by Alex Temples
Tristan shrugged. “I can’t speak for the fae of that time, though there are some alive who could. I can say the fae are generally more focused on the outcome than the mean by which it’s acheived. If their goal was to minimize conflict in the region, and they saw the world was naturally turning towards Christianity, they would have picked the path of least resistance.”
I swirled my tea, now cold, considering what Tristan had said.
“That’s fascinating and all, but I still don’t understand the connection between Columba and the Book of Kells, and what it has to do with the four treasures, which this cryptic text is presumably referencing.”
Tristan frowned. “Besides the region, I’m not sure either, but I know someone who could tell us.”
He pulled out his phone and dialed a number, putting it on speakerphone so we could all hear.
“Tristan, I’m in the middle of something.” Lupita’s irritated voice came over the line and I smiled. Of course, she would have answers.
“Lupita, thank you for taking my call. We need some information about the connection between Columba and the Book of Kells. It’s regarding something we found in Lebor Laignech, a hidden message of sorts.” Tristan added the last part in a sort of whisper and I glanced around, wondering at his tone.
The line was silent then, and when Lupita came back on the irritation was gone and her voice was filled with interest. “A connection between the old fox and that text, eh?” Silence again. “Columba studied at Leinster, you know…” Her voice trailed off. “Interesting, very interesting.”
Oren and I glanced at each other. Excitement flared in his eyes.
“The Book of Leinster was written much later than both Columba and the Book of Kells existed, but the link is curious.” He was wearing his professorial expression again. Tristan and I both watched him, waiting. You could almost see the wheels turning.
“Who is that?” Lupita asked suspiciously, her voice cutting into the silence.
“A friend.” Tristan said. “You say he studied at Leinster, why is that interesting?” He prodded.
Lupita sniffed. “It isn’t interesting in and of itself, only when you consider the fact that both books lived in places when Columba resided at one time or another.”
Tristan grunted, realization dawning on him. “Of course. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. The Book of Kells was begun in the Abbey founded by St. Columba.”
Excitement spread through me. “So, there is a connection between the two books and Columba! Now we just need to figure out what the riddle in the Book of Invasions means.”
“I’ve studied the book for decades and I’ve never seen a riddle.” Lupita said, irritation entering her voice again. “Read it to me.”
I glanced at Tristan, who nodded and began reading.
“From the mighty hill sprung forth the army of light who defeated the demons. Never could they fell Colm Cille, he who protected us all, and from her womb Leabhar Cheanannais was born. Evermore the guards await their enemy, bowing only to the worthy.”
He finished. The line was silent and then Lupita made an amused sound.
“That sly old fox.” She grumbled.
“What do you mean?” Tristan asked. We waited anxiously for her to continue.
Lupita cleared her throat. “He is pointing you to the missing pages.” She said, her voice clear and full of understanding.
“Missing pages?” I asked.
It was Oren who replied. “The Book of Invasions is incomplete. There are pages thought to be lost centuries ago.”
Lupita snorted. “The pages were taken intentionally. They contain information too important to risk it falling in the hands of a mortal, or worse yet, a fae intent on destruction, one such as Gethin.”
I was getting impatient now, history was never my favorite. “Are you saying we’re looking for some missing pages of a book and that this riddle tells us where to find them?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what she’s saying.” Tristan answered.
“What’s in the pages that’s so dangerous?” I asked.
Lupita hummed, not speaking.
“Lupita, I understand it is your job to protect this knowledge, but I assure you we aren’t the greatest threat at the present time.” Tristan said carefully, a note of emphasis on the word we.
The older woman cleared her throat again before speaking. “Indeed, very well. I sense you are right, my boy. The pages are said to include the locations of the four treasures, more exacting in their description than the vague stories told in the Book of Kells. Find the pages, and you will have the keys to finding the four treasures. I only hope you can find them before Gethin does.”
I gulped, and the three of us stared solemnly at the phone. This was what we needed – a way of finding the treasures before Gethin.
“Where can we find the pages?” I asked.
Lupita’s voice was filled with amusement when she spoke next. “Why, the place where the good book was born and St. Columba laid to rest, of course.”
I raised an eyebrow at the phone, and then glanced up at Tristan. He wore the same look of confusion I did.
“Which is where?” Tristan prompted patiently.
“The Isle of Iona.” Lupita and Oren said at the same time. Tristan’s eyes widened with recognition. He nodded with satisfaction before speaking.
Tristan looked up at me, blue eyes gleaming. “It looks like we’re headed to Scotland.”
Chapter Thirteen
I stretched out across the king size bed with a grateful sigh. Tristan and I had been traveling all day. He’d seemed no worse for the wear when I’d dropped him off at his hotel room, but I was a complete mess.
First, there was the mental strain as my brain struggled to process all that had happened in the past 24 hours – discovering the hidden message in the manuscript, having my apartment broken into, finding out my brother was part fae. Then, there was the exhaustion that generally accompanied trans-Atlantic travel.
We’d arrived in Edinburgh only hours before. Tristan had contacted someone at Arcata who handled travel for the company. She’d secured us a room at the Balmoral, a majestic beast of a hotel built in the early 1900s. As it turned out, traveling to the Isle of Iona was quite the undertaking. Perhaps that was why the fae protector had decided to entrust the missing pages of the Book of Invasions to the sanctity of the little island. I mused, picking up the Edinburgh city guide laying on the walnut nightstand and flipping it open.
The Balmoral was modern and elegant without being at all stuffy. The first thing I’d noticed walking into the lobby was the gorgeous ceilings. Blue recessed panels were surrounded by dropped beams, painted a gleaming white. Potted palms lined hallways and flanked entrances, often set against periwinkle blue walls. The 1920s drama was balanced out by touches of refined elegance – a black and white mural, a vase of calla lilies, an edgy, mustard colored armchair.
My room was simpler than the public spaces downstairs -modern, comfortable, and stocked with crisp, white linens and a dozen varieties of tea.
The Scots like their tea as much as I like my scotch, I thought, bemused. On the other hand, I supposed the Scots like their scotch as much as I like my scotch.
Downstairs, a genuine Scottish whisky bar beckoned. I presumed this the reason for Tristan selecting the hotel. Not that he liked scotch. I wasn’t certain he even drank, but he knew how I felt about it.
That’s a good friend.
I smiled to myself, taking a moment to appreciate the fact that I had a friend who, despite the danger and uncertainty defining our lives of late, had taken the time to ensure we had a good night’s rest in a place with nice linens and high-quality scotch.
Flipping the city guide closed, I took a moment to send Oren a brief text message, letting him know we’d made it safely, and were staying in Edinburgh for the night.
He’d been angry when Tristan told him he had to stay in D.C., even more so when I agreed it was best for everyone
. Even though he had magic, he was untrained and still knew only the very basics of what was going on. Never mind the fact that he likely had a concussion after the break-in.
Our journey to Iona was a multi-day excursion, and we’d only completed the first leg. In the morning, we’d take a train from Edinburgh to Oban. From Oban, we needed to catch a ferry to Craignure, on the Isle of Mull. Then, we’d be able to take another ferry from Mull to Iona. We didn’t have much of a plan after that, but the island wasn’t large. It seemed the monastery that sat on the ruins of Iona Abbey was the best place to begin our search.
I sighed, rubbing my forehead in frustration, and then lightly pinching the bridge of my nose. I had the start of a headache. Sliding off the bed reluctantly, I wandered over to the desk and picked up the handset, punching in the number for the front desk.
“Hello Ms. Yates. How can I help you this evening?” A pleasant voice answered.
“Yes, I wanted to see if you had anything for a headache – is the gift shop perhaps?” No use running downstairs unless they had what I was looking for.
“Certainly. We will send something right up.” The woman replied.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that. I can come down and get it, I just wanted to make sure- “
“No problem at all, ma’am. I assured Mr. McKay we’d take care of all your needs while you’re here with us. Please don’t hesitate to let me know if there is any way I can make your stay more pleasant.” She said, sounding a bit like Mary Poppins.
Well, alright then. This is how the other half lived. Mr. McKay?
It should have occurred to me Aiden and Tristan shared the same mortal last name, but it was the first time I’d ever heard it.
“Well, thank you very much- “
“Mabel.” She supplied.
“Mabel.” I echoed, “I’ll let you know if anything comes up.” I said, bidding her goodnight and settling the phone back into its cradle.
I glanced around the room, pondering what to do next. Tristan had mentioned making dinner reservations at the restaurant downstairs, but I still had some time to kill. By the time my medicine arrived at the door, I’d discarded my traveling clothes, and slipped on a pair of black trousers and a silky black top with a feminine bow that tied at the neck.
I thanked the short, freckled attendant who delivered it, trying not to stare at his kilt. All the male staff wore kilts. It was quite an adjustment. This poor kid, being both short and thin, looked rather more like a teenage girl than a teenage boy.
I closed the door, shifting uncomfortably in the unfamiliar clothing. I hadn’t been thinking very critically when I’d packed. I’d stuffed the only things in my wardrobe that were neither dirty nor ruined after the break-in. Most of what I’d packed were feminine looking garments Sam had convinced me to buy at one point or another throughout the years. One oversight had been the shoes.
I had two pairs -my usual pair of scuffed ankle boots, and a pair of black pumps. I stared down at my scuffed boots and shook my head. I couldn’t wear those to dinner. The pumps it would have to be.
Staring in the mirror I was surprised to see that with a fresh pair of clothes and heels I looked not only presentable, but possibly something north of that. Not beautiful. I never had been traditionally beautiful. My jaw was too strong, my features not quite symmetrical, but I looked solidly pretty, my red hair curling around my face in the humid Scottish climate.
I frowned. There were a few lines around my eyes and they were puffy from the flight.
Perhaps a little makeup?
I considered my reflection, and shrugged, heading into the bathroom to see if I could work some magic and at least make my eyes look less bloodshot. Who knew where we’d end up after Edinburgh? Likely there wouldn’t be another chance to look presentable.
Chasing dark fae is a dirty job, but somebody has to do it.
Chapter Fourteen
“Oh, yes. Now that is a damn good one, Johnny.” I said, swallowing down the oily liquid. It burned a path all the way to my stomach. Everything inside me felt warm and lovely.
Johnny, the bartender, nodded with satisfaction. “I’m glad ye like it, lassie. I’ve another suggestion for ye. Wud ye like me to bring it, or du ye want to try it first?”
The charming older man had a headful of shaggy gray hair and kind blue eyes with an ever-present twinkle. He also knew how to sell scotch. I think it was the charming accent that did me in. I already loved a good peaty dram, but I couldn’t help having seconds, thirds, and apparently fourths when it was being served up with fried tatties by a dashing Scotsman.
I could listen to that voice all night. If a Scotsman had taught my high school history class, I’d have had much better grades.
After coming downstairs intent on a cup of tea, I’d wandered past the Scotch bar. It was intimate and charming, and proved too difficult to resist. Cabinets lined the wall on one side, filled with more varieties of Scotch than I’d ever seen in my life. Sleek, modern slipper chairs, upholstered in black leather were gathered around low coffee tables in front of the cabinets. A couple mustard-colored accent chairs nested among them. I’d opted to sit at the bar instead though, preferring to be up high.
I sat perched on a comfortable, cowhide bar stool. I’d chosen the chair closest to the wall, feeling more comfortable with my back against something solid as I people watched. There was some excellent people watching.
It was noisy. There was a low din as glasses clinked and people chattered. The smell of fried onions wafted out of the kitchen, making my mouth water. It had to be close to dinner time. I wondered where Tristan was. Probably still up in his room.
A dark-haired man with a brown leather jacket and a swagger entered the room, catching my eye.
He looks interesting.
I casually watched him scan the room. His eyes stopped at the bar. I was smiling stupidly, an expression I attributed more to the relaxing properties of the scotch than my current state of mind. The stranger’s eyes landed on me. We just stared at each other.
Finally, his lips spread into a satisfied smile. Uh oh. Attracting the attention of strangers was not on my priority list. I sighed. I hadn’t intended to smile at him. He just happened to be looking in my direction while I was smiling. Jerk.
The stranger headed my way, giving me another quick up and down before climbing into the seat next to mine. My eyes were on my whisky glass now. He was probably more interested in a drink than he was in me. No need to worry. These days, I tended to assume the worst about people and their intentions. A terrible habit.
“Alright mate, whaddle it be tonite?” Johnny asked the stranger, dropping a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of him.
“Glenlivit, 18.” The stranger said, his voice a deep rumble, and as smooth as the scotch I was drinking.
Johnny nodded and turned to me, eying my glass with his eyebrow raised. I tossed back the rest of my drink and nodded at him. I’d probably regret it in the morning, but I was caught up in the moment and enjoying the feeling of letting go.
Glinting, ice-blue eyes studied me. I stared back, my gaze steady. His lips twitched and he looked away first.
Where ye fae, lassie?
I just stared dumbly back at him. Did he just ask me if I was fae?
“Ach, Daryl, she’s American and she dinnae ken what yer sayin.” Johnny scolded, setting two glasses down on the counter.
Johnny turned to me. “Ah, is that so?”
“Yes, I am American. I’m from Washington D.C.”
He nodded, and then picked up his glass.
“To Washington then, fur giftin’ us with yur beauty.”
I gave him an amused look, my cheeks burning ever so slightly, but I lifted my glass with a salute and we both took a sip.
Gut full of liquid courage, I felt a bit sassier. “What about you, where ye fae?” I imitated, raising an eyebrow at him.
He laughed, his ice-blue eyes warming, turning his body towards me.
“Not b
ad, lass, but I like yur American accent betta.” He paused, taking a slow sip from his glass before speaking. “I’m from Inverness, up North. I come down to Edinburgh on business once a month. And yew, what brings ye to Scotland?”
I took a slow sip of scotch, keeping it in my mouth for a moment until the burning in my nostrils forced me to swallow. My lips and tongue tingled.
“Sightseeing.” I finally answered. “It’s a beautiful country.” That much was true. Edinburgh was a treasure, with no less than a dozen historic sites within blocks of the hotel. Hell, I could see a castle from the window of my hotel room. “What kind of business are you in, Daryl?” I asked, letting my eyes sweep over him as he had done to me not moments ago. Strong jaw, long torso, a bit of a lone ranger thing going on.
His lips parted, his amusement at my boldness evident. “I make whisky.”
My mouth dropped open. “You make whisky?”
He grinned then, nodding affirmatively.
“Wow, I’ve never met anyone who makes whisky. It’s sort of a hobby of mine.”
“Drinking?” He asked, cocking an eyebrow.
I laughed. “No. Well, sort of.” I said with a shrug. “I don’t have much of a social life. Some people like going to sporting events, and they get excited when they get to meet a player, right?” I didn’t wait for a response. “Drinking scotch is one of the few things I do for leisure, and so meeting a scotch maker is kind of like that for me.”
After the words were out of my mouth, I realized how pathetic they sounded. God, I’ve got to get out more.
Daryl’s lips twitched. “Ah, weel then, I’m glad to have been yer first. If yer interested, I’m happy to tell you all about the process. Every intimate detail.” He said, giving me a devilish grin.
I was sunk. I glanced around the room to make sure Tristan hadn’t wandered in. With a satisfied nod, I turned back to Daryl and gave him a big smile. It wasn’t quite time for dinner, we’d just talk for a little while.
