Blood Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 2)

by Stephen Penner

  Okay, she thought to herself, let’s unleash a little light magic.

  She considered the colorless outline of the spell opened before her. She noted how very different the carefully illustrated letters were from the scrawled, black-ink words which filled her Dark Book. She was looking forward to accessing the light magic. She wondered whether she’d have good dreams that night.

  She noted that the phrasing of this new spell was quite different from its dark counterpart. This new spell translated as: ‘Amplify the natural separation of these objects. Tap into the order of the world and raise this object onto a bed of air.’

  She wondered whether the pen would rise as quickly and as securely.

  Then, just before she spoke this new levitation spell, she wondered why the light magic had ever been lost if this Spellbook of Ballincoomer—unlike her lost Dark Book of Rites and Damnation—had been available and understandable since the Ninth Century. She shrugged and let the question fall away, for now.

  “”

  Nothing. The pen didn’t budge.

  Maggie was genuinely surprised. And disappointed. Had she spoken it wrong? She reviewed the spell.

  “”

  Nothing.

  Wow. This was unexpected. Maggie thought for a second, then raised her hand, “”

  The pen shot up into the air. She frowned, and lowered the pen.

  Okay, then. She steeled herself. She reread the coloring-book spell. Then she spoke it as forcefully as she knew how. “”

  And nothing again.

  Maggie stared at the pen for a long, long time.

  “Damn.”

  She walked over to the bed behind her and plopped down. She laid on the bed, her legs still hanging over the edge, and thought. And thought. And thought.

  Why isn’t this working?

  This should work.

  She considered the differences between the two spells. Different sources. Different phraseology. Different words.

  Different words, eh?

  She leaned up and walked over to the desk. She picked up the coloring-book, studying the words carefully. Definitely standard Old Gaelic. Maybe the problem was in the language. Maybe she needed to use the Hamilton-Devereaux dialect. Maybe the spells had originally been in that dialect, but the monks had translated them into the more standard form. She’d been able to translate the Dark Book after identifying repeating mutations from the Old Gaelic. But there was no reason that couldn’t work in reverse: translate the standard into the dark dialect by following the mutations backwards.

  She pulled a small scratch pad with the hotel logo from the desk drawer and plopped back down on the bed, coloring-book accompanying her. After almost fifteen minutes of diligent work, she was satisfied with her attempt to translate the spell into her dialect. Tearing off the first page of the pad, she rewrote a clean version of the light magic spell. Then she stood up and returned to the guinea-pen. Looking down she spoke the new version of the spell, same meaning but different words:

  “”

  Still nothing.

  The light magic didn’t work.

  Maggie sat back onto the bed and hung her head.

  But why not?

  14. Alison Chisholm

  “Mornin’, Sergeant,” said Officer MacNeily.

  “Sergeant.” Officer Preston.

  “Morning, Warwick.” Sgt. Thompson.

  Warwick greeted her colleagues as she walked into the Aberdeen police station on Queen Street. Yesterday had been a good day of police work—followed by an average night’s sleep—and she was eager to push forward with the investigation. Possibilities were already beginning to coalesce in her mind. Best to get some additional information before a bad hunch solidified into a poor course of action.

  Her office was as orderly as she’d left it, the ‘MacLeod Kidnapping’ file still centered on her desk directly in front of her chair. She sat down, opened the file and set to her work

  “Elizabeth.”

  Warwick looked up sharply to see Inspector Cameron’s large figure in her door frame. Someone was standing behind him.

  “Inspector.” Warwick craned her neck slightly to catch a glimpse of the other visitor. Cameron entered the room fully, finally leaving enough space for the other person to step into the room herself.

  “Elizabeth, I’d like you to meet Alison Chisholm.” Cameron waved an open palm toward the woman who had walked in behind him. She was just a inch or two shorter than Warwick’s 5′9″, with a similarly thin build, long wavy raven-colored tresses and eyes a brilliant green.

  “Pleased to meet you, Sergeant,” Alison Chisholm said as she extended a hand in greeting.

  Warwick stepped around her desk and took the hand. “Likewise, er,” she hesitated at her guest’s title.

  “Oh, right,” Cameron interjected. “Sergeant. Detective Sergeant Alison Chisholm. From Glasgow. Glasgow Police.”

  “Good to meet you, Sergeant Chisholm,” Warwick answered, wondering whether her work had been interrupted just to introduce a visiting police officer, “And what brings you to Aberdeen?”

  “Ah, well, that’s just it,” Cameron started, a hint of pride ringing in his voice, “we’re participating in a sort of exchange program. Sergeant Chisholm will be assigned to our department through August.”

  Chisholm smiled self consciously. No doubt she was looking forward to all the initial introductions being over.

  “Exchange program?” Warwick asked, a bit taken aback. “Like at school?”

  “No, not exactly,” Cameron frowned at this simple comparison. “It’s a new program to improve law enforcement here in Scotland. Get to know one another’s methods and such. We send an officer there; they send one here.”

  “It does sound a bit silly,” Chisholm conceded, “but they say it’s already had some very positive results.”

  “Hmm. An exchange, eh?” Warwick raised a hand to her chin in contemplation. “And so we sent—?”

  Cameron cleared his throat. “Sergeant Willis,” he explained. Then looking at Chisholm, expounded, “Very nice fellow, that Willis.”

  Just incompetent, Warwick thought with a smile. And irritating in large doses. Well done, Inspector.

  “Well, nice to meet you, Sgt. Chisholm.” Warwick took a step back toward her desk—and her case. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.”

  Cameron cleared his throat again. “Ah, yes. Well, that’s just it, Elizabeth.”

  Damn. She should have known something was up when he’d first called her ‘Elizabeth.’ He was usually better with formality.

  “Sgt. Chisholm will be assisting you on the MacLeod case.”

  “Now wait a minute.” Warwick raised her hands in immediate protest. “That’s my case.”

  “Exactly.” This one word response silenced Warwick for a moment as she considered it.

  Cameron turned to his guest and gestured to his subordinate. “Elizabeth—Detective Sergeant Warwick, that is—is our best officer,” he explained. “Indeed,” he glanced quickly toward his favorite sergeant, “no doubt she’ll have my job someday.” A smile tried to push onto Warwick’s lips but she stopped it. “And if you’re going to learn our methods,” Cameron continued, “I want you to learn from the best. Sgt. Warwick is our best.”

  “Thank you, Inspector, but—” Warwick started to protest, but then stopped herself. Cameron had obviously made up his mind. Might as well just make the best of it.

&
nbsp; “I don’t bite,” Chisholm offered. She flashed a smile. “Truly. Well, only if I get really angry, but even then I usually don’t break the skin.”

  The smile finally made it out onto Warwick’s lips.

  “It’s settled then,” Cameron patted Chisholm lightly on the back. “Show her everything, Elizabeth. And listen too. I’d wager we might learn a thing or two from our colleagues to the south.”

  With that, Cameron swirled out of the room and left the two women to get better acquainted.

  After a moment of awkward silence, Chisholm spoke up. “I’m no Willis,” she assured with a sly grin.

  Warwick was so shocked by the comment that she couldn’t help but laugh. She was able to stifle it again after a moment. “How—?”

  “Oh, I’ve spoken with my colleagues back in Glasgow,” Chisholm explained. “He’s already made quite the impression. But I assure you, I was selected because I’m good. Not because my supervisor couldn’t think of any other way to get me out of his hair.”

  Warwick smiled. “I think I’m going to like you, Alison Chisholm.” She walked over and picked up the file. “C’mon.”

  “Where are we going?” Chisholm asked as she followed Warwick out into the hall.

  Warwick smiled at her new partner. “We’re looking into child care,” she explained. “Come along.”

  15. The Nanny

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  A few moments passed. Then a few more. Then just a few too many more before the doorknob finally turned and the door to the flat opened a crack.

  “Hello?” said the large green eye on the other side of the door.

  “Hello,” replied Sgt. Warwick. “Are you Nellie MacQuarrie?”

  The eye narrowed. The door didn’t open any further. “Yes?”

  “I’m Sergeant Elizabeth Warwick. Of the Aberdeen Police.” She displayed her badge and ID to the door crack. “And this is Sergeant Alison Chisholm. May we come in? We need to speak with you.”

  The eye hesitated, then started to well up. The door swung aside and the beautiful young woman inside hung her head. “I know.”

  ***

  “It’s all my fault,” sobbed Nellie MacQuarrie. Her curly brown hair hung delicately to her shoulders, and her thin frame was squeezed into a red blouse and dark blue jeans. Black sandals wrapped around bare feet with toenails painted a surprisingly interesting shade of mauve. Warwick guessed she was 20. Maybe 19. “I should’ve been with little Douglas.”

  “Well, now,” Warwick began. “It’s hardly all your fault.”

  Nellie looked up, her eyes and lips swollen and pink.

  “I should think,” Warwick explained, “that Mr. MacLeod shares some of the blame.”

  Nellie smiled weakly. “I don’t know…” she started. “I was supposed to stay with him. All the time, really.”

  “That’s why your bed was in the nursery.”

  Nellie looked first to Warwick, then to Chisholm, unsure what to say.

  “From what I understand,” Chisholm interjected in as friendly a tone as she could, “Mr. MacLeod was well aware that you were not with Douglas that night.”

  Nellie’s brow creased even as her green eyes widened.

  “How long?” Warwick asked matter-of-factly.

  “I— I beg your pardon?” Nellie wiped her nose on her arm.

  “How long,” Warwick repeated, “had you been sleeping with Mr. MacLeod?”

  Nellie’s brow furrowed and she looked from Warwick to Chisholm to Warwick again, her eyes mixing fear with uncertainty with shame. She hung her head again. “Not long. A few weeks, maybe.”

  Warwick and Chisholm glanced at each other and exchanged infinitesimal nods.

  “Is that why he hired you as his nanny?” Chisholm followed up.

  “No,” Nellie was quick to assert. “No, not at all. Well, that is— Well, maybe, I suppose.” She sighed and looked down at her tight, young body. “I guess it depends what you mean. But I was hired as the nanny first, then… Well, then the other things started later.”

  “All right,” Warwick announced. Time to move on. She looked around the flat. “And are you from Aberdeen then?”

  “No.” Nellie wiped her eyes, and smiled. She seemed glad to move on to another subject. “I’m from the Isle of Skye. A small town called Struan on the western coast. It’s not very far,” she explained, “from Dunvegan. David—Mr. MacLeod—hired me back there. I wanted to get away from Skye. He wanted someone who was willing to travel and take care of Douglas.” She paused and looked self-consciously at her body again. “And more, I suppose.”

  “So you traveled, got away from home,” Warwick digested the information, “and then the affair started.”

  “Aye,” Nellie sighed. “But it wasn’t really an ‘affair.’ I mean, they’re divorced.”

  Warwick frowned. “Actually,” she corrected, “they’re separated. The divorce isn’t final yet.”

  Nellie’s face screwed up at this news; her eyes began to tear over again. “Oh.” She looked at the police officers again, her eyes searching for better news, but finding none. “But he said—”

  “I’m sure he did,” Chisholm interrupted. “Have you ever met Mrs. MacLeod?”

  “No,” Nellie assured. “But I understand she’s a simply horrible woman.”

  “And yet,” Chisholm observed, “they’ve a child in common.”

  Nellie paused, then cast her eyes down sadly. “Yes.”

  “Is that a possibility for you?” Warwick asked indelicately.

  Another pause. “No. Not really. David’s very careful about that.”

  Warwick nodded. “I’m sure.” Then she pressed on. “Nellie, do you have any idea who would have wanted to do this? Any idea at all?”

  Nellie frowned in thought, then turned away. She squirmed uncomfortably in her seat.

  “Nellie?” Warwick prodded.

  “No,” Nellie shook her head as she looked away. “It’s silly.”

  “Of course it’s not,” Warwick soothed. “What is it?”

  The nanny glanced back to the officers, a crooked smile hanging self-consciously from her lips. “It really is silly,” she assured.

  “Fine,” Warwick shrugged. “Maybe it is silly. But tell us anyway. It might help.”

  Nellie’s face evinced her doubt about this last prospect.

  “You never know,” Warwick encouraged. “Let us decide. We’ll take it with a grain of salt.”

  Nellie shifted again in her seat, her lips squished into a conflicted button. Then her eyes gleamed in decision and leaned forward, as if ready to tell the latest and juiciest gossip about the preacher’s wife. “You’ll have heard of the Fairy Flag?” she asked with wide eyes.

  Warwick succeeded in not rolling her own. This was a road she did not want to go down.

  But Chisholm didn’t seem to mind. “‘The Fairy Flag?’” she asked.

  “Aye,” Nellie lowered her voice and cast a careful glance over her shoulder. “No one knows this, but the Flag went missing almost two weeks ago.”

  Even Warwick couldn’t keep her eyebrows from shooting up at this. It was hardly world stopping news, but the MacLeod’s Fairy Flag did hold a certain notoriety in Scottish culture. She was surprised she hadn’t heard of its disappearance. Alleged disappearance, she reminded herself.

  “David—Mr. MacLeod, he’ll deny it,” Nellie cautioned. “But it’s true just the same. And now the MacLeod heir has gone missing.” She lowered her voice. “I’m no saying the banshee came back and stole wee Douglas thinking him her son… but, well, I’m no not saying it either.”

  Warwick suddenly found herself quite tired of Nellie MacQuarrie. She turned to Chisholm. “Anything else, Sergeant?”

  Chisholm thought for a moment, then replied, “No. Not now, anyway.”

  “Right then.” Warwick stood up. “We’ll be in touch. Thank you for your time, Ms. MacQuarrie.”

  Nellie stood up as well and sniffled deeply, the tears beginning to dry.
“You’re welcome. Thank you.”

  The three walked back to the door and Nellie opened it for her guests. “Good bye then.”

  “Good bye for now, Nellie,” Warwick replied with a nod.

  “Good bye.” Chisholm joined in.

  Then, just as Nellie MacQuarrie of Struan, Isle of Skye, had almost closed the door, Warwick put her hand out and stopped it. She looked Nellie right in her big green eyes. “A bheil Gàidhlig agad, a Nellie?” she asked.

  “H— How’s that?”

  Warwick shook her head. “Nothing. Never mind.” She smiled softly. “Thanks again, Nellie.” And the two police officers turned and walked deliberately down the hallway.

  Nellie MacQuarrie closed the door after them and locked it. She stood there for a very long time, unsettled and unhappy.

  She wondered whether they’d noticed.

  ***

  “So what was that gambit you just pulled?”

  Warwick glanced over at Chisholm as they drove down King’s Street. “Which?”

  “That ‘uh-vayle-gah-lick-whatever you said.’ What was that? Gaelic?”

  “It was supposed to be,” Warwick laughed. “I don’t really speak it,” she assured. “But I thought I’d try to pick some up. Might be necessary for the case.”

  “Really?” Chisholm frowned contemplatively. “I thought you said those words in blood weren’t really Gaelic.”

  “What I said,” Warwick corrected with a raised finger and a friendly smile, “is that the experts say it’s not Gaelic.”

  “Hm,” Chisholm observed. Then, “So what did you say to her?”

  “I believe I asked her if she spoke Gaelic.”

  “But she didn’t,” Chisholm recalled.

  “Ah,” the finger and smile returned. “She said she didn’t. Or rather she indicated it by appearing not to understand what I’d said.”

  Chisholm shook her head. “You’re a very exact thinker, Elizabeth Warwick.”

  “Thank you.” She accepted the observation as a compliment. After a moment’s reflection she asked. “Do you know any Gaelic?”

  “Not really, no,” Chisholm answered. “They say ten percent of the Gaelic speakers left live in Glasgow; but that’s only about seven thousand people, and there are over seven hundred fifty thousand in Glasgow. That’s less than one percent who speak Gaelic. I’ve heard it, but I don’t speak it.”