by Elle Jasper
Curse Me Wicked
Elle Jasper
From The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance.
Elle Jasper
Curse Me Wicked
Village of Dunmorag, North West Highlands, Scotland, October
“So you think you can handle this one, huh, newbie?”
I glanced at Paxton Terragon, the arrogant, senior field agent I’d been training with for the past three months. He was in his mid-thirties, wore white spiked hair and looked like Billy Idol. I narrowed my gaze, sick to death of being called newbie. “Hell yeah.”
Pax laughed, grabbed the keys from the ignition, jumped out and slammed the door. I did the same and Pax peered at me over the top of the car. “Fearless Ginger Slater, WUP’s most notorious risk-taking newbie field agent is ready for a little action, huh?”
The agency we worked for, WUP – Worldwide Unexplained Phenomena – had partnered me with an idiot. A biting wind whipped across the car park and sank clear to my bones, and I pulled the edges of my leather jacket closer. I frowned at Pax. “I was a shape-shifters/curses specialist for two years prior to joining WUP so lay off and let’s go.” As I rounded the back of the Rover, my eyes searched the grey, bleak village of Dunmorag.
Pax chuckled. “So you have a couple of years behind you and what?” He cocked his head and stared at me. “Think you’re ready?” He shook his head and popped the hatch. “I’ve been at this for ten years, newbie, and trust me – you’re never ready.”
I met Pax’s stare for a few seconds, told him to eff-off in my head, grabbed my pack and shouldered it. Then I really took a good look around at the secluded Highland village. Desolate was the first word that came to mind. Half-dozen grey stone and white-washed buildings hugged the pebbled crescent shore of a small lake – rather, loch. Beyond the village were the Rannoch Moors, which were even more desolate than Dunmorag. Tufts of dead grass, brown heather and rock stretched for miles. Far in the distance, dark, craggy mountains threw long shadows and loomed ominously. The skies were grey. The moors were grey. Even the water in the loch was grey. Well, black.
Foreboding. That was the second word that came to mind.
“You gonna stand here all day and take in the scenery or what?” Pax asked.
I gave him a hard look, which he ignored and instead inclined his head to the pub behind us. “I’m ready,” I said, shifted my pack, shrugged my leather jacket collar closer to my neck, and together we crossed the small car park. The wind bit straight through my clothes and I shivered as I stepped on to the single paved walk that ran in front of the stores. I glanced down the row of buildings. A baker. A fishmonger. The post office. A grocer. An inn and a pub. And absolutely no people around. Weird. Very, very weird. Good thing weird was our speciality.
A black sign with a sliver of a red moon painted on it swung above the pub on rusted hinges, and the creaking noise echoed off the building. In silver letters the sign read The Blood Moon. Pax pushed in through the double red doors – quite befitting, the red – and I followed. Inside, it took my eyes several seconds to adjust to the dimmer light. A hush fell over the handful of people gathered in the single-room dwelling. “Guess we found the villagers,” I whispered to Pax. Everyone stopped what they were doing, or saying, to stare at us. No one uttered a word.
I glanced at Pax, then all around, until my eyes lighted on the man behind the bar. He had dark, expressionless eyes, reminding me of a shark’s, and they bore straight into me. His head, shaved bald, shone beneath the pub’s overhead light. He said nothing. I walked up to him and met his gaze. “We’re looking for Lucian MacLeod,” I said. “Know where we can find him?”
The bartender shot a quick glance to someone behind us – I don’t know who – before returning his heavy gaze to me. “He’s no’ here,” he said, his brogue so thick I barely caught all the words. “Best you and your friend just go.” He stared. “Lucian willna be back anytime soon.”
I smiled. “Could you just point us in the right direction? We came a long way.”
The bartender looked first at Pax, then back at me. “From America, aye?” he said, regarding both of us. Then he leaned across the bar, his hard gaze settled on me. “You know the moors, do you girl?”
I shrugged. “Not really but we can find them. Why, is that where he’s at?”
“Callum, dunna do it,” an older woman said in a hushed voice from a table near the window. She looked at the bartender, but not me. “’Tis wrong.”
Callum shot the woman a hard look.
“Look, Callum,” I said. “Lucian contacted us for our services, so,” I leaned forward, “why don’t you just tell us where to find him and we’ll be on our way.”
The bartender studied me for several seconds before answering. “He’s on the far north of the Rannoch Moors, in a little stone bothy,” he said. “’Tis the only one out there. But I’m givin’ you fair warning, lass,” his voice dropped. “Get your business done and off the moors by nightfall. If you canna find MacLeod, leave.”
I held his gaze. It took a lot more to frighten me than a moor warning. Besides – ole Callum had no idea what we were used to. “Thanks.” I glanced at Pax and inclined my head towards the door. “Let’s go.”
Outside, I swear the wind felt ten degrees colder. And it had started to rain. Freaking great.
“Food.” Pax wasn’t asking, he was telling. His gaze wandered up the walk.
I glanced first at my watch, then gauged the darkening sky.
“There’s no time.”
Pax swore, then headed towards the car, muttering something about fish and chips and beer.
I followed, and as my stomach growled – yeah, I was hungry too – I looked up the one-track lane of Dunmorag, at the bleak buildings, the grey skies, at The Blood Moon pub. A sharp gust of wind whipped by and I squinted against its harshness. An uneasy feeling crept over me. Something wasn’t right; something about this whole case didn’t sit well with me and I couldn’t put a finger on it. And something about Dunmorag wasn’t right, either. Creepy. It was just so freaking creepy.
It made me wonder just who Lucian MacLeod truly was. To say he’d been vague when he’d called the agency was an understatement; he’d simply asked a few questions, requested a specialist in curses and paid a hefty fee up-front just to procure that specialist. But it was his final plea that had stuck with me when we’d spoken on the phone; you’re my last hope. I don’t know if it’d been the desperation in his voice, or the words themselves; either way, I found I was fascinated. Even if it meant suffering a trans-Atlantic flight and three hours in the car with Pax Terragon, I was still enthralled and interested to sit down and find out the full scoop on Lucian’s problem – whatever it was.
We left the dreary Highland village behind, with only four and a half hours left of daylight – if that’s what you called it – and headed for the even drearier moors.
“Crisp?” Pax asked, shaking his chip bag at me.
“Let me get this straight,” I said, turning sideways in the seat to look at my partner. “You stick your hand in the bag. You pull out a chip; put it in your mouth. Lick your fingers. Then back in the bag they go.” I shook my head. “I’ll pass.”
Pax laughed and crammed several more chips into his mouth. “Whatever, newbie.” He jerked a thumb towards the window. “Doesn’t look like we’ll find anywhere out here to eat.”
I glanced around the barren moors and decided Pax was right. There wasn’t anything in sight, in any direction, except dead heather, grass and rock. Several brown bunnies had shot across the one-track lane but that was it. No other signs of life existed. Heavy grey and black clouds had claimed the waning afternoon light, throwing the moors into a weird sort of eerie, shadowy hue. The rain had continued, a light dri
zzle, but constant. I pressed my palm to the window’s glass and shivered at its coldness. The temperature outside was dropping. By nightfall, with the rain? Almost unbearable. I preferred the warmth, sunshine, sandy beaches and crystal-clear waters. Neither cold nor gloom ranked as one of my top five faves but both seemed to go hand-in-hand with WUP assignments. Go figure.
“There it is,” Pax said, pulling me out of my thoughts. I glanced in the direction he pointed, across the moors, to a small, single-storey stone cottage. A mist had drifted in and settled like a sheet of wispy fog over the dead clumps of grass and heather. Smoke puffed out of the chimney. “MacLeod’s here.”
“Looks like it,” I answered. What the bartender call it? A bothy? It was the only dwelling around, so it had to be it. “Turn there,” I said suddenly, noticing a narrow lane veering off towards the cottage. “Has to be the only way over there.”
“Right.” Pax followed the dirt and rock lane as it wound across the moors, straight towards the bothy. Several minutes later we pulled in front of the cottage, parked, and jumped out. I reached the door to the cottage first, so I knocked.
No answer.
I glanced at Pax, then knocked again – louder. “Mr MacLeod?” I said, close to the door. “It’s Ginger Slater from WUP. We spoke on the phone?” I put my hand on the door knob and Pax stopped me.
“Never enter a situation without your gear, newbie,” he said, and shoved my pack at me, and I was surprised to see he had his stunner – a ten-inch stainless steel electric probe that packed enough voltage to bring down a horse, or a madman – palmed. Pushing ahead, he opened the door and stepped inside. Feeling like an idiot, I followed. The interior was dim, save the fireplace which had something – not wood – smouldering in the hearth. It smelled earthy. One lamp burned in the corner, next to a recliner and side table; a book lay open, pages face down, spine creased outward. A beer bottle sat beside it.
“MacLeod?” Pax said, his voice stern, throaty, a little threatening. “You in here?” He glanced at me, pointed across the room, then inclined his head towards a hallway, and I nodded. As I pulled my own stunner from my pack, he disappeared down the hall, and I eased towards the only other room visible. I stopped at the side table and grasped the beer bottle; it was still cool and half-full. My fingers tightly gripped the hilt of the stunner, I held my breath, and pushed open the kitchen door.
I never saw inside the room.
A figure lunged at me, knocking me backward several feet where I landed hard on my back. My stunner flew from my hand and skidded somewhere across the floor. I couldn’t scream – the air whooshed from my lungs in one gush, my eyes widened, but I saw nothing but … mass. Bulk. Shadow. Eyes. It hovered over me, blocking my view, crowding my body, my senses. I couldn’t breathe as it was but fear paralyzed me even more. What the hell? Then, in the next instant, the figure leapt and was out the door. Rolling to my stomach, I turned, coughing and sputtering as I tried to call out but the air wouldn’t come. Whoever had just knocked me over was strong as hell – and gone.
Pax emerged, his stunner raised. He glanced at me. “You okay?”
I nodded and waved, still a little in shock, and Pax nodded once before he disappeared out the front door.
It was no more than three minutes before I finally caught my breath enough to stand. Then, I got up, found my stunner against the wall, and ran after Pax.
As I stood outside the cottage, peering through the now-soupy Highland mist and darkening skies, my mind raced wildly, and I recalled Lucian MacLeod’s phone call. How experienced are you with curses? Creatures? How strong is your stomach, girl? You’re my last hope … It hadn’t made much sense then – I’d had cases with curses before, and a few involving shape-shifting. Both were handled similarly by binding the victim and searching for the correct curse-reversal – or shape-shifter cure. I’d had one victim shift into a hawk right before my eyes—
A long, deep sound of an animal baying broke through the twilight and mist; it raised the hairs on the back of my neck and quickened my pulse. As my gaze raked slowly over the ground, I fished inside my pack, felt the cool steel beneath my palm, and withdrew my crossbow. I saw nothing out of the ordinary as I assembled the bow and loaded the clip with blades. But a sense of foreboding filled me, choked me, and my insides shook as I eased away from the cottage. I couldn’t see a damn thing through the mist; barely my own hand in front of my face. The constant drizzle and heavy mist weighed my hair down, soaked through my jeans, and although twilight was nearly at its end, I eased on to the moors. No way was I hanging out at the cottage alone.
“Pax?” I called out, picking my footing carefully, straining my eyes as I tried to make out my partner’s form. “Hey? Where are you?” Dammit, he couldn’t have gone too far. We were in the middle of nowhere.
Within minutes my slow movements had carried me far enough away into the mist that I could no longer make out the cottage. Thick white surrounded me, and at once I caught the distinct sound of breathing – heavy breathing – not far from me.
“Pax?” I called again. “Come on, you’re freaking me out.”
The breathing drew closer.
And became an angry snarl.
I was being stalked. My heart leapt, and I turned and changed direction. That noise hadn’t come from my partner – that much I knew. Pax was an ass but he wasn’t stupid. I began to hurry, my pace quickening, and just when I thought I was making some ground, it came again.
Closer.
My grip tightened on my bow as I raised it; while I wanted to run like hell, I knew it’d do no good. Something was on the moors, in the mist, with me. I swallowed – hard. It didn’t help. My heart beat so hard and so fast I could hear it out loud. I waited.
“Gin, run!”
I whipped around and saw the hazy shape of someone moving towards me; Pax’s voice spilled over the foggy white, commanding me to run, but I couldn’t. I stood frozen in place, confused, scared. I looked up, and only then did I notice the moon above me; it was crescent in shape, and – I blinked my eyes – red. The damn thing looked red.
“Ginger, goddamit, get the hell outta here!” Pax yelled, panic making his voice shake.
I watched as he grew closer, his features clearer, and finally, I turned. I had no idea what direction to run in. I glanced back. “Pax, I—”
Something large, something dark, fast, leapt from below the mist and pulled Pax down. He screamed, so shrill and so terrifying that it made my blood feel cold. An awful crunching sound echoed through the fog.
One last, horrifying, gurgling sound emerged from my partner before the silence hit. Silence, save the heavy breathing that definitely didn’t belong to Pax.
Whatever had been shut down in me now flickered to life; I turned and ran. Blindly, as darkness now sifted through the mist and red hue from the moon. My boots scuffed clumps of heather and grass as I hurried, but it didn’t mask the sound of footsteps behind me. Footsteps and that damned breathing. Finally, with my heart in my throat, I stopped, dropped to one knee and lifted my crossbow. I stared down the site and waited.
I didn’t have to wait long.
With a deep growl and heavy breath, a massive figure lunged from the mist at me; I didn’t wait to see who or what it was. I fired three rounds before it landed on me, and the pain of two sharp blades piercing straight through my leather jacket and into my shoulder made me cry out. The blades sank clear to the bone, and the intenseness of it made me nearly pass out. Suddenly, the mass was shoved off, another figure appeared above me, and a pair of angry, lethal amber eyes glared down. Then, my vision fogged. Fiery pain ripped through my body just before a wave of suffocating blackness swept me into nothingness.
Heat. Fire. Skin burning. I sat up with a harsh breath, confusion taking over my brain and making me dizzy. I put a hand to my temple to stop the swirling, but it didn’t help. I opened my eyes but everything looked blurred, fuzzy, out of focus. My skin – Jesus, it felt like it would burst into flames – burned
sickly hot. I tried kicking out of whatever covered me and I quickly found I hadn’t a stitch of clothes on. Not even panties. Totally naked and I couldn’t care less. I was smouldering.
“Lay back.”
I turned my head towards the voice, but could see nothing more than a hazy figure in shadows. “Where am I?” I asked, struggling to stay up. I dug the heels of both hands hard into the mattress; my arms still shook. “Hot,” I said, trying to move. “Burning up.”
A firm hand pressed against my chest and with the slightest of pressure, eased me back. “’Tis your DNA altering,” the voice said, deep, raspy, and heavily brogued. “It will get worse.”
What the hell was he talking about? DNA? I didn’t care – I just wanted relief. “Water,” I said, my throat dry. I wanted my body extinguished. “Bath. Shower. Ice.” My eyes drifted shut.
Strong fingers pushed the hair from my face. “It willna help.” Agony washed over me, and blessed shadows dragged me back under.
A crackling and snapping noise awakened me and when I opened my eyes, I instantly noticed the pain had subsided. I blinked several times to clear my vision; foggy and disoriented at first, then slowly, the room came into focus. I stared hard at my surroundings. In the hearth, a low fire glowed, and again I noticed the earthy scent it released. The flames gave the room a tawny hue, and shadows played against the bare stone walls. A single lamp burned in the corner, on a side table next to a leather recliner.
I sat straight up and gasped, breathless, as recognition and memories assailed me. WUP. Assignment. Scotland. Moors. I glanced around once more.
I was inside Lucian MacLeod’s cottage.
Worse memories – recent ones – assaulted me and my body jerked as they crowded my mind. Pax. Baying. Creature. Pain. Bones crunching.
“Pax!” I shouted, although it came out gravel, hoarse, broken. I struggled to untangle myself from the bed covers, anger and fear causing a sob to escape. “Pax—”
