I walk out to Montague Row and glance one way, then the other. A dark blue Rover is just pulling up to the curb in front of a guesthouse three homes down. Perfect. I walk over, just as the driver is getting out. A man, midthirties. He leans in and grabs a paper sack of groceries. Mind control time.
Give me the keys to the Rover. Don’t report it missing, even if it’s gone in the morning. Just call a cab. I’ll bring it back when I’m finished. You won’t even notice me. Nod once if you got all that.
The guy looks at me but doesn’t really see me. His eyes are kinda glassed over. He nods once, and when I hold my hand out, he drops the keys into my palm.
Go inside. Forget you’ve seen me tonight. Carry on, my wayward son. There’ll be peace when you are gone.
The guy turns and crosses to the front entrance of the stone house. He opens the door and closes it behind him. The interior hall light extinguishes, and I can hear his feet moving up the stairs inside his flat.
I waste no time jumping into the Rover, starting the engine. Sweet, the Rover has a GPS. I put in the address Gawan Conwyk had given me, and head out. Jake Andorra gave me U.K. driving lessons before leaving Edinburgh. Even though I drive a manual at home, this one’s automatic, and I’m sorta glad. Roads are narrow as hell here. But no sweat. I got this.
The streets are quiet as I pull out of Montague Row and follow the GPS out of the city. I hit a few roundabouts before I take the A-9, cross over the Beauly Firth, and through dense mist head toward the foot of Ben Wyvis and the small villages of Dingwall and Strathpeffer. According to the GPS, they’re about fifteen miles out of Inverness. I hit the gas and make myself remember to stay to the right. A few random cars pass, their headlights obscured until close proximity because of the heavy Highland mist. Soon, though, I see no one. All shops are closed up for the night. I speed up.
I’m now weaving through the small village of Strathpeffer. Gawan Conwyk had explained that it had at one time been a Victorian spa town, and that the people of the time had believed the natural spring waters contained magic. Like, life-eternal kind of magic. It is still in existence. Gawan said it wasn’t so much a spa, and that it was more of a place people brought their crazy relatives in hopes of a miracle cure. A huge insane asylum Victorian-era town. Very Stephen King–ish. And the architects of the spa weren’t giving magical therapy. As I drive through the quiet village and notice the tall, dark-stoned Victorian homes set back upon tree-ensconced hills, I can only imagine the creepiness of the times. Ice-water dunkings in the springs, or, nicely put, hydrotherapy. Craniotomies. Whatever. Victorians, Gawan said, were a “weird and morbid lot of folk.” I believe it, and coming from me, that’s sorta hypocritical and funny as shit.
No sooner have I left the village of Strathpeffer than I see a small white sign with black letters for Dingwall. My British-accented GPS speaker directs me pretty easily, and before long I’m winding through the town center. More narrow streets, stone walls, stone buildings. I pass several stores, a few takeouts, a haggis shop, the police department, and a school. Soon I turn at a car dealership and start up a steep, high hill. At the top, I follow it left, and I’m still climbing a bit as I skirt several small farms. The smell of sheep poop and hay, mixed with whatever that nice herby, clovery smell is of the Highlands, wafts through the vents of the Rover. Too bad this whole trip to Scotland is a WUP mission. Too bad I’m headed into some heinous underworld that I may or may not escape alive from with my fiancé and friend. I might actually love it here. There’s something breathtaking and mystical about Scotland. Something unexplainable. A feeling, I guess.
Ahead, a small dip in the road, then to the right I see a sign: IVY CROFT AND COTTAGE. It’s a narrow paved drive, and I hit the headlights off and turn in. I pass a relatively large two-story house, and at the smaller cottage at the top, I park the Rover and pull the emergency brake. The moment I open the door, the scents assail me. Clover. Floral. Pungent. Perfect. Quietly, I close the car door and scan the shadows. A half-moon hangs over a field, and while it’s not totally dark, the mist makes it hard to see more than fifty feet. According to Gawan’s directions, I have to travel on foot behind the barn I’m standing in front of, up the hill, and after passing a set of ancient standing stones, cross into the wood. I glance behind me, to the house at the foot of the hill. Lights are out, and all is quiet. Hopefully, I’ll be in and out before the family wakes up.
My hands fly across my body, checking all of the blades holstered onto my person. I double-check the scatha, zip my leather jacket, and with a deep breath, take off behind the barn. I leap over the fence, startling a few dozing sheep. They jump up, bleat, and herd away from me. There is a trail close to the fence, and it slopes up the hill. I start off across the spongy, wet ground. Something tells me I should’ve worn rubber boots vs. my leather ones.
The half-moon light slips through the mist just enough for me to make out the sheep path I’m running on, and as I climb the hill and leap one metal fence, I see the crooked silhouettes of the standing stones ahead. I’m moving fast, and within seconds I’m beside them. The wind howls, and in the distance, a set of wind chimes dong. A feeling overcomes me, starting at my feet and moving up through my body. It’s like a small jolt of electricity, a low hum vibrating and attaching to every single nerve ending I have. I almost feel nauseated, but . . . not really. I recognize it. It’s holy ground. The ancient, old-as-hell kind of sacred. It’s so strong, so powerful, it’s almost as though whispers emanate from the stones themselves. Way ahead, a hill, or as the Scots call it, a pap. And to the left, a dark, ominous mass of blackness. The wood. According to Gawan, that’s where I need to go. Even without his direction now, I can tell it. The same force that lies beneath my feet and hums through the standing stones beckons from the forest. More whispers. They’re calling my name . . .
Bounding over stones, dead clumps of heather, and prickly gorse bushes, I make my way to the shadowy edge of the wood. My whole body is humming now with whatever supernatural power lies within this hallowed ground. I stop, unzip my leather jacket, and grasp the scatha. It’s loaded with six cartridges. I have six more stored in the pockets of my cargos. Hopefully, I won’t have to use them all.
The moment I cross the wood line, a shift in the air hits me in the gut. No longer guided by Gawan’s directions, but on pure instinct, I take off, leaving the footpath and weaving through the mammoth Scotch pines. Deeper into the forest I move, branches scraping my face, catching my ankles. My insides are seized with pain caused by the hum of supernatural current. It almost doubles me over. It’s like an overdose of déjà vu. I’m close. Close as hell. But I keep pushing, the scatha tightly gripped in my palm.
The moonlight shifts, and a single beam shines through the canopy of trees ahead. I see it. The entrance to St. Bueno’s Well. I move closer. Slower now. Cautious.
I feel the sonic boom move through the trees before I see it, and I stiffen and dig my feet into the ground. When the wave hits me, I rock, nearly lose my footing, and teeter for a moment. A raging wind cuts through the trees following the boom, and I’m forced to close my eyes. The wind is so vicious it takes all of my strength to remain upright. My breath catches in my throat. It’s harder to breathe now.
Then, as fast as it began, it stops.
Open your eyes. You must move fast.