The MacGregor (32 page)

And, while he knew it was wrong, Sean watched on helplessly and prayed for Megan's life. He could not intervene. That was not the way. Not for him.

A terrible scream ripped through the air. And Sean watched Rory rip Ginny's head from her fragile neck. Blood sprayed up like some grotesque fountain.

The red rain seemed to send the werewolves into a frenzy and it soon became apparent that the pack was gaining the upper hand. Despite his frantic efforts he lost sight of Megan altogether in the fray. Then he saw her, and his breath sobbed from his mouth as he watched Calix inch a long dagger closer and closer to her chest. At the last second she clawed his face and he backed off.

Sean looked up at the sky. The moon sailed high but from the west clouds scudded in from the sea. Time was not on the side of the werewolves.

Suddenly the warring clans faltered. Something had happened. But what? Sean looked around and saw a battle-scarred vampyre push into the throng. A new arrival. It took a moment before Sean realised that the vampyre dragged a body unceremoniously behind him.

The werewolves and vampyres ceased fighting as the body was hauled into their midst. It was a werewolf. He was young and had a pale red pelt. A black leather jacket strained over his huge chest. And then Sean felt a pang of distress shoot through him. On the back of the jacket he briefly glimpsed a wolf. It was Megan's friend, Douglas.

Was he dead? Sean prayed not.

The two groups backed away. The vampyre bloody but defiant. The werewolves agitated.

Calix Campbell went to the body and kicked Douglas in the head.

To Sean's relief the man stirred and groaned softly.

Megan snarled, ‘Let him go, Calix Campbell, you son of a bitch!'

The vampyre smiled. ‘Of course. Just hand over the casket.'

Rory Wallace stepped forward. ‘Never.'

There was an instant of silence. Then the vampyre, Calix, smiled. ‘For every minute that you delay, I will remove a digit or body part from your furry friend.' His clan laughed.

And, in a movement so swift that Sean couldn't follow, the vampyre turned to Douglas. Douglas screamed. Calix turned and waved a bloody claw at them. The young werewolf swore and struggled wildly but several vampyre brutally held him down.

The werewolves howled and snarled and snapped and Sean sensed that they would lose control any second.

When Calix turned once more to his prostrate victim, Sean had had enough. It must stop. He lifted his staff, and his mind searched around for some way to help without doing damage to any living thing.

And it was then that Callum Campbell materialised. Sean wasn't so much surprised at his entrance as at his odd demeanour. He stood and observed the scene. His dark eyes were like deep black wells in the pale sockets of his eyes. He looked crazy. Even crazier than the rest of them.

Then his whole body jerked like he'd been electrified and, like smoke, he covered the gap between himself and the waiting, watching vampyre.

Callum Campbell stalked in amongst them radiating danger like plutonium. ‘Leave him!' he screamed.

Sean was confused. Leave who? But the next minute the answer became clear as Callum launched himself at the group holding Douglas down. There was a moment of furious resistance but Callum was as ruthless and efficient as a reaping machine. One by one they backed warily away, until only Calix remained to restrain Douglas.

With his dagger pricking Douglas' neck, Calix lifted his free hand up to Callum. ‘Are you insane?' he hissed. ‘What in Hades are you doing?'

But Callum didn't seem to be hearing. His foot lashed out and caught the vampyre's chin. Calix Campbell's head whipped back and he slumped to his knees. In a heartbeat Callum bent down and lifted Douglas from the ground. He cradled him tenderly to his chest. Sean watched the dark man bow his head and briefly, gently, press his pale lips to Douglas' forehead. Then he looked around. ‘Keep away. All of you. Don't touch him! He's mine.'

Sean braced himself. Unexpected though it was, it did not bode well.

Megan stared at Callum Campbell. Her mind couldn't compute what her eyes could see. Was it possible? Did Callum Campbell
love
Douglas Douglas? And, for that matter, did Douglas love him? Holy crap.

Even weirder was the complete and utter astonishment on the faces of the vampyre themselves. If she was confused then they were absolutely confounded.

Megan caught Rory's eye. And an unspoken message passed between them. Miraculously Douglas was safe. Finish them! Megan turned and licked her lips. Her tail flickered and her muzzle lifted, her teeth glistening in the moonlight. The werewolves readied themselves for battle once more.

But she stopped. Suddenly distracted. She turned to look at Sean, hoping to find in his presence some explanation for the shifting earth beneath her feet. Perhaps he was casting some dark magic. But he stared back at her, his blue eyes wide with shock.

A rumble of sound boomed out. Werewolf and vampyre alike looked up to the sky. And then it came again. A deep, mournful, grinding groan. Megan froze and then she backed into the circle. Terrified. Her clan closed in and they huddled together like beggars around Sean.

Tremors shook the ground and Megan watched incredulously as the earth split apart like macabre lips. A foul stench filled the air. Megan turned to Sean. ‘What's happening?'

But his face was as white as paper. He shook his head. He wrapped his arms around her. Their hearts raced side by side like thoroughbred horses.

Once more the earth heaved and the lips cracked wider apart. Megan watched on in horror as, with a sickening suctioning sound, the black void breathed in. A vampyre woman, not much more than a girl, didn't even have time to scream as she was sucked into the abyss.

The air closed around Megan like a vice. Her feet made welts in the earth as she was dragged towards the stinking hole. Sean's hands slowly slipped away. And were gone. All around her voices cried out and howled in terror.

And then she heard Sean. His voice as soft and seductive as the notes of a harp. Megan turned her head and watched Sean lift his oak staff and strike the earth. Once. Twice. Thrice. Magic filled the air like ozone.

From the deep, a fell voice cried out. And the mouth sealed shut with a slimy squelching sound. The landscape was eerily still except for the sobs of the vampyre and the subdued whines of the werewolves. Slowly the sulphurous smell cleared. Vampyre and Werewolf looked at each other. None seemed to want to cross the scarred seam of land.

Sean breathed in deeply, as if he had run a long race. ‘He is back,' he said. ‘Vetch walks with us once more. Leave this place. There will be no more bloodshed this night.'

Vetch. Megan did not know this name. But the way that Sean spoke it filled her with foreboding. And it was clear that the vampyre were of a like mind.

One by one the vampyre turned and Megan watched them fly up and away like great black bats. Their moon shadows skated swiftly away. Until only one remained. Callum Campbell stood defiant, Douglas still held protectively in his arms.

Megan looked at him for a long moment. ‘Let him go,' she said. ‘We will tend to him and if it is his will, he will find you.'

Callum finally nodded and carefully laid Douglas on the short-cropped turf. One long pale finger gently caressed the long, red snout. And he straightened and walked away.

Megan's eyes searched the ground. Her heart lurched with grief as she found Grandad. She went to him and knelt beside him. Tippets tail waved forlornly in the wind. She did not cry. Tears were not enough.

Sean came to her and hunkered down. He took off his jacket and put it onto the grass. Then he gently picked Grandad up and wrapped him. ‘What would you do, Megan?'

She looked at him. ‘Burn him. That is our way. Then his spirit will be free to roam where it will.'

Sean nodded. ‘Come, let's go home.'

For a moment Megan thought he meant the croft but then realised he was talking about the farm. His home. Was it her home now? She wasn't sure.

As if he read her mind he stroked her fur. ‘My home is your home, little fox.'

And she knew it was true. Although, Sean wasn't quite right. Her home was him. Wherever he may be.

Rory and his kin built a fire in the centre of the camp. Sean fashioned a small pyre. And Megan laid Grandad upon it. She stepped back as Douglas limped forward and put a match to the peat and timber. There were no words to be said. But Megan felt some small measure of peace settle in her soul as the smoke billowed and sailed away into the dark night sky. Silently she said goodbye.

Finally they all drew together around the stew pot. A young woman served them all, but Megan refused. Instead, she drew out her grandfather's pipe and lit it. She drank whisky and turned to Sean. ‘Who is this Vetch?'

Sean looked grim and Megan noticed that fine lines fanned around the corners of his eyes. Lines that had not been there before. ‘Vetch is the darkness,' he said softly. ‘He is death.'

Megan was lost for words. ‘Death,' she echoed.

Sean looked around at the pack who watched him with fear in their wild eyes. And then he smiled. ‘All is not lost. I am the light.'

The wind blew across the valley and the moon slid behind a curtain of cloud. Megan transformed once more. She spat out a fur ball and breathed in the air. Clean and pure once more. Vetch may be with them but they had Sean. Her mage. Her man.

She turned and picked up the silver casket and handed it to him. ‘Open it,' she said.

The engraved casket opened with ease beneath Sean's fingers. Everyone watched and waited with bated breath. He reached in and drew out a parchment. Megan could see it was yellow with age.

Sean laid it delicately on his knee and smoothed it out. There was a buzz of conversation as the document was revealed. It was a work of art. Words handwritten in exquisite style and the whole decorated with brilliant colour and gold illustrations that had not faded with time.

‘Why,' said Megan, ‘it's so beautiful.'

Sean nodded. ‘It is.'

The parchment was passed around and everyone gazed at it in wonder.

Rory Wallace looked at it for a long time. ‘Campbell could be right. It could be an old religious text. But the Book of Kells? I'm not so sure.'

Sean nodded his head. ‘Yes. But while this may date back to the middle ages, it is a copy. A copy of something much older.' He leaned over to Rory and pointed at the scroll. ‘See this, around the border in gold?' Everyone nodded. ‘That is the Olde language.'

Megan was intrigued. ‘What does it mean?'

Sean laughed. ‘I wish I knew. I see it is the Olde language but it doesn't make sense. There are only two letters.'

Rory nodded. ‘Yes, I see this too.'

Megan felt a wave of frustration. ‘Well, what letters are they?'

‘O and L, I think,' said Sean. He looked questioningly at Rory.

Rory nodded. ‘Yes, I think so. The stuff in the middle is in Latin, I think.' He grinned wolfishly and looked around. ‘Anybody fluent in Latin?'

No one was. The parchment was returned to Sean and he put it back in its casket. He looked at Megan. ‘We must keep this safe, little fox. We must find its meaning.'

Rory stood up. ‘You should leave this place. The vampyre know you have the scroll. And they want it badly. They will soon recover from their fright.'

Megan nodded. He spoke the truth.

Sean looked sad. But finally he bowed his head in acquiescence.

‘You must come with us. To a safe place,' said Rory.

Sean looked upset. ‘But what about my home? My horses?'

Rory shrugged. ‘Are you not a mage? Make your place safe. As for your horses, bring them with you.'

Megan knew that there was no choice. They would go. She puffed on her pipe and blew a ring of blue smoke. She grinned. ‘Pudding won't be impressed.'

Then Sean grinned. ‘Nor will you, little fox. You'll be riding him.'

She smiled back, enjoying the lightness of the moment. His beautiful blue eyes held her fast. She could feel him wanting her. Her breath caught in her throat. The heat that simmered inside her quickened and ignited. Hot flames licked between her thighs. Without a word she stood and led him away and up into the mountains. In the lee of a crumbled wall she sank down onto a bed of soft green bracken.

And, despite it all, she was filled with a mad, moonlit happiness. Her velvet dress slithered past her hips and his hands stroked her hot body into a helpless froth of desire. His warm lips fell onto her shoulder and his teeth teased the blue tattoo.

‘Little fox,' he said, ‘I love you.'

As her body arched up to meet him, her spirit soared. And, in that moment, she exulted. All was right in her world.

She wasn't scared of the Darkness. She wasn't afraid of vampyre. She wasn't afraid of anything. Not even Death. After all, she was — The MacGregor.

The caravan threaded its way down the winding road. It skirted the dark water of a loch and travelled slowly towards the sea.

A girl with whisky-coloured eyes rode upon the broad back of a little pony. She had white roses in her long red hair and a posy of heather in her hand. A handsome man with a staff in his hand rode beside her, a wreath of oak leaves on his head.

Ahead of them a wild, red-haired man sat astride a black stallion. The lights of the slow-moving caravan twinkled and glinted like a Christmas tree in the gloom. A soft mist swirled and shrouded them all in secrecy.

The road rose and up, up, up they went. Until they reached the craggy head of the mountain. Two men waited side by side on a towering black rock.

One man, with fluffy red hair like dandelion seed, jumped down to the roadside and waited. The whisky-eyed girl rode by. And then he spoke.

‘Hark, hark, the dogs do bark. The beggars are coming to town. Some in rags and some in tags and one in a velvet gown.'