'Blood Lines' the second book in the Brodie McLennan series, was published in early summer 2008.  As with all of these early views, sometimes the version you see here or on www.lindawatsonbrown.co.uk is my own final draft which may be tweaked as it goes through the final editing and proofing process. 

BLOOD LINES

by Grace Monroe

Prologue

 

Ruthven Barracks

August 2005

 

The Jacobite ruin stands high in the evening mist.

Ruthven Barracks, set on a mound in the Scottish

Highlands, echoes with ghosts and lovers’ tales. The

settlement which had existed there for over a thousand

years is long gone, but the rumours of betrayal and obsession are as fresh as if whispered yesterday. Alisdair Mormac an Righ once made his home here, but few round

these parts referred to him by that name then and nor

do they do so now. One of the blackest bastards ever to

walk through Scotland’s history, the son of King Robert

II lived in barbarous times – times which he, the Wolf

of Badenoch, made darker and more murderous every

day he lived.

 

Now the earth which the Wolf walked is hard from

the constant tramp of tourist feet. The day-buses and

walking tours have long gone as the low evening clouds

scurry past the moon. It is almost midnight, but it is as

bright as day underneath the startling Scottish night sky.

 

The lovers walk up the steep gravel path from the roadside

and, hand-in-hand, enter the stony ruins. They sit

down amongst the ancient stones, their heavy voices

echoing with lust – and revenge.

 

A hip flask is taken from the backpack of its owner.

It is handed to the other, who fingers it anxiously,

thinking of past indiscretions.

 

‘Take the whisky and seal the deal,’ come the words

as the dark fluid is thrown down a throat parched from

the wanting. The breath of the lovers is sweet in the

night air. They search for words, for an appropriate toast

to what they feel for each other. Both seem content to

drink in the surroundings and the presence of the other

alongside the liquid from the pure waters of the nearby

distillery.

 

This is a betrothal.

A consummation.

 

The reverberations of words exchanged and vows

underscored will last beyond this night.

 

The Earl of Badenoch had ruled these lands in a cruel

way – always taking more than he was entitled to, yet

never satisfying himself. He knew the meaning of

betrayal; he knew the cost of love. When he deserted his

wife for his mistress, the Church ruled against him –

and entire towns paid the cost. The Wolf sought revenge

in an orgy of ransacking, burning and murder, eventually

offering superficial repentance in order to win his

way back into society.

 

But he, more than most, knew that what lies on the

surface matters nothing compared to what lurks beneath.

Legend interrupts fact with the Earl’s story at this

point and says that his final visit to Ruthven was for an

infamous chess battle to the death – with the Devil. As

the Devil called ‘checkmate’, a terrible storm of thunder,

hail and lightning surrounded the place. In the silence

of the morning, all of the Wolf ’s men were found blackened

and dead outside the castle walls, with their master

discovered lifeless in the banqueting hall, unmarked but

with the nails from his boots ripped out. The Devil had

won yet again – as the Wolf had always known he would.

‘Don’t you want me?’ comes the voice from the seated

woman, who raises the hip flask to her lips once more

as soon as she has whimpered the words.

 

‘Don’t you want me?’ she asks again, her craving for

love more overwhelming than the feeling of fear which

batters these walls. The betrothal is not going as planned.

Where are the dual commitments? Where are the

exchanged vows of lifelong adoration? As the woman

reaches out to touch the face of her beloved, she also

raises the pewter flask above her head as a sign of dedication.

Her voice echoes around the ancient stones,

joining the many pledges made there over the centuries.

‘Join me,’ she says, but her words do not invite, they

beg.

 

‘May the hinges of our friendship never rust, nor the

wings of our love lose a feather,’ she continues, trying

to ignore the silence of her beloved. ‘Slainte.’

 

The whisky warms her heart as she takes another sip.

Warms her heart more than the presence of the one she

loves. As it trickles down her throat, the taste awakes

demons. It dribbles down her chin as she tries to wipe

it away with the back of her hand. Her co-ordination is

all wrong – has her old friend affected her so quickly?

 

She drinks more, but the dribbles increase, and the

woman looks to her love for help.

The words that reach her do not comfort.

‘You greedy bitch. I should have known. That whisky

was the one thing I needed to rely on – and the one

thing I couldn’t control. You didn’t disappoint me, did

you? You just had to drink it, you just had to take what

you wanted, just like you always do.’

The woman beseeches her lover with her eyes. Why

is there such cruelty in the words? Why is there such

hatred in the face of the one she worships?

‘My legs aren’t working properly. Help me.’

Even to her own ears, the words sound slurred as she

falls heavily to the ground. The woman’s tights rip on

the rough stony hillside of the barrack floor, but her

darling moves towards her, bringing hope. Her arms are

pulled together above her head and held there as she is

dragged still further. There is no help, there is no hope.

The soldiers’ latrines await her as she is hauled round

a corner.

 

‘This is for you,’ whispers her darling into her ear.

The woman fleetingly thinks of love, of surprises

prepared by the keeper of her spirit. As she is thrown

into the hard-packed six-foot trench, lovingly dug just

for her, her hopes are dashed and her heart knows that

it has been betrayed. Silently she screams, incapable of

making a sound.

 

‘If I’d known you were so fond of the taste of sodium

pentathol, I’d have tried it years ago,’ come the words,

but the woman is too busy watching what is happening

to pay attention to the one-sided conversation. Her lover

has picked up the spade resting on the rough stone wall

and starts to dig afresh.

 

‘Normally it’s injected – but I find needles really . . .

unpleasant . . .’

 

The pile of earth is considerable now. It has also

managed to change the channel into something else.

With the presence of the woman within, it is no longer

a trench.

 

It is a grave.

 

Such alchemy.

 

The legs and the arms of the woman are useless. They

are drugged into stillness, numbed into inefficiency, but

it is the loss of love which immobilises her totally. The

voice she once adored now drones on as the owner of

it continues to dig.

 

‘Truth serum. That’s what most people know it as.

Isn’t that funny? Isn’t that ironic? I couldn’t be less interested

in your truths, my darling. I’ve had to put up with

them for long enough. I think it’s much more worthy

of reflection that this stuff is also used in executions.’

 

The face of the woman manages to contort with fear

– no mean feat given the amount of paralysing drug she

has willingly swallowed.

 

‘You betrayed me. You put your truths before everything.

Before me. Before our love. Do you know what

that does to someone? To me?’

She cannot answer, she cannot plead for her life or

use her words to escape the fate she knows is awaiting

her. Flecks of spittle foam around the mouth of the one

she loved to kiss. She longs to wipe them away, to show

a caring touch even with the knowledge that her lover

has become her executioner. Pins and needles start in

her fingers as the feeling spreads throughout her entire

body. The winding sheet starts at her feet as her beloved

ineptly wraps her in a shroud. This will be her bridal

dress, this will be the culmination of their love.

 

‘My love, my love – why did you make me do this?’

asks the undertaker of her heart.

 

A tear escapes the woman’s eye as she is wrapped

tenderly in her beloved’s arms who, struggling with the

dead weight, lays her roughly in the grave. Still the

woman cannot speak. The tears run down her face

unchecked – her hands are close enough to scratch her

nose but they are bound and crossed on her chest where

there is no strength to break free.

 

The shovel of earth hits her heavily, knocking the

wind and the life out of her body. Painstakingly, the

grave is filled, each load crushing her body and stealing

her soul.

 

There is hope.

 

Her head and neck are uncovered. She tells herself

that this is no more worrying than a game children will

play at the beach when they bury each other in the

sand.

 

At any moment, her love will release her, they will

embrace and their betrothal will continue.

 

As the knife pierces her cheek, the sensation returns

to her body as pain slices through – as does the awareness

that this is no childish game, this is no lovers’

diversion. The metallic smell of blood joins the stench

of terror. The woman’s face is warm and wet as her

beloved rubs dirt into the open wounds over and over

again. Finally, strength returns to her fingers – as the

first dirt lands on her face.

 

She tries to claw her way out.

 

She breaks her fingernails to the quick.

 

She feels the blood run down.

 

She cannot see for the suffocating darkness.

She cannot breathe for the earth in her nostrils.

She cannot scream for the muck in her mouth.

What starts in pleasure always ends in pain.

 

As the final words of the treasured one scrape against

the ancient stones, the Wolf of Badenoch enjoys what

he sees, savours what he hears.

 

‘Who will love you now?’ asks the beloved one as the

knife cuts, the blood pours, and the Wolf howls with

delight.