by Amy Hoff
CALEDONIA
Amy Hoff
Copyright © 2015 by Amy Hoff
Photography: ldambies
Design: Crooked Cat
Editor: Bella Book
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever
without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Publishing except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales,
is entirely coincidental.
First Blue Line Edition, Crooked Cat Publishing Ltd. 2015
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For Alasdair
Acknowledgements:
My greatest thanks goes to Laurence and Steph Patterson of Crooked Cat, for liking my story enough to let me share Caledonia with the world.
Many people helped to bring Caledonia into being, starting with Jennifer Mackenzie, who encouraged me to continue writing this book.
The country of Scotland and its storytelling history, my greatest passion.
The city of Glasgow, and everything that goes with it.
The city of Seoul, providing its incredible subway system that gave me hours of writing opportunity, and is wonderful in all sorts of ways.
Heewon, Jaekwan, Sung Dae, Hyun Suk, and Hyeon Ju, who supported me during the creation of the story.
My wonderful cast and crew, who continue to work with me on the Caledonia web series, and are the best people I have known; awesome women and handsome men. Jan van der Black, the series' editor, who I am still able to depend on through the second season.
Special thanks also goes to Laura Howitt, who helped review Dylan's dialogue.
To Colin Smythe, thanks for your help and guidance.
Linn and Christina, who were the first to read the novel and point out anything strange.
The brilliant Bella Book, my editor, who has helped shape Caledonia into looking its best. Her support, encouragement and awesome conversations inspired me. I hope we continue to work together in the future.
My best friend in the world, Nils, who has always been there for me even when no one else was. Tous pour un, un pour tous, et tes yeux... tu connais le reste.
The open road, and all the stories and adventure it has provided over the years.
My oldest fans – my family, and Little Kelly.
And finally, Alasdair - my own Dorian Grey.
About the Author:
Amy Hoff has been on the road for years. She used to drive across the United States and live out of cheap motels, collecting stories. When she reached the ocean, she kept going, travelling the world. She doesn't live anywhere; her home is the road, in whatever form that takes. Sunsets off the bow when she was a sailor, flying into Incheon International in Seoul, driving the lonely American highways, walking across borders in the Americas, in Europe, and in Asia. The stories of Scotland are her favourite, and she became a PhD researcher, an expert in Scottish monster lore. She still travels, and is now a researcher of monster folklore worldwide.
Check out the darker parts of any pub, if you are ever washed up on strange shores. You might see her there, looking for stories to tell and be told.
Caledonia
The word faerie was once synonymous with the word monster.
Prologue
Yesterday, Leah Bishop didn't believe in faeries.
That was yesterday.
***
“What the hell,” she croaked, because awake was definitely not what she wanted to be. She looked at the empty whisky bottle near the bed and smiled at it like an old friend, before the hangover hit her. Then she would hate the bottle and all that it stood for. In her heart, she knew that she would be forgiving and all would be forgotten by the evening, when she'd fall back into its arms. She loved whisky. It loved her back. They were destined to be star-crossed.
She wondered why she was awake. Then, she heard it again. A knock on the door. Leah grumbled, willed herself out of bed, and walked across the floor in bare feet. She pushed her front door open.
There was a very good-looking man standing on her doorstep.
Hell yeah, thought Leah. She started to grin, and then belatedly realised she hadn't brushed her teeth.
“A message for you, miss,” said the man, handing her a packet. “Sign here.”
Leah did as she was told. The man bowed deeply, turned on his heel, and walked down her front drive. He turned left, and vanished behind a hedge. She closed the door and went to make tea in the kitchen. She yawned hugely, watching the milky water turn brown. After the tea had steeped, she carried the mug and the packet into the living room.
She ripped it open. Inside was a stack of paper, with a letter of invitation. CALEDONIA INTERPOL was written across the top, in bright silver professional-looking letters.
The message underneath read:
Dear Miss Bishop,
We have heard many positive things about your
unique knowledge and considerable skills.
We would like to invite you to work with us in
Glasgow, at Caledonia Interpol. You would
be given the title of Detective Inspector, and a
generous pay rise. Enclosed are the forms
and a manual to get you accustomed to your
new life, should you take us up on our offer.
Please do not hesitate to call me upon
receiving this. We do hope you will
decide to join us here in Glasgow.
Yours sincerely,
Chief Inspector, Ben A. Donner, Caledonia Interpol
There was a telephone number at the bottom. Leah sipped her tea. She looked around at the emptiness of her flat, and the silence closed in on her like a tomb. She picked up the telephone and dialled.
“Hello?” she asked. “May I speak to the Chief Inspector?”
***
Leah took the job. She couldn't stay in the same city, not anymore.
Six months it had been.
Six months and counting.
That long?
It felt like yesterday.
***
She walked out of her house for the last time, and looked out over the beauty of Edinburgh. The castle on the rock above Waverley train station. The Royal Mile, the countless tourists, the history, and the somewhat smug feeling that she was living in the most luxurious city in Scotland. She was leaving this beautiful place for the dark, gritty streets of working-class Glasgow. If Edinburgh was Scotland's Paris, then Glasgow was its Detroit. Detroit was cars, Glasgow was shipping, and both now existed in a disused, abandoned state, living off of the memories of better days.
Leah sighed. Nothing in Edinburgh spoke to her heart anymore. As she boarded the train to Glasgow, and the conductor came by for her ticket, she handed it over in quiet triumph. The train pulled out of the station, and she looked up at Castle Rock one last time. In departing, she felt nothing. Edinburgh was now a place of the past. She would not return.
Chapter One
In the early hours of the dawn, the phone rang. Even in her sleep, even after all this time, she still hoped it was him. It never was.
Leah woke up with the fuzzy and familiar taste of day-after-whisky on her tongue. She was confused for a moment, as she sat up on the edge of the bed. She saw the half-empty bottle on the floor, next to a shortbread tin she had purchased in a fit of madness d
uring the night. She stared at the castle and loch depicted on the lid, tiny Highland cattle dotting the landscape, and shook her head at the Scotland she had never known, the one that sold well in all the shops but bore little resemblance to reality. Her Scotland was bookies and rundown neighbourhoods, drug addiction and poverty, loud clubs and council flats; a derelict fantasy of cheap booze, bad cigarettes, and terrible decisions.
The hotel was nothing to speak of. It was a humble affair, a compact white building at the centre of a row of houses. The cracked walls and cramped, hard bed served as a reminder of the city she was in. The bathroom, where the shower ran too cold or too hot, and the general damp of the building made her miss Edinburgh, and her small bright flat. When she had arrived in the city, her new boss had spoken to her on the telephone, informing her that they were in the middle of a murder investigation.
“Right,” Leah said aloud to her empty hotel room. “Glasgow.” The phone continued to ring. She sighed, then dug under the pillows until she found it.
“Hello,” she mumbled gruffly.
“Are you awake?” asked a male voice.
“I am now.”
“You'll have to get down here as quickly as you can.”
Leah rolled her tongue around in her mouth, to see if that improved things. It didn't. Grumbling, she sat up.
“Be right down,” she said. After a shower.
Leah sat at the edge of her cold, hard bed.
She told herself police officers aren’t supposed to cry.
***
Leah walked out of the underground station, willing herself not to have a hangover.
She'd been told that someone would be there to meet her, but the station seemed abandoned. She started to wonder if she'd gotten the time wrong, and checked her watch. 9 AM, St. Enoch Station. That was right, wasn't it? She heard the sound of footsteps behind her, and turned around.
The man standing there was beautiful.
He was slim, with black hair, and huge mournful eyes in a pale face. He was dressed in a tailcoat, pressed trousers, and gloves. His long, royal blue brocade tailcoat complemented the white of his skin. Leah's mouth dropped open.
“Leah Bishop?” asked the apparition, straightening his gloves. His cheekbones could slice apples.
“Yeah...?” she said.
The man bowed, took her hand, and then kissed it. Leah was bemused and puzzled.
“I am Detective Inspector Dorian Grey,” he said.
She knew that all detectives were plainclothes officers, but she wondered why he looked like someone from a steampunk convention. Even that wasn't quite accurate, though. This man had an air of displaced reality, as if he had been removed from the Victorian era and placed on a kerb outside of St. Enoch Station at 9 in the morning. His huge eyes watched her, his face impossibly sad. Leah was reminded suddenly of a childhood pet, and the way her black Labrador used to look up at her with his chin resting on her knee. She then realised what he had said.
“Dorian Grey?” she asked. “Did you make that up yourself?”
“Yes,” said the man, without a trace of irony. He stood there staring, as if he were waiting for some kind of prompt.
“Er...on the phone you said you had something to show me?” she suggested.
“Indeed,” he said. “We'd better go. The chief does not like to be kept waiting, and you know how difficult he can be, given his history.”
“I do?” asked Leah.
“I'd assume so, yes,” said Dorian. “Come along.”
Leah hesitated, having never been told to 'come along' before. If this was her new partner she supposed she would have to get used to his idiosyncrasies. God knew she had enough of her own.
There was a large open square between the two entrances to the underground station, and in the centre of it was a strange building that resembled a castle. Two of its four turrets framed a large clock. The building now housed a coffeeshop, and its many windows advertised the specials of the day.
“This used to be the subway station,” Dorian explained, leading her around the back of the building. He stood in front of a solid brick wall, focusing on it. He took off a white glove, and pressed his bare palm to the red sandstone. Leah stared at him. Suddenly there was a strange sound, the ancient creaking of stone moving on stone, and a tunnel appeared; a tunnel of leaves and plants that descended into the darkness.
Leah turned to look at him very slowly.
“After you,” he said. Leah cautiously took the first step down the stairs. Dorian followed her, and as they descended, she heard the door slowly close. Around them, a phosphorescent light illuminated the staircase and the leaves, giving the impression of a moonlit garden. Uncomfortable with the lack of conversation, Leah spoke.
“So...does the chief let you dress like that?” she asked.
The eyes of small creatures were watching her, bright and black, from behind the leaves. Slight whispering and tittering behind her made her whip around and nearly lose her balance on the stairs.
Dorian looked down at his impeccable clothing.
“Like what?” he asked.
“Er – never mind,” she said. He raised an eyebrow.
“As I was saying earlier,” he said, “we called you in because of your unique knowledge and skills.”
“So you said,” she replied, and wondered what kind of skills she had that would be valuable. She had been told repeatedly that her knowledge was worthless. She sighed.
“That would be Adam, I take it?” asked Dorian, as if she had spoken aloud. Stopping dead, she looked into the wide brown eyes of the strange young man.
“How do you know about him?” she demanded. He shrugged slightly.
“It's in your heartbeat,” he said. “Are you coming?”
Now, she was even less certain about the wisdom of following Dorian, as they continued to descend into the darkness. She watched him: perfect posture, delicate bone structure, like something she had seen in a film, or a painting. He reminded her of wilderness and of the sea, of forest creatures at the close of day, of faithful pets. As if he weren't quite human.
“The reason that we called for you,” he said, startling her, “is because we think a human is killing them.”
“Them who?” asked Leah.
“Perhaps I should say us,” he said. “Killing...us.”
Suddenly, they had reached the bottom of the mysterious staircase. Dorian took out a large silver skeleton key with a heart-shaped Celtic knot on one end. He inserted it into the lock, turned it twice to the right and once to the left. He lifted the huge wrought-iron hoop and the ancient wooden door swung open. Leah looked around herself, and was a bit deflated to see that they were in what appeared to be a broom closet.
“Is this a cupboard?” she asked. Dorian looked at her.
“We've had some...budget cuts,” he said.
***
As he led her down what looked like a normal hallway, her mind was racing. What is happening? Have I been drugged? Probably not, there's no way...is this real? There is no way this could possibly be real...Is there? Is this magic?
At the end of the hallway, Dorian knocked on a white door.
The door swung open, and Leah drew a breath. They stood in a Jacobean library, filled with light and life. The room was packed full of books with overstuffed red sofas lining the walls. The room was huge, and the ceiling was so high – was that a cloud? – that it seemed to have its own weather. Several walls were made up only of bookshelves stacked so high it was difficult to see them in their entirety. The carpets were red, the walls a tasteful combination of oak panelling and rich cherry mahogany. The three-dimensional latticed windows were large and arched, letting in the silver Glasgow sunlight. There was an enormous fireplace in the centre of one wall where a large fire crackled merrily.
Leah was in love.
Small people – with wings? – were deep in conversation beside a teakettle, and various other people of all sizes and descriptions read over each other’s s
houlders and lounged on the sofas, or in the armchairs. Near each one of them, a small laptop computer whirred quietly.
In the corner, behind piles and piles of paperwork, seated in front of a desktop computer from the nineteen-eighties with a green-text monochrome monitor, was a giant. The giant looked up over his glasses, caught sight of Dorian, grumbled to himself, and went back to poking at the keyboard with a single fingertip.
Dorian smiled slightly.
“Who’s that?” whispered Leah.
“Your new boss,” Dorian replied.
“Welcome to Glasgow, Detective Inspector Bishop,” rumbled the giant. “My name is Benandonner. I am the chief of police here.” He shifted his great bulk, somehow navigated around the precarious stacks of paper, and walked over to them. Although he was taller and larger than Leah or Dorian, he merely looked like an oversized human to her.
Leah shook his hand, and then looked at both of them.
“Benandonner?” she asked. “Like the giant?”
“No, Leah,” said Dorian. “He is the giant.”
The world fell silent as she considered this. Benandonner and Dorian watched her placidly, waiting for her response.
“You expect me to believe that?” she asked.
“Are there magical portals in your world?” Dorian returned, and shrugged. “People were just shorter back then. He truly is the giant who fought Cuchulainn.”
“And who are you? Cuchulainn?” Leah retorted. As far as she was aware, Benandonner was the giant who destroyed the Giant's Causeway to Ireland, for fear of Finn MacCool.
“Don't be ridiculous,” he said. “I am the selkie Dorian Grey. And I did make it up myself. Humans cannot pronounce my real name.”
Chief Ben cut in, exasperated, “Can we get down to business?” Dorian nodded.
