“Good. That’s good then.” Relief filled me that Graham wouldn’t be on his own today.
“And Graham hates every second of it, which is frankly entertaining.”Quilliam’s tail swished.“Now stop worrying and help me with this research. I found something interesting in one of Hilda’s documents last night.”
I tore my gaze away from the pub window and joined him at the counter. “What kind of something?”
“A reference that might be of interest.”He nudged a photocopied page toward me with his snout.“Look. Third paragraph.”
I scanned the faded text, my heart rate picking up. The document was a letter, dated 1743, written in a cramped hand that was difficult to decipher.
“A Cailleach draws near. This could be catastrophic for Loren Brae.”
“It would be. If that was true,”Quilliam agreed.
“What’s a Cailleach?” I asked, worry slipping through me. The last thing I needed was another magickal being that I had to battle. I didn’t even know how to deal with the first ones we had inthe here and now.
“The veiled one. We don’t speak of her.”Quilliam glanced around as though he was being listened to.“She is all that is death and destruction.”
“Excuse me?” My voice went high.
“A divine hag. In some myths she is honored. In others, feared.”
“And in ours?” I swallowed.
“It’s not ideal, lass. I’m hopeful this is just a mistake.”
“Och, well, that’s just lovely, isn’t it then?” This was a new fear unlocked.
We spent the next hour poring over documents, Quilliam translating the more archaic passages while I took notes and tried to piece together a timeline. The morning rush came and went, a handful of customers browsing the shelves, a tourist asking for directions to the castle, Mrs. MacTavish popping in to gossip about who she’d seen leaving whose house at dawn. I handled them on autopilot, my mind elsewhere.
The curse. Always back to the curse.
Around eleven, my phone buzzed with a text from Lachlan.
Shift change complete. Ramsay’s got eyes on Graham. All quiet on the western front.
I typed back a thumbs up and tried to focus on the inventory spreadsheet I’d been avoiding for weeks. The numbers swam before my eyes. I couldn’t concentrate.
“You’re checking your phone again,”Quilliam observed.
“I can’t help it.” I sat back. “I feel like I’m trying to walk a tightrope or something. My nerves are on edge.”
“But what can you do? The curse isn’t going to send you a notification before it strikes. There’s no app for that.”
“How do you know about apps?” I asked, sidetracked.
“Literally my only job is to absorb knowledge.”Quilliam sighed and shook his wee head at me, clearly exasperated.
“Right. Well, I just—” I set the phone down with more force than necessary. “I have a bad feeling.”
“How is this any different from how you’ve felt all week?”
“I don’t know. It just is.”
“How?”Quilliam tilted his wee head at me and waited.
I couldn’t explain. It was just a sensation, deep in my gut. A wrongness that had settled into my bones and wouldn’t let go. It was like standing on a beach and feeling the tide start to pull at your ankles, sucking you out to sea.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It just is.”
