Chapter Sixteen
In which this awkward wedding day goes from weird to weirder.
Scarlett…
I cannot understand Wallace.
The same man who shoved me up against the door of the meeting room and essentially terrified me into marrying him is now also the man who kissed my hand when I started spiraling and carried me in here.
When he walked back out of the door, it looked like it cost him something to leave. He did leave though, and I’m standing alone in the middle of a wildly Gothic bedroom with an overnight bag I didn’t pack sitting on a bed so high that it requires a stepstool to get to it.
Climbing up onto the Mt. Everest of mattresses, I do the only logical thing. I call Morgan.
She picks up on the first ring. “Are you dead? What’s happening?”
"Wouldn't it be kind of hard to call you if I was dead?”
“You’d be surprised,” she says. “But moving on. All I got was a text from you this morning, telling me that you were safe. I’ve been casting spells all day, trying to find you.”
“How would casting a spell- Never mind.” I shake my head. “I’m okay. Do you want the good news or the bad news because I’m a little wobbly right now.”
“Start with the bad,” she says firmly. “We’re New Englanders. We like bad news. It builds character.”
“I’m married.”
Pulling the phone away from my ear, I wait until the barrage of expletives has slowed down. “What the actual fuck is happening?” Morgan shrieks.
“That was exactly what I said. Wallace lured me into The Witchery by the Castle-”
“Okay, I’m beginning to wish he’d kidnapped me,” she says, “because you know I’d stab anyone but you to stay at that place.”
“He hustled me into a room and a government-type guy was standing there, looking pretty unhappy about it and Wallace had the audacity to announce that we were getting married.”
“Oh, that fire-setting son of a bitch, tell me this gets better,” she snarls. I can hear her clanging and crashing around and another curse. It sounds like she dropped her cauldron on her foot.
“Maybe you should sit down, honey.” I settle back against the pillows, staring at the bits and pieces of Edinburgh’s night sky that I can see from the stained-glass windows.
She’s humming some kind of incantation and I wait until she’s finished. “Go on.”
“It gets worse,” I admit, wishing Murder Mittens was here, a comforting weight on my lap. I tell her about why I went through with it. That Kyle and Marlena were looking for me, how he’d tried to sell me off to the Russian, how monstrous the Kholodov Bratva is.
“And that stupid bastard Kyle thought he’d moved up to the big leagues,” she finishes bitterly. “So where does Wallace stand in all this?”
Slipping off the bed in the most ungainly possible way, I walk over to the sideboard, where there’s yet another ice bucket offering champagne.
Tucking my phone under my chin, I open it.
“Wallace said that if I married him, both sides of his family - the MacTavishes and the Taylors - would protect me.”
“Bookended by two mafias, that’s not bad,” she agrees grudgingly.
“So, you think this is a good idea?” I drink straight from the bottle. Why dirty a glass?
“Of course not. It’s reprehensible. It’s outrageous that he lured you into marrying him with threats and intimidation, the manipulative prick.”
I want to defend Wallace, point out that he hasn’t asked for anything from me.
“However, he’s right,” she sighs. “You can’t run fast or far enough if the Kholodov Bratva is after you, too.” There’s silence for a moment, and I hear the clatter of her bone tiles as she throws them across her tabletop.
“Divination? You must be worried,” I joke weakly.
“Ah, it’s all chaos right now,” she frets, sorting through the tiles. “What else has happened?”
“Right before I said ‘I do,’ I made Wallace promise me something.”
“Really? This should be good.”
“He promised to find out what really happened to-” I stop, choking down a sob. The memory of my father’s bloody face, blank-eyed as I clung to him, begging him to stay with me… “To Dad. That he’d find proof so I would know who took out the hit on us.”
“I hate to say this because you are there and I am not with you, but this is the best thing,” she says fervently. “If anyone could find out what really happened, it’s the MacTavishes. Now, I cast the tiles, do you want to know what I see?”
After taking another swig of the champagne, I sneeze and say, “Hit me.”
“The Moon is first…” I can picture it so vividly, Morgan at her velvet-covered table in the corner of the spellshop, her long, black fingernails tapping on the tiles.
A bolt of homesickness hits me and I take two huge swallows.
“Hidden information - no shit, Sherlock - secrets meant to be shared. From you too, by the way. You and Wallace both have some stories to tell each other.”
My back itches and throbs. “What’s next?”
“Ah, The Rings, partnership, harmony. This is a good omen, your union was made at the right time. Wallace was smart not to wait.”
“Why?” I eye the bottle and set it down on the bedside table. Getting hammered seems like a bad idea right now, as much as I’d like to.
“Because the next tile is The Black Wave. This is a bad one. Overwhelming force, cruelty, greed, deception. They’re already looking for you.”
“How do you know? Wait.” My heart skips in my chest. “They haven’t harassed you, have they?”
“Please,” Morgan snorts. “They sent Steve, that pretentious little douchebag. He strutted around the shop, saying that they knew you’d been here and demanding to know where you’ve gone.”
“I am so sorry-”
“Stop,” she says sternly. “If they really thought that I’d helped you, Kyle would have come stomping in with his beef-brain guards, waving his gun around like an asshole. It was just a fishing expedition. There was one creeper though…”
“A creeper? What happened?”
“This guy came into the shop last night,” she says. “He looked normal, you know? A good suit, standard white guy. But he was creepy as fuck. He kept touching everything, fondling the voodoo dolls… a real charmer.”
“Did he threaten you?” I lift the bottle to my lips and take two huge swallows.
“No. He said that we had a mutual acquaintance who shops here, so he was eager to explore the shop. Something about the way he said ‘acquaintance’ made me want to light the mother of all sage sticks and cleanse the store. And my ears.
“He didn’t say anything after that, thank the Goddess.
You know how customers get when they’re nervous and they start chattering, he just smiled and touched things.
I finally told him it was closing time and he bought three of the voodoo fetish dolls and left.
You know nothing unnerves me, but… he left a spiritual blight behind.
I had to use three bundles of rosemary and my entire supply of mugwort to clear the place out. ”
"Morgan honey, I’m worried about having you there alone if there’s fallout.”
She laughs heartlessly. “You know I’m the last person you need to be worried about. I cast a jock itch spell on Steve before he left. He’ll be scratching his balls right now like a hound dog covered in mites.”
“Why am I both happy about that and also vaguely nauseous right now?” I ask.
“Because I paint such a vivid picture,” she cackles. “Now, let me finish the reading. Daggers, parallel, each threatening the other. You have protection and strength on your side…” She’s silent for a moment. “The Reaper tile.”
“Death,” I say numbly. “Whose?”
“That’s not clear. Here’s your final tile…”
“What? What do you see?” I grab the champagne bottle again.
“An angel,” she says quietly. “Falling from heaven. His wings are on fire, flames flaring from the tip of the feathers, turning them black. You’re right where you need to be, my girl.”
My heart feels funny, like it’s trying to turn sideways in my chest and wiggle out. Morgan’s readings are never wrong, not mine, anyway.
Wallace, a guardian angel. If she sees him falling, wings aflame and turning black, does that mean I’m responsible for his death?
“Maybe I should run, Morgan, take Murder Mittens and get out of here. It’s not right. Wallace doesn’t deserve to die after trying to keep me safe.”
“The tiles can mean many things,” she says sharply. “There’s death here, and lots of it, unfortunately. But nothing I see means your end, or his. Don’t panic. You need to listen to me. This is not the time to run. Be smart. Stay alert. Do you hear me?”
“I do.” My skin’s twitching, I feel like ants are scuttling all over me.
“Take a breath in.” Her firm voice brings me back.
Sucking in as much air as my lungs can hold, I count to five in my head, then let it out slowly.
“Better?”
“Yes,” I croak, mostly meaning it.
After I tell her about our unsettling yet deeply satisfying walk through the South Bridge vaults and she’s demanded every detail, we say goodnight.
“Scarlett?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t take that necklace off. Ever.” If I didn’t know that nothing scared Morgan, I would think that was fear in her voice.
“I won’t, I promise. Thank you. For everything.”
“You’re my person, Scarlett. You know that.” I must have sniffled, because she snaps, “You’re getting emotional, aren’t you? I’m hanging up.”
It might be a sob or a laugh, but I manage a wet-sounding, “Goodnight, I love you,” before she ends the call.
Reluctantly, I put down my shiny new phone and look around. The room is so quiet. All the heavy drapes muffle the sound from the street outside, and it feels oppressive.
I take a bath in the elaborate tub with more ornate knobs and levers than I know what to do with.
I use a very modern blow dryer to style my hair and change into a nice silk sleep set.
I pace the bedroom, counting the steps from the bathroom to the door to the window and back. I look at the grandfather clock in the corner. It’s only midnight?
There’s a tremendous, thundering round of knocking on the suite’s front door and I let out a shriek that makes the china rattle on the sideboard.
“Scarlett! Are ye okay?”
The poor door has survived centuries of hotel guests, but it explodes from its frame with a thunderous crash, kicked in by a man who could be Wallace’s brother. He’s huge, green eyes blazing, and his dark hair’s sticking up like he was electrocuted.
“What’s happened? Are ye hurt? Who’s here?” He’s got his gun out, stalking around the room.
“No one’s here but me! Why did you kick down the door?” I screech.
“Ach, that.” He tucks his gun in the waistband of his jeans and lifts the door back into the splintered frame. “I’ll have someone in to fix that by morning.”
If I had pearls, I’d be clutching them right now. “Excuse me, but who are you?”
“He’s Logan MacTavish, Wallace’s cousin and a complete arsehole.” Another enormous man steps into the room, setting the door carefully against the wall, examining the busted lock. “I’m this bampot’s brother, Kai.” He’s broad chested, covered in tattoos, dark hair and green eyes like his brother’s.
“Okay. Ordinarily, I’d be screaming my lungs out when a random dude kicks my door in.
” I let out a half-hysterical giggle. “But it’s depressingly clear that you are Wallace’s cousins.
The MacTavish DNA with you people, it’s alarmingly dominant.
” They’re standing together like two towering redwoods.
“Your DNA overpowers all the other poor little DNAs, doesn’t it?
Beats them up and steals their lunch money. ” Yeah, I might be losing it.
They smile at me amiably, as if all MacTavish social calls begin by kicking the door down and bursting into the room with their gun drawn.
“Um… what are you doing here?” I ask.
“Oh, we’re here to watch over ye until Wallace is back,” Logan says cheerfully. “Let’s check the bar and see what you’ve got here, aye? Room service should be here soon with one of everything on the menu because I, for one, am fecking starving.”
“First, can ye do us a favor, lass?” Kai’s steadfastly looking in any direction but mine. He slaps Logan on the back of the head and he looks away, too. “Could ye go put something on that covers ye? Head to toe? A snowsuit, if ye have it?”
“Uh…” I look down at my camisole and sleep pants set. It’s hardly revealing. “Yeah, I’ll go put on a sweater.”
“Thank ye, lass,” Kai says gratefully. “Wallace will gouge our eyes out with a soup spoon if he finds out we saw ye in that.”
“What, seriously?” I try to catch his gaze.
“Ach! Go put something on! I want to live!” Logan snaps.
These almost offensively gargantuan men are genuinely scared that Wallace might find out they saw me in a camisole?
Good lord.
“Go check the bar,” I sigh, “I’ll go see if there’s a hazmat suit or something I can change into.”
Bampot - Scottish slang for an extremely stupid or irritating person