Chapter Thirteen
In which Wallace introduces Scarlett to the darker side of Edinburgh.
Scarlett…
“Aye, you’re gonna have to wait. Are ye mad, woman? Are ye forgetting I’ve seen ye in action? It’s terrifying. You’re like a tsunami.” There’s an outraged squawk that I can hear from across the room. “A couple of days,” he says. “Aye, I promise.”
Murder Mittens leaps up on my shoulder, purring against my ear. She’s enjoying watching Wallace on the defensive, just like me. He hangs up, expression bleak.
“That was my cousin Luna, Kai’s wife. She’s American, too. She wants to kidnap ye and take ye to lunch with the other female cousins.”
Trying to control the laugh bubbling in my throat, I manage to say, “There are a lot of them, I take it.”
“It feels like dozens,” he says, running a hand down his face.
“That was nice of her,” I offer. “Intense, though. A panel of women I’ve never met.”
He offers a cat treat to Murder Mittens, who leaps onto the counter to take it, which makes him wince a bit. The house is very clean and relentlessly organized, so maybe cat paws on a food prep surface is freaking him out.
Not that I’m stopping my kitty, though.
“Nothing for ye to worry about, lass. They’re fiercely loyal to the women we bring home, and they'll be happy to tell ye the most terrible things about me.”
Feeling a sharp twinge in my chest, I ask, “So, you’ve brought a lot of women home?”
“It seems like a MacTavish tradition,” he admits. “But no. You’re the only one.”
Why does that make me feel better?
Walking to the window, he watches dusk creeping over his yard. “I’m thinking this would be a grand night to take ye sightseeing.” He gives me a little grin. “If ye like Salem, I’ve got something even better to show ye.”
“Really?” I raise a brow. “Something with a dark history? Restless spirits?”
“Aye, the dark side of Edinburgh is a fascinating journey.” He crosses his arms over that unfairly broad chest, his head down a bit, looking almost wolfish as he watches me. “Are ye ready for it?”
“You don’t scare me, mister,” I scoff. “I was raised on this stuff.”
“Excellent!” Wallace claps his hand together. “Let’s get ready.”
“What? Do I need an eerie, black hooded robe or something?”
“No, but your boots are a good idea. It can get wet and dank where we’re going.” He gives me another mysterious smile.
“You’re really selling this,” I sigh. Secretly, I’m excited. Morgan’s told me stories about some of the dark history of Edinburgh. I was honest, though, when I told Wallace he couldn’t scare me. I’ve lived in my own hell for the last two and a half years.
Changing into a pair of leggings and a blue sweater, I pull on the boots Wallace ordered for me.
They’re Burberry, so I know they likely cost around two thousand dollars.
Supple black leather, just a bit of a heel, but they’re very sturdy and perfect if we’re going somewhere filled with moss and graveyard dirt.
“Murder Mittens, come on, baby.” I hold open my backpack.
My cat looks up from where she’s industriously grooming herself, but she doesn’t move. What is this? She always wants to come with me.
“Sweetie? Don’t you want to go exploring?”
She turns her head, licking her back leg.
Wallace is checking his phone when I come back down to the great room, and he looks almost edible. Black jeans, black boots, a light blue button up shirt and a black leather jacket and he is wearing the hell out of that jacket.
“Do you have a kilt?”
“Aye,” he says, amused. “Did ye want me to wear it tonight?”
“It’s not necessary,” I flush just a bit. “I just wondered.”
Of course, I wondered. Wallace is perfection in male form, and even if the man wasn’t built like he could wrestle a bear, he’s got those beautiful amber eyes and those lips…
Those lips that are wearing a grin and I realize I’ve been staring at him the way a starving man looks at pie.
“So! Let’s do this!” I say briskly, feeling like a fool.
“Where does this go?”
We’re standing at the top of the stone steps leading to a very, very dark tunnel. Wallace drove through Old Town, pointing out Edinburgh Castle, and Arthur’s Seat before parking on a side street and guiding me here.
“We’re starting at the South Bridge Vaults,” he says. “Though the real fun lies deeper.”
“Uh-huh…” This doesn’t seem like a public entrance, more like a portal to hell. “I’ll have stories to tell Morgan.”
Wallace holds out his hand. “Are ye ready?”
He has long fingers, which he is wiggling at me enticingly. Putting my hand in his, I feel his heat against my skin. “You are as hot as a blast furnace, I swear.”
“That comes in handy. It’s always cold down here.” He leads me down the stairs and this is all feeling more and more like the start of a horror film. One where the heroine dies. Horribly.
“The bridge was built to connect Old Town to the University District.”
Our steps echo off the damp stone floor. He’s right about the cold. The chill seems to come from the stone walls, turning into wispy, crisp little breezes blowing past us.
“This bridge was considered a marvel of engineering and design in 1785.” He guides me through some odd twists and turns, corners of crumbling stone brushing me and snagging my sweater.
We’re alone down here, which is a little surprising.
I thought we’d run into a Ghost Tour crowd or two, but it’s just us.
His flashlight’s beam plays over some of the arches, rubble from the former inhabitants scattered over the floor, broken crockery, pieces of bent metal and heartrendingly, in one decrepit alcove, a battered little cloth doll.
Torches are jammed into wall sconces, only half of them are lit.
The tunnel’s ceiling dips and sags in places in a very claustrophobic way.
“At first,” he continues, “they sold space on the South Bridge to shopkeepers and business folk who set up stalls there. It was considered prime real estate to sell to the people passing over the bridge. Here’s where it gets interesting.”
I think the tour is over when we come up against a bricked-in entrance, but he makes a quick left into a dark opening I didn’t see before, stepping over a pile of stone and rubble. There’s another tunnel stretching out in front of us, as black as Satan’s jammies. No lights for the tourists here.
The beam of his flashlight plays over the walls, where dripping water carves little furrows in the rock. There are iron grates blocking several of the crumbling arches.
“They made more space by building floors and ceilings underneath the bridge, dark, airless chambers. At first, dozens of people set up business down here, too. Taverns, cobblers, smelters, and such.”
“And then?” I prompt, because this is all too historical and I want the creepy stuff.
“One of the fundamental design flaws of the bridge was that they dinnae waterproof it. We live in the dampest place on the planet and they dinnae waterproof this huge fecking bridge. Water leaked in everywhere and the businesses were forced to move out. Then, the desperately poor moved in, along with all the unsavory types.”
“Did your family start your business down here?” I smirk to make it clear that I’m joking, but his amber eyes flare.
“Cheeky. You’re going to pay for that.” Before I can ask how, exactly, he pulls me along.
“What the public dinnae know about were the tunnels dug after all life died out under the bridge from the murders, suicide, and a ugly bout of cholera. In the 1800s, more tunnels were built for gun runners, booze, anything deemed illegal or heavily taxed. Now that could have been where the MacTavish Mafia rose, at least in part.”
Brushing my fingers against the damp walls, I picture the lives of the people who lived here. The merchants, selling fancy flowers, expensive foods, and fine clothing on the bridge as the carriages rumbled by.
Then below, the taverns, the cobblers, and metalworkers, the smaller folk trying to make a living. All their dreams evaporating, and leaving behind the dark, wet places for the poor and desperate trying to hide from those who preyed on them. Those lives, their echoes, embedded in this stone.
The tunnel’s stone floor is uneven, a haze of something gloomy hovering over our heads. Wallace’s flashlight is a little pool of light breaking through the murk like a trawler on a black sea.
I can feel it now, the sibilant hiss of something heard but unseen, shadows that stubbornly stay put, even when the light plays over them.
Some of them move with us.
“What happens now, in these secret tunnels?” I know we’ve walked away from the bridge itself, the noise from passing cars is almost gone, the silence settling over us like a blanket. The air smells dank, unused.
I shove down a scream as a spider the size of my face scuttles along the wall.
“Oh, there’s life down here,” he says, flicking the monstrous hellbeast away with a casual sweep of his hand. “A fighting ring operates in the biggest section of the tunnels, there’s a couple of taverns. More dark places to do dark deeds.”
His hand tightens on mine as it feels like we’re being pushed against the clammy stone wall. The air’s suddenly so cold, I can see our breath as he whispers, “The ghosts won’t harm ye.”
He’s huge, this man. Hard muscle and heat, so solid like a wall between me and the world. “No,” I whisper back. “It’s the living who want to hurt you.”
The tunnel ends at another steep set of stairs; I can see a sliver of light glowing under a door. It’s an iron one, a strong barrier between the subterranean and the surface.
Wallace pulls out an old-fashioned brass key and opens it, the door swinging out into an empty room. There’s a battered wooden door here, though there’s a new biometric lock panel set next to it, looking alien against the old rock wall. I can hear noise and laughter through the door.
“Where are we now?” I ask, looking around the room.
“This is one of the safe houses, so to speak,” he explains. “The tunnel ends here and the building’s stood for two hundred years. The crime families take turns keeping it in good shape.” He studies my face, “Are ye awright?.”
“Are you kidding?” I grin. “That was amazing! I want to do that again.”
“Aren’t you a sweet surprise,” he murmurs, touching my cheek lightly before pressing his palm against the panel.
We walk out into a proper pub that feels and looks ancient, like we should be sitting at the bar, drinking an ale.
Wallace dressed in a suit and me in some Victorian lady garb.
I suspect they’ve kept it looking this way deliberately.
There’s big timbered beams and brick walls. The windows are small and a bit grimy.
A brassy sort of lady is handing out drinks and insults behind the bar. Two fiddlers entertain the crowd, encouraging them to stomp their feet, making glasses rattle and beer to slop out onto the bar top.
Wallace leads me through a little path between the tables, there’s not many women here, and the men turn and stare as we pass them. Wallace greets a few of them with that manly slap on the back thing all guys seem to do. He doesn’t introduce me, and I’m okay with it.
“Apologies, lass,” he says as we step out onto the cobblestone streets of Old Town. “I’d rather those men not know ye.” He eyes me critically. “I should have given ye a hoodie. Your beautiful hair is very distinctive.”
“Distinctive? Beautiful? The kids used to call me the Reddest Ginger in elementary school. I put up with it for two years. It stopped after I punched Jimmy Donnely in the face. The principal sent me home with a sternly worded letter for my parents.” I chuckle, thinking of my mother’s horrified response.
“My dad hugged me and told me he was proud of me for standing up for myself.”
“I wish I’d met him,” he says. “Uncle Cormac thought well of your Da.”
“Where are we going now?” I ask brightly. I don’t want to think about Dad right now. About Mom.
“The Witchery by the Castle.” He slings an arm around me, putting himself between me and a thicket of drunk college students.
“I’ve heard of The Witchery!” I bounce a little. “I’ll have to take pictures for Morgan.”
We walk down the old streets and cut through a couple of narrow alleyways with minimal lighting, people leaning against the brick and stone walls there. They watch us pass by, but no one speaks, not even to ask for a handout. Is the MacTavish reputation that fierce?
In less than ten minutes we’re in the lobby of the hotel and it’s magnificent; a high, curved ceiling painted with busts of Greek gods, heavy paneled walls, and red. So much red. As we pass the room that serves as a library, I chuckle. So much plaid, too.
It hits me that I didn’t ask what we’re doing here.
Is he taking me to dinner? We’re heading towards a carved set of double doors and he pauses for a moment.
There’s a vase of roses on an antique sideboard.
He eyes them, then pulls the flowers out of the vase and hands the bouquet to me, dripping water on the plush carpet.
“Why am I-”
He pushes open the double doors. The room is large, and looks like an old English study. Dark, detailed wood wainscoting, lamps with yellowed shades on every table because there’s no overhead lighting. Even with them on, it’s still murky in here, the dim light not reaching the shadowed corners.
And there are two men waiting for us.