The Elemental (Blair Dubh Trilogy #1) (3 page)

“
Are you going to arrest me then?” she called back.

He appeared to consider it.
“I should but I’m off duty.” With that he vaulted over the fence and landed before her with an easy grace. Freya took a few steps back, eyes fixed on him, as though fearing a trick.

“
You don’t need to look like that,” he said, having to raise his voice to be heard over the wind. “I’m not your enemy.”

“
You’re the Polis,” she replied in a tone that indicated he was.

“
It’s my day off.”

“
People like you never have days off.”

“
We could stand here all day arguing about it or we could do the sensible thing and get out of this wind,” he said, walking past her into one of the castle outbuildings that used to be the bakehouse, now tumbledown but at least the roof was intact. He plonked himself down on the ground, back against the wall, pulling his knees into his chest to keep warm.

Freya
’s heart melted slightly. He’d sat exactly the same way when he was a boy and she relaxed a little.

“
Well, are you joining me or are you going to stand there getting cold?” he said.

After a brief hesitation she went to sit beside him, leaving a three foot gap between them, which he decided not to mention.

“We had some laughs up here, didn’t we?” he began.

She just nodded, although he saw the smile in her eyes.

“We knew this place better than anyone,” he continued undaunted. “Remember when we used to run up here when my mum wanted to give me another haircut with the dreaded bowl?”

Freya
’s smile reached her lips slightly but only briefly.

“
I looked like one of The Beatles until I was fifteen.”

Another gentle smile that quickly evaporated.

“Why did you never write or visit?”

Her expression became positively hostile.
“Why should I?”

“
Because we missed you and we were worried about you.”

She gave a derisive laugh.
“Yeah, you all looked so worried when that bitch was dragging me away.”

“
I tried to help you Freya, I really did,” he said, eyes wide and earnest.

“
I know you did,” she said more gently. “You were the only one.”

“
No one else could do anything either. It was out of their hands. Your nearest relatives were in Glasgow.”

“
You mean no one here was willing to take me in. If they had then my uncle would have been willing to relinquish custody of me to them, he told me often enough. He and my aunt never wanted me.”

Craig was surprised by how detached her voice sounded, but he knew from experience that it was just a front to prevent any real emotion getting through.
“I didn’t know. Did they treat you badly?”

Freya stared at the ground refusing to answer, but her silence told him everything he needed to know.

“So, do you think a storm’s coming?” he said, thinking it wise to change the subject.

Freya was relieved.
“Definitely and soon, a day at the most.”

“
You can still tell after so long away?”

“
Yes, I think so.”

“
Blair Dubh’s in your blood. They took you out of it but they couldn’t take it out of you.”

“
Hopefully I’ll be gone before it breaks.”

“
So soon?” he said, disappointed.

“
This isn’t fun for me.”

“
Then why are you here? To face the past?”

“
It’s none of your business,” she said sullenly.

“
Freya, it’s me you’re talking to.”

She looked at him, his grey eyes soft. Her best friend, the best she ever had.

“I know,” she sighed. “I’m sorry but I’m all over the place at the moment and I’ve got used to doing everything alone.”

“
You’re home now, you don’t need to be alone anymore.”

She actually smiled at him.
“Thanks.”

He watched as her hand clad in black leather reached out to him. She hesitated, drawing it back to herself, uncertainty in her eyes.

“Oh for God’s sake, come here,” he said, tucking her hand into his.

Her grip on his hand tightened momentarily and he sensed her entire body tense then she took a deep breath and relaxed.

He regarded her with concern. “Are you okay?”

“
Fine.”

He decided not to push it, they were making progress.

“Do you want to tackle the churchyard now while I’m here and before the storm breaks?” Her grip on his hand tightened again. “You’re safe, Father Logan can’t hurt you anymore.”

“
Don’t call him Father, he doesn’t deserve that title. That belongs to a good man, a man of God, and Logan was evil.”

“
Sorry, you’re right. But once you’re up there you’ll see there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“
Okay. I really want to see my mum’s grave. I feel so guilty for not visiting it before.”

“
Let’s go.”

The wind picked up even more as they climbed the hill towards the church and she was glad she
’d tied her hair back into a ponytail, it had taken her ages to comb out the knots last night. As they walked she kept her head bowed so she couldn’t see the church looming over her, terrified of seeing the monster who haunted her dreams swathed in black, digging.

“
Wait,” she said breathlessly.

“
What is it?”

“
I…I can’t go without some flowers to put on the grave.”

“
We can pick some in the woods,” he said, gesturing to the dense gathering of trees to their right.

Freya knew she was only delaying the inevitable and she had the feeling Craig knew it too but she needed just a little more time to fortify herself. Her heart thudded so hard it felt like it could jump into her mouth and her knees were spongy. She stumbled over a tree root as they entered the wood and Craig
’s arm went around her waist to steady her. Her head snapped up, green eyes fixed on him and he expected her to push him away but instead she gave him a grateful smile and held onto his arm.

Craig himself felt a little shaky, there was something so fascinating about those sparkling green eyes.
Oh Christ don’t go there,
he groaned inwardly. His last girlfriend had been a complete nightmare and the last thing he needed was another relationship so soon.

“
There aren’t any bluebells,” she said, eyes scanning the darkened interior of the wood. It was calmer in here, sheltered from the wind and damp but best of all, it blocked all view of the churchyard.

“
Well we can’t stand here waiting for spring to come. Those snowdrops will have to do.”

“
Isn’t it illegal to pick a snowdrop?”

“
I won’t tell if you won’t,” he grinned.

Once again she smiled in response. That grin of his was irresistible. Reverently she gathered a small posy and, clutching them tightly in one hand, she took the arm he offered her and they walked back out of the woods together.

“Oh God,” she whispered when they emerged from the shelter of the trees, the churchyard laid out before her.

“
It’s alright, nothing can hurt you here. The dead are safer to be around than the living, believe me.”

A strong gust of wind caused her to stagger forward a few steps and she continued on her way, as though the elements were urging her on. The church loomed over her, domain of the sainted Father Alexander Logan, his old Parish House just beyond it. Thank God he
’d been dead for two years. It was one reason she’d decided to come back now, because it was safe.

The massive oak still dominated the far corner of the churchyard, the sway of its ancient branches scattering manic shadows across the ground. Freya kept her eyes off that dark corner beneath the tree where she
’d seen the horror that had destroyed her life and one of the reasons she’d turned to drink.

Fortunately Craig knew exactly where Rose
’s grave was so he could lead her straight there, wandering through the maze of stones, Freya clutching the flowers to her chest to protect them from the elements. Rain was in the air, she felt cold and damp and she could taste the salt upon her lips.

The graveyard was immaculately kept, not a blade of grass out of place. In Blair Dubh the dead were revered.

Father Logan’s grave was hard to miss. It was more like a mausoleum, a towering stone monstrosity surrounded by cherubs and angels, the words proclaiming what a good, virtuous man he was.
Loving son and father to the whole village,
the inscription read.

“
This is grotesque,” she said. “He doesn’t deserve this honour.”

“
My dad protested against it, but he was the only one. No one listened, he was quite sick by then.”

“
I’m sorry but I’m about to desecrate holy ground,” she said to Craig before drawing deep on the back of her throat and spitting on Logan’s monument. She glared at the ground beneath which he lay. “You were a murdering bastard and I swear one day everyone will know it.” She spat on the ground once more for good measure then looked challengingly at Craig. “Are you going to arrest me?”

When he too spat on the grave she stared at him with her mouth open.

“My dad wasn’t the only one who believed you.”

She nodded in acknowledgement, swallowing down the lump in her throat.
“I wish I had a sledgehammer,” she said, frowning at the stone.

A gust of wind howled through the churchyard and Freya had the disconcerting feeling it was roaring in protest against this desecration. She glanced about uneasily, feeling eyes watching them but they were the only ones mad enough to be up here in this weather. Behind the church was the great gothic mass of Logan
’s Parish House, the blank windows staring back at them and she could imagine Logan standing behind one of them watching with the hatred in his eyes she’d seen the night he killed her mum.

It was a relief when Craig gently led her on to her parent
’s graves. They’d been buried side by side and she sat cross-legged on the damp grass and placed one bunch of snowdrops on each grave. Craig retreated a few steps to give her a little privacy, watching as she gazed at the stones with tears in her eyes.

John Michael Macalister had died in nineteen eighty nine at the age of thirty three and Rose Kate Macalister nine years later aged forty. The majority of people in the village died of old age, the younger section of the community tending to move away. Apart from Freya
’s parents there were only three other gravestones marking young deaths. They belonged to the women who’d had their lives stolen by the same man who killed her mother. Freya was certain the villagers had let her be taken away because she’d accused their adored religious leader and pillar of the community, Father Alexander Logan, of being a multiple murderer. No one had believed her and their sympathy had quickly turned to indignation when she’d refused to cease her accusations. With her gone they’d been able forget the whole nasty business and get on with their neat little lives. It still made her furious.

“
I miss you,” she rasped, reaching out to touch her mother’s headstone. Freya had never known her father, he’d died when she was only two in a boating accident but she’d been close to her mum, a beautiful vibrant woman with the same long blond hair and big green eyes as herself. She’d had the sweetest temperament too and Freya couldn’t recall her once raising her voice to her. Childhood had been full of fun and laughter, her mother’s comforting presence always there. Craig had spent a lot of time at their cottage. Her mum would sit them both at the kitchen table and serve them milk and her delicious homemade tablet. Then she’d ruffle Craig’s dark hair because it made him blush. The memory was so bright and clear in her mind that Freya could almost hear her laughter, smell her perfume, feel the wood of the table beneath her fingertips.

Initially she thought it was the wind that was screaming, until she realised the sound was coming from herself, nor was it the rain wetting her cheeks but her own tears. Why did Logan have to take that lovely gentle woman and do that to her? She glanced over her shoulder into the dark neglected corner of the churchyard, the one no one dare go near for a silly superstitious fear, the same spot she
’d seen a big bat-like figure digging a grave for someone who wasn’t dead and she started to shake.

A pair of strong arms encircled her, shielding her from the elements and she collapsed into them.

“Let’s get you out of this wind, you’re freezing,” said Craig.

He kept her close as they negotiated their way back down the hill to the village. Twice Freya slipped and almost went down, her knees weak, but Craig kept her upright.