by JL Merrow
And then everything went dark.
HE WAS running through heather, the white tail of a rabbit bobbing in front of him and the exhilaration of the chase coursing through his veins. He was following a scent that drove him wild, leading him to another who claimed his body, rutting fiercely in the moonlight. He was snared, the wire around his neck tightening with his panicked struggles until his very screams were cut off. He was back in Calum’s living room, watching his lover as three wildcats tore into him, blood smearing their fur. He was in the Lamb, with its wide fireplace and merrily burning peat fire. He was in the fire.
He was burning.
“MARTIN?” It was Calum’s voice, his tone soft and coaxing. “Martin, can you hear me?”
Martin tried to answer, but all that came out was a hoarse sort of croak.
“Easy, now. Here, take a sip of this.” He held a cup to Martin’s lips. Martin swallowed the water gratefully. “Better now?”
Calum’s concerned face came blearily into focus. “I… she bit me,” Martin gasped.
Calum growled low in his throat. Oddly, Martin found it almost comforting. Maybe he was still delirious? He blinked, as if clearing his vision might have a similar effect on his mind. Now that he was really looking at him, Calum looked deathly tired. There were dark circles round his eyes, and he hadn’t shaved in days. Martin blinked again. Days?
“How long…?”
“How long were you in the fever? Three days. You’ll recover faster than you know, though. Your body’s stronger now.”
Martin felt a chill run through him at the implications of that. “Am I… one of you?”
“A were-cat? Yes. I’m sorry, Martin.”
What did you say to that? Oh, no, that’s perfectly all right, I’ve always felt humanity to be overrated? “But I’m alive.”
“Yes.” Calum smiled, and bent down and kissed him softly. “You’re alive.”
THEY’D both slept, then, curled up together on the bed. Enveloped by Calum’s scent and warmed by the heat of his body, Martin felt cocooned in unreality, sheltered from having to think through the consequences of what had happened. Calum, obviously exhausted, had dropped off in minutes, and it seemed Martin’s body was demanding yet more rest to recuperate from whatever changes had taken place, as he followed suit not long after.
When he woke again, he was disappointed to find that although his scent still lingered, Calum was already up. Martin just lay there unmoving for a few minutes, reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed. You’re stronger now, Calum had said. Was he? He didn’t feel any stronger. But neither did he did feel like he’d just spent three days in a fever, close to death. And he already felt a damn sight better than he had earlier. Cautiously, Martin raised himself to sitting. Apart from a little light-headedness, which his stomach suddenly reminded him was probably due to hunger, there seemed to be no ill effects. Encouraged, Martin swung his feet to the ground and stood.
Making his way to the bathroom, Martin washed his face and examined himself in the mirror. God, he needed a shave, although thankfully not I Was a Teenage Werewolf fashion. Borrowing one of Calum’s disposable razors and some shaving foam, he painfully scraped off three days’ growth of beard, then took a quick sniff of his armpits. Bloody hell. A shower was definitely called for. No wonder Calum hadn’t stayed in bed with him; he’d probably been driven away by the smell.
It wasn’t until Martin was under the spray that he remembered the bite on his shoulder. The stiffness he felt in that area was so slight he wasn’t sure if he was just imagining it, and his skin felt smooth to the touch. After he’d washed, Martin toweled off briskly and tried to examine the bite in the mirror. It wasn’t easy—firstly because he had to practically turn his head backward to see it, and secondly because there simply wasn’t that much to see. Just old-looking scar tissue. It was curiously disconcerting, as if he’d been unconscious for much longer than three days.
But was that the only visible sign of his supposed transformation? He squinted into the mirror at his teeth. They didn’t look any sharper than they had three days ago, although they could probably do with flossing. Martin made a mental note to ask Calum if he had a spare toothbrush.
God. He’d been turned into a were-cat, and here he was worrying about dental hygiene? Martin stilled. Had he been turned into a were-cat? It all seemed too fantastical for words.
A toothache, now; that was something he could believe in. Wrapping the borrowed towel around his hips, Martin went back downstairs.
He found Calum by following his nose—not that he appeared to have developed any special olfactory abilities; the smell of bacon frying was hard to miss. Calum looked up from the pan when Martin walked into the kitchen. He didn’t smile, and he didn’t look half as rested as Martin felt. “Be ready in a minute,” he called, and turned straight back to his cooking. “Why don’t you put some clothes on. Your kit’s in the living room.”
Feeling a bit let down somehow, Martin padded back to the living room. His rucksack had miraculously made its way here and was in the corner by the TV. He pulled out a checked shirt and his spare pair of Rohans, and once dressed, went back into the kitchen where Calum was just putting their plates on the table. Glancing up at the clock, Martin realized with a mild shock that this wasn’t so much breakfast as a late lunch. He pulled out a chair and sat down, suddenly ravenous. Calum nodded at him, and they dug in.
“This is really good,” Martin said with his mouth full after a few minutes.
Calum shrugged unenthusiastically. “It’s just a fry-up,” he muttered, not lifting his head from his food.
Scottish wildcat, Martin thought. Kills rabbits, rodents, and conversation. Dead. He wondered what he’d done wrong as they continued eating, unspeaking.
“I’ll wash up,” he said when they’d finished, more to break the silence than anything else.
Calum seemed to rouse himself at that. “No! No, don’t be an idiot. You’ve been ill. I’ll do it. You go watch the telly or something.”
“Right. Okay.” Martin wandered into the living room feeling a bit useless and switched on the TV. At least they had digital.
Calum reappeared ten minutes later. He plonked himself down on the sofa and slung his arm around Martin, much to Martin’s surprise. “Sorry I was such an arse,” he said, nuzzling into Martin’s neck. “Just tired, you know? So anyway, you’ve got to have questions—so tell me, Martin, what do you want to know?”
God, did Martin have questions. But where the bloody hell to start? Martin was almost afraid to broach the subject of shape-shifting—what if it had all been a fever dream? “How did my stuff get here?” he asked, playing it safe.
Calum’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and he broke into the first genuine smile Martin had seen since he’d woken up. “You’ve just been turned into a were-cat, you’ve spent the last three days near to death, and the burning question on your mind is, ‘Who’s been messing with my rucksack?’” He shook his head slowly in mock disbelief. “It turned up on the doorstep the morning after—well, you know.” He paused and carried on in a more sardonic tone, “Mrs. McPherson was kind enough to leave a bill for three nights at the B&B while she was at it.”
Martin clutched at the feeling of righteous indignation as if it were a lifeline. “Three nights? I was only there for one!”
Calum grinned. “Yeah, well, I thought I’d leave it to you whether to send her a check or tell her to fuck off.”
Martin shivered involuntarily as he tried to reconcile his mental picture of a sweet, white-haired old grandmother with the memory of the vicious predator she’d become.
God, he was starting to believe it. “Well, maybe I should honor the booking I made,” he said with an attempt at wry humor.
Calum laughed. “So, do you have any other questions for me now, Martin? Like, for instance, where did I buy the bacon, or is it going to rain tomorrow?”
“Prat.” Martin took a deep breath. If he was going to accept this—he wa
s going to accept this. The alternative was checking himself into the funny farm straight away, and Martin wasn’t really feeling ready for a padded cell just yet. And God, if it was true…. Martin was beginning to feel a rising excitement at the thought of being able to change into a cat. “When will I—when can I change?”
Calum was silent a moment. “Your first change will be at the next full moon. Tomorrow night, that is.”
Tomorrow? It seemed simultaneously an age off and far too soon. Martin fought a shiver. “Will I notice any changes in me as, you know, a human? Like, am I going to start getting strange urges to chase mice?”
Calum raised an eyebrow. “Have you been prone to such urges in the past, Martin? No? Then I’d say not. Besides, there’s not a lot of eating on a mouse. Rabbits are better, or lambs, in the season—although the farmers don’t take too kindly to that, as you’ve seen.”
The snare. “How did you get… turned? Were you bitten?”
Calum grinned ruefully, running a hand through his thick mop of hair. “No. I’m like young Aggie Campbell—that’s Alec Campbell’s daughter, the bitch who bit you. Born a were-cat, not made.”
“You were born like that?”
“Well, kind of. The changes don’t start until you hit puberty.” He laughed. “Like most teenagers don’t have enough to deal with already.”
Martin grimaced back, feeling a little lightheaded. “Sort of puts the odd acne attack into perspective. So are there… Irish were-cats?”
“Well, there’s me,” Calum said, grinning. “One of a kind, far as I know. See, my mam’s family are all Irish—least, so she used to think—but my father was from around here. Went down to Dublin for a stag weekend.” He shrugged. “Well, you know how these things go. Met a local lass, had a fling, and thought no more about it.” He leaned forward, looking at Martin intently. “You see, it doesn’t usually breed true. A were and a non-were, I mean. They can have a child, but it’ll be human. So when my father got a letter from Ireland saying I was on the way, his only thought was how to avoid the child support, the tight-fisted bastard. But it turned out my mam had a bit of were-cat in her ancestry somewhere—at least, as far as we can guess. They say it’s a wise man that knows all his own children—well, it seems my mam’s father, or her grandfather maybe, wasn’t quite as wise as he thought he was.”
“So you came back here, after the first change?” Martin guessed. “To find your father, and see if he knew what the hell was going on?” A thought struck him. “Who is your father? Have I met him?”
“No, that you haven’t. He’s dead, as it happens.”
“Oh! I’m sorry.” Martin hesitated. “Not—not a snare?”
Calum laughed. “No, he drank himself to death, the bastard.”
“Um, apologies if I’m wrong here, but I’m guessing you never got close?”
“No, you’d be guessing right, there,” Calum told him with a wry smile. “I was fourteen when I met him for the first time. Hitchhiked over here just after my first change. Wasn’t exactly welcomed with open arms. Bastard told me to fuck off, or he’d call the police and report me for a runaway. It was Aggie’s mum who took me in. That’s Mary Campbell, Mary McPherson as was.”
“McPherson? Not—”
“Yeah, that’s right, Martin. Nellie McPherson is Aggie’s nan.”
“So… does that mean her grandson Alan’s a were-cat too?” No wonder he’d been so uptight about snares.
Calum just shrugged. “I’m thinking not. His mam married out, as they say around here, but it’s only time will tell for sure. Anyhow, it was his auntie who taught me what I needed to know and gave me enough money to get home again. She died a few years ago,” he added. “At least, so we think. Went out for a run and never came back, but they never did find her body.” He stared out of the window, his face expressionless.
“What about your mum?” Martin asked after a pause.
“Still living in Dublin.” There was another brief silence. “I’ll take you to see her, if you’ve a mind for over-cooked food and Catholic disapproval.”
Martin didn’t quite know what to say to that. On the one hand, it sounded like Calum actually thought they might have some kind of future together. On the other hand—there had been something forced in Calum’s manner as he’d said it. Martin dredged up another question. “Are there a lot of you? I mean, us, I suppose. Wildcats. Were-cats. Is there, I don’t know, a pack?”
Calum gave him a scornful look. “We’re not dogs, Martin. See, the pure wildcat is a solitary creature, coming together only to mate. And we’ve all got that in us, that need to be alone.” He laughed shortly. “You’ll have noticed Alec Campbell and I don’t exactly get along.”
Martin nodded in understanding—and not just because he found it hard to imagine anyone actually getting along with Alec Campbell. He’d been a loner since childhood. He’d never felt he really had all that much in common with people of his own age, Jonathan excepted—and even that had been an illusion, as it had turned out.
“But there’s the human side of us too,” Calum continued, “and sometimes it’s a comfort to know that there’s others like you nearby.”
His words struck a chord. “Is that why you came back here? After the first time, I mean.”
It was Calum’s turn to nod, and then he sat back suddenly, away from Martin. “Plus, I am actually supposed to be working. I’ve had to give my agent a call, tell her I’m sick.”
“Sorry.”
Calum stared. “What the fuck for?”
Martin was confused. “Well, it’s my fault, isn’t it? I mean, you’d be working if you weren’t looking after me.” He began to feel a bit uncomfortable as Calum simply carried on staring at him, unblinking. “What sort of thing do you photograph, anyway?” he asked in a rush. “You never said.”
Calum’s expression went from intense to embarrassed. “Ah, well, see I’ve sort of made a name for myself photographing wildcats.”
Martin stared at him, then burst out laughing. “You bloody cheat! So what do you do—just set the timer and photograph yourself?”
Calum grinned. “Actually I’ve been getting Aggie Campbell to pose for me. I’ve done a whole series of her over the years, going back to when she was hardly more than a kitten. Paid her for her time, of course. She can kiss goodbye to that little earner now, the bitch.”
“Maybe I could be your model now?” Martin suggested. “You know, when I’m, um, changed?”
Just for an instant, Calum looked almost upset—then he seemed to recollect himself and was all smiles again. “’Course you can, Martin!” But there was a note in his reassurance that sounded off key to Martin, and it wasn’t long before he fell into a morose silence from which he seemed to struggle to rouse himself.
As the afternoon went on, the pattern seemed to repeat itself constantly. For a short while, Calum would seem almost like his old self—but the next five minutes would see him staring into space or jumping up restlessly to perform some unnecessary task or other.
Of course, Martin told himself, Calum was probably still tired from looking after him when he’d been in the fever. There was no reason for him to worry—except, it was horribly reminiscent of the way Jonathan had been with him, that last holiday they’d had together, almost exactly a year ago.
Just before Jonathan had told him to piss off.
“You’re quiet.”
Martin could almost hear a tearing sound as he was ripped out of his memories and back to the present by Calum’s voice. He turned away from the window he’d been staring out of blindly. Calum was sitting in an armchair. Martin hadn’t even heard him come in. “Sorry. Just thinking.”
“You’re worried about the change, now?” Calum sounded troubled.
“I—no, actually. Should I be? I was just thinking about… things. You know.”
Calum looked at him with a strange expression on his face. “I never meant for this to happen, Martin.”
No, of course he hadn’t. Mart
in’s gut twisted. Some one-night stand he’d turned out to be. No wonder Calum was pissed off, stuck babysitting him through his transformation. “Why do I have to wait until full moon, anyway?” Martin asked, annoyed. “Why can’t I try and change now? You could show me how it’s done—”
“No.” Calum’s voice was final.
“Why not?”
“You’ll wait until full moon.”
“But why, for God’s sake, Calum?” Bloody hell, he was exasperating sometimes.
“Because that’s how it’s always done,” Calum told him, tight-lipped.
“And what would you know about that? You were born a were-cat!” Martin protested, incensed by his unreasoning stubbornness.
Calum shrugged irritably. “It’s the same principle. The first change is always one you have to make, not one you choose.”
Martin took a few angry paces toward Calum. “But you haven’t said why! What is it you’re not telling me, Calum?”
A muscle twitched in Calum’s jaw. “Nothing! There’s nothing, all right?” Martin flinched involuntarily as Calum slammed his palms against the arms of his chair and propelled himself explosively to his feet. “Fuck it, Martin. I’ve got to get out!”
Martin stared after Calum as he almost ran into the kitchen. He heard the back door open and then slam shut. Confused, he went to the window.
Calum was standing on the rough grass out back, his body tense and his head down, the wind ruffling his hair. Abruptly he shook himself and pulled off his T-shirt in one angry motion. He dropped it to the ground, his hands going straight to his belt buckle. Suddenly dry-mouthed, Martin watched as Calum kicked off his shoes and yanked down his jeans. For a moment Calum just stood there, feet set slightly apart, muscles tensing and then relaxing, seeming to drink in the highland air. The freshening wind tugged at his curls and the swift movement of the clouds dappled his form with sunlight and shadow. Martin could easily imagine him as some ancient Celt, at one with his environment.