The MacGregor (2 page)

For a moment her conscience twinged. She'd been playing hide-and-go-seek with the blue-eyed man. Only, he didn't know it. And she was troubled. Why would she do that? What was it about him that made her so…careless.

But, if she were honest, she understood it wasn't him that was the problem. The recent changes in her body and her mind seemed to have unleashed all kinds of unexpected quirks. Her obsession with the horses, for one. And this new awareness of the opposite sex. She knew it was natural, that she could breed now if she chose. But she hadn't expected to find herself dribbling over a mere mortal. Well, she expected to be dribbling, but not because she had a crush on one. Seriously, it was disgusting. Hopefully she'd get over it.

As she stepped out onto the thin winding strip of bitumen a thought struck her. Why, it was no wonder she was eyeing off inappropriate males. She didn't know any more suitable ones. Other than her granddad and his few cronies, she didn't really know anyone. The Campbells didn't count. What she needed, she decided, was a social life.

This revelation kept her occupied until she picked up the distant whine of a car. Some ten minutes later a battered old Ford van coughed its way up the hill towards her. Megan stuck out a thumb. As it chugged by she turned to peer into the driver's seat. A
middle-aged man eyed her with growing interest and not inconsiderable appreciation. Megan smiled and the car crawled to a stop.

The man wound down the window. ‘Where're you headed?'

Megan was silent for a moment as she assessed the ride. Looked like a mechanic in dirty overalls. She could see oil under his nails. He smelled grubby, and unwell. Probably his liver, she guessed. The flushed cheeks and bloodshot eyes seemed to back this up. ‘I'm going to Oban,' she said softly.

He nodded. ‘Jump in, you're in luck, I'm on my way there myself.'

Megan knew he was lying. She sauntered around to the passenger seat and opened the door. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. The car smelled. But she sat down without a fuss and slammed the door shut. The engine revved and they pulled away.

The man glanced at her and smiled. Megan smiled back.

Megan only listened with one ear to the greaser's conversation. He was oily in every sense of the word. Probably thought his crude jokes and not-so-subtle sexual innuendos were endearing. But she just nodded and smiled and he seemed content with that.

Megan's sense of direction was infallible. Like she'd been born with a built-in GPS. So when the greaser made a wrong turn, she knew.

She turned and appraised him coolly. ‘Mister, you're going the wrong way.'

He laughed heartily. ‘No, no, don't worry, this is just a short cut.'

Megan settled back into her seat. A short cut? Well, it was time someone redefined the ‘short cut' concept. But she didn't say a word, just watched the scenery sail by. The forests were in the full flush of spring green and the newborn lambs were like little clouds. The car soared up over a tor and down the winding road on the other side, and a great loch spread out before her, sullen and still.

The greaser had gone uncharacteristically quiet and Megan could practically hear the cogs grinding in his thick skull. She was not surprised when they slowed and then cruised to a stop in a small empty parking lot. As the engine snuffed out she reached for the door handle.

‘What's your hurry?' he said, and fastened a dirty hand around her right wrist. ‘I just wanted to stop for a chat.'

Something uncurled in a deep part of Megan's brain. Something primitive. Something powerful. Something primeval. Hate. Megan turned and observed the man with his unshaven beard and bloodshot eyes. And she hated him. There were no shades of grey for Megan MacGregor. She loved and hated with equal intensity. And she hated this man. This predator of lonely girls.

‘I don't want to chat,' she said softly. ‘Let me go, please.'

He laughed, an ugly barking sound, and jerked his chin towards the water. ‘Don't be silly. We're in the middle of nowhere. Where're you going to go?'

She didn't answer, which seemed to unsettle him. He shifted in his seat. ‘Look, I tell you what,' he said, with a small smirk, ‘you be nice to me and I'll be nice to you.' He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. ‘Come on, what do you say? Can't be fairer than that?' He rubbed his hand up the black woollen stockings that covered her legs and stopped just short of her tartan skirt. ‘When you wander around with a skirt hitched up around your waist you should expect to attract a bit of attention.'

Megan blinked. Oh, this was priceless. She leaned in, slowly and deliberately. She watched the pupils in his eyes dilate in greedy anticipation. When she was close enough to kiss him she turned her mouth to one waxy ear. ‘Frankly,' she said, ‘I'd rather piss blood.'

The grip on her wrist tightened and the hand on her thigh scrabbled up her leg like a tarantula. Fingers gouged and prodded into her panties.

A red-hot rage enveloped her. Black spots danced before her eyes and Megan let out a low growl of protest. She lashed out with her free hand, smacking him on the side of his head. His busy hand emerged and he snarled, curled his fist and jabbed at her nose.

The fist landed right on target and she heard her nose crack. She curled up and drew in great gasps of air. Megan felt the world tilt on its axis as the synapses in her brain
answered to her call. She'd only transformed once before and the glory of it exploded like popcorn through her psyche.

Then, as she felt him move over her and the stink of his swollen sex filled her nostrils, she lifted her face towards him.

In other circumstances his expression would have been comical. But all she felt was a murderous rage. A desire to destroy. A need for vengeance.

She ran her tongue over the long cusps of her teeth.

He stopped breathing and shrivelled like a frost-nipped flower. ‘Please…please,' he gibbered.

But there was no mercy in her heart. His screams of agony were a balm to her soul as she took a first bite. Her own personal short cut to hell.

Megan wished she had a toothbrush. Honestly, anyone who thought werewolves were unfussy feeders had never talked to her. The greaser was less than juicy. A bit tough. A bit toxic. Urgh! Whilst snuffing him out had been a positive pleasure, no less than a service to mankind (and wolfkind), she wished he'd taken better care of himself. Still, never mind. Grandad would have something scrumptious for her tea.

After a quick look around to make sure she was still alone, Megan hopped out of the car and went to the water. She rinsed her face and hands and had a good gargle. It was then that she realised her clothes were worse for wear. The woollen tights had more ladders than a board game and her skirt and jacket were blood-splattered. Not much she could do about it.

She returned to the car and looked at the ugly mess on the seats. After a moment's contemplation she checked his pockets, took his wallet, keys and cash. It was a shame she couldn't take the car. She must learn to drive.

Without a backward glance she set off cross-country at a run. She felt good. The world was awakening so she stuck to the forest and higher country where she could, avoiding the small villages and major roads. It was a long way home, but Megan moved steadily, barely winded by her efforts. Her extraordinary sense of smell warned her of unwanted company, and her ears could hear a vehicle miles away. And, she thought, while it was a lonely life, it had compensations. No rules, no boundaries, no work. And although she had been able to transform into the mist for as long as she could remember, her recent morph into wolf had created a whole new world. But, whether it was her maturity or the wolf instinct, she felt a growing desire for company. A pack to run with. And a mate.

Finally she left civilisation behind and passed Loch Goil. Although she didn't have to, she skirted around the Campbell's castle that scowled darkly on the edge of the loch. She sensed it was empty. And, as always, she thought about Morven and Zest. It had been three years since she'd helped them escape from the clutches of the Campbells. She'd only been fifteen then. Now she was eighteen. And a grown woman. The word was that they were following the extreme skateboard circuit. But no one knew for sure.

She'd liked Zest. He was cool. And hot. And, although it troubled her, she had liked Morven too. Even though she was a Campbell. Kind of. Maybe they'd come back. But as she threaded her way through the pines and followed the river to the sea she put them out of her mind. She was hungry. And a bit anxious. Her grandad seemed…subdued. Not that he was ever one for words, but he was quiet, even for him. And she worried about him.

Her small boat was anchored where she'd left it. The salty air filled her nostrils and the wind whipped her hair into disarray. But this was her home ground and she confidently hopped into the skiff and started up the engine. She followed the narrow channel way out into the ocean. The cold water rolled out in grey conformity, empty for miles apart from shags on rocks and shrill seagulls circling in the sky.

Several rocky precipices loomed up and Megan skimmed easily around and through them, then ducked into a tiny bay. Her tawny eyes narrowed as she scanned the stony shore. To her relief smoke was puffing out of the stone chimney of the tiny house she shared with her grandfather. She smiled when she spotted his tiny figure rolling up nets near his boat.

As she roared up the beach he turned and came to meet her. Megan dropped the anchor and waded through the breakers. She hurried down the beach to join him, anxious to reassure herself that all was well.

‘Where the bloody hell have you been?' he growled.

Megan scowled ferociously but her heart inflated like a helium balloon. Why, he was fine, as bad-tempered as ever. ‘I've been out visiting a friend.'

He sniffed disdainfully. ‘You're a mess.'

She was. She slipped her small soft hand into his huge hard fist. ‘What's for breakfast?' she said.

He looked at her and his seamed face split into a grin. ‘Whatever you can catch!'

She laughed. It was an old joke. Hand in hand they headed inside the cottage. Megan sat in her usual spot by the fire. Seal steaks spattered on the hotplate. She sighed happily. She was just an old worrywart. Everything was fine.

Her thoughts turned to the man and his horse. Maybe she'd go out tonight after all.

At nine o'clock Sean went out to do late-night hay. The cloud had cleared and the yard was filled with long moon shadows. It was almost as light as day. Twilight. That strange glimmerworld that belonged to the ghosties and the goblins. He grinned to himself; perhaps he'd see the redheaded sprite again.

With a wheelbarrow piled high with hay Sean headed to the stalls. Straw rustled as the horses moved restlessly to peer over their half doors. Ears flickered with happy anticipation and the still night air filled with soft whickers and snorts.

It was Sean's favourite part of the day. The last chore to perform, but without the pressures of time that accompanied the working day. As he chucked a wedge of sweet smelling hay to each horse he paused at their stable. He breathed in the familiar scents and smiled. Sometimes he could scarcely believe it was all his.

At The Count's door he easily dodged the playful nip that the horse offered by way of greeting. And, not for the first time, he wished he owned him, too. Still, he thought with his usual optimism, if the animal continued on in his present form, dumping track riders and devouring stable lads, his wish may come to fruition. Callum Campbell may be only too pleased to unload the unruly beast. You never knew your luck.

With his work completed Sean took the wheelbarrow back to its home in the barn and wandered back out into the yard. He felt strangely restless. Well, it wasn't so strange really. He was always restless. He had itchy feet. Always had. But it had never been a problem. When he'd felt that familiar itch, he'd just scratched it. Handed in a weeks' notice and moved on to the next yard. There was always a place, for the racing fraternity was a tight-knit community and word soon got around. Everyone knew that Sean Duncan ‘had a way with the horses.' And it was true. Sean exploited the fact and hinted that he was a horse whisperer. Which, of course, he was.

Sean sighed. It might not have been everyone's cup of char, but it had worked for him. Until he came to Druids' Rest. He looked around at the old horseshoes nailed above the stable doors. ‘To keep the bogey-man at bay,' Sarah Goodfellow had always said. She'd laughed as she said it, but her black eyes had snapped with a silent challenge. A challenge that Sean had chosen to ignore.

He turned back, crossed the cracked concrete of the yard, passed over the gravel drive and up to the house. It was a small farmhouse built from the local stone. Two up and two down, with a bathroom tacked on the back. Sean prised his boots off on the doorstep and went inside.

The living room was just as it had been when Sarah lived there. Sean looked at the empty fireplace, half expecting to see Sarah sitting there, sipping whisky and perusing the racing pages.

But she wasn't there, of course. And Sean wondered once more why the old woman had left him all she possessed. The house, the sixty acres of land, the yard and her three horses. It was a mystery for which he was extremely grateful.

He went into the cluttered kitchen and picked up a bottle of whisky. He took a clean glass from the cupboard and sploshed a goodly amount in. He breathed it in, and turned to look into the living room. ‘Cheers, Sarah,' he said softly and lifted his glass to her ghost.

After a sip he went out the back door and into the garden. It was a rambling mass of roses, buttercups and herbs. The scent of mint filled the air. Sean wandered over to the herb bed and ran a practised eye over the plants. It was the only orderly plot. He'd thought himself an authority on herb law, until he met Sarah. She was a walking encyclopaedia. And that was why he had stayed.