Curse Me Wicked

Elle Jasper Curse Me Wicked

Village of Dunmorag, North West Highlands, Scotland, October

“So you think you can handle this one, huh, newbie?”

I glanced at Paxton Terragon, the arrogant, senior field agent I’d been training with for the past three months. He was in his mid-thirties, wore white spiked hair and looked like Billy Idol. I narrowed my gaze, sick to death of being called newbie. “Hell yeah.”

Pax laughed, grabbed the keys from the ignition, jumped out and slammed the door. I did the same and Pax peered at me over the top of the car. “Fearless Ginger Slater, WUP’s most notorious risk-taking newbie field agent is ready for a little action, huh?”

The agency we worked for, WUP – Worldwide Unexplained Phenomena – had partnered me with an idiot. A biting wind whipped across the car park and sank clear to my bones, and I pulled the edges of my leather jacket closer. I frowned at Pax. “I was a shape-shifters/curses specialist for two years prior to joining WUP so lay off and let’s go.” As I rounded the back of the Rover, my eyes searched the grey, bleak village of Dunmorag.

Pax chuckled. “So you have a couple of years behind you and what?” He cocked his head and stared at me. “Think you’re ready?” He shook his head and popped the hatch. “I’ve been at this for ten years, newbie, and trust me – you’re never ready.”

I met Pax’s stare for a few seconds, told him to eff-off in my head, grabbed my pack and shouldered it. Then I really took a good look around at the secluded Highland village. Desolate was the first word that came to mind. Half-dozen grey stone and white-washed buildings hugged the pebbled crescent shore of a small lake – rather, loch. Beyond the village were the Rannoch Moors, which were even more desolate than Dunmorag. Tufts of dead grass, brown heather and rock stretched for miles. Far in the distance, dark, craggy mountains threw long shadows and loomed ominously. The skies were grey. The moors were grey. Even the water in the loch was grey. Well, black.

Foreboding. That was the second word that came to mind.

“You gonna stand here all day and take in the scenery or what?” Pax asked.

I gave him a hard look, which he ignored and instead inclined his head to the pub behind us. “I’m ready,” I said, shifted my pack, shrugged my leather jacket collar closer to my neck, and together we crossed the small car park. The wind bit straight through my clothes and I shivered as I stepped on to the single paved walk that ran in front of the stores. I glanced down the row of buildings. A baker. A fishmonger. The post office. A grocer. An inn and a pub. And absolutely no people around. Weird. Very, very weird. Good thing weird was our speciality.

A black sign with a sliver of a red moon painted on it swung above the pub on rusted hinges, and the creaking noise echoed off the building. In silver letters the sign read The Blood Moon. Pax pushed in through the double red doors – quite befitting, the red – and I followed. Inside, it took my eyes several seconds to adjust to the dimmer light. A hush fell over the handful of people gathered in the single-room dwelling. “Guess we found the villagers,” I whispered to Pax. Everyone stopped what they were doing, or saying, to stare at us. No one uttered a word.

I glanced at Pax, then all around, until my eyes lighted on the man behind the bar. He had dark, expressionless eyes, reminding me of a shark’s, and they bore straight into me. His head, shaved bald, shone beneath the pub’s overhead light. He said nothing. I walked up to him and met his gaze. “We’re looking for Lucian MacLeod,” I said. “Know where we can find him?”

The bartender shot a quick glance to someone behind us – I don’t know who – before returning his heavy gaze to me. “He’s no’ here,” he said, his brogue so thick I barely caught all the words. “Best you and your friend just go.” He stared. “Lucian willna be back anytime soon.”

I smiled. “Could you just point us in the right direction? We came a long way.”

The bartender looked first at Pax, then back at me. “From America, aye?” he said, regarding both of us. Then he leaned across the bar, his hard gaze settled on me. “You know the moors, do you girl?”

I shrugged. “Not really but we can find them. Why, is that where he’s at?”

“Callum, dunna do it,” an older woman said in a hushed voice from a table near the window. She looked at the bartender, but not me. “’Tis wrong.”

Callum shot the woman a hard look.

“Look, Callum,” I said. “Lucian contacted us for our services, so,” I leaned forward, “why don’t you just tell us where to find him and we’ll be on our way.”

The bartender studied me for several seconds before answering. “He’s on the far north of the Rannoch Moors, in a little stone bothy,” he said. “’Tis the only one out there. But I’m givin’ you fair warning, lass,” his voice dropped. “Get your business done and off the moors by nightfall. If you canna find MacLeod, leave.”

I held his gaze. It took a lot more to frighten me than a moor warning. Besides – ole Callum had no idea what we were used to. “Thanks.” I glanced at Pax and inclined my head towards the door. “Let’s go.”

Outside, I swear the wind felt ten degrees colder. And it had started to rain. Freaking great.

“Food.” Pax wasn’t asking, he was telling. His gaze wandered up the walk.

I glanced first at my watch, then gauged the darkening sky.

“There’s no time.”

Pax swore, then headed towards the car, muttering something about fish and chips and beer.

I followed, and as my stomach growled – yeah, I was hungry too – I looked up the one-track lane of Dunmorag, at the bleak buildings, the grey skies, at The Blood Moon pub. A sharp gust of wind whipped by and I squinted against its harshness. An uneasy feeling crept over me. Something wasn’t right; something about this whole case didn’t sit well with me and I couldn’t put a finger on it. And something about Dunmorag wasn’t right, either. Creepy. It was just so freaking creepy.

It made me wonder just who Lucian MacLeod truly was. To say he’d been vague when he’d called the agency was an understatement; he’d simply asked a few questions, requested a specialist in curses and paid a hefty fee up-front just to procure that specialist. But it was his final plea that had stuck with me when we’d spoken on the phone; you’re my last hope. I don’t know if it’d been the desperation in his voice, or the words themselves; either way, I found I was fascinated. Even if it meant suffering a trans-Atlantic flight and three hours in the car with Pax Terragon, I was still enthralled and interested to sit down and find out the full scoop on Lucian’s problem – whatever it was.

We left the dreary Highland village behind, with only four and a half hours left of daylight – if that’s what you called it – and headed for the even drearier moors.

“Crisp?” Pax asked, shaking his chip bag at me.

“Let me get this straight,” I said, turning sideways in the seat to look at my partner. “You stick your hand in the bag. You pull out a chip; put it in your mouth. Lick your fingers. Then back in the bag they go.” I shook my head. “I’ll pass.”

Pax laughed and crammed several more chips into his mouth. “Whatever, newbie.” He jerked a thumb towards the window. “Doesn’t look like we’ll find anywhere out here to eat.”

I glanced around the barren moors and decided Pax was right. There wasn’t anything in sight, in any direction, except dead heather, grass and rock. Several brown bunnies had shot across the one-track lane but that was it. No other signs of life existed. Heavy grey and black clouds had claimed the waning afternoon light, throwing the moors into a weird sort of eerie, shadowy hue. The rain had continued, a light drizzle, but constant. I pressed my palm to the window’s glass and shivered at its coldness. The temperature outside was dropping. By nightfall, with the rain? Almost unbearable. I preferred the warmth, sunshine, sandy beaches and crystal-clear waters. Neither cold nor gloom ranked as one of my top five faves but both seemed to go hand-in-hand with WUP assignments. Go figure.

“There it is,” Pax said, pulling me out of my thoughts. I glanced in the direction he pointed, across the moors, to a small, single-storey stone cottage. A mist had drifted in and settled like a sheet of wispy fog over the dead clumps of grass and heather. Smoke puffed out of the chimney. “MacLeod’s here.”