Kilts & Kraken

by Cindy Spencer Pape

  “Thank you.” Geneva couldn’t think of a better guardian. Half the time, she forgot that George wasn’t a living thing.

  Flora had chosen to stay at the castle until the following day, when she’d be moving in with her father-in-law. She didn’t want anyone else taking care of “her” ladies, not since they were leaving soon.

  “We can take our books down to the infirmary.” Alice lifted a heavy tome as Flora helped Geneva into her one remaining skirt and shirtwaist, lacing her corset as loosely as the clothing would allow. “I think I may have found something. What do you know about witchcraft? The black kind—not healing or nature magick.”

  “Very little.” Geneva tossed her unnecessary sling aside and pulled on her high-button boots. “All the witches I’ve met have been of the good variety. ‘An’ it harm none.’ Why?”

  “Because I found a spell to summon ‘creatures of the deep.’ It’s one used by a triad of spellcasters, or thought to, and requires a blood sacrifice, possibly a goat or lamb.”

  “Torkholm has plenty of sheep.” Triad. Edda, Cat and Quentin? Or Mrs. Campbell?

  “I know I’m not as smart as either of you, but I still can’t understand why anyone who lives here would want to attack Torkholm,” Flora said. “They’d be putting themselves in danger, wouldn’t they?”

  “You’d think so.” Geneva pinned her braid on top of her head.

  “And if the book is here, then doesn’t it mean it was someone who lives in the castle? Cat and Edda have a cottage,” Flora pointed out.

  “Yes, but something Quentin said has been bothering me. He said Magnus’s great-grandfather was killed by a similar creature. Cat’s ancestors have been here as long as Magnus’s from what I understand. What if one of them cast the spell the last time? Perhaps Edda has her own spell book with this and other magicks in it?”

  Alice nodded. “And don’t forget Mrs. Campbell has access to the entire castle at any time. Still, the idea of a kraken seems like an awfully long way to go to kill one man.”

  * * *

  “Right,” Geneva said. “But with Magnus’s powers, what would it take to kill him?”

  “Beheading,” Alice said. “Or a bullet to the heart, most likely.”

  “And either of those would be obvious cases of murder, and might even bring agents of the Crown, since he’s a peer.” It was all so clear to her now. “Rogue sea creatures, though? Who could blame the new laird and lady for that? And if you notice, the one that nearly killed Magnus pulled him out to sea—it didn’t simply smash him on the land. It dragged him off the island. This spell targeted not just at the island as a whole, but specifically at Magnus.”

  “That conniving little bitch.” It was the first time Geneva had heard Alice use such a dirty word, but it fit too perfectly for Geneva to be shocked. Besides, they didn’t have time. “And bastard, too, if Quentin knows what his fiancée is up to.”

  “I keep hoping he doesn’t, but either way, we have to get proof,” Geneva said. “I have a camera, one Amy Lake modified for me to take pictures of injuries or lesions to study. It’s small and doesn’t require any special equipment—but it will only take one shot without being reloaded, so we’ll have to get close.”

  “Where could they be?” Alice asked. “How will we find them? George’s scent-tracking?”

  Geneva shook her head. “I know where they are. The stone circle. I knew I saw blood on that altar stone, but I refused to think about it. Plus, it’s sacred ground, and powerful. You saw Edda and Catriona’s reaction when the airship landed there.”

  “Of course.” Alice tapped the book in her hand. “They’ll likely be violent if they see us. We’ve been nothing but thorns in their side. Even if we’re armed, I wouldn’t want to get into a gunfight against magick wielders.”

  Geneva nodded grimly as she opened the door, touching the pistol in her pocket like a talisman. “Then we’d better not get caught.”

  * * *

  Magnus chose to head the team that went to the lighthouse. True, there were two kraken at the harbor, but this one, one observer said, was the biggest yet, and there were a lot more men down by the docks, whereas the lighthouse on the southwestern point of the island was more isolated. Still, there were a few cottages with families there, and the lighthouse itself was important to ships and airship navigation. The airship went to deal with the creature smashing up a cluster of fishing cottages and lobster traps farther up the western coast, while Rannulf led the rest of the castle’s men to the village.

  As the island was only about ten miles wide, it was a long walk to the lighthouse, but a quick ride on horseback. Magnus and six of his clansmen—crofters and fishermen alike—rode out, hooves thundering on the macadam-covered road, another innovation Edda and Cat had decried. Yes, it had smelled like brimstone when they’d laid the pavement, but it improved transportation around the island to an unprecedented degree. Geneva would understand his need to bring the marvels of the modern world to his home, his prison, whereas many island women feared such changes.

  Thinking of Geneva reminded him of Rannulf’s words. The die might have already been cast. He’d have to get her to promise to return if she was with child. He only hoped she wouldn’t come to hate him for trapping her here, as Isobel had. But Geneva isn’t Isobel. That thought rang in his mind, strong and pure. Genny was stronger, brighter, more determined to forge her own path. She’d adjust, even thrive, once she set her mind to it. Perhaps he’d been a fool not to simply ask her if she was willing to stay, not just as a doctor, but also as his bride.

  Child or no child, the thought of her leaving ripped him apart. He’d fallen head over heels in love with her, and his own stupidity had kept him from reaching out. There was every chance she felt the same, despite her insistence that her patients in Edinburgh needed her. The city had any number of physicians. Torkholm had none. If need was what mattered, here was where she’d stay. As to whether she loved him, only she could answer that. The fact that she’d given him her innocence gave him hope. Surely that gift had meant something to her.

  They tied the horses in the trees, far enough back to be clear in case the lighthouse fell. The women and children from the cottages were gathered there, he was glad to see, and the sounds of gunfire mixed with curses carried up from the other side of the buildings. With no more than a tip of his head to the women and a reassuring smile at the bairns, Magnus ran toward the battle, rifle in hand, sword on one hip and pistol on the other, his six hand-picked men right behind him.

  When they rounded the lighthouse, Magnus saw the head of the beast sticking out of the water. It was easily twice as large as the one that carried him offshore, and sent him all the way to Mull.

  He was in for the fight of his life. Bellowing a hoarse battle-cry, he let the power of his ancestors and his island flow through him, bolstering his strength, fueling him with fury and turning the world to shades of red. Heedless of his own safety, he charged into the fray, firing his repeating rifle at the behemoth’s head as he went.

  Chapter Nine

  They left Flora to prepare the infirmary. After retrieving her camera and loading it with a precoated paper, Geneva and Alice made their way to the armory for weapons. They found Ian MacRae, the man with the wounded arm, minding the gun cabinets and managing to clean weapons with only one good hand. He didn’t raise an eyebrow when each woman helped herself to a repeating rifle.

  “I’m coming with you,” he said, not even asking where they were going. “You’ll need a guide, you two not knowing the island.”

  Geneva’s instincts told her she could trust this man. Not only had he helped search for her this morning—had it only been hours since her fall?—but he truly believed he owed her his life, which probably was the case. At the very least he’d have lost the arm to gangrene without her care. Now he was healing at a normal pace, a gratifying success to any physician. “Can you keep up, injured as you are?”

  Alice nodded. “Flora told me Ian is the local game warde
n. Apparently, he knows the island like his own bedroom and can move through the brush with no more noise than a rabbit.”

  “Brush is it? You’re not going after the kraken?” He lifted a bushy gray eyebrow.

  Geneva shook her head. “No. We’re going after the people summoning the kraken.”

  “Aye. We’ll need more guns.” Ian belted on a pair of revolvers, an impressive feat with a single working arm, and handed a similar belt to each of the women.

  On the way through the castle gardens, they appraised him of what they expected to find, and where. Ian nodded. “I should’ve guessed that, when I saw blood up in the circle. I thought ’twas just a poacher taking rabbits or deer and wasn’t too concerned. The laird doesn’t look too hard at his people hunting for food, you understand.”

  Of course he didn’t. Geneva brushed the entire notion aside. “Is there a less obvious path up to the circle? I’d prefer to sneak in and take the photograph, rather than confronting the coven.”

  “Aye. Might have to leave yon dog behind. He’s a mite noisy for sneaking about.”

  “Alice and George can wait on the main path, below the rise of the hill. They’ll be close enough to come if we shout, but far enough that they shouldn’t draw the notice of the coven.”

  Alice conceded that Geneva and Ian were both better at sneaking than she was. She and the brass mastiff took up a position behind a tree, a few hundred yards from the crest of the flat-topped rise that held the circle. Meanwhile, Geneva and Ian circled around, taking an old shepherd’s path. Briars and fallen twigs tugged at Geneva’s skirt, and she spared a moment to wish she’d borrowed a pair of Wink’s coveralls.

  As they approached the rise, the sound of chanting became clear. Edda’s distinctive cackle filled the glade along with her daughter’s haughty tone. Mrs. Campbell would be there, certainly, but were there others? Magnus was going to be devastated by this betrayal.

  “Right there.” Ian pointed as he whispered in her ear. “You can slip behind that tree and take your photograph. I’ll get in close enough to see most of the faces, never worry. The laird will believe me.”

  “Bless you, Ian.” Geneva had never been more grateful for her excellent night vision, and she was able to pick her footholds as she stepped up behind an ancient rowan. She leaned her rifle against the trunk and pulled the camera from her pocket. Since she had only the one film, she had to get at least those around the altar stone. An animal carcass draped across the stone, and she had to swallow vomit when she realized it wasn’t a sheep, but a once-beautiful collie. The same one that had helped search for her that morning? She bit her lip and lifted the camera to her eye.

  Through the lens, she could clearly make out Edda’s face, with Catriona and Mrs. Campbell on either side of her. Magnus would be crushed, but he needed to know. She lined up the camera carefully to include all three in the image. The click of the camera coincided with a pause in the chanting, and it seemed to echo through the circle like a gunshot.

  “Who goes?” Catriona called, imperious as a queen. She must have sensed Geneva, or just made a lucky guess because her eyes narrowed and her lips curved in a feral grin. “Ah, it’s you, Miss High-and-Mighty-Doctor. How is it you lived, bitch? You should have been dead as easily as that first silly mainland chit. I should have taken care of you myself, same as her.”

  Good Lord, Catriona had killed Magnus’s first wife? And her child? Geneva had to survive long enough to tell him, so he could stop carrying that load of guilt.

  Edda glared at the tree where Geneva stood and began a different chant, this one even darker, uglier. The malevolence of the magick rolled across the field like an acid fog, thick and oily. Geneva would have run, but she knew with all her being that it was faster and stronger than she was. The circle shimmered, giving her a strong suspicion that bullets might not penetrate the wards the women had erected using the power of the stones.

  “Ian, go for help,” she whispered. Then she remembered the first spell her father had ever taught her. It was a simple, folk magick, but those primitive spells had powers rooted deeply in time and belief. As the fingers of the black fog reached for her, bringing certain death in their wake, she recited a rhyme to send a person’s own evil back to them. A reflection spell, one of the most basic forms of magickal self-defense.

  It was a last-ditch effort, which shouldn’t have worked. The trio was strong and had the magick of the stones. Geneva had barely any power of her own. At best she hoped to deflect a fraction of the evil spell. As she spoke the words, though, she felt energy rise up out of the very soil beneath her feet. It flooded her body and burst from her hands, countering the black cloud with a glow of pure white light. Torkholm had chosen to help her.

  The resulting flash blinded her, and agonized screams filled the night. Geneva was knocked off her feet, stunned. The earth felt warm and comforting against her cheek, and again she was infused by the magick of the land. Soon, her ears stopped ringing and her vision cleared. She pushed herself to her feet, turning first to check on poor Ian, who was nowhere to be seen. Drawing one of her pistols, she moved toward the circle, its magickal field now extinguished. All three participants lay motionless on the heather.

  Edda wasn’t breathing. Her eyes stared blankly and streaks of blood had trickled from her nostrils. Cat was alive, but her heartbeat was slow and unsteady. Even as Geneva watched, the woman’s eyes went glassy and sightless as the last breath left her body.

  Alice, Ian and George joined Geneva in the ring of stones.

  “All dead,” said Alice somberly. “What happened?”

  Geneva sank down to the ground and let the tears leak from her eyes. “I killed them,” she sobbed. “With a reflection spell. I swore an oath to do no harm. Now look at what I’ve done.” For all her occasional work for her father, this was the first time she’d ever taken a human life, even in self-defense.

  Alice knelt beside Geneva and wrapped motherly arms around her. “If all you did was reflect their own energy, I’d say they killed themselves.”

  “Aye. Brought it on themselves, but I’m sorry, lass, that you had to see it.” Ian closed Cat’s harsh, staring eyes and touched Edda’s cheek. He shook his head. “We were children together, Fiona and Edda and I. Edda was never quite right—always wanting more than the gods gave her. Maybe now she’ll be satisfied.” Despite his use of the plural gods, he made the sign of the cross over her body, then did the same to Mrs. Campbell’s.

  “Come on, dear. Let’s get you back to the castle.” Alice helped Geneva to her feet and pushed her toward the path. “We’ll send someone back for the bodies.” Between them, Ian and Alice nudged her out of the circle and toward home.

  * * *

  Magnus swore as another tentacle cut into his flesh. Two of his men were down, the others all as injured as he. The damned kraken was still going strong. He didn’t know how much longer they could hold out when the sound of the airship rotors caught his ears, and a spotlight shined down on the squid.

  “Back away,” called someone on the ship.

  “Retreat,” Magnus yelled to his men. He bent down to pick up one of the fallen and ran with the unconscious man over his shoulder.

  It was the most wondrous sight. Twin harpoons shot from the bow of the ship, a cable of some kind leashed between them, crackling with light. Electricity snapped and the kraken flailed madly when the two spears lodged in its flesh. It fell to the sand, twitching. Two more blasts fired, and the head was raked by the shredder balls he’d seen used before.

  The kraken was dead, but as Magnus checked the man in his arms, he realized that one more crofter-turned-soldier was gone, as well. Damn it, the price of these attacks is too high. He had to do whatever it took to stop them, even if it meant throwing himself into the sea as a sacrifice. It had worked for his great-grandfather.

  The crew of the airship hauled up the body and the worst wounded, while the lighthouse keeper and his wife organized the cottagers into the still-standing buildings.
Magnus and his remaining soldiers mounted their horses and turned back toward the harbor, at the far end of the island.

  They were crossing the center of the island when a flash of lightning split the night sky.

  Only there wasn’t a storm. In his bones, he knew the burst had been some kind of magickal energy. The power he drew from the island’s soil shimmered with the explosion of force. Praying the men at the harbor had the kraken there under control, he wheeled his horse toward the source of the magick—the sacred circle. He had to dismount and walk the last few yards, and as he burst into the clearing, he saw Ian MacRae and Alice shepherding a sobbing Geneva from between the stones, George, the mechanical dog, leading the way.

  “Genny!” He dropped his horse’s reins and ran to draw her into his arms. “Are you hurt again? What are you doing out of the castle?”

  “’Tis a long, sad story, lad.” Ian laid his good hand on Magnus’s shoulder. “Best get the ladies back indoors.”

  Magnus looked over Geneva’s shoulder, and his throat clogged. It was true. His own clan had been practicing black magick. The dead dog on the altar was proof of that.

  Three bodies lay motionless in the circle. Cat’s black hair was obvious, and next to her, on one side, was her mother. On the other, Fiona Campbell. He swallowed his grief and touched Cat’s hair. He’d played with her as a child. How could she, a healer, have done such a thing. “What happened? Did their spell go awry?”

  Still weeping, but quieter now, Geneva rested her hand on Magnus’s shoulder and started to say something, but Alice shushed her.

  “Yes.” Alice met Magnus’s gaze squarely. “I’m sorry, Magnus, but it went very, very wrong. They summoned the kraken.”

  Exactly what he’d feared. “Are they all…?” He looked at the people he’d considered friends and kin. It would have almost been better if the kraken had killed him, rather than make him face this. And if Quentin was involved…dear God, how would Magnus bear it?