The Children Of The Mist (22 page)

It was stuffy, and pitch black, but surprisingly comfortable. Morven felt that it was a ridiculous amount of fuss for a corpse. She felt sure that the body in the other coffin couldn't care less. For a moment it occurred to her that she may not be the only vampyre on board. She wished she'd been a bit more curious. But then she dismissed the idea. Far too fanciful. It was just a regular dead soldier. Still, it reminded her of what she was about. Maybe in a day or so, she would really catch up with her own kind. Maybe she'd find a clue in a museum. And there was the Campbell tartan. Surely that'd be a good lead. Or maybe she'd just have to fly around at night and hope she'd bump into bat-people. They were out there. She just had to find them.

There was a change in the sound of the engine; it seemed to rev a little slower. Then she felt the plane dip. They must be coming into Dubai. About half way there. She'd been travelling for about 14 hours. What was happening back home? Was Zest alright? Her parents? She felt so helpless, and missed them already. A wave of tiredness washed through
her brain. She recalled the kiss. More than anything, she hoped Zest was thinking about it too. But thought became too hard. She drifted away into a deep dreamless sleep.

When she awoke, she stretched. And panicked. Limbs jammed against walls. Her eyes opened. ‘Shit!' And then reality returned. It was alright. She was on the plane. In the coffin. En route to Edinburgh, Scotland. She took a deep breath of air and held it, ears on stalks. It was quiet. Too quiet. No throbbing engines. No soldier speak. Not good.

Her hand lifted and touched the lid of the box, but then she paused. She had no way of knowing where she was or whether it was night or day. If she pushed the box open and she was in daylight, she might end up…fried, crisped and dried. On the other hand, she couldn't stay where she was either. After a moment's deliberation, Morven pushed lightly on the timber cover. It shifted a little. With more confidence, she pushed a little harder, wired to let go at any sign of danger. With a disturbingly loud grating sound, the lid opened. No sunshine. Brilliant. With two hands Morven heaved upwards and the lid flew off. Its crash landing sounded like junk colliding in space. Morven cursed inwardly and sat up.

She was still in the plane. So, in an airport. That was good. She raced to a window. Night. Lucky or what? But then she took a deep breath in, expecting an onslaught of fumes, oil, pollution and people. Instead the air was incredibly clean. Crisp. Cold. A faint whiff of fuel overlaid something she couldn't quite put her finger on. She sniffed again. And then she had it. Salt and sand. In other words — the sea. Which was a bit disconcerting. Her geography was hazy, but she was sure Edinburgh was well inland. So…where the hell was she?

She grabbed her bag, said goodbye to the dead dude, and headed to the ramp, which someone had conveniently left down. At the top, she paused and shivered. Holy crap, it was freezing. Slowly, carefully, she padded down the ramp. Her breath fogged before her. At the bottom she looked around. Ghostly planes huddled down in an ethereally white world. It took a moment before she realised it was snow.
Snow
. Awesome. She leaned down and put a finger on the frozen surface. It was much harder than it looked. But then her finger broke through the crystalline surface into the soft snow beneath. When she stood she noticed footprints in the snow leading away from the plane. Two sets. Excellent luck. Like breadcrumbs in the forest.

With one last glance around, Morven set off. In the distance she could hear traffic, and what was probably a radio. But she felt she was alone. The base closed for the night. A fizz of anticipation sizzled through her spine. And when she glanced backward, she saw that her feet left no impression in the snow. Man, she loved being Vampyre.

The trail led past what must have been the operations tower to a black patch of bitumen and a set of tyre marks moving away in the snow. With nothing better to do Morven decided to follow. She shivered and, after a moment's hesitation, pulled the tartan rug out of the bag and put it over her head and shoulders. Better. Soon the tracks disappeared as she turned onto the road. The sky above was clear and pinpointed with stars. A black cat slunk beneath a leafless hedge and hissed. And slunk away again. Just as Morven decided to head to the right, something made her freeze. It was a soft sound, like wind whispering though a leafy glade.

Her skin prickled and she pulled her makeshift hood away from her face. And she knew she was not alone anymore. She turned slowly and looked over the hedge, and across a field, empty except for a stubble of cut wheat. And then she peered back behind her. ‘Goldsmith? Helmrich? Is that you?' Her voice sounded unnaturally high and loud. Scared. Zest would have given her heaps if he had been there. If only he were. The world seemed a mighty big place. And Morven felt ridiculously small. And alone.

She froze, forcing herself not to breathe, the better to hear. Nothing. Just a fox barking a long way away. Almost convinced she was mistaken, Morven shrugged the rug over her shoulders.

‘I say, tasteful tartan!'

A shadowy figure moved behind the hedge. Morven jumped as if she'd been branded and dropped the rug.

‘Sorry, did I scare you?'

Morven took a hasty step back as the dark figure materialised onto the road. It was a man. A young man. He was tall and slender, with sleek, black, collar-length hair and a set of cheekbones to die for. He smiled. And Morven smiled back. She couldn't help it. It was such a warm smile, almost childlike in its candour. Such a wide smile displaying a set of perfectly pointy teeth.

Suddenly the man smacked himself on his forehead. ‘Oh gosh! I forgot my manners.' He held out a pale hand. ‘Caractacus. Caractacus Campbell.'

Campbell! Morven could barely contain her excitement. Surely, it had to be more than a coincidence? Morven took the hand tentatively and gave it a squeeze. ‘Hi, Morven Smith.'

Caractacus smiled again. ‘Oh I know! We've been expecting you. Calix is going to be so pissed. He'd hot-footed it down to Edinburgh but then a blizzard closed the airport and you ended up here. So Mother sent me out to collect you. Which is great!' He whacked himself again and Morven winced. ‘Sorry! Calix is my older brother. Which makes him, and myself, of course, your cousins…I think. I'm a bit dim a lot of the time, you see.'

Morven was temporarily stunned into silence. Her head felt like an overworked vitamiser. Too much to process. A north wind whipped across the bleak landscape and Morven shivered violently. The snug depths of the coffin seemed deeply desirable. With shaking hands she pulled the hood back over her head. Christ, it was freezing.

Again a slap. ‘Look at me! Manners of a goat herd.' So saying, Caractacus slipped off a green padded jacket and held it out to Morven. Beneath it he wore a sleeveless vest, a
blue jumper, a rugby shirt and a pair of jeans. His feet were clad in what looked like moon boots. Thick-soled and almost to the knee.

Without hesitation, Morven took the coat and slipped it on. It was soft. Like a duvet. And toasty warm. Morven smiled at her hero. She decided he was quite loveable. For a cousin. ‘Thanks,' she said.

Again that embracing smile. ‘Well, better get you home. You must be a bit weary.' He glanced to the east with a pair of eyes black as pitch. ‘We've still got a few hours before dawn. Do you want the scenic tour or as the crow flies?'

With the blood in her veins beginning to thaw, Morven felt a renewed wave of vigour. And excitement.
This was it
. Here was a member of her clan, or whatever you called it in bonnie Scotland. And this was her new country. She wanted the scenic tour. Which reminded her…'Caractacus, where are we, exactly?'

Caratacus nodded. ‘Well, we are in the west of Scotland, the Forth Valley, not too far from Argyll. Small town called Campbelltown. The family is staying at Castle Carrick. It's not far.'

A castle! Holy crap! Morven folded her tartan carefully, stowed it in her bag, and slung it over her shoulder. ‘Lead on, Macduff!'

Her cousin grinned. ‘Don't speak that name in front of the rest of the family! The Macduffs aren't flavour of the century.'

Morven was fascinated but didn't have opportunity to pursue his comment as Caractacus turned and jumped back over the hedge from which he had emerged. Morven followed.

It was a clear, crisp night. The clouds that had brought the snow had vanished. Her cousin covered the ground with long, loping strides. Like Morven, his boots left no mark in the sparkling frosty ground. They travelled through farmland. Slumbering cows startled and lurched to their feet, lowing nervously. An owl swooped overhead and let out a piercing cry. And, snug in their farmhouses and cottages, the people slept. Unhearing. Unwary. Soon the landscape gave way to a rugged mountain range. The air was sharp and frigid. Morven scented fox and rabbit. And something else. Something that made her mouth water.

As they skirted a copse of leafless trees the musky aroma intensified. Caractacus stopped and put up a gloved hand, pointing to a small clearing. Morven saw them at once. Deer. A herd of deer. Their eyes wide, ears waving like antennae. And then Morven realised she was hungry. No…starving actually. The deer, even with their thick winter coats, looked pretty plump to her. There were a number of half-grown youngsters. Very toothsome. Memories of her hunt with Zest flooded her mind. For a second she looked expectantly at Caractacus, half expecting some sort of signal to indicate his intent to give chase. Her blood fizzed like bicarb through her veins. Brilliant.

But Caractacus remained quite still, his eyes trained on the nervous beasts. And Morven kept quiet, for she had a sudden attack of self-doubt. What if her family weren't like her? What if it wasn't the thing to do? How embarrassing would that be? A moment later she was relieved by her reticence. The herd broke cover, heading helter-skelter for the higher ground. Caractacus turned and smiled.

‘Fascinating creatures, aren't they?'

It wasn't how Morven would have phrased it, but she nodded and smiled back. Fascinating? Really? How about scrumptious? How about juicy? Tasty, even. There were a jumble of questions on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them down. Into her cavernous stomach. Better just wing it. Meet the rest of the family first.

Caractacus pointed. ‘We'll head north from here, into the forest that skirts Loch Goil. The castle is on the edge of the loch. You'll see.'

The ground grew steep for a while and then ducked down again into the edge of a forest. Despite the distinct aroma of pine resin, the thickly wooded countryside seemed as alien as the moon. The ground was as hard as iron. Drifts of snow curled like royal icing against naked trunks of trees. But there was life. Crouched in the treetops and deep beneath the earth. Frigid air streamed into her nostrils and seemed to bite her lungs; at least the exercise kept her warm. But strangest of all was the silence. Perhaps it was the stillness of a sleeping season, but Morven sensed a subtle awareness. As if the residents of the forest collectively held their breath.

After several minutes the ground began to slope gently down. The trees thinned and were left behind. The air seemed saltier, and Morven could hear the soft lap of waves. As they broke out of the forest into a stretch of rocky, hungry country, it was impossible to miss the castle. It towered over the loch, grey and forbidding. From where they stood there were no points of light. The place seemed as empty as a discarded eggshell. It wasn't what she had imagined. True, her knowledge of castles was sketchy, but there was something cold and unyielding about the great stone facade.

Caractacus stopped. ‘Home, sweet home,' he said softly.

Morven thought she detected an undertone of sarcasm, or perhaps irony. But couldn't be sure. She shifted the backpack which was chaffing her a little. She searched for something appropriate to say. And promptly forgot as a deep, mournful voice travelled over the dark surface of the lake. Something hard and gritty lodged in her throat as a vivid image popped into her head. She and Zest on top of the world, with Dog at their side. A wave of something akin to grief washed over her. And she wondered — what the hell was she doing in this strange place? With this stranger.

The sad cry lifted once more and Caractacus shifted nervously beside her. As the song slowly slid away, Morven turned to him. ‘What was that?'

His eyes slid away. ‘What was what?' he said.

Morven looked back over the black water, eyes searching. She could see nothing. But she knew what she had heard. A wolf.

Question was — why would her cousin lie?

Caractacus took off before she could pursue the issue. As she raced after him over the rocky ground she decided to let it go. For now.

The closer Morven moved toward the ancient castle, the more unsettled she felt. It seemed to be watching her through its blank slits of windows. As she followed her companion around to the loch side, she paused to stare into the water. The castle seemed to swim just below its dark surface. When she turned her attention back to the stone facade her spirits lifted a little. A warm yellow light shone out through several windows. And a car slumbered on a gravel driveway.

Caractacus walked up to a giant timber door. She couldn't help but smile to herself as he tilted over a big plant pot and fished out a key. A very large key, of the variety she had only seen in movies. He looked at Morven and grinned. ‘Sophisticated security system.' But as he reached out to the oversized keyhole, the door swung slowly open. It groaned and whined as if in pain. Caractacus popped the key back in its bed and beckoned to Morven. ‘Come on in. Meet the Addams family.'

It was a silly joke. But it struck Morven's funny bone and she got a fit of nervous giggles. She was still giggling like a two-year-old as she swept up the steps and through the door. The door thudded shut behind her and she blinked in the light. As her eyes adjusted, she realised it was not so much a room, as a hall. All flagged stone floor, cavernous fireplace and timber walls decorated with a dizzying array of weaponry. Not cosy, but fascinating. Without really thinking about it Morven walked over the hard floor. She stopped in front of the fireplace. Seated on a risen grate, coals glowed and gave off heat. She held out her hands to the blue flames and looked up at a small crossbow. Black and sleek.