The MacGregor (25 page)

Megan pulled herself together and backed slowly out the door and snicked it softly shut. For a few seconds she just breathed and chastised herself for forgetting her purpose. She had not come to single-handedly destroy the Campbells. That wouldn't help Sean. And — said a tiny voice in the recess of her mind — it wouldn't help her. Not really. It wouldn't turn back time.

She set off with renewed resolve. The next room was empty. The last one was occupied.

The door opened easily but whined in loud protest. Megan grimaced but was committed now, so pushed on. The room was dark but a fire burned low in a fireplace. The embers sighed and subsided. Megan realised that whoever it was here sleeping, they had been doing so for some time. And then she remembered her mother's words and her eyes lifted above the mantel. And her heart skipped a beat. There it was!

She turned to the bed on her right. And grinned. There was Calix Campbell in all his naked glory. Megan knew she was mad, but she couldn't resist taking a closer look. Vampyre up close and personal, you might say.

At the foot of the bed she stopped. Her first impression was of sculpted perfection. A thing of beauty. For it could not be denied, Calix Campbell was a piece of art. He had a face and figure that artists would drool over. But that was all. To Megan, who knew of his cruelty and calculated cunning, he was just an empty promise. A sham. A fraud.

She remembered Morven, chained and crazed in the dungeons below and Zest trapped in a cage deep in the well. And she felt a wave of disgust. She wondered what he would do if she picked a hot coal from the fire and dropped it on his sixpack. Her head swivelled to the grate. It was tempting.

Reluctantly she turned away. This wasn't the time. She went to the fire, reached up and lifted the bridle from its hook. It felt warm to her touch. As if the hide were a living thing. The white bit glowed orange in the firelight. Her mother's bridle. And a wave of exultation filled her.

He stirred. Megan watched and waited. But he just shifted his limbs and smiled.

And the smile did it. It was so…smug. She turned to the fire and her hand snaked out. The coal sizzled in her fingers and she pirouetted on one foot and tossed it.

Bullseye! And she ran.

Sean shook the hand firmly. And Rory's grip tightened. For a minute they tested each other. Finally Sean grinned and relaxed his hold. The man was strong.

Rory Wallace's lips twitched triumphantly but he looked down at the encampment. ‘The last time I saw Sarah she told me about you,' he said in his husky voice. ‘She sensed your potential. And you carry the aura of magic around you.' And then he looked at the oak staff gripped in Sean's left hand. ‘I have never seen the like of that before.'

And, to his own astonishment, Sean held out the staff. Rory's piercing green eyes met his and his auburn eyebrows lifted like kestrel's wings. And then he reached out and grasped the staff. Sean let it go. And he watched the hairs on the horseman's arms ripple and the pupils of his eyes dilate. The long curly hair writhed like a nest of snakes. And then the traveller cried out, as if in pain, and dropped the staff to the ground.

He leaned back against the wall as if for support and Sean thought he looked shaken. The horseman's broad chest lifted and fell as if he had been running a mighty race.

‘Are you all right?' said Sean.

Wallace laughed, a thunderous rumble, and snapped his teeth together. ‘I am well. But, I must confess I am awed by the promise of power that you wield.'

Sean gently picked up the staff from the turf and looked at it. ‘Don't be too impressed,' he said. ‘At the moment I think it's more a case of it wielding me.'

Rory nodded. ‘Rumour spreads like ragwort. It is said that you left the vampyre at the gates of hell.'

Sean thought that Rory looked particularly delighted by this snippet. ‘Did rumour also tell you that I nearly killed Megan MacGregor too?'

Rory nodded and grinned. ‘What did she say?'

Sean grinned back. ‘She was thrilled. Wanted me to finish them off.'

Rory was silent and his gaze travelled around the valley and up to the snow-capped mountains. ‘Why didn't you?' His voice was flat and hard.

Sean had to think about it. ‘I don't really know. It just didn't feel…right. I don't want to kill anyone.'

‘Shame.'

Sean stifled a chuckle. He was so like Megan. ‘And besides, I don't know what I'm doing. What if I'd hurt her?'

‘You love her, don't you?'

Sean looked at Wallace. ‘Yes.'

Wallace sighed. ‘And she clearly feels the same. And she is a wilful little vixen.' Despite his words his tone gave the game away. His longing seeped through his frustration.

‘I'm sorry,' said Sean. And he was.

Wallace stood up and shook his large frame like a dog shaking off beads of water. ‘Come, there's someone you should meet.'

Together they strode into the camp. Voices fell and eyes followed. A girl smiled. She was pretty and Sean smiled back. He felt foolish when he realised that her smile was for Rory and not for him.

‘Rory,' she said, ‘I have rabbit stew on the go. It's yours for the taking.'

Sean guessed that wasn't all that was for the taking, should Rory just ask.

Rory stopped and put a finger on the tip of the girl's nose. Her dark eyes flashed a subtle message. Rory chuckled and walked away, so he didn't see the look on the dark-haired beauty's face. Sean reckoned he'd seen the same expression on Megan's face. By his calculations Rory was a marked man. He just didn't know it yet.

But he forgot the short interlude as Rory leapt up the stairs of an old caravan. Its paint was faded but the windows were clean and the brass polished to a high sheen. Sean had never been this close to a real traveller's van before. He ducked through the door and looked around curiously.

It was tidy. And sparsely furnished with polished antique pieces. The room smelt of the lavender that hung in small bunches from the arched ceiling.

There was a curtain at the back which Sean assumed was a sleeping area. And then an old woman pushed through and stared at him. She smiled, her brown eyes warm.

‘Hello, Sean.'

‘Hi,' he said.

She came forward, long skirt brushing the polished boards beneath her bare feet. She took his chin in her strong hand and stared at him. ‘You have your mother's eyes,' she said.

Sean took in an involuntary breath of air. ‘You knew my mother?'

She nodded. ‘I did. I am your great-great-aunt Rose. My sister was your mother's mother.'

Sean was silent. His heart was too full for words.

Megan flew down the hall and down the spiral staircase like the demons of hell were at her heels. Which they were. Calix Campbell's roars of outrage had woken the household. But Megan didn't waste time worrying.

With wings on her feet she flew across the great hall, pulled back the bolt, and headed for the hills with her skirt clutched in one hand and the bridle in the other. She couldn't hear them behind her. But then, she wouldn't, would she? They were close though.

She didn't have a plan, other than putting distance between herself and them. Sheep bleated and rabbits thumped a caution as she raced up the hill. Her heart beat like a pneumatic drill and her blood flowed like a raging river.

As she leapt over a wall she dodged an arrow that hissed a handy warning. She giggled. Was that the best they could do? Pathetic.

Once she met the forest her confidence waxed. It was nearly full moon and she had never felt better. Or stronger. Or fleeter. Without his horse, Calix would never catch her.

And so it was. By the time she'd reached the peak she sensed they were a long way behind. How angry they would be. She wondered when Calix would realise the full extent of his loss. What would he say when he went to get the bridle, his black heart filled with dark thoughts of her demise, only to find it wasn't there?

Megan could only imagine. And she did. Each possible scenario as rewarding as the last.

She headed for the sea. The wild coastline was potted with hiding places. Hidden coves and caves. The water was her natural habitat. Like the wolves that once lived on the shores and swam to the islands to hunt and rear their young.

At the edge of a cliff she finally stopped. She listened long and hard and tasted the air. And she probed her brain for the faintest pulse. But there was nothing.

She sighed and dropped her skirts. In the daylight the dress looked faded and worn. But Megan's hand caressed the fabric gently. It was her mother's dress. She knew it. The blood told her so.

And then her heart twisted with pain. Her mother's dress. Displayed in a cabinet like some sick trophy. But she was a little consoled by how much Calix Campbell would be suffering. It didn't take a mage to work out that the bridle was a rare and precious commodity. After all, they'd killed her mother for it.

She looked at it then. It was lovely. And more so because her mother had once held it in her hands. The same hands that had rocked Megan to sleep and tended to her needs.

Megan climbed nimbly down the sheer face of the cliff and stepped out onto the rocks. Waves surged and ebbed beneath her. Cormorants lifted into the grey sky. She sat down, tucking the long skirt beneath her, legs crossed. And she looked once more at the bridle. She recalled her mother's words: ‘This night you will ride the kelpie.'

The kelpie. Fabled wild water horse. Man-eating monster of mythology. Servant of the damned. And she shivered with excitement. This was a powerful gift indeed. She smiled to herself and smoothed the ivory bit beneath the pad of her finger. What would Sean say when she brought the kelpie home? He might be a magician but she was a match for him. And her heart rejoiced.

Then she settled and closed her eyes.

When she opened them she hummed a tune. An old lullaby. And as the music filled her she found the words and they rained sweetly on the ocean.

Her eyes swam back and forth across the waves. A seal bobbed up and watched her curiously. And a whale's spume broke in the distance. And still she sang and waited.

She did not recognise it at first. It looked like a rock beneath the waves. Twice she panned by. The third time she realised that the rock was moving. She leaned forward and stared. There! It moved again. With tremulous hands she lifted the bridle. ‘Come, Kelpie!' she called.

And it came.

The hour that Sean spent in the old van was truly wonderful. He did not speak a word. He listened. And he learned that his mother had had the ‘gift' but had walked away when she met his father.

Rose shook her head. ‘She loved him. And that was that. It happens. And — in truth — her father didn't give her a choice.'

‘Why?'

‘She was promised to another travelling man. It was our way. Marrying out was almost unheard of then. It's still uncommon.'

Sean thought about this. It must have been hard. Especially when she realised that she'd forsaken her family for a man who was ashamed of her heritage.

Rose got up. ‘Rory Wallace is your cousin.' She laughed huskily and lit a cigarette. ‘Everyone here will be family somehow.'

Sean looked out of the window. The camp was in full swing. Women washing, men talking and grooming horses, children playing around the horses' legs. His family.

And then something occurred to him. ‘Aunt Rose, not everyone here is werewolf, are they?'

She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘No. Many are, but not all. Take myself, my people were show people. When the circus closed, my grandfather threw in his lot with the Wallace Clan. Some, a few, are without magic or power of any kind, but we all have two things in common.'

Intrigued, Sean leaned closer to her. ‘What?'

‘We follow the Olde ways. The Olde religion. Some call us Pagan but we go back further than that. To the days when the Gods walked two worlds. Some, like the werewolves, go back to the Gods. Our kind,' she paused and twitched her finger at Sean and then back to herself, ‘are distant kin of the Mage Amergin. Of course, the millennia have seen us weaken. But we are still here.'

Sean nodded. ‘What's the second thing you have in common?'

Rose's lips tightened in a straight line. ‘The other thing is a lasting loathing for the vampyre in general, and the Campbell Clan in particular.'

‘Why?'

‘Remember that I told you that the werewolves go back to the Gods?'

Sean nodded.

‘Well, so do the vampyre. For an age they were as one people. The Children Of The Mist. It is said that they were shape shifters. Vastly powerful. Worshipped by the mortals. But one day the Campbells, and their close kin, got greedy. They started to systematically destroy the MacGregors. Today they call it ethnic cleansing. Many were forced to choose a side. Those who joined the MacGregors and their kin suffered alongside them.'

Sean was absolutely enthralled. It was a family history of unparalleled magnitude. His were an ancient people. And, he realised, so were Megan's. No wonder he was drawn to her. Their history marched side by side for an eternity. He wondered how much Megan knew, and guessed she must know something. Certainly she fully grasped the whole Campbell-hating concept. He felt a little light-headed.

Rose stood up. ‘I have things to do, Sean. But my door is always open to you and yours.'

He grabbed his staff and jumped up, feeling that he had overstayed his welcome. ‘Thank you,' he said.

For a moment her brittle, dark eyes twinkled. ‘Bring that young woman of yours for a visit and I'll take a look in my crystal ball for you both.'

Sean blinked. Crystal ball? Seriously?

Rose raised an eyebrow. ‘You stand with the Staff Of Life in your hand and yet you are a doubting Thomas?'

Sean blushed. What an idiot! ‘I'm sorry.'