Ch. 23: Deal

Red clapped a big, meaty hand around Wyland's shoulders, and led him off to a corner so they could talk more privately.

"Listen, Yank," Red started, drawing close to Wyland's face and lowering his voice, "it's, uh, unusual fer some'un to come callin' fer teh boys without advanced warnin'. What's this all 'bout? An' what's yur name?" Red had less of an accent than everyone else here, and Wyland could make out what Red wanted without thinking about it. 

"Wyland. My name's Wyland. I've been investigating some things, and have stumbled across some very important info that the , um, 'Boys' need to hear right away. They also have some information which I need."

Red puffed up suddenly. "You're the Journalist, then? Askin' stupid questions 'bout Daddy Cunninghill?"

"Not exactly." Wyland blushed and shrunk, then remembered the taser, and got his confidence back. "I lied to that cabbie to get some info, I'm not a journalist, I..." He considered playing his hand, starting the plea, but thought better of it again, "I really just need to talk to them, I have no interest in Eustis' business dealings."

Red snorted, and grinned that big, dangerous grin. "A'right, then. If'n you'r talkin' 'bout who I think you'r talkin' 'bout, that lil' rat cabbie's stupider than a box a' rocks, anyway, I don't blame ya fer lyin' to 'im! Let's all go outside." And Red, still grinning, strengthened his grip on Wyland's shoulders and led him back outside.

The air had a thin hint of ocean salt in it, and the cool, grey clouds hung lower and a bit greyer than they had this morning. Blue was sitting by the old truck on the other side of the dirt expanse, spitting brown tobacco spit onto the dirt. Wyland and Red walked down the few dusty steps in front of Central Point, as dirt rose from a distant truck coming up the road. 

"I'll tell ya," Red started saying, "no sudden moves, no stupid stuff, no funny words, and you'll be a'right." 

Funny words? Wyland thought about this for a moment, and this confirmed that he was on the right track. Wyland felt a sudden rise in temperature, and a light shiver ran down his spine. Finally, he would get some answers! After all this time, and so many dead ends, here, coming up the road, were cursers! Wyland's face scrunched. No, that's not right, not cursers? No, wizards? Maybe? Necromancers? Shaman? Magicians? No, no, none of those were right. There were so many terms in fantasy and lore, but none of them really matched what these men were. Warlocks, maybe that was what they were.

He stood in silence, with Red standing nearby, behind and to his right, looming over him, as the two warlocks drove up to Central Point. The truck's tires locked up as it slid through the dirt to a full stop. A bit of dry dirt filled the air, though the tire tracks showed that the soil was still wet only a bit under the surface. The cool wind hinted that it would all be wet again soon. 

A thin faced man with blondish hair sat in the driver seat, and a slightly plumper man with dirty brown hair sat next to him. They were obviously brothers, they both had high cheek bones, and thin necks, and sharply defined temples. The blond one flung the door open and hopped out. He smiled a big grin to Red, which showed off a missing tooth. The other sauntered around the truck slowly, searching and scanning his environs, his eyes piercing through Wyland, checking for weakness, zeroing in on his neck, boring through his forehead to his skull, killing him multiple times with thought bullets. Good thing looks couldn't kill, although Wyland wasn't so sure with these two.

Crom walked strongly and briskly up to Wyland, who up 'til now had kept a quiet composure, with his hands clasped before him, and his head high, as if waiting for a business associate. Crom, without saying a word, walked right into Wyland, and pushed him over into the dirt. 

"You teh fecker been askin' 'round fer us? Well, heah we are, fecker! What 'bout it, now, huh?" He screamed at Wyland, kicking dry dirt at him as though he were a miffed baseball coach talking to the umpire. Wyland put up his hands in front of him and softly shushed Crom, as though to calm a spooked and braying horse.

Red now stepped in between Crom and Wyland. "Oi, Crommie, calm it!" Crom stepped back, and walked off in a huff. Oliver now stepped before him. "Greenie said the Yank was heah, and lo, heah 'e is!" He swept his hand over the scenery, as though acting (poorly) in a play. Then, in a really bad Texas accent, "I'mma big dembfeck American in Scotland, stickin' meh nose in someone else's arse, not expectin' to smell shit!" Red and Blue both laughed. 

Oliver then leaned in close to Wyland, his hand crawling through Wyland's protesting hands slapping him away, grabbed his shirt collar, and, much to Wyland's surprise, helped pull him up from the ground. "Get up, yeh sorry feck!" He was surprisingly strong, and Wyland found himself lifted up as though he were still a little kid.

Wyland stumbled as he got up, and dusted himself off. Oliver now stepped uncomfortably close to Wyland. "Well, yeah said we needed to heah somethin', so 'ave at it, now!" 

Wyland cleared his throat and began, sounding as professional as he could muster. "We must first reach an agreement. I have information you really need to hear, I promise you, and you have information I need, desperately." No one said a word, they were all just staring at Wyland. "The agreement is as follows: I will tell you this vital information, that will save your life, or at least your freedom, and you will teach me about curses and blessings. Specifically, how to remove a curse."

Silence. The die had been cast, the arrow was in the air, the guillotine blade was falling. The physics of the mind could be seen on everyone's face. First, acceptance of what was just said, then, a sudden realization: Wait, what? Curses? How could he know? Then, shit, who else knows? Then, double-shit, he knows who else knows. That's what he's selling, and fuck if we don't need to buy it. 

Then, the reactions shifted according to character. Crom's face showed a flash of anger. Oliver's showed concern. Red was already scanning the horizon for signs of danger. Blue, slower than the rest, showed confusion. 

Crom was already advancing on Wyland again, muttering something like "I'll feckin' kill ya, ya sumbitch" but Oliver put his hand out and stopped him. Crom immediately obeyed. Oliver was obviously the elder, and obviously the power and mind of the duo.  

A full minute passed now, in silence. Oliver was obviously weighing his options. 

Oliver let out a long sigh through puffed out cheeks. "A'right. Yeh got us by the short n' curlies, don'tcha? Deal." He reached out his hand, and Wyland shook it generously. 

Ch. 22: Ol' Blue

The only sounds made during the drive were the sounds of the old truck's failing suspension. Rolling greenish brown landscape went zooming past them. The welder didn't say a word, but occasionally looked at Wyland with a deeply disturbing look, a look from bloodshot eyes that said "murder is always an option, so shut the fuck up." It was, needless to say, an uncomfortable drive.

They arrived at the quarry around midday. The entrance was a large chain link electric fence gate, with a small guard outpost. The whole area was fenced off with high chain link fencing. The guard gestured to stop, and sauntered slowly up to the old truck. He held his right hand at his hip, just above where a gun should be. There was no gun, however. He looked at the welder and smiled. 

"Ol' Blue! De hell yeh doin' heah?" the guard asked, all friendly-like. Ol' Blue, which was apparently his name, didn't say a word, but cocked his head at Wyland and darted his eyes in Wyland's general direction. The guard squinted and looked through the open window at Wyland. Another uncomfortable silence. Wyland was getting sick of these uncomfortable silences. 

Finally, Ol' Blue said "Yankee feckin' dandee heah needs teh talk teh Ollie n' Crommy. It's impehtant."

The guard continued squinting at Wyland, then looked at Ol' Blue. "You gonna escort 'im, then, Blue? "s'all above board, yeah?" Wyland didn't notice, but Ol' Blue winked at the guard before he nodded, and looked at Wyland. . "Yeah, don' worry, any feckin' trouble, I'll break 'is feckin' neck." Wyland could feel himself sweating, and was instinctively pawing the taser in his pocket, but he managed to smile at the guard and nod sheepishly. The guard laughed, obviously at the thought of Blue breaking Wyland's neck. In response, Ol' Blue gave a booming laugh that wiped the weak smile right off Wyland's face. Another uncomfortable silence as they looked at Wyland. The guard then said "they're prolly at central point 'ight now."

The guard pulled a clicker out of his pocket and the gate opened. Ol' Blue dropped it in gear and nodded to the guard as the old truck rumbled and squeaked through the entrance. The guard stared back with a concerned look, and in the rear view, Wyland saw him pull out his radio and talk into it.

They drove past massive piles of stone, and equally massive earth movers, all painted yellow and green. After about a mile of dirt road and dirt piles, the scene opened up to reveal a large open pit with dirt road spiraling down the sides. The rock walls of the quarry were a mottled greenish black with grey and white stripes. It was beautiful rock, and Wyland saw at once why there was a quarry here. 

As this was running through his mind, the truck slowed down, and finally stopped. Ahead of them, a small town of mobile homes sat on a hill overlooking the quarry pit. Ol' Blue sighed, and looked at Wyland. "Well, I bettah search ya, now, hadn't I? Get teh feck outta teh truck." 

Wyland stepped out, but his hands were in his pockets. The taser was warm against his skin, because he had been squeezing it and fondling it the whole trip here. It was his only protection, but it felt so weak, so light, and so cheap in his hand. It felt like a useless piece of plastic, and it would now be found and taken from him. He thumbed the on/off switch, contemplating shocking the shit out of Ol' Blue, but decided against it. 

Blue stepped up behind him, after walking the long way around the truck. He said "get ya feckin' hands up." So Wyland did so, without releasing the taser. It was small enough that it could have been his wallet that he now held aloft in his left hand. The thug searched him, feeling for a hidden firearm at his sides, chest and ankles. His hands moved down and back up, quickly patted his wallet, worked around his belt line, and moved up his chest. He finally gave Wyland a sharp clip on the chin with his fist (a Scottish reach-around?), and said, "Good 'nuff. S'go."

Wyland quickly shoved the taser back in his pocket, incredulous that the idiot didn't look at his hands during that whole little uncomfortable episode. 

They walked up across the rutted dirt road to a long double wide trailer. Several signs hung from the sides of the building. A large one over the door said "Central Point" and another said 
"Offices------>". 

They walked into Central point. 

The place smelled of whiskey sweat and cheap coffee. There was a trail of muddy footprints that went from the door, to the bathroom in the back, and another that went right to a small bank of coffee makers sitting on a table. Cheap couches littered the area, and an old formica table sat by a window slatted with cheap plastic blinds. A vending machine held cheap, nutrition-less food in colorful bags. 

A group of miners were standing around in a loose circle by the table and window, laughing hard at what was surely some tasteless joke. As the door clunked shut, the laughter died, and heads turned towards the new additions to Central Point. 

"Blue, yeh ol' fecker!" yelled a man as large as Blue, but redheaded as a viking, as he walked over and clapped Blue on the back. "Hey, Red. How'rya doin'?" was Blue's relatively muted response.

Red looked at Wyland with a big, dangerous grin. "Gotta new bitch, have'ya, Blue? Aren'tcha gonna introduce us?" The boys all laughed at this, but then they noticed Blue wasn't laughing, and the laughter quieted down. "This pansy gotta date wit' Crommy n' Ollie. Where dey at?"

Red's expression changed from grin to scowl, and he turned to one of the men "Greenie, get teh boys!" The men shuffled out of their circle, and it felt like the air in the room got just a bit cooler. 

Ch. 21: Motor oil, sweat, and burnt metal

The next day, Wyland set about walking around Lanark, asking a few people what they knew about the quarry, and Edinburgh. People were mostly friendly, and proud of their little town, at least from what Wyland could gather through the thick accents and strange slang they all seemed to throw at him. He was careful not to ask too much about the Cunninghills, but found a small welding company owned by Eustis Cunninghill on one of the side streets. He strolled past it, glancing sideways at it. It seemed like a normal enough place, with a greasy, burly man in old denim slowly welding some metal structure together in one of the open garage bays. 

He got his courage up, sniffed a big breath of air, walked up to the man, and said "Excuse me? I'm looking for Crom or Ollie Cunninghill?"

The man stopped his welding. A bright spot remained in Wyland's vision where the flux bar had been touching the metal and arcing at thousands of degrees. The metal was glowing red. He threw up his protective visor, and a man with a dark, dirty beard and tired, angry eyes looked Wyland over. "They ain't here. They'll be at the quarry. Who're you, any'who?"

Wyland shook his head. "Nobody important. I'd just like to talk to them, is all." 

The man slowly got up and stepped closer to Wyland. He smelled like motor oil, sweat, and burnt metal. He was a very large man. An angry look was in his eyes, and they darted back and forth, trying to scan each of Wyland's eyes, perhaps looking for weakness, perhaps looking for the lies they held. 

In perhaps the most cliched response Wyland had ever seen, the welder took a big sniff of snot, scrunching half his face to get it out, looked down and to his right, and then spat a giant loogie onto the ground. It was green with black flecks. Wyland instinctively grimaced. The man gruffly said "Nobody important, eh? If'n your'e asking fer the Cunninghills, it best be important. What're ya heah ta talk to 'em 'bout?"

Wyland was suddenly regretting talking to this man. His mind raced as he tried to maintain a calm demeanor. He was talking to the right man, but now had to convince him that the Cunninghills needed him. There was only one way, now, but it meant selling out the cops. But he could stall it, at least for a while.

Wyland opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Then, all in a burst: "I have important information they need to hear. They have information I need. It is extremely important I talk to them immediately."

The welder regarded Wyland with a skeptical look. But the gears in his mind were visibly cranking. He would find himself in deep shit if this Yank was telling the truth. He would take shit for calling them at the quarry, and their father, his employer, would certainly hear about it. The boss would need to hear it first, yes, that was the answer his brain had been looking for.

Finally, he said to Wyland "Eustis clears all info 'tween you'n deh boys. That's teh way 'tis."

Wyland steeled up and tried to puff out his chest, though his balls had shriveled into his belly. "No. This information could save their lives, and they need to hear it, today, from me, from my mouth." He gestured at his mouth as he said the last part, to ensure that this northland hick fully understood. "I came all the way from America to talk to them. It's important, and I think Eustis would want you to help me." He spoke the truth, but it was only truth under the assumption that Eustis actually gave a crap about his sons. 

Silence ensued, and Wyland could tell the welder, thuggish though he was, was carefully weighing his options. He wanted to crack the neck of this pitiful looking Yank. Nobody had told him "No" for a long time. He didn't accept it from his women, or his friends, or his enemies. But from up on high, he did, and if Eustis' boys were in trouble, as they often were, he had a responsibility to help. This responsibility was just to his own well being, to his fully intact skull, and the continued existence of himself and his friends and family. 

He grunted illegibly, but pointed towards the old work truck in the drive. 

Ch. 20: Bunk shiny's n' weegies

Wyland arrived at the Edinburgh train station as night was closing in. The book hadn't finished downloading yet, but he had no choice but to disembark. He'd get it later.  

He hated sleeping while traveling, because he never woke up feeling like he was rested. But this time, he felt good. He could still taste Connie's kiss on his lips. 

He left the station and hailed a cab. He had a hotel in Lanark, and would go to the quarry tomorrow morning. The cabby laughed at him when he asked to go to Lanark, and in a thick Scot accent told him to "get deh feck outta deh cab", and that he wasn't about to drive 50 kilometers for some "Yankee cunt". Wyland offered him a 50 pound tip, and after inspecting it to ensure that it was, in fact, real pound sterling, he called Wyland "seh" and opened the door for him, smiling the whole time.

As they were driving, Wyland asked some sideways questions about Lanark, about Edinburgh and about the quarry, and got some sideways answers, mostly history and bad jokes and things any fool could look up online. Finally, Wyland just asked the cabby about the Cunninghill brothers, directly.

The driver got real quiet at the mention of the Cunninghill name, so Wyland pulled out another 50 and waved in the rear view mirror. He responded "your'e a coco?"

Wyland, confused, asked "What's a coco?" 

"Christ, mun! Cocos! Polis! Teh cops!" He barked back at Wyland.

"No, no, nothing like that." Wyland thought for a moment. "A journalist. Researching Eustis Cunninghill's investment group."

The cabbie pondered this for a moment. "'n ya gotta protect your'e sources, right? I can stay anonymu'rs?"

"Anonymous? Yes, of course. No names or references to you. Promise. I won't even ask your name." Wyland smiled. The cabbie slowly smiled back.

"Alrite, den, boyo, it's your'e funeral" the cabby responded as he shook his head. "They'ra bad bunch'a blokes, the Cunninghills. Eustis, 'es a heavy up her'e, owns a couple'a biznesses, ya cross 'im, ya lose tings. Like'n your'e hoose goes up'n flames 'n such. His boyos, Crom 'n Ollie, 'dey run 'round like chickens what took o'ver deh farmhoose. Dey as close to a mob fam'ly as Scotland's got deese days. Ya best stay far away from 'em. I dunno nothin' 'bout any 'vestments."

Wyland pondered this for a moment. Then he said "your concern has been noted. But I need to talk to them. Why, if their father's so powerful, do they work for the quarry?"

The cabby laughed and rubbed his fingers together. "I'mma need mor'e, uh... incentives." So Wyland pulled out a hundred pound note and shook it for the cabby, saying "you'll get this at the end of the trip, if I'm satisfied with your answers, I promise."

The cabby smiled and continued "Well, y'see, Crommy got 'is poppy into some trouble wit dees feckin' Israeli weegies over some bunk shiny's a bit back, almost got deh lot a' 'em killed 'r locked up but good, so poppy put 'em where dey can't cause no more trouble."

"Bunk Shiny's? Weegies?" Wyland asked, confused.

"Bunk Shiny's! Yeh know, fake diamonds an' such. Weegies is just some cunts from Glasgow. Diamonds been der fam'ly bizness fer years now, 'long wit deh oil and mining stuff. Not always on deh up 'n up, yeh know? Lately deh been up teh sumthin' new, don' know what, but den, I don' ask, neither." He smiled again, looking Wyland in the eye through the rear view mirror. "Ya shouldn'ta either."

Wyland squinted at him, shaking the hundred pound note. "Anything else you can tell me?"

"I suppose, since your'e payin' me rent n' all. deh boys'es been goin' ta Edinburgh a lot lately. Seen 'em wit an ol' bloke, 'e wears robes like'n a fuggin' monk. Nice ol' fecker, though. Dunno 'is name, but dey call 'im Professa'. I hadn't seen Eustis up'n here in ages, saw 'im wit deh professa' 'bout a month ago, in Edinburgh. S'all I know."

"Thanks." He threw the rat cabbie the money through the little window separating them, and sunk into thought. The cabbie said nothing more, but eagerly scooped up the money and stuffed it in his pocket. 

Ch. 19: The train ride north

As the train slid smoothly along the tracks, Wyland perused the paperwork Connie had given him. Crom's case file was large: drug charges, assault charges, theft and racketeering charges, but the only conviction was for a bar brawl in Glasgow years ago, and marijuana possession. Oliver was clean, he had graduated from the University of Plymouth with a degree in engineering, and had hopped from job to job, but had remained at the quarry for the last three years. 

Their father, Eustis Cunninghill, was a bureaucrat in Liverpool, and was filthy rich. He had owned major stakes in mineral rights to a large North Sea oil deposit, and had sold them right before oil prices fell a few years back. He appeared to have several private companies, one of which was heavily involved with supplying heavy equipment to Oakenfold rock quarry, where his two sons worked. He sat on a large and influential board of private investors. The board had investments all over the world, and counted among their ranks several billionaires and two national leaders: a former Governor of the island territory of Montserrat, and a former prime minister of East Timor. Wyland thought about these two countries, both small island nations that had seen more than their share of bad luck. He doubted these men were good people.

Eustis Cunninghill had been convicted of racketeering charges related to a diamond smuggling ring out of Nigeria, but the conviction was overturned on appeal, and he had spent less than two months in prison. Crom was named in the charge, but he was dropped from the case upon providing the alibi that he had been working for the quarry and had not been in contact with any of the smugglers, who had been based out of Glasgow and didn't recognize him when it came time to squeal.

Stephen McAlerod seemed like a normal guy, a truck driver out of Bristol for many years , then a heavy equipment operator for the quarry, before his untimely death. No brothers or sisters, his father was dead, and his mother, until yesterday, had lived in Winterbourne. No college, no marks on his record, no girlfriend. A note in his file stated that Crom and Stephen had been in "an altercation" at the quarry that had been "handled internally". Wyland assumed that it was this altercation that had lead to Stephen's death. 

Stephen's internet search history that Connie had provided seemed familiar to Wyland. As part of the research for this case, he had searched many of the same terms, and clicked on the same links, as Stephen had in that final week of his life. Wyland felt the familiar sting of failure as he read through the links: "Modern curse words", "Ancient curse words", "Astrology", "How to brew potions", "What are curses?", "Curse words through history", on and on they went through all the new age crap, to old divination and soothsaying, and finally to Hermetics and ancient Hebrew lore, where Wyland himself had actually found some answers. He recognized the link for "The Star of Solomon", the book he had been reading on the plane, and was now stashed in his luggage. But Stephen had found more information than Wyland had. In particular, Stephen had clicked on an autobiography about a druid/hippie named "Ghena Lockflower" who wrote a book called "Tawelu Marwolaeth (Silencing Death), the death curse."  He pulled out his laptop to search for this woman.

After some careful and painfully slow searching, he found the link. It was just a sales link for the book. But it also had a picture of the book. A rune, painted in exquisitely detailed silvery blue, shown on the book's cover. It looked almost exactly like the protection rune from the Star of Solomon. It could have been a broken figure eight laid on it's side, dead. It was almost like the infinity sign, but there was a break in one of the loops, and a sharp interior turn from a little spike of a flourish. If the figure was a head and a torso, like a snowman, it was lying on the ground, dead with a large bullet wound in it's head.

Tawelu Marwolaeth. The death curse. Alva's horrid song. 

A shiver went through his spine.

Just a sales link for the book, though he found, as Stephen had, that one could download the book. So he downloaded it, though the WiFi on the train was excruciatingly slow. 

He spent the rest of the ride sleeping while the book slowly downloaded.

Ch. 18: Twenty tons

Wyland, after an uncomfortable night in an unfamiliar bed, with heavy thoughts and what felt like twenty tons of guilt and embarrassment weighing on his chest, got up and went back to New Scotland Yard. He felt like the courage he had felt last night had dissolved completely, with regret and embarrassment left behind. 

Connie was there, and seemed relieved to see Wyland at her office door. She smiled sheepishly, and apologized for the previous night. She said she had been "unprofessional", a term that Wyland despised. Professionalism, in Wyland's mind, was simply a way to maintain hierarchies and keep minions in their place. It was a mechanism of social control. It had no place in love or lust, whatever this had been. 

Wyland stopped her from making more awkward excuses by gently grabbing her shoulders, sitting her down, and telling her his story. A story he'd never told anyone before. He told her of early successes, a bright, good-looking and promising student with a beautiful fiance, who had, one day, lost damn near everything, and hadn't really regained it since. He didn't know why it happened, but it wasn't her fault. He was cursed to fail; at love, at work, at life. 

Connie listened intently, with a deep caring in her eyes. After he finished, tears streamed down her face as she said "Oh god, Wy, I had no idea. I'm so sorry." Wyland was extremely relieved to see that she genuinely believed him.

Then he said "I have to find out what this curse is. I don't care if I die in the process. All there is left for me is to solve this... maybe I can get my life back if I do, and if not, I haven't really lost much. You can help me. You're the only person who can help me."

She sighed, a deep, rattling sigh, and nodded silently. She pulled up the files on Crom and Oliver, printed them and handed them to Wyland. "Please destroy these once you've memorized them, I'm not really supposed to do this."

She continued "There's something else. A work acquaintance of theirs, Stephen McAlerod, was killed yesterday morning, in a most unlikely fashion. An old satellite fell on the house where he and his mother were staying. A Russian satellite with a hot nuclear core. We had to evacuate half the bloody town of Winterbourne. He and his mother were the only casualties, though it started several fires, and several people are still being monitored for radiation exposure." She went quiet, staring out the window, though there wasn't much of a view.

After a while, she continued "I... I heard about it this morning. My boss wants to reopen the case, but we haven't yet. These idiots are dangerous. They're trying to figure out a way to bring them in without allowing them to speak. Tranqs and tasers, we're thinking. They're deathly afraid of these little cunts." She crossed her arms, and shook her head. "Stupid people with power are the worst kind. That's why we don't allow many guns here. It's the stupid ones that ruined it for everyone else. You Yanks would do well to learn that."

After her little commentary, she went back to professional mode. "We pulled Mr. McAlerod's comms history, sorry, um... e-mails, phone calls and such." Wyland nodded, he knew what she meant the first time. She went on "I haven't had time to look at them, but I had the copy center make you up a copy." She handed him a thick manila envelope. "what's immediately apparent is that he knew he was cursed."

"The Cunninghill brothers are currently at work, in a quarry outside Lanark, Scotland. It's all in the case files. Mr. McAlerod left the site a little more than a week ago. An eyewitness in Winterbourne reported that he arrived there the next day looking quite ill, and barely left the house once he arrived. There's quite an extensive internet record in there, I think that's all he did in his final days was search the internet. He had booked a plane ticket stateside, to Detroit, and was slated to leave today." 

She looked exceptionally competent and professional as she briefed Wyland, and he could feel the lust for her welling up in him again, and had to stifle it, beat it down, and maintain a calm demeanor. All he wanted to do was grab her and passionately kiss her, but he didn't. He just sat there listening to her, until finally, she dropped another large envelope in his lap. "A copy of all our... more esoteric research associated with the case. I assume you're already familiar with most of it. We will move on the Cunninghills within the next few days, we're still coordinating with the northern police force in Edinburgh. Be careful and stay out of the way."

"Thanks" Wyland said as he stacked everything in his shoulder bag, an old leather case that reminded him of a large purse. He probably would have taken crap for wearing a man purse from his friends, except he never really had any good friends to give him shit like that.

He stood up, and puffed his chest out, trying to look brave and determined, but she could see the fear in his eyes. She smiled at him again, a sexy, sultry smile. He was really going to do this, and she knew she would never see him again, at least not alive. The thought was nostalgic, somehow, like watching a warrior march off to a battle he was sure to lose, but did so anyway, for honor and glory, for king and country. She thought it was excruciatingly sexy of him. She felt like it was 1939, and war was coming, and nobody knew just how bad it might get. 

He turned to go, but she stopped him, grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. "Good luck" she said sincerely, then kissed him, deeply and passionately. He tasted salt as a tear fell to their lips. He could feel her slender frame against him, and the warmth of soft skin beneath the silk shirt she was wearing. They lingered there for a moment, breathing each others' air and tasting each others' lips, then they finished, her lips grabbing his as they broke off. Wyland looked at the ground, shouldered his bag, said "thanks again" and left.

After grabbing lunch, Wyland purchased a self defense taser and some duct tape, then boarded the train at King's Cross, bound for Edinburgh. He felt like the weight had been lifted, like he was going to his death with a clean conscience.

Ch.17: An unsuccessful, lonely, loveless life awaits

Connie left the hotel disappointed. Wyland sat on the bed, feeling worse that he had in a long time. He couldn't get it up. Limp as a  wet fucking towel. God, how cruel life could be! 

She was sexy; A lithe and beautiful figure underneath the boring business suit, with a thick, gorgeous mane of silky, dirty greyish blond hair above and a smaller but equally beautiful tuft of dark blond below. Her breasts were small, with tiny nipples, that were still beautiful and perky, untouched by the cruelty of gravity that so afflicts larger breasted women. Her butt was perfectly round and shapely. She even danced naked for him, a drunken, silly, off balance dance, but still... nothing had worked. He had tried using his tongue and hands to please her, but it was insufficient. She got sick of the embarrassing display he had put on, and got dressed and left, herself feeling dejected and unattractive. She went home, drank some more wine, and went to sleep.

Wyland was there in the hotel room, feeling as lonely as one can, also crying. He hadn't been with a willing girl in years, perhaps a decade, and now it was like his body didn't remember how it worked. No, he was hard at the restaurant, that couldn't have been it. He had been so horny and ready to explode that he was worried about endurance, which after the fact, seemed like a silly thing to worry about. He was still too young to need a pill.

She had seemed genuinely attracted to him. He had pulled off his shirt, and she had growled a little kitten growl at him, and pawed at him, and gotten even more horny than she was before. She had been dripping wet; The whole room smelled of her sex. 

He was definitely attracted to her. She was fun and beautiful and friendly. 

Why?!? Why had this happened!?

 His mind raced from embarrassment, to anger, to thoughts of suicide, and then back to the quiet, empty room, seen through tear stained eyes. It had to be a curse. He was convinced now. Was he getting closer, and now the world was actively mocking him, instead of the passive insults he had endured before? Wyland got a sudden urge to punch a hole through the wall, angry and impotent rage welling up inside him. He screamed at the empty air, pounding the soft bed with his fists, and then, head in hands, really started to cry. A whimpering, toneless cry into a hotel pillow. 

After a little while, he remembered what she had told him at the restaurant. The Cunninghill brothers. They might know, they certainly were involved somehow. If they could throw a curse, they should know how to lift one. He didn't even care anymore. He didn't have a life worth living if he didn't solve this, so he wasn't worried about the consequences. An unsuccessful, lonely, loveless life awaited him if he chickened out now. His dejection and despair fluidly turned to resolve and courage. He straightened up, sniffed back the snot in his nose, and pulled out his laptop to look up who these god-damned worthless shit-stains were.