The ten-minute drive sped by, winding through the town, a maze of mysteries. The road twisted, leading us to the cliff's edge, where a breathtaking sight awaited—sunlit waters stretched endlessly, waves caressing rugged cliffs. The limousine screeched to a halt just thirty feet from the precipice, and an unsettling premonition washed over me.
Our scenario bore the hallmarks of a dark underworld drama—mob-style body disposal, with the unsettling chance of becoming unwitting players in our demise. Amid my racing thoughts, Duncan's timely offer of fresh glasses momentarily diverted my attention. The drink was exquisite, a rare delight compared to the swill Dianne had been serving.
Duncan caught me gazing out the window and remarked, "Quite the view, isn't it?"
"I'd say so. But it begs the question: why are we here?" I reply, furrowing my brow as I scanned the surroundings, looking for clues.
Duncan gestured toward the base of the cliff and says, "It's what's down there that's important."
Intrigued, I stepped out of the car, greeted by a bitter blast of sea air. As the gusts subsided, I heard another sound—raised voices and incessant metal clanging against stone. Pickaxes at work. I positioned myself in the grass, crawling closer to the edge. Ellena's tension reverberated in her trembling breath against my ear. Nearing the edge, the source of our intrigue came into view.
A scaffold-like frame rose from the ground, extending six feet from the cliff's top. At its pinnacle, a black metal platform and a ladder beckoned, a testament to the ingenuity needed to withstand coastal winds while preserving secrecy.
Within this frame, a cargo-style lift powered by a generator stood guard, overseen by a burly sentinel armed with a rifle. The stakes rose, and I couldn't fathom what warranted such elaborate precautions.
"Guns? Really? You could've mentioned that," I mutter.
"Aye, but that's not the crucial part," Duncan replies.
My attention returned to the commotion below, where the source of intrigue lay. A hole in the Cliffside opened like a gaping maw, with workers perched atop a mound of rubble. A chain bolted to the wall descended the slope, guiding the procession of wheelbarrows loaded with debris. Four men worked, their pickaxes pounding away. They were tunnelling into the cliff.
"What the hell is happening here?" I exclaim, bewildered by the unfolding spectacle.
"A tunnel is being carved toward the cliffs beneath that grand house," Duncan explains. "It's one reason I've been fighting to have it designated as a historical landmark. That way, the house and the land cannot be tampered with."
"But why tunnel from this distant spot? I cannot grasp the logic," I muse.
Duncan's voice was uncertain as he replies, "I'm afraid I don't have all the answers yet. My counterpart is involved, and it's not for mere development. He seeks access to something beneath that house for reasons unknown. But this operation is only the tip of the iceberg."
Returning to safety, my thoughts whirled, and a dreadful notion surfaced. The cavern, the telluric current, the vampires—the pieces aligned. David McNally might unleash an ancient evil, clearing the path for chaos. We were far from Ruth's watchful eye, and McNally seemed to play a dangerous game, assuming Duncan's suspicions were valid.
The presence of an armed guard, perhaps to prevent workers from escaping, further fuelled my concerns. I circled back to Duncan's cryptic expectations of what I could do alone and Ruth's mysterious agenda. Nothing added up, and a lurking sense of impending danger hung in the air as if the dots were misaligned, and an impending reckoning loomed.
"Where to next?" I inquired.
"Visitor's choice. The port or the garage warehouse?" Duncan replies.
"Which is closer?"
"The garage."
We all re-entered the limousine, consumed by the enigmatic puzzle unravelling before us. The tales from Ruth, Locke's letter, Frederick's diary entries, and now this. Each thread seemed to point in a different direction. What could be believed, and what was a mere fabrication? If the cavern beneath held such significance, why were vampires coerced into it and held there, assuming that part of the narrative held?
Ellena leaned in, whispering, "Someone is lying, Georgie, and they're doing it skilfully. I suspect Ruth has her agenda involving that cavern, and now there's tunnelling activity."
"So, what's our plan?" I reply, my thoughts racing.
"We observe, we listen, and we stay vigilant. We may need to contact Michael," Ellena suggests.
"And calling Michael would not only bolster our ranks, but also strengthen you," she adds.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"I read that pack Betas make the Alpha stronger," she explains.
The idea hadn't occurred to me before. The prospect of gaining supernatural strength was enticing, and it added a layer of complexity to our already convoluted situation. However, the decision to involve Michael came with its concerns, as he also needed respite from the ongoing turmoil.
Duncan, ever the gracious host, poured us another round of drinks, drawing our attention to a walnut-finished door next to the minibar. His collection of bottled scotch stood on the shelf, a testament to his refined taste.
"Twenty years old, that one," Duncan remarked, handing me a bottle. "A fine choice, indeed. Your willingness to entertain the musings of an old man with a penchant for paranoia means a great deal."
Grateful for the distraction, I accepted the drink, my mind swirling with questions and uncertainties. Duncan's sincerity was apparent, and I couldn't help but wonder how much of the supernatural darkness he was aware of, concealing my knowledge of the mystical druidic spot beneath the house inhabited by ancient vampires.
"Thank you," I reply, choosing my words carefully. "And I must admit, Duncan, I don't think you're paranoid."
"Is that so, laddie? And what makes you say that?" Duncan inquired.
I hesitated, wary of revealing too much about the supernatural undercurrents. "From my own experiences, anyone guarding a rickety lift at the base of a cliff with a rifle usually has something significant to hide. But the larger question remains—why haven't the local authorities investigated this?"
"Because, my dear lad, I've lost faith in them," Duncan replies with a sigh. "The police here function differently, led by an elected sheriff who assembles his crew. Sheriff Bernie Doyle, a close friend of McNally, hails from the previous administration. Need I say more?"
Duncan's words resonated, painting a picture of corruption akin to the darkness that clung to this seaside town. Now, more than ever, I leaned toward contacting Michael for help despite the complexities and conflicts that would arise. The situation was spiralling, and the puzzle pieces were far from fitting.
"Where do we go from here?" I ask Duncan, my thoughts racing.
"Well, it's your choice as visitors. The port or the warehouse garage?" he replies.
"What's the nearest option?" I inquired.
"The garage," Duncan says.
We settled back into the limousine, and my mind continued to churn, questioning the integrity of the information we had gathered. It was a tangled web of half-truths and hidden agendas, and I couldn't shake the feeling that another shoe was about to drop in this sinister drama.
We moved on to the next part of our journey, leaving the mysterious Cliffside operation behind. We went to "McNally and Son's Auto" and parked a street away to avoid the limo sticking out. Standing off the main road, the garage felt like a mysterious warehouse of secrets. The sprawling yard held towering stacks of scrapped vehicles, their faded paint barely visible behind the wire fencing and peeking over the boundary wall.
The forecourt, with its abandoned outpost vibes, displayed a handful of petrol pumps and a variety of used cars available for purchase. We found ourselves on the outskirts, where Cruden Bay and Peterhead converged, surrounded by an old-fashioned motel, a quaint cafe, and a lively pub just a stone's throw away.
The sense of community was palpable, with locals who seemed to know each other and their dogs. The motel, draped in flaking paint and adorned with dirty windows, barely clung to its tattered three-star rating, with the third star appearing on the verge of desertion. It was a stark contrast to the pristine appearance of Cruden Bay—or "Blood Bay," as Duncan had earlier dubbed it.
Maintaining our ruse as sightseeing tourists, Ellena and I strolled hand in hand, playing the role of a couple interested in exploring the area. The weather, at least, was cooperating, even if Ellena's blonde hair danced wildly in the wind. She seemed to have shaken off her unease, her apprehensive glances over her shoulder fading. The local pub exuded an atmosphere of camaraderie, while the nearby motel wore its three-star rating with a mix of pride and neglect.
Our attention shifted to a battered "A Reg" Sierra Cosworth on sale for £595, its driver's seat window revealing a discrepancy in the displayed mileage—54,000 miles instead of the advertised 48,000. As we scrutinised the vehicle, we overheard a heated conversation in the nearby office—a confrontation between two men in their late twenties or early thirties who bore a striking resemblance to each other, likely brothers. The elder of the two appeared to be in charge, while the other was soothing him. Elvis Presley crooned in the background.
Tools clanged and clattered in the garage, and amidst the din, I heard low, muted moans punctuated by shuffling and scuffling. The unmistakable scent of blood reached my nostrils, confirming that something nefarious was afoot. I whispered my discovery to Ellena, who maintained her composure, her hand covering mine as my claws threatened to emerge.
"It's a beauty, isn't it?" the fair-haired, medium-built man approached us, mistaking our interest in the Sierra Cosworth.
"Pardon?" I reply, feigning ignorance.
"The car. Only 48,000 miles on the clock," he says, his forced smile betraying his unease. His attempts at deception were transparent.
"That seems low for a car of this age," Ellena remarked, playing along.
"Aye, one previous owner," he continues, "primarily used it for motorway driving."
Ellena and I exchanged knowing glances. An economy engine like the Sierra Cosworth, driven extensively on motorways, should have higher mileage. The radio in the office was turned down as a phone call came in, revealing a fragment of the conversation between the two brothers.
"The shipment was light; what else could I do? I had to cut it," one of them says.
"Light fingers more like," the other retorted.
The voice on the phone relayed more unsettling information. The younger brother had been seen selling illicit goods in a bar in Hatton. A cloud of suspicion hung over him. The conversation ended with a cryptic mention of a "little job" that needed to be done at 9 p.m., implying that the blood was already flowing.
The puzzle pieces fell into place, revealing a family entangled in criminal activities. Their involvement in drug trafficking, the disturbing noises, and the smell of blood painted a grim picture. The younger brother, it seemed, was a liability, skimming from their operations.
As we continued to eavesdrop, the family endeavours veered into darker territory. The question remained: What were they planning for 9 p.m...., and how could we exploit their internal conflicts? The atmosphere of our undercover mission had turned chilling as the dark cloud of criminality cast its shadow over McNally and his family.