The Elemental (Blair Dubh Trilogy #1) Read online

  A series of images ran through her head; her eleven year old self walking up the very same hill, the wind whipping her hair about her face. She called out for her mum but her voice was lost on the breeze. Although it had been the height of summer the wind had still been strong, the elements constantly throwing their weight around Blair Dubh. The figure in the churchyard straightened up and peered down at her, his black clothes flapping about in the gale, giving him the appearance of a giant bat. He’d been digging, or to be more precise, shovelling earth on top of something…

  “Freya.”

  She groaned inwardly, she didn’t want an interruption now, not when she was so close to finally fulfilling her goal. Freya turned to look back down the road and her first instinct was to leg it when she saw a police officer approaching in the all-black uniform of the Strathclyde Police. Then she took in the dark hair and soft grey eyes and realised it was her old friend, Craig Donaldson. As he jogged up the road towards her she couldn’t help but back up a couple of steps.

  “Freya, it is you,” he smiled. “If Catriona hadn’t told me you were back I wouldn’t have recognised you.”

  She had to own he’d aged well, but he’d always been a good looking boy. He was tall and athletic, eyes clear and sharp, the picture of health, unlike herself. When he moved to hug her she went rigid and bristled against him. Sensing this he took a step back and lowered his arms, appearing just as embarrassed as Catriona had. “Sorry, I suppose we don’t know each other anymore.”

  For a fleeting moment he looked so like the boy she used to know, but she couldn’t get past the uniform. “Hello Sergeant Donaldson,” she said, careful to keep her voice moderate, giving nothing away.

  “Yeah, they were mad enough to give me stripes,” he grinned.

  Freya’s expression softened. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

  His pain was still raw, she saw it in his eyes. “Thanks,” he mumbled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black combat trousers and staring at the ground. When he looked up he was once again in control. “So what brings you back here?”

  “Hasn’t Catriona already told you?”

  “She was a bit vague.”

  “I only want to see the old place again.”

  Craig noted her accent had lost its Ayrshire gentleness, replaced by the harsher Glaswegian and her words came out hard. He looked up the hill towards the churchyard. “Are you going up there?”

  “No,” she snapped.

  “I’d be happy to go with you, if you need some company?”

  Freya tried to equate the uniformed officer standing before her with her old friend but she couldn’t. All she wanted to do was follow what her instinct was screaming at her to do. Get away from him.

  “Or you could come back to Mum’s for a coffee?” he offered. “I know she’d love to catch up with you.”

  “No thanks, I’ve got plans,” she said before hurrying past him back down the hill to her cottage. She pulled the key out of her pocket, opened the front door and went inside.

  Craig watched her go, no doubt in his mind that she was locking that door up tight against him and it pained him. When he’d heard she was back he’d been so excited. Blair Dubh had never been the same after she’d gone, but it seemed the clothes he wore had thrown up a barrier between them. He surmised Freya Macalister had had plenty of dealings with the Police in the past. Craig was torn. He could easily do a background check and get all the details, but if she found out he’d only alienate her further. If he gave her a bit of time then hopefully she would open up to him.

  His mother’s house was one of the pretty whitewashed cottages just past Freya’s holiday let and he strolled back down the road towards it, the dampness in the air chilling him through to the bone.

  “Just me,” he called as he entered, pulling off his boots and leaving them in the porch.

  His mother, a petite but robust woman with short dark hair and freckles, emerged from the sitting room. “Well, what did Freya say?”

  “Nothing much.”

  Nora frowned. “After all these years I thought she’d be over the moon to see you.”

  “When I found her she was looking up at the churchyard, she seemed upset.”

  She nodded sympathetically. “Yes, of course she would be upset. Did she go up there?”

  “No, I think I interrupted before she plucked up the courage.”

  “You numpty, no wonder she was off with you.”

  “Probably.” But Craig knew there was more to it than that.

  “I can’t believe that woman used to be that beautiful little blond child. I don’t mean to be cruel but why those clothes and all that black make-up? What’s she done to her lovely hair?”

  “After what she went through it’s not surprising she likes the doom and gloom look.” Although he didn’t say it, Craig had found the effect of those dazzling green eyes surrounded by the dark make-up rather stunning. She’d cut quite the dramatic figure with her black hair blowing about her pale face and skin damp with sea spray, looking dark and tragic on a wind-blasted hilltop.

  Nora appeared a little contrite. “Yes, I suppose. None of us will ever get over what happened to poor Rose.”

  He nodded in agreement. “If you see her make an appearance, give me a shout.”

  “You’ve been on nights, you need to rest.”

  “I’ll cope.”

  “I hope she’s worth going to so much effort for.”

  “Course she is, she’s Freya.”

  “Don’t be daft, course she’s not Freya. That girl died the day her mother was murdered.”

  “Aye, maybe but she was my best friend once and I’ll never forget that.”

  Freya’s fragile stability had been disturbed by her conversation with Craig so she hid away in her cottage for the rest of the day, pretending she wasn’t in when there was a knock at the door, or six knocks to be precise. She could see who was at the door through the reflection in the mirror hanging over the fireplace. Although none of them were Craig they were all faces from the past, faces she had no wish to see or speak to again because they had let her down.

  She hadn’t thought her homecoming would be like this. Since she’d started planning this trip she’d assumed no one would recognise her or they would be so freaked out by her appearance that they’d leave her alone, but she’d forgotten about the legendary Blair Dubh hospitality. Now she was trapped with people coming to the door non-stop, unable to find the courage to face the churchyard and she felt trapped. The thought of the pub just up the road with its enticing array of bottles was very appealing. Just one whisky would settle her nerves wonderfully and fill her with that warm, soothing confidence. She could face going up that hill with a nice dram inside her.

  “No,” she said to herself before walking into the kitchen and making a hot chocolate.

  As she waited for the kettle to boil she took her counsellor’s advice and made a decision that she was determined to stick to. She would stay until she’d face the past and hopefully it wouldn’t obliterate her completely.

  “Craig. Craig you deaf numpty, she’s on the move.”

  Craig’s head snapped up and blearily he rubbed his eyes, wondering what his mum was talking about. “Who’s on the move?” Realisation struck and his eyes flew open. “Freya.”

  Jumping out of bed he pulled on blue jeans and a thick jumper, nearly falling over as he hopped about the room in an attempt to pull on his socks while standing up. Finally he was fully clothed and he hurried downstairs and rushed to the window. “Where is she?”

  “Away up the road, like I said. You can’t see her from here,” said Nora. “Why are you so worried anyway? You haven’t seen her since you were wee.”

  “Because I tried to help her and I couldn’t,” he replied, his eyes never leaving the window. “That fat horrible woman was dragging her away from her home and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. The guilt’s haunted me for years.”

  Nora stared at her son as though he
’d sprouted a second head. “You should have mentioned this before. Fifteen years and not one word.”

  “No one wanted to talk about it. We all felt guilty for not intervening.”

  “Don’t start dragging all that up again, do you hear me? You’ll only reopen old wounds.”

  “I bet they were opened the moment Freya returned,” he replied grimly before disappearing out the door.

  Freya fully intended to go to the churchyard but once again her courage failed and she found herself heading towards the castle instead. This monolith had given the village its name, named after Black Blair, the Lord who built it in the fifteenth century. It was said he dabbled in witchcraft and unleashed The Elemental, a dark demonic creature with the body of an animal and a human face, eyes nothing but black holes, the stench of rotting flesh announcing its presence. The castle had been a ruin since the last Earl was executed in the seventeenth century for treason and was a huge sprawling complex, large sections of the roof fallen through. The main keep was still intact, peppered with small square windows. It had a prison as well as an oubliette - a deep dark pit sunk into the earth, the only exit a hole in the ceiling too high for the prisoners to reach, rendering escape impossible. When she was a kid she and Craig had come up here to play, scampering about the ancient fallen stones, daring each other to summon The Elemental. Now scaffolding supported the most unstable sections of the building, barriers proclaiming no access blocking off some of her favourite hidey holes. Judging by the signs, it had been taken over by a charity who were maintaining it and charging for entry, a board erected by a white portakabin displaying a list of tariffs. This time of year it was closed to tourists and didn’t open again until March.

  The mesh gates and padlocks proved no obstacle to Freya, who’d broken into places with much tighter security. After easily vaulting over one of the barriers she strolled about inside, sheltering against the gathering wind. Gazing down at the water below she saw the waves smash against the shore, sending a spray of water several feet into the air. The inevitable storm was getting closer, so near it felt like a tangible thing that she could reach out and touch. Her mother always said she must have a bit of the witch in her. All her memories of her mother, even the warmest and most treasured, were tainted by pain and the sheer horror of her death.

  “You do know you’re trespassing?” called a voice.

  Freya’s head snapped up, eyes blazing with wrath at this intrusion. Craig was standing on the other side of the barrier looking through the mesh at her. Even though he wasn’t in uniform she still stared back at him defiantly.

  “Are you going to arrest me then?” she called back.

  He appeared to consider it. “I should but I’m off duty.” With that he vaulted over the fence and landed before her with an easy grace. Freya took a few steps back, eyes fixed on him, as though fearing a trick.

  “You don’t need to look like that,” he said, having to raise his voice to be heard over the wind. “I’m not your enemy.”

  “You’re the Polis,” she replied in a tone that indicated he was.

  “It’s my day off.”

  “People like you never have days off.”

  “We could stand here all day arguing about it or we could do the sensible thing and get out of this wind,” he said, walking past her into one of the castle outbuildings that used to be the bakehouse, now tumbledown but at least the roof was intact. He plonked himself down on the ground, back against the wall, pulling his knees into his chest to keep warm.

  Freya’s heart melted slightly. He’d sat exactly the same way when he was a boy and she relaxed a little.

  “Well, are you joining me or are you going to stand there getting cold?” he said.

  After a brief hesitation she went to sit beside him, leaving a three foot gap between them, which he decided not to mention.

  “We had some laughs up here, didn’t we?” he began.

  She just nodded, although he saw the smile in her eyes.

  “We knew this place better than anyone,” he continued undaunted. “Remember when we used to run up here when my mum wanted to give me another haircut with the dreaded bowl?”

  Freya’s smile reached her lips slightly but only briefly.

  “I looked like one of The Beatles until I was fifteen.”

  Another gentle smile that quickly evaporated.

  “Why did you never write or visit?”

  Her expression became positively hostile. “Why should I?”

  “Because we missed you and we were worried about you.”

  She gave a derisive laugh. “Yeah, you all looked so worried when that bitch was dragging me away.”

  “I tried to help you Freya, I really did,” he said, eyes wide and earnest.

  “I know you did,” she said more gently. “You were the only one.”

  “No one else could do anything either. It was out of their hands. Your nearest relatives were in Glasgow.”

  “You mean no one here was willing to take me in. If they had then my uncle would have been willing to relinquish custody of me to them, he told me often enough. He and my aunt never wanted me.”

  Craig was surprised by how detached her voice sounded, but he knew from experience that it was just a front to prevent any real emotion getting through. “I didn’t know. Did they treat you badly?”

  Freya stared at the ground refusing to answer, but her silence told him everything he needed to know.

  “So, do you think a storm’s coming?” he said, thinking it wise to change the subject.

  Freya was relieved. “Definitely and soon, a day at the most.”

  “You can still tell after so long away?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Blair Dubh’s in your blood. They took you out of it but they couldn’t take it out of you.”

  “Hopefully I’ll be gone before it breaks.”

  “So soon?” he said, disappointed.

  “This isn’t fun for me.”

  “Then why are you here? To face the past?”

  “It’s none of your business,” she said sullenly.

  “Freya, it’s me you’re talking to.”

  She looked at him, his grey eyes soft. Her best friend, the best she ever had.

  “I know,” she sighed. “I’m sorry but I’m all over the place at the moment and I’ve got used to doing everything alone.”

  “You’re home now, you don’t need to be alone anymore.”

  She actually smiled at him. “Thanks.”

  He watched as her hand clad in black leather reached out to him. She hesitated, drawing it back to herself, uncertainty in her eyes.

  “Oh for God’s sake, come here,” he said, tucking her hand into his.

  Her grip on his hand tightened momentarily and he sensed her entire body tense then she took a deep breath and relaxed.

  He regarded her with concern. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine.”

  He decided not to push it, they were making progress.

  “Do you want to tackle the churchyard now while I’m here and before the storm breaks?” Her grip on his hand tightened again. “You’re safe, Father Logan can’t hurt you anymore.”

  “Don’t call him Father, he doesn’t deserve that title. That belongs to a good man, a man of God, and Logan was evil.”

  “Sorry, you’re right. But once you’re up there you’ll see there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Okay. I really want to see my mum’s grave. I feel so guilty for not visiting it before.”

  “Let’s go.”

  The wind picked up even more as they climbed the hill towards the church and she was glad she’d tied her hair back into a ponytail, it had taken her ages to comb out the knots last night. As they walked she kept her head bowed so she couldn’t see the church looming over her, terrified of seeing the monster who haunted her dreams swathed in black, digging.

  “Wait,” she said breathlessly.

  “What is it?”

  “I…I
can’t go without some flowers to put on the grave.”

  “We can pick some in the woods,” he said, gesturing to the dense gathering of trees to their right.

  Freya knew she was only delaying the inevitable and she had the feeling Craig knew it too but she needed just a little more time to fortify herself. Her heart thudded so hard it felt like it could jump into her mouth and her knees were spongy. She stumbled over a tree root as they entered the wood and Craig’s arm went around her waist to steady her. Her head snapped up, green eyes fixed on him and he expected her to push him away but instead she gave him a grateful smile and held onto his arm.

  Craig himself felt a little shaky, there was something so fascinating about those sparkling green eyes. Oh Christ don’t go there, he groaned inwardly. His last girlfriend had been a complete nightmare and the last thing he needed was another relationship so soon.

  “There aren’t any bluebells,” she said, eyes scanning the darkened interior of the wood. It was calmer in here, sheltered from the wind and damp but best of all, it blocked all view of the churchyard.

  “Well we can’t stand here waiting for spring to come. Those snowdrops will have to do.”

  “Isn’t it illegal to pick a snowdrop?”

  “I won’t tell if you won’t,” he grinned.

  Once again she smiled in response. That grin of his was irresistible. Reverently she gathered a small posy and, clutching them tightly in one hand, she took the arm he offered her and they walked back out of the woods together.

  “Oh God,” she whispered when they emerged from the shelter of the trees, the churchyard laid out before her.

  “It’s alright, nothing can hurt you here. The dead are safer to be around than the living, believe me.”