Blood Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 2)

by Stephen Penner

  ***

  Saturday, 1 August, A.D. 1647.

  I had the most horrible dream last night. The light magic was gone. And a traitor, a Judas, had wrestled control of the coven, leading them toward the well of darkness, destroying all we will have worked for generation upon generation. It happened well beyond my lifetime or even Catrìona’s. And so now I am tormented by two questions: Who will this Judas be? And will my own descendant be up to the challenge of stopping her?

  Maggie closed the journal on her thumb.

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “But yes.”

  45. A Hundred Thousand Warnings

  The rain hadn’t let up any by the time Maggie finally exited the abandoned kirk. She pulled the door to and replaced the boards, then scampered back to the hotel through the driving mist, Brìghde’s journal tucked safely in her backpack.

  Once back in the room, Maggie peeled off her damp clothing and laid it over the desk chair to dry, then crawled into the warm, welcoming bed. She managed to stay awake just long enough to feel sure that Iain had not been awakened by her return. Then she slipped off into dreams.

  Iain had not been awakened by Maggie’s return. He had, however, been awakened by his bladder shortly thereafter and emerged from his bedroom surreptitiously to tiptoe to the W.C. across the suite. He groped his way slowly toward the bathroom in the dark of the chamber, wanting to avoid waking Maggie by either the use of a light or the yell of an expletive after kicking a chair leg or some such. As he walked past the desk he set a probing hand onto Maggie’s still damp clothes.

  Thoroughly surprised he squinted through the dark toward her bed. She was there, safe, sound and visible under the covers, deep in peaceful slumber.

  Hm, he thought. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  *

  Iain squeezed Maggie’s hand as they motored back inside the Aberdeen city limits beneath pink washed clouds. It was late—they had stayed at Park most of the day—but the midsummer sun was just beginning to set. “Home again,” he declared. “Thanks for a great get-away.”

  “Well, thank you for coming along,” Maggie countered happily. “And thanks for the ride.”

  “Not at all. Iain Grant, Chauffeur Extraordinaire, at your service, milady.” Then a smile curled his lips as he asked, “Have you any more mysterious trips planned anytime soon?”

  “Mysterious?” Maggie repeated incredulously. “This wasn’t a mysterious trip. It was just for fun. And to show you the Castle.” That seemed true, for the most part.

  “Hm,” Iain replied, echoing his thoughts of his early morning trip to the loo. “Anyway, have you any such plans?”

  “Well, actually,” Maggie began, a bit sheepishly, “I was thinking of a trip to Brittany.”

  “Brittany?” Iain’s voice held surprise, but approval. “Well, that sounds interesting. Why Brittany?”

  “My studies,” Maggie answered as she looked away at whatever the car happened to be passing just then. No need to tell him it wasn’t her university studies.

  “Hm. I figured as much. And when are you planning on going?”

  Maggie looked down at her fingernails. “Tomorrow,” she said quite matter-of-factly.

  “Tomorrow?” Iain almost drove off the road. “You’re going to Brittany tomorrow?”

  She turned back to look at him. “Uh, yeah. It’s kind of time sensitive.”

  Iain considered this for a moment. “During the summer break, your studies are time sensitive?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Time to change the focus of the exchange. “So you probably can’t come along, huh?”

  “Ha, not bloody likely.” He paused for a moment to concentrate on a left turn then continued. “I’ll be working every Saturday ‘til Christmas if I up and leave for Brittany with no warning for, what, a week?”

  “Probably just a few days.”

  “Probably just a few days,” Iain parroted mockingly. But then he felt bad for it. “Well, maybe I can give you a ride to the airport. I, well, that is, I thought for some reason that we were staying over two nights at Park, so I’ve tomorrow off as well.”

  Maggie looked up at him, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He really was a dear. “Thanks, Iain. It’d be great if you could take me to the airport.”

  “I’ll pick you up too,” he offered. Then remembering the debacle at Argyll. “Maybe you can just call me from the airport when you get back in town. Apparently, you never know when your plans might get altered. Those studies of yours can get pretty crazy, aye?”

  Maggie had to laugh at that. “Aye, pretty crazy.”

  Iain shook his head. “Have I told you lately that you’re mysterious?”

  “Yes, I believe you have. Thank you.”

  “Not at all.” The conversation had finally brought them to Maggie’s apartment building. Iain pulled his car into the loading zone out front and pulled up the brake. He grasped her hand again. “Well, I have to tell you, Maggie, I kinda like all your secrets and mystery. It suits you somehow.”

  Maggie could feel herself begin to blush. “Um, thanks. I guess.”

  “And I think it’s good to have secrets,” he continued earnestly, “or it can be anyway. Just not lies.”

  She looked up sharply at him, the blush draining quickly away.

  “Let’s promise,” he squeezed her hands. “Secrets are fine. But no lies. All right?”

  “All right, Iain,” she agreed immediately, moved by the trouble in his voice. “No lies.”

  He exhaled deeply. Then a broad smile flashed across his face. “Good. All right then. So here we are. Can I walk you up?”

  Maggie smiled too, relieved their tense little moment had passed. “Please do.”

  They both stepped from the car and Iain fetched her bags from the boot. “So I guess I’ll call you tomorrow morning to see whether you’re still planning on going to Brittany, or if it’s changed to Uruguay, or maybe Tokyo, and, assuming you are still headed somewhere, we can figure out what time I should pick you up.

  Iain was watching Maggie’s face, waiting for a reaction. But Maggie had stopped listening to him as her gaze fixated on her apartment door. Shortly after moving in she had gone out and bought herself a doormat with the words ‘Ceud Mìle Fàilte,’ Gaelic for ‘A Hundred Thousand Welcomes.’ A bit trite perhaps, but very inviting. Far more so than the knife now shoved into her door.

  Iain stopped his soliloquy and followed her gaze to the blade embedded at eye level into the wood of her door. They hurried over and discovered that the small dirk possessed a utilitarian as well as decorative function. Its blade tacked a small handwritten note securely to Maggie’s door. On the note was written a single word, in a dark reddish ink that appeared suspiciously like blood. The word was ‘Stad.’

  “It’s a sgian dhu,” Iain said of the small staghorn-handled knife. “A traditional Highland dagger. You wear one with your dress kilt, but they’re just ceremonial anymore. Usually the blade isn’t even sharpened.” He pulled the knife from the door and slid a finger along the quite fully sharpened blade of the black handled knife, then stuck the stinging finger into his mouth and frowned. He handed the note to Maggie. “What does it say?”

  “It says ‘Stad,’” Maggie replied, thoroughly disquieted by this turn of events. She looked at Iain with glassy eyes. “It means ‘stop.’”

  “In Gaelic?”

  Maggie nodded her head. “Yes. And in Old Gaelic too,” she noted with some alarm. “It’s the same word.”

  Iain seemed struck dumb by this. He scowled down at the sgian dhu for answers, but received none. Finally he asked, “Does this have to do with your ‘studies’ too?”

  Maggie didn’t look up at him. “Yes.”

  “You’re still going to Brittany?”

  “Yes.”

  Iain thought for a moment. “I’m going with you.”

  “Yes.”

  Maggie thought for a moment herself, then crumpled the paper into a ball and looked up at her boyfriend. “Iain
?”

  “Aye?”

  “Stay with me tonight.”

  He reached out and pulled her close to him. “Aye.”

  46. Rise and Shine

  “Good morning, mo chridhe.”

  Iain’s voice jarred her awake. It had been a fitful night. She hadn’t gotten enough sleep. Why was that? Her mind was still groggy.

  She squinted up at the voice then squinted again at what she saw. She was trying to decide if she was still asleep. It was Iain. He was towering over her bed, holding a tray of what was obviously breakfast and dressed only, as near as she could tell, in one of her bathrobes. The pink satin one with the white quilted collar and the embroidered heart pocket. It was far too small for him and his muscular arms and legs protruded out from under the satin in way Maggie found disturbingly arousing. “What—?” she began, but then she remembered.

  She looked him over with half-lidded eyes, then ordered, “Set that down and come over here.”

  Iain gladly obliged. Maggie reached up and, grabbing a hold of his face, kissed him hard and long. When she’d finished, she let go of him again and looked up at his satin manliness. “Thanks for last night,” she purred.

  Iain sat down on the bed next to her and placed an arm across her sheet covered hip. “Thanks to you, milady.”

  She glanced over at the tray he’d set on her writing desk. “And you made me breakfast too.”

  “Aye. And I think it might even be edible.”

  “Well, then that was thoughtful of you.” She looked up at him again. “Not a love ‘em and leave ‘em kind of guy, I see.”

  “Och, no,” Iain grinned. “More like: love ‘em, eat breakfast with ‘em, and then leave ‘em. At least leave ‘em long enough to head into the shop and explain to your aunt and uncle how I’ll be accompanying your studious self to Brittany for a few days.”

  Maggie pushed herself into a sitting position. “Well, good. That’ll give me time too.”

  “For what?”

  She flashed a mysterious smile at him, recalling their promise. “It’s a secret.”

  “Uh-oh,” he laughed. “Now I’ve done it.”

  “Maybe you need to do it again,” she suggested, running a hand through his thick black hair and pulling his face to hers. “Come here.”

  “But breakfast will get cold,” he protested through her kisses.

  “Let it.”

  ***

  “Tell her Maggie Devereaux is here to see her.”

  “Is she expecting you?”

  “No, but she’ll see me.”

  “Hmph,” the police officer replied dubiously, but turned from her receptionist’s window to the telephone to ring Warwick’s office.

  Maggie crossed the small, uninteresting lobby and took a seat in one of the ugly plastic chairs. The nearest posting was on pink copy paper and reminded Aberdeenians to buckle up. ‘Click it or Ticket!’ exclaimed the smarmy cartoon police officer.

  After a few minutes there came a metallic clang from the large metal door on the opposite side of the lobby and Sgt. Elizabeth Warwick stepped into the lobby.

  “Maggie,” she greeted her visitor. “Good to see you. Come on back. I can spare you a few moments.”

  Maggie followed the police sergeant back to her spartan office. Maggie sat down and glanced up at the map of Aberdeen.

  “Is that crooked?” she asked pointing to it.

  Warwick suppressed a wince and decided to ignore the question. “What can I do for you today, Maggie?”

  Maggie leaned forward and considered her options. The direct approach seemed best. “I was wondering if I could take another look at those bios you have in the MacLeod file.”

  Warwick couldn’t suppress a grin. “Another look? You didn’t look in my file the other night, did you?”

  This took Maggie off guard. “Er, no. Well, yes. Maybe. I mean, well, you didn’t tell me not to.”

  Warwick shook her head amicably at this display and slid the file from the corner of her desk to directly in front of her. She extracted the information packets in question. “You mean these?”

  “Yes.”

  Warwick began reading off the names.

  “Nellie MacQuarrie?”

  “Yes.” Warwick handed her the bundle.

  “Barry Nelson?”

  “Er,” Maggie paused. “No.” Warwick, intrigued, set it aside.

  “Caroline Nelson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Marsaili NicRath?”

  “Yes.”

  “Glynis Campbell?”

  “Yes.”

  Warwick paused at the last one. “Have you read the newspaper yet today?”

  “Er, no,” Maggie admitted. She didn’t feel the need to explain why not.

  Warwick looked down at the bio in her hand. “Jessie MacLeod was arrested the night before last, just as I told you she would be.”

  “You said you thought she was innocent,” Maggie recalled.

  “Yes. And it seems I was correct. She was released again the following day when her iron clad alibi came forward. She’d told us she was at a restaurant and dance club the night her son was kidnapped. That was a lie.”

  Maggie nodded along, not sure what the point was.

  “In fact,” Warwick continued, “she had spent the entire evening, and the entire night, in the company of one Barry Nelson—MacLeod’s business manager, and husband to Dr. Caroline MacDonald-Nelson who made a habit of working night shifts at Aberdeen General Hospital’s emergency room.”

  “Oh.”

  “And seeing as how Mr. Nelson, by coming forward, had simultaneously ruined his career and his marriage, it was determined that he was likely being truthful when he vouched for Jessie’s whereabouts on the night in question.”

  “Wow,” Maggie replied, unsure what else to say. “Have you talked to his wife yet?”

  “No,” Warwick replied simply.

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’s gone missing,” Warwick explained, a bit testily. “Just like everyone else in this bloody file. Caroline Nelson, Nellie MacQuarrie, Marsaili NicRath, even Glynis Campbell. Every one of them has skipped town. We have no idea where they are.”

  They’re in Brittany, Maggie couldn’t help but think. Apparently this deduction made its way onto her face.

  “But you know, don’t you, Maggie?” Warwick leaned over her desk. “You know where they are.”

  “I— I’m not sure,” Maggie replied, honestly enough. “I might.”

  “Where?” Warwick demanded. “Where are they?”

  “Brittany?” Maggie offered tentatively. “Maybe. But I’m not positive.”

  Warwick sat back in her chair. “Brittany? Why Brittany?”

  “Er, well,” Maggie ran a nervous hand through her hair. “Like I said, I’m not exactly sure. It’s just—”

  She was saved by a knock on Warwick’s doorframe.

  It was Inspector Cameron.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Sergeant.” He offered an apologetic smile to Warwick then nodded politely to Maggie. “Good morning, miss.”

  He didn’t seem to recognize her.

  “But,” Cameron continued, “have you seen Sgt. Chisholm yet this morning?”

  Warwick frowned at the question, both in thought and in memory. “No. I thought she might be with you.”

  Cameron just nodded silently. Maggie could feel the tension in the room. She squirmed slightly in her chair as it shot over her head between the police officers.

  “Hm,” Cameron rubbed the back of his neck. Maggie thought he looked tired. “Well, if you see her, tell her I need to talk with her.” He paused. “But then, you probably knew that, eh?”

  Warwick replied with a curt nod and the inspector nodded too. “Maybe it was the MacLeod Banshee returned,” he joked, half to himself, before heading back down the corridor.

  Wrong prophecy, Sherlock, Maggie thought derisively, before remembering to return her attention to the sergeant.

  Warwick leaned
back in her chair and stared at her map, her mouth pursed into a troubled knot. “Maggie, I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut our meeting short. I think I need to go find our goodwill ambassador from Glasgow.”

  The word hit Maggie like a runaway truck. ‘Ambassador.’

  “Can we continue this later?” Warwick was asking as she stood up and gestured Maggie toward the door.

  “Eh? Oh, sure.” Maggie was only too glad to leave then. “Sure.”

  She followed the sergeant back into the lobby then stepped outside into the late morning sun.

  She counted to five on one hand and to two on the other. Then she wondered how fast Iain could get them to the airport.

  47. The Celtic Continent

  “Good Lord, woman!” Iain’s agitation was rising steadily as they waited in queue at EuroAir’s ticket counter inside Aberdeen International Airport.. ‘EuroAir:’ proclaimed the banner behind the discount airline’s ticket agent, ‘We Get You There.’ “Do you have any idea how expensive this is going to be? How are we going to pay for it?”

  Maggie began to answer, then paused to consider her reply.

  “Another secret?” Iain raised a suspicious eyebrow.

  “No,” Maggie replied shortly. “No secret. My grandmother left me an inheritance, a pretty large one, when she passed away last fall. I’ll use some of that.”

  “Oh.” Iain nodded thoughtfully. “You never told me that before.”

  “I haven’t told a lot of people,” Maggie replied. “It’s not really the sort of thing you going around telling people.”

  “I suppose not,” Iain had to agree.