Chapter 9

I pullup to the house and a package catches my eye. It's leaning against the front door. The bright white bubble mailer bounces off the black metal door like a spotlight in the dark o' night. Packages, especially mysterious ones like this one, freak me out. I dinnae ken what the fuck I did in this life or a previous one, but every time I receive a package like this, something bad happens.

Opening the car door, I make my way to the house. I eyeball the thick padded envelope for several minutes, studying it from every angle. I turn and flip it in my hands. It's thick and heavy. The weight o' it is ominous in more ways than one when I notice there's no address or shipping label.

"Oh! Hey, Carl."

I turn toward the clipped British voice. The elderly woman from next door makes her way toward me. She's the sweet, nosy sort. She introduced herself to me when I moved in. I've tried to avoid her, but I'm beginning to believe she never sleeps because nae matter the time o' day I come in or leave, she's always awake.

And she always makes her way over to talk.

When I dinnae say anything, she continues, "Someone dropped that off in one of those brown trucks several hours ago. I've been keeping an eye out so the stoop stealers don't snatch it."

Porch Pirates, Stoop Stealers. Same difference, I guess, but in the few interactions I've had with Bridget, she regularly buggers up phrases.

I look back at the package in my hands. No one knows I live here. I don't get mail. All the services are paid online, yet somehow I'm receiving mail at a house I've rented under an alias.

"Thank you," I mumble, trying and probably failing to cover up the brogue. "Have a nice night."

I open the door, closing and locking it firmly behind me. When I look out the window, Bridget is slowly making her way back to her house. Sighing, I watch her until she disappears behind her own door before I head into the depths o' the house.

In the kitchen, I drop the package onto the counter. I pull out a glass and a bottle o' scotch. I fill the glass, taking it and the envelope back to the sitting room. Once there, I settle into my chair and finally; I tear open the plastic.

That was two days ago. For two days, I have weighed the information, pouring through it over and over. Information that could hopefully lead me to my sister. It could also lead me into a trap.

As the afternoon wanes, I stare out o' the window. Iffn it weren't for Maeve, I'd have nae problem taking the chance. But Maeve is out there. She needs me to be cautious, to be diligent, to protect.

All things I failed to be for Simon.

I turn back to the mess o' papers and photographs. Rubbing my forehead, I pick up one packet o' paper and flip through it. It's a list o' names. People who, according to the package, have overthrown the Order o' Death after blowing the Order to bits.

It's been several months, but I remember that night clearly. Standing in the trees, watching the men and the tiny slip o' a girl go in and out. Then two dark, hooded figures racing across the clearing moments before the explosion knocked me off my feet.

I can still see the lot o' them standing in that glen watching the Order burn, taking with it what I assumed was my last link to Maeve. Iffn what I hold in my hands is true, I cannae ignore it. I tuck all the documents back inside the envelope.

Looking at the clock, I grab my keys, narrowly avoiding Bridget as I head out to the car. I wave as I drive off, heading into the city instead o' the small, sleepy little town near my rental.

My size, look, and accent make being incognito damn near impossible, so I pull into the largest, busiest bank I come to. Pulling the tie from the bun on the back o' my head, I shake out my hair, letting the long top cascade over the shaved sides so hair covers the runes tattooed there. Luckily, I've nae shaved for several days and the growth o' new hair helps to camouflage the ink Simon tried to talk me out o' getting.

Inside the bank, I approach a teller. They, like most everyone, look up, then up again, and yet again at me. The teller's eyes, like everyone's when they first meet me, round in surprise. Nearly seven feet tall and over half as wide, I know I'm imposing.

Smiling, I say softly, "I'd like a safe deposit box."

The man struggles for a moment before he walks me through the process. When he gets me to the secure room, he asks, "Is there anything else?"

"I would like a second key for my solicitor," I reply.

"Umm…"

I stare at him, clenching my jaw and making the muscles pop as I stand up straight, dwarfing the man.

"Let me see what I can do," the man gulps before scurrying out.

He returns moments later with another key and more paperwork.

"You'll have to fill out this paperwork so the additional party can access the box."

I fill the paperwork out and hand it back to him before leaving. Thoughts o' what I might find tonight and, as always, o' Simon, Maeve, and my parents and grandparents fill the drive back to the house.

I pull in at home and cut the engine. A glance at Bridget's house reveals the telltale flutter o' the curtains. I stride toward her house, but the door opens before I can knock.

"Carl! How are you? Would you like to come in?" she asks in a rush.

I nod, and she steps away, allowing me to enter. The house is tiny, like the one I rent next door. They're nondescript cottages with ceilings so low, I cannae raise my hands over my head while standing. Most o' the rooms arenae much wider than the span o' my arms.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asks, stepping past me to where the kitchen should be.

"Nae, thank you. I cannae stay, but I have favor to ask o' ye."

She looks back over her shoulder as she continues on. "Well, a cup of tea goes well with favor requests."

I huff a chuckle as I realize why Bridget has always seemed so familiar to me. She reminds me o' my amma. My dad's mum, Arabella Helvig, was a force to be reckoned with. She would have her way, nae matter what anyone else had to say on the matter.

I duck under the doorway into the kitchen as Bridget pours the water from the kettle into two cups. She waves me toward the table and I sit across from her. She nudges the tray with biscuits toward me and my stomach growls.

Her eyebrow flies up her forehead, and she makes her way back to the kitchen. She pulls things from the cupboards, placing them on a tray.

"It's not much, but you need something more than cookies to quell that beast," she explains when she places the tray on the table in between us.

I blush and begin putting together a couple o' sandwiches. She waits patiently, sipping at her tea as I inhale first one, then another. I realize halfway through the first sandwich that I cannae remember the last time I had anything to eat.

It's nae uncommon for me, at least nae, since the Order blew up. Usually, I take much better care o' myself. I wipe my face and beard with the linen napkin and place it back on the table. After drinking the now tepid tea, I open my mouth only for Bridget to interrupt me.

"The favor?"

I nod. "I have something I need ye to hold on to for me. Something o' great importance."

She nods. "Well, it cannot be a child, because I've not seen any tikes running amok next door. So, out with it. What do you need me to keep for you?"

"Nae. No children. It's a key and I would like you to hold it until I return for it. Or until my solicitor asks you for it."

She looks at me. The skepticism is clear as the stream that runs through the land my mother's family has lived on since Vikings first came to Scotland.

"What have you gotten yourself into, lad?"

I smile at the old woman. She's sharp despite her age. "I cannae say. My solicitor is a man by the name o' Douglas Morgan. If he should ask ye for the key, I want ye to give it to him."

"Is he a large Viking looking Scot like yourself?"

I laugh. "Nae. He's just a regular-looking Scot."

She chuckles and holds out her hand. "Well, I see no reason not to do you this favor. I expect to see you again though, so make sure whatever you've gotten yourself into, you get yourself out of."

"Dinnae fash yerself, Bridget. I'll be fine."

Standing, I take note o' the house's disrepair. I've nae seen a single person visit the woman in all the time I've lived next door. I look back through the house when I reach the front door. Bridget is turning the key over and over, her fingers making it dance across her knuckles as I've seen gamblers do with poker chips. I leave the house, pulling out my phone and dialing Douglas' direct line.

"Draven! Where the hell are you?" he answers as I enter my house.

"I'm in the U.S. I need a couple o' things handled. I'm hoping you can help." I sit down at the desk in the sitting room and pull out an envelope and some paper.

After requesting he set up an account for Bridget and arrange for someone to come make the repairs to her home that need to be handled before they get worse, I explain the main reason for my call.

"Douglas, this may verra well be the last time we speak. Iffn that's the case, Bridget is holding a key. I've instructed Bridget to give you the key if you ever ask for it. This is verra important. Only ask for the key if you receive word I'm dead. Nae before. If ye do, ye may well put me and someone I love dearly in grave danger."

"Draven. What's going on?"

"I cannae say. The key will open a safe deposit box. I'm mailing you the information about its location. Promise me, ye will nae act unless yer informed I've died."

"Alright. I promise. Will you be able to reach out to me?"

"I dinnae ken. I will try. That is all I can promise."

"Draven…Is this about Simon?"

I swallow. It's been years since anyone dared say his name in my presence. I pull the phone from my ear and disconnect the call.

Pulling up the video camera on a burner phone I've been using, I quickly record a message for Douglas. I stack the letter, bank documents, and phone together and then head upstairs to change.

Hours later, darkness has descended and I creep toward the mansion mentioned in the mysterious package I received several days ago. The information inside led me to this massive stone building that looks straight out o' a horror flick.

This is the home o' Societas Exspiravit.

The Society o' Ghosts.

I searched all the places I know o' for information on this new Society and found nothing. Nae a single mention on any o' the websites I've found for the type o' shit the Order was involved with.

The package told me that if I wanted to avenge Simon and my parents' murders and find my sister, this was the place to be and tonight was the night to be there. I've watched people arrive and none o' them look like those who stood watching as the Order's headquarters blew apart.

I slowly make my way closer, keeping to the shadows, and that's when I see him—the boy from the warehouse. The same one from the clearing. The one who worked for the Order if the list o' names I received in the package the other day is to be believed.

Rage ignites within my soul.

All these years, I've thought about him, worried about him. Only to realize he's one o' them. This boy who sparked something in me I've not felt since Simon and I explored our fetishes together, trying to find the piece o' us that was missing, is a fucking human trafficker.

He's a fucking member o' the Order o' Death.

I've vowed to rid the world o' them. All o' them. I made myself a promise I wouldn't stop hunting until every last member o' the Order has been swept from the face o' the Earth.

Which means this boy, Tavish, his name popping into my head from the papers I left in the bank vault, must also die.