Chapter Three
Joey
What can I say? Scotland is amazing. I grew up on the streets of New York, where I was more likely to see a drunk vomiting on the sidewalk than to have cheerful people chatting with me. I'm not the most...friendly looking guy. Goatee, worn leather jacket, eyes that have seen too much---yeah, I'm that guy you probably cross the street to avoid. But here? These Highlanders don't seem to care that I resemble a hoodlum. They've probably never heard that word before.
"Halò, laddie! Care for a dram?" A burly man with a beard that could house small animals beckons me into a pub that looks older than most American cities.
"Uh, sure," I holler, uncertain of how to handle this unexpected kindness.
The bartender slides a tumbler of amber liquid across the worn wooden bar. I take a cautious sip, and the whisky burns down my throat in the best way. It's smoky, peaty, and unlike anything I've tasted before. I'm no slouch when it comes to knocking back a glass of hard liquor, but this stuff makes me cough. "That's some strong stuff. I like it."
"What brings ye to our wee corner of the world?" the bartender asks, his thick brogue making me strain to understand him.
I hesitate, unsure of how much I should reveal. So, I go with vagueness. "Just...exploring."
One thing I learned in foster homes was that a kid should never say too much. Though I'm not a child anymore, I can't seem to shake off the remnants of my past.
The bartender seems satisfied with my non-answer. "Aye, plenty to explore 'round these parts. Mind yerself in the hills after dark. Strange things happen when the mist rolls in."
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. "Strange things?"
He leans in closer, whispering to me. "Aye, laddie. The old ones say the veil between worlds grows thin in these parts. Some claim they've seen ghostly figures dancing in the mist or heard the wail of bagpipes when no piper was near."
I shake my head. "Come on. Ghosts and magical mist? You don't really believe in that shit, do you?"
The bartender's eyes narrow, and for a moment, I worry I've offended him. But then he breaks into a hearty laugh. "Believe? No, not me. But there are those who do, and who am I to say they're wrong?" He winks. "Besides, it's good for tourism."
"Uh-huh. That sounds more believable than ghosts."
The man sitting on the next stool over leans toward me, crooking a finger. "You would do well not to mock what ye dinnae understand, laddie. These lands are old, more ancient than ye can imagine. The magic here runs deep in the earth, in the stones, in the very air ye breathe."
I'm about to brush off his warning when a chill slithers down my spine. The pub suddenly feels colder, and the shadows in the corners seem to deepen. The other patrons have gone quiet, their eyes fixed on me with a strange intensity. I shift on my barstool, unable to get comfortable though I can't pinpoint why. Have I stepped into a Twilight Zone episode?
The burly man's intense gaze doesn't waver, and I find myself struggling to maintain my usual cocky demeanor.
Swallowing hard, I try to shake off that eerie feeling and give the thumbs-up sign to prove I'm not rattled. "Right, magic. Got it."
I take another swig of whisky, hoping it'll calm my nerves.
The burly man leans in closer, his breath hot on my ear. "Ye think ye're clever, don't ye? But mark my words, lad. The Highlands have a way of humbling even the most skeptical of souls."
A gust of wind howls outside, rattling the discolored windows. The flames in the fireplace flicker and dance, casting eerie shadows across the room that seem like they might spring to life at any second. I can't shake the feeling that something's changed, like the air itself has become charged with energy I can't explain.
The bartender slides another dram my way. "On the house, laddie. Ye might be needin' it."
I contemplate the whisky, wondering if these people plan on giving me a mickey. But then I shrug and knock it back in one gulp. The burn helps to ground me, pushing back the unsettling atmosphere in the pub. I slap a few Scottish notes on the bar, then rush out the door, letting it slam shut behind me.
As I head for my car, I notice a faint shimmer in the air, like heat rising from pavement on a scorching day. But it's chilly this evening, and the shimmer seems to be moving or...swirling around me like an invisible halo. That whisky must have marijuana in it. Do they even have that in Scotland? Doesn't matter. I'm suffering from jet lag and lack of sleep, that's all.
I rub my eyes and yawn as I reach for the car door. The second my fingers touch the handle, a jolt of static electricity zaps me. I yelp and jump back, massaging my hand. "What the hell? I need to get outta here before one of those crazy Scots kills me."
The shimmering in the air intensifies, swirling faster around me like a transparent cyclone. My heart thuds as I try to make sense of what's going on. This can't be real. It's just the whisky, the jet lag, the Scottish weed, my overactive imagination...
But then the ground beneath my feet begins to tremble. The world spins, colors blurring together like a kaleidoscope gone haywire. I stumble, trying to grab onto something, anything, to steady myself. But there's nothing solid left to grab onto anymore.
"Help!" I shout. My voice echoes like I'm inside the Grand Canyon, my cries distorted even to my own ears. "Somebody help me!"
The last thing I see before everything goes black is the fucking pub.
A cold hand smacks my face. "Wakey-wakey, macan . Did ye hit yer head?"
That voice. It's the bartender.
I push up into a sitting position, blinking swiftly. "Uh, I'm okay. Must've been jetlag or low blood sugar."
The bartender squints at me, a flicker of something---concern, or maybe suspicion---crossing his weathered features. "Aye, must've been."
His tone suggests he doesn't believe me for a second.
I glance around, still disoriented. I'm lying on the cold, damp ground outside the pub, but something's off. The air feels different, heavier somehow, and there's a strange scent I can't quite place. Woodsmoke, maybe? And something else, earthy and ancient.
As I struggle to stand up, the bartender gives me a hand. "I'm okay now, I swear. Just need a good night's sleep."
He lifts his brows but then turns to head back into the pub.
Since I hadn't booked a motel, I'll need to drive until I spot someplace. The map on my phone is malfunctioning, so it's no help. Just my luck, right? Or this might be divine my punishment for letting myself get sucked into the Zanetti crime family. I can't even find a freaking gas station. Next, Rod Serling will appear in the passenger seat to tell me I've driven into The Twilight Zone .
When I start to veer toward the ditch alongside the road, I realize I must find a motel---now. But I have no idea how to find one in the dark. All I can do is pull over, curl up in the backseat, and try to catch some z's. Amazingly, I do fall asleep. In the morning, I stop at a gas station to clean myself up as best I can in the bathroom.
But as I'm climbing back into the rental car, I notice a piece of paper lying on the floor on the passenger side. When I pick it up, I realize it's an advertisement for that castle---Dùndubhan. As I stare at the flyer, my hands shake slightly. How the hell did that paper get inside my car? Maybe somebody from the bar slipped it in there while I was having a weird conversation with a Scottish bartender.
This is all too weird, and I'm too tired to think about...anything. I should find a motel and get some sleep. But my eyes keep gravitating to the flyer.
Screw it . I need answers, and the castle seems like as good a place as any to start searching. I fire up the rental car and pull out onto the narrow road, following the vague directions on the flyer. As I drive, the landscape grows wilder, more rugged, and yet beautiful too. The paved road gives way to a dirt track, winding its way through misty glens and over craggy hills.
Finally, I round a bend---and there it is. Dùndubhan.
I park in the designated grassy area behind the castle. A cheerful young woman with a Scottish accent tells me to follow the signs that will lead me to the main entrance where I can sign up for a tour or look around on my own. I choose the solo option, unsure of what the hell I'm doing here. After a quick perusal of the ground floor hallway, where I find nothing of interest to a petty thief like me, I head up to the great hall on the first floor. That's boring too, so I climb the stairs up to the third level---which is, apparently, the second floor. Weird. Scots don't know how to name things properly.
At last, I reach the long gallery, where I'm surrounded by artifacts from various periods that line every wall, and the middle of the room too. Every relic rests inside a glass case and has a sign explaining its importance. My thievery has always been centered around jewelry and other trinkets. Here, I discover historical treasures from the medieval world, most of which were found on the castle grounds. Yeah, this stuff is way outside my wheelhouse. But I browse the old junk anyway.
My attention stalls at a glass case that houses a big sword, though I'm not sure why. I study it intently, reading the words engraved on a placard: "The claymore belonging to Ciaran Amhlaigh mac in tSagairt (Kieran Aulay MacTaggart), the last laird of Dùndubhan."
As I lean in to examine the sword more closely, a strange sensation shivers through me. The glass case seems to shimmer and distort, like heat waves rising from hot pavement. It's too much like what happened last night, but all I can do is squeeze my eyes shut until the craziness passes. But my head starts to spin, and I stumble backwards, trying to shake off the dizziness.
"Look out!" a woman shouts. "He's coming for you!"
Before I can understand what's happening, a large body tackles me to the ground. A rough voice snarls, "Gotcha, Joey boy. Did you really think you'd get away from us?"
"Fulvio? What the hell?"
He hoists me off the floor, grinning like the maniac he is.
I struggle against Fulvio's iron grip, my mind reeling. How the fuck did he find me here? In this castle? In the long gallery?
"Let go of me, you stupid gorilla!" I shout, twisting and kicking with every ounce of strength I have. "Somebody call the cops!"
Fulvio just laughs, a cold, mirthless sound. "Not a chance, Joey boy. The boss wants a word with you."
I'm about to tell him exactly where he can shove his threats when suddenly, the air begins to shimmer and warp. Not again. But something's different this time. The walls of the castle seem to ripple and fade, replaced by swirling mist.
Fulvio's grip on me loosens as he gawks at the surroundings as if he's completely dumbfounded. "What the fuck is going on? How are you doing this?"
He shakes me again, but his grip isn't as ironclad now. For a moment, he just stands there, completely flummoxed.
And he loses his grip on me.
I seize my chance, wrenching free and stumbling backward. My hand brushes against the glass case holding the ancient sword. With a blinding flash of light, the glass case shatters. Shards litter the floor and tourists flee, ignoring the glass shards on the floor that crunch beneath their feet. Without thinking, I grab the sword, its weight unfamiliar yet somehow right in my hand.
Fulvio lunges at me, his face contorted with rage. "You little shit!"
I swing the sword wildly, more out of instinct than skill. To my shock, the blade connects with Fulvio's arm, slicing into his flesh and drawing blood. He howls in pain, stumbling backward. The mist around us thickens, swirling faster and faster, on the verge of becoming a miniature hurricane. I can barely see Fulvio now. He's just a dark shape in the fog. The floor beneath our feet seems to shift and tilt wildly.
"What the hell did you do?" Fulvio shouts, his voice sharp with fear.
Before I can answer, a deafening roar fills the long gallery. The mist parts briefly, and I catch a glimpse of something impossible. A vast, swirling vortex of energy, pulsing with an otherworldly light. It's creepier than what happened to me last night, and it's like nothing I've ever seen before. The supernatural whatsit grows larger by the second, and soon, I might not be able to escape. I need to get out of here. Now.
But it's too late. The vortex expands rapidly, engulfing me while Fulvio's form recedes from my view. The sword falls out of my hands, clattering to the floor, as I feel myself being lifted off my feet, spinning wildly through the air. Then I feel the sword's hilt clutched tightly in my hand again and glance down at it. The metal is glowing with an eerie blue light. Fulvio's screams fade into the distance as we're pulled apart by the force of the vortex.
The world around me becomes a blur of color and sound. I can't tell which way is up or down. My stomach lurches as I'm thrown through the air, spinning wildly, my limbs flailing like I'm a ragdoll. The sword vibrates in my hand, pulsing with that eerie blue light. Just when I think I'm going to be sick from the dizzying motion, everything stops.
I crash into deep, dark waters and plummet down, down, down with no way to escape my fate. Yet somehow, my fall was cushioned by something...inexplicable. But I have a worse problem than how I got here and why I'm not dead.
Because I can't swim.