Storm Witch Page 2

  “Fine.” She held her five sheets of paper out to him.

  “Done.” Three pages were offered to her.

  Turning away, she flipped through them. The middle one was covered in Mum’s messy, erratic handwriting setting out the basic principles of casting a circle, one of the first things any spellworker learns. Her finger circled the holes in the margin; ripped as the page had been torn from the folder that held it. She could visualise the folder as clearly as if she’d seen it yesterday; black with a picture of a rearing unicorn with a flowing silver mane on the front. More suited, most people would think, to a teenage girl than a woman in her fifties. She’d given it to Mum when she started writing the book, intending it as a joke about magic and the secret they’d shared.

  “Whose writing is it, Jenna?”

  Oh God, he was still asking questions. Could he not see how hard this was for her? “No one you know.”

  “But you recognise it?”

  “Yes.” Sucking in a deep breath, she folded it carefully, unzipped her pocket and slid it inside.

  “Then who are you protecting?”

  She spun to face him. “Protecting? I’m not protecting anyone.”

  “Then why will you not tell me who wrote it.”

  “Because it’s none of your damned business.”

  “It is if it’s got something to do with what happened here last night.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Why was he asking all these questions? He’d only been here a few weeks and folk had suddenly started doing distinctly risky and potentially dark magic. She tried to keep her voice steady, to play him at his own game. “Why are you so very interested, Dr Grant?”

  A tiny shrug moved the shoulders of his leather jacket. “I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Why?”

  His gaze shifted from hers. “Because it’s dangerous.”

  She stepped closer. There was definitely something he didn’t want her to know. “How do you figure that out?”

  His gaze returned to hers as if he heard the challenge and recognised it. “I read.”

  “Read what?”

  He folded his arms. “The Golden Bough.”

  The Golden Bough was a deadly dry tome on comparative religion and mythology. It was the kind of thing an archaeologist might find interesting. There was a copy of it on Mum’s bookshelf and, if she’d ever opened it, she’d know if it covered things like this or if he’d told her a really clever lie. His face gave absolutely nothing away.

  Deciding to deal with one problem at a time, she said, “Good for you. Now can we get this place cleared up? I’ve got visitors waiting.” Moving across the chamber, she stepped around the pentagram.

  “So, that’s how I figured it out. But the question is, Jenna, how did you?”

  Damn! He was far too quick. How could she have missed that trap, not realised that by challenging him she’d revealed too much about herself? She folded her arms. “I watched Buffy.”

  “You’re a lousy liar, you know. There was…”

  “I’m not.” Her chin came up. “I did watch Buffy.”

  “So did I.”

  “Oh.” She should have thought of something else. Something more obscure that he’d never heard of. Only she could never think fast enough when she was put on the spot.

  “Come on. There’s definitely something you’re not telling me and...”

  She pulled herself up to her full height. As that was only five foot five she still had to look up at him. “There are many things I’m not telling you, Dr Grant. Where do you propose we start?”

  “Alright, if you want to be like that.” Folding his arms, he tilted his head to one side. “Do you know who was here last night?”

  “No.”

  “But you know who wrote those pages?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you know someone who writes about magic?”

  She’d backed herself into a corner with that one. Feeling unaccountably warm, she unzipped her fleece. “Did.”

  “What?”

  It was a risk. A big one. A fluttery sensation cascaded through her stomach as she said, “Did know. They’re dead.”

  “Oh.” As much surprise as she’d hoped flitted across his face. Would it be enough to make him behave like a half decent human being and stop asking questions? “I’m sorry.”

  There was a long moment of silence. She bent to pick up the herbs strewn across the floor, rubbed her hand over the white outline of the pentagram. How the hell was she going to get that off before the visitors for the eleven o’clock tour arrived? “Do you think this is paint? Would turps shift it? I could run back to the visitors’ centre, see if we’ve got any.”

  Winston squatted next to her. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “I see now why it was a shock for you, finding the pages like that, why you didn’t want me to see them.”

  Swallowing hard, she glanced at him. His dark eyes were intent on her face. “Yes.”

  “You must have been close.”

  “We were.”

  “Was it a friend? Someone you were at school with?”

  “No.”

  He pushed his hair away from his face. “I’m sorry. I’ve been an insensitive bastard.”

  Shoving the herbs she held at him, she stood. “If you’re hoping I’m going to disagree, you’ve got a long wait coming.”

  “I can get a bit focused sometimes.” Winston rose to standing. “Forget about people’s feelings.”

  “You don’t say!”

  “Aye, well, I’m sorry. I was out of order.”

  He was standing too close to her again, those dark eyes watching her far too intently. “You were but I’ve got bigger problems.” She took a step back, trying to put some distance between them again. “I’ve got to find a way to shift this damned thing. I can’t bring visitors in here with a bloody pentagram on the floor.”

  Winston shone the torch on the white lines. “It looks like gloss paint to me. You’re going to need a lot of turps to get it off.”

  “I’m not sure we’ve got a lot.” Jenna sighed. “Maybe I could find something to cover it up for the rest of the day.”

  “That might work.” He walked towards the side chamber, dropped the bundle of herbs with the candles and pieces of bowl. “How long have you worked here?”

  “Nearly two years.”

  “You’re from Orkney?” Stripping off his jacket, he started to pile the items from the circle into it.

  “Yes.”

  “Born here?”

  She wasn’t sure why he was asking but his voice was reassuring, a tether in the darkness, as they moved back and forth across the chamber picking up the last few things. “Yes.”

  “A true Orcadian then? There’s not many of you around as far as I can tell. The place is overrun with English. I don’t know how you stand it.”

  “Ferry-loupers. They’re not all bad. But I’m not really an Orcadian. You need seven generations in the kirkyard for that.”

  “Your family were ferry-loupers too then?”

  She smiled at the sound of the Orcadian word in his crisp Edinburgh accent. “My granddad taught at Kirkwall Grammar. Mum was a peedie girl when they moved here. Dad came because of Mum. He’s originally from Galashiels.”

  “Your parents are still here?”

  “Just Dad.”

  “Not your mum?”

  “No, she’s dead.” Blood heated her face. She spun to face him. “You bastard!”

  “I didn’t know it was your mum.” His hands rose, palms up. “Christ, I’m not that heartless.”

  “Really? You could have fooled me.” There was a wobble in her voice. She clamped her hand over her mouth as if that would steady it.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I only wanted to know what you weren’t telling me.”

  “You want to know that?” She took two quick steps until she was standing in front of him. “She was murdered. Drowned, if you really must know. And they’ve never found her killer. She’s an uns
olved case, a note on a police file somewhere. That’s why I don’t talk about it.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Yes.” Her voice mutated into something horribly like a shriek as it echoed off the stone walls and high ceiling. Dear God, had she produced that sound? She never got angry. And now the bloody man had driven her to this. Screaming in the chamber of Maeshowe, her entire body shaking. She couldn’t let him see that. Heading for the tunnel she strode out of the circle of light and bent to duck down into the entrance. Then torchlight swept across her face.

  “Christ, you’re Nina Stewart’s daughter!”

  Chapter 2

  Jenna spun, shock written all over her face. “How the hell do you know that?”

  Folding his arms, Winston took his time before he answered. Now he knew who she was everything made a whole lot more sense. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. You’ve got her eyes and the same cheekbones.”

  “You knew her?”

  Her voice rose on the final word, a yearning in it that made him want to touch her. A couple of quick steps brought him to her. His hand moved to within an inch of her arm, hovered there. She didn’t move away. “I knew all of The Order but I only met your mum a couple of times. She was…” —how to describe Nina? She’d been so vital, so alive— “an incredible woman. A hell of a spellworker but honest with it. There was never any pretence with Nina. She had time for everyone.”

  “She did.” Jenna tugged a tatty tissue from the pocket of her fleece.

  “And now I know who you are, we don’t have to stand here in the dark.” As he did it, he knew it was overly theatrical, the exact opposite of what he’d said about Nina but the temptation was too great. Drawing awen through his feet, he nearly gasped at the strength of the energy that flowed into him. Maeshowe was like a nuclear power plant; imagine what he could do if he used his staff to connect to it. Raising his hand palm upwards he concentrated on the shape of the ball and a sphere of light formed. With a flick of a finger, he sent it floating towards the darkest corner of the chamber. He formed another, suffused it bright blue, just for the hell of it, and propelled it towards Jenna. Two was normally his limit without his staff but, with the power of Maeshowe, he risked a third and felt a moment of pure triumph as it turned violet and hovered above his head.

  Jenna’s gaze dropped from the purple light ball to his face. She looked horrified then there was a dawning comprehension. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Winston Grant from the University of Glasgow.” Switching the torch off, he put it on the floor. “Look me up on the website. There’s a picture of me and everything.”

  “But you’re a…”

  “Druid? Yes.”

  “You never…” She broke off, stuffed the tissue in her pocket, looked away. At least he could see her face properly in this light.

  “Of course I didn’t. Do you go round telling people who you are?”

  “I’m the duty manager at Maeshowe. That’s it.”

  “There must be more to it than that. Didn’t you…? I mean, you’re Nina’s daughter…”

  “Inherit Mum’s gifts? Is that what you were going to say?” She crossed her arms. “Well, for your information, not that it’s any of your business, my spellworking abilities are limited. I can do the basics but that’s about it.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry…”

  “Don’t be. I’m not. Look where spellworking got her. I’d rather be ordinary, thanks. And not be murdered at fifty-three on the same day as four of my friends.”

  “We don’t know Tamara’s dead.”

  “Well, if she’s not, where’s she been hiding for the past six years?”

  He spread his hands. He didn’t have an answer for that. No one did.

  “Look—” she glanced at her watch “—much as you might like to stand here chatting about magic, I’ve got a heritage site to run so if we can get this place cleared up then I can get on with my day and you can get on with doing whatever it is that druids do.”

  Squatting, he scraped at the white markings with a fingernail. A couple of flakes came off. He was almost entirely certain it was paint but he didn’t need anything as prosaic as turpentine to shift it. “I am here for the Ness of Brodgar dig.”

  Jenna shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “I’ll bring references next time, shall I? A copy of my PhD certificate? Will that convince you?”

  Ignoring him, she walked over to where his jacket lay with the items from the circle inside it and pulled the edges together to form a bundle.

  Moving to join her, he risked a gentle hand on her sleeve. “I really am sorry about what happened to Nina.”

  Her eyes met his for a second. She gave a curt nod. As her hands stuffed the sheets of paper inside, he said, “Can I keep these? The ones from the website, not the ones Nina wrote. What was the other one about by the way?” He hoped he kept his voice casual, that it didn’t betray exactly how curious he was.

  “Exercises to focus the mind. Pretty basic stuff.”

  Flipping through the pages she’d given him he saw that they were all equally basic. “If whoever was here last night needed instructions on how to call the elements and cast a spell then there’s no way they could have handled the kind of power there is in here.”

  “Learned that from The Golden Bough, did you?”

  “Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You saw through that one, alright.”

  “It was rather more convincing than my Buffy line.” She glanced up at him with a tiny smile. She looked distractingly pretty, high colour on her usually pale cheeks, those big blue eyes seeming even larger through the shine of un-shed tears. He’d met few people whose feelings were so apparent on their faces. He liked watching her, seeing emotions sweep across her features. He guessed that was why it was so much fun to provoke her.

  “And the prize for worst line of the morning goes to—” he mimed a drum beat “—Jenna Henderson!”

  Picking up the bundle she’d created from his jacket, she gave him a disparaging look. “Grow up!”

  He grinned as he took the bundle from her. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Maybe because you’re a total arse most of the time.”

  He liked the way she said ‘arse’, making it sound almost polite. “Guilty as charged,” he said. “Look if you give me ten minutes I think I can solve your pentagram problem.”

  “Really? How?”

  “How do you think?”

  “Oh.” She blinked at him. “You can do that?”

  He turned his hands out as if he removed pentagrams from ancient monuments every day. “I think so. With the power there is here.”

  “Don’t you need your staff?”

  “Got it.” His fingers closed around his staff, tied to the leather thong around his neck.

  “Oh, I didn’t know you could…I’ll leave you to it then.”

  “What do you want me to do with this?” He gestured to the bundle.

  “Get rid of it.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Don’t you want to keep it?”

  “No.”

  “But there might be clues. A way to find…”

  She folded her arms, lifted her chin. “I think you’re mistaking me for my mum.”

  “Don’t you want to know who was here?”

  “That was her job. Not mine.” Taking two quick steps away from him, she picked up the torch, switched it on. “I have a heritage site to run. If you can get the pentagram off the floor it’d make my life a lot easier but that’s the only help I want from you or your magic.”

  “You can’t just walk away from this,” he said as she turned towards the tunnel. “I mean, you must want to—”

  “Actually, Dr Grant, I don’t.”

  Standing in the centre of the chamber, he watched as she entered the tunnel and her lovely rounded bum disappeared into the darkness.

  Chapter 3

  Outside the back door to her father’s
bungalow, Jenna took a deep breath and raised her chin. As far as Dad was concerned, she’d come straight from an ordinary day at work. Not the slightest sliver of what had occurred earlier must leak through to him.

  A scrabble of claws on tiles greeted her as she opened the door. Jet, her dad’s black Labrador, dashed towards her, tongue lolling in welcome. While giving the dog a good rub under his ears in exactly the spot he loved, Jenna called out hello. Dad’s reply came from the sitting room.

  He was exactly where she’d visualised him when she’d got Nicky’s call; sitting in the purple chair by the window, staring out across the wide expanse of the bay of Birsay. His head turned as she entered with Jet bustling around her legs.

  “Hey Dad, how you doing?”

  “I’m fine, Jenna love. What’re you doing here?”

  “I rang earlier, said I’d pop in after work.”

  “I didn’t hear the phone. But now you’re here, I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “No, it’s alright.” Dad levered himself out of the chair. “You’ve been at work all day.”

  “Haven’t you?” Jenna said, even though she knew the answer, as she followed him through to the kitchen.

  “No, not today.” After filling the kettle, Dad opened a cake tin to reveal scones and, when Jenna nodded, put one on a plate for her.

  “Are you feeling alright?” Jenna took butter and homemade jam from the cupboard. “Is that cough bothering you again?”

  “I didn’t sleep too well, that’s all, love.”

  “Oh?” Jenna kept her tone carefully neutral. Insomnia had been the main physical symptom of his depression.

  He didn’t speak again until they were back in the sitting room, mugs of tea on the table between them, Jet stretched out at Dad’s feet. Jenna bit into her scone, the sweetness contrasting nicely with an unexpected sharp tang of fruit. “What’s in these?”