Page 2 of Protecting my Human
“Do you have anything positive to report?”Abaddon asked on a sigh.
“Yes, actually.The Wagyu herd we ordered was just delivered.”
“Why didn’t you start with that?”Abaddon asked.rising from his throne—aka reinforced couch, custom built to hold his weight.
“Because I figured best give you the bad news first.Now, where do you think you’re going?”
“To eat.”
Pip crossed her arms and shook her head, her silvery locks flying.“It’s midafternoon.You know you can’t go outside.”
Abaddon glared at her.“I’m hungry.”
“I’m aware.Hence why?—”
Before she could finish her sentence, his nose twitched.“You brought me one!”
Indeed, she’d had one of the cows delivered to his habitat.
It turned out to be quite delicious, fatty and flavorful, definitely his top favorite of everything he’d tasted thus far, although, according to the memories inherited from his mother progenitor, nothing could beat the taste of human.
ChapterOne
Finally,I tasted adventure.The last few months had been glorious, if at times frustrating, but no one ever said following your dream would be easy.
My goal?To write a book on the lost treasures of Scotland, with the hope I’d actually find one of them.For years, I’d been gathering clues, researching, and digging out tidbits from hundreds of written texts.Now I would find out if any of my theories were correct.My university had kindly given me a year’s sabbatical and a modest grant to help with my travel expenses, on the condition that they receive some credit once I published.
Gladly.The University of Aberdeen had been my home for the last decade.I started out teaching and ended up running the history department, a true honor given my relatively young age of thirty-nine.I enjoyed the challenge, but at times I missed simply teaching.Hence my excitement at getting away from my dratted desk, with the never-ending memos, emails, and administrative keech.I set off to uncover the secrets of the past, only to have reality smack me in the face.
Turned out all the research I’d done ahead of time couldn’t account for progress.Places I’d meant to search, bulldozed over to make room for housing.Ruins too fragile to explore.Thus far, I’d yet to locate a single treasure or tidbit not already published, but I wouldn’t let that discourage me, even as I realized without a single “win,” my book would likely never materialize.No one wanted to read about failure, even if some of my escapades proved amusing.Like when I entered a cairn and emerged screeching at the dozens of spiders clinging to me.Or when the exploration of a crumbling castle had me falling through the floor that had become a home for rats.My screams as their furry bodies writhed around and over me likely could be heard all across Scotland.
Now I rode a ferry heading to the Isle of Rum, where I hoped to convince the owner of Kinloch Castle—who’d not replied to my emails—to let me inside.I had a hunch he might have a treasure hidden somewhere, either in the building or on the grounds.
The Isle of Rum could have made for an interesting book on its own.It remained mostly untouched, inhabited by a few dozen people who worked merely to serve the tourists.Originally, everything on the isle was owned by NatureScot, AKA the Scottish government, but, given the disrepair and cost of restoring Kinloch Castle, they’d recently sold it off to a billionaire who promised to restore and eventually open it for visits to the public.
The lack of information on Alistair Graham, the man who’d bought it, made my task difficult.He couldn’t be found on social media, didn’t attend charity events like other rich folk, and didn’t seem to own any businesses, either.From what I could gather, his wealth had been inherited from his father, also named Alistair Graham, descended from yet another Alistair.A family lacking originality when it came to names, and who only ever seemed to have one son per generation.As for the wives and mothers of the long chain of Alistair’s?I’d yet to locate a single image or marriage certificate for the women listed on the birth records.It was as if these generational sons simply appeared one day to take over the family name and riches.
But the mystery of the Graham family wasn’t my primary purpose—although it might make for an interesting research paper later.My goal was to convince the current Alistair to aid me in my quest.
The ferry docked, the passage having taken an hour and a half.The return would be around four-thirty, giving me limited time to accomplish my task.Hopefully, I wouldn’t get stuck and have to spend the night, as accommodations were not as comfortable, or private, as the hotel room I’d prepaid for back on the mainland in Mallaig.
The passengers, tourists with backpacks and cameras around their necks, disembarked, shuffling into the small town.I already knew I’d have to walk to the castle, as cars weren’t allowed on the isle, part of preserving its nature.
I spent a few minutes wandering, talking to the locals, finding out more about my destination and its owner.Apparently, Mr.Graham had begun the restoration, but not at a rapid pace, as he’d elected to do most of the work himself.Since he had his supplies delivered and rarely visited the few businesses by the dock, the folks who lived on the isle couldn’t tell me much about the man, other than he was tall and polite.A politeness that didn’t extend to friendliness, yet they didn’t seem to resent or dislike him for it.On the contrary, the term “proper lord” got bandied about, despite his lack of an actual title.The woman who worked the general store claimed that, since his arrival, there’d been fewer incidents with the mischievous sprites that liked to play tricks, and they no longer had to hide after dark from the Red Caps.It appeared ancient superstitions remained alive and well on the Isle of Rum.
The hike from dock to castle would take about twenty or so minutes, but I didn’t mind.The scenery proved breathtaking with swatches of lush greenery backdropped against the blue sea.However, once the looming castle came into view, I couldn’t stop staring at it.Built by the Bullough family as a hunting lodge and retreat in the late eighteen hundreds—1897, to be exact—it took three years to complete.The Tudor style had been created with the use of red sandstone blocks quarried from the Isle of Arran.While not as old as other castles, its remote location and a decline in wealth by the family led to it going derelict quite rapidly.By 1957, it had been acquired by the Scottish government, which opened the castle to the public for a while before its declining state made it too dangerous.Unfortunately, the cost to repair proved greater than they wanted to invest, hence the sale of it to Alistair Graham.
Climbing the steps to reach the main door, I took a deep breath.I’d already mentally prepared my speech.As I raised my hand to knock, to my surprise, I noticed an electronic doorbell with built-in camera had been installed.
I pressed the button and waited.
A male voice replied, “The castle isn’t open to visitors.”
“Oh, I know, but I was hoping you’d make an exception.My name is Davina Campbell, and I’m a professor from Aberdeen University writing a book on?—”
“Not interested.”
“But I haven’t?—”
