Blood Winter

by S. J. Coles

  Glenroe was little more than a darker patch of gray against the slate-colored slope of mountain. The boarded windows watched me like dead eyes. I reached the overgrown track that passed for the driveway and spotted a wooden plank splintered on the weedy gravel. Craning my neck, I spotted where it had fallen from—one of the windows in the turret on the west wing—and cursed.

  Mentally logging the job for another day, I followed the track through the sprawling bushes around the side of the house. I was shivering by the time I got the key into the side door. I shut it on the swirling wind and stood for a second in the enclosed quiet. The passage was dark and the silence complete. I couldn’t even hear the scuff of rats in the walls. It was too cold even for vermin.

  My footsteps echoed on the stone flags. I didn’t look into the faces of the dead people who smiled at me from photo frames on the walls whilst I strode through the dust-shrouded rooms to the kitchen. I hurriedly shut the door on the rest of the house and flicked on the light, the strip bulb humming as it came to life. The rickety table was covered with engine parts. The counters were piled with mismatched crockery, books and old copies of Classic Motor. There was a three-year-old calendar on the wall that I’d kept because I’d liked the photo of Buachaille Etive Mor that they’d used for July. Hiking up that mountain with David during our good summer was still one of my fondest memories, though I rarely admitted it, even to myself. I lit the wood-burning stove, switched on the kettle then the radio, clicking the channel over from another report of the London disappearances. I went through to my bedroom next door—what had been some of the old staff quarters—to change whilst the stove warmed water for a shower.

  The wind was hammering at the windows when I emerged. By the time I was dumping my dirty dinner plates into the sink, I’d almost managed to forget about Meg. Then I caught my reflection in the darkened window. No wonder the sight of me had concerned her. My cheeks were hollow, my blue eyes lackluster and dull, the skin under them smudged gray. I scratched at a week’s worth of stubble and pushed back my over-long hair, scowled and turned away.

  * * * *

  Two more restorations came into the workshop the following week. I worked into the night almost every day, much to Clem’s bemoaning of our electric bill. But progress was steady, which pleased the clients, and I was able to sink myself into the work and forget everything else, which pleased me.

  The weather got colder and darker. We had four solid days of heavy rain. Puddles appeared in the Glenroe hallway and I lost an entire half-day to patching up a new gap in the roof. It was only when I was working out a new labor schedule on the workshop calendar that I realized Meg’s club opening was the next day. I guiltily checked my mobile where I’d left it on the workshop windowsill, the only place it got signal. I had two voicemails and a string of increasingly impatient texts.

  I’ve not forgotten. See you tomorrow.

  I sent the message then returned to where Clem was grouching over the corroded exhaust of a vintage Sunbeam. I helped him remove it and spent the rest of the day fitting the new one, refusing to think about what the next day might bring.

  * * * *

  The drive from Glenroe to Glasgow was the best part of three hours on a good day. Saturday dawned in sheeting rain and howling wind. It took me well over two hours just to reach the main road, splashing through rushing run-off and crunching over rain-loosed gravel and branches. There was virtually no other traffic, even when I reached the A9, but I still drove my faithful X-Trail slower than was necessary, scowling out into the gray curtain of rain with a hard knot in my stomach.

  The traffic increased as I approached the city. The knot tightened. The buildings jostled together and glowered down at me, soot-stained and dark with rain. Pedestrians filled the pavements, battling with umbrellas or hurrying along in waterproofs and overcoats, heads bent against the wind. Everywhere there were people…thousands of people. The noise and the sights crowded in on my brain. I wondered how I’d ever managed to live there.

  When I finally reached Meg’s building, she welcomed me into the open plan, terracotta-painted apartment with a warm hug and a relieved expression.

  “You didn’t think I was coming, did you?”

  She shrugged but had the decency to blush a little. She cooked us dinner in her chrome kitchen, a light but incredibly good dish of Thai chicken with lemongrass served with a really very good dry riesling. I virtually inhaled it, grudgingly admitting that it made a welcome change from microwave curries and corner-shop red.

  “Good?”

  I nodded, swallowing the last mouthful of wine.

  “I’ve ordered a car for nine p.m.,” she said. “Now don’t bunch up.” I hurriedly schooled my face. “You never know, Alec. You might even have fun. Stranger things have happened.”

  I muttered something noncommittal and took myself off to the guest bathroom to shower, concentrating on not thinking about the fact that the photograph of Meg and David that had been over the bookcase was gone. I’d never let myself think about how his leaving might have hurt Meg too, never let myself think too much about how it might have all been my fault.

  “There’s the Alec MacCarthy I remember,” Meg said when she joined me in the sitting room an hour later. “You look great.”

  She was being nice. I looked…better. I’d stopped at a barber on my way in and had brought one of my black suits that still just about fit. The shirt was new and I’d worn the charcoal Armani tie she’d sent me for my thirtieth birthday. It was the first time it had been out of its packet. It was a nice tie, and I still remembered how to do a perfect Windsor knot, but the mirror over Meg’s ornate bathroom sink had showed it around the neck of a hollow-eyed stranger with pallid skin and a grim expression.

  “Thank you,” I said, managing a smile. “You look wonderful.”

  That, at least, was true. Meg had long ago cornered the market on looking effortlessly exquisite, even in the backward little town we’d grown up in. A high-paying job and healthy lifestyle certainly hadn’t harmed her graceful entrance to her thirties. She’d chosen a silver-gray gown that complimented her walnut-colored skin, oiled her ebony curls into decorative braids and wore a very simple but startling pair of platinum earrings that accentuated her long neck. She’d probably spent a large amount of money and time on her subtle makeup, but her wide, white smile was all she really needed.

  “Thank you,” she said sincerely, holding my gaze for such a long time that I wondered what else she might be trying to say. She held out her elbow. “Shall we?”

  Night had fallen in all its streetlight-tinged glory. There were shouts, laughing, sirens and the squawking of car horns. It had stopped raining, but the air stank of wet tarmac and exhaust fumes, and the chill was damp and pervasive.

  “Remember that some of the people there tonight know my boss,” she warned as we climbed into the waiting BMW. “Or could be my future bosses. Or clients.”

  “I’ll behave.”

  She pointed a dusky-pink fingernail at me. “Promise me?”

  “Why am I invited again?”

  She patted my knee but didn’t answer.

  Lure had been built into a renovated building near Glasgow Central station. Seeing the vast Victorian façade, which I’d known only as an exhaust-blackened ruin, newly sand-blasted and lit up with projections of slowly rotating stars whilst people in dinner suits and gowns sauntered to the entrance, was unsettling, like I’d stepped into a different time. Meg’s eyes shone. Several large gentlemen in suits checked our names and IDs on various lists on the way in. They all eyed me and my driving license with varying degrees of uncertainty before waving me along.

  We were beeped through the security scanners then funneled to a bejeweled and gowned woman wearing a pair of incongruous blue medical gloves.

  “Good evening, Madam. Sir. A very small and painless blood test is required to enter this evening.”

  “A blood test?” I said.

  Megan elbowed me in the side. “Of cou
rse,” she said, holding out her hand. The woman took Meg’s finger and pressed it briefly to a palm-sized device that clicked. Meg winced then put her finger to her mouth. The woman examined the screen of the device for a moment. When it flashed green, she smiled and handed Meg a tissue.

  “Welcome to Lure.”

  Meg inclined her head and moved on whilst the woman repeated the process with me. I felt the tiniest prick against the pad of my finger. I was handed a tissue to clean the tiny bead of blood after her screen had again flashed green.

  “They’re not taking any chances,” Meg murmured as she guided me through to a cavernous, glittering hall.

  “What are they afraid of, exactly?”

  “What do you think?” she whispered before falling into awed silence as we were swept by the crowd through to the atrium bar. The vast space was decorated with muted LED lighting, an understated color scheme and simple yet clearly eye-wateringly expensive furniture. The arched ceiling had been restored to its nineteenth-century glory, navy and gold tiles glimmering like a night sky. The rhythmic beat of a chart dance tune thumped through the air. At least a dozen handsome bar staff served the milling clientele with drinks in long-stemmed flutes and heavy-bottomed crystal tumblers. It smelled like new paint, overpriced aftershave and champagne. Everyone was beautiful, richly dressed, smiling broadly, dripping with jewels and designer accessories and exchanging witty, sexually charged banter with abandon.

  I hated it instantly.

  Meg squeezed my arm and I smoothed my face. “It’s very loud,” I called over the noise.

  “Everyone’s here,” she said, gazing around. “Everyone.”

  “Everyone in the world, it seems like.”

  She gave me a mock-glare. “Let’s get a drink.”

  I let her take me the bar where we were served by a beautiful blonde with a lilting Slavic accent. Meg searched the room over the rim of a glass of gin and tonic the size of a goldfish bowl. The bartender handed me my tumbler and I sipped the single malt appreciatively, grateful that there was at least something here I could enjoy.

  “There’s Mayor Frederick’s son,” Meg said in my ear, nodding over to a man who was standing at one of the tables. “And he’s brought his mistress. How interesting.” I made a noise of acknowledgement and took another mouthful. Meg sipped too, continuing to scan the crowd. “There,” she said, pointing. “Olivia Ogdell-Paige. And I think that’s her brother. Come on.”

  She slipped away without even checking to see if I was following. I finished my drink, willing the alcohol to give me strength, ordered another then wove through the crowd to join her. She was shaking hands with a very tall, very thin woman in lavender and white with platinum hair pulled into what looked like a painfully-tight chignon.

  “Ah, Miss Carlisle, of course. So glad you could make it. This is my brother, Jon,” she said, indicating the hard-faced man next to her, who was so much shorter and stockier that nothing except the identical way they watched everything like hungry hawks would have convinced me they were related.

  “Mr. Ogdell.” Meg held out her hand. “It’s a pleasure.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine,” the squat, mousey-haired man replied, his mouth turning up as his narrow eyes flickered over Meg.

  “I think I told you at the conference that Jon’s firm is looking for representation,” Olivia said. “I’ve recommended your firm, Joseph & Arthur.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Meg said. “We are expanding right now, so soon will have even more capacity to—”

  “Yes, we’re starting another subsidiary,” the short man interrupted. “Redeveloping old property in the north, mainly. I heard J&A might be a good fit.”

  “I’m certain we will be,” Meg said with her warmest smile, subtly pinching my thigh. “Mr. Arthur was hoping to attend to discuss this in more detail with you but unfortunately couldn’t make it tonight. But this is my friend, Alec MacCarthy.”

  Both the Ogdells turned their suddenly slack faces toward me.

  “Well, I owe you a drink, Olivia,” Ogdell said, holding out his hand to me. “The legendary Viscount of Aviemore himself.”

  “‘Alec’ is fine,” I said flatly, shaking his wide, hot hand.

  “You’ll have to forgive us, my lord,” Olivia said, her pale eyes round and shining. “But this is like meeting a ghost…or someone from a storybook.”

  “The title really isn’t necessary,” I replied, keeping my voice level with an effort. “And I promise the reality is less than fantastical.”

  “Alec doesn’t stand on ceremony,” Meg put in. “But he was so pleased to be invited along tonight.”

  “Did you know our father knew yours quite well?” Olivia went on, not even looking at Meg. “He was a barrister on a number of your father’s cases.”

  “Christ, yes, I remember old Judge MacCarthy,” Ogdell said, eyeing me with wary curiosity. “Dad had him over for dinner once or twice. Hard-assed bugger. Scared me shitless.”

  “He was a formidable man.”

  Ogdell barked a laugh. “I’ll say. Dad said he was the toughest old boot to ever take the bench. There was no getting anything past him. He meant it as a compliment, of course. We were all terribly saddened to hear about what happened.”

  “Yes,” I responded flatly.

  “You’ve not followed in his footsteps then, Alec?” Olivia inquired sweetly.

  “I’m not interested in the law.”

  “Alec runs his own business, restoring classic cars,” Meg put in.

  “Ah, now we’re talking,” Ogdell beamed. “Dad’s got that old Jaguar up on blocks in the back garage, gathering dust. Such a waste. Where are you based, Alec? Maybe I could have it sent through for you to take a look.”

  “My workshop’s on my estate,” I said after a pause. “Glenroe Motors. You can google it.”

  I wasn’t sure if I imagined the gleam that came into his eye. “I shall.”

  “Quite a turn-out tonight,” Meg said, gesturing at the around the bar.

  “Yes, better than I expected,” the short man observed. “With all that rigmarole on the door, I half-expected everyone to turn back.”

  “Don’t be flippant, Jon,” Olivia said with a delicate frown. “People want to feel safe. That’s all.”

  “Lure can’t afford bad press in its first damn week,” Ogdell muttered, with the air of one repeating a much-trodden line of argument. “If anyone gets a sniff that we’re screening members—”

  “It wouldn’t stand up in court for a second,” his sister interrupted. “Health and safety legislation is perfectly clear.”

  “I don’t want haemos in my club any more than you do,” Ogdell grated, whilst Meg and I awkwardly pretended not to listen. “But they’ve got representation now. They’re passing laws as we speak.”

  “Until they make it illegal, Lure is a human-only club. I’ll not have my members at risk. Alec”—Olivia pointedly turned to me—“why don’t I show you the rest of it? Let these two talk business.”

  She took my arm and led me away before I could answer. I cast a longing look back but Meg had already drawn Jon Ogdell into conversation.

  “Now, tell me all about Glenroe,” Olivia crooned as we passed into a smaller room with lissome girls on pedestals wearing nothing but tacked-on gemstones and undulating in time to slow, swaying music. “I’ve only ever seen it in pictures.”

  “It leaks,” I muttered.

  She waved for the attention of a waiter. “There are parts of it that date back to the sixteenth century, I believe? And are there really caves under the house?”

  I watched her narrowly, but all I could see in her face was polite curiosity. “Yes.”

  “Used for everything from hiding priests to smuggling, if I remember my history.” Her eyes glinted. “Dad often talked about the Cairngorms. A beautiful spot. He loved the hiking—and the hunting, of course. You must have had a wonderful childhood.”

  Luckily, our drinks arrived so I was able to sidestep replying.
I sipped the whisky and pretended to watch the nearest dancer as she did something inventive with a pair of LED streamers. Olivia continued to chatter sweetly to me, practiced nothings that kept the conversation going without me having to make any input at all. I recognized the tactic from a hundred formal gatherings I had been forced to attend growing up and was more than pleased to let her think she was charming me whilst I concentrated on my drink.

  “Do you want to get away from the crowds?” she said when I’d emptied my glass. She was obviously watching me closely.

  “I think I’d better go find Megan.”

  “Oh, no need.” Olivia’s cool smile showed all her straight, white teeth. “I know where she’ll be.”

  “You do?”

  “We have a VIP room on the top floor. If I know my brother, Miss Carlisle is already there.”

  Uncertainty coiled in my belly. I nodded for her to lead the way. She eased through the crowds to a lift that blended into the wall. The thump of bass from the lower levels faded as it sighed upward. The doors opened onto a small, inmate space, softly lit and decorated in warm reds and creams. It was stuffed with comfortable couches and loungers, some in small, screened alcoves in the walls. There was a bar in one corner and about a dozen people sat on the sofas or stood talking together with their heads bent. A card table was set up in the middle with several people smoking and playing poker.

  “Lord Aviemore!” I winced and turned to see Jon Ogdell at the bar with two other men and a fairly rigid-looking Meg. “Come and meet some friends of mine.”

  “You okay?” I murmured to Meg.

  She smiled warmly at me, though the edge in her expression didn’t quite fade. “I’m this close to signing him. You having a good time?”

  “Alec,” Ogdell barked before I could answer, slapping my shoulder and pulling me closer. The edges of his words were starting to slur. “Mystery Viscount and Lost Laird of the Cairngorms…” I set my teeth as he indicated the older of the two men. His steel-gray hair was cut severely short and there was a sharp-eyed expression in his pale eyes. “This is a business associate of mine, Hans Karlsson.”