The Children Of The Mist (23 page)

‘Beautiful, isn't she? A fine choice, though I say so myself.'

Morven turned and stared. The man looked like Caractacus. And didn't. The same shiny, smooth hair, the pale complexion, the cheekbones. But while Caractacus had pointed, elfish features, this man was classical with his dimpled chin and square jaw. He was so perfect that Morven wished she could draw him. Capture the perfect symmetry of the wide-set, black eyes. The lashes so thick they seemed to sport an application of black kohl. And while Caractacus was tall and slender, with the lean muscles of the long distance runner, this other man was built like a gymnast. Powerful.

But there was something else. Something about this handsome stranger that made the lining of Morven's intestine ripple. For a moment she couldn't fathom what it was that disturbed her. And then she had it. He was too perfect. A kind of cardboard cut-out of masculinity. Manufactured. While she warmed to Caractacus, she just didn't get the same vibes from this other.

He smiled, reached up and plucked the bow from its roost and handed it to Morven. As her hand closed around its smooth, cool surface, he smiled. ‘Hi, I'm Calix. Calix Campbell. And you must be Morven.'

She nodded. Despite her unease, it was hard to be immune to this charismatic relative. To hide her confusion, Morven lifted up the weapon and began to study it.

Caractacus joined them. ‘That's a fine weapon. Bro here uses it for hunting.'

By way of reply Morven's stomach made a loud gurgle, reminiscent of a plug being pulled from a bath full of water. Smooth. Her face heated up. Hopefully they'd put it down to her proximity to the fire.

No such luck.

There was a loud slap as Caractacus admonished himself. ‘Manners! Where are your manners, Campbell? The honoured guest is probably starving.'

Calix gently removed the black bow from Morven. ‘Caractacus is quite right. You must be hungry. And tired. The Mater is waiting. Come.'

Morven felt a small twinge of irritation. Despite the polished tone, it felt like an order. Not a request. But maybe her blood sugar was low. She throttled down the smart remark that teetered on the tip of her tongue as she noted Caractacus rolling his eyes behind his brother's back. She caught Caractacus's eye and grinned. He grinned back. And Morven realised that she liked him.

When Calix turned and frowned, Morven immediately felt naughty, and about eight years old. As she hurried across the room, she wondered why she was so willing to placate. Still, Caractacus seemed to be of the same mind for he hurried over, too. On the north side of the hall Calix stopped at an embroidered hanging, depicting a gory hunt scene. Morven barely had time to be shocked at the sight of some sad human being disembowelled when Calix flicked the drape aside to reveal a staircase.

It was dimly lit, and wound around and around. A rope hung on the wall, which Morven occasionally held for security as the steps were steep. Torches offered shifting light. Shadows danced frenetically as they disturbed the still air. Beneath her feet the stone was worn. And Morven couldn't help but wonder how many feet had climbed those ancient steps before her. Had they all been Campbell's? It impressed upon her the magnitude of the moment. And reinforced how little she knew.

Finally she emerged into a warm, well-lit room. It was round. And Morven realised that she was in a tower. Cool. For a moment she thought of Zest — he'd just love this place. And she felt a twinge of loss. But the emotion was submerged as a beautiful woman floated across the timber floor toward her. The resemblance to Caractacus and Calix was uncanny. Pale, with her black hair pulled severely back to emphasise a widow's peak, she stared at Morven with big, black eyes. And Morven stared back. Entranced by the woman's dress. A deep, blood red velvet gown, sweeping to the floor. A medieval maiden. Or so it seemed to Morven.

The woman smiled. ‘Morven, my dear. At last.' Her voice was as polished as a stone upon a beach. She held out a delicate hand, red nails glossy and long. ‘Come.'

Feeling distinctly grubby and unkempt, Morven took a step forward. The hand reached out and firmly propped up Morven's chin. The black eyes were as deep and unreadable as the loch outside. Suddenly irritated, Morven jerked her chin away and stepped back. She was not a performing seal.

There was a burst of laughter from behind. ‘Mater…our guest has spirit, it would seem.'

Morven recognised Calix's deep, modulated tone.

The woman in red smiled coldly. ‘So I see.'

Caractacus moved to Morven's shoulder and smiled with real warmth. ‘Mother, Morven is just hungry and tired.'

Grateful for the solidarity, Morven smiled at her cousin.

In a graceful gesture that Morven secretly coveted, The Mater indicated to the far side of the room. Morven's spirits lifted. A table was set. Crystal glasses jostled for space between tall candelabras and great silver tureens that gave off delicious scents.

Calix sat himself in a heavy, carved chair at the head of the table. ‘Please, be seated Morven.'

She did not need a second invitation. As she settled onto a hard-backed seat, her senses soared. As each lid was lifted off the serving dishes she battled to remember her manners. Steak, red and oozing. Roast turkey, pink and succulent. A dish of raw mince, like long wriggling worms. And other meat that she did not recognise, but made her light-headed with longing, nonetheless. Her eyes barely acknowledged the fluffy piles of mashed potato, and heart-shaped scarlet beans. Heartily she prayed there'd be no pre-dinner chit-chat.

Aquiver with anxiety, Morven watched and waited for a cue to begin. And tried not to dribble. Finally everyone was seated. The Mater looked gravely at Calix. ‘Calix, would you pour?'

Calix nodded and stood and picked up a large glass carafe filled almost to the brim with a deep burgundy beverage. Morven groaned inside. Red wine. Yuk. Might as well be a glass of goat pee. But she said nothing as her cousin carefully filled four tall crystal glasses.

Caractacus, placed to her right, passed her a glass.

‘To Morven,' said The Mater, ‘may we never forget.' And lifted her glass.

Morven hastily joined the toast, hesitated for a moment and brought the glass to her lips. And froze. Half in shock, half in wonderment. The rich, sweet scent of blood rushed up her nose and into her brain like a rocket. Oh my God! This was seriously sick. Mad-doggish. And then, without conscious thought, she drank. And drank. Until the glass was empty. She put it down, and strangled down a desire to stick her tongue into the glass and lick it clean. Her fatigue faded and she felt wired. Holy crap, if she had her board she'd be extreme. She felt fantastic. And somewhere, out in the cold, moonlit night, a wolf sang an ancient song of sadness.

Morven looked around the table. But none of the company showed any sign that they had heard. As she contemplated whether or not speak, Caractacus held out a plate of meat which smelled marvellous, but was not familiar.

‘It's venison.'

Morven was none the wiser.

Perhaps this showed in her face for her cousin continued. ‘Deer,' he said. ‘Calix and Celeste brought it down last week.'

Morven took a couple of succulent slices and popped them on her plate. As she tucked in, she decided to let the whole wolf thing go. She sensed it would not be a welcome subject at the dinner table. For a moment she wondered who Celeste was but her stomach growled furiously. So, she dedicated herself to the serious business of eating. Soon her plate was piled high with a sample of everything. Even a dollop of mash. It was seriously wicked stuff. The venison was really great. Strong in flavour. Tender. It was only as her stomach became comfortably full that she turned her attention to her hosts.

Beside her, Caractacus had a steak and veggies. More veggies than steak in fact. As yet, the meat appeared untouched. And, she noted, the crystal glass of ruby blood at his place-setting seemed full. By contrast, the rest of the family seemed to have tastes more in line with Morven's own. Glasses empty.

Perhaps Calix noticed her scrutiny, for he suddenly looked at his brother and then at his plate. His debonair features were momentarily flawed by a sneer. ‘For Lucifer's sake, Caractacus, drink up. What will Morven think?' Calix fixed his dark eyes upon Morven. ‘You must forgive my brother. He is seriously twisted and considers the consumption of blood and bone to be distasteful. He also abhors bloodshed. Thankfully, he is in a tiny minority of one.' Calix picked up his knife and ran his tongue slowly up and down the blade. White teeth sparkled.

Even though Morven knew it was a deliberate act of provocation, designed to wind up Caractacus, she found herself horribly mesmerised. There was something impossibly, deliciously dangerous about this dark cousin of hers. It was not just his undeniable good looks and physical prowess, but something else. Perhaps the allure of utter confidence. Or perhaps the crackling energy, barely contained beneath his smooth exterior. And strangely…there was something familiar about him. She struggled to make the connections. But her head filled with fog. Her body felt as if it were being filled with sand. As her eyes closed, she finally got it. Zest. Calix was like Zest. How peculiar.

A long, mournful howl shivered through her brain. For a moment she fought against the exhaustion that enveloped her. But it was hopeless. The last thing she knew, a pair of strong arms lifted her. As her head slumped onto a broad chest she tried to speak. But the world slipped away. And she fell into darkness.

She awoke with a start. Her eyes opened and she looked around. Where the hell was she? It was dark but a fire crackled in an open hearth, giving off soft light. A bedroom. Big. Low ceiling — no, make that a bed with a roof. Wicked! A real four-poster. Open drapes hung in soft folds at the head of the bed. In one corner of the room was a wardrobe. Curtained windows sat either side of the fire place. A bureau and mirror graced the other wall. The only other furnishings were two leather chairs, huddled before the fire. Two
pictures hung upon the wall to her left. Both portraits of haughty-looking men, with high pale foreheads and Campbell tartan skirts. Morven grinned. Oops. Make that kilts.

The orange flames in the fireplace flickered and danced. Morven froze…senses questing. It was probably just a draught, creeping down the chimney or slipping beneath the door. But she wasn't convinced. Someone was in the room with her. Someone uninvited. Someone secretive. Someone rude.

Silently, she breathed in through her mouth. Smoke, soot, dust, leather, polish, a faint hint of salt and…perfume. Certainly not Morven's. Perhaps some recent guest's. Perhaps not. As the seconds ticked by Morven became more certain that someone was there. Instinct made her still. The room was large but there was limited opportunity for concealment. Behind the curtains, in the wardrobe, beneath the bed?
Beneath the bed
. Her toes curled at the thought. Some creep was lurking under her bed. The fire had been disturbed as that person slipped underneath. Hmm.

Question was — why? And, of course — who? Anger tweaked her brain. If someone wanted to play games, that was fine by her. On cue her body began to tingle. Adrenaline shot through her blood like a soda stream. In one fluid motion she was on the move. And so was someone else. As Morven reached beneath the bed, a hand shot out and grasped her wrist. With a hiss of fury Morven slid to the ground and dealt a vicious kick. Her foot made a satisfying smack as she found her target. The grip on her wrist loosened for a second, and Morven's hands sank into a head of thick, soft hair. Without hesitation, Morven dragged the body out into the open. But before she could wrestle her victim into submission, simultaneous blows to either side of her head left her nearly senseless. And very pissed. A scream of outrage poured from her mouth and all thought of playing nicely evaporated like methylated spirit.

With ears still ringing like church bells on Sunday, Morven turned to meet her quarry. Only to realise that it was headed for the door. Morven flew. Literally. And landed a bodily blow to the kidneys. Sensing an advantage, Morven went in for the kill.

And then, the door opened. Light gushed in and a pair of strong hands grabbed her and pulled her away.

‘Morven, stop it!'

Furious, Morven turned her energies to this new source of torment.

‘Morven, it's Caractacus. Please, stop it.'

Morven wavered, and in the mirror she saw that it was true. It was Caractacus. And, to her horror, she also registered that she was dressed (if you could call it that) in nothing but her bra and panties. Holy crap. How had that happened? All the fight went out of her. Confusion took over.

Caractacus loosened his stranglehold and she took in a deep sobbing breath. Movement caught her attention and she saw that Calix was there, too. She backed up to the bed, slipped beneath the sheets and pulled them up to her neck, while resisting the temptation to pull them over her head as well.

Calix sauntered over. He wasn't smiling, but Morven sensed he was amused. He bent down and hauled the slumped body off the floor. And for the first time Morven realised that it was a girl. A very beautiful girl, with Cleopatra eyes and a wild head of hair the dark russet colour of autumn leaves. The overall effect was a little blemished by a fat, bloodied nose.

Calix grinned unrepentantly and made a small mocking bow to Morven. ‘Morven, let me introduce you to your cousin Celeste. Celeste, this is your cousin Morven.'

Morven was gobsmacked. Her cousin? What the hell? She was silent for a moment. She tried to feel bad about the squashed nose. But failed miserably. Serve her right. People that sneaked around a room in the dark deserved all they got. She glared at Celeste. ‘What the hell where you doing under my bed?'

Calix chuckled. ‘Ah. A fair question, under the circumstances, dear sister.'

Celeste hissed at her brother and said something unflattering regarding his sexuality. But he ignored her, merely raising one disdainful black eyebrow. ‘Celeste?'