The shops were in full swing. Warm and light. Packed. Some of the names were familiar: Body Shop, and Sportsgirl. But others were strange. Boots (cool) and Marks and Spencer. Just as she thought she might have to ask for directions, she spotted a store. Route One. The window display was chock-a-block with boards. Stacked like dominos. It was a sight for sore eyes, as her mum would say.
Inside there were more. And more. A dizzying array of styles and brands. She drifted around happily, at home with the other riders. She picked out a pair of army pants, two long-sleeved skivvies, and a blue quilted jacket with a big hood lined with white faux fur. Her loneliness eased at the familiar sight of scruffy boys posing in baggy pants, downtrodden shoes and hoodies.
Next came a board. After endless, agonising speculation, she was torn between a Carver Flowmaster and a Dervish Sama. Just as she’d settled on the Dervish, something caught her eye. It was an ordinary board really, with wheels too big for her liking. But it was beautifully illustrated. A black and grey wolf’s head. It was paid for and packaged before she really thought about what she was doing.
Rugged up in an extra layer, and the jacket, Morven almost felt warm. She’d not much money left, but she’d go and pick up a few undies at the Marks and Spencer store. With spare clothes stowed in her backpack, she dropped the board and kicked off. It was a wild sensation. Fierce vibrations scurried up her body as the wheels sang over the cobbled stones. A bit sick. Almost better than a massage. But — shit on a stick — it was good to be on wheels again. She cruised effortlessly, whipping around pedestrians and ignoring their dirty looks.
At the store she stopped and stepped through the door. Man, it was hot. She had to peel off her new coat. It didn’t take long to track down the undies and select a six-pack. There was a massive cue at the checkout. Six deep. Morven was panting to get out of there before she died of boredom or heat stroke. The chick on the checkout was slower than a three-legged racehorse. Morven sighed and began to count men sporting beards. Six. Women with blue rinses. Three. Whinging kids. Four (and a half if you included the baby). And then she moved on to redheads. An amazing seven. Finally she made it to the till. Make that eight redheads. The chick had hair the colour of a carrot. Probably a MacGregor. Poor kid.
The carrot top ignored Morven and chewed gum like a dairy cow. ‘That’ll be five pounds and 40 pee.’
Morven had to strangle down her amusement. She fished around in her pocket and pulled out a 10 pound note. As she passed it over she caught Carrot’s eye. And the strangest sensation fizzled through her psyche. Green eyes. Vivid. Clear. Wide and suspicious. For a long moment the world seemed to slow. And stop.
And then the till pinged open and the girl thrust some money into Morven’s unresisting hand. The jaws resumed their sullen masticating. She looked pointedly at the next customer. ‘Next, please.’
Morven was dismissed. For a minute she contemplated staying put. But the impatient shuffling and muttering of the queue forced her to walk away. With no better plan, Morven left the store. Outside she turned and peered back through the window. But she could no longer see the checkout. Could no longer see the girl with carrot hair and green eyes. Eyes that she’d seen before in another’s face. A loved face. Zest’s face.
She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, but when she finally came back to reality, she was shivering. Snowflakes drifted softly onto her shoulders like dandruff and melted away. She gripped her board tightly and looked around. Perhaps she had just imagined the likeness. After all, Zest was never far from her thoughts. A bit of wishful thinking. And besides, he wasn’t the only person in the world to have green eyes. But then she shook her head. No, it wasn’t just the eyes. There was something else, she was sure. A spark of recognition, perhaps? Just for a fleeting second. Damn, it was cold. She pulled on her coat, and pulled up the hood. And then she became less certain. A glance at her watch told her it was half past eight. Time to have a look around.
For a moment she was undecided where to go. In the end she headed left, toward what looked like a crop of mountainous country that loomed grey, fading into a cloudy sky. What went up, must come down, Morven reasoned. Cool. Her excitement mounted as she swiftly made her way west and upward. The main thoroughfares were soon left behind. There were houses, tall and austere, elegant and expensive. Many she guessed were flats. And then she wove her way into a poorer quarter. Rows and rows of houses, painted in uniform dirty beige, mean and unloved. People no longer travelled confidently alone, but in packs. Eyes watched her suspiciously. And foul mouths threw out obscenities as she flew by.
While part of her wouldn’t have minded a rumble, she moved on. Drawn by the mountain that did not seem far away now. Finally she slipped into an industrial estate. The mountain disappeared, shut out by the massive hangers and old factories. A dog barked. Car tyres scrunched in the distance over newly-gritted roads. Cats yowled and a cold breeze bullied a paper bag down the road. It was a depressing place, and Morven picked up the pace, keen to leave it behind. Her board made a satisfying swish as she curled along the pavement.
She nearly missed it. Nearly. But several metres past it, something twigged. Heart racing, she flicked her board over and headed back. She stopped at the foot of a dirty concrete wall, her heart beating like a bird on the wing. It was the same — but not the same. A black wolf’s head. And for a single, silly second, Morven turned around expecting to find him laughing behind her back. But the street was empty. Swallowing her disappointment, she turned once more to look at the graffiti. It was different. More elaborate. And beneath it, instead of ‘ZEST’, the letters C, O, T, and M curved around the artwork. COTM. Not a word. And the letters made no impression upon her mind. Maybe it was some Gaelic thing. She was still deep in contemplation when something snagged at her senses.
And she knew that she was not alone.
Chapter 40
A pungent aroma accosted her nostrils. A movement caught her eye. She watched as a canister rolled out of a narrow, covered entry that fronted a pump store. The can rolled across the pavement, over the curb and into the road. It made a soft metallic sigh. Morven pounced on it and held it up. Paint. Black spray paint. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes. Beneath the paint she could smell chocolate, dirt and…fear. And something else, very faint, but strangely familiar.
She looked up and down the road. Maybe she should just go. After all, she had no argument with the illicit art. On the contrary. Still, she’d like to know more about the wolf’s head. Maybe whoever it was could help. It was worth a try. ‘Hi,’ she called. The word echoed up and down the street, but there was no reply. Maybe they’d slipped away. But she didn’t think so. Batgirl’s ears were pretty awesome. Whoever it was would have to be wilier than Wolverine to escape her attention.
She took a step closer, and was rewarded by a deep intake of breath. Morven stopped. ‘It’s alright. I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk to you.’ And it was only as she spoke the words that Morven realised that it was true. Suddenly, she really needed to talk to this person. Trouble was, the feeling obviously wasn’t reciprocated.
When the owner of the itinerant canister made a break for it, Morven was taken by surprise. Not just because of the speed of the getaway, but the size of the individual. It was a kid. A small kid at that. And it was running like a cat on crack cocaine. With her board in one hand, Morven took off in pursuit. She wasn’t so much worried about losing her quarry, but more of scaring it to death. For a moment she was unsure. Maybe she should just leave it. It was just a kid, after all. But then she realised she couldn’t. Something compelled her to keep going. Soon she was utterly lost as she raced up the hill. It was only when she’d legged it for three full blocks that she realised things weren’t panning out quite as she’d liked.
For instance, every time she gained, the crazy cat just pumped it up another notch. Holy crap, that kid could run…should try for the Olympics. It was only when the small figure leapt over an eight foot fence like it was a matchbox
that Morven finally twigged. The kid was not human. Which led to the big question. If it wasn’t human — what was it? Morven determined to find out.
They were heading ever upward, past grand houses and grander public buildings. Then, the suburban sprawl vanished and Morven found herself out in the open. Disorientated, she paused to scope around. A mountain loomed before her, wrapped up in the black of the night. To her dismay her quarry had taken full advantage of the moment and was already scarpering up the steep sides. Morven lost patience and pushed off up into the sky. Seconds later she landed and snatched at the black coat that swaddled the child. A high scream like a hare caught in a trap filled the air. High-pitched and filled with primitive fear.
Then it went limp and sagged to the ground. Morven felt a wave of guilt. Shit, she’d scared it to death. Swiftly she lay the child down and peered anxiously into its face. It was a girl. Probably. She was filthy dirty, and thin. Delicate cheekbones poked through skin as fragile as tissue paper. If Morven hadn’t heard the frantic beating of her heart beneath the heavy coat, she’d have feared her dead. And then the eyes opened wide. Eyes of pure, shining amber looked up at her. The tiny girl snarled and spat. A blob of spit landed slap-bang between Morven’s eyes. And Morven smiled, strangely amused at the spirit of the skinny morsel. But immediately she realised she’d made a rookie mistake in revealing her pointy fangs. The amber eyes glazed, and tears welled up and spilled down the filthy face. The tears tracked slowly, leaving trails of porcelain white skin in their wake.
Guilt tightened its pincers around Morven’s conscience. What the hell was she doing? Really? It wasn’t cool to terrorise something so helpless. She released the kid and sat up, wiping her own face clean. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. And she was. There was no response. The waif just stared up at her, her face pinched with cold and fear. Morven pulled the child’s coat around her body. The pincers bit as she took in the thin viscose pants, and the inches of bare ankle exposed above battered canvas shoes.
A strong gust of wind whistled across the stones and snowy grass. Morven shivered. ‘What’s your name?’ she said.
The eyes blinked. Once. ‘Meg. Megan MacGregor.’
Morven was stunned but decided to press her advantage. ‘What are you Meg? Are you like…me?’
The girl shook her head.
Morven felt strangely lightheaded. Disconnected. Like someone had rewired her brain. MacGregor? MacGregor! Ancient enemy of the Campbells. She sensed that she was teetering on the brink of something momentous. Finally, she formulated a question. ‘Meg, are you werewolf?’
Megan nodded. Just once. Her fingers curled into fists. ‘Are you going to snuff me out?’
Morven felt sick. She shook her head. ‘No! No, of course not.’ But she could still smell the fear on the girl, and knew she did not believe her. ‘Meg, did you paint the wolf?’
But Meg shook her head. Either she didn’t know or she wasn’t telling.
And Morven thought of Zest. So alone. Or so he thought. And then an idea insinuated itself into her mind. Could Zest be a MacGregor? She looked down at the child, and her heart filled with pity. ‘Meg, where’s your family? Your parents?’
But Meg was mute, her eyes still wide and misty with shock.
Morven stood up and stepped away. ‘Meg, I think you should go home.’
Meg did not move. A dirty lock of hair, that could have been brown, or red or any shade between, furled softly in the wind.
‘Megan, go home.’
As if the wind had whisked her into life, Megan jackknifed her body, and was off. Headlong down the mountainside, as sure-footed as a mountain goat. For a long time Morven watched, until she was no more than a microdot in the distance. Below, the city of Edinburgh sprawled in all its ancient glory. The glittering fairy lights belied the violence of its past…and the cruelty of its present. Morven felt something harden in her chest. Somewhere in that huge cosmopolitan city lay the answers to her heritage. She’d come to find her lost family. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but she doubted she’d get a straight story from the Campbell clan. It seemed they had their own agenda. Anger simmered in her belly like a witch’s brew. And she knew, without a doubt, that she had heard wolves in the forest the night before.
Slowly she traced the werewolf cub’s footsteps. Her mind buzzed like a hive of bees. Halfway down the steep descent, she paused to pick up her board. It was undamaged. For a moment she contemplated the wolf frozen upon its surface. It was then that she realisedher hands were shaking. Barely aware of her own passage in time and space, she climbed down the incline. By the time she’d reached the bottom she felt a little more together. First opportunity she got, she had to phone Zest. It was imperative that she speak with him. There was no one else she could trust.
It was nearly ten o’clock. She had an hour. Suddenly, more than anything else in the world, she wanted a cup of tea. Not raw rib fillet. Not a vat of blood. Not even a bit of bacon. Tea. Hot and steaming. Somewhere warm.
Ten minutes later she cruised into the main street. There were pubs, restaurants and cafes by the dozen. But in the end she stepped into a big internet cafe. It was warm and impersonal. Everyone focused on themselves and their own interests. Perfect.
With a mug of tea and a groovy bar of chocolate called a Galaxy, which seemed kind of appropriate, Morven settled herself in a relatively quiet corner. The nearest punter was absorbed in war games and muttered under his breath, oblivious to all around him.
She took a sip of tea. Better. The chocolate, creamy and smooth, slipped down easily. Half way through the beverage she slotted a couple of coins in the computer. Without really thinking about what she was doing, she Googled ‘MacGregor’ and ‘Campbell’. And came up trumps.
Half an hour later she reluctantly closed the pages on the screen. It would seem that her cousin had been right. There was a long, ugly history between the two clans. There was much she did not understand, but the one thing she did grasp was that the MacGregors had good reason to hate the Campbells. The Campbells had waged a long vendetta, which verged on genocide, against the MacGregor clan. And so, taking things to the next logical level, if the Campbells were vampyre and the MacGregors werewolf, the abject terror of Meg MacGregor became easier to comprehend.
She picked up the mug and took another sip. Idly she typed in COTM. Nada. Not surprising really. With a few minutes to spare she thought for a moment, and put in Rob Roy MacGregor. And there was plenty to see. One thing was clear though, he’d been a thorn in the side of the Campbells. Morven liked him already. Interestingly, Rob Roy, or Red Robert, was a big man by modern standards at six foot one. By the standards of the day, he was enormous. And red headed. Like Zest. And logically, this meant that Zest definitely was not alone. His kind was in Edinburgh, that much was clear. Trouble was, Morven had no idea what she was going to do about it.
Chapter 41
By the time she’d threaded her way through the freezing streets and found the Blood Bank, Morven had formulated a few plans. Firstly, and perhaps most importantly, she must keep her new found suspicions to herself. After all, it seemed logical that she must be patient and learn as much as she could, without raising suspicion. While she suspected her Campbell family of withholding things from her, she had no proof. Also, she had to concede, in the present environment it was she who was the outsider. The stranger. Theirs was a secretive life, by necessity. It would be foolish to assume that they were all still embroiled in some ancient feud.
Secondly, she needed to speak to Zest. Her memory kept skipping back to the burger van and Zach’s introduction to her own kind. And Zest’s last words before they were interrupted; ‘tell her the rest’ he’d said. What rest? What didn’t she know? Of course, she could hazard a couple of wild guesses. But clarity would be good. First opportunity she’d slip away and make that call. She pushed away the little voice that told her she was just making excuses to call and hear his voice. With a concerted effort she tuned out. Zest was safer than her parents. At th
e thought of her mum and dad, at home, waiting and wondering, her heart hurt like it was being squeezed in a vice. Please, please, let them be alright.
At the entry of the bank, Morven realised she didn’t have a key. She pushed her nose up against the glass and peered inside. No sign of the security guard. She fingered her phone in her pants pocket. Maybe she should just give Calix a bell. But she didn’t want to use the phone. She stepped back and looked up. The massive building looked back with its black tinted windows. Light blazed from the top floor. It was a long way up. She glanced at her watch. Three minutes to eleven. She tucked her board under her arm and jumped up to the ledge one story above. She glanced up and down the street. Nothing stirred. At her feet a pigeon blinked beady red eyes and fluffed its pearly grey feathers in protest. For a moment she hesitated. The pigeon smelled good. Succulent. But time pressed on. She didn’t want to miss her lift home. And besides — she was hunting that night. Best save her appetite for that venison.
Without further hesitation she launched herself upward, her fingers just brushing the smooth glass panes. She landed soft as silk on the flat, snowy roof. Seconds later she bounded down a set of concrete steps and stopped at a door. It was locked. A keypad twinkled to the right. Morven rubbed her cold hands together and got busy. Her fingers flew as fast as her brain. Really, it wasn’t hard. Just a matter of maths.
Fifteen seconds later the latch made a soft click. And she was in. The door opened silently. Calix was on the phone, his back to her as he gazed out over the city. Morven could see Edinburgh Castle.
His voice was loud. And angry. Or upset. Perhaps both. ‘No,’ he snapped, ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. We’ve got to play this carefully. If you want to keep control, we’ve got to get her hooked…’
The Children Of The Mist Page 20