Jack

by L. L. Muir

  Firstly, the considerably sized snowflakes spiraling to the ground had no effect on the party. And secondly, he’d seen those grandmothers before.

  There might have been a million people visiting the moor since that fateful day in 1746, and very few of them had earned his notice before Soni came along. But the grandmothers were familiar to him. The memory was unclear, but he was certain he’d seen them before—and he was equally certain they’d been much older. While they now appeared to be middle-aged, those faces had once been blue-gray, as had their hair, and their skin had been as deeply wrinkled as crumpled parchment.

  Witches, certainly. It had to be what had drawn his notice the last time. But noting their obvious power over age and youth, he realized he’d underestimated them. Just as he and his comrades had underestimated Soni when she’d first come to the moor as a babe in arms.

  Jack willed himself toward the memorial cairn, anticipating the summons that would soon come from the wee witch. Instead of a draw, however, he was repelled, warned to keep his distance for a time. Moreover, instead of Soni’s voice in his head, it was that of her uncle’s.

  “Rest a mite, gentlemen. Ye’ll be called when it is time.”

  As one, Jack and his fellow soldiers looked toward the Cameron monument. Just like the rest, he was curious to see if the warning had any effect on the big blond, McLaren. He was hardly surprised to find the lovesick ghost flying to Soni’s side, bidden or not.

  On instinct, Jack tried to advance but was stopped mid-step by an invisible force. All around the battlefield, his brothers tried the same. The perimeter was clear. No one was getting beyond it but McLaren.

  Or so they thought.

  The party of witches moved off, toward the edge of the battlefield, and as it happened, Jack MacGilles had taken his last breath not ten feet to the north of them. His deathbed was well within hearing. The uncle’s repelling spell, just like Soni’s summoning, were forces he could never fight. However, in the last two-hundred and sixty-nine years, nothing could have prevented him from returning to the ground upon which he’d died, if he so desired.

  Jack took a step away from the repelling barrier, closed his eyes, and cleared his mind. His ears, however, he was careful to keep open.

  Thanks to three hundred years of obdurate Scottish weather, the ground upon which Jack had perished had changed, and now he lay half-buried in the turf, on his right side, both legs below ground with just the one hip above. What he would have given to be able to sleep, just for a wee while, on his left…

  The snow sought to cover the rest of him but fell silently, numbly through him. In his resting state, he was even less visible to his fellows, and to Soni, which was for the best at the moment. He did have to concentrate, though, to keep himself in that limbo between awareness and oblivion.

  Through the autumn-withering branches of colorless heather, and with just one eye, he was able to see the entire gathering. Six witches and one ghost. It wasn’t so much an aura that gave the six away—there were no mystical sparks escaping from their fingertips, no dissonant chimes when their noses twitched—but Jack could sense the same thing in them that he’d sensed in Soni long ago.

  It was a simmering. An extra life-force if he had to put a name to it. If mortals were full teapots of water, these witches were the same, only boiling, with whistles of steam unheard by the human ear.

  The sort of kettles one should always be wary of.

  One of the grandmothers turned and frowned in Jack’s general direction and he cleared his mind quickly. The eye he kept open.

  The two men nodded.

  “McLaren.”

  “Wickham.”

  “These are my sisters,” Wickham said, and indicated the older pair and not the women who looked his own age. “Lorraine, Loretta.” He pointed to the other two. “And my granddaughters, Jillian and Jules.”

  The big blond gave the women a cursory nod but turned all his attention to the man. “I would speak privately with ye.” His glance at Soncerae made his meaning clear.

  She complained with a gasp. “Whatever you need to say to him—”

  “Go, lass,” said the uncle. “Just until I ken what this is about, aye?”

  Soni began shaking her head until she caught a look from Loretta. Then she stomped her foot like the teenager she was and stomped off toward the cairn.

  McLaren looked pointedly at the other women.

  Wickham shook his head. “When I tried to imagine why you’d asked for me, I decided a few reinforcements might be in order. I assume ye’ve seen something that worries ye?”

  McLaren nodded. “I have indeed.” The knot of witches tightened around him. “I do not mark time, mind.” The others nodded. “So I dinna ken how long ago they came—”

  “They?”

  “Men. On the outskirts of the battlefield. Late in the night. Stalking. Waiting. But they couldnae see Soncerae. When they never came back, I thought nothing of it until…”

  “Until Soni collapsed?” Wickham frowned for a moment, glanced at the others, then shook his head. “You thought the two connected in some way?”

  McLaren shook his head. “Nay. Not until the mist spoke to me.”

  The one they’d called Loretta gasped and put both hands over her mouth. Her sister cleared her throat quickly. “The green mist spoke to you?”

  “One of the faces, aye.” The big ghost ran a hand back through his hair, then rubbed it down over his features as a man might when he’s been roused from sleep. “It said, He watches. He searches.”

  For a long time, Wickham and his sisters studied each other’s faces. Then Wickham spoke. “You never warned Soni, then?”

  MacLaren shook his head. “I said only that I must speak with ye.”

  “Good. We’ll keep it that way for now, until we understand the threat. She has enough to worry about. Only… We cannot allow her to come to the moor unattended again.”

  “She won’t like it,” Lorraine said. “She only has until February, so she won’t have as much time for the second half of them.”

  Wickham sighed. “Aye, she willnae like it at all, but I don’t like the possibilities if we don’t watch over her.”

  “It can’t be,” Loretta whispered, her eyes wide as she stared at the ground.

  The one called Jillian stepped forward. “I don’t understand. Who is it we think is watching her?”

  Wickham nodded and squeezed his sister’s hand. “There is only one that scares me.”

  “Who?”

  “Walter.”

  Jillian gasped. “But… But... Walter is supposed to be dead!”

  Wickham nodded. “Just so. Supposed to be.”

  Chapter Four

  In defiance of the downward angle of the snowflakes, mist rose all around the battlefield as if in response to the young witch’s brooding. McLaren eventually waved her back to join the wee gathering, as sober as a poor man without a cup. He nodded to Wickham and let the other man explain.

  “Soncerae, yer friend here is concerned ye might faint again—”

  “But we know it won’t happen—”

  “And if anything were to befall ye, in the middle of the night, he and the others would be of no help at all. So we’ve decided that one of us will accompany ye from this point on.”

  “Whenever I say I must?” She looked them in the eye, one at a time, until all heads had nodded in agreement. “Fine. And now I need to be about my business. Timing is important, ye ken.” She turned to her uncle. “I’ll be sending Mitchell, so be ready. I would speak to him first.”

  She gave the group a suspicious look, as if to say she didn’t trust them, then she started back toward the memorial, brought her white fire to life with the wave of her hand, then kept walking. In synchronization with the lighting of the fire, Jack felt the summoning, and he joined his brothers near the clan stones.

  Out on the grass, Soni approached Gregor Mitchell and spoke with him briefly before the two of them moved toward a gathering mi
st. With no signal at all, her uncle strolled through the mist to meet them, and a moment later, the Highland ghost was gone, along with Wickham. The uncle reappeared a moment later and, together with the other witches, waited beside the memorial cairn for Soni to continue her business.

  As the wee lass dragged her cloak through the building snow, back to the path, she held out her hand and curled her fingers. Jack felt the movement of each tiny muscle along those fingers and knew his time had come.

  He and Soni reached the white fire at the same time. She stopped as close to him as possible with the green swirling between them.

  “Dinna fash, Jack MacGilles. Yer days will not be so unpleasant as ye might think.” She reached into a pocket at her hip and pulled out a small white square. “Ye’ll be needing this.” She handed over what he recognized was a Visa card with a wee row of numbers printed out along the middle. “As good as money, and all ye might need.”

  He stashed the thing in his sporran and glanced nervously at the dark uncle.

  “Nay, ye’ll not be needing Wickham’s help to get where ye’re going. I’ll just wish ye well and send ye on, if ye’re ready.”

  Jack needed more time to prepare himself, and told her so. “Isn’t there someone else ye can send first?”

  She nodded slowly. “Aye. Gregor Mitchell, and I’ve just sent ‘im.” Then she nodded to the left. “And Struan Cameron will be sent on his quest before I’m done. But now is the time, Jack. Ye’ll be glad of it. Trust me.”

  “But lass—”

  “Ye’ll have more milk than ye could want—”

  “Just twenty minutes more, aye? What if I’ve…forgotten something important…” The last he said to no one at all, for he was swung away from the moor and into darkness. He struggled, barely able to keep his feet beneath him, so long had it been since he’d felt the weight of blood and muscle inside him.

  Dear Lord! I’m Mortal!

  Jack found himself in possibly the most pleasant place on earth—a dark corner booth in a Scottish pub—and he thanked heaven that Soni had seen fit to send him with a Visa. And even happier still was he when the waitress noticed him, stopped, and looked him in the eye.

  “Hiya! Didnae see ye there, sir. What’ll ye have to drink, then?”

  He hadn’t dared hope he might eat and drink again, and was unprepared for the question. “I don’t suppose ye have Heather Ale?”

  “I do.”

  “And tea?”

  “Aye, the nasty weather is upon us early this year. Will ye have a bite as well?”

  His body nodded wholeheartedly before he had a chance to worry how much credit might be on the Visa card.

  “What would ye like, then?”

  He grinned when he realized there was one thing that had teased him over the past seventy years. “A hamburger, if it’s on offer.”

  “It is.”

  “And chips?”

  “O’course.” Her finely shaped backside disappeared through a door and he was left alone with his thoughts. It was a fine start to his quest, he reckoned. And if the hamburger proved to be as tasty as he’d imagined, he wouldn’t balk at whatever task Soni had in mind for him.

  From the angle of the sunlight pouring through the window, Jack realized why so few people had wandered into the place. It was early yet, even for supper. But the waitress hadn’t seemed to mind. She was all smiles when she delivered the meal to his table, along with a heavy pint, a wee pot of hot water, and a tea cup.

  “Tea’s at the back of the table, there.” She pointed to a box, pulled condiments from her large pockets, and left him to it, claiming she’d forgotten something.

  He piled the vegetables onto the sandwich as he’d seen done on the telly, then sank his teeth into the mountain of food. After only a few bites, he admitted his imagination hadn’t been up to the task of visualizing such a delicacy. The chips were lovely as well, and would serve to fill in the nooks and crannies of his stomach. And just in case this was the only meal he’d have time to enjoy, he intended to eat each and every one of them.

  The waitress returned with a smile and a wee pitcher, which she placed on the table just north of his plate. “There ye are.”

  He leaned forward and froze when he realized what it was. Only his eyes seemed able to move and he glanced up at her, wondering if she realized what she’d done.

  “It’s milk. Fer yer tea.” She watched him curiously for a moment. “Would ye like me to take it away again?”

  “Aye,” he whispered, grateful he was able to do so.

  “No worries,” she said kindly, then took the pitcher away.

  He felt the air move in and out of him again and the blood pushing through his veins. He blinked, then tested his shoulders. They moved fine. He rolled his head from side to side, wiggled his toes. He was still alive then.

  The smell of the burger reached through the tension and tickled his nose, and though a pall had fallen over his wee corner of the pub, he was still able to enjoy his supper.

  While he waited for the lass to take away the plates and examine his Visa, he took stock of his person. His clothes were clean and free of mud. Other than a smear of mustard on his finger, his hands were clean as well. The dark shadows against his shirt caught him by surprise. It was his hair. It was brown once more!

  He got to his feet and found a piece of mirror behind the bar. His form was fine and fit, as it was the day he joined Charlie’s army. After his death on the moor, however, his hair had turned white—as white as milk—and now, the only pale bits were the strands that began at his temples. Gray hair was a bit early for a body that was only forty and two years when last he’d taken a breath. But would he complain? Never.

  Jack slipped back into his seat before anyone could catch him gawking at himself. Then he waited cheerfully for his quest to be revealed.

  Chapter Five

  Fort William, Scotland, wasn’t an army base. It was a city. Oh, there were plenty of signs that pointed toward the old fort, but I wasn’t there to see the sights. I was there to make a man’s life a living hell—until he coughed up my sister’s inheritance.

  I didn’t need help, money-wise. My café was doing quite well, and about to do even better in six months when the Food Channel aired the episode. And I’d been able to help Savanah out of a bind now and then. Mother claimed she didn’t need a dime, which implied she had money in the bank. And whatever she might have saved, it naturally should have gone to my sister.

  If Creep hadn’t spent it all yet, I would convince him to do the right thing. In case I needed help convincing him, I figured I might need a gun. I hadn’t brought one along because I was sure it would be taken away from me. Or I’d be arrested. So I figured I’d just have to pick one up after I got in the country.

  The plan sounded so reasonable--buy a gun in Scotland. They had guns in Scotland. I’d seen them on TV shows all the time. It wasn’t unreasonable to assume I could find a guy with a few choices in the trunk of his car, right? Scotland wasn’t famous for being crime-free or anything, was it?

  Well, as it turned out, Scotland didn’t have a lot of gun violence because—surprise—there weren’t a lot of people with guns around.

  I stopped to talk with a wildly dressed street performer. He was taking a break, sitting with his back up against a stone storefront, smoking a cigarette. He explained that, not only might I have to go back to Glasgow to buy a gun, but that he’d only heard of a couple of shootings in the last few years.

  Years. Plural.

  Apparently, only gangsters had guns. And I’d have to find a gangster willing to sell me one. I had enough money to overspend on a weapon, but not enough to bribe a serious criminal.

  I was so discouraged, I decided to spend a few hours in a pub and try to come up with a better plan for dealing with Creep Macpherson. My app told me there were a handful of bars along the waterfront. The Grog and Gruel sounded interesting, but all I wanted was a pub, not a restaurant, which meant The Ben Nevis Bar. The last thin
g I needed was to have a couple of kids whining nearby when I needed to think—or forget.

  Kids reminded me that I didn’t have any and probably never would. I was thirty-six, which seemed about a decade older than thirty-five, when those last biologically-viable years start slipping through your fingers like the last drops of water that had, just a minute ago, looked like a big pool in your hands.

  The chances of me meeting someone, actually falling in love, marrying, and having at least one child, all in the next three and a half years, seemed about as probable as getting my mother’s money back from Macpherson. Neither was going to happen.

  And if I couldn’t make him pay up, I could at least make him pay.

  Honestly, what did I have to lose?

  My business was a success. I felt like my life was a success, even if I hadn’t married or had a family. But what had prodded me toward that success was proving myself to my mother. And Mother was gone. Who else did I need to prove anything to?

  I looked into the head of my pint of ale and watched the tiny bubbles pop. A microcosm of my biological clock? Or the days of my life I’d wasted trying to prove myself?

  I sucked in the bubbles and choked.

  “Are ye all right, there, lassie?”

  I looked around the dark room, trying to find the one who’d spoken. The bar tender was missing in action, and no one else sat on the stools.

  “Over here, miss.” A hand waved in the shadows of the corner booth.

  I nodded. “I’m fine. Thanks.” I smiled and turned back to my drink. In the mirror, behind the liquor bottles, I could see the guy nursing his own drink and glancing at me almost as often as I looked at him.

  Eventually, my eyed adjusted and I picked out some details. He had long dark hair that was graying at the temples. Under a leather vest, he wore a loose shirt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Something dark was draped over one shoulder and I wondered if he was in costume or just eccentric. If he was eccentric, maybe he had weapons…