Shot Through The Heart (Supernature Book 1) (25 page)

What he was going to do? Being in the safety of Edinburgh was where he wanted to be. Lady Elizabeth Ruthven was at least one hundred years old.
 

What was she?

He took a long pull from the bottle of water he'd bought at the petrol station as he'd filled up on his way out of Edinburgh.

She had charmed him, that was sure. From that first meeting, sitting in the drawing room, through to the fateful dance at the ceilidh.

Now, he feared for his family. His guilt was a tight knot in his stomach, his knuckles white as they gripped the wheel. What had he done? Why could he not remember?

In the eight nights he'd spent in Ruthven, he'd experienced things he couldn't believe, that defied rational explanation.

The weather and the window-rattling squalling out of nowhere.

The dog and its constant hunt for Mark.

John's death.

Kay...

As the traffic picked up again, he made a decision - he was going to see Buffy.

There was a light on inside Buffy's shop. Mark rattled the window.
 

He breathed a sigh of relief - he'd called a few times on the way up, but no answer. He didn't know where he lived and had worried that he wouldn't find him.

He thumped the window again. His watch told him it was after eleven - he had lucked out in finding Buffy still there.

Buffy's head appeared through a doorway at the back of the shop. Mark waved, gesturing to be let in. Buffy's shoulders sagged and he breathed out, before walking over towards the door and undoing the locks.

"Oh, it's just you," said Buffy, looking Mark up and down.

Mark frowned as he entered. "Of course it is," he said. "I've been calling you."

"Sorry, mate," said Buffy. "Had my mobile off."

"Why are you still here?" asked Mark.

"Doing a stock check," said Buffy. "Been putting it off for months, mate. Plus, I keep finding stuff I forget that I had and end up reading a
Captain America
story from five years ago." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I thought it was another bunch of neds attacking my shop."

"Eh?"

Buffy shrugged his shoulders. "I'm the freaky comic-shop owner," he said. "An easy target." He looked Mark up and down. "You look knackered."

Mark nodded. "I've just driven up from Edinburgh," he said.

"Can't get enough of that MILF?" asked Buffy, grinning.

Mark almost laughed. "Something like that," he said.

Buffy's eyes widened. "Tell me you didn't," he said.

Mark took a few seconds to think through his answer. "I honestly don't know," he said. He reached into his bag and got out the photocopies. "Here she is."

Buffy whistled. "She's not bad at all," he said.

Mark flipped through the rest of the photos. "She wasn't bad in the twenties, or the thirties," he said. "Well, you get the idea."

Buffy's eyes popped out on stalks. "What?" he asked.

"It's the same woman," said Mark. "This goes right back to 1910."

Buffy swallowed hard, drumming his fingers on the counter and staring into space. "Right, come on," he said, eventually.

Mark followed Buffy out of the shop, watching his hands shake as he locked the door. He struggled to keep up as they raced along the deserted arcade.

Buffy tried the door before tentatively opening it.

"Séan!" called Buffy. "You here?"

Mark struggled to see Séan - his eyes finally spotted him, sitting by the till. He was perched on a high stool, a stack of old books beside him, writing in a ledger, an antique fountain pen cradled in his hand. "Well, this is most unusual," he said, raising an eyebrow.

Buffy raced towards the counter. "Show him," he said.

"Show him what?" asked Séan.

"Not you," said Buffy, then pointed at Mark. "Him!"

Mark got the photocopies out of his bag and spread them on the table top.

"What is this?" asked Séan.

"Tell him," said Buffy.

"Lady Elizabeth Ruthven," said Mark. "Evidence that she hasn't aged since about 1910."

Séan rolled his eyes. "The seventeen forties," he said.

"I'm sorry?" asked Mark.

"She's not aged since about seventeen forty," said Séan. "It's when she was infected."

"You know about this?" asked Mark, mind racing, his thoughts growing darker.

Séan nodded, a fearful expression cutting across his face. "She's a vampire," he said.

"She's a
vampire
?" asked Mark.

It was preposterous, but what else could explain the longevity?

"Why hasn't she killed me, then?" asked Mark. "Shouldn't I have bite marks in my neck? Shouldn't I be halfway to being a vampire?"

"You do look it," said Buffy, "but I think that's from the boozing."

"Very funny," said Mark. His eyes locked on Séan. "Do you have an answer?"

Séan turned and retrieved a large book from the shelf behind. He dusted it off and began flicking through the pages, eventually stopping. "Here," he said, turning the book to face Mark. "This is the particular type of vampire she is."

Mark quickly scanned the page. There was an ornate headline above four columns of text, the pattern repeated on both pages. In the middle of the right-hand side was an elaborate drawing of a flame-haired woman extending sharp talons. The headline read
Boabhan Sith
.

"You almost had me going there," said Mark, pushing the book back.

Séan frowned. "What?" he asked.

"Sith," said Mark. "
Star Wars
. Darth Vader was a Sith Lord. Good wind-up."

"It's not a wind-up," said Séan, holding Mark's gaze. "It's pronounced babanshee. Must be where George Lucas got it from."

Mark frowned. "So, like a banshee?" he asked.

"An extension," said Séan. "A subclass of banshee."

"What do you know about Lady Ruthven?" asked Mark.

"She's been trapped on an island at the edge of a loch since the eighteen twenties," said Séan. "She stayed behind in the castle and became Lady Ruthven, the eccentric local landowner."

"Why was she trapped there?" asked Mark.

"Because she's evil," said Séan.

Mark felt a shiver go up his spine. "She's not evil," he said.

"She is," said Séan. "The whole point of the Highland Clearances was to get rid of that blight."

Mark swallowed hard - his vindication at being on the correct path felt hollow. "So, I was right," he said. "My book focuses on that phase not being entirely malign."

"The first wave rid the country of the scourge," said Séan, nodding.

"Was the government behind this?" asked Mark.

Séan nodded. "It was," he said. "It still has an interest in such matters." He bit his lips. "My order cleansed the Highlands of the plague that had come over the Irish sea." He riffled through the pages until he stopped and looked up. "There wasn't the same problem in Ireland, though. The Potato Famine put paid to the vampire plague there. They've got the numbers manageable now, in the high teens at the last count."

Mark couldn't think of her as Elizabeth any more. He had depersonalised it - from now, she was Ruthven.
It
was Ruthven. "Are they trapped like Ruthven is?" he asked.

Séan nodded.
 

"How exactly does that work?" asked Mark.

"She doesn't cross water," said Séan.

"That just sounds like nonsense," said Mark. "Why hasn't she been killed?"

"Lady Ruthven was too strong by then," said Séan. "I gather that it was attempted. They had to come to some agreement with her." He took a breath. "You're from Edinburgh. Have you heard of the Stockbridge vampire?"

Mark frowned, he hadn't heard of it, but he vividly recalled Ruthven telling him that she'd lived in Stockbridge for a time. "That was her?" he asked.

Séan nodded. "In the end, she agreed to stay on the island in exchange for a sheep every fortnight to keep her sustained," he said.

"What would happen if she gets off?" asked Mark.

"She would be rounded up by my men," said Séan, "and returned."

"She gets off the island," said Mark. "Every year by the look of things." He pointed to the photographs.

Séan nodded. "Yes," he said. "She can get off the island once a year, but that's it. We don't let her leave permanently."

"Not much of a trap," said Mark.

"The place is well guarded," said Séan. "She's not going anywhere."

"Who guards it?" asked Mark.

"There are a few people," said Séan. "One is a ghillie who manages a local farm."

Mark swallowed. "John Rennie?" he asked.

"You know him?" asked Séan.

Mark could only nod.

"How?" asked Séan.

"From the bar at the hotel," said Mark.
 

"Ah yes," said Séan. "He would have been watching her children."

"He called them the students," said Mark.

Séan smiled. "He does, doesn't he?" he said.

"He died on Monday night," said Mark.

Séan's eyes widened. He opened a diary and checked something. "Oh God," he muttered.

"Can you two explain what the hell is going on?" asked Buffy.

Séan took a deep breath. "Mark, I need you to tell me your story," he said. "It's important that you don't leave anything out."

Mark told him everything. Séan's expression grew increasingly sour.

"Right, so you were at this ceilidh on Tuesday night?" asked Séan.

"I was," said Mark. He looked over at Buffy, hoping that none of this would make its way back to Sarah. "Drinking heavily with my photographer. Ruthven asked me up for a dance. And… I danced with her."

"What did Sarah say about it?" asked Buffy.

Mark avoided his gaze. "She doesn't know," he said. "I'd like to keep it that way."

"This all happened at the ceilidh?" asked Séan.

Mark shook his head slowly. "I invited her back to my hotel room," he said.

"You did what?" asked Séan, his voice small and harsh.

"I invited her back to my hotel room," said Mark. "It's no biggie, right?"

Séan's eyes flared. "No biggie?" he shouted, his voice sounding more Irish than Scottish. "You've let her off the island, Mark."

"I told you," said Mark, "she gets off the island every year. Nothing to do with me."

Séan pointed a finger at him. "It's everything to do with you," he said, slamming the giant book shut. "Vampires need an invitation and you've given her one." Shaking his head, he stormed over to another display, grabbing a copy of the comic Mark had, flipping to the pages at the back. "I thought you said you'd read this, you imbecile?" he asked.

"I had," said Mark. "Like I said, it's a work of genius."

Séan's nostrils flared. "It's not a work of anything," he shouted. "It's
real
." He thrust the comic in Mark's face. "All of this stuff is true." He started counting off on his fingers. "Vampirism is a blood disease. There is no cure for it other than death or stasis. They sleep in coffins because the wood keeps the disease at bay. They're not sensitive to sunlight. These ones don't have fangs, they have talons. They don't like garlic and they can't cross water. Arithromania. It's all real."

"But not shape-shifting?" asked Mark.

"I told you," said Séan. "That's just for werewolves. Lycanthropes suffer from a similar condition to vampires."

"Now you're telling me that werewolves are real?" asked Mark.

"They are," said Séan.

Mark closed his eyes, realising that he'd really messed up. "What hope have we got?" he asked.

"Our only hope is that she's feasting on local blood and that she hasn't left the area," said Séan.

"What would happen if she didn't have blood?" asked Mark.

"The disease would take over," said Séan. "She wouldn't die. She'd turn into a wraith until she got more. It wouldn't be pretty, it wouldn't kill her, but it might stop."

"And that's the only way to stop her?" asked Mark.

"We'll try," said Séan.

"Would she stay?" asked Mark.

"I hope, and it's but a mere hope," said Séan, "that she's trying to reclaim her lost family lands. Vampires are territorial beasts."

"So, what do we do?" asked Mark.

Séan glared at Mark. "We need to kill her," he said, slowly. "Failing that, we need to trap her. If we can get a cairn on top of her coffin then we might be okay."

"A coffin?" asked Mark.

"Yes, Mark," said Séan, "a coffin."

Mark's nervousness burst out in a sudden explosion of laughter. "Are you still trying to wind me up?" he asked.

Séan sighed. "I'm not winding you up," he said. "It's our only option. She'll turn into wraith form and be trapped forever." He stared at Mark. "That's why nobody touches hill-top cairns."

"What, are they hiding vampires?" asked Mark.

"Yes," said Séan.

Mark swallowed - he was way out of his depth here. Vampires, coffins and werewolves. "Are there any other options?" he asked.

"Cut her head off and put a stake through her heart," said Séan.

"Of course," said Buffy. "Classic."

"It works most of the time," said Séan. "Only known method of killing them." He took a deep breath. "I believe it was tried with Ruthven before, and failed. We can but hope."

"What other vampire rules are there, then?" asked Buffy.

"Crosses and holy water are nonsense," said Séan, "but running water and garlic are deterrents. With this one, she doesn't have fangs but talons at the ends of her fingers, which she uses to pierce the skin."

Mark's flesh crawled, creating goosebumps up his arms. "She has really long nails," he said.

Séan nodded. "They're fakes," he said, "hiding her claws. The bones at the ends of her fingers grew into talons." He walked past them, heading into the depths of his shop.

Buffy shook his head at Mark. "What the hell have you done?" he asked.

"Nothing," said Mark, holding his hands up.

"Letting a vampire escape a two-hundred-year-old trap doesn't sound like nothing," said Buffy.

Séan returned with a book of the Ruthven family history.

"I could only find a small section on them," said Mark.

"Doesn't mean nobody wrote it down," said Séan. He turned to a page marked out with Post-It notes, long since having faded. "Lady Elizabeth Ruthven, born in 1723." He showed them a family portrait, Ruthven as a young girl, uncomfortably sitting in front of her father. "Lord Ruthven, her mother Lady Anne and her sister Mary."