheeled slowly around as she realised where the sound was coming from.

  TAP. TAP. TAP.

  The mirror. The sound was coming from the mirror.

  She slammed her hand into the light switch and the room flooded with
yellow-white.

  In the mirror was a beautiful woman with dark hair, blood trickling from the edge of her mouth.

  Leah gasped and whirled around, but there was no one there. She turned back and the mirror was also empty.

  Shit.

  She backed out of the bathroom and opened the hallway door. All was darkness there as well, except for the dull emergency light from the exit.

  Back down the darkened hallway to Dorian’s bedroom, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she really shouldn’t turn around.

  “Dorian,” she tried, but her throat was dry and no sound came out. She edged towards his door.

  “Dorian,” she managed to hiss. Her hands found the doorknob. She turned it and fell inside.

  Dorian turned from a large vanity where he had been straightening his jacket in the mirror. Startled, he went to her.

  “Leah?” he asked. “What's wrong?!”

  “A ghost,” she said. “There's a ghost, I saw it.”

  Dorian raised an eyebrow.

  “I saw a woman's face in the mirror,” she said, and before Dorian could point out the obvious, “Not me! I mean, a different woman.”

  “Ghosts,” said Dorian, “Ugh, they are such a waste of time, you can't get any sleep. Wonderful.”

  “So you’ve seen ghosts before?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes. Some of my best friends are ghosts,” Dorian replied.

  “You have other friends?” asked Leah, startled.

  Dorian gave her a Look.

  “Not like that!” Leah said, “I just meant I've never seen you with any.”

  “Well, Miss Bishop,” said Dorian, “I could say the same for you.”

  “That's not the same!” she said, “I just moved back to Glasgow! You've been there since the French Revolution!”

  “Not true,” he said, “I've only been in Glasgow since the turn of the century.”

  “Okay, but the war...”

  “I will tell you the story later, but now, let's find out what's outside – if it hasn't left already.”