Read Chapter 17: A Hidden Ally

The surgery bell chimed at a quarter past nine, and Iona looked up from the microscope to find Dr. Fergus Campbell filling her doorway. He was a wiry man in his seventies with a face like crumpled paper and eyes that missed nothing. He’d sold her this practice, and the weight of his presence in her small examination room felt heavier than his frame suggested.

“The deer,” he said, without preamble. “The one from the upper moor. Gareth tells me you’ve got a sample.”

Iona glanced at the clock. She hadn’t told anyone outside the council about the tissue sample. “Gareth talks too much.”

“Gareth is a good man who worries about young women poking around in Blackwood business.” Fergus stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “And you’ve been doing more than poking, haven’t you, lass?”

She kept her voice steady. “I’ve been treating animals. That’s my job.”

“Your job doesn’t usually involve late-night excursions to hidden caves or private meetings with the Blackwood heir.” He held up a hand before she could deny it. “Don’t bother. I’ve been doctor to this village for forty years. I know what walks on two legs and what runs on four. And I know you’ve seen the inside of that family’s secrets.”

Iona’s blood went cold. She’d been careful. Lachlan had been careful. But this old man stood before her with the calm certainty of someone who had long ago stopped being surprised by anything the Highlands threw at him.

“What do you want, Dr. Campbell?”

“Sit down, lass. You’re going to want to be seated for this.”

She didn’t sit. But she did cross her arms and lean against the counter, giving him her full attention.

Fergus sighed and lowered himself onto the examination stool. “I’ve known about the Blackwoods since I was a boy. My father was the village doctor before me, and his father before him. We’re not clergy, but the position comes with its own kind of confession.” He fixed her with a sharp look. “The family receives injuries that heal too fast. They disappear on certain nights. After a while, even a man who doesn’t believe in fairy tales starts to understand the arithmetic.”

“Then you know what they are.”

“Aye. And I know what they are not.” He leaned forward. “There’s a difference between the Blackwoods and what attacked that deer. What attacked you on the moor.”

Iona’s breath caught. “How do you know about that?”

“Because I’ve seen the wounds it leaves before.” Fergus pulled a worn photograph from his jacket pocket. It showed a younger version of himself standing beside a man in his forties with kind eyes and a weathered face. “That’s your father.”

The air left Iona’s lungs. She’d seen photographs of her father at home, but never this one. Never with the village doctor. “You knew him?”

“He came to me when he was investigating Morag MacIntyre’s death. Thought she might have been attacked before she disappeared. Showed me photos of marks on her car—claw marks, he said.” Fergus’s mouth tightened. “I told him what I knew about the Blackwoods. Not everything. But enough.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That there were two kinds of wolves in these hills. The ones who carried the old blood and kept to their own. And the ones who had gone wrong. Who had forgotten the balance.” He tucked the photograph away. “Your father understood. He was a clever man. Too clever for his own good, in the end.”

Iona’s hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against the counter. “You think his death wasn’t an accident.”

“I think a man who walks too close to secrets will eventually get burned.” Fergus’s voice softened. “And I think you need to be more careful than he was.”

The sentence hung between them. Iona wanted to ask more questions—about her father, about what he’d uncovered—but she forced herself to think. Fergus had come to her for a reason. He hadn’t just walked over to warn her about the rogue.

“You said there are two kinds,” she said slowly. “What about the Blackwoods themselves? Lachlan is pack leader. Are there Blackwoods who have… gone wrong?”

Fergus’s face flickered. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but she caught it.

“Every family has factions,” he said. “Every pack has those who think the old ways are the only ways. The Blackwoods have a faction that believes the bloodline must be kept pure.” He paused. “They believe Lachlan’s brother Duncan—tainted as he is—should have been put down years ago. They see mercy as weakness. And they see Lachlan’s refusal to take a mate as evidence he’s not fit to lead.”

Iona frowned. “Take a mate? What does that have to do with anything?”

“The curse, lass. The Blackwood blood needs renewal. A strong mate to continue the line. Lachlan’s mother died young, his aunt was killed, his brother is a danger to himself and others. The pack wants stability. They want heirs.” Fergus’s jaw tightened. “And there are those who would see the line taken in a different direction.”

The pieces clicked together with an almost audible snap. “The break-in at my clinic. The night Duncan escaped.” She looked up sharply. “Lachlan said Duncan had help. What if it wasn’t about Duncan at all? What if someone was looking for something else?”

Fergus was silent.

“Someone wanted the dog I operated on,” Iona pressed. “The one that attacked the sheep. I assumed it was about covering up evidence of the rogue. But what if it was about me? About what I might have seen or learned?”

“Or about what you carry.” Fergus’s eyes dropped to her neck.

Iona’s hand flew to her collar. The locket wasn’t visible—she’d tucked it beneath her blouse, as she always did—but he knew. Of course he knew.

“Your mother’s locket,” he said. “Your father mentioned it to me. Said it belonged to her family. That she never took it off.” He paused. “But she wasn’t from Glasgow, was she? Not originally.”

A cold thread wound through Iona’s stomach. “What do you know about my mother?”

“Less than I’d like.” Fergus stood, suddenly weary. “Your father came to me because he was trying to connect Morag’s death to something larger. He’d found records, letters. He believed the locket was the key to understanding what had happened to the Blackwoods—and to the rogue.”

“Key to what?”

“To binding.” Fergus walked to the door, then paused. “There’s a library at the Blackwood estate. Old family archives. Your father was trying to get access to it before he died. He thought there might be something there about your mother’s family.” He looked back at her. “Her great-grandmother, specifically. A woman who came from Glasgow in the last century.”

Iona felt the floor drop out from under her. “My great-grandmother?”

“She was connected to the Blackwoods,” Fergus said quietly. “More than connected, perhaps. The family will have records—a diary, maybe. If you want to understand what your mother left behind, that’s where you’ll need to look.”

The bell chimed as he opened the door. Dr. Campbell paused on the threshold.

“And lass? Be careful what you ask for. Some things were hidden for a reason. Even from the women who carry the blood.”

The door swung shut behind him.

Iona stood alone in the silent clinic, her hand pressed against the locket through her shirt. The silver was warm against her skin. Her mother had given it to her on her sixteenth birthday with only one instruction: never take it off.

She’d never said where it came from.

She’d never said who she was before she became Eilidh MacRae of Glasgow.

And no one had ever told Iona that her great-grandmother might have known the Blackwoods well enough to leave something—a diary, a record, a secret—in their library.

She pulled out her phone and stared at Lachlan’s number for a long moment. Then she typed a message.

*What’s your library like? I need to see what’s in it.*

The reply came faster than she expected.

*Why?*

She looked at the locket. Then she typed the words that would change everything between them.

*Because I think my mother is connected to your family. And I think your locked doors have answers I was never meant to find.*