The MacGregor

by Jenny Brigalow

  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.

  Chapter 39

  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.

  Curious, he picked it up. There was a white label with two words typed on it: Drink Me! He frowned and then grinned. Lydia or Nancy (or both) must have put it in there while he was in the yard.

  He set it on the kitchen table and drank some milk from its carton. Then he sat down and eyeballed the bottle. What to do? Was it the same potion as last time? Finally he picked it up, pulled out the glass stopper and sniffed. Nothing. Not sweet or bitter. Not pleasant or pungent. Carefully he tipped the bottle until a drop fell onto the palm of his hand. It didn’t burn. He licked it off, put the bottle down and waited.

  A few minutes later he was still breathing. In fact, he felt none the worse for wear. What the hell! He snatched up the bottle, brought the cold rim to his lips and drank. When he put the bottle on the table it was half empty.

  Unable to sit, he got up and wandered around the kitchen. He was utterly wired, minutely analysing his every move and every sense. But after three minutes of pacing he felt a wave of disappointment. It wasn’t going to work. Dammit.

  He went to the kitchen door and stepped out into the herb garden. The night whispered softly around him. And then he heard the strangest sound. It rippled and sighed through the forest. He could barely breathe. Something was calling his name.

  Chapter 40

  Like a mini tornado Megan swept down the mountainside. Her eyes were fixed on the tiny fleeing shape of the fox cub. It was halfway across the open valley and heading north towards a river. Megan could hear the snort of the horses and the clear sound of voices. Voices that rose and fell in excitement. And then in agitation. They’d seen her.

  She did not look their way. It would have served no purpose, and slowed her down. Besides, she was confident that no horse could outpace her. In her wolf form she was as near to elemental as the wind that streamed through her hair.

  The cub slowed and Megan sensed that its strength was failing. Once more it bounded over a wall, but she was closing in. She cleared the rocks and spotted the small waif. It paused, its head turning frantically as it searched for cover. Megan did not slow, but she let out a small bark of encouragement. The cub turned, its eyes glowing green in the night. And then it collapsed upon the close-cropped turf.

  When Megan scooped it up she felt sure it was dead. But, although limp, she could feel its tiny heart skittering in its chest like a bird in a net.

  Barely breaking her stride Megan tucked the cub down her shirt front and zipped up her jacket. And she headed for the river. No horse could cross the water. It was too deep and wide. By the time they found a shallow crossing, Megan MacGregor would be no more than a memory. Barely had this thought skimmed through her mind when the sound of hoof beats rang in her ears.

  It was impossible! She glanced behind her. A single horse and rider. There was no sign of the rest. For an instant her brain refused to comprehend. But the horse’s eyes glowed like lanterns and white foam frothed from its mouth. And the rider’s black eyes glowed like coal in his face.

  As those devil eyes locked on her own, Megan felt a shiver of fear. What magic was this? How could any horse follow in her footsteps?

  But there was no time for further speculation. Slowly but surely the rider and his black steed gained on her. With every ounce of her being she willed her feet to be fleet, and then fleeter still. But the pounding of the horse’s hooves seemed to mock her.

  When she reached the river a voice cried out. ‘Stop! Or I’ll kill you!’

  There was something compelling about the words. Megan believed them utterly. On the brink of the bank she paused, looked longingly into the river and turned to face her pursuer. The fox cub trembled against her belly.

  Megan’s eyes were drawn upwards from the shod hooves, up the slender legs and to the sleek shoulder of the most stunning creature she had ever seen. For a moment she f
orgot her peril as her eyes feasted on the sight before her. The horse blew gently down its nostrils and chomped on the bone-white bit in its mouth. A strange feeling spread through her limbs. The bridle that arrayed the proud beast’s head was singularly unusual. As unusual as the horse.

  Megan tore her sight from the kelpie and looked up at its rider. A fury gripped her. ‘You are a murdering, thieving piece of excrement, Campbell!’ she growled. Then she smiled. ‘Anyone shot your sister recently?’

  His eyes narrowed and he leant down towards her. ‘And you are a disgusting dead dog, MacGregor!’ His hand reached to his shoulder and lifted loose a crossbow. With a cold smile of satisfaction he let go the horse’s reins, controlling the animal with the long hard muscles of his thighs.

  Megan had hoped for such a moment. She stepped up close to the horse’s neck and gently stroked the glossy coat. The animal seemed to melt beneath her fingers. ‘Hello, my lovely one. You have fallen on hard times, I see. But I will be back for you.’

  There was a loud click as the rider loaded a bolt. And Megan turned and dived into the water. She kicked frantically, only forced to surface for fear that the cub would drown. She popped up, barely out of breath, and turned to the shore. And smiled.

  It was a pretty sight. The rider had forgotten her. His whole being was completely engrossed in staying on the bucking, rearing, plunging animal beneath him.

  Satisfied that all was well, Megan frantically extracted the cub and held its poor little face out of the water. Silently she swam across the current, slipped out of the water and away into the night.

  Chapter 41

  Sean didn’t know where he was going and did not really care. He was caught up in a spellbinding world, the likes of which he had never even imagined. His name sighed from the breeze; it fluttered through the leaves and called from the raucous mouth of the crow. And where they beckoned he followed.

  Across the paddock, through shivering pines and up onto the top of the stony mountain. Here he paused and looked around. And, while it was the same, it was different.

  As he looked down over the wide black spread of a loch, his eyes followed the curve of the shore. And then paused. Was that a path on the far side? If it were, it was no more than a goat track. He couldn’t remember seeing it before.

  ‘Sean…Sean…Sean,’ the wind whispered in his ear. And he plunged down the bleak western bank, bare but for clumps of heather and lichen-mottled rock. Perhaps it was the effects of the drug, but he felt strangely light. As if the wind were carrying him along. Surely he was moving faster than was normal?

  Far away a vixen screamed. Sean stopped, momentarily uneasy. He thought of Megan. His fox. He waited, listening intently. But he heard no more. Lured on once more, he raced on and around the broad head of the loch. Stones scrunched beneath his feet. The forest loomed over him, creaking and sighing. He half expected some wild creature to rush out and devour him. But, of course, they didn’t. Soon his eyes picked out the track he had seen. It could have been a deer run. But he knew it wasn’t.

  With sure tread he pushed into the undergrowth and forced a path through the stand of small silver birches. The path snagged to the left and then the right. And he realised that he was travelling along the side of a ravine. Higher and higher he went, until he dare not look down. And then, to his relief, the path turned and widened at the mouth of an avenue.

  The voices were stronger here. They called his name with increasing urgency. For a minute he looked around. It was absolutely still. The path was straight, flanked either side by rows of ancient rowan trees. Their red berries dragged down gnarled branches and swept the ground. Almost as if they were bowing before him. Which was ridiculous.

  Something brushed the top of his head and he let out a cry of fright. He looked up. A murder of crows swirled around him and then took off down the avenue. ‘Sean!’ they cawed. With a soft curse of relief, Sean followed.

  The avenue ended in a grove. Four trees stood on a mossy bed. Three in a circle and one in the centre. It was only as Sean stepped closer that he realised three were dead. Only the one in the centre showed any sign of life. At the tips of the massive, old oak tree was a scant scattering of leaves. Close inspection revealed the tree was sick. The trunk was completely hollow. How the tree lived at all was a mystery.

  Sean peered down into the dark, damp depths of the trunk. And then he leapt up and dropped down inside. It was so big he could turn around. He hunkered down and swept his hands around the floor and bumpy walls.

  But there was nothing there. It was ridiculous, but he felt disappointed. Somehow, he had expected to find…something. And then his fingers brushed a tiny object that rolled away. Gently he searched and picked it up. He stood and peered at it. It was an acorn.

  With the nut safely in the pocket of his jeans he wiggled up and out of the hidey-hole. He moved away from the trees to find the moonlight. Carefully he held up the acorn.

  Behind him a terrible noise rent the night. He turned, the acorn clenched in his fist. He took an involuntary step back as he watched the mighty old oak fall. As it hit the earth a shock wave passed beneath his feet.

  A sadness filled him. It was as if he’d lost a dear friend. Which was crazy. Completely crackers. But in some tight corner of his mind, Sean knew that the tree had called him.

  For a long moment he stared at the massive pile of dead wood. And then he remembered the acorn. He pulled the acorn out, opened his hand and looked at the seed. ‘I thank you,’ he said. And he walked away.

  Chapter 42

  Megan was freezing cold. And wet. But she hugged the saturated fox cub to her chest and cheered herself with the prospect of seeing Sean. With the added bonus of a change of clothes and a wee dram.

  She warmed slightly as she ran hard. While she was pretty chuffed with her little victory, it was wise not to be too confident. The phenomenal speed of the wild black horse still enthralled her.

  At the top of the mountain she stopped in her usual spot and peered down at Sean’s place. With teeth chattering like castanets she scanned the property and its surrounds. She had not forgotten her face-off with the Campbell bitch. And a ripple of apprehension played over her body. The Campbells were everywhere, it seemed.

  And she’d finally come face to face again with her nemesis, Calix Campbell. Megan wasn’t sure whether this pleased her or not. It pleased her enormously to know she had pissed off the powerful Calix. But he was a dangerous foe. She did not fear for herself, but Sean was a different matter. She must be careful.

  It seemed that the Campbell girl, Ginny, must be connected to Calix. Megan wasn’t a believer in coincidence. Mind you, she thought irritably, all the Campbells were connected. Curse them.

  With one last slow scan of the vicinity Megan decided that all was clear. As she leapt lithely down the mountain and slipped silently through the stand of pines, she decided it was time she did some digging around. First off she needed to find out about the one called Ginny. If she worked for Sean it would be wise to be in the loop. All she had to do was weasel it out of Sean. Shouldn’t be too hard — whilst he was breathtakingly beautiful, he was a mere mortal, after all. So — drop-dead gorgeous — but not so much with the synapses. Not that it mattered; she had enough brain matter for the two of them. All in all, the perfect mate.

  Minutes later she jumped over the stone wall that marked the western side of Sean’s place, skimmed over the paddock and nipped across the horses’ yard. Several horses snorted hopefully at her but, worried about the cub, she didn’t stop.

  At the garden gate she paused. To her surprise the lights blazed. Still, it wasn’t so late, probably only midnight. She listened intently but could hear nothing out of the ordinary. She breathed in through her mouth. And smiled. She could taste him. So scrummy.

  Seconds later she cleared the gate and knocked loudly at the door. His footsteps pounded down the stairs, the door latch lifted and the door swung open.

  For a second Megan lost the full function of
her faculties. He must have got out of the shower. He was barefoot and shirtless. Water darkened his hair and beads of water meandered down the lovely bare acres of his chest. Megan’s mouth went dry, which was quite an achievement considering the wetness of the rest of her.

  He grinned. ‘Hi.’

  She smiled back. How could she not. Those blue eyes alone were enough to unhinge a girl. Still, it was quite nice to be a tad unhinged. Very novel. Then the cub squirmed against her and she remembered her responsibilities.

  ‘Can I come in?’ she said.

  By way of an answer he stepped back and she crossed over the threshold. Megan continued on to the kitchen. She could feel his body heat as he followed close behind. And her hormones rap danced in her blood vessels.

  ‘You’re soaked!’

  Megan stopped and turned to him. ‘Fell in the river,’ she lied. The truth was hardly an option. ‘I’ve got something for you,’ she said softly, looking up at him. Slowly she undid the buttons of her shirt. He watched on and she felt a flush of victory as his breathing accelerated and his pupils dilated.

  ‘What have you got for me?’ he said.

  With a flourish Megan pulled out the cub.

  For a moment he looked miffed, but then he reached out and plucked the scared little morsel from her hands. He laughed.

  ‘Where the hell did he come from?’

  Megan shook her head. ‘She. It’s a girl.’

  ‘Better get the pair of you warmed up.’

  Megan grinned.

  Chapter 43

  The atmosphere in the castle tower was as taut as high tensile wire. Calix Campbell listened intently to his cousin, Callum. Each word wound him up, one gear at a time.

  ‘And so,’ said Callum, ‘as far as we know, she’s a loner. But she’s a strange one. A brazen little bitch.’