Bad Blood

by Demitria Lunetta

  “I would. I would punish you with Blood Magic if you tell a soul,” she threatens.

  My mouth snaps shut. Primrose fumes and goes to sit on our bed while I sweep the floor.

  I let her sulk, still surprised at her passionate anger. She’s never yelled at me like that before. Maybe it has something to do with the magic. Maybe I should tell Da.

  I look over to her, her face so like mine, yet so not. I’ll protect her, even from magic. I’ll protect her, no matter what it takes.

  PRINCES STREET GARDENS is beyond packed. Even though it’s overcast and misty, tourists are out in droves. I hide under the overhang of the adjoining mall, twenty minutes early to meet Robby.

  My phone dings as I’m waiting.

  Heather, my girl. How’s bonnie Scotland?

  Great, Dad. It’s raining. I’m on Princes Street right now.

  A pause.

  You’re not roaming the city by yourself, are you?

  I sigh. I’ve been wandering Edinburgh on my own since I was thirteen and my parents stopped coming for the summer. My aunt decided I was old enough not to make stupid decisions. I wonder how much of what she lets me get up to actually makes it back to my parents. Especially now.

  I met this guy named Ewan and he convinced me to go back to his flat, where we’re going to do some heroin and then start a rebellion to rid Scotland of the English…or something. He wasn’t really clear on the details.

  Smart arse

  The rain stops and sun peeks out from behind the clouds and I make my way into the park. It’s perfectly manicured, with flower beds bursting with color. It makes up the base of the hill, and there are trails that climb the steep slope up to the castle itself. I wonder if my camera is on one of those paths…not that it would be salvageable after the fall and the rain. I stare up at it for a long while before finding a people-less patch of grass, and debate whether to have a seat. The grass is still wet, and I don’t want to walk around the rest of the day with a damp butt, but really, who am I trying to impress? Robby? Please.

  My hoodie is already wet from my walk in the rain, so I take it off, turn it inside out, and lay it on the grass, hoping it will keep my jeans from getting too soggy. As soon as I sit down, though, the sun comes out full blast. After a few minutes of people watching I lie back and close my eyes, soaking in the rays.

  “Heather!”

  My eyes fly open. A man in a kilt hovers above me, concern marring his handsome face. He knits his dark eyebrows together and I realize that I know him.

  “Robby?” I ask, uncertain. He wears the Brodie Tartan, hunter green with a crisscross pattern of yellow and orange squares. Most Americans would think of this pattern as plaid, but in Scotland it’s so much more than that. Each family has their own tartan, different colors in which they dress with pride. He also wears a gray shirt that reads EDINBURGH GHOST TOURS in gothic script.

  “Who bloody well else would it be?” he asks, and I shake my head, lost for words. The sun is shining, but a chill runs through my body. I’m so cold I begin to shiver. “You’re trembling, and your lips are blue.” He kneels beside me, and close-up, I wonder how I recognized him at all. Gone are the baby-fat cheeks and acne. His face is lean, his jaw firm. Definitely not how he looks in his Instagram selfies.

  He helps me up, and I notice how strong he is now. Wide shoulders frame his body, and he rubs my arms with his hands, trying to warm me. “You’ve gotten taller,” I say.

  He laughs. “Among other things.” He drops his hands. “There, now you’re the proper color. How do you feel?”

  “Fine. Thank you,” I say, suddenly self-conscious. I realize there’s a crowd of people gathered around us. I pull away from him and pick up my hoodie, my face hot.

  “Great. Now that we’ve sorted out the high-maintenance American, we can begin. Ready for the tour, everyone?” he asks loudly, giving me a wink.

  I roll my eyes. He’s the same old obnoxious Robby.

  Robby moves through the park and up to Princes Street. I follow along with the large crowd, only half listening as he goes on about this or that murder. It is cheesy, meant to spook the tourists with Edinburgh’s sordid history. Robby was always “hamming it up,” as my mother says, but now I can see that that quality I used to find annoying has been turned into something…not quite attractive, really, but he’s become magnetic.

  “Who here has heard of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?” We’re paused in one of the stone alleyways between buildings that crisscross up the hill and through the Royal Mile. Everyone raises their hands. There are a few Australians in the group, a family of Japanese tourists, a German couple, and a group of Canadians who each wear a maple leaf pin on their shirts so they won’t be mistaken for Americans.

  We stand outside a pub as Robby explains that Robert Louis Stevenson based his tale on a well-respected Edinburgh tradesman named Deacon Brodie, who turned to a life of crime to support his gambling debts. I raise my eyebrows and Robby catches my look.

  “I can assure you that despite our shared last name, this man has no relation to myself, although I cannae be completely sure, as he had several mistresses and fathered many illegitimate children.” He gives me a wink. “By day he was a gentleman, but at night he was a thief and a cutthroat.” We walk a little farther up the high street. “Deacon Brodie was hanged right here in front of forty thousand witnesses.”

  “Forty thousand?” someone repeats.

  “There wasn’t much for entertainment back in those days….I guess it’s the eighteenth-century version of Pop Idol.”

  We head back down the street, past shops that sell Scottish wool scarves and cheap kilts. There are also a ton of whisky specialty shops, and I remember I have to remind my aunt to go shopping for my dad one day, not that he would let me forget.

  “Stay together, stay together,” Robby calls out. “Let’s keep nice and cozy so nobody gets lost.” We stop in front of another pub, of which Edinburgh has no shortage.

  “This is where the infamous duo of entrepreneurs, Burke and Hare, hatched their murderous plans.” Someone next to me gasps and I can’t help but smile. I think Robby’s found his calling. “These body snatchers dug up freshly buried corpses and sold them to the medical college.” He explains that when the supply didn’t meet the demand, they decided to take matters into their own hands and make some new bodies, murdering at least sixteen people.

  As we walk, Robby points out various historical sites and a pub that makes the “best haggis and tatties” in all of Scotland. We turn at the castle and wind down the hill as Robby explains that royalty hasn’t lived within its walls for centuries, and before it was open to the public it was used to garrison soldiers. At the bottom of the hill we end up in a graveyard. A thrill of excitement goes through me, the same as when I’m watching a horror movie. It’s the scary-but-safe feeling I love so much.

  “Who here has heard of the black plague?” Robby asks. Everyone raises their hands.

  “And who knows how many people died during the plague years in Scotland?” No one ventures a guess, and Robby continues. “About half the population. Whole families died off in a matter of days. In fact, if a building was known to be affected by the plague, it would be boarded up and the inhabitants would be left to rot, sick or no’.” Robby was playing up his accent for the tourists. I’m starting to find him kind of charming, and then I shake my head. What am I thinking? This is Robby. I once saw him devour an entire tray of my mother’s deviled eggs, which he then immediately puked up onto my shoes.

  You can’t unsee something like that.

  “Though many died from the bubonic plague, a few recovered. They were then tasked with removing the bodies of those who had succumbed to the dreadful pox. These”—he motions at the gravestones around us—“are the lucky ones. Rich men and women who had family that could afford to bribe officials for a proper, Christian burial. Many more were no’ so lucky.”

  As Robby continues his speech, I rest my hand on a gr
avestone. Its epitaph is indecipherable. So many dead. The coldness of the stone numbs my hand and a chill runs up my arm to my spine, causing me to shudder. I draw my hand away as a cool breeze blows across my back, and pull up my hood.

  “How many of you are familiar with the Meadows?” Robby asks, and a few people raise their hands. “Right now it’s a lovely park with a fun fair…a good place to bring the kiddies or to have a picnic. Four hundred years ago it was the site of a mass grave for plague victims.”

  Once again, a chill creeps through me.

  “Moving on,” Robby says, taking us up the hill toward the castle. I barely listen as he talks about the many ghosts that supposedly haunt its stone walls. We head back down to Princes Street, the tour ending in the gardens where it started.

  “Another park with a dark secret,” Robby tells us. “This area used to be a loch. At the height of the witch hunts of the seventeenth century, witches were put on trial. Their hands and feet were bound and they were tossed into the water. If they floated, they were proven to be witches and later burned at the stake. If they sank to the bottom, they were innocent and went to the heavens as good Christian women.”

  “Did many witches die here?” I blurt out.

  Robby’s dark eyes snap onto me. “Thousands. During the witch hunts, Scotland claimed more witches per capita than any other country. I guess we’re a wicked lot,” he says with a wink. “Now, thank you all for joining me on this tour. Dinnae forget to tip your guide.”

  I let Robby finish, looking at the gardens in a new light. Such horrible things happened here. My dream comes back to me…magic and witches and creepy children playing. Maybe I should stop watching scary movies, like my mom suggested.

  “Heather.” Robby comes up behind me. “What did you think of the tour?”

  “Very informative. You’re good at it.”

  He smiles, and for some reason my stomach dips. “And how’s Alistair?” I ask.

  “Fine. In St. Andrews with his girlfriend,” he says. “Hey, there’s a ceilidh next Friday. Want to come?”

  “Isn’t that like, a dance for old people?” I ask, a little sad at the news that Alistair now has a girlfriend.

  “Come on, it’ll be fun. Duncan and Asha are going, and I’m sure we can get Fiona on board. Say you’ll come, Heather.” He looks down at me, a half smile on his face, his dark eyes bright, and I have no choice.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Great!” He picks me up in a bear hug, spins me around, and sets me back down. “Now, I have an hour before my next tour. What do you want to do?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say, flustered. “I guess get a snack, and maybe go find a piper to listen to on the high street.” During the festival there are always people playing the bagpipes for the crowd.

  He laughs. “You’re the only person I know who actually enjoys listening to bagpipes. I bet you even like haggis.”

  “It’s not bad,” I say. “As long as you don’t think about what’s actually in it. I’m not a huge fan of onions.”

  He laughs again. “But the sheep heart, liver, and lungs are perfectly fine.”

  I put my hands over my ears. “Not thinking about that…,” I singsong. I drop my hands. “Okay, I’ll admit haggis is pretty gross when you consider what it is, but so are a lot of foods. I mean, I love honey, but I don’t want to think of it as bee vomit.”

  “Fair enough.” Robby smiles. “But chips are okay?”

  “There is nothing disgusting about chips….I mean, except for the whole being deep-fried part.” Mentioning fried things makes me remember another Scottish delicacy.

  “And while we’re at it, maybe we can get a deep-fried Mars Bar.”

  Robby grins at me. “I think that can be arranged. Do you remember when you bet I couldn’t eat five of them in one sitting?”

  “Yes! You got three in and you got all pale and sweaty. I thought you were going to have a heart attack.” I glance at him. The Robby standing before me looks so different from the silly, stubborn boy I used to hang out with.

  “Still, I choked down those last two. It was a matter of pride.”

  “You totally did, but you had a stomachache for like, a week afterward.”

  “It was worth it, to win.”

  “And what did you win?” I ask. “I can’t remember.”

  “I think you bet me a fried Mars Bar.” He busts out laughing. He rubs his stomach. “I feel a little sick just thinking about it, actually. Not really a well-thought-out bet. I dinnae think I ever collected.”

  “Well, come on. I’ll buy you some chips, at least. For old times’ sake.”

  As we walk up the hill toward the Royal Mile, he takes my hand. We used to walk like this when we were children, until someone, probably Fiona, made fun of us. We haven’t held hands for years. Now he holds my hand as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is.

  MY VIDEO CHAT session with Dr. Casella goes okay. In spite of the time difference, I get to keep one of the time slots I had at Great Lakes; Monday at four p.m. It just means I have to speak with her at ten p.m. Scottish time. I tell her about my grandmother. About my aunt. About my parents not telling me that her cancer is back. I basically have an Aunt Abbie–sized rant. It feels good to get it off my chest.

  At the end she asks some more questions about my grandma and the type of dementia she’s suffering from. It leaves me wondering. Gram’s always been kind of crazy…could that mean there’s something wrong with me genetically?

  Dr. Casella said in her psychiatrist way, “No, Heather, I’m sure you’re fine. I just like to have as much information as possible.” She leaned too close to the camera, so her head was too big on the screen.

  After we say good-bye, I shut my computer, and sit back. Usually speaking with Dr. Casella makes me feel better, but tonight I feel worse.

  I give Fiona a call. “What are you up to?” I ask.

  “Working….These fest hours are killing me. We’re open until midnight for the late crowds. Oh, did I tell you? My mum actually hired a waiter.”

  “As in someone who isn’t related to you?” I ask.

  “Aye, he’s here for the summer from Spain. He’s dead cute.”

  “Muy bien,” I say.

  “Muy sexito,” she replies.

  I laugh. “I don’t think that’s actually Spanish.”

  “I dinnae care. He’s fit, and has these lovely dark eyes….” She pauses. “I’m on the phone!” she screams. Then, “Well, if they want bread, they can bloody well wait or get it themselves.”

  “I’ll let you go,” I tell her. “I’m sure you have hungry customers.”

  “Pigs!” she mumbles; then I hear her say, “I wasnae talking about you, lady.”

  I hang up the phone feeling much, much better. Then I hear Aunt Abbie coughing in her room, so I get up to bring her a glass of water. I’m glad I’m here for her, but I also feel horrible knowing I can’t help her. I wish I could take away her cancer. I wish I could make everything okay.

  It takes me a few days to work up the nerve to go see Gram again. I feel like a horrible granddaughter, avoiding her, but I don’t want to see her like that, confused, lost to another time and place.

  Aunt Abbie has a chemo session at the hospital, so I ride the bus with her, getting off at the senior care facility. We called ahead and the nurse said Gram was having a “good day,” but I’m still anxious.

  Inside the nursing home I make my way to the reception desk. “I’m here to visit Anne MacNair. I’m her granddaughter.”

  “I remember you,” the receptionist says brightly. “You were here the other day with Abbie. How is she?” she asks, handing me a clipboard full of signatures.

  “Fine,” I say, signing my name and the time.

  “Do you need help finding the room?” she asks.

  “No, I remember, thank you.”

  I walk slowly down the corridor and pause at the door. Gram is watching a quiz show on her TV, shouting out answers with
gusto.

  She turns to me, and a wide smile breaks across her face. “Heather! How are you, love?”

  I hug her, glad she knows who I am. It’s just like last summer. Sometimes she would get confused, sure, but all you had to do was prompt her a bit and she’d remember everything.

  “And where’s Abigail?” Gram asks expectantly, offering me a crisp from the bag in her lap.

  “I…um…she couldn’t make it,” I say, unsure if Gram knows, or even remembers, that Aunt Abbie’s cancer has recurred. I take a crisp and gingerly nibble at it.

  “Oh, aye, those dreadful chemo treatments,” Gram tells me. “Sometimes the cure is worse than the disease.”

  So she does know. “Yeah, I’m worried about her, but I know she’ll pull through.”

  “Of course she will. The surgery went so well. The chemo’s just a precaution.”

  “Surgery?” I ask. Dr. Campbell said they couldn’t operate this time.

  “It’s all right, love. Your parents probably dinnae want to tell you the details, but you’re old enough to know. What are you now, nearly twelve?”

  It takes me a moment to understand what’s happening. My grandma thinks it’s five years ago. She thinks it’s the first time Aunt Abbie had cancer. I’m lost for words, but she fills the silence easily.

  “It’s barbaric what they put her through. There was a time when the women in our family were healers.”

  “Healers?” I ask. I don’t remember there ever being a doctor in the family.

  “Oh, aye. It was amazing what my own grandma could do with a few herbs and the right words.”

  I grab another crisp. “Sorry, Gram, I don’t understand.”

  “But even in those times, as modern as Scotland was, there were suspicious people. I mean, no one would come out and say the word witch, but you know they were thinking it.”

  I nearly choke on my chip. “Are you saying your grandmother was a witch?” I ask, sputtering out crumbs.

  “Oh dear. Have some tea,” she says, offering me her cup. “Now, where was I?”