Secrets In The Bones: The Curse of Blood Bay

Thirteen

I strained to hear beyond the oppressive silence enveloping the air. The garage's muffled noises had dwindled into spine-tingling quiet, and a gnawing dread settled over me. Calling the police in Cruden, where the line between law and corruption blurred, felt like playing with fire. Duncan's cautionary tales about the local authorities echoed in my mind, casting doubt on their intentions. Outnumbered and out of our depth, we stood at the crossroads of intervention and waiting.

In front of us sat a sorry wreck of a car, a Cat-D, stark evidence of a catastrophic crash. Pretending interest, I circled the vehicle, studying its twisted chassis. Hints of silver paint clung to the wheel arches, telling a violent tale. The replaced front end left no room for doubt about the car's sorry state.

"Are ya sure ya dinnae want it?" asks the garage owner, attempting to sway us. "Goes like the clappers on a wee straight."

"We're good, thank you," I reply. "I've always had a soft spot for Cosworth engines, but my trusty three series has my heart. By the way, I didn't catch your name. Thanks for humouring us."

"Och. Nae bother," he replies. "It's Alexander, and that gommy sod in there is my brother Nicholas. We run this place. If ya change yer mind, I'm sure we could offer a fair deal for the Beemer."

"Thanks for your time, Alexander. What's there to do around here?" I ask, trying to navigate the Scottish lingo.

"The port offers trips around the bay coast," Alexander shared. "My father manages that. Not today, I'm afraid, but if you go tomorrow, tell 'em I sent ya. You might enjoy a good trip, maybe even some scuba action if you can handle the water."

"Amazing. I'll look into that. Thanks again, Alexander."

As Ellena and I left Alexander behind, we found ourselves torn between intervening and biding our time. The cries for help from the garage still echoed in our minds, but the fear of raising suspicions about our true intentions kept us from acting. Walking away seemed like turning a blind eye to someone's suffering, yet reporting the incident now could jeopardise our mission.

Lost in thought, I thought about the reason behind our venture to Scotland. The question lingered, much like the mysteries of Cruden Bay. Our wandering path led us to a mobile burger stand that doubled as a coffee joint, offering the perfect vantage point to discreetly watch the garage. Ellena ordered coffee, and my attention remained fixed on the forecourt. I knew Duncan was in the limo, ready to assist if needed.

Then, a sleek black Range Rover pulled up, exuding luxury. Tinted windows concealed the occupants, but a woman in her mid-fifties emerged when the rear door swung open. Her weathered face framed by long, brown, curled hair and her floral dress hinted at a maternal figure. Yet, frailty clung to her, and she leaned on her driver for support, moving with the hesitance of someone much older.

"Ya can turn that off now, boy," she stammers as she entered, signalling the end of music and the resumption of the painful moans and bone-deep thuds. I caught Ellena's gaze, who had grasped the gravity of the situation. The beating continued unabated, despite the woman's arrival.

The port beckoned as our next destination, in a dilemma between immediate action and waiting. Alexander had mentioned it wasn't operational today, but the agony emanating from the garage churned my stomach. The prospect of a prolonged waiting game gnawed at my patience.

Amidst my swirling thoughts, I noticed an ominous figure across the road. The looming man in the pristine black suit returned, his unwavering gaze fixed on Ellena. I watched, concerned by the man's purpose and the lack of a reaction from my instincts.

"Ellena, it's time we headed to Duncan. He must be growing restless," I suggest, hoping to divert her attention from the unsettling presence.

"Okay. Are we going to the port next?" Ellena asks, sipping her coffee and brushing windblown hair from her face.

"Our next stop is indeed the port. They've beaten the crap out of someone in there, and I can't just forget it. We need to do something. Unless you'd rather leave? We could pack our bags and escape this mess. Cruden's troubles existed before we arrived; they needn't become ours," I proposed, concerned for Ellena's safety.

Undeterred, Ellena matched my determination with her own, showing no signs of wavering. The connection we had was special, and it made us more determined.

"Remember, Wolfie, my recklessness matches yours. I may not possess your abilities, but I can sense when we're being manipulated. Ruth has her agenda, one that involves me. I may not be a witch, but unravelling the mysteries of this town seems a must. We can't walk away from a fight, especially when it's a fight worth having. I know you worry about me, just as I worry about you. What we have together is special; it's worth it if we can change even one life for the better here. Besides, Locke owes us some explanations when we return," Ellena gushes with reassurance, stroking my arm.

I couldn't deny the inherent dangers in our path. Guns, vampires, witches, and the spectre of my sleepwalking loomed large. It promised a difficult journey that might cause a hell of a lot of bloodshed.

"But just think, if we survive this ordeal, I could write a book about Cruden Bay," Ellena quips, her laughter warming my heart.

Our conversation lightened the mood, but I couldn't shake the fear that Ellena might not comprehend the dangers we faced. She seemed enchanted by the supernatural elements of Cruden, and the lurking threats continued to shadow our steps.

"Well, that may be," I acknowledged, "but your safety is paramount to me. I can't bear the thought of losing you."

However, Ellena had her ideas that stirred my desires and fears. With a sultry smile and a twinkle in her brilliant blue eyes, she presented a compelling proposition.

"Who would've imagined a little lamb and a werewolf in such harmony? I don't intend to let you go, silly. I want to share a bed with you, Georgie. To keep each other safe and warm, perhaps with sleep being optional," she suggests, her playful demeanour juxtaposed with the eerie presence still lingering across the road.

With coffee in hand, we walked toward an approaching gust of wind, our focus on each other. The pub behind us grew rowdier, with hotheads tossed to the curb amidst shattered glass and a weathered wooden door pounding against chairs.

Alexander emerged from the garage, puffing like a chimney, coincidentally timed as two scruffy-looking blokes approaching. One of them, a dishevelled man in his early thirties with shaggy blonde hair and a ragged appearance, repeatedly pressed a key fob, his sunken eyes portraying the toll of drugs and alcohol. He seemed lost, searching for his vehicle amidst the chaos.

But then, something unexpected happened. The man's head snapped toward Alexander, drawn by a piercing whistle that resonated through the forecourt. Alexander pointed to an old, sky-blue, rusted Ford pickup in the far-left corner, with an open-backed trailer containing three mysterious crates measuring at least two feet by two feet. The men regained their composure and headed toward the pickup, activating the hazard lights with a press of the key fob.

My curiosity piqued, and I took one last deep sniff, trying to decipher the contents of those crates. Amidst the myriad scents in the vicinity–food, coffee, alcohol, grease, and blood–a new aroma emerged, hinting at unfamiliar substances. The implications were unsettling, suggesting the possibility of drugs or other illicit activities.

The decision to follow the cargo beckoned, but the port remained our next stop. I shuddered at the thought of David McNally assuming power and the potential consequences for Cruden Bay and its neighbouring towns. The sinister web we had uncovered, woven with drugs and other mysteries, begged for answers, including the intriguing role of the caves in this ominous narrative.