The MacGregor (5 page)

She threw the barb and it found its mark. Megan eased through the grey, frantic, whirling mass and caught the fish up. Minutes later she burst up to the surface. She waved the still-thrashing fish and saw her grandfather's face crease into a rare smile. He loved salmon. With a mighty heave she threw the fish and barb, and he caught it.

Megan took a deep breath and plunged back down, this time following the line to the crab pot. She untied it, dragged it up to the surface, passed it up to her grandfather's waiting hand and swarmed up the rope ladder. Back on deck she rubbed herself down with a rough towel and dressed. Soon they were on their way. This time she hauled the pot up and they moved on to the next. The tide was starting to turn and the night was waning. Megan relaxed and happily anticipated a warm fire and salmon steaks. Maybe followed by a few crab claws. Her mouth watered.

She turned to ask Grandad if they were done, but noticed him staring across the water. And then she saw a light. Another boat, racing towards them. She felt panic rise, as it was rare to find anyone else out and about in this remote nook of the world. Only the warmer months brought the few tourists who ventured out this far. It was too rugged for most in May.

With sure-footed grace she crossed the wet deck and stood beside her grandfather, holding her hair out of her eyes, ready to start the engine at a word. But then he waved a hand in greeting and ‘Hello!' floated across the waves.

‘Who is it?' she asked.

‘It's Douglas Douglas and his boy, Douglas,' he said, his eyes sliding away from her in an oddly shifty fashion.

Megan was surprised. And then suspicious. ‘What do they want?'

Her grandfather turned to the sails. ‘They're just being…social.'

Megan's amber eyes narrowed and she turned reluctantly to the pots. Well, well, well. Grandad was up to something. But for the life of her she couldn't fathom what it was.

When he hauled his butt into the yard at five o'clock Sean had the hangover from hell. The hum of Ginny's moped pulling into the drive sounded like a jumbo jet flying into his ear. The click-clack of the track rider's boots on the concrete was like a jackhammer on the top of his head.

He watched the lads come out of the tack room with their saddles and bridles. ‘Billy, leave The Count, I'll work him this morning. You take Spike instead.'

Billy smiled the cheerful smile of the teetotaller and veered off to his designated ride.

Sean ducked into the small room, picked up his saddle and bridle and went to the black horse's stable. For a moment he observed the animal and tried to work out whether or not he'd dreamed the incident of the night before. Had she really been there? Megan MacGregor. He pulled a packet of aspirins from his jeans pocket and crunched them up. Gross.

Still, by the time he joined the string he was feeling a bit more chipper. His head felt attached to his body again. He must cut down on the grog.

As the line of horses walked briskly down the muddy track Sean found his gaze travelling to the snowy tor. But she wasn't there. Or not yet, anyway. The Count, taking advantage of his inattentiveness, put in a massive shy which damn near unseated him. Serve him right.

Once they'd surged through the gate the riders allowed their mounts to break into a trot. Sean kept The Count on a short rein to prevent him getting his head down and putting in a buck. He could feel the tenseness of the animal's back and see the laid-back ears as he waited for an opportunity to misbehave.

It was a shame, Sean thought, because The Count was sheer poetry to ride. A mass of coordinated muscle and sinew. A four-legged athlete. If he could just find a way to break through the simmering, calculated resentment the horse exhibited and untap all that potential, the animal would be unbeatable.

It was every trainer's dream. That one horse born to run faster than his peers. The one who possessed that magical combination of strength, speed, and bloody-minded determination to lead the herd. Trouble was, they were few and far between. But one winner would make him.

Young Billy drew up beside him at a canter and Sean urged the stallion on. The Count balked and flung up his head in protest, narrowly missing Sean's nose. Sean cursed and lifted his whip. But he stopped as the first few bars of a melody burst in his head. And again he wondered: had she really been there last night? Or was it just a dream? But the song was real. And he began to sing. The words came to him as if from a hidden spring, bubbling up and pouring out of his mouth.

And, verse by verse, stride by stride, he felt the black horse begin to relax. When Sean kicked lightly with his heels The Count responded, breaking into a rhythmical canter. Excitement prickled through Sean and he raised his voice a little, and picked up the tempo of the music. Without being asked, The Count accelerated. Faster and faster and faster until the wind took Sean's breath away and tears caught in the corners of his eyes.

Effortlessly he lapped the other horses, and caught brief glimpses of the jockeys' surprised faces.

After the third mind-blowing lap of the track, Sean reluctantly slowed his song and brought the animal back to a trot and walk. He patted the horse's steaming neck. ‘Good boy!' he said gently. The rest of the string waited for him in a huddle by the track.

‘Holy crap, Sean, did you put mustard up his bum?' asked Billy.

Sean grinned and shook his head. It was an old trick but not one that he'd ever used. ‘No, he's just having a good day, I guess.'

Ginny came rushing over, her cheeks softly flushed and her dark brown eyes glinting with pleasure. ‘Sean, that was bloody incredible! I was so stunned I forgot to time him, but he was just flying!'

Her happiness was infectious and she was an extremely pretty girl. Sean leant down on impulse and pulled her close. After all, he was only flesh and blood. Her lips met his willingly.

She laughed and stepped away. ‘What was that song you were singing, Sean?'

‘Oh, I don't know. I learned it years ago.'

‘But what language is it?'

Sean frowned. ‘Sorry?'

‘Well, it wasn't English, or Gaelic, was it?' said Ginny.

Sean was nonplussed. It wasn't? ‘French,' he said, that being the first language that popped into his head. But to be honest, he didn't have a clue.

As he rode back down to the yard he pondered the whole strange matter. In the end he decided that The Count had just hit his form at last. After all, why shouldn't he? And the song was just a coincidence. He turned one last time and looked around the familiar mountain range and valley below. But she wasn't there.

Megan was caught between outrage and admiration. Grandad had tucked her up neatly. Very neatly indeed. She went to the stove and put the kettle on, and shot a glance at the visitors who had arrived on dark, as prearranged the night before on the boat.

Grandad and the Douglas men sat at the table, the remains of a toothsome meal still strewn untidily around them. Douglas Senior had a tumbler of whisky like Grandad and his son, Douglas Junior, a can of coke.

Maybe the younger Douglas felt her gaze for he glanced her way and smiled. And Megan smiled back. It was hard not to. He had a grin bigger than a banana. Douglas was a bit older than her, she guessed. He was tall and rangy, with freckled skin, grey eyes and a shock of strawberry blonde hair. For a moment Megan wanted to blow on his head to see if the fuzz of hair would float away like dandelion seeds. It was gorgeous.

Though the two old men talked salmon and seals, and puffed majestically on their pipes, it was clear that both were about as comfortable as pigs on a spit. Megan smiled maliciously. Serve them right. She might be young but she knew when she was being set up. Well, good try was all she could say.

While the two elders thought they were being clever, Megan sensed their efforts were futile. Douglas, nice though he seemed to be, was no more interested in her (in that way) than she was in him. There was just no zing. Nothing like the mind-blowing cocktail of chemicals that coalesced when she was with Sean. Why, her innards turned to molten molasses at the mere thought of him! But with young Douglas, she got…nothing. Nada. A big fat zero.

The kettle screamed but she took no notice as a disturbing thought struck her. What if all the males of her kind were like Douglas? Utterly impervious to her charms? Oh crap. And what if she were truly a freak and only fancied mortals? Oh, double crap.

‘Megan, get the kettle!' Grandad urged.

Flustered, she pulled it off the hob and filled the teapot. Her hands trembled and she slopped water everywhere which did not improve her state of mind.

Douglas loomed over her shoulder and plucked the teapot out of her hand. ‘Let me help you with that.'

She went to the sink and ran her hand under the cold tap; she was touched by the young man's gesture. As he turned and put the teapot on the table Megan caught sight of the back of his leather jacket which sported a wolf's head. Grey and black on a red circle.

‘Why do you wear that?' she asked.

He looked over his shoulder to interpret her question. ‘The wolf?'

She nodded.

‘It's my gang's colours.'

Megan frowned. ‘Colours?'

‘It's the insignia, or badge of honour, for my club, Wolfsbane. We're a bikie gang. Very exclusive, you could say.'

Megan understood then. ‘Exclusive' meant their own kind, of course. And she'd seen the bikie gangs a few times, either in Edinburgh on her sporadic trips, or sometimes just out cruising the country lanes. There were rumours about them. Some said that they were vicious. That they killed for the sake of killing. Megan realised that her grandfather and the
men of the west were steeped in the old ways, and that they were out of sync with the times, but she believed that life was sacred. All life. She killed to eat and to protect herself and her kin. She could not prey on the innocent. She'd leave that to the Campbells.

She looked at Douglas. He had lived with his father out on the Hebrides, but he'd moved on. Was he a vicious killer? It was hard to believe.

Douglas came over and stood beside her at the sink. ‘Do you want to get out of here?'

Megan chanced a peek at her grandfather whose long, hairy, pointed ears were almost visibly flapping. She grinned. ‘Sure.'

As she grabbed her coat she caught the two old men exchanging congratulatory looks. Let them enjoy their victory, she thought smugly. It would be short-lived.

Down in the bay the Douglas' boat was moored at the old boardwalk. It was an older vessel too, built of timber, but bigger and sleeker than Megan's. The Douglas' sold their catch at the markets, and so were cashed up.

Megan watched as the young werewolf slid a plank from the deck onto the narrow timber walkway, and disappeared. He was soon back though, wheeling a heavy motorbike carefully down the makeshift bridge. Megan looked at the bike with interest. It was black with chrome fittings. Smart. On the fat petrol tank the word ‘Norton' was inscribed in gold.

By the careful, almost reverent way Douglas handled the vehicle Megan sensed it was a much-loved possession. She was delighted. She'd never been on a bike before. She followed him down the boardwalk and watched as he bounced the machine easily down the flight of steps. On the beach he turned and handed her a black helmet. ‘Where do you want to go?'

Megan wasn't sure. ‘Where were you planning to go?'

‘To the city. To the Jackal and Hide.'

Jackal and Hide. Megan had never heard of it. ‘What's that?'

Douglas slid a helmet over his wild head of hair. ‘It's a nightclub.'

Megan felt a flush of excitement. ‘I've just turned eighteen.'

He grinned. ‘Doesn't matter. All you need is an invitation from a member.' He bowed. ‘And yours truly is cordially inviting you.'

Megan laughed. He was funny. It was an enticing offer. ‘Who'll be there?'

‘Well, our kind, mainly. But there's a few freaks too.'

Megan's ears twitched. Freaks? She was consumed with curiosity. ‘What kind of freaks?'

‘Well, there's a few witches, a few warlocks, travellers and mortals.'

Megan was shocked. ‘They let mortals in there?'

Douglas shrugged. ‘Sure. If they're invited. Most of 'em are too dim to catch on. The place is pretty wack and wicked. Lots of costumes and stuff. Anything goes.'

‘So, anyone can go there?'

Suddenly the young man's sunny smiled faded and he snarled. And the wild wolf revealed itself. ‘Not the Vamps. They're not allowed. Although they try. They can't go into any place without an invitation.'

Megan nodded. She knew this to be the truth. If it weren't, her kind would have been extinct. It sounded fantastic. But then she thought about Sean. And, while the Jackal and Hide sounded awesome, she wanted to see him. Bad.

‘Douglas, thanks so much for asking me, and I'd really like to go, but how long do you think you'll be?'

He shrugged. ‘Four, five hours, at a guess. If I'm too late the old man will bugger off home without me.'

Megan glanced up at the sky. The night was young, the moon hadn't even risen. Brilliant, she could go out with Douglas and then see Sean on the way home. She smiled. ‘I'd love to come, Douglas, thanks.'

He grinned. ‘It'll keep the two old farts happy.'

She smiled and realised that young Douglas wasn't fooled any more than she was.

‘Get your skid lid on, and hop on behind me.' He threw one long leg over the black seat and looked at her expectantly.

Megan scrambled up behind him, found her foot rests and wrapped her arms around his waist. The engine burbled into life and they slipped and slid over the stony beach, roared past the croft and whipped onto the road.

After twenty seconds Megan decided she had to have a motorbike. It was the only way to travel. She loved the throaty sound of the old engine, the stink of oil and the lift and fall around the corners. Her spirits soared and she lifted her visor to release the plaintive howl of her kind. Life was grand.