The Children Of The Mist (16 page)

Morven giggled. ‘Doesn't look too dangerous.'

Zest was pleased to hear her sass reassert itself. ‘He's a weredog,' he stated firmly.

‘A
weredog
,' said Morven. ‘Awesome.'

Zest nodded. It was, really. Anyway, they had to push on. He pointed to the north-west. ‘My place isn't far. If we step on it, we'll be home in 15 minutes.

Morven took off like a greyhound, her laughter floating behind. ‘Last one to the bottom of the mountain is a mere mortal.'

And it was on. They tore down the rugged hill, sometimes neck and neck, sometimes not. Branches snapped and lashed at their limbs. Stones rolled under their feet. Startled wildlife broke cover as they charged at breakneck speed downward. Dog followed.

They jogged the rest of the way to town. Like shadows they slipped past the sleeping houses. A few minutes later Morven followed Zest up the drive of the car yard. Relief spread through him when they turned past the office and saw lights blazing in his van. It seemed that Mr and Mrs Smith had arrived safely. At the van he paused and knocked, feeling a bit awkward about just barging in, even though this was his pad.

The door flew open and Zest was nearly crushed in the rush as Shelley Smith charged down the steps. ‘Morven!' she gasped. ‘Oh my God, Morven. Are you alright?' If Morven replied, the words were smothered in her mother's arms. ‘I thought they'd got you,' said Mrs Smith.

Morven managed to surface, gasping for air. ‘Mum, I'm fine,' she said.

Mrs Smith took half a step back, clasped her daughter's cheeks between her hands and peered into her face. ‘Are you sure? You look very pale.'

Morven blinked. ‘Yeah, well, that's one of the things we need to talk about.'

Her mother frowned. ‘Is it? Why?'

Clifford Smith materialised in the door way. ‘Shelley, please, let them come in. They must be exhausted.'

Shelley Smith looked appalled at her gaff and backed up the steps and into the van. Zest waited until Morven and Dog were safely inside before entering and shutting the door behind him. Oblivious to the volley of questions that demanded his attention he raced around and shut all the curtains. Still not content, he dug around in a drawer and pulled out a handful of pegs. He then proceeded to apply them to the drapes, ensuring no sneaky ray of light could poke through. He ran his eyes around the small living space until he was satisfied he'd covered all the bases. Then he turned his attention to the Smith family who were all talking at each other at top volume.

‘How about a bit of hush?' he said.

He may as well have talked to himself. ‘Cup of tea anybody?'

Silence. Followed by a round of subdued ‘yes, pleases.' Keen to hold their attention, Zest applied himself to the kettle. ‘Okay. Now, one at a time.'

Morven chipped in first. ‘Mum, Dad,' she said softly. ‘Why? Why didn't you tell me?'

Morven's parents looked at each other and then back to Morven.

Her mother looked at her carefully. ‘Morven, it's not that we didn't tell you. We couldn't. You see, until these last few days, we didn't have a clue.'

Morven's face fell. She looked utterly woebegone. Zest bit his lip and busied himself with teabags.

‘But,' said Morven slowly, ‘you must know. You adopted me.'

Clifford sighed. ‘Indeed we did. But…well….you see…' He stopped and looked beseechingly at his wife. ‘Shelley, you tell her.'

Morven's mother reached over to Morven and took her hand gently in her own. ‘Morven, it's true that we adopted you. We've never lied to you but I guess we've never told you the whole truth either.'

Morven's head snapped up and her dark eyes locked on her parent. ‘Well, Mum, I think it's time to spill the beans. Don't you?'

Shelley nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Well, you remember how we always joked about how we found you in the veggie patch in our garden in Scotland?'

Morven nodded. ‘Yes.'

Her mother took a quick intake of breath. ‘Well, you see, we weren't entirely joking.'

Zest was silently fascinated. He forgot to stop pouring the milk into his mug and it spilled out and over the bench. He swore softly and grabbed a cloth.

Morven pulled her hand away from her mother's and sat up a little straighter. ‘Mum, just tell me, please.'

A tear ran down her mother's cheek. ‘Oh, Morven,' she said, ‘we so desperately wanted to have a baby. We'd waited for years and wished and prayed. We'd just about
given up all hope when I was transferred to Scotland. We decided that when we came back to Australia we'd look into adoption. We moved to Edinburgh in the December and tried to concentrate on our new lives. And then, one Saturday morning, your father went out early to break the ice on the bird table. It had snowed in the night. And there you were, nestled up against the trunk of the apple tree. Wrapped up like a bug in your rug. A tiny, perfect baby girl.' Shelley looked up at the dingy roof of the caravan, and Zest knew she was far away. ‘When your dad brought you in, we could scarcely believe it. Of course, we planned to phone the police. But you looked so peaceful that we thought we'd have breakfast first. And then phone. But when you woke up, you smiled and gooed and waved your chubby baby legs in the air — and we fell in love with you.' Shelley paused, took the handkerchief offered by her husband and blew her nose. ‘Oh, I know it was wicked. And we waited to hear something in the media. If there had been so much as a whisper about a lost or stolen baby, we'd have given you up straight away.' She lifted her wet eyes to her daughter. ‘We really would have. But there was nothing. So we just told everyone that you were ours. We were brand new in the area. No one knew any different. I used my contacts to secure a birth certificate and then a passport when it was time to come home.' Shelley covered her face with her hands. ‘I know it was bad, Morven. But I just couldn't help it. We just loved you so much. I'm so sorry.' And then she began to cry.

Zest looked at Morven out of the corner of his eye. Holy cow. How the hell was she going to digest that little lot?

The sight of her distressed mum, who normally never cried, softened the hard nub of anger in Morven's chest. Morven couldn't bear to see her so distraught. She stood and then squatted down in front of her. ‘Mum, please don't cry. It's alright. Honestly. I'm not mad or anything. Please…don't cry.' But her mother just sobbed all the louder. Morven looked helplessly at her dad.

He smiled and reached out a hand and squeezed Morven's shoulder gently. ‘She'll be alright, don't worry.'

To Morven's relief her mum finally lifted a soggy face out of her hands and looked at her. ‘H…h…happy birthday, Morven,' she hiccuped.

Morven looked at her father. He managed a small smile. ‘Hang on, we've got something for you.' He turned around and picked up two parcels from the kitchen bench. He handed them to Morven. ‘We always planned to give these to you on your sixteenth. So, here you are — happy birthday.'

She'd forgotten. It was the 16th of January and she was 16 years old. Her birthday. Never had the terminology seemed so significant to Morven. Happy birthday. But not actually the day of her birth. Not the day that her biological mother brought her into the world. Her real mother, who must have been Vampyre. And her father, too. She took the two wrapped gifts and put them in her lap. Even without opening them she felt the weight of their importance. She looked at her parents. ‘What are they?'

Her mother had mopped up the excess tears and seemed relatively composed. ‘Open them, why don't you.'

Morven picked up the bigger of the two. It was soft but surprisingly heavy. Carefully she lifted up the Sellotaped edges and pulled apart the bright gold paper. She reached out a hand to touch the woollen rug. It was soft. The tartan pattern was bright, a complex crisscross of black, green and blue. She picked it up and shook it out, holding it up to get the full effect. It was very striking. She looked at her mother. ‘It's lovely, thank you.'

To her dismay her mother's eyes flooded once more and she dived for her soggy hankie. Her father took his wife's hand and patted it gently. ‘Morven,' he said softly, ‘that's the blanket that you were wrapped in when I found you.'

Morven couldn't find anything to say. In her hands lay a link to her past. It was mad-doggish. She laid the blanket gently across her lap and picked up the other parcel, wrapped in the same gold paper. It was small, hard and square. He fingers trembled slightly as she tore it open, aware of the anxious eyes of her parents upon her. It was a box. A black, shiny jewellery box. The hinged lid opened easily to reveal a silver brooch. Closer inspection revealed that it was, in fact, a coat of arms. Above the shield was a crown. Within the crown was a bat, wings spread wide. In the right hand side of the shield was an engraving of a tower perched on a mountain. A round globe hung in the sky to the left of the tower. In the top, left hand corner was a double barred white line, and in this separate space were five red drops of what may have been rain. It was quite beautiful. Morven looked at it for a long moment. And then she looked around the room at the tense faces of her audience. ‘It's…amazing,' she said. But really, there were no words to sum up the tidal wave of emotion that swept through her.

Her mother took a step forward and pointed at the brooch. ‘You see the mountain?'

Morven nodded.

‘Well, that's why we called you Morven. It means mountain in Scotland.'

Zest came up behind her and leant over her shoulder to have a closer look.

Morven could feel the muscles of his thighs rest gently against her. She tried to block it out. She had enough to think about.

Zest tapped the silver piece with one very grubby finger. ‘It must be a family coat of arms, Morven.' He sounded excited. ‘You should be able to find your…ancestors with that.'

Morven knew he had been going to say vampyre family but had changed his mind at the last second. Maybe he thought her mum and dad would be upset. Frankly, she could hardly blame them. After all, it must come as a shock to discover that your adopted daughter was actually Batgirl. But Zest's words did add another dimension to the shield. Excitement sizzled like champagne through her veins. Zest was right. But then she caught her mother's eye and her excitement waned.

Her mother shook her head slowly. ‘I'm so sorry, Morven, but I don't think that's the case. We tried to find out for ourselves, but our searches have been in vain. There is no record of this coat of arms in Scotland, England, Ireland, Europe, or anywhere else for that matter. We have tried.'

Morven was disappointed but believed her.

Her dad cleared his throat. ‘Mind you, the rug is definitely a Campbell tartan.'

Her mother murmured her agreement.

Morven's gaze shifted to the rug. A Campbell tartan? Well, that was a start. Or so she supposed.

Her father picked up the thread. ‘The Campbells are a very old Scottish clan. Very powerful. Even today.'

Morven had heard the name but it didn't ring any bells. ‘So,' she said, ‘what now?'

There was a profound silence.

Zest spoke first. ‘Shall we catch the news?' Without waiting for a reply he stepped over to the small TV and switched it on. He twiddled with the zapper until he got the 24 hour news station. All heads swivelled to attention.

Morven could barely breathe as they sat through half an hour of reports. Cyclone in Darwin. Another outbreak of Hendra virus. A shooting in Sydney. More financial chaos in Europe. And on. And on. Until the weather.

There was a soft click, and the screen blanked out. They all looked at each other.

‘Nothing,' said Zest.

‘Not a dickie bird,' said her dad.

Morven laughed out loud with relief. ‘Well, that's good then, isn't it?'

Her mother fiddled with her wedding band. A sure sign of agitation. ‘It means many things, Morven, but it's not necessarily good.'

Her father looked deeply anxious. The last 24 hours had dug visible trenches into his gentle face. ‘They're covering it up.'

‘They?' said Morven. ‘Who's ‘they'? And why would they cover it up?'

Zest gave a small humourless laugh. ‘Well, that's the thing, isn't it? No one ever knows who ‘they' are. But everyone knows that ‘they' are out there. Personally, I think they're off the radar. Not government. Not army. A powerful private enterprise like…a secret global company.'

Morven blinked. ‘You don't think you're being a bit…paranoid?' She noted her father looking at Zest with an expression of faint approval. Perhaps paranoia was contagious.

Zest ran a hand through his hair, dislodging half a forest. ‘Morven, my family are dead. All of them. As a species we're tough to find and tougher to destroy. It's been systematic destruction over the last 300 years. I've yet to meet one of my own. You're the closest I've come.' It was said matter of fact, without an ounce of self-pity.

Still, Morven felt her mouth go dry. It seemed that Zest's history misted the room like smog. Through its coiling fingers she could sense a stark loneliness. It was impossible to imagine such alienation. She swore to herself that Zest would never feel like that again. Not on her watch. Her mother surreptitiously squeezed his shoulder, and Morven knew that she was not alone in her sentiments. And it came to her in a great rush of emotion how lucky she was. Seriously, how many adoptive parents stood by their vampyre daughters? Not just stood by, but actively supported. And such was their generosity of spirit that their love and support overflowed to her friend. Awesome, really.

And then another revelation hit her like a well-aimed tenpin ball. These two wonderful, if slightly offbeat, people were in terrible danger. Every minute that passed increased that threat tenfold. If Zest was right (and he usually was), ‘they' would be stealthily searching. Panic swelled in her chest like a hot air balloon. The caravan no longer felt cosy and safe. It seemed to close in around them all. She had to get away. Before it was too late.