The MacGregor (12 page)

Lydia stood up. ‘Shall I make tea?'

Sean nodded. Why not? Maybe he'd have a noggin of whisky in his.

Lydia moved easily around the kitchen and Sean realised that she must have known Sarah reasonably well, at least. He looked at Nancy, at her sensible grey bob and rosy cheeks, and found it difficult, in the light of day, to cast her in the role of a femme fatale.

‘So,' he said, ‘what was in that drink you gave me the other night?'

Nancy smiled. ‘Let me think. Er…foxglove extract, essence of juniper berry, powdered batwing —'

‘Nancy!'

Sean looked at Lydia, whose dark eyes had narrowed, her irritation at her friend quite evident. Lydia tutted loudly and addressed Sean. ‘Take no notice. It was a potion that I purchased online.'

Sean blinked. An online potion? Seriously? He rubbed his face tiredly. ‘You can buy potions online?'

Lydia nodded. ‘Sure. What can't you buy online?' She placed a steaming cup of tea before him. ‘I mean, who has time to make potions these days?'

Who indeed? Sean took a sip of tea, choking down the urge to laugh. ‘So, what kind of potion was it?'

Lydia sat down. ‘It was a simple draught that enables the brain to…well…expand.'

Sean was suspicious once more. ‘Expand? What, like…trip?'

Nancy giggled. ‘In a way. But of course, if there is no magic in you, at best you may have experienced pretty colours or fingers that grow.'

Then he did laugh. They'd bought LSD or something worse on the net. ‘Isn't that illegal?'

Lydia shook her head. ‘Magic's not illegal — well, not yet.'

Sean put his cup down with a crash. Tea slopped everywhere. ‘Stop with the magic crap! You are both way out of order.'

Nancy chewed her lip and glanced at Lydia who nodded. ‘All right Sean, maybe we are crazy. But tell us, what did you see?'

And Sean was caught out. He badly wanted to believe they were a pair of meddling nutters at best and escaped sociopaths at worst. Because if they weren't, they were something else. Something…strange. ‘I saw words in the branches of trees sewn into a quilt.' The words just popped out.

Lydia sat up tall and her dark eyes glowed. ‘Oh my god! Sarah's quilt! That's genius.'

Nancy leaned across the table a little. ‘Sean, what did it say?'

And he told them.

For a few moments they sat muttering the words out loud. Then Nancy spoke. ‘What does it mean?'

Sean felt a wave of disappointment wash over him. He had been positive that they would know the answer. He looked at Lydia who shrugged.

‘I'm not sure either, but I have a few ideas.'

‘What?' said Sean and Nancy at the same time.

But Lydia shook her head. ‘I'll have to do some research.'

Sean realised that the young woman would not be drawn further. He also realised that his revelation had changed the whole dynamic of his relationship with them. His suspicions had faded and a reluctant acceptance had taken its place.

It was time he found out what was going on. First things first. ‘So,' he said. ‘Tell me…what kind of
magic
are we talking about, exactly?'

It was Nancy who took up the challenge. ‘First of all, Sean,' she said, ‘you have to understand that we're not talking Hogwarts here. The days of structured education are long gone. Today the majority of witches and warlocks stumble on their gift by happy, or unhappy, mistake. Many only have a small gift. Some, like the handful of genuine psychics, are truly powerful and are possibly the most prominent magicians today.'

Sean was intrigued but not convinced. ‘Sounds unlikely.'

Lydia smiled. ‘Indeed it does. But even you must have heard of an occasion where the police have been helped to solve dark crimes with the aid of a psychic?'

Sean nodded. It was true.

Nancy picked up the thread. ‘Those who have a gift instinctively seek out others. Before Christian times we were revered and respected as Druids, Witches and Seers within the community. Each generation passed on The Craft to the next. But, over time, we have been submerged beneath the tidal wave of new beliefs. It would not be an exaggeration to say we've been persecuted almost to extinction. It is only over the last few hundred years that The Craft has re-emerged.' Nancy paused and smiled. ‘Not that anyone takes us seriously.'

Lydia nodded. ‘It's true and it has largely been a blessing. Our kind remains obscure. Not a bad thing.'

Sean was utterly transfixed. ‘Go on,' he urged.

Nancy started up once more. ‘Now, while it is true that our kind became fragmented, there are still a few small pockets of continuity. Mainly on the fringes of society.'

Sean sucked in his breath, and he thought he knew what Nancy was going to say before she said it.

‘Some small groups,' said Nancy, ‘continue the traditions. Sarah was one such witch. She could trace her ancestry back to Amergin himself. But Sarah did not have any issue. When she discovered she was ill she was deeply distressed that she had been unable to pass on The Craft. She was a generous woman, and taught us all that was within our capacity. When you arrived she was elated. She sensed the power within you and so left the farm to you.' Nancy paused and sniffed. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Sean, you truly were like a son to Sarah.'

Sean was rocked. Holy mackerel. There was a slice to swallow! How could it be possible? He thought of his family. His conservative, working-class background. And then his mother's face shimmered in his mind.

‘That's right, Sean,' said Lydia softly.

Sean looked sharply at her. ‘What's right?'

‘Your gift comes from your mother,' she said.

Sean was spooked. ‘How did you know that?'

Lydia laughed. ‘It's OK, I'm not a mind-reader. Wish I was! No, Sarah told us about your history. Remember Nancy mentioned there are small groups that still hold on to the traditional ways?'

Sean nodded.

Lydia continued. ‘Well, the travelling people, the gypsies, the tinkers, the fairground folk, are some of those few.'

And, in that moment, Sean knew that it was true. At some level he had always known but had suppressed it. With hard work. And booze.

His eyes shifted to the bench where the whisky bottle stood. A silent testament to his failings.

Nancy reached over and put a warm hand on top of his own. ‘Don't be too hard on yourself, Sean. Many of our kind implode under the pressure. Many languish in psychiatric hospitals, dosshouses and prisons as a result of the terrible pressure of their untapped energies.'

Sean took a deep breath, held it, and let it out once more. ‘So,' he said, ‘let's say I accept everything that you are telling me. And, that being the case, what I don't understand is why Sarah didn't just tell me.'

Lydia nodded. ‘She talked about it. But she was scared that the knowledge would either drive you away or over the edge. It's not something that can be forced. She sensed that you were close. That the magic was just below the surface. We were prepared. But then…Sarah died.'

Nancy sat up straighter in her chair. ‘And we had to carry on with the plan as best as we could without her.'

It was the truth. Sean could taste it in her words.

He looked out of the window. ‘Someone's coming,' he said.

Lydia looked alarmed. ‘Are you expecting someone?'

Sean hesitated, thinking about Megan. But then a strong presentiment filled him. ‘It's Callum Campbell.'

The two women leapt up. ‘Don't let him in!' they said.

When Grandad woke her it was dark. She'd slept all through the day. Megan leapt out of bed, eager to go and find Sean. But Grandad proceeded to rope her into a series of unpleasant domestic tasks that normally she would have weaselled her way out of. Under the present circumstances she decided to put on her happy face and get on with it.

Time dragged like a snagged anchor as she cleaned and scrubbed the croft. At least she had the chance to go over the events of the last day. She had so much to do. With only two weeks to woo and win her love, she'd best get cracking. Two weeks. It seemed a terribly small window of time. But she swallowed her panic. She just didn't have the time for it.

After a hasty dinner of toast and marmite and a glug of milk, Megan changed and set off. The night was cool with a hint of rain in the air. She set off cross-country, heading over the mountain and past the head of the loch. Ripples spread across the still water and she caught a brief glimpse of an otter watching her before it dived beneath the surface. Soon she headed up once more, into an ancient remnant of forest. Green spring leaves, fronds of fresh fern and a vast mat of moss glimmered in the moonlight.

Her senses stirred and she felt her heart rate slow as the moon's kiss awoke her sixth sense. A bat flittered overhead and an owl screeched. And Megan was filled with optimism. She would soon have Sean Duncan eating out of her hand. And Grandad would have to humble himself and the Douglas men would have to quit smirking behind her back and pay her the respect she deserved. The picture pleased her and she broke into a run.

And then she paused, as a new sound echoed around the woodland. She waited, and there it was again. The long, vibrant note of a horn. A hunting horn. And the distinct, rhythmic sound of horses' hooves. And the loud panting of a pack of dogs.

And a shiver ran through her. Surely, it was too early for the foxhunt? She loathed the hunt. The fox was sacred to her people. Practically a cousin. Family. A last remaining link to the wild since the wolf had been hunted to extinction. So, if not fox, what then?

And suddenly she felt sick. Whilst it may be too early for the fox, it was not too soon for the cubs. She had found their bloody remains before. Tiny skulls caved in, with just a bloody stump where their tail should be.

Megan growled softly in her throat. An age-old anger drummed in her brain. This was no ordinary cub hunt. Who hunted on horseback in the darkness? There was only one answer to that. A Campbell.

Chemicals surfed through her veins and she curled up into a tight ball upon the mossy floor. For a moment she floundered in the darkness but then she was back.

She stood and stretched sinuously. And snapped her teeth. Her tail whipped back and forth as she opened her jaws to taste the air. She lifted her head and howled, long and loud. A vixen screamed. Megan bounded through the trees, her eyes, ears and tongue questing.

She tracked the hunt effortlessly, even though the horses moved at almost magical speed. Soon she left the cover of the trees and paused to look down into a wide valley that lay below. And she had them.

Her eyes picked up a tiny dot as it leaped clear over a rock wall. The cub's eyes were glazed with panic, its tail streaming behind. And there they were. Six riders on black horses,
huge white hounds baying at their feet. Six murderous Campbells out to play in the moonlight.

The rider at the front lifted a horn. It glistened and glittered. A loud note blasted through the valley. And once more.

Megan snarled with fury and launched herself down the rocky slope. A steely determination gripped her. Tonight the Campbell scum would go home empty-handed. She would see to that. No more ducking and diving. It was time for Megan MacGregor to step up. It was time to strike a blow for all of her kind. Time to make them pay.

It had been a crazy day. Not only had Ginny been AWOL but one of the lads had called in sick. Sean had barely had time to scratch his bum, never mind anything else. Probably just as well. Sean finished off the late-night hay in the stable yard and sighed with relief. He was starving. With a last look around, he headed for home.

Back in the kitchen he sank down into a chair. The room was a mess. Unwashed dishes in the sink, paperwork sprawled over the table and threatening to slide onto the floor. But he was too weary to worry. It'd wait until morning.

He should have whipped up some dinner, but he didn't move. Finally he had a moment to himself to think about things. About all that Lydia and Nancy had told him. Hours later it seemed surreal. Was it really possible that he was some sort of wizard? Just the word made him smile. It was ridiculous.

Or, at least it would have been, if it weren't for the quilt. And his freaky ability to speak a foreign tongue. And, if he were really, really honest, there was a part of him that wanted it to be true. For the first time in his life he felt good about himself. He'd always been a loner, as if there was an invisible barrier between him and the world. It was only with the horses that he'd been comfortable in his own skin.

The first person he'd experienced a connection with had been Sarah. And, for all their weird ways, he had to admit that he sensed a bond with both Lydia and Nancy. But the thing that really made him stop and think was the whisky bottle. It sat on the kitchen bench beside the clean glass. Unopened. The paper seal still intact. A virgin.

He was twenty-four. And for the last fourteen of those years he'd been drinking. A lot…since the dreams started to get bad. And over the past four years he'd been drinking, perhaps not like a fish, but with enthusiasm. A bottle-a-night man. Not a cheap hobby.

He looked out the open window. The sky was clear. Again. A drop of rain would have been nice. The moon sat on top of the mountain. Silver bright. What was she doing? Was she out there?
His
little fox? Somehow he felt that she was. Perhaps she was looking down at him. Maybe there would be a knock on the door in just a moment. And there she would be, grinning up at him. Megan Macgregor. He spoke out loud. Her name made him smile.

Restless, he went to the fridge and opened it up. His eyes scanned the meagre contents. Really, he must go grocery shopping. And then as he reached for the milk, a dark blue bottle caught his eye. It was bulky and old-fashioned. And it hadn't been there before.