Late the next morning, hopped up on a cocktail of resentment and sexual frustration, Riley headed for the pub.
Eilean looked up when the cheerfully tolling bell above the door announced her arrival. “Curse breaker.” It was still early enough that the lunch rush hadn’t hit, only a few singles sat at the bar with sandwiches. “Done for the day already?”
“Actually, I’m here on business. I was hoping you might be able to introduce me to a local who can tell me a bit more about Philippa Campbell.”
Clark Edgeware could suck an egg. Riley didn’t need him or his research to figure out this curse. The village was full of people who had grown up surrounded by the lore of the mysterious Arden Castle.
“Ah.” Eilean beckoned her farther in with a smile. “So, you’ve subscribed to the theory of the last daughter, have you? That one was always my favorite as well. I’ve long suspected the reason it’s not the definitive origin story for the curse has to do with the fact that people underestimate a woman’s will to survive. Anyway”—she flipped up the side of the bar and slid out from behind it—“you’re in luck. Ceilidh’s working today.” (Eilean took the time to explain that even though it was pronounced like Kay-lee, the spelling was Gaelic.)
Eilean led Riley to the back of the pub and introduced her to a tall redhead filling saltshakers. “I’m sure she’d be happy to chat your ear off if you give her a hand.”
As it turned out, Eilean was right on all counts. Born and raised in Torridon, Ceilidh Wynn worked at the Hare’s Heart part-time while doing her master’s in European history at the local university. While Riley helped her restock condiments, she learned that Ceilidh’s thesis was actually on the curse—specifically the legend of the last daughter. She’d spent years studying the castle’s history and even moonlighted as a tour guide in Inverness in the summer, where she told the story of the curse over and over along with other parts of local supernatural folklore.
“Anyone who doesn’t believe in the curse is full of shite,” Ceilidh declared after Riley had explained her contract with the land developers and the complication of Clark Edgeware.
Riley agreed, but it was amazing how much more defiant it sounded in Ceilidh’s accent.
“This land has always been different. Special.” The redhead married two ketchup bottles. “Why do you think thousands of people pass through Inverness every year, coming for a glimpse of an ancient monster or to touch a series of sacred prehistoric stones? It’s not just down to Jamie Fraser.”
Riley relaxed a little. It was a good point. Even if local legends had evolved into more elaborate or dramatic stories to attract tourism, their origins still lay in this unique historic place and the behavior of the people who lived here dating back to ancient civilizations.
“It’s the fairy thing that people get hung up on.” Ceilidh nodded sagely. “The fae have been Disneyfied enough that your average Joe pictures Tinker Bell—someone tiny with wings and a magic wand.”
Riley knew that phenomenon well. Half the time, when she introduced herself as a curse breaker, she got a Lara Croft or The Mummy joke.
“But as far back as the Picts there have been stories about powerful magical beings in these hills.” Ceilidh finished with the ketchups, and they moved on to topping up bottles of malt vinegar. “They’re always cruel, beautiful, and eager to make a deal with humans only to delight in the suffering that comes when they get their heart’s desire.”
“My gran did a lot of research on the supernatural.” Riley had mentioned the family business when she introduced herself. “And she said one way or another, any kind of magical bargain ends up biting you in the ass.”
“She sounds like a wise woman.” Ceilidh nodded approvingly at the silverware Riley was wrapping. “Around here we’re weaned on warnings about offending the fae, and that’s nothing new. Both the Campbells and the Graphms have dead laid just south of here in Tomnahurich Cemetery, under the Fairy Hill. I’m quite certain Philippa Campbell knew the risks when she went looking for the fae—when she made a deal. She just didn’t have another choice.”
Riley’s hands moved in a practiced routine. Knife, spoon, fork, roll. “Are there any accounts of the wording of the deal that led to the curse?”
In curses, everything came down to language. Since the dawn of civilization, language had acted as a primary conduit for magic, a way of realizing the power of intent.
“Not that I’ve heard.” Ceilidh shook her head. “But whatever those words were, they worked fast. Within a fortnight, Philippa had managed to capture Malcolm Graphm.”
“Wait, what?”
Malcolm Graphm. She recognized that name from the list Clark had made yesterday. He was the son of the chief and the clan’s best warrior. There had even been a portrait of him, an artistic rendering in one of the history books. Riley remembered because he was—while not as hot as Chris Pine when he played Robert the Bruce—definitely pretty easy on the eyes.
“That’s where the legend of the last daughter comes from, how Philippa turned from a lamb for the slaughter to a warrior in her own right,” Ceilidh said. “Once the remainder of the Campbell forces had fallen, the Graphms sent their best soldier to take her down under cover of night and claim the castle.”
“But they didn’t account for the curse.” Riley loved this part of the job—how real people’s lives could unfold with intrigue of mythic proportions. It made the trials of working with the occult, including insults from stuck-up archaeologists, easier to weather.
“Exactly.” Ceilidh stoppered the cork on the vinegar with a resounding smack. “We don’t know exactly how she captured him, but by all logic she shouldn’t have been able to—she had no military training, no weapons proficiency that we know of. But accounts from the Graphm side insist that Philippa sent a raven at dawn to their camp, saying she planned to keep their man as a hostage at Arden and warning his clansmen that if they didn’t abandon their quest and retreat, she’d slay their leader’s beloved son.”
For a second, Riley wished Clark could hear this—she’d love to rub his nose in research he’d overlooked because he didn’t take the curse seriously—but then she scolded herself for thinking of him at all.
“How long did she hold him for?”
“Almost three weeks”—there was a sad twinge to Ceilidh’s voice—“according to her final letter.”
“Final letter?” A first-person account, after the curse had been set—Riley hadn’t dared hope for such a valuable relic.