The Children Of The Mist (30 page)

Morven's eyes narrowed. ‘Well, you're not much help after all, are you?'

Caractacus looked down the passage. ‘Morven, I've come to give you some advice.'

‘And that would be?'

‘Give them what they want. Please.'

‘And what would that be?'

‘The lycan.'

Morven shook her head. ‘Can't be done. Don't know any lycan.'

Caractacus looked like he was going to cry. ‘Morven, they'll get him anyway. They always do. They're obsessed. If you help them, you can still come out of this alright.'

Morven snorted her disbelief.
Puhlease
.

Caractacus leaned toward her, his black eyes pleading. ‘They don't want to kill you. You're one of us. Think of all you could be. All you could do. Anything, Morven, anything at all.'

Morven sighed. ‘I'm getting bored now. I hate to be bored.'

Caractacus took a step back. He opened his jacket and talked down at a small wire tucked into his shirt lapel. ‘Did you get that?'

‘Yes. Loud and clear.' Calix's voice sounded tinny and distant.

Morven stared her cousin until his eyes flickered and slid away. ‘Caractacus,' she said softly, ‘you stink.'

He turned and left. The door banged shut, the locks grated, and it was dark once more.

When the jumbo landed at Edinburgh the sun had just risen. It was a raw day. Snow heavy in the sky. Zest waited impatiently for the baggage handlers to shift the last of the luggage, and slipped out of the ceiling above the baggage compartment. The airport was buzzing. He shouldered his bag and strode confidently out onto the bitumen, stepping in behind a large convoy of catering trolleys. No one took any notice. Too busy. He peeled off as the convoy caterpillared into a hanger, and he struck out for an exit. He was in luck. A security van drove idly past. Zest sped over and waved to the bored-looking driver, who slowed and pulled over.

He wound down the window and looked politely at Zest. ‘What's up?'

Zest leaned forward. ‘I just need to borrow your van, mate.'

Before the guard could say ‘Inspector Rex' Zest whipped his gun out of his pocket and knocked him out cold. Seconds later the guard was taking a nap behind a large pile of crates and Zest was waving his security pass at the boom gate. He slipped into the traffic and followed a taxi. As they headed toward a huge multi-story car park, Zest turned in and drove upward until he found an empty spot. He switched off the engine and sat for a moment. Next step — a bus. Hopefully to Edinburgh and from there to Argyll.

It took fifteen minutes to find a bus stop heading in the right direction. Twenty-five minutes later the coach sighed to a stop in the city. Zest's watch was still on Australian time. The obliging driver set him right. It was ten past seven in the morning. Zest pressed his luck and queried the driver about getting to Carrick Castle in Argyll. His luck held. There was a regular bus service to a western town called Oban. Apparently the castle was near a little town called Lochgoilhead, not too far away. His confidence increased with the construction of a plan. Morven felt just a little bit closer.

With the instructions to get to the bus station firmly in his head, Zest set off. Despite his concern for Morven, the bitter cold, and an empty belly, Zest could not suppress a small fizz of excitement. He was in Edinburgh. And according to Morven, at least one of his kind lived here. As he passed through the sleepy streets he couldn't help but stare at each and every individual that crossed his path. And each time he held his breath, hoping for some sort of sign. A connection. Something. Anything. He barely took in the architecture, having eyes only for street signs and faces.

At the entry to the station he shook off his strange mood. The bus driver had been spot on. There was a bus at nine twenty. Nearly two hours. For a moment he considered nicking some wheels, but dismissed it. Best not to tempt fate. It would be just his luck to get nicked. No, he'd better play it safe.

Hunger drew him back to the city, drawn by the blessedly familiar aroma of king-sized burgers and fries. The golden arches beckoned. Glass doors welcomed him into a hothouse of plastic convenience. He wolfed his meal down and drained a cup of Coke. Better. He had an hour. How best to spend it?

He stood in the main thoroughfare and looked around. Two things tempted. The castle and a mountain range. But which one? In the end he opted for the mountain. Its snowy cap swirled in thick cloud. He broke into a jog, suddenly eager to be there. As his feet consumed the concrete, the barely suppressed buzz in his blood flared up. He had no plan. He just knew he needed to be up there, like an eagle in its eerie. His footsteps rang loud
against the stone tenements. When he saw it, he felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach with a bit of two by four.

‘Holy shit!' He came to a skidding stop and stared at the black wolf's head daubed on the side of an overflowing rubbish skip. His heart did a triple somersault and a half pike. He tried to be objective. Could mean nothing. The letters, COTM, meant nothing to him. It was probably someone with a wolf fetish. Maybe some biker's emblem or some such stuff. But there was something about the image that just nailed him to the spot.

He looked over his right shoulder. And then over his left. A postman trudged up the steep hill, dragging his mail behind him. Two schoolgirls meandered in the opposite direction, chatting like a pair of gospel birds. A truck roared up the hill and a bike whined down. Zest waited, willing something to happen. But the world just kept on turning. Once more he applied himself to the design. Then he pulled out his phone and took a photo. It wasn't a brilliant shot, but enough to keep the image alive.

Time was pressing. He left the graffiti and raced up the hill. Soon he slipped through the garden of a grand old house and found himself in a vast, snowy parkland. The frozen tor loomed over him. Without hesitation Zest set off, slipping and sliding in the snow. He chose the steepest pitch, mainly because it was the shortest. Barely aware of his frozen fingers and frigid toes he crested the tor and took a deep breath. Edinburgh city spread out before him. Vast. Alien. He couldn't imagine how many people lived there. Worked there. Played there. Died there.

A deep sense of frustration filled him. All the lonely years engulfed him. Somewhere, out there, was another of his kind. But he felt more alone now than he ever had. Perhaps reinforced by his fear for Morven.
Morven
. Who should be there with him. Deep inside his chest a chasm split and exploded upward. Zest let out a long, deep, howl of anger. And once he started, he found he couldn't stop. Zest stood on top of the world and sang his ancient song.

Finally, he stopped. The wind whined and wailed around him. And then, caught upon its wings came a strange sound. It took a moment for Zest to realise that he was hearing the voice of his people for the very first time. Sick.

Twice more he heard it. And then it was gone. Zest strained his ears, willing it to happen again. But after five intense minutes he had to accept it was over. His eyes scanned the rooftops of Edinburgh. Somewhere out there, in that seething metropolis, was one of his kind. Exultation filled him like hot air in a balloon. Wait till he told Morven. Which brought him back down to earth with a wallop. He looked at his watch. It was nearly nine o'clock. If he was going to make the bus, he'd have to leg it.

He made it, just. As he sprinted across the transport centre the bus was already set to pull out. Zest made a mad dash, and slipped his hand in the door as it swished shut. The driver gave him a look, but let him in. Maybe because there was another passenger right behind him. Relieved, Zest waved his ticket at the driver and found a seat at the back. The coach was warm. Zest felt wired as the bus rattled out of the station and onto the motorway. After the frantic pace of the last few days he found it hard to unwind, even though there was nothing more to be done until he reached Oban. He pulled out his phone and stared at it. He was sorely tempted to phone Morven. It was strange, but the closer he got to his goal, the more anxious he became. Maybe he should have borrowed some wheels. Still, it was too late now. Reluctantly he put the phone away. Best not.

He knew he should take the opportunity to sleep. But his brain was like a runaway express train that kept jumping the track. Back and forth. Morven. Edinburgh. Morven.
Edinburgh. The changing landscape outside barely made an impression. With a concentrated effort Zest finally put on the brakes. Morven first. Then Edinburgh.

He must have finally drifted off, as he woke with a start as the bus came to an abrupt halt. The driver informed the passengers they had arrived. Zest grabbed his backpack and headed out. It was barely three thirty in the afternoon but it was already getting dark. The sun had all but sunk behind the mountain range. Oban was a bigger place than he had expected. Lots of grey stone buildings and snow. A huge lake glimmered like mercury in the dimming light. White frosted trees and iced mountains hugged its steep banks. Boats bobbed together in the walled jetty like a flock of tethered ducks. It was cold enough to freeze the nose off an Eskimo.

After a moment's hesitation, Zest set off after the rest of the passengers into the main street. Halfway down the street, drawn by the sound of bagpipes, Zest went into a hotel. The heat threatened to suffocate him. The lounge was packed. It smelled like beer and sausages. Shedding his heavy jacket, Zest made his way toward the bar. He asked for directions to Lochgoilhead and the castle. Again, he was in luck. A local bus ran regularly to Lochgoilhead. If he hurried he should just make the three thirty-five. He shouldered his bag and slipped back out into the street. Lonely snowflakes drifted through the light spilled out by streetlamps. Mindful of the freezing concrete he hastened up to the next corner. The bus shelter was empty. Damn. Maybe he'd missed it. With no better plan he sat down and waited.

At three fifty a bus duly arrived, possibly slowed by the treacherous roads, or maybe it was always late. As he dug out some coins from his back pocket and handed them over to the driver, Zest felt a thrill of anticipation. Morven was barely hours away.

The journey seemed endless. The bus seemed to stop every two seconds while people shuffled on and off like zombies. There was little other distraction. Condensation misted up the windows making it impossible to see outside. As the wheels of the bus turned round and round, Zest found himself contemplating the past. He half wished now that he'd told Morven about the ancient feud between his kind and hers. But he had been reluctant to unwittingly colour her view. She had the right to make her own impressions of her vampyre family. He had no right to jeopardise her future. None at all.

But as Zest finally stepped off the bus he couldn't subdue a simmering premonition of dread.

Lochgoilhead, unlike Oban, was small. A tiny village nestled at the foot of a great mountain range. It too had a lake. Snow crunched beneath his feet. The air was sharp and clear. Pine, smoke, and the salty tang of the loch. Tiny wavelets lapped back and forth on the stony beach. Light shone from the windows of the old buildings nearby. Otherwise, it was dark. Zest stood for a minute, unsure of his next move. He knew the castle was five miles by road. Closer as the crow flew. Maybe he should just go on foot. It would be safer. But slow. Hitchhiking was a possibility but, looking at the sleepy village, his chances would be slim. Still undecided, his eyes slid over the water. Maybe he should just go cross country, follow the edge of the loch.

Wind streaked across the expanse of water creating a swell. The small skiffs moored in the water bobbed about merrily, as if eager for adventure. Zest smiled to himself and headed down to the boats. After a few minutes' inspection, he found what he wanted. A skiff, complete with oars and, better still, a small outboard engine. Seconds later Zest had the engine hotwired and the craft chugging softly away. He wasn't sure how long the journey would take, but it beat the hell out of walking.

With eyes peeled to the western bank, Zest tried to suppress his impatience as the sturdy boat did its best. Once or twice he thought he heard something behind him. On the third occasion he slowed and turned around. But the wind blew too hard to hear. He scanned the surface of the water, but could see nothing. He shivered, suddenly spooked at the thought of sinking slowly down into the great watery chasm beneath him. The tiny boat felt very fragile. But he shook himself; he was being soft. He could swim really well and if they were onto him, he'd be a goner by now. It was probably water birds or maybe a porpoise. Somewhat reassured he set off again.

The lights from the castle alerted him in good time to his destination. He switched off the engine and settled down to the oars. Unfortunately he discovered that he was crap at rowing. For several minutes he just went around in circles. After much sweating and swearing, Zest finally managed to even out his strokes, and slowly, but surely, he edged closer. The great grey building scowled down into the loch. Maybe it looked a bit more inviting in the day, but at that moment it was anything but. Zest felt his heart squeeze with fear. Where was Morven? Please, please let her be alright.

To his delight there was a landing jetty. Old but serviceable. There was a boat already moored. A sleek speedboat. Zest managed to slip up alongside the speedster and grab a float. With fingers clumsy from the cold he slipped a rope through and tied the skiff steady. He took a few deep breaths and leapt up onto the smooth, snowy deck of the speedboat, and peered over the jetty. Instinctively he looked around for cover. But there was none. No trees, no outbuildings, no nothing. Damn.

A movement caught his eye. A flicker in an upstairs window. He strained his eyes, suddenly sure it was Morven, looking out. But the figure, if that was what it had been, had gone. Zest waited half a minute longer and gave up. He inched out of the boat and raced across the jetty and slid down, finding some cover in a depression in the ground. In his dark clothes he felt like a moving target.