The Children Of The Mist (8 page)

Several minutes later he jogged steadily past the garage, past the office and showroom, to a small caravan parked behind a copse of trees. Zest paused and looked around. All was quiet. He pulled out his key and opened the door. It wasn't much. But it was home.

Once inside, he switched on the light and pulled the curtains shut. He headed for the tiny bathroom. He needed a shower. At the bathroom sink he paused and looked at himself in the mirror. He certainly needed a bit of tidying up. His hair was littered with leaves and what looked like bits of hide. Blood smeared his throat and spotted his shirt. The said shirt strained across his back and had split at the sleeve seams, his muscles straining through the
gap. The black centres of his green eyes were dilated. Two black moons of darkness. At the base of his neck a pulse beat slowly.

As he stood beneath the spray, the clean hot water seemed to wash away the werewolf. But he knew it was just an illusion. Away from the influence of the nearly full moon, his body began to slide back toward its normal equilibrium. He'd missed a dose of Wolf's Bane before. By morning he'd be fine.

By the time he put on clean clothes he looked pretty much like normal, except he fancied his eyes seemed darker and his body hair thicker. Perhaps it was just in his imagination.

In the tiny lounge area he grabbed a bottle of water and flicked on the idiot box. But the images danced before his eyes unseen. He couldn't concentrate. Was Morven still fast asleep in her bed? Was she alright? He picked up his phone and started to dial in her number. Halfway through the digits he stopped. Best not. If he was wrong, he'd look a right bloody idiot. Best let her be. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Hopefully he'd find his board and then casually pop in to say hi.

Still restless, he switched off the TV and went to bed. He lay awake for hours, filled with anxiety. Filled with hope. Somehow, he couldn't let go of the possibility that maybe tomorrow would be the right time. Morven would be just fine.

She had to be.

Morven was scared. More than that. Petrified. Terrified. Horrified. In fact, there was no word to express the emotions that filled her. Her breath came in ragged bursts, and her heart beat in her chest like some kind of desperate caged bird. The air was full of smoke. A scream rent through the small town square. A dreadful sound that unhinged her completely.

She stopped in her tracks, frozen with terror. ‘Oh God, let me go,' she begged. ‘Please, please let me go. It wasn't me, I swear it wasn't me.'

But the two armed men took no notice and dragged her across the cobbled stones of the town square. She stumbled and would have fallen if the men had not jerked viciously on the heavy chains that bound her. Again and again that terrible cry filled the air, anguished, agonised. It touched some place deep within Morven and she felt reason slip away. She went mad, attacking the two men with every atom of her being. In a frenzy, she kicked, gouged and tried to bite. They fought back, tearing her hair out at the roots, ripping what was left of her dress to shreds. Finally one of them lost patience and smashed her across the skull with his sword handle.

Almost unconscious, Morven was half dragged, half carried toward the waiting crowd. The morbid mob hushed as she neared, and parted. The heat from the fire hit her then, and the smell made her gag. There was little left of the poor creature, consumed and blackened by the pyre. Someone jeered and spat. The spit landed on her bare arm. But she barely noticed, mesmerised by the sight of a tall wooden post buried in a carefully constructed bonfire.

Her mind was strangely blank as they bound her. Even when the torch touched the brush and it burst into flame, her mind was empty. Detached, she watched the people gathered to welcome and witness her destruction. How she hated them. Hated their blind stupidity and ignorance. But then a finger of flame licked tentatively up her foot. Hotter and hotter. And the world became pain. And though she had sworn she wouldn't, she shrieked. ‘I'm not Vampyre. I'm not Vampyre.' But then the agony overwhelmed the words. And she opened her mouth in a soundless scream.

‘Morven, Morven, wake up!'

Morven's eyes snapped open. ‘Mum, don't let me burn, don't let me burn!' she sobbed hysterically.

‘Morven, Morven, it's okay. It's just a dream. It's alright. It's just a dream.'

And the world came back into focus. Morven clutched her mother tight for a minute and then flopped back on her pillow. It was dark, but light spilled through the open door and Wolverine watched her enigmatically. Still saturated by the terrible intensity of the nightmare, Morven could not speak. Her fingers curled in the soft quilt. She was in her bed. Safe and sound. It was just a dream.

But then a pain sliced through her abdomen and she let out a small groan and doubled over.

‘Morven, what's the matter?'

But Morven could not answer, consumed by the intensity of the pain.

‘Clifford, come here, something's wrong.'

Morven could hear the panic in her mother's voice. With a concerted effort she lifted her head. ‘It's alright,' she whispered, ‘just a bit of period pain.'

Her mother put a cool hand onto her forehead. ‘Morven, you're not alright. You're burning up.'

For an instant the room went dark as her father rushed through the doorway. He peered down at Morven and then looked at his wife. Morven was not reassured.

‘We'd better get her to emergency,' he said.

Morven was not impressed. She hated hospitals. Horrid places full of man-made super bugs and sociopaths that serenaded as surgeons. ‘I'm not going to the hospital.'

Her mother's eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, yes you are, my girl.'

Morven scowled and wiped away the irritating beads of sweat that dripped over her eyebrows. ‘No, I'm not.'

Her father sat carefully on the edge of the bed. ‘Morven, you have to go and get checked out. This is more than just a period. I'm not sure, but I think you may have appendicitis.'

Morven sniffed furiously. ‘Well, as you're the doctor, why don't you just put me on the kitchen table and whip it out then?'

To her surprise her father grinned. ‘I'd love to. Except you'd sue me if I botched it.'

Morven was outraged. ‘I would not.' She wanted to say considerably more but the stabbing, agonising pain rolled over her again. She was helpless to resist as her father leant down and picked her up bodily out of her bed. By the time the lift took them to the basement, she felt too ill to put up any resistance. She could hear voices that she knew must be inside her head. It must be the effects of whatever ailed her. Fear prodded. What was wrong with her? Several possibilities flicked through her head, each worse than the last. Suddenly, appendicitis seemed quite appealing.

Her father and mother manhandled her as gently and carefully as they could into the back seat of the car.

‘We won't be long,' said her dad.

It was true. The hospital was barely 10 minutes away. They made it in under five. Morven was secretly impressed by the kamikaze drive to town. Usually her Dad was like
the
slowest driver in the world. And, her mother never told him to slow down once. Not even when they went screeching through a very red light. Awesome. Zest would never believe it when she told him.

At the main entrance to the emergency unit the car came to a screeching stop. Doors opened and a man in pale blue scrubs came out. When he looked in the back seat at her, he turned and motioned for a stretcher. Through the open doors wafted the smell of sickness and decay overlaid by a disinfectant. And blood. Morven could smell it quite distinctly and a vision swirled in her mind. A glass. A beautiful crystal glass sat on a long, polished table. It sparkled in the light of a dozen candelabra, competing with glistening silver cutlery and gleaming silver plates. She could hear laughter and happy fluting voices, melodic and cultured. A pale hand reached out, fingers slender, weighted down with jewellery. Most distinctive was a ring in the shape of a bat. And as the glass was raised, Morven realised it was filled with a brilliant red liquid, thicker than water, lighter than wine. Blood. Bright arterial blood. Ruby red.

Morven sat up. ‘I'm thirsty,' she said.

‘No fluids,' said the blue scrubs.

Hands lifted her carefully and laid her on a trolley. Above were white plaster squares of ceiling, and rows of strip lights. How many lights? She got to four but the trolley took off.
Even number though. Could be a good omen. Seconds later her trolley stopped in a small bay. The scrubs came in and checked her pulse. Her mother appeared and held her hand.

The scrubs lifted her pyjama top and examined her stomach. He prodded her side. ‘Does that hurt?'

Morven sat bolt upright. ‘Of course it hurts, you piece of pig shit.'

She heard her mother gasp. ‘Morven, there's no excuse for rudeness.'

Morven tended to disagree, but buttoned up her lips. Still, if that moron invaded her privacy again she'd be seriously upset and take a large bite out of him. If she could just have a drink she'd feel better. Her throat was parched. And, to add insult to injury, she had a toothache.

‘Morven, we're going to get an ultrasound now,' said the scrubs.

Morven nodded, but she barely took in what he said. In the distance the harp played, and someone sang in a sweet soprano voice. Around her a forest whispered and leaves rustled. In the dense canopy the raven took to the night sky and called out a warning. She stopped, and listened. For a moment she could hear nothing untoward but then her sharp ears heard stealthy footsteps. A soft cough. And the creak of leather. Someone was in the woods. She breathed deeply and caught the whiff of smoke. Fear sprang into her heart as she spun around and took off for home. A voice rang out. And she knew she must be swift. The sounds were louder now, shouts and yells and excited laughter. Faster she ran, through thickets, streams and brambles. But when she looked over her shoulder, she could still see the flickering torch flames. With a snarl of rage, she pushed on. Home. Sanctuary.

‘Morven, Morven, can you hear me?'

Morven opened her eyes and looked into her mother's. ‘Of course I can hear you, Mum, I'm not deaf.'

Her mother smiled. ‘I'm sorry, you've been a bit out of it. They gave you a shot of morphine and it knocked you out cold.'

Morven felt a flash of panic. She was no longer in the emergency department. She was in a corridor. Ahead was a door, its glass windows smoky. How had that happened? ‘Where am I?' she demanded.

Her Mum frowned anxiously down at her. ‘You're at theatre. I can't go with you any further.'

Morven shook her head slowly. ‘But I thought I was going to have an ultrasound.'

‘You did, but you passed out. It's your appendix. It's pretty angry.'

Morven scowled. ‘Me too.'

A nurse with a ridiculous paper hat covered in nauseating kittens cleared her throat purposefully. ‘I'm sorry, but we have to go.'

Before Morven could muster a protest, the doors buzzed open and her mother's anxious face disappeared from view. The clean cool room inside was just like something out of Grey's Anatomy. The same couldn't be said for the surgeon, unfortunately. No McDreamy or McSteamy to soften the blow. Morven thought her surgeon looked like a turtle. All skinny neck, wrinkles and baggy eyes. A definite candidate for mercy killing. The anaesthetist was a woman with pale blue eyes and sallow skin. Her whole demeanour was one of resigned boredom. Behind her mask, she yawned.

Morven glared up at her. ‘Not keeping you awake I hope?'

She blinked. ‘I'm going to put you to sleep now, Morven. Just count to 10 for me.'

Morven felt a wave of relief. Now they were talking her language. This she could do. But, it'd better be a perfect 10, for luck. Something cold ran into her hand. ‘One, two, three,
four, five, six, seven, eight, nine…what came after nine for God's sake…nine, nine, nine…mustn't stop on an uneven number. Morven struggled wildly to find the next number as she finally slipped away. Fear filled her. Something bad was going to happen. She tried to wake up. It was like swimming beneath a thick crust of ice. No matter how hard she banged on the surface, she couldn't break through. And then — darkness.

When she awoke she could hear but her eyes wouldn't open. At first it was just noise. A terrible disorientating jumble of sounds like an orchestra with all the musicians playing a different tune. It made her ears hurt. But gradually things began to separate into recognisable parts. What she had thought was a motor car was, she realised, just a vacuum cleaner somewhere nearby. The clattering and banging sound of saucepans were feet walking on a hard floor. And there were voices, lots of voices. Some were loud, some very distant. It was difficult to make sense of any of them.

Someone briefly drew back the sheet and then covered her again. Fingers softly touched the inside of her wrist and Morven realised it was a nurse, checking up on her. She smelled nice. Like vanilla.

Then the nurse spoke. ‘Rose, come here, will you.'

Morven thought she sounded quite young.

Feet clattered over and stopped on the other side of the bed. ‘What's up, Anita?'

It was another woman, who sounded a bit older.

‘Can you check her pulse for me?' said Anita Vanilla.

Fingers on her other wrist. A minute. Then another. Morven began to feel anxious. There must be something wrong. Maybe she didn't have one. That, by anyone's standards, would be bad.

‘It's very slow,' said the one called Rose. ‘But it's steady. How's her BP?'

Morven wished she could open her eyes. What the hell was a BP? Blood particles? Bitch profile? Brain patterns? Thankfully Rose put her out of her misery and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around her upper arm. It inflated to the point of discomfort and then slowly went down.