‘If I hadn’t met Bryce, I’d say panic.’ Lachlan stared pensively into his cup. ‘There’s urgency in these deaths, if he’s behind even a small portion of them. He said something important to me that night. About resorting to Plan B, now that Cam wasn’t an option any more.’
Arran rumbled assent. ‘Yes, it seems obvious he is resorting to taking the lives of others.’
Lachlan shook his head. ‘No, more than that. Something about how he couldn’t get as much out of a regular person. Cam thinks Bryce was able to absorb more life from the witches in his family. Maybe he was feeding on their magic. Maybe…’ He felt sick as the idea formed on his tongue. ‘… maybe he’s not getting enough life from draining humans. Maybe heispanicking. His plan isn’t working so he’s throwing everything at the wall to see what will stick.’
Lachlan stopped, horrified with himself. It hit him how distantly they were talking about these people who had died—who Bryce had murdered.
‘That is a convincing theory.’ Arran’s mouth quirked in the semblance of a smile. ‘You might make a good witch yourself, old monster.’
‘Gosh, no,’ Lachlan said, his cheeks colouring. ‘I don’t understand half of what Cam does.’
‘Nevertheless. You must act in his stead now.’ The Wulver stabbed an emphatic finger at the table, as though marking a place on a map. ‘You must go to Red Point and summon the representative of the Minchmen. Hopefully they will shed more light on matters. If we can predict Bryce’s next move, we may be able to trap him.’
Lachlan winced, sensing that this would involve another long drive far away from Loch Ness. Nothing was nearby in the Highlands.
‘Why haven’t you spoken to them yourself?’ he asked. ‘You must have been watching, if you know they took the body back?’
The wolfman shifted uncomfortably, averting his gaze. ‘The Men of Minch are… not keen on me.’
Lachlan raised an eyebrow, glancing once again at the sharp claws curled around the Wulver’s cup. He wondered if anyone had ever been particularly keen on the Wulver in their presence. ‘Their loss, I suppose,’ he said diplomatically. ‘Will you stay here while I’m away? Even if it’s only a day. I’d… I’d feel better if there was someone watching over Loch Ness.’
‘Is your witch not watching over it?’ Arran’s shrewd eyes narrowed, though not unkindly. ‘Or perhaps it is him you would like watching over.’
‘Both,’ Lachlan admitted. ‘I’d rest easier, knowing a friend is near him. I’ll give you the key so you can stay upstairs, if you like.’
The Wulver seemed taken aback. ‘That is… very kind.’
‘I’ll speak to the Minchmen tomorrow,’ Lachlan promised. ‘And hopefully I’ll come back with answers.’
Chapter Nine
Red Point turned out to be a stunning, secluded, and above allwindybeach on the west coast. It was bounded by a relatively flat but boggy landscape which the March wind tore across with a biting fury. How the local cows weren’t blown down by it was a mystery to Lachlan.
He held one arm out to shield his face from the gale, while steadying Meredith with the other. Fragments of her curses nipped past his ears like a foreign language as they struggled over the dunes. ‘—astard –ecking –ind…’
They slid down a sandy slope and made it onto the beach. Here it was more sheltered, a shallow cove that provided refuge from some of the crosswind. Lachlan felt he could breathe again without the wind whipping the breath away from him. Finally, he looked out over the open ocean for the first time.
It was a little alarming, to stare across the rolling waves and see only horizon on the other side. He knew the Western Isles were out there in the distance somewhere, obscured by haze, but the effect for him was still one of standing on the edge of the world. It was an alien feeling, when he was so used to being surrounded by a comforting wall of hills and valleys.
The sand beneath his feet was a peculiar pinkish colour that shimmered strangely even under the dull grey sky. Fitting, he thought, for a supernatural meeting place.
Meredith squinted at the photocopied map she’d dug out of the Walker files. ‘Over there.’ She pointed at a patch of shingle on the north end of the beach.
Lachlan scoured the area for a flat pebble, then unsheathed the small, black-handled knife they’d retrieved from Glencoe—an ‘athame’, apparently—that he was supposed to use to inscribe it.
‘Do you know what this means?’ he asked, studying a picture in Cam’s notebook. It looked like a series of simple runes comprised of circles, dots, and straight lines. Cam’s notes only labelled it as ‘a Pictish invocation’ for summoning the Minchmen.
Meredith shrugged. ‘Beats me. Amelie used to say it was like a calling card. A way of ringing the doorbell.’
Lachlan copied the runes onto the pebble as faithfully as he could, then slipped the knife into his back pocket. The next instruction, according to Cam’s notes, was to ‘lob it into the sea’.
‘Here goes,’ Lachlan murmured. He pulled back his arm and hurled the stone into the roaring ocean. It landed with an unimpressiveplopand disappeared.
A few seconds ticked by.
‘Now what?’ Lachlan said.
‘Sometimes it takes him a minute.’ Meredith straightened her jacket and tried to smooth down her hair: a fruitless effort, given the strong gusts still blowing across the sand.
