Do Your Worst(2)
“We need you. The game’s tied and you’re good luck.”
The bartender—Eilean—waved him off. “Even if that were true, I wouldn’t waste it on you lot and that piss-poor excuse for a rugby club.”
She smiled at Riley when he turned tail back to his buddies, but her eyes held the kind of guarded interest reserved for interlopers at a place that served almost exclusively regulars. “Can I get you something?”
Without hesitating, Riley ordered an aged local scotch on the rocks, hoping the quick, simple order would convey that she came in peace.
While she waited, the face-painted man and several of his buddies took turns heckling the sports teams onscreen, their impassioned shouts cutting above the dining room’s steady din of conversation.
Riley smiled to herself at the colorful insults delivered in their thick Scottish brogues. A similar disorderly air erupted in her mother’s living room every time neighbors and friends gathered to get their hearts broken by the Eagles. Even though she’d never traveled abroad before, suddenly Riley felt a little more at home.
“You’ve got good taste in scotch.” Eilean placed the highball glass of amber liquid in front of her. “For an American,” she said, warm, teasing.
Apparently, in a village this small, even a few words in her accent stood out. Riley raised her glass in acknowledgment before taking a sip.
She savored the sharp, smoky flavor of the smooth liquor, a subtle hint of spice lingering on her lips after she swallowed. Good whiskey tasted like indulging in bad decisions—that same satisfying burn. This job might kill her, but so close to Islay, at least she could enjoy single malt without paying shipping markup or import tax.
“I’d ask what brings you all the way out here,” the silver-haired bartender said, “but there’s really only one reason strangers come to Torridon.” Almost imperceptibly, her gaze strayed to a couple tucked in at a corner table wearing a pair of what looked like homemade novelty T-shirts reading Curse Chasers.
Riley winced. Reminders that her real life was someone else’s sideshow circus could make a girl feel cheap, if she let them.
Accustomed to using people’s drink order as a bellwether for their character, out of habit, her eyes fell to check what they were drinking. Riley groaned.
“Not mojitos.” Far and away the most tedious cocktail to prepare. She revised her previous analysis of their threat level. To make matters worse, their table held the remnants of several rounds.
“All that muddling.” She rubbed phantom pain from her wrist.
Eilean barked out a laugh. “You’ve spent some time behind a bar, then?”
“More than I’d care to admit.”
They shared a commiserating sigh.
“Do you get a lot of gawkers?”
“Not enough,” Eilean pursed her lips. “The Loch Ness monster is obviously a big draw for bringing supernatural enthusiasts to the Highlands, but unfortunately for us, the curse on Arden Castle scares off more tourists than it brings in.” She grabbed a rag to wipe down the bar where a bit of beer had splashed. “The latest landlords have promised to make a big investment in turning the castle into a vacation destination that will ‘revitalize the whole village,’ but we’ve heard that promise enough that we try not to get our hopes up anymore.”
“Maybe these guys will surprise you.” Riley pulled a card out of her wallet and extended it to Eilean. No one really used business cards anymore. Even though she’d gotten them on sale, they’d been an irresponsible purchase. But they added an air of legitimacy that her unconventional offering still required.
“At the very least, they hired me.” Based on what Riley could tell from their website, her new employer, Cornerstone Investments, was a land developer based in London. The latest in a long list of investors both public and private who had inked their name on Arden’s deed, they were a relatively young company with eager, if green, staff.
“A curse breaker?” Eilean arched a finely crafted eyebrow. “No wonder that weedy project manager looked right pleased with himself last time he came in here.”
Considering how frazzled and desperate he’d been when they spoke on the phone a week ago, Riley took that as a vote of confidence in her abilities.
“Still.” As Eilean handed back the card, her voice took on a new note of gravity. “Arden Castle is no place for the faint of heart.”
Riley’s ears perked up at the first hint of a lead.
“You believe in the curse, then?” Not always a guarantee, even among locals.
“Oh, aye”—Eilean laughed humorlessly—“and anyone who thinks I’ve had a choice in the matter hasn’t been here long. I’ve seen enough people broken by that curse over the course of my life-time to know that land doesn’t want to be owned and the curse ensures it won’t.”
When a guest at the other end of the bar held up two fingers, the bartender nodded and began pulling a pair of fresh pints while simultaneously finishing her warning. “I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“I’m a professional,” Riley assured her firmly as she slipped the card back into the pocket of her jeans. Part of the gig was projecting confidence in the face of the unknown. Gumption, as Gran called it, was an essential trait for curse breakers. “But the more I can learn about the curse, and quickly,” she said with a meaningful head tilt, “the better my odds.”