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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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Why do you wear that?’ she asked.
    He looked over his shoulder to interpret her question. ‘The wolf?’
    She nodded.
    â€˜It’s my gang’s colours.’
    Megan frowned. ‘Colours?’
    â€˜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 themen 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.

Chapter 15
    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