The Children Of The Mist (32 page)

Footsteps clicked hesitatingly through the door. And then there was light. Not yellow light, but a soft red. Morven looked up and stared into the amber eyes of Meg MacGregor. Meg brought a warning finger to her lips. Without a word she extracted a key from her coat pocket and hurried over to Morven. Nimble fingers soon had her free.

‘You have to help me,' the young girl whispered.

Morven nodded. She grabbed Meg's coat sleeve. It was wet. Without wasting time worrying about this oddity, Morven replied. ‘Meg, Zest's in the well. Oh God, is the tide in yet? Oh God. We've got to get him out.'

Meg nodded. Morven, almost too scared to hope, scrambled to her feet. Her head spun and her legs felt as insubstantial as matchsticks. With the wall as support she made it to the door. She felt a bit better. The blood pumped more forcibly in her veins. With an anxious glance up the corridor she led Meg to the chamber and over to the well.

‘Zest!' she called as loud as she dared. Her heart seemed to make more noise than an express train. But there was no reply. She looked at Meg who stared wordlessly back. Morven stuck her head down the well as far as she could. ‘Zest!' This time her words echoed back up to her. And then she thought she'd expire from sheer happiness.

Zest's voice floated up to her. ‘Morven, is that you?'

‘Yes, I'm here, and so is Meg. Hang on, we'll have you out soon.'

‘That's good. I'm getting wet feet.'

Wet feet. Holy crap. Morven looked at the hoist above her head. It seemed simple enough. A crank handle and a chain. Turn the handle and the chain coiled up. Morven grabbed the handle and heaved. It shifted a fraction but was incredibly heavy. Or she was pathetically weak. She turned to Meg. ‘You'll have to help.'

The girl moved over and together they exerted all their strength. And, with excruciating slowness, the cage began to rise. Again and again they turned the handle. Sweat ran in rivulets down Morven's back. Meg panted loudly. Her face slowly looked paler and more pinched. But she spoke not a word. There was an air of steely determination about the girl that kept Morven going. When the top of the cage appeared in plain sight, they seemed to get another wind.

Soon Zest's head was visible. His green eyes glowed as if he was in a fever. Morven paused and smiled. Meg poked her rather hard in the ribs and she hurried back to her labours. But she was on fire now. She could feel Zest's eyes on her. She felt like purring.

‘Morven, that'll do it.'

Morven looked up and saw Zest was correct. The cage was nearly clear of the well. She rushed up to the cage and pushed her hands through the bars. ‘Zest, are you alright?'

He grinned. ‘I am now.'

There was so much she wanted to say. But Meg's impatient jiggling reminded her of the precariousness of their position. She pulled her hands free and headed to the axes. One lay on the ground. She picked it up and found it still sticky. Her blood not yet dried. She wiped it on her jeans and headed back to Zest. ‘Get back.'

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.

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?'

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?'