Ennead

By V. P. Trick

Patricia agrees to a holiday trip to Scotland, Christopher’s ancestral. The two of them alone, strolling the streets in between bouts of lovemaking.
“I know what I want for Christmas,” he’d said. “You and a story written solely for me.”
So how do they end up in the MacLaren castle, mere hours after landing on Scottish ground, amongst his dysfunctional brood? And let’s not forget the ghosts, old and new.
“A bath, some wine, and a massage were all I wished for, Big guy. Can’t I, just once, go a-travelling without encountering neither corpse nor family? This is all on you, Big guy.”
With all the goings-on at the castle, Patricia doesn’t know which part’s real and which is fiction. Either way, what’s a wee murder amongst kin, right?

Kester snaps his fingers in front of my nose, yanking me back to the present and the man in flesh and blood glaring at me. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark frowning expression. Stubborn jawline. Clenched fists. His smell is incredible. Male and cologne and soap and camphor (is the formidable laird injured?) and musk and horse. I could have done without the camphor scent, but on him, it’s not entirely unpleasant.
“Speak up, boy!”
I have a sudden urge to kiss him. That would shut him up on the spot. Especially considering I’ve concealed myself in men’s clothing, and nothing in my spying so far leads me to believe Laird MacLaren inclined towards males.
“I’m looking for employment,” I belatedly blur out in a suspiciously high voice. I clear my throat in what I hope is a manly fashion before repeating, “I was a-lookin’ for empl’ment. Heard your Lairdship was hi-e-ring.” I’m lousy at fake accents, let alone fake male accents.
The dark eyes travel up and down my body, then stare pointedly at the thing lying in the straw with marked scorn on his severe features...

“Did you have to kill a man right from the start of the tale?” the Big guy chastises.
I frown at Christopher. Hard. “I do not handle criticism well when I’m hungover and jet-lagged.”
“You can’t be hungover if you’re still drunk, Princess.”
He has a point. We came straight from the airport to drop our luggage at the hotel. Downtown Edinburgh is snowy. I wrote the beginning of Christopher’s gift story while he gathered our suitcases, rented a car, drove us to the hotel, showered, and ordered a breakfast-lunch-hangover cure meal instead of resting. “I want to take a nap.”
“No naps, we have a city to explore.”
“We could practise the sex scene,” I offer as I stretch out on the bed as an incentive. Closing my eyes might have betrayed my ulterior motives, though, since I’m yanked by my ankle, then my waist, until I find myself looking into dark eyes laughing at me.
“I know you too well, Pussycat. My scenes require you being awake.”
“Scenes? I did not agree to more than one. It ain’t that kind of novel, Big guy.”
“It’s about me and you, right?” Seeing as I neither confirm nor deny, he takes it as he wishes. Of course. “Then, the story should describe plenty of sex. You could spend a couple of chapters naked.”
I should never have agreed to this. Normal couples give each other ties, cigars, and jewellery. “You get to read, Big guy, but I never said you’d get to decide or even comment.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know where this story is going, and if you remark on every single word, we’ll never get it done!”
“Let me rephrase that. Why did you kill a character on the first line?”
“How should I know!”
“Try.”
“I honestly have no idea how my mind works.” Ain’t that the truth?

**Kester and Patrea’s story, as well as Chris and Patricia’s, continue in Denary**

• Language: English
• Publisher: V. P. Trick
• Release date: Feb 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370739387

V. P. Trick

Career, family, metro-boulot-dodo and all that, until retirement. A middle life crisis later (a very early middle crisis), what if earth changed axis? Writing began and I’m hopeful to one day meeting a real Ingrid.

Book preview

Patricia

What’s this? I ask, staring at what looks suspiciously like an airplane voucher coming out of the printer.

Airplane ticket, the Big guy’s laconic answer is.

I can see that, but for whom? Stupid question. Why would Christopher be printing a plane ticket on the house copier for anyone but himself? I didn’t know you were planning a trip. Where are you going? I’m caught by surprise. I’m usually the one flying away. Literally.

Scotland. His ancestors’ land. A retour aux sources trip then. I can relate, I did the same six weeks back. Didn’t turn out so great for me, though. Family sucks.

Ah… You’ve finally decided to patch things up with them?

Not much choice if I want to show you the ancestral land, Angel.

Have I called that one right or what? You’re not the only mind reader in this house, Big guy. That’s sweet, Christopher. I hope all goes well. And if it doesn’t, you’ll have the finest Scotch aplenty in which to drown your anger and infinite land to jog on.

And I’ll have you.

Of course, you will. I’ll be with you every step of the way. Figuratively speaking. Mandy will be thrilled, I add when the printer spits out another voucher. I suspect it’s going to be his first father and son trip−

Mandy’s not my son, he’s my charge, thanks to you.

You don’t resent me for that, do you? He needs a father figure. You are it. Simple, right?

He’s of legal age AND a small-time drug dealer.

"Ex-drug dealer. He’s concentrating on college now!"

That he is. And you’re trying hard to change the subject, but you already know it won’t work, do you?

"Ah. Hum. I’m hoping very, very hard."

Not working. Shall I spell it out, Darling of mine?

Please don’t, I’ve just moved in. OK, so he had already packed all my things and had them waiting in boxes at THE house when we got back from the cabin. I’ve yet to visit my hotel suite to see if the Big guy forgot anything (which I strongly doubt). I haven’t received the chandelier. It won’t be ready for a week or two. I’ve designed this amazing chandelier to go above the yet-to-be-given piano à queue, my moving-in surprise for Christopher. It will look spectacular in the open-plan living room-kitchen-foyer that takes most of the first floor of OUR house (how had this happened?). The smaller adjacent twin house remains empty except for a lone answering machine. Needless to say, I haven’t set foot in that place either since I got back. Christmas is coming, and I thought we could throw a party for all our despicable friends. The lot of them who foretold I wouldn’t stay more than a week in this house. Besides, I feel compelled to add even though it’s a universally known fact, I suck at families.

You’ll have to pretend it’s research then, Princess.

I can’t go.

You’re going.

You can’t make me.

Sure, I can. I let you talk to that crazy bitch Cécile at the house; you owe me.

You’re a jerk.

Make that a Scottish jerk, Love of mine.

The Plane

Patricia, Monday, December 21st

I feel nauseous. I stop the flight attendant as she whizzes by, Can’ have an’ther glass of red, please? She’s so busy I have trouble maintaining my alcoholic haze. Who knew flights to Scotland were so popular this time of year?

You’re drunk enough, Pussycat.

’m never drunk enough, I manage to mumble. I have the flight AND the Scottish family to terrorize me.

Just sleep it off.

He wants me to nap while we’re crashing to our doom? Sometimes, the Big guy is such a man. How long’ the layover in Amsterdam? They sell illicit drugs over there.

Don’t even think about.

I woke with a start two hours later−At least, I think it’s two hours because the inside of the plane is so dim and quiet. For all I know, I could be in limbo awaiting an afterlife being to declare me newly deceased.

Hi, Angel of mine. Feeling better?

Are we dead yet?

Nope.

Then no, I don’t feel better. I feel worse. I have a furred tongue, my hair hurts, as do my back and legs and my cop boyfriend is studying me with a way too sexy crooked grin. I’m not drunk enough anymore.

Too bad. We’ll be landing in an hour.

"Drugs, yé!"

We’ve only a three-hour layover, and I don’t think they sell cannabis at the airport, Patricia.

Bummer.

How about we joint the mile high club? I bet I could keep your mind off things until touch down.

You’re impossible.

Was that a yes?

No!

Double bummer.

The man really is impossible. This is the last time I make a deal with him. If I had forgone my confrontation with Cécile, I wouldn’t be in this mess. Nine days of hell. On a brighter note, Scotland’s supposed to be very beautiful. So nine days in beautiful hell. Have you slept, Christopher?

A little. Mostly, I’ve been thinking.

Reminiscing about your family? I know next to nothing about Christopher’s family. Correction, I purposely learned next to nothing.

Some. Did you know you’ve very sexy when you snore, Pussycat?

First of all, I do not snore. I might have snorted once or twice, but that’s because the air is quite dry on planes. Second, don’t try to change the subject. What were you thinking about?

You. Always.

Cute.

No, really. I know what I want for Christmas.

You don’t truly believe you’re getting a Christmas present this year, do you? I moved in with you, AND I’m tagging along for this damn trip! Hence, you can kiss any presents, for Christmases, birthdays, Easters, and all, goodbye for the next five years.

You gave your word for the house months ago, AND you owed me for not shooting Cécile at the house.

Fine. If you want to be fastidiously punctilious about it…

Oh, but I do, Angel of mine. Hence, for my present, his grin is so wide, a smile creeps on my face even as I desperately try to roll my eyes up in contempt, I want a novel.

A novel? The Big guy reads a lot. Police reports. Newspapers. Political essays. Crime control and guns handbooks and whatever encyclopaedias cops read. Novels, not so much.

A novel. From you to me. Can be a novella. A short story. A poem. Anything in the written form. Consider it research.

I’m missing something. You’re asking me to research a Scottish writer?

I want you to be a Scottish writer. Where is this coming from? You write. I read. As you write.

Why?

Because the best way to know what you’re thinking about is to decipher it through your books. I want moment-by-moment glimpses into that beautifully imaginative mind of yours.

I can’t write with you looking over my shoulder! I’ll be paralyzed. Even Ingrid as my editor doesn’t get that.

I’ll settle for the end of each day.

Seriously?

Dead serious.

Why? I ask again.

We’re flying to my land. You’ll be totally mine there. This time, I superbly execute my eye roll. The Big guy has some whiffs of barbarian controlling issues. Mine, Patricia. I’ve been patient with the house. That he had. I’ve let you go see your deadbeat crazy sister friend.

Cécile’s nor sister nor friend.

He continues, unperturbed, I’ve tolerated you busying yourself with everything and everyone since our return. For the next nine days, you’re mine. And I need to know how you’re doing.

And you think a story will explain it better than me telling you in my own words?

"I hope you’ll tell me everything. A story will be for what you forget to confide in me in your own words."

Ten days is kind of short for a novel, Big guy.

I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense. I don’t give a shit if it has no beginning or no end. I just want your words.

I take it you want to be in it? I don’t write about my real life, but events and characters that breeze through it do creep in my fictions.

I could say you can write about whatever you want but, honestly? I’m hoping you’ll make it about you and me. He laughs at my look of sheer terror. Airplane ride AND family AND real life. Beautiful hell is becoming hotter and hotter. Imagine characters, Princess. Make as if they’re not us. You’re so good at pretending.

We land. We wait (I drink). We take off.

I can’t write about us as us, I don’t think.

Then don’t. Write about us as if.

Hum. I return to my thoughts. He reverts to his study of me, infuriating as it is.

Do we get married in it?

No! Christopher, damn it! I’ve yet to write a single line, but I’m one hundred percent positive we will not marry. For real or otherwise. Fake or not, once is enough.

Why not? I think we should get hitched. Even better, if you set it in centuries past, you’d be totally mine once we’re married. Before we married. Did you know the MacLaren clan existed? My land, my people, my lass.

"What? Scotland had a droit du Seigneur?"

"Jus primea noctis never existed, Princess. Give it to a cop to turn to Latin at the oddest times. But I’m sure the laird got first dibs on the virgins."

Where is all that primitive stuff coming from? I moved in, isn’t it enough?

It ain’t ever going to be enough, Love of mine.

I think I shall be a witch, I muse some time later. I’ve always wanted to be a witch.

You’re more fairy than witch, Angel.

Fairies are delicate and gentle. I want to be a mean sorceress.

You’re too soft-hearted to be a witch.

I’m a bitch sometimes.

All an act, Princess.

Scottish warriors are in fashion in romance novels these days.

Are they now?

Yes, they are, and badass Scottish warriors need badass female magicians to stand up to them.

You can be a witch or whatever else you choose to be as long as I get you in the end.

So grand of you to approve of my characters, Big guy.

My Christmas present, Angel, I should have some say in the story.

You’re infuriating.

That I am. And I should get to realize some of my fantasies in it too.

I don’t write trashy porn novel, Big guy.

Cute.

I’ll grant you one sexy scene, Christopher. You can choose what your character does to mine as long as mine’s on top, I whisper with a wink.

Do we get to rehearse? Finally, I can research the hell out of you! Perhaps you can keep the best three out of five.

The flight attendant chooses that moment to announce our upcoming landing. I ask for a last glass of wine. I see no point in rejoicing until the pilots have parked the plane at the dock.

The Barn

Pàdraig, Day One

He’s dead. How can he be dead? I bend over the man and check for a pulse. Again. He’s most definitely dead. Just my luck! I meant to save a man’s life, but I’ll hang for murder. Unless Kester didn’t do it… but how can he not have, he was sitting next to the corpse during supper at the inn?

What are you doing here?

Oh! Talk about being caught in the act. I… hum… I lick my suddenly dry lips. From afar, Kester looked challenging. Up close, he’s towering over me. I can’t say I’m not a little intimidated, damn him. I was… Given that the man is taller, heavier, and stronger than me, "trying to save your life, sounds utterly preposterous even if that’s my intent. Saving you from hanging,is only slightly less outrageous. Spying on you,is also true, but would bring more questions, and I’d be back to choices number one and two. As for Protecting you," it’s plainly arrogant. Not to mention suicidal. Men bristle at being protected. It threatens their manhood, or so I’ve gathered. And having followed Laird Kester since the morn, I have seen the man bristle for less. His lairdship has overdeveloped arrogance and atrophied empathy. I have a strong feeling the man would not welcome my debt of honour. Not that he has to know, does he?

A sudden urge to laugh bubbles up when he takes a step closer. He’s quite a sight, but I’m not some impressionable lass.

Well, lad. I’m waiting for an answer.

On the off chance he’s not the killer and hasn’t noticed the cadaver, I take two steps sideways. "Nothing to see, the ugly, stinky mass of flesh at my feet is simply an inebriated commoner," my stance subtle announcing. Not that the body has started to rot yet, he(it?)’s still warm, but you can’t expect a stiff to smell good if it spent the living part of its existence without taking a bath. Although I’ve been a man for all but a day, I’ve already learned a lot about men’s proclivities of NOT washing.

Kester snaps his fingers in front of my nose, yanking me back to the present and the man in flesh and blood glaring at me. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark frowning expression. Stubborn jawline. Clenched fists. His smell is incredible. Male and cologne and soap and camphor (is the formidable laird injured?) and musk and horse. I could have done without the camphor scent, but on him, it’s not entirely unpleasant.

Speak up, boy!

I have the sudden urge to kiss him. That would shut him up on the spot. Especially considering I’ve concealed myself in men’s clothing, and nothing in my spying so far leads me to believe Laird MacLaren is inclined towards males.

I’m looking for employment, I belatedly blur out in a suspiciously high voice. I clear my throat in what I hope is a manly fashion before repeating, I was a-lookin’ for empl’ment. Heard your Lairdship was hi-e-ring. I’m lousy at fake accents, let alone fake male accents.

The dark eyes travel up and down my body, then stare pointedly at the thing lying in the straw with marked scorn on his severe features. The haughty look I’m familiar with. I’ve received it from more than a few faces growing up. MacLaren’s is amongst the top three I’ve seen. Unfortunately for him, mine isn’t bad either, and I haughtily-ied him back. My cap, powdered hair, spectacles, and soot-covered face (I use coal and dirt to conceal my whisker-free smooth cheeks, clever ain’t I?), seem to distract him for my sternness because he barely raises an eyebrow.

Well. If yer Lairdship ain’t got work, I’ll leave his Lairdship to his bidding, and dead bodies, I present my respec’ to yerself. I curtsy insolently and make my escape.

Almost.

A hand snags me by the collar. I swallow a sharp gasp; The man has no manners.

Not so fast, lad. He turns me around and steadies me by the shoulders. I glare at his mouth. Some have called me rangy. As a man, I consider myself lanky, but Kester is taller than me in any sex. Who’s he? He points at the immobile lump on the ground slowing oozing blood. Where it comes from is a mystery for I can see no wounds. Although, to be honest, and I do not intend to look for one.

I shrug or rather try to, but his paws on my shoulders are like stones. Dunno. I hoped you would know. Then again, if he doesn’t know the dead, it means he hasn’t killed him. And hence, I won’t have to take the blame for him. Unless Kester is a psychopath and hunts for the sport?

Who are you?

Good question. No simple answer. I’m… Pàdraig.

And?

And nothing. I’m just Pàdraig.

Very well, just Pàdraig. Did you kill this man?

Who, me? No! I thought you d− I cut myself short. Tardily, it occurs to me he could have indeed killed the man.

"Yes? You thought I’d what?