But there was no mercy in her heart. His screams of agony were a balm to her soul as she took a first bite. Her own personal short cut to hell.
Chapter 4
Megan wished she had a toothbrush. Honestly, anyone who thought werewolves were unfussy feeders had never talked to her. The greaser was less than juicy. A bit tough. A bit toxic. Urgh! Whilst snuffing him out had been a positive pleasure, no less than a service to mankind (and wolfkind), she wished he’d taken better care of himself. Still, never mind. Grandad would have something scrumptious for her tea.
After a quick look around to make sure she was still alone, Megan hopped out of the car and went to the water. She rinsed her face and hands and had a good gargle. It was then that she realised her clothes were worse for wear. The woollen tights had more ladders than a board game and her skirt and jacket were blood-splattered. Not much she could do about it.
She returned to the car and looked at the ugly mess on the seats. After a moment’s contemplation she checked his pockets, took his wallet, keys and cash. It was a shame she couldn’t take the car. She must learn to drive.
Without a backward glance she set off cross-country at a run. She felt good. The world was awakening so she stuck to the forest and higher country where she could, avoiding the small villages and major roads. It was a long way home, but Megan moved steadily, barely winded by her efforts. Her extraordinary sense of smell warned her of unwanted company, and her ears could hear a vehicle miles away. And, she thought, while it was a lonely life, it had compensations. No rules, no boundaries, no work. And although she had been able to transform into the mist for as long as she could remember, her recent morph into wolf had created a whole new world. But, whether it was her maturity or the wolf instinct, she felt a growing desire for company. A pack to run with. And a mate.
Finally she left civilisation behind and passed Loch Goil. Although she didn’t have to, she skirted around the Campbell’s castle that scowled darkly on the edge of the loch. She sensed it was empty. And, as always, she thought about Morven and Zest. It had been three years since she’d helped them escape from the clutches of the Campbells. She’d only been fifteen then. Now she was eighteen. And a grown woman. The word was that they were following the extreme skateboard circuit. But no one knew for sure.
She’d liked Zest. He was cool. And hot. And, although it troubled her, she had liked Morven too. Even though she was a Campbell. Kind of. Maybe they’d come back. But as she threaded her way through the pines and followed the river to the sea she put them out of her mind. She was hungry. And a bit anxious. Her grandad seemed…subdued. Not that he was ever one for words, but he was quiet, even for him. And she worried about him.
Her small boat was anchored where she’d left it. The salty air filled her nostrils and the wind whipped her hair into disarray. But this was her home ground and she confidently hopped into the skiff and started up the engine. She followed the narrow channel way out into the ocean. The cold water rolled out in grey conformity, empty for miles apart from shags on rocks and shrill seagulls circling in the sky.
Several rocky precipices loomed up and Megan skimmed easily around and through them, then ducked into a tiny bay. Her tawny eyes narrowed as she scanned the stony shore. To her relief smoke was puffing out of the stone chimney of the tiny house she shared with her grandfather. She smiled when she spotted his tiny figure rolling up nets near his boat.
As she roared up the beach he turned and came to meet her. Megan dropped the anchor and waded through the breakers. She hurried down the beach to join him, anxious to reassure herself that all was well.
‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ he growled.
Megan scowled ferociously but her heart inflated like a helium balloon. Why, he was fine, as bad-tempered as ever. ‘I’ve been out visiting a friend.’
He sniffed disdainfully. ‘You’re a mess.’
She was. She slipped her small soft hand into his huge hard fist. ‘What’s for breakfast?’ she said.
He looked at her and his seamed face split into a grin. ‘Whatever you can catch!’
She laughed. It was an old joke. Hand in hand they headed inside the cottage. Megan sat in her usual spot by the fire. Seal steaks spattered on the hotplate. She sighed happily. She was just an old worrywart. Everything was fine.
Her thoughts turned to the man and his horse. Maybe she’d go out tonight after all.
Chapter 5
At nine o’clock Sean went out to do late-night hay. The cloud had cleared and the yard was filled with long moon shadows. It was almost as light as day. Twilight. That strange glimmerworld that belonged to the ghosties and the goblins. He grinned to himself; perhaps he’d see the redheaded sprite again.
With a wheelbarrow piled high with hay Sean headed to the stalls. Straw rustled as the horses moved restlessly to peer over their half doors. Ears flickered with happy anticipation and the still night air filled with soft whickers and snorts.
It was Sean’s favourite part of the day. The last chore to perform, but without the pressures of time that accompanied the working day. As he chucked a wedge of sweet smelling hay to each horse he paused at their stable. He breathed in the familiar scents and smiled. Sometimes he could scarcely believe it was all his.
At The Count’s door he easily dodged the playful nip that the horse offered by way of greeting. And, not for the first time, he wished he owned him, too. Still, he thought with his usual optimism, if the animal continued on in his present form, dumping track riders and devouring stable lads, his wish may come to fruition. Callum Campbell may be only too pleased to unload the unruly beast. You never knew your luck.
With his work completed Sean took the wheelbarrow back to its home in the barn and wandered back out into the yard. He felt strangely restless. Well, it wasn’t so strange really. He was always restless. He had itchy feet. Always had. But it had never been a problem. When he’d felt that familiar itch, he’d just scratched it. Handed in a weeks’ notice and moved on to the next yard. There was always a place, for the racing fraternity was a tight-knit community and word soon got around. Everyone knew that Sean Duncan ‘had a way with the horses.’ And it was true. Sean exploited the fact and hinted that he was a horse whisperer. Which, of course, he was.
Sean sighed. It might not have been everyone’s cup of char, but it had worked for him. Until he came to Druids’ Rest. He looked around at the old horseshoes nailed above the stable doors. ‘To keep the bogey-man at bay,’ Sarah Goodfellow had always said. She’d laughed as she said it, but her black eyes had snapped with a silent challenge. A challenge that Sean had chosen to ignore.
He turned back, crossed the cracked concrete of the yard, passed over the gravel drive and up to the house. It was a small farmhouse built from the local stone. Two up and two down, with a bathroom tacked on the back. Sean prised his boots off on the doorstep and went inside.
The living room was just as it had been when Sarah lived there. Sean looked at the empty fireplace, half expecting to see Sarah sitting there, sipping whisky and perusing the racing pages.
But she wasn’t there, of course. And Sean wondered once more why the old woman had left him all she possessed. The house, the sixty acres of land, the yard and her three horses. It was a mystery for which he was extremely grateful.
He went into the cluttered kitchen and picked up a bottle of whisky. He took a clean glass from the cupboard and sploshed a goodly amount in. He breathed it in, and turned to look into the living room. ‘Cheers, Sarah,’ he said softly and lifted his glass to her ghost.
After a sip he went out the back door and into the garden. It was a rambling mass of roses, buttercups and herbs. The scent of mint filled the air. Sean wandered over to the herb bed and ran a practised eye over the plants. It was the only orderly plot. He’d thought himself an authority on herb law, until he met Sarah. She was a walking encyclopaedia. And that was why he had stayed.
Every time the itch set in, Sarah had wafted another tantalising
snippet beneath his nose. And he’d forgotten the itch. As the whisky began to relax him he thought about bed. But he made no move. When the glass was empty he filled it once more. And, as he swallowed it down, he wondered if he drank to remember, or if he drank to forget.
Chapter 6
Sean wasn’t sure what time it was when he staggered up the steep, narrow stairs to his bedroom. He was too pissed to focus on the wall clock whose numbers were just black blurs. It was dark outside though. So it must have been well past midnight. Good. He was well and truly pickled. Sozzled. Brahms and Liszt.
He fell onto the bed fully clothed. Good thing he’d taken his boots off earlier. The ceiling began to spin. Or was that him? He closed his eyes as the contents of his stomach rolled in waves. But that was OK. Experience had told him that sleep would soon follow. Deep, black, dreamless sleep.
He relaxed a little. He was so tired. Slowly he felt his system surrender. Four hours was all he needed. A man could function well on four hours’ sleep. A drowsiness crept through his limbs. A delicious heaviness that he welcomed like a beach welcomes waves. His breathing slowed. Relief. Such sweet release. And he let go. It was going to be a good night. But then the filmy curtain in his mind fluttered and he could hear the voices muttering behind it.
Panic-stricken he tried to sit up. But the curtains slowly opened and his inner eye opened wide.
Terror gripped him with lobster’s claws. He tried to force his eyelids open. ‘No!’ He could hear his own voice, but it was a long way away. The voices inside his head were louder. Stronger. More demanding. His body ached from the inside out and tears seeped out of his eyelashes. The curtains swished open and the stage was spotlit.
Act 1. Scene 1.
It was night. The moon was big and red in a clear sky sprinkled with stars. A great circle of stone stood upon a mountaintop. Inside the circle were a multitude of people. Men and women and children, fair of face and graceful of limb. They were dressed in skins and woven wool. Some were bare-chested and displayed blue drawings upon their skin. Circles, stripes, spirals, bats, wolves and pigs to name but a few.
A man stepped forward and Sean could sense his power. Two others joined him and together they lit a fire. It leapt into life, flames bright in the darkness. They began to chant in a language that was alien but at the same time strangely familiar. Sean strained his ears but could not make sense of the refrain, only that it was rhythmical. Like a song or a poem. And then they were quiet. A silence that held sway over the watching crowd.
One of the men stepped forward and spoke. Several men and women answered. But then a boy stepped into the circle. He was tall and fair, his bare chest only just starting to show the muscular definition of adulthood. A rustle of something akin to awe rippled through the watching people. And they all fell to their knees and bowed their heads to the earth. Except the youth in the centre. He stood still, trembling slightly, eyes dilated and expectant. And Sean felt a prickle of fear run through him as a shadow swept over the circle. It was a huge bat. It circled silently, once, twice. Finally it swooped down and landed on a great stone altar. Its huge wings folded and then, in an instant, it was gone. Standing in its place was a man. A beautiful man, with long rippling black hair, eyes of jet, broad of chest and long of leg. Sean was both entranced and afraid. He knew that something bad was going to happen (it always did) but he could not draw his gaze away. With sinuous grace the man walked towards the waiting boy. He stood and appraised the boy for a moment. The boy’s eyes met his and they gazed at each other like long-lost lovers. When the dark man took the boy in his arms Sean felt a burst of relief. They were just lovers! The dark man bent his head tenderly to the boy’s neck and the boy’s pale blue eyes opened wide. Sean glimpsed the glitter of long white fangs and he opened his mouth and cried out in protest.
‘NOOOO!’ He awoke with a start. His eyes opened and he sat up, hands gripping the sheets, body a lather of sweat. He waited for a few moments for his breath to slow and for the tremors that ran through him to subside. Outside the window a nightjar sang and a vixen screamed on the mountain. The familiar sounds orientated him and he sank back onto his pillow. It was a dream, he told himself. Just a very bad dream.
He got up then, too exhausted to sleep. Too scared to sleep. He padded out onto the small landing. Sarah’s room was opposite. He let himself in, suddenly feeling lonely. Inside the room was unchanged. Sarah’s old timber bed, the two birch tables and the dried flowers that still smelled like her. He sat down on the edge of the bed and let his hands run over the old quilt. He didn’t really like it. A forest of leafless trees, arrayed with small twiggy branches. Sean’s eyes wandered over the quilt and something snagged in his mind. What was it? He looked again, but the tiny fragment sank into the alcoholic fog of his brain. He sighed and went downstairs. The whisky bottle called.
Chapter 7
Megan had slept long and well. When she awoke it was dark. She yawned and stretched and tuned in. She could hear her grandfather in the sitting room. By the sound of things he was darning his socks. Megan shook her head. Why he insisted on darning old socks when she could easily nick a couple of pairs for him was quite beyond her. I mean, she thought, who darned their socks these days? She lay there comfortably, enjoying the luxury of contemplating the night ahead.
It was time to put into action the plan she’d been mulling over for weeks. Tonight would be the night. No more game-playing. She grinned to herself; well, maybe a change of game. This time she would go down to the farm. Take a look around and meet the horses properly. She pretended not to hear the voice that suggested she was fooling herself, that the horses were not the main drawcard. To escape from her own nagging conscience, Megan decided it was time to get up.
She dressed and went out to find Grandad. To her surprise he was asleep, socks and needle abandoned in his lap. She watched him for a moment, her smooth white brow temporarily furrowed. All the old worries rushed back to haunt her.
Was it her imagination or had he lost weight? Sadly she acknowledged that he had. The white hair was as luxuriant as ever, and the eyebrows as wild, but the bones of his cheeks seemed curiously close to the surface. Panic gripped her. Was he sick? And then she was forced to address the real source of her fears. Was Grandad going to die?
She sucked in her breath to stem the rush of emotion that squeezed her heart like a vice. Grandad couldn’t leave her. She would be alone. What would she do without him? For a moment she tried to visualise a world without him. But it was like trying to imagine the world without a moon.
‘Megan, what’s the matter child, you’ve a face like a cod’s bum. Are you constipated?’
Megan bristled like a witch’s cat. ‘No, I am not!’ And she sat down at her grandfather’s feet so he couldn’t read her face. ‘Grandad…’ She couldn’t bear to put her thoughts into words. She felt a superstitious dread of speaking them out loud. As if she would make them true. But she sensed his alertness, and knew that she had to find something convincing instead. After all, if her grandfather was sick, he’d tell her when he was ready. ‘Grandad,’ she said a little more confidently, ‘do you like horses?’
Her grandfather chuckled deep in his broad chest. ‘Raw, fried or boiled?’
She giggled, happy to find him in good humour. She slapped him playfully. ‘No, you know what I mean. Do you like them? You know, feel a…desire for them, other than as a meal?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘can’t say I do. Mind you, your mother did. She loved the horses. A fine horsewoman she was too, in her day.’
Megan was riveted. Her grandfather hardly ever talked about his daughter. It was a subject he found too painful to discuss. She didn’t reply, afraid that he’d stop. But to her delight he reached for his pipe, tapped the old tobacco out, tamped a pinch of new into the bowl and lit it with a long taper. Blue smoke curled in the air and Megan breathed it in happily. The lighting of the pipe was a good sign. A precursor to a long conversation.
She wiggled around, and leant
her back against his knees. He smelled like salt, and sea and whisky. He smelt like home.
‘Your mother was unusual in her passion. The Campbells and their kin had long mastered the horse. They could ride without saddle and could tame the wildest of beasts. But then, of course, they had the bridle.’
Megan was mesmerised, so absorbed that she forgot to be silent. ‘What bridle?’
Her grandfather took a couple of pulls on his pipe and grunted comfortably. ‘A rare and beautiful bridle that is said to have come from the other world, in the days of the Gods.’
Megan rolled her eyes. No one believed that stuff. Gods! He’d be suggesting she went to church next. She yelped as he rapped the top of her head with his pipe like he knew what she was thinking. Which he probably did.
‘Don’t be such a smart arse, Megan MacGregor. The old stories are not to be dismissed so easily. You are the descendant of the Gods of the Olde world and kings and queens of this world! If it weren’t for the quirks of history, and being on the losing side, you’d be a wealthy young woman.’
Megan managed to contain her impatience. She wasn’t interested in all the mumbo-jumbo, she wanted to know about her mother. ‘So,’ she said sweetly, ‘tell me about the bridle. The one from the Olde world.’
Her grandfather sniffed and she guessed he wasn’t fooled by her false sincerity, but to her relief he picked up the thread of his story.
‘The bridle is magic. It can conjure up a kelpie and the owner of the bridle can tame and ride this magical beast. Some say there are horses that carry the kelpies’ blood in their veins. It is said that people still master the kelpie, even today.’
Megan was fast losing patience. ‘So, my mother had this bridle?’
‘Yes. But it is long lost. Stolen.’
A hard lump formed in Megan’s throat. ‘The Campbells stole it.’ It was not a question.
The MacGregor Page 2