Chapter One

Milton ran, his legs screaming in rage at the amount of exertion. Running had not been part of the deal. A nice trip around the town, a robust but ultimately gentle hike across the island, and then a nice rest back in the hotel. Not this. Not sprinting across the hills, mud splashing from Milton’s over expensive boots. Behind him, echoing in the night was the sound of hooves striking the earth, a strange mixture of squelching and clacking as they struck dirt and stone respectively.

It can catch me. It must be able to? Milton thought. He was in his late fifties and heavyset, his stomach hanging over his khaki trousers. This trip, taking up hiking, it had all been part of a push to get healthier in his advancing age. His doctor had warned him he was risking a heart attack, something he now longed for. Anything to escape the nightmare that followed him.

 He stumbled for a moment, his mud-caked feet slipping slightly on the wet stone. The terrain was rougher than it had seemed when he had arrived on the island. Staggering off the boat, wobbling heavily as his legs adjusted, it had seemed almost idyllic. Sure, there were rocky regions along the coast, and a section of high cliff faces, sheer drops carved by the rain. Those were outliers though, as though they had been stapled to the rolling fields and pastures in a vain attempt to make the island seem somehow even more Scottish than it already was.

Milton MacTavish considered himself a true Scott. He wasn’t. Milton had spent most of his life living in Maine, in a small suburb just outside Portland. He had been obsessed, in the way many Americans were, with his ancestry, tracking down every link he could to what Milton unironically called “the old country”. He had been elated to find some long distant cousin who had moved to American from Scotland. Milton changed his surname, covered every conceivable furnishing in his house with tartan, and had even taken to calling potatoes "tatties" much to the annoyance of anyone who would listen. It had been a particularly exasperated colleague who had finally snapped at Milton, telling him he should at least visit the place first.

Rather than take it as the frustrated rage it was, Milton had considered it a helpful suggestion. He had booked the flights that night, packing his new hiking equipment into his suitcase shortly after. It was perfect after all, he had decided on hiking as his venue for exercise, intending to enjoy the Maine wilderness. Milton thought it looked a little bit like Scotland if you squinted. Now he was going to be able to indulge his new hobby and visit his ancestral homeland, it had seemed like fate.

Milton was cursing his fate now, as he sat at the edge of a sharp drop. It was from his best guess about twelve feet. He was slowly edging himself forwards, preparing to jump. He could still hear the hooves from behind him, they were slowed now, almost taunting. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and pushed himself over the edge.

As Milton hit the ground he collapsed into a roll. Mud sprayed into the air, a thick sheen covering his coat. He felt a sharp pain as something, almost certainly a stone, slammed into his back. Milton had tossed his backpack when his pursuer had first appeared, fearing its weight would have slowed him down. He longed for its cushioning now, as he struggled to right himself. He pulled back one damp sleeve of his jacket, using the still clean jumper beneath to wipe muck from his eyes. He looked up at where he had dropped from, into the face of the thing hunting him.

It was huge. Milton had seen stag, on the television at least, but this seemed bigger. Much bigger. It looked in the night sky, silhouetted by the moon. Huge antlers spread from its head, but their pattern seemed unnatural, every spur twisting off at right angles into strange geometric shapes. Hanging from them was a collection of metal rings. They varied in style and complexity as they spread outwards from its head. The innermost was simple, plain and wrought in bronze, whilst the furthest most pair were golden, intricate twisted braids of metal. They jingled lightly as it moved its head, warm breath escaping in mournful clouds as it did. Its eyes were milky white, illuminated by a soft light, two tiny specs in the night sky, like stars. Its tail was long, a slithering flicking whip. Its fur stopped where the tail attached, thick scales taking over. Its fur though, that was what unsettled Milton the most. He had assumed at first, that it red, a bright crimson shag covering its body. Now though, close to the infernal thing he could see that it was slick wet with thick scarlet blood. It covered it entirely, dripping from the tips of its fur, seemingly pouring from some unseen place, an endless river that coated the creature entirely.

It snarled with a puff of warm air, shaking itself as it did. Blood sprayed outwards, splattering across Milton’s face. He scrambled, still trying to gather his footing as the stag released another warm cloud of breath. Milton turned and began to run again, despite his legs continued protest. He staggered as the ground sloped downwards, arms outstretched trying to retain his balance in the mud. It had rained incessantly since his arrival. In his mind, Scotland had been beautiful, snow-capped mountains and romantic misty highlands. In reality, it had been simply dreary, seemingly retaining an eternal level of dampness. He turned briefly, his eyes flashing back to the drop. The stag was gone, but Milton was sure he hadn't lost it. There was a noise up ahead, a gentle crashing. He rounded a rock formation and looked out at the sea.

The sea was choppy, worryingly so, waves crashing onto the pier soaking its ancient wood. Before Milton, a man in bright yellow waterproof overalls was scowling at him.

“You going to get on the fucking boat or just stand there like a numpty? I ain’t got all fucking day ye ken?" said the man, his accent thick like treacle. Milton had struggled with the accents at first. He had expected the gentle lilt he had seen in movies. Instead, the Scottish accent had been rough, as though the speaker were gargling gravel, and it seemed to vary wildly from town to town. It was getting better, his ear getting more attuned, but it often felt like Milton was trapped in a land where he didn't speak the language.

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“Is it safe?” Milton asked, staring at the ferry. Ferry was generous, the small boat could barely hold the ten or so people already stood on it, crammed tight. It was like someone had taken a subway car, ripped off the roof and cast it into the sea.

“Aye, been doing the trip back and forth since before I had hair on my bollocks. Now ye getting in the fucker or what? Got this like of fucks to drop off at Raasay. Some people got homes to go to, they ain’t American pricks who seen Braveheart one too many fucking times.” The ferryman gesture to the boat. It had been painted blue, once, though peeled off in several places, orange rust sneaking through.

"Ok, yeah ok. Sure," said Milton. He stepped onto the ramp that ran over to the small boat. A hand clasped onto his shoulder.

“Not so fast fucker, that’ll be a tenner.” The ferryman removed his hand from Milton’s shoulder, flicking it around so it was palm up. Milton unzipped the bag clipped around his waist, the sort he had known as a “fanny pack” but had been called a “bum bag” by every British person he had met. Apparently “fanny” had a very different meaning here. He removed a ten-pound note from inside. That was another difference that felt strange to Milton, the banknote was made of plastic, its smoothness feeling fundamentally wrong to someone who had handled the rough American notes his entire life. He had barely gotten used to them as he had travelled up to Scotland. He had landed in Gatwick and had stopped at several tourist hotspots on his way up. It had been significantly confusing when he had finally arrived and had been given what had seemed at first glance to be a different currency from a local corner shop.

“There you go,” Milton said, placing the English note into the ferryman’s hand. He sneered at it, before tucking into his overalls.

“Ok, on you go. Next stop Raasay.” The ferryman pressed Miltons back, hurrying up the ramp and onto the boat. He followed behind, pulling the ramp up and into the boat behind him. “Got to say, not much in Raasay. What’s an American fucker like you want there?”

“I’m from Raasay,” Milton answered. “Well, I’m not, but my family is. That’s why I’m here tracing my ancestry. I’m a MacTavish.”

“Right, sure you fucking are. And I’m the Laird of Kilmarnock.” The ferryman laughed to himself as he untied one of the series of ropes tying the ferry to the tiny pier. “What is it with you Americans? Obsessed you are with ancestry and shit. Like all that Irish shit?”

“Irish shit?”

“Aye, St Patricks and all that. Your lot go fucking nuts for it. Green hats and shamrocks and all that bollocks.” He untied the last rope, wrapping around a metal protrusion on the edge of the hull. “I’ve been to Ireland plenty, on that day even, and they do not give a flying fuck I’ll tell you that. I wouldn’t go to Raasay if I were you. You’re going to expect glens and thistles and all that shit.” He turned to face Milton, tucking his hands into his overalls pocket. “I’ll tell you this now. It’s a handful of old people,” he gestured to the crowd behind him as if to prove his point, “and all they’ll do is try and sell you tat from that fucking visitor centre they built.”

Milton looked over at the crowd. There was a worrying amount of blue rinse and clear plastic coats. “What would you recommend?”

“What?” The ferryman asked as he walked toward the ship’s controls. They were open to the elements, save for a thing plastic awning that seemed to be attached to them with black tape, its cloth flapping above in the wind.

“What you say is proper Scottish then? I’ve got tickets for some stuff at the Edinburgh festival once I’m done here”

The ferryman thought for a moment. “Don’t, bother with that then. There's nothing Scottish about that, it’s all London cunts who ain’t as funny as they fucking think. Nah. You get yourself tickets to the next Celtic game, down a bottle of bucky first and then wake up on a bench somewhere with no shoes." He gripped the throttle, edging it forward. The boat's engines let out a satisfied growl. "That's proper fucking Scottish."

The sea. Milton felt like an idiot as he stood there, the moon glinting off the waves. He had never really been escaping. Not really. It had toyed with him, driving him here, cornering him against the water. He swallowed and turned slowly as he heard the tell-tale sound of hooves. It was different this time, the steps less frequent. As it stepped out from behind the rocks, he could see why.

The figure that emerged was no stag. At least, not any longer. Its lower half still had the same blood-soaked fur, the same cloven hooves that had tormented him. The snake-like tail still thrashed angrily. It's top half though, that was different. It was human, or at least as close as could be described. Everything about it seemed somehow off to Milton. Its arms were slightly too long, its neck a little too broad. It lilted from side to side as it walked, its horns causing it to sway seductively. It was still stained red, a constant font of blood, cascading down it like a waterfall now, covered every part of it. Its glowing white eyes blazed from behind the outpour as it stomped towards him, hooves digging deep into the sand. It lowered its head, the geometric antlers seeming to rearrange themselves as they did so, each point twisting forwards. The creature stamped twice with its left leg, then charged.

“A tenner?” shouted Elspeth. “Are you fucking serious. I’m not some fucking wet behind the ears fucking tourist. That’s a two quid trip, at most.”

“It’s a tenner. And you’ll fucking pay it if you want to get across.”

“Listen ya wee prick. I ain’t some fucking wain born yesterday. If you want to square go you are fucking welcome to mate I tell-“

“Elspeth," interrupted Gregor. He placed his hand on her shoulder. "Let me deal with this." Gregor pushed his partner aside. Elspeth was a fiery woman at the best of times, but when it came to money, she was a raging inferno. "Look, mate," Gregor fished inside his jacket, removing his police ID badge. "I’m Detective Constable Lythgoe, this is DC MacAdams. We need to get onto that island, police emergency.”

“Still need my tenner thought.”

Gregor pulled himself up to his full height. He was a behemoth of a man, and although he was in his early fifties kept to a strict fitness regimen. The result was a solid wall of muscle, more than enough to make his point. Behind him is partner smiled. Elspeth was a short woman. She had the mouth but lacked the presence to back it up. She had dark skin and a thick bushel of afro hair, a contrast to Gregor’s greying hair and pale skin. “If you want to risk obstructing an investigation…”

“No, no. Fine. Get aboard.” The ferryman looked dejected. He nodded politely to Elspeth as she walked past. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Too fucking right,” Elspeth spat back.

“What do you want to go to Raasay for anyway. Nothing there but old fuckers and rain.”

“Yeah well,” Elspeth began, “that and murder too apparently.”