The lock shattered beneath the blow. Zest pushed the door open and jumped out. He gathered her in his arms and hugged her until her ribs ached. She breathed in his familiar scent and could barely believe it.
Meg tapped Zest’s shoulder. ‘We must hurry.’
Zest released her a little and looked at Meg. ‘Yes, of course.’
Morven gathered herself together and took a deep breath as she tried to formulate an escape route. ‘Meg, how did you get in?’ she asked.
By way of reply the young girl closed her eyes, and vanished. The temperature seemed to drop a few degrees and then mist materialised a few metres away. Slowly the mist thickened and coiled until Meg MacGregor reappeared.
Morven was gobsmacked. She heard Zest gasp beside her.
‘Awesome,’ he muttered.
Morven agreed, but it wasn’t going to help them much. The only way out was through the castle. It was not an inviting prospect.
Meg pointed up at the ceiling. ‘They’re having a dinner party. On the top floor.’
Morven nodded. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
Without a sound the three of them threaded their way down the passage and up the stairs. At the top, almost faint with anxiety, Morven pushed the door open a fraction. They collectively held their breath. All seemed still. The muted sound of laughter filtered down. It was as good a time as any. They fled down the corridor. Halfway down Morven came to an abrupt halt beside a white door.
Zest tapped her arm and mouthed, ‘What is it?’
She pushed open the door. ‘Morven Smith’ she whispered ‘does not do buckets.’
Zest gave her a look that questioned her sanity. Meg trembled but said nothing. Morven slid through the door and collapsed on the toilet seat. Sheer bloody luxury.
After what seemed like a river of time later she popped out again. Zest shook his head but followed her without comment. At the end of the corridor she stopped once more. The great hall seemed to stretch for kilometres across to the door. Sweat broke out on her face. So close. Again they listened. All seemed quiet. As one they flowed across the room. The oak door swung open sullenly, and creaked and groaned in protest. They pushed it shut as gently as possible. As incredible as it seemed, they’d made it out.
Morven looked around but found the view was limited. It was snowing. Seriously snowing. Already Zest had a snowy cap, and snowflakes had settled on Meg’s eyelashes. She raised an enquiring eyebrow.
Zest pointed to where Morven knew the lake was. She nodded and ran as fast as she could. Which, to Morven’s dismay, was not so fast. Zest must have sensed her distress, for he came close and put an arm around her. Every second she expected to be discovered. But they made it to the water. There was a small jetty, and two boats. One big and one small.
‘That’s mine,’ said Zest, pointing to a dinghy. So saying he lifted her into his arms and jumped aboard the bigger one. He settled her gently on the deck and looked at Megan who waited on land. He nodded, and she swiftly uncoiled the ropes of the big boat. Seconds later, it purred into life and they cruised away into the snowstorm.
Zest stood at the helm, eyes peeled to the fore; Megan stood close beside him, pointing south-west. Zest glanced over his shoulder and Morven looked at him.
He frowned. ‘Morven, are you okay?’
She gripped her hands together and gritted her teeth. ‘Zest, I’m famished. I’m so hungry and thirsty, I could eat you both. Seriously.’
Zest glanced at Meg. ‘Meg, take the wheel.’ He came to her and hunkered down, his face filled with concern.
Morven’s eyes slid to his neck. Beneath that thick woolly jumper was a strong neck with a pulsing carotid artery. She forced her eyes skyward.
‘Morven, here.’ Zest pushed a squashed chocolate bar into her hand. She undid the wrapper and inhaled it. He turned away and disappeared down into what must have been a cabin. He returned with an empty milk carton filled with rusty looking water.
Morven skulled it.
Zest reached out and pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. ‘Better?’
She nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’
He pulled her roughly to his chest, his cheek resting lightly on the crown of her head. ‘Never be sorry, Morven. Not to me. I’d love you even if you ate me lightly seasoned with salt and pepper.’
Morven looked up. ‘How about a sprig of parsley?’
He grinned and stood up. ‘Now you’re pushing your luck.’
But Morven didn’t care. Her heart sang. Zest loved her.
Chapter 50
Without Meg MacGregor they would never had made it. Despite the terrible storm she steered Zest and the boat out of the loch and into a river. Before long they entered an estuary. Morven hung on for grim death as the sea tossed the vessel around. Waves broke over the deck. She held her breath as they inched through black, jagged rocks. Equally worrying was Zest’s constant checking of the fuel gauge. She was vastly relieved when they finally slipped into a sheltered bay. It was still snowing, but the visibility had improved. High cliffs towered above them. A small pinprick of light shone from the shore.
Reassured, Morven got up from her corner and went to stand beside Zest. He smiled briefly, eyes narrowed in concentration as he steered the vessel toward the beach. She didn’t want to distract him, but couldn’t contain her worries any longer. ‘Zest,’ she said, ‘are Mum and Dad alright?’
He nodded, eyes peeled ahead. ‘Far as I know they’re fine and floating around the Pacific. They’ve got Elvis’s email and my mobile number.’
Morven felt the tight knot in her chest loosen a little. Silently she blessed Zest, sure it was one of his schemes.
Meg let out an exclamation of excitement and pointed. ‘That’s it,’ she said.
Shortly a small cottage appeared. As the boat surged up to the pebbly shore, the door to the house opened and someone came out.
Meg raced to the prow of the boat and waved madly. ‘Grandad! Hey, Grandad!’
The man stopped and waved back. Minutes later they waded ashore. Meg raced up the beach and cast herself into the arms of a very old man. His face could have been hewn from an ancient slab of granite. His hair was white but he wore a tidy beard that was rusty red. When he looked at Morven she took an involuntary intake of breath. His eyes were green.
He pushed Meg gently to the ground and took her hand. He walked up to Zest and looked at him for a long moment. Then he held out a large hand. ‘How d’ye do, I’m Mack MacGregor.’
Zest gripped the hand and shook it. ‘Zest — I mean Rob Wallace.’
Morven glanced at Zest, slightly affronted. He’d never told her his name was Rob. Mack MacGregor turned to her next. She held out a hand. For a horrid moment she thought he was going to snub her. But he didn’t. ‘Morven Smith,’ she said, ‘pleased to meet you.’
He nodded abruptly. ‘Let’s be getting you inside.’
As she ducked her head under the low door lintel, heat enveloped her. The cottage was small, basic but tidy. There was a kitchen-come-sitting room and two curtained doors.
Old Mack looked keenly at his granddaughter. ‘Megan, go shower and get changed. You’ll catch your death.’ Megan vanished behind a curtain. He gestured to a small kitchen table. ‘Have a seat.’
Without consulting them he picked up a decanter and three glasses off a sideboard, poured three healthy shots and placed them on the table. Zest picked his up and swallowed it. Morven copied him. It was whiskey. It tasted bad but made her toasty warm on the inside.
The old man refilled his own glass and settled down onto his seat. He turned his attention to Zest. ‘It’s a long time since I passed the time with a Wallace.’ He then turned to Morven. ‘And longer still since I took a wee dram with a Campbell.’
Morven put her glass down on the table. ‘Smith. My name is Smith.’
The old man chuckled. It made a sound in his throat like two branches rubbing together. ‘Maybe so. But you have the spirit of a Campbell. Can we leave it at that?’
&nbs
p; Morven nodded, already regretting her attitude.
Mack swirled the amber contents of his glass and looked into it as if it were a crystal ball. ‘It’s been over 500 years since a Campbell has crossed this threshold. I was just a lad of 120. Back then the clans were close. And long before that, we were indistinguishable.’ He stopped and glanced at his audience. Perhaps reassured that he had their undivided attention, he carried on. ‘Back then we were shape shifters. We could turn into wolves, bats or mist. But over time the different clans evolved, each with a preference for a particular shift shape. Some time ago, maybe 1,000 years or more, there was no longer any choice. By half that amount of time, as the moon moved further from the earth, the werewolves could only change under a full moon, and the vampyres, not at all.’ He paused and looked over at a curtain. The sound of running water was clear. ‘Meg is a rarity. She is werewolf, but also a mistshifter.’ For a moment he ran dry and attended to his beverage. ‘That’s what legend calls us, you know, the “Children of the Mist”.’
Morven was riveted. So much fell into place. COTM. ‘So,’ she said, ‘what happened with the Campbells and the MacGregors?’
The old man snorted. ‘Greed. Good old-fashioned greed. With the coming of the new age, the two factions could not agree on a future. The MacGregor’s were all for assimilation but the Campbell’s wanted nothing less than total domination. The rest — as they say — is history.’
Megan came out dressed in a pair of too-short jeans and a jumper that went past her knees. ‘Grandad, I’m starving,’ she said.
‘Of course you are,’ said Mack. He got up and went to an old yellow fridge and opened the door. ‘How d’you like your meat?’
Morven grinned. ‘In my stomach.’
Seconds later an exquisite aroma filled the small house. Great steaks of meat sizzled in a huge pan atop an ancient yellow Aga. The first plate went to Meg, who attacked her food with vigour. ‘S’good, Grandpa,’ she said through a mouthful.
It took every ounce of Morven’s self-control to prevent herself leaping over the table and stealing it. But she did not have to wait long until Mack whacked a plate before her. ‘Children and ladies first,’ he said.
Morven’s hands trembled so badly she could barely hold her knife. When she tried to saw a piece off the meat she could have cried in frustration. Her hands weren’t strong enough. Zest pulled the utensils out her hands and set to, carefully carving the meat into bite-size pieces. Without so much as a thank you, Morven shovelled a large portion into her mouth. Oh God — a slice of heaven. It was only when the plate was nearly empty that she came up for air. She looked over at Mack. ‘It’s good. What is it?’ The taste and aroma, while delicious, were completely alien. She just couldn’t place it at all.
Mack glanced over. ‘Seal. Meg catches it with a harpoon. She swims like an otter.’
Morven was shocked. ‘Seal?’ she echoed. ‘What, those cute, wide-eyed, furry things?’
Mack grinned, his eyes all but disappearing in the creases. ‘The very same. So, I’m thinking you won’t be wanting this other steak then?’
While the concept of eating cute little seals was a bit disconcerting, the prospect of having her meal cut short was far worse. Morven held out her plate. ‘You’d be thinking wrong, Mr MacGregor.’
Without a word he slid another portion to her, and served himself and Zest.
After a few moments of concentrated silence, Zest put down his fork and looked at Meg. ‘That’s how you followed me down the loch, isn’t it, Meg? You swam.’
She nodded briefly, and continued wiping seal grease from her plate with a piece of bread.
Mack eyed his granddaughter with an air of exasperation. ‘Meg, you shouldn’t take such damnable risks! And — talking of which — where’s my bloody gun?’
Meg seemed entirely unperturbed by this frontal attack. ‘Lost it. Shot the Campbell bitch though, silver bullet and all.’
‘Don’t swear,’ said her grandfather. ‘You lost my gun? Mary, Moses and Joseph! That was my great-grandfather’s. It was a collectable!’ He paused for a moment and then leaned slightly toward Meg. ‘Where’d you get her?’
Morven had the feeling that, despite his disapproval, Mack MacGregor was inordinately proud of his grandchild. She loved Meg more and more by the minute. And she was busting to know how badly hurt her precious cousin Celeste was. Very badly, hopefully.
Meg took a sip of water. ‘Can I have some whiskey?’ she asked optimistically. At the sight of her grandfather’s expression, she changed the subject. ‘Shot her in the back. Just below the kidneys. She was bleeding like a stuck pig. Awesome.’
Morven giggled and Zest smiled. Meg was a very wicked girl. Brilliant.
Zest then asked the question on the tip of her own tongue. ‘Silver bullet? I thought they were only fatal to us? Will she die?’ There was a hopeful edge to his voice.
Morven slipped a hand onto his lap and took his hand.
‘Kill her?’ said Mack. ‘Doubt it. Make her feel like death warmed up though. Silver bullets have never really killed the werewolves, it’s more that we react badly to the metal. Can take a very long time to recover.’
Morven lapsed into a delightful reverie as she imagined Celeste, gushing blood and writhing in agony. Mack jolted her back to reality.
He put down his knife and looked at them. ‘So, you two, where do you go from here?’
Chapter 51
It was the million-dollar question to which Morven had no answer. She stared unseeing across the snug room. What now? She looked at Zest, who looked troubled.
‘Zest,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
For a moment he was silent. Then he clasped her hand tighter in his hand. ‘I’m not sure. Part of me doesn’t want to leave.’ He glanced at the MacGregors. ‘I’ve done what I set out to do. And more. I guess I could easily stay here, or go back to Edinburgh. But really, it’s up to Morven.’
Morven weighed his words for a little while. Then she looked at Meg. ‘Tell me, Meg, how many of you are there, in the city?’
Meg frowned and looked at her grandfather. Mack nodded. ‘I’ve only seen six,’ said Meg.
Six. More than Morven had anticipated. An even number. Excellent start. She looked at Mack. ‘Are there any more?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, another half dozen spread around the west coast. On the small islands mainly. But there could be more. Any one individual is only ever privy to the whereabouts of limited numbers. That way, if someone talks, not everyone is at risk. Being one of the elder, I probably know more than most. There are others overseas. But there is no way of knowing how many.’
Morven nodded, deep in thought. It was quite clear that werewolf numbers were relatively high in this part of the world. Not surprising really, considering the history. Zest hadn’t met another of his kind in all his years in the southern hemisphere. But logically there should be more in the UK and Europe. In a few years’ time she would inherit a significant share in a vast global enterprise. She’d be a rich woman. Maybe she could put that money to good use. If she lived that long. Trouble was, the closer she was to the Campbells, the higher the risk. But then, Mack and Meg, and at least another dozen individuals had lived for a long time beneath the radar. Why not she and Zest?
She sighed. Suddenly deeply weary. The truth was that she wasn’t one of them. Meg had shot her cousin only that evening. Prejudice ran deep on both sides of the water. Why should they help her? But then — they already had. Still, it may have been a very different scenario without Zest’s presence. She looked at him then, and found his eyes locked onto hers, his expression a mixture of tenderness and concern.
Suddenly Morven felt a great tsunami of homesickness. She ached for the sound of cicadas, screeching cockatoos, the pungent scent of eucalypt and the endless blue sky days. And she missed her parents. And Dog. More than anything in the world, she wanted to hop on the last train with Zest and Dog, after a wild night on the town. ‘I want to go home,’ she said sof
tly. Her eyes searched Zest’s face to try and see what he was feeling. ‘I know it’s stupid. And dangerous. But I just want to go home. ‘
He smiled, his eyes warm. ‘Stupid? Dangerous? Sounds like our kind of trip.’
Morven let out a deep breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. ‘We’ll come back. After I turn 18. I promise.’
Zest nodded. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
Mack stood up and began to clear the plates. ‘You can wash up, Meg.’ Meg moaned and groaned and whinged, but went to the sink. Mack looked at Zest. ‘I think it’s too dangerous for you to attempt a flight. The Campbells will be frothing at the mouth to find you. If you’ve no objection to the water, I can find you a passage on the sea. Mind — it’ll take a couple of months.’
Zest looked questioningly at Morven. ‘How about it?’
After a brief period of reflection, Morven decided it was a good idea. Old Mack was right, her clan would be thicker than fleas on a stray at the airports. There was no limit to their resources. The vast tracts of ocean were a different matter. Much trickier. Much less policed. And besides, her parents were floating around out there somewhere. ‘I think it’s a good idea. Only thing is, I’m a bit strapped for cash.’ She looked anxiously at Zest.
‘If we work a passage, I’ve enough to see us home,’ he said reassuringly.
Mack grunted. ‘That’s settled then. Leave it to me. Meanwhile, would you two like to take a shower?’
For a stupid moment Morven thought he meant Zest and her together. Her face went very red and Zest lifted a sardonic eyebrow at her. To cover her embarrassment she rushed to the tiny bathroom. Ten minutes later she emerged, shiny as a freshly boiled lobster and dressed in a pair of Zest’s spare jeans and one of Mack’s shirts. While the loss of her belongings irked her, especially the traveller’s cheques, she was most saddened by the loss of her tartan rug and the coat of arms. Campbell they may have been, but they were gifted with Smith love. She made a silent vow to get them back. One day.
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