The MacGregor (24 page)

Grandad snorted. ‘You might fool your young warlock but you don't fool me. Out with it.'

Megan's mind wiggled like a catch of eels but she knew when she was caught.

Grandad listened and packed his pipe. He lit it and took a long puff. And then he sighed. ‘I'm guessing there's no point telling you to reconsider?'

Megan sniffed.

Grandad nodded. ‘That's what I thought.'

Megan felt deflated. She'd anticipated a battle. She watched as Grandad got up and went to his bedroom. When he returned he laid something on the table. ‘You'll be needing this then,' he said. ‘It's what your mother would have wanted.'

Megan looked at the round parcel all wrapped in blue velvet. ‘What is it?'

‘Better open it and see.'

With trembling fingers she burst the twine and the velvet cloth fell apart. She sighed and tentatively touched the gleaming white bone of a skull. ‘It's beautiful.'

‘Megan, it is possible that its spirit will speak to you.'

And Megan was stunned into silence.

Finally she found her tongue. ‘And what will it say?'

He puffed on his pipe thoughtfully and let out a stream of blue smoke. ‘I don't know. Your mother was the only one who could communicate with it.'

Megan was awed. She reached out and picked up the skull and turned it slowly around, taking in the empty sockets and the jigsaw pattern of bone over its ivory surface. She half expected it to open its toothy mouth and grin. But it didn't. ‘So,' she said finally, ‘it may not speak to me either?'

Grandpa shrugged. ‘It might or it might not. But it may tell you where the bridle is. Perhaps.'

Megan was thrilled. Although undaunted at the prospect of poking around the vastness of Carrick Castle while the sleeping uglies snoozed, it would save a shitload of trouble if she knew where the bridle was.

She put the skull down and looked at it. How did you get a skull to talk? Tricky. ‘What did Mum do? Do you know?'

Grandad's ears twitched. ‘She would play music on it.'

‘Music?'

‘Yes. It is like…a drum. I think.'

A drum. OK. She could cope with that. But what sort of music should she play? And then she smiled. The Olde music, of course. She must find somewhere quiet. And a memory filled her mind. The cave. She hadn't been there for a long time.

She jumped up and cradled the skull against her jumper with her arm. She went round and hugged her grandad who sniffed. She scooped up Tippet and gave her a cuddle and then raced out. Without pausing she hurried down to the beach and flew around the craggy shoreline. The tide was high and in places she had to climb across the cliffs.

The cave was tucked away at the back of a tiny inlet. Waves rolled in and crashed over the rocks. Spumes frothed up the cliff face. But up on its little ledge, the cave was dry. Its sandy floor was littered with shells and dried kelp. There were a few fish bones and the remains of Megan's last meal there. She picked up a long leg bone. A sheep, by the look of it.

She sat down in the entrance and put the skull down. Tentatively she tapped the top with the leg bone and it made a pleasant note. For a while she played around. Even running the bone around the teeth. And as she did so a tune popped into her mind. Not the song of the trees but a song of the sea. And as she sang, Megan drifted away. And through the melody and the insistent beat of the drum she heard another voice.

‘Megan.'

Megan opened her eyes and was still.

A filmy vision floated past her. A woman dressed in a green velvet gown. She smiled. ‘My girl. Look at you. A woman grown. A princess indeed, for royal is your race. You will find your birthright at the castle. It is hung above the mantelpiece in the sleeping quarters of Calix Campbell. Go swiftly while the day is young. This night you will ride the Kelpie. Fare you well, my daughter.'

Megan reached out a frantic hand. For a second the soft nap of the velvet brushed her fingers. And then she was holding air. ‘Come back!' she said. But she knew it was futile.

For several moments she was completely still. Her mind swimming with shock. Then she picked up the skull and hugged it to her chest. It was hard and unyielding. She took it to the dark recess of the cavern and slipped it into a fissure in the wall. ‘Goodbye.'

Back out on the narrow shelf she stood and stared out across the ocean. The islands were crowned with cloud. Promise of more rain. And Megan took in a deep breath of moist, cool air and swirled inward and downward. Then she lifted into the air and rolled across the ocean. With the southerly wind aiding her, Megan travelled swiftly. She sped up when she found the channel to the loch. Finally the castle's forbidding countenance reflected beneath her on the still water.

Silently, stealthily, she roamed over its stone facade. When she found an upper room with a window too swollen with damp to shut, she slipped in. The room was empty. But Megan was drawn to an old glass cabinet. She stared in at the dressmaker's dummy and rage sent her diving down once more into the pathways. Seconds passed and she retook her mortal form once more.

She barely felt the cold on her naked body as her fingers pulled the door wide open. With one fierce tug she pulled the velvet dress free. It was deep green. Almost black. Except for a dark rusty stain down the back. Even now, Megan could smell her mother's blood. Without thinking she stepped into the garment. It fit like a glove.

She smiled at herself, and smoothed the velvet beneath her hand. Revenge was sweet.

When Cordelia's tracking device led her to the motorbike in the beech copse, she was tired but exhilarated. Somewhere, between this place and the sea, was the hiding place of Megan MacGregor. She could taste victory on the tip of her tongue.

For a moment she contemplated going on alone. But she hesitated. The MacGregor bitch was not to be trifled with. And, if Cordelia was honest, she was afraid. Although nothing would have made her admit the fact. And, besides, she must sleep. Soon it would not be a matter of choice. Her nerves quivered like a plucked harp string at the thought of the lycan coming back and finding her there, asleep upon the mossy ground.

Spurred on by this fear, Cordelia stepped out of the shade and pulled up her hood. The sunlight burned her retinas and made her bare skin prickle. She knew that she should head out to the castle. Calix should be told the news.

But her eyes wandered to the mountaintops. To the green dense cap of forest in which Callum's lodge lay. He may not be home. She sighed wistfully. The mere thought of him. Of his sculpted, athletic body, his haughty aquiline face and those long, slender fingers that played the most exquisite melody upon her body. She felt her panties go wet. Her pulse pounded like pistons in her veins. And she was hungry for him.

She hated him. She loved him too. Like a spider caught up by its own silken thread she was drawn irrevocably towards him.

The sunlight seemed to burn through the quilting of her jacket even in the shade of the forest. She thrust her hands deep into the pockets. Every step was a struggle. Her eyes felt weighted and her limbs filled with sand. The soft bed of pine needles beneath her booted feet seemed to drag her earthward.

It was only her ardent desire to see him that kept her moving. She pushed her discomfort away as she tenderly recalled every waking moment of their night together. Every touch, every kiss, every move towards that sweet surrender. And the closer she got to the lodge, the greater her agitation. The greater her need.

When she finally staggered into the small clearing she stopped. Utterly exhausted. She collapsed to the ground and hunkered there like a wounded bird. Then, on her hands and knees, she crawled across to the door. She lifted her hand but could not knock.

The door opened silently and she looked up into his eyes. And she wept as he lifted her bodily and carried her inside into the delicious darkness of his home.

She lay on the sofa, railing at her nature and at the youth that should have felt like a blessing, but instead felt like a curse. Here he was, right beside her. Her nostrils flared at the sweet scent of him. But she must succumb to the biological burdens of her kind. It was so unfair! She tried to speak. But words failed her. Instead, she looked into the dark pools of his eyes until sleep washed her away.

It was like a dream. It was a dream. An actual dream come true. Sean could scarcely believe it. He sat down on the stone wall and watched in wide-eyed delight as the travellers set up camp.

The vans were drawn into a circle, the horses uncoupled and set free. They trotted a few strides and sunk to the ground to roll away the stress of the day. Then they stood, shook and grazed. There was a thunder of hooves and the fine herd of blood horses galloped up. But the caravan ponies took no notice and, after some half-hearted henpecking, they all settled down to crop the sweet grass.

Sean was so busy admiring the pretty picture they made that Rory Wallace took him by surprise when he leant back against the wall beside him.

Sean felt strangely shy, which was crazy considering that this was, after all, his land. But that was simplifying things, and he knew it. He wanted to be friends with these people, whoever or whatever they may be. Maybe it was just a leftover from the romantic cravings of his youth, or maybe not. Sean didn't care. He wanted to be friends.

He looked at Rory. At the strong, determined face. It was impossible not to speculate on his opponent's inner thoughts. After all, they both wanted the same thing. Megan. It did not bode well.

Sean waited, hoping the travelling man would break the ice. For want of anything better to do, Sean looked back at the scene unfolding before him. The camp was a hive of activity. Men dug a pit for a fire while women dragged out copper pots. Probably for a meal, Sean thought. But he was wrong. Children set up makeshift clothes lines between the vans and the women went down to the river to collect water. Evidently it was wash day.

And finally Rory stirred. He stood up and pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. With his other hand he removed a match from its folder and scored it down a stone. Fire flared and the white paper curled and browned. ‘It's always grieved me,' said the Last Of The Free, ‘that we are labelled as dirty tinkers. So hygienic are we, that we escaped the great plagues. Few have lived to boast such a thing.'

Sean nodded, afraid to speak and say the wrong thing.

Rory jumped up on the wall beside him. Sean didn't dare move, willing the man to speak once more. He was rewarded for his patience.

‘It is from your mother that you have the gift,' said Rory softly. ‘It is always through the mother. That's why I desire that wild thistle of a girl, Megan MacGregor.'

Sean shifted uneasily but held his tongue. The depth of his companion's desire was underscored by the rawness of his voice. The soft lilting sounds of the Olde tongue were missing this time.

A group of children, a raggle-taggle mob of red curls and brown limbs, raced towards them. They tumbled and rolled upon the earth like wild things. One tripped and landed at the feet of Rory Wallace. The boy looked up through a red forelock with brilliant green eyes.

Rory growled. The boy squeaked, got up and raced away. Then the traveller looked at Sean for the first time. He grinned. His teeth were white and strong. And sharp. ‘That's my brother. He's a good lad, although I'd never tell him that.' His gaze wandered back to the camp. ‘Our children have strong minds and healthy bodies, unshackled by the trivial pursuits of the moribund masses.' He sighed. ‘But we are persecuted for it. There are many who would erase us like chalk from a board. Our safe havens are fewer by the year.' His hand swept around in an arc. ‘Sarah understood this.' He dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out viciously with his bare foot. He eyed Sean curiously. ‘Are we welcome still, magician?'

He put out his hand. ‘You are welcome, indeed.'

The hand hovered in the air, lonely as a wallflower. For a horrible moment Sean thought the werewolf was going to snub him. But then Rory Wallace reached out with his huge hand and engulfed his own. Sean was overwhelmed with relief and happiness. It was a start.

The castle was still. Megan looked up and down the corridor and memories washed over her. The last time she'd been within these walls she'd been with Morven and Zest. It seemed like such a long time ago.

She turned right and stopped at the first door. For a moment she was still, senses questing. But she could feel nothing from the room. And so she moved on, her long gown whispering on the floor. Before she stopped at the next door Megan knew it was occupied. Vampyre, without a doubt. That strange force field told her so. But, of course, she had no way of knowing who was inside.

There was only one way to find out. She reached out and gently turned the brass handle. She heard the mechanism slide free and she pushed the door inward. And stopped. And waited. But all was quiet.

Like a ghost she slid through the gap and into the room. It was dim but she could see perfectly. Her eyes went straight to the bed and the figure reclining upon it. It was the old one. Old even by her standards. Not that you could tell just looking at the seamless face and perfect complexion. It wasn't that she looked old, it was more that she did not look young. Kind of like an antique that had been immaculately preserved. This was the Mater. Morven had told her all about the old bat.

Megan stared at her in contempt. Her fingers itched to close tight around the swan-like neck bound by a velvet bow. This was the woman who had orchestrated the demise of her parents.

A low growl escaped from Megan's lips. The noise seemed to reverberate around the room like a Mercedes engine.

Megan froze as the vampyre stirred. She watched in fascination as the old woman's eyelids flickered. She half hoped she'd wake up. At the prospect, Megan could not stop the instinctive response of her body to this ancient foe. But then the rapid eye movement ceased. The moment had gone.