(To Put It in a) Nutshell

14 August 2000; assorted locations, Scotland, UK
.
Ken flops over onto his stomach, limbs starfish-splayed across his bed.
""Ken! You have post!"" hollers Mum.
He just lies there.
""Did you hear me, Ken?""
He drags his head around, calls, "Yes, Mum."
""Well?""
"I'll get it later."
""It's from Murron!""
Ken whines, pushes up on his hands and aching knees, oozes to standing. A moment to check his balance and he staggers down the hall to the reception.
Mum beams, passes over a padded envelope absolutely /covered with heart and flower stickers. "She is /such a sweetheart."
Ken grunts agreement, accepts his post, shuffles back to his room, eases to sitting on the edge of his mattress.
The phone rings somewhere.
He fights with the envelope seal, hands shaking something terrible, huffs in frustration, tosses the thing aside.
""Ken! Phone!""
"Can you bring it here?"
Da appears in the doorway, offers the handset. "It's your girlfriend."
"Thanks." Ken accepts, puts it to his ear. "'ey, Murron."
""Did you get it?""
Da waves—
Ken waves back.
—tiptoes out.
"The envelope?" Ken sides-eyes it.
""Yes! Have you /opened it?""
"I'm having trouble. Stupid hands aren't working right."
Murron makes a sad sound.
"I can try scissors?"
""Use magic!""
"I don't think—"
""Please?""
"Alright," sighs Ken. "Gimme a moment."
""Mhm!""
He takes a deep breath, murmurs, "/Open up."
The envelope sits unchanged.
"/Open now."
He'd swear it smirks.
""Have you gotten it?""
"No ... just—" Ken sets his teeth, growls, "/Open the fuck up, you stupid fucking thing."
A tiny flame sparks to life at the corner of the envelope.
"Shit! /Go out!"
The flame grows, flickers along the paper's edge.
""What?! What's—""
The phone tumbles away, clatters against the floor.
Missus Smillie pounds on the shared wall.
Ken squeaks, pat-pats at the creeping fire.
"Do I smell—oh dear! /Down!"
The flames wink out in Da's summoned breeze.
Missus Smillie pounds again, louder.
Ken cringes.
"Do I want to know what you were doing?"
Ken scrambles for the phone. "Trying to open my post."
"Overdid it a tad?"
"Kind of?" Ken tucks the phone between his shoulder and ear. "Sorry about that, Murron. Little accident."
""What happened?""
"I kind of set my bed on fire?"
""You—/fire?""
"It was a /tiny fire. Da put it out."
""Did you get the package open?""
"Uh, no?" Ken fumbles for it.
Da waves him off, tears open one end, passes it over.
"Thanks, Da."
He bobs his head, strolls away.
""He opened it for you?""
"Yea. Dumb moon." He fishes into packet, huffs frustration, turns it upside down, and shakes it.
A rock and packets of tea and dried tomatoes tumble out onto the duvet.
Ken picks up the stone: a little bigger than a pound coin with a perfectly round hole just off-center. "Is this what I think it is?"
""Do you think it's a /gloine nan druidh?""
"Hag stone? Yea, I do."
""It is! I found it in the loch!""
Ken blinks. "/In the loch?"
""Uh huh!""
"You went into the water?"
""Yep!""
Ken swallows.
""Well, alright, I was holding onto Ailpein's mane, but I did wade in up to my knees!""
"Wow." Ken swallows again. "That's really brave of you."
""Do you like it?""
"I /love it. I'll put it on a thread and—"
Ken's alarm clock squawks.
"For fu—crap. I need to go."
""Aww ... why?""
"Because I have to work tonight."
""Didn't you work all day even though you're moon-sick?""
"Well, yea, but Don's paying me some real money to take notes for him at a meeting tonight."
""Notes."" Her voice drips suspicion.
"That's what he said: 'take notes for seven quid an hour'."
""He wants you as a truth-sayer, yea?""
"Probably? I'm not asking too many questions because he's going to pay me."
""You could get into serious trouble if you don't ask questions.""
"But this's /Don."
""You still need to ask questions before you jump into something.""
"But I'm getting—"
""/Even if you're getting paid.""
"I'll be fine. I promise."
""All I want is for you to be careful.""
"I will. Cross my heart."
""Good.""
Ken lies back, sprawls. "What've you been doing? Besides hanging out with the kelpies?"
""Oo! Missus Galloway bought a new sewing machine and gave me her old one! I'm gonna be making all my own weekend clothes now!""
"That's cool."
""It /is! I'm—"" She breaks up in giggles.
"What's so funny?"
""I'm saving up to buy tartan!""
Ken frowns. "You're not thinking of making me a kilt, are you?"
""Nooo~!""
"Murron, I don't—"
Da peeks in, chides, "Your ride'll be here soon."
Ken whines.
Da gives him a Look.
"I /really need to get ready now." Ken returns the Look best he can. "Da's breathing down my neck."
Da's Look intensifies.
""Say 'hi' to him for me~!""
"Murron says hi."
"Hello, dear."
"He says 'hello'."
""I guess I'll let you go get ready,"" sighs Murron.
"Yea ...."
""So ... I love you, Ken.""
"Love you, too."
""Goodnight~!""
"Goodnight."
With a click, the dial tone returns.
Ken sighs and hangs up.
The phone immediately rings.
Da plucks it from his fingers, thumbs the connection open, greets, "Gorman household~!" A beat. "Well, hello, Mister Douglas!" 
Ken groans.
"He's getting ready right now."
Ken heaves himself to his feet.
"Yes, he remembers he needs to dress up a bit."
Ken shuffles to his closet, paws through his pile of jumpers.
"You guarantee he'll be safe?"
He makes a triumphant noise, pulls out the best of his uniform wool.
"Of course, of course! You need to bring a pass-around dish; I understand completely."
Ken straightens, blinks at Da, squeaks, "What?!"
'Kidding,' he mouths.
Ken grumps back into the closet, adds a serviceable button-up and a pair of uniform trousers to his pile.
"His curfew? I suppose we'd like him back by ten so he can get a good night's sleep. He's got a long day tomorrow."
Ken drops the clothes on the bed, tugs his jumper and shirt off over his head.
"Good, good. I'll make sure he's downstairs in time to meet your driver. Tah!" 
Ken shrugs on his shirt, fights his way down the column of buttons.
Da watches.
"Um, is something wrong?"
"Do you /really feel alright about doing this?" Da bats Ken's shaking hands away from the tie, fixes the knot.
"Yea, I'll be fine." Ken puffs up a little. "I'm not scared of Don."
"I'm not as worried about him as I am about who else might be there."
Ken deflates, rallies, "I think we can trust him to keep me safe."
"And the truth-saying part?"
"I'll be fine."
Da raises an eyebrow.
"Really. I'll be fine."
"If anything feels wrong or you get uncomfortable, just get up and walk out. Mister Douglas promised you could do that."
"I know and I will." Ken shrugs, tries for reassuring. "But I'll be alright."
"I trust you, son." Da smiles, ruffles Ken's hair. "I'll let you finish getting ready."
"Th-thanks."
Da strolls out.
Ken takes a deep breath, switches his jeans for his school trousers without tipping over.
Then it's down the hall to the washroom to add some extra deodorant, brush his teeth—
Double back to his room for his jumper.
—pull on his jumper, fix his hair, check the overall effect in the mirror.
Still a one-hundred-percent skinny, funny-looking bloke.
Ken sighs, checks his watch, shuffles a little faster to the close.
Mum flutters up. "Are you almost ready?"
"Yea, just need my shoes," he says, stuffing his feet into them.
"Let me fix your hair!"
"Mum—" Ken sighs as she pokes and prods around his head. 
"We should've taken you for a haircut before tonight ...."
Ken controls an eye-roll. "No one's going to be looking at me. Not in what's probably a room full of vampires."
Mum squeaks, eyes huge.
Ken cringes.
"He'll be safe, Aileen-dear. Mister Douglas told us so and we know his word is good."
"I don't like the idea of my boy alone with that sort."
Ken gets his hand on the doorknob. "I won't be alone. I'll be with Don."
"But he's one of /them!" Mum wrings her hands, looks to Da for support.
He gently squeezes Ken's shoulder. "Pay attention and do your best."
"I will." Ken ducks his head. "Thanks for—"
"You better get going, son."
Ken jumps a little. "Yea, right. I, uh, better go. See you later."
Da bobs his chin.
Ken grabs the knob and scuttles out before Mum can panic again.
The door /thumps home.
Ken takes a deep breath, hunches his shoulders against the rain, trudges over to the dark blue BMW sedan purring kerbside, tugs open the passenger door.
"Hello, dear~!" greets the driver, a round, grandmotherly lady with eyes twinkling behind half-moon glasses. "I'm Isobel and I'm filling in for Mister Kennedy this evening."
"Oh, uh, hi."
"Well, get in before you're soaked to the bone, dear," she laughs.
Ken scrambles into the front seat, belts up.
Isobel puts the car in gear, swings into the traffic lane headed east.
Ken Reaches out, brushes lightly against her mind.
Peaceful, rolling green parkland, dotted with flowers and gleaming cages full of oversized butterflies.
Nothing hostile; totally human.
He exhales, pulls back.
"What should I call you, young man?"
"Uh, 'Ken' is fine, ma'am."
"No 'ma'am' for me; call me 'Isobel', please."
"Yes, ma—Isobel."
"So polite! You're a credit to your parents and teachers, Ken."
"O-okay," stammers Ken, blushing.
"If it's alright to pry—and we old ladies /love to pry—have you done truth-saying work before?"
"Not exactly? I try to keep an ear on my da's customers for trouble, though." Ken side-eyes her. "You work with Don often?"
"More often than he'd like, I think," she giggles.
"Um, okaaay ...."
"We're old, old friends."
"So ... does that mean you're about the same age?"
"Goodness, no! I'm /eons older." Isobel laughs. "When he's feeling charitable, I think Mister Douglas views me as something of a faerie godmother."
"Oh, um, cool."
It's all small talk—about school, the weather, general politics, the coming rugby season—and gentle driving for the hour and change it takes Isobel to thread their way from Greenock to Port Glasgow through Paisley and across Glasgow to Don's corner house in Battlefield with Don standing on the front step stubbing out a cigarette in the tray of silk flowers he keeps there.
"Ten quid says his first question is 'why you, Isobel'."
Ken snorks. "I'll pass on that."
"Wise choice, young man."
Don pulls open Ken's door, marks Isobel—"No, thank you. Nope."—slams the door, spins, stomps—
"Oh dear." Isobel rolls down the window, calls, "Mister Kennedy will never arrive in time for you to make your appointment."
Don stops mid-step, sags, drags himself around. "Only one question: why /you?"
Ken stifles a laugh, eyelid twitching at the effort.
Isobel grins nearly from ear-to-ear. "I'm The Blessing and Winterbite's representative tonight. It's much more efficient for us to carpool, don't you think?"
"Why don't you just poof us to Dunblane, then?"
"Because I know how much you hate teleporting and I don't get a chance to show off my driving very often."
"Isobel ...," sighs Don.
She bats her eyelashes.
"Fine. Only get us there in time and in the proper number of pieces, aye? I promised his folks he wouldn't be hurt."
"Of course. Hop in, dear."
Don heaves an enormous sigh, sulks into the backseat.
"Don't let his sour attitude get to you, Ken," says Isobel, edging them into the flow of traffic and aiming the car north. "I'm an /excellent driver, as you've seen. Learned on the very first Ford imported to Scotland and've never had a point on my license."
"Figure the amnesia spells have something to—"
"Hush, dear."
Don sniffs.
"Um, the /first Ford?"
"I'm rather well-preserved." Isobel smiles. "I was a several times-great grandmother before Mister Douglas was even a twinkle."
"How old /is he?"
"I promised I'd /never tell."
Ken huffs.
"You should know by now I'm thorough," drawls Don.
Ken flips him off.
Isobel giggles, says, "I approve of your new employee, by the way."
"He's not my anything."
"So, uh, why am I here, then?" asks Ken.
"Because I said I'd find you temporary work. Business's been slow or I'd have called sooner."
"Oh. Right."
"You're also easier to pass off as one of mine than Verity Hughes."
Ken twists around, yelps, "You're tellin' 'em I'm a /vampire?!"
Don crosses his arms. "I'm not telling 'em /anything. They're gonna /assume ye are because you're with me and you've currently got the complexion for it."
Ken glowers. "You've been planning this."
Don smirks. "The meeting? Well, yea. The date and proximity to the moon're a handy coincidence, though."
Grumpy silence expands to fill the car.
"Perhaps some candy will sweeten the atmosphere in here. I /suspect Mister Douglas has some on his person."
Don /hmphs and, after a moment, prods Ken's arm with a wrapped lolly.
He accepts, rips his way to the candy, pops it into his mouth.
/Copper floods over his tongue.
Ken blinks, gags—
Behind him, Don makes a similar sound.
—yanks out the lolly, yelps, "This's 'blood'!"
"This has /garlic in it!"
Isobel snorks loudly.
"You-you said you weren't allergic!"
"Allergic, no. Disgusted, /yes." Don opens his window, spits. "I'll be tasting this all bleeding /night."
"/You?! What about /me?!"
"You'll be /fine."
"Says /you!"
"There's no actual blood in those, only herbs and spices, for fuck's sake."
"I can still taste it!"
"There should be some hot tea to cleanse your palates in my bag. If you would, dear?"
Grumbling and fabric rustles in the backseat.
Ken debates sticking his head out the window for a mouthful of rain.
Don groans.
"What is it, dear?" calls Isobel.
"This's a bottomless bag, isn't it?"
Ken twists around.
Don's arm has vanished to the shoulder in a tote about the size of supermarket carrier bag.
"I assure you there's a bottom to it."
"It's just a long walk from here, aye?" Don retracts his arm, drops the bag on his lap, grumps, "If I'm not back in thirty minutes, pull over and come find me."
"I'll watch the clock."
"Do that." Don takes a deep breath, unbuckles his seatbelt, holds up the bag, sticks one arm, then the other, then his head into the tote.
It drops top his waist.
A little wiggling and it swallows the rest of Don, lies flat on the seat.
Ken swivels back to sitting properly. "Umm, Isobel? He'll be alright, right?"
"There's nothing in there which can damage him permanently."
"P-permanently?"
"There may be a couple of 'garlic bread' lollies rolling around in there."
"Oh. He won't be happy if he finds those."
"No, he certainly won't. We'll have to hope he doesn't notice them."
Fabric rubs against fabric.
Ken risks a glance.
Don crawls across the backseat until the whole of him emerges, sits up, buckles himself in, shakes the tote from his foot.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?" asks Isobel.
Don snorts a laugh. "That bag's a fucking menace."
"The bag's merely an inconvenience. /I'm a menace when I haven't had my cuppa."
"Is that what the firearm's about?"
"No, dear, that's what the thermos is about."
Ken's heart stutters and he stammers, "Th-the what?"
"She's armed—" Don pulls a small but very convincing handgun from a jacket pocket. "—and caffeinated." Displays a large thermos bottle.
"That's fake, right?"
"It's authentic Gowdie and Gray's Darjeeling. I brewed it myself."
"I m-meant the g-gun?"
"Oh, that. Of course it's real. Why would I bother with a replica when I'm fully licensed?"
Ken eeps.
Isobel glances in the rearview. "I assume you know what you're doing, dear?"
"'Don't point at anything you don't want dead,' yea, yea."
Ken crowds against the door, heart thumping away.
"You shouldn't carry it loaded like that."
"What good is it if it's not?"
Ken's eyes nearly pop from his head.
"It makes a pretty good conversation piece. It's not like the average baddie can tell the difference."
"Why—" Ken clears his throat, swallows, still croaks, "Why do you have a gun?"
"Because magic isn't always the most efficient way to handle a problem."
Ken's voice breaks. "You /shoot people?"
"Of course not," laughs Isobel, "but I /do like to be prepared."
Explains the crystal knuckledusters I almost landed on."
"Hush."
Ken suddenly remembers to breathe, gasps.
"This is /not the place you want to be caught carrying that gun. The lairds won't blink, the police'll have it off you, and some of the locals'll skin you."
"I don't plan on getting caught."
"A-are the police likely?"
"Not at all. This'll be nice and quiet, everyone on their best behaviour," assures Don. "Here. Drink up."
Ken twists, accepts the cuppa, mumbles, "Thanks."
"You're welcome."
Ken gulps a mouthful of the steaming drink, sighs with relief as it washes the flavour of blood from his tongue.
"Don't suppose you have sugar near at hand."
"It's in the bag, dear."
Don makes a disappointed noise.
A grumpy silence creeps in as Ken drains his cup.
He lets his head rest against the seat back and his eyes fall shut.
Ken blinks awake faced with a rain-splattered windshield.
"Rise and shine, sweetheart~!" calls Isobel. "We've arrived."
"Great," yawns Ken, stretching his stiff back. "Now what?"
"Now I go on ahead while Mister Douglas gives you your instructions."
Ken peers over his shoulder. 
No Don.
"He's already pacing and trying to settle his nerves."
Ken's heart stutters.
"What's he got to be scared of?"
"Nothing, really. He always works himself into a proper state before business meetings."
Ken takes a moment to sort that, shakes his head.
"Come along, young man. Let's not keep everyone waiting."
Ken hops from the car, scuttles through drizzle, ducks under the awning over the front of a pub of some sort, leans against the plate glass window.
Don stops pacing to give him a once-over, takes a long drag on a half-burned cigarette.
Ken raises an eyebrow.
"Here. Switch yours for this." Don fishes in a pocket, holds out a strip of fabric in an orange, green, and blue tartan.
"Sometimes I wonder if your pockets are bottomless." 
"Packing's one of my many talents." Don waggles the tie. "Change."
Ken accepts, runs it between his fingers. "You really don't seem the silk type."
"I'm not. Haven't worn /any kind of noose since Cherish's christening."
Ken pulls off his school tie, passes it to Don, pops his collar, drapes the new one around his neck. "How long ago was that?"
Don exhales a cloud of smoke. "Nice try. Ask her."
"You don't ask—she'll kill me!"
"Live with the mystery, then."
"Why aren't /you wearing a tie?" grumbles Ken, making as neat a knot as he can and smoothing down his collar.
"I'm the boss, so I don't need one." Don smirks. "Earned that right." Frowns a tad. "Still know how to fix one, though. May I?"
"Go ahead," sighs Ken, lifting his chin.
Don fiddles about his throat, bobs his chin. "You'll do."
"I'm flattered," grumps Ken.
Don actually /chuckles.
Ken sulks against the window. "Why are we out here getting damp?"
"So I can smoke." Don fills his lungs again.
"I've seen you smoke faster."
Don rolls his eyes, blows a cloud, mutters, "They gossip like bored housewives and it takes my every ounce of self-control to not punch them in the neck."
Ken snorts a laugh.
Don drops his cigarette, grinds it under his boot, props himself on Ken's left, sighs.
Ken Reaches, slides off something dark and mirror-slick.
Don digs out a pack and a lighter, sparks another cigarette.
Ken waves away the first puff.
"Right. Ground rules."
Ken attends, straightens-sorta.
"Don't speak to anyone. If someone tries talking to you, point them to me."
"Alright."
"If I tell you to do something, you do it: no questions."
"But—"
"Humour me for the evening."
"But—"
Don rolls his eyes. "It's how my kind work. Seniors give orders, juniors jump to follow." Sighs. "I won't ask you to do anything dangerous, embarrassing, or just for show, alright? If I /do ask, it'll be something necessary."
"O-okaaay."
"You have barriers?"
"Y-yea?"
"Use them. Don't know if anyone else in there'll be a truth-sayer."
"O-okay."
"Don't mind Vine and Forsyth—the bosses. Pay attention to their secretaries. Nudge me if they start lying or squirming."
"Why not the bosses?"
"Because you won't get a thing from them. Even Verity can't: too well-defended."
Ken's mouth goes dry and he croaks, "S-seriously? Why're you taking /me—"
"/Because you'll be safe as houses. Stay next to me, do what I say, and kick my foot if the lackeys lie. Simple."
"Riiight. Simple." Ken huddles, chafes his arms.
Don drops, stomps on his cigarette, straightens. "Let's get this over with." 
Ken grunts, pushes off, rolls his shoulders, tosses his thoughts into the sea, follows Don to and through the door.
The pub's been cleared of all but a large square table, a pair of chairs at the center of each side.
Ken keeps his head down, checks the room through his eyelashes as he Reaches out—
An absolute, icy blank from the woman with pale blond hair wearing a heavy dress.
A small dry garden with high walls from the motherly lady in the pantsuit.
More slippery nothing from the two blokes: one short, dark, bearded, and in a bow tie and the other a mousy ginger in a cardigan.
Isobel and her butterfly garden.
—swallows, edges closer to Don.
The bearded vampire sidles over, greets, "Ah! Glasgow's man of steel has finally decided to join us!"
"Hello, Forsyth."
"It's good to see you again."
Don inclines his head.
Forsyth gives up on Don, looks Ken up and down, kind of leers.
Ken suppresses a cower.
"I don't recognize this one."
"He's new."
"A little young ... maybe dear Dame Kearney's tastes rubbed off on you after all."
"He's family—"
Ken startles.
"—and he's not on the table," says Don, voice level.
"Don't worry, lad. You're the wrong age bracket," assures Forsyth.
Ken's heart restarts.
"On the topic of family, has the Lady Cherish decided to join our number yet?"
"Still not your business what she does." 
Forsyth frowns, nearly pouting.
The blond sashays up, purrs, "You have to forgive him, lovely."
A muscle in Don's jaw tightens.
"Our children are so rare, we feel like she belongs to all of us."
"And yet you never volunteered to change nappies."
"Take her mother's place? /Never." Vine-probably breaks into a sly smile. "She's doing well, by the way."
"So I'm told."
"Haven't you heard, Elsbeth?" puts in Forsyth. "He's a new lover."
"/Really, now."
Don's eyelid twitches.
"That's the word on the grapevine." Forsyth nods, leans closer to Vine. "They say she's /French."
Images of Mum's sewing circle flicker across Ken's memory; he stifles a sympathetic sigh.
Vine studies Don for confirmation.
He checks his watch.
Forsyth smirks at Vine, waggles his fingers, saunters off toward the table, his ginger in pursuit.
Vine forces a scowl into a smile. "May I have a moment of your time, Laird Douglas, without your aide?"
Don waits a beat, says, "Go listen to Isobel."
Ken nods, shuffles out of earshot.
Isobel twinkles at him. "Enjoying yourself?"
Ken shrugs.
"A bit like a hen party, aye?"
He bites down a laugh, nods.
Don turns on his heel, marches over.
Vine spits something in Gaelic.
"What'd she say?"
Isobel listens as Vine winds down. "To put it in a nutshell, she's calling you a heartless mercenary."
"Well, at least she's right about that." Don checks his watch again. "Can we finish this? I have other business I need to get to tonight."
"It's about that time, isn't it?" Isobel raises her voice. "Everyone, take your places!"
Each party claims a side of the table; Ken parks himself beside Don.
Isobel looks from one to the next. "We're all clear what we're here to do tonight?"
"Yes," says Vine.
"Aye," agrees Forsyth.
Don grunts.
"Excellent!" Isobel pulls three sheets of pape—/parchment—from her handbag, passes them around.
Don takes his, reads slowly.
Nothing suspicious floats from anyone.
Parchments ruffle.
"Everyone finished?"
Heads bob.
"Everyone satisfied with the text?"
More nodding.
"Lady Vine, I believe it's your move, then."
"It is." She clears her throat, pronounces, "To preserve the balance of power in fair Dundee, I, Elsbeth Nicola Vine, Laird of the East, with Laird of the West Roderick Fyfe Forsyth as witness, give over three of my scions, Tina Catherine Torres, Stacy Rhonda O'Donnell, and Brenda Danielle White, to the care and service of Donald Iain Douglas, Laird of Glasgow, for the term of their lives."
Ken's heart stutters; no one else bats an eyelid, not the secretaries, not even Isobel.
"Do you agree to these terms, Laird Douglas?"
"I do," says Don. "Objections, Forsyth?"
"I have none."
"Then it shall be done," says Vine.
Her secretary passes over an honest-to-Goodness quill and inkwell.
Vine flourishes a signature, slides the parchment across the table to Don.
He pats his pocket, raises a somewhat sheepish eyebrow at Isobel.
She smiles, offers a ballpoint.
"Thanks." Don scrawls, hands the document to Forsyth.
He whips out what looks like a fountain pen, loops his way across the bottom of the sheet, stands, offers the parchment to Isobel.
She scans it, rolls the thing, kisses the overlap, sets it down.
It stays rolled, sealed by a spell.
"The deal's done!" cheers Isobel. "With that, our business tonight's at an end."
"You'll trust the contract to Winterbite's care?" asks Vine.
"Aye." Isobel tucks it into her bag.
"You'll make the arrangements?"
"Aye." Don sits back, sprawls.
"Then I'm satisfied." Vine pushes to standing. "It has been pleasant, gentlemen, lady." She bows, turns and leaves, secretary hustling in her wake.
Forsyth raises an eyebrow at Don. "After you."
"She's—" Don thumbs Isobel. "—my ride, so I'm not going anywhere until she's ready."
Isobel hops up. "I'm ready."
Don sighs, heaves himself upright. "Guess I'm leaving. C'mon, kid."
Ken lurches to his feet, shuffles after Isobel—Don falls into step behind—out the door into clear night air.
In front of the car, they stop.
Don immediately pulls out cigarettes and lighter, sets another stick alight.
"That went exactly as expected."
"Says the seer."
"Not so fast! Thomas owes me fifty pounds thanks to you."
Don queries.
"He wagered you'd actually take a swing at Forsyth this time."
"Glad to disappoint."
"And you, Ken? What it what you were expecting?"
"Uh, I didn't really know what would happen, so I guess so?"
Isobel laughs.
Don smiles around his cigarette.
"So ... what exactly's a 'laird'?"
"It's a title comes with owning a specific bit of property. Mine's from the house in Battlefield."
"Whoever owns it's 'Laird of Glasgow', then?"
"Pretty much," agrees Don.
"It's /little more complicated than that," amends Isobel.
"Not now I own the place. Anyone else wants the name can have it over my dead body."
"Umm ... what about Cherish? She'll inherit, right?"
"If she wants to, yea, but I'm not going to force her."
"You really /do let her get away with anything."
"/You try and stop her someday and see how much luck /you have."
"Miz Lennon has grown into /quite the force of nature."
"She's been one since her first breath," sighs Don. "Trust me."
"I'll take your word for it."
"Wise."
"It's my discretion's kept me live this long."
Ken takes a deep breath, risks it. "Uh, I have to—umm ... did you just buy slaves?"
Don snaps, "/No."
Ken cowers, puts his palms out in surrender.
"Sorry. Touchy subject." Don takes a deep breath, exhales. "I—" Grimaces, huffs.
"What Mister Douglas is struggling to say is that he just adopted three young ladies into his family and agreed to take care of them the rest of their lives."
Ken blinks.
"Yea, that's about the shape of it," sighs Don. "Thanks."
"You're welcome, dear."
"Umm, why?"
"Because Vine's next-of-kin to them and can't afford to pay three more medical bills."
"Not to mention enlarging her family would upset the balance of power in Dundee," adds Isobel.
"I can afford it and there's no balance in Glasgow to upset. So, yea: money and politics and vampires."
"I was involved because the young ladies will be moving into the Manse and working as The Blessing's overnight security team."
"And Winterbite likes you."
"That, too."
"Umm ... I don't—medical bills?"
"The NHS doesn't cover us and feeding the old-fashioned way's frowned upon, so." Don shrugs. "It's expensive to keep a vampire alive and out of trouble."
"You're going to pay for their treatment, then?"
"Yea, that's the deal."
"But, /why?"
"Because it's what a laird does." Don takes another drag, looks to Isobel. "Anyone else hungry?"
"Positively famished."
"Yea, I could go for a bite."
"I know this /excellent place down the lane a bit."
"It open at this hour?"
"All night," declares Isobel. "Shall we?"
Ken links his arm with hers. "Let's go."
Don tilts his head, 'lead on'.