Arcane Rising: The Darkland Druids - Book One, R Nicole [suggested reading TXT] 📗

Outside, I could see the Royal Mile and the little bus stop below. The building was situated at the bottom end, away from most of the noise, but it was busy enough for the middle of the afternoon.

A book and a box of shortbread biscuits—obviously bought from one of the many souvenir shops downstairs—sat on the dining table. I left my suitcase by the bed and slid into a chair and sighed. I was going to get strong thighs walking up all those stairs…and the hills! Edinburgh had so many inclines to traverse it was almost a punishment, or a cruel joke at tourists’ expense.

I picked up the book—which turned out to be a plastic display folder—and flipped through the pages. Liking my new surroundings already, I smiled at the thought the landlady had put into the information. There was even a bus timetable slipped into one of the pockets.

Mrs. Campbell seemed like a nice old lady, but I got the feeling I shouldn’t cross her, otherwise her inner dragon would appear.

I looked out the window again as jet lag tried to pull me towards the bedroom. Shaking my head, I rubbed my scratchy eyes and grabbed my bag. I’d just spent thirty hours either on an aeroplane or queuing up to get on one, and now that I was finally here, I wanted to explore.

Secretly, I wanted to find my father.

I hesitated at the door, my hand pausing on the handle, and I sniffed my armpit. Cringing, I dumped my bag back onto the table. First things first, Elspeth. A shower to wash your stink off, then exploring.

It was only polite, after all.

* * *

Greyfriars Kirk was nestled at one end of Edinburgh’s Old Town, and while it didn’t look far on the map, my lungs were burning by the time I found the gates.

Thick grass covered the lawns and there was a gravesite, headstone, or plaque everywhere I looked. They were even set into the walls of the cottages backing onto the kirkyard. At the centre was the church itself, complete with modern upgrades. They still held services and a light shone from within. It calmed me a little knowing someone else was about and I wasn’t the only fool wandering in a graveyard full of ghosts at twilight.

Many of the headstones were large and ornate, with statues of angels and crosses. Some were buried underground, and others—who were obviously rich and important—had mausoleums with locked doors.

I stopped at the end of the row and looked up at the carvings on the last gravesite. I studied the skull and crossbones—and the dancing skeleton—wondering why anyone would want to put such a thing on their tombstone. They were a morbid lot in the sixteenth century—I wondered why. Underneath, the words memento mori were carved into the stone. Memento Mori, remember you must die.

I thought of my dad, and the news the police had brought with them on New Year’s Eve. There wasn’t anything left to bury. He was swallowed up by the fire in the blink of an eye. There was nothing the crew could do to save him. We’re sorry for your loss.

There would be no grave. No place to go and mourn. Nothing but memory.

I shivered and buried my hands into my coat pockets, realising a mist had begun to form in the lengthening shadows.

Turning away, I walked along the path, my boots crunching against the damp gravel. A plaque on the stone wall told me all about the city’s original outer defences—the Flodden Wall.

After the Scottish forces were defeated by the English at the battle of Flodden in 1513—and resulting in the death of their king, James IV—Edinburgh’s officials were frightened that the victorious army would besiege the city. The wall was built to defend their territory.

I pressed my palm against the stone and imagined the army on the field and the people in the city—who must have been terrified of what would become of them without a monarch on the throne. Maybe they didn’t care. Food and shelter must have been more pressing matters for the common folk of the time, rather than who governed them.

I walked under the arch, finding another stretch of gravesites beyond. The mist seemed to thicken, and I glanced over my shoulder. It was spooky without anyone else around and I began to wonder if the kirkyard was closed. I checked my watch, finding it was almost four, but being winter, it was already dark.

Streetlights were turning on, bathing the kirkyard in orange light and the sudden change was eerie. Must be the dancing skeletons and ghost stories creeping me out.

The row of gravestones shimmered and began to lengthen, multiplying into the distance. The city faded and disappeared, leaving me standing in an unknown world.

I stumbled and my heart began to race. What in the world…?

Frightened, I turned and almost smacked into a man standing behind me. I yelped as his smile widened, his pointed teeth glimmering in the orange glow of the lamplight.

I was frozen to the spot, staring at him in shock. His eyes were black; there were no whites or iris’—just two pools of pitch-black nothingness.

He grabbed me, moving like a bolt of lightning, and his hands bit into the flesh of my arms. I screamed as my knees buckled, terror gripping my senses as blinding pain tore through my head.

A shadowy shape leapt out from behind a headstone, barking and baring its teeth. The dog latched onto the man’s leg, growling and shaking its jaws back and forth.

The force of the dog’s attack dislodged the man’s grip on me, and I staggered back a few steps, my breath catching as I held my throbbing head.

A second man loomed behind them—dark and tall amongst the tendrils of the mist—and his gaze fell onto mine. He almost looked startled to see me there, but it was only for a moment before his expression turned thunderous. He moved towards me