The Wolf in Tartan Clothes. Part VII Done.

WARNING! HIGH IMPACT SCOTTISH ACCENTS WRITTEN PHONETICALLY.
If you're actually Scottish, it's obviously not meant to be taken too seriously.

A Wolf In Tartan Clothing.
(A.K.A: Scottish Wolves, Scottish Moors)


Part I

	The last clan chief has died. Therefore my parents, with myself in tow, have been called back to Scotland… It sounds strange like that, clan politics in this day in age. It sounds strange like that, no matter how many times I replay it in my head; I mean, the sterile nature of those short sentences. Saying: “my grandfather, whom I haven’t seen since childhood, has died,” is slightly more painful though. So here we are, packed in to the Manor, sleeping on couches, spare mattresses; the elderly and young get beds, top and tailing. Lucky me, forced into close proximity of family members I may have only met once or twice before, my nerves are understandably frayed, aren’t they? Most don’t engage me in any form of conversation, to an almost malicious degree. Not like I have anything to say to them. Rapidly shortening days pass me by, the meeting punctually starts at lunch, the yelling around afternoon tea, spurred on by booze; all the older men are arguing in the hall of the old estate, others are just as bored of the political bullying and half-arsed Machiavellian machinations as myself and have begun sneaking off. I’ve followed their lead, slipping out of the hall, bracing myself against the crisp northern weather. Awkwardly rearranging my hardly-worn kilt, I decided to explore the grounds I haven’t seen since my childhood.

Heather. Moor. A bit more heather. The manor’s still out of bounds, lest I be asked to actually provide an opinion on who’d be a better Laird; the succession is still being contested, not that I particularly care. Having nought else better to do I decided to trump deeper through the heather, I’m embarrassed to admit to a girlish shriek or two whenever something slipped inside my kilt, brushing things that needn’t be brushed.

Grouse hen, pheasant and fowl explode out of the heather behind me, wings struggling for lift.

Huh. That’s strange. I turn to the sound and face the Manor. A whip crack rolls over the gentle heather-covered curves.

A hard shock and all I can see is powder blue Scottish sky, as birdshot destroys my poor hat and a heavy tweed and tartan mass occupies a space in my abdomen, franticly firing messages to the pain receptors of my brain. A pheasant takes flight just behind my head, another flat crack rings out across the moor and a puff of feathers drifts down and settles in my hair. Gross.

Gears finally start to turn inside my head, adrenaline forcing a fight or flight response to try and drown out everything else.

“Oh fuck!”

Reflexively I try to raise up to my elbows, instead a growl and a strong slam forces my shoulder back to ground level. A sweet, sing song, lilting brogue greets my ears.

“Oh fuck indeed ye wee fool! What’re ye thinking of doin’, trampin’ through the heather when they’re thinkin’ of shooting some of the poor, wee birds!”

“I-I-I just wanted to get out of the hall, ya know? Who are you?!”

“Who am I? I’m the damn groundskeeper, MacConall, who’re ye? I’ve nay seen ye like before, boyo!”

I-Is she sniffing me? “She” right? Her voice’s too sweet.

“I’m the Chief’s goddamn grandson! Or, the ex-chief anyhow, now enough with this ‘boyo’ crap!”

Her fluffy greyish black ears dip a second before resuming the offensive. Wait. Fluffy ears?

“Ooooooh, it’s the prodigal grandson, fiiiiinally back to the homeland, couldn’t see your grand-da when he was alive ‘n kickin’, could yee? I’ll call you what I damn well like after savin’ your hide! Or were you tryin’ to have ye daft ‘ead blown ta bits, eh? Where’s me thanks?

She was combative, gruff, and apparently instantly angry that I had the audacity to exist, but she was right, I should probably thank her.

“I don’t want, nor do I need, to be admonished by the damn groundskeeper, along with everyone else, but… Thank you very much for keeping my head where it happily is MacConall.”

Something quickly wagged, barely noticeable, past the girl whom was currently pinning me to the ground, nonchalantly resting her head upon my chest. Her hand on the ground behind my right shoulder brooked no conversation about getting up and having a closer look for fluffy appendages anytime soon. Seemingly to punctuate my thought another crack rang out and echoed across the moor, met with a wet smack and a puff of feathers. I could smell the cordite wafting towards my cover in the growth. The girl’s gone quiet now, she’s apparently right comfortable where she is, even though her ears are flat to her head. EARS!

“MacConall, I don’t mean to be rude-”

“So ye probably are goin’ to be.”

“Couldn’t be any more rude than you! Stop interrupting; don’t grin at me like that! What’s with your ears?”

A green tweed sleeve brushed past my left flank, the grey paw within smooths her fluffy ears into her shock of red hair.

“You certainly put it as rudely as ye could, didn’t ye? Have ye forgotten that too? I’m a damn werewolf boyo, your family’s groundskeepers have been werewolves for generation upon generation.”

What?

“Ha! Yee should see ye daft face,” a light but hearty laugh broke out, and just as quickly smothered back down, “ye’ve totally forgotten huh? I can wag me tail for ya s’more, but I won’t bark nor beg, I draw the line there, ya ken? I guess it has been a long time since ye were last here.”

“You seem to have me at a disadvantage Miss MacConall.”

“Pfft, the boy’s found his manners, don’t be tryin’ them on meself, I’m just a simple country lass, like to be swept off her dainty paws by a kind gentleman.”

I could feel her girlish laughter, her warm breath on my chest. I’ve probably gotten much too comfortable; lying in the heather with an employee of my family, and a werewolf at that. Another flat crack reminded me exactly why I was taking cover in the fragrant, tall, plant-growth. Sure, I’ve met girls… of a monstruous persuasion, but one has yet to attach herself to my chest. A sniffle brought me back to the actual entity using my body as a picnic rug. Her nose crinkled cutely as she sniffled again, sweet freckles shifted with her expression, standing out from her pure white skin, complimenting her pony-tail bound red-hair, her fluffy ears down once more, messy fringe partly obscuring up swept eyebrows and her pale blue/grey eyes as they met my own, a slight blush rising to the graceful line of her cheek.

“Uh-”

“Uh-”

Oh. Well everything’s so much less awkward now, that’s beautiful.

“Pfft hehe, y’were always quiet, even when you were just a wee thing.”

“Oh? Were you quiet too?”

“…No.”

“So? What’s wrong MacConall?”

Choose. Either grin at me or don’t look so sad.

“…Ye’ll laugh.”

“I’ll try my best not to.”

“If ye do, I’ll whallop ye one!”

“You’ll whallop your young master? Whom signs your cheques?”

“Ye don’t sign me damn cheques!”

“Christ! Spit it out girl!”

“I don’t like it when they shoot the poor, wee, defenceless, critters!”

I tried not to laugh, but I failed, “ouch! Jesus! Not so hard! You’re a groundskeeper, that comes part and parcel doesn’t it?”

“…Y’not wrong, it’s just… I think the moors are s’pretty, the animals too. It’s all… Really sad. Usually I just make meself scarce when the men want to shoot; I’m no one’s gun dog.”

“So why’re you out here today then?”

“I thought I smelled somethin’ familiar.”

“Did you find whatever it was?”

“I cannae say. By the by, are you happy t’just keep scratchin’ m’ears?”

“W-wha? Oh, MacConall! I’m so sorry, that was really inappr-”

“Did I say I hated it? Don’t worry ye daft head about it.”

I’ll keep scratching her ears, but I’m going to get a bit of revenge on the smartass wolf in the process. Turnabout is fair play after all.

“It’s just that, it felt like I had a big dog in my lap and I couldn’t help myself!”

Grey wolfish ears perked up, despite the continued scritches; righteous Scottish anger flared as well and a large paw boxed my ear in response. Both wolfgirl and I rested there, laughing in the heather. Closing my eyes, I shut out the endless blue vault above, the throbbing of my ear, enjoying the scents of the heather, the musty smell of tweed and tartan; still laughing the girl shifted above me, moving a bit further up my body. I didn’t get a chance to feel any of her womanly curves, not when she just dropped herself onto me, forcing the air from my lungs, her ears twitching as my breath rushed past them. She was awkwardly close; her ears could brush my chin, her scent definitely filling my senses. The girl snuggled into me, more as if I were an intractable mattress rather than a lover. Yet, I didn’t necessarily mind when she started murmuring to me in her soft brogue, I couldn’t muster any response more complex than a murmur myself; comfiness nirvana had been attained, lying under the fluffy tail I had found enlightenment. Or something close enough, something far enough away from the Manor.

“Ye’ar’a lucky boyo, y’ken? The last man to treat me like a dog dinnae get off so lightly…”

I murmured appreciatively.

“It’s true! The big, fat, bastard stomped up t’me, pointed the stock of his shotgun at me, then pointed it at the heather and told me ta fetch all ‘is killin’s!”

A murmur of offended disbelief this time.

“I know right? Y’nae what I di-did I mention he was some English wanker up for a business holiday? Well he was, anyhoo, y’nae what I did?”

A murmur to prod the story along,

“Well, I grabbed his damn fancy, expensive, shotgun and snapped its lock across me knee like it was a wee, dry twig, then threw both ‘alves clear into the heather and told him he can fetch ‘is own birds ‘n ‘is own gun. He coo’nae say 2 words ta me for the rest of the shoot! Hehe, y’should’ve seen ya grand-da, he thought it ’bout the funniest damn thing he ever did see…”

I wanted to murmur something to her surely amusing anecdote, but she had to add that to the end. Words tried to form on my lips, but as soon as I inhaled a paw tightened upon the shirt beneath my coat.

“I… I’m sorry, I dinnae mean to bring him up. B-But, y’nae, I just wanted t’say, y’grand-da was always very kind t’me when I was growin’ up, out on this lonely moor. He was like a da t’me… Sorry.”

I almost expected to feel some warm drops fall upon my shirt front, but if the wolf had any tears she didn’t let them fall.

Too comfortable to care much more, I simply petted the girl’s pretty red hair, rewarded by way of a happy sigh; eyelids growing heavy, I was slipping into sleep on a bed of heather.



Dreams came unbidden, threats of forgotten memories, preyed upon by the delicate scents that invaded my consciousness from the waking world. The heather of my childhood, that slight mix of old tweed and wet dog, the light scent of a slightly girlish shampoo and cloying woodsmoke, all whispered to me. I was brought back to the manor I had left many years before. If I could wryly laugh at it all I would, but the memories crushed down any trace of the man I had become. On I fell, headlong into the well of my life and memories came to meet me with outstretched claws.

A great flash lit up the doorway I stood in, for an instant a hairy beast was illuminated by the muzzleflash of a family shotgun, its claw barely able to pull the triggers, its great paw splintering the stock. By the time I noticed the darkness had crept back in, the shotgun had smashed against the doorframe beside my head and the giant beast was lost from the light.

Now outside in the heather, it seemed to be early morning. Crouching, hiding, blue lights revolved on the white police Land-Rovers, on the ambulance; blue uniformed men tramp in and out of the manor. Was I told to stay out of sight? I must’ve, why else would I be alone in the overcast grey of the early morning day. Alone? A puppy sat beside me, I must’ve been playing with it, perhaps it was a frequent playmate, that was the feeling that came; maybe I followed it outside today as well. A new car’s pulled up now. An old man steps out from the passenger side, straightens up his coat, nods at his younger female colleague to go in whilst he has a quick fag. He’s walking out towards the heather, he’s seen me, he’s calling his female peer over, the puppy’s gone, there’s questions, I’m being lead to a car, Grandfather’s shouting.

Kicking my feet, sitting in some sterile room, I wonder at the halogen lights, searing above. A large, warm hand rubs my shoulder; my Grandfather creases the sides of his mouth into an approximation of a smile. I’m being told to tell the nice people what I saw. I tell them. They don’t seem to like it. Now I tell people in lab coats, now people in cosy offices stuffed with too many second hand toys. At least these people seem content to leave me to my recollections.

I’m in black, playing at the hem of my kilt as the rain drizzles down. Father lightly smacks me across the back of the head and points towards the clergyman, at the head of the grave. Looking up, I scan the black clad people around me; if our eyes met they’d avert their gaze. When I looked up at Dad, he did naught but grind his teeth, his gaze lost in the hole at the crowd’s feet. Dirt was thrown on my Granduncle’s coffin, the rain washing it away: ashes to ashes, dust to dust, mud to mud.

Grandfather’s at the airport to wave my parents and I off, he’s the only family member there. It would be the last time I saw the man alive. Staring out of the tiny porthole, watching my native land rush by; it felt like it was leaving me, rather than the other way round. Tires left tarmac.


Part II

A blazing orange sky greets waking eyes; bruised purple clouds streak the heavens, the stars barely filtering through the brilliant setting sun’s light. All I can hear is the wind blowing through the heather, and a mournful bird song somewhere on the moor. I remember going to sleep comfortably warm, but the coolness in my crotch area is only part of the cause of the shiver running up and down my spine.

Propping myself up on my elbows, I attempt to solve the mystifying case of the breezy testicles.

Clue number one is also the crime scene: my kilt is pitched as high as my belt allows, and I’m pretty sure my erections aren’t that impressive.

Clue number two: one happily wagging tail.

Clue number three: a rather familiar sing song giggle.

I’m pretty good at this detective stuff, maybe I’ll look into becoming a DCI.

“MacConall! What do ya think yer doin’?!”

To her credit she made it seem like looking up people’s kilts was the most normal thing in the world, that it was in fact myself whom was in the wrong for reprimanding her. At least she put the hem of the kilt down; she wouldn’t miss a chance to laugh at me though. She didn’t.

“I was jus’ curious!”

That’s a dangerous gleam in your eye there MacConall.

“Curious, damn it?!”

“Aye, I wanted to see if ye went regimental, and wha’do I find? Ye ol’ traditionalist you! Or do ye jus’ get a thrill from it eh?”

My cheeks may be scarlet, but damnit, I’ll preserve some degree of dignity.

“MacConall! Do you think that’s appropriate out here in the moor whilst we’re being shot at?”

“Shot at? Wha’ are ye tal-Oh! I ken, nah, they’ve all gon’ inside the manor now, it’s perfectly safe.”

“Then why are you playing with my kilt instead of waking me?”

“I only jus’ woke up maself, and thought I’d best seize the opportunity whilst I could… Forgive me?”

It was totally to be expected, I should’ve seen it coming, and she was a Werewolf after all. Still; those puppy dog eyes just about melted my heart right there and then.

“M-Moving on, I’ll forgive you, but only if you can find me somewhere warm to hide from my family, I’m going to catch my death of a cold out here on the moor.”

“Oh! Tha’s easy as pie! Ye like a cuppa tea in my cottage? Perk of the job, free housin’! If ye don’ wan’ tea, I’ve got plenty o’ scotch too, an’ I don’ mind sharin’ with ye.”

Her freckled smile just about warmed me up better than the prophesied cottage ever could, but a stiff drink would be just what the doctor ordered to get rid of the lingering cold in my bones; I wasn’t quite used to the Scottish weather just yet. At least I had a grade A wolf blanket for my nap. MacConall probably noticed the shivering and appreciative, if furtive, look at her furred legs and thighs. Furred legs and thighs?

“Ye off with the fairies there? C’mon, I don’t want to be out on the moor all night, at least, not without a blanket.”

Ignoring the wink and the laugh that accompanied it, I realised that she must’ve stood up whilst I was daydreaming about 21yo Glenfiddich and Islay single malts. Her wolfiness really hit home now that she had stood up: grey-black fur covered her legs up to the thigh, it gave the rather nice impression that she was wearing thigh high stockings; her boots were interesting too, they looked like Doc Martens, but widened to accommodate what one would assume to be large furry paws, they also had heels. Heels. On the moors. MacConall didn’t strike me as the type to be a slave to fashion, though how short her kilt was could’ve been another nod to that preoccupation. Really, that kilt was dangerously short, it was almost too scant to be called a kilt at all but the heavier fabric seemed to allay some of the danger, more to my heart than her modesty. Maybe this wolf was more girly than I had first assumed? She was certainly, well, a pretty lass, fluffy ears et all.

“Havin’ a good lookie loo are you? Ye didn’t strike me as a leg man, but I cannae say I hate the attention.”

Maybe not that girly after all.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you MacConall, I was just admiring your boots.”

The brief look of actual disappointment may have made me feel guilty if I were a softer, lesser man. She really did have gorgeous legs, the curves obvious despite the fur. The wolf perked up at the mention of her boots though; somehow, in the space of 5 seconds she had swiftly switched from flirtatious mocking, to disappointment, to pride at the mention of her boots. Definitely a slave to fashion.

“Ooo, ye’ve got good taste! I had to have ’em especially made and measured fer me, had to go all the way to the capital! Cost me an arm an’ a leg, but corr, ain’t they jus’ gorgeous?

The now beaming wolf girl took the chance to do a couple of short twirls, moving from one boot toe to the heel of the other, showing them off to herself as much to me; a snigger had to be suppressed for MacConall’s sake, it was a sight to see, a wolf-girl craning over, staring at her own footwear with stars in her pretty blue eyes, ears perked, and tail a’wagging. One couldn’t help but notice that her skirt lifted to a rather dire height too.

I had to hand it to her wolfy instincts, she didn’t miss a beat.

“Oh ho? Jus’ where are ye lookin’ boyo?”

“Just at your rather short kilt, I’m sure your parents would love to see that.”

As soon as “parents” left my lips her visage darkened; looking up at her from the crushed heather yet another urge to shiver had to be suppressed.

“Hey… It’s only fair.”

With that she closed the already small distance between us both and brought a hand to my face, briefly cupping it, fur tickling skin, bringing my gaze from her face down her body. Tweed, thick white jumpers and a skirt may’ve hid her skin from a prying eye, but her lithe curves were still there for anyone to see, and see I could. One could only guess at the creamy flesh hidden away, the tightness of her muscles; yet they still softened, there was not a single unwanted ripple on her small but girlish frame. Gaze now firmly locked at crotch height, her hand left my chin and a new laugh met my ears, not the sing song giggle I had already come to expect but rather a nervous laugh, coloured with saudade at its edges.

“I saw yours, without askin’, so… Don’ look away. Please…”

I was almost more tempted to look up, her face must be wearing some complicated mask right now, fluffy ears down; it’s the only explanation for her almost too low to hear murmur. I could imagine her soft lips suck against her teeth, her brows tighten, pupils dilate, molars grind, muscles singing like too tight violin strings.

She hesitated for a bare second, enough to confirm that her hands were well furred too, yet not necessarily a set of wolf paws. Fingers scrunched up the hem of her kilt. I realised I had been holding my breath for god knows how long. Out in the dark of the moor, as the last of the twilight died behind me, it felt like seconds stretched for an eternity each.

I could’ve sworn that my brain started a slow-motion camera behind my cornea, with perfect clarity I could recall the moment the hem moved up, even decades later. Eyes finally adjusted to the dark; at first I thought she had picked out panties to match her hair colour. Then it dawned on me. Before me, not even a hand length away, was a wolf girl’s most secret spot, nestled in a cute gap between her thighs, dusted with orange hair, lay one of the few vulvas I’ve ever considered calling cute.

I couldn’t tell how long I had been staring, but it couldn’t have been too long until I noticed: she was shaking. Finally leaving the bed of heather, quickly rising, a hand pushing down the hem of her skirt as the other wrapped her to my chest in a tight hug, at a loss to communicate in any other way.

“MacConall, wh-… Let’s get that cup of tea, okay?”

“…Aye, let’s.”

That sad grin returned to her sweet features, the hint of a blush blurred the edges of her freckles. Saudade, maybe even fear, lingered in her eyes. Twilight gave warmth to her pale complexion; if anything it made a deeper impression than the first time I had seen it. The Wolf-girl had shown me her everything and the outside world seemed to have completely receded out of focus amidst the intimacy, the light from the manor’s windows was as close to me as the stars in the sky; now when I looked at her, warmth came to my face unbidden. This girl, turning back to her cottage, fluffy ears and tail low, my hand in hers, felt like the closest person to me; her hand the only thing between me and an empty wasteland. Nostalgia crushed my chest when I met her light blue gaze, if I could meet it at all. Hand in hand, the wolf girl led me to her small cottage, a stone’s throw away from the manor itself; angry, raised voices still echoing throughout its old halls.


Part III

	It was cosy inside the groundskeeper’s cottage; the creaking structure could’ve been older than the manor it squatted next to. The pale plastered walls shone yellow in an old bulb’s glow, the crossbeams turned ashen black by the cast iron stove and hob, a carefully tended fire crackling away within. It felt… Comfortable, even if the furnishings were encroaching upon spartan: a kitchen table, complete with mismatching chairs, (and a thoroughly embarrassing crocheted doily runner,) a couch, a gun cabinet with a single expensive shotgun contained within and a few other odds and sods that one would find in an old kitchen and lounge. The single other door in the room suggested itself as a portal to a bedroom and the bathroom.

The young wolf bade me to take a seat at the table, so sit I did, taking the chair closest to the stove and immediately enjoying the warmth permeating my spine. A kettle was quickly produced and placed upon the hob, the girl still unwilling to say a word to me took the seat opposite mine. I couldn’t find any words, let alone the right ones, until I noted the shotgun again; at the sound of my voice she tensed, from the very tips of her ears to the tip of her tail. The effect wasn’t unbecoming.

“Uh… That’s a pretty expensive looking shotgun you’ve got there MacConall?”

Is that dark look more common than I had expected? Had I pegged the girl wrong?

“Haha… Aye, it was ye grand-da’s favourite, n’best, gun. He bequeathed it t’me in his will. B’fore he died he tol’ me he didnae trust anyone else with’t so he passed it along t’me; thought I’d treat it as it deserved and as much as I hate it, sometimes y’do need to cull the poor wee critters. Les’they eat themselves outta house ‘n’ home, s’not like they know any better… Your grand-da, he, he really took care of me when I was just a wee pup, I owe him more than I coul’ ever repay.”

Time to change tack before we both just end up silently staring into space again; was it this hard in the heather?

“MacConall, I had some interesting dreams, lying in that heather.”

A blush formed on her freckled face, her eyes couldn’t quite meet mine, which was fine ’cause I sure as hell couldn’t meet hers.

“Dreams eh? If it’s anythin’ too erotic you can keep it t’yeself, rather than harass a poor maiden like meself.”

“That’s a poor excuse for a joke MacConall.”

“Ha! Ye got me, so: tell me aaaall the juicy details, eh? Were it me ye were dreamin’ of, the big bad wolf gon’ blow ye? Ye ‘ouse down I mean o’course.”

A wink and a wolfish grin and I’m back on the defensive, the glint back in those pale blue-grey eyes of hers. If forced to choose, like if someone put a gun to my head, I guess I’d have to say that that side of her was less worrisome than seeing the redheaded girl look pensive and introspective.

“If you absolutely must know MacConall, I was dreaming of the last time I was here, the last time I saw my grandfather. Not that I can remember all that much.”

“How much can you remember?”

“Bits, pieces.”

“Tell me.”

“MacC-”

“TELL me. Please.”

Her face was hidden from me, cast in the kitchen light’s shadow; her rapidly changing, warping, hands, paws, extending claws, cracking joints tapping out a Morse code message of utter tension.

“Fine MacConall, I remember talking to the police. A lot. I remember my granduncle’s funeral; I remember waving good bye to my grandfather for the final time… I remember playing with a puppy in the heather, just before the detectives found me.”

At the final item her claws stopped their intractable descent into the solid oaken tabletop. It seems my hunch was right. I was connecting dots fairly quickly; really, this detective game is rather easy.

“A puppy in the heather?”

“Yes, couldn’t have been too old, and it certainly seemed bright, but it disappeared when the detectives found me. Aren’t dogs meant to be steadfast and loyal?” Two flinches, two strikes, this girl shouldn’t play poker, “Now when I look at you, I can’t help but feel nostalgic, I mean it, though I rather wonder why?”

“Now ye’re jus’ teasin’ me. Aye, aye, aye, ye’re a right brainiac. Tha’ was me… Tha’ was me… I was the puppy, I played wit’ ye when we were jus’ wee things.”

“Well there’s one mystery solved MacConall, but that raises a few more questions doesn’t it? I guess you must’ve known from the get go and had a good laugh at my expense, right?”

“Yes’n’no, I wanted t’know how much ye knew, how much ye remembered, ’cause there’s somethin’ I gotta know and ye’re the only one who could tell me.”

“Tell you what MacConall?”

She had stood up a sentence or two ago, now her chair went skidding back as she moved around the table, her ears low, her tail swished, those claws never changed back to nails and her savage look never softened. An intense Scottish wolfgirl jerked her face close enough to mine that I could feel her breath on my throat. I suddenly gained an appreciation of the trials and tribulations of the 3 little pigs.

“M-MacConall?”

“Tell me what ye saw the night my da was murdered. Tell me what happened. Tell me why I was left without parents. Tell me why I had to pretend to be a damn dog the secon’ a stranger appeared. Tell me what ye saw!”

It took me a second to realise the screaming in my ears was just as much caused by the kettle as the blood rushing through my head. She was so close that I could swear I could hear her pounding heart beat too. So I told her what I saw: for the first time in nearly a decade I told the story of what I saw in the belly of the manor, in the pitch black of the pre-dawn hours; the story that had me branded a liar by the police and the medical profession, and a traitor by my own blood, the sights that had covered me in a cold sweat in the dark of night.

I told her about the shaggy beast that crushed a shotgun in its grip, of both barrels bathing the second kitchen in a flash of light, enough to see the blood that coated every surface, to see the cruel teeth and the murderous intent in a bestial eye.

I told her about the shotgun that flew out of the dark towards me, breaking upon the frame above my head.

About the utter disappearance of the monster itself.

In turn MacConall told me her own story, taking the dry kettle off the hob, grabbing in its place a bottle of scotch and two tumblers; pouring and nursing her drink, beginning quietly, slowly, gaining volume and pace as she went, yet the sorrow never left as she spoke.

The monster, a werewolf in complete transformation as seen through the eyes of a kid barely in primary school, was MacConall’s mother.

MacConall didn’t shed a single tear as she continued; if she had any tears she must’ve spent them years ago. Or at least, she had enough pride not to cry in front of me; every part of her body spoke volumes of the loss she felt, and the insane situation that was inflicted upon her. She was a bastard child, the daughter of the Clan Chief, my Grandfather’s elder brother, and the Groundskeeper who was obviously of werewolf stock. Born of an illicit, extramarital affair I couldn’t blame MacConall’s mother for wanting some form of guarantee for her daughter’s future. Maybe she just wanted the lass’ father to acknowledge her. Except she asked for the impossible. Of course the family couldn’t recognise a bastard daughter, born from the groundskeeper’s womb, let alone a daughter with werewolf blood. I guess MacConall’s mother was pushed further and further into a corner, until the entire sorry situation exploded into the murder I witnessed as a child, MacConall safely asleep in her mother’s quickly cooling bed.

It was some strange Scottish re-enactment of Lycaon’s ill-fated feast, the shotgun blast roused the entire manor, the body swiftly found, the culprit quickly apprehended, everything was quickly taken into hand and the family worked to quickly protect itself from any potential embarrassment; to that end I was told to make myself scarce and my grandfather told the young MacConall to take her most bestial form and keep out of sight too. Yet the detectives found me, and not knowing any better I told them everything I knew, which caused the clan no end of shame and embarrassment; MacConall’s mother was arrested and she soon killed herself in her cell, her guilt and loss a cross too heavy to bear. So MacConall’s guardianship quickly fell into my grandfather’s lap, so he more or less raised her, and I was sent away, so I couldn’t ruin my family’s reputation any further.

That brought the sorry tale of our ugly, intertwined fates to the present day. We each nursed our drinks, the atmosphere too heavy to be dispelled with another stupid joke. I contented myself by watching the girl play with her drink and her appearance: her paws, enlarged with her anger, slowly faded back to their usual size, the wicked claws no longer tinkled on the glass as she spun the tumbler ’round slowly with each sip. Pick up, sip, put down, swivel, and repeat. It was endearing. I couldn’t escape it, and I’m not that foolish to try; everything that’s happened today, everything that’s happened in my entire life as it were, was inexorably linked to hers, and vice versa. Everything she did, everything she was, was endearing to me. The warmth of the old Glendfiddich paled in comparison to the feelings that bloomed in my chest when I looked at her. It was near enough to make me feel nauseous. I restarted my appraisal of the wolfgirl, there wasn’t much reason to try and hide it, she looked like she was deep enough in her own thoughts not to notice and even if I tried to hide it she was too damn sharp to miss it. So look I did. Her eyes were still cast downward to her drink, quickly emptying; her red hair, bound by a black velvet band, fell down over her shoulder and threatened to dip itself in her drink with an errant sway; her messy fringe hid half her cute, fresh features from my eye, the smattering of freckles almost lost in the alcohol induced flush in her face, or was it just a blush? Her black, grey and incredibly fluffy ears were cast a bit forward and down but still twitched and responded to sound; her tail hung low beneath the table, as much as I could guess it was anyways; her white, thick jumper showed off most of her cute curves. MacConall seemed like a tomboy in some ways, what with her job and personality, but she wasn’t lacking in feminine charm. For all my looking MacConall failed to stir, the girl I had already come to know as a bright, sarcastic, teasing, force of nature was utterly withdrawn; perhaps for the first time I truly felt concerned for her. Yet I was utterly unequipped to help her, I had nothing to offer, except my apologies, and we both knew she didn’t need, nor want them. So I did the only thing that could come to mind.

When I stood up, only her ears perked up and followed me.

When I moved around the table, she shifted in her seat towards me.

When I was within grasp, she took hold of my clothes, balling up her fists.

When I was right next to her she finally looked up into my eyes, and I couldn’t deny her; I couldn’t deny the fear, the sadness, the loss, and the faint hope in her eyes either. So I took the wolfgirl into my arms and buried her face into my chest, and stroked her ears. There we stayed for a time, at least until I felt the tension flow out of her shoulders, tightly coiled as they were, I saw her white knuckle… paw, grip slacken and relax, the sharp breathing turn quiet and natural; silently, we comforted one another, attempting to fill the voids in each other’s lives with simple physical contact. When she started actually nuzzling into my chest and the hand massaging her ear I decided to restart the conversation the only way I know how.

“Hey, MacConall… I’ve got a question or two for you.”

She just murmured into my chest, good enough I guess.

“Why’d you lift your kilt for me?”

That got a swift reaction, and I got another taste of the raw power that her mother had displayed all those years ago. If the werewolf wasn’t still holding onto to my lapels I’d have been rocketed to the couch, right across the other side of the room; thanks for the whiplash.

“T-Tha’ was jus’ a spur of the moment kinda ting!”

Once again the werewolf’s freckles were lost to a blush, much deeper this time. I’m probably a bit of a dick for picking at this, but, y’know, I want to know; I have suspicions I want to confirm or deny, I have my own selfish ambitions.

“That doesn’t necessarily answer my original question MacConall.”

“…I wanted ye t’look at me as a girl; not a kid, or worse, a puppy. Plus y’knae, ye didn’t really remember me, so maybe I jus’ wanted to have a connection with ye again… Look! Don’ expect me to make any sense, y’ken damnit?!”

“I wouldn’t dream of expecting anything like that MacConall. Whilst we’re still on the topic, have you ever heard the phrase “He who is without sin, shall throw the first stone”? I mean, you were so eager to ask if I was a traditionalist when you yourself were…”

I left the question implied, hanging in the air; I was totally just teasing the reddening redhead by this point. I’m sure I had a grin to challenge one of her own.

“Oh? Y’mean me not wearin’ any panties w’me cute wee kilt? Heh heh, I’m not traditionalist; I just like the thrill!”

With a wink, and a now familiar grin, the wolf-girl had regained the initiative and left me trying to stop myself from stuttering, breaking eye contact or backing down; which was hard with that alluring leer she had quickly pasted on her mug, even as her cheeks lost their bloom. God, but this girl knew how to disarm me quick. I’ll rally and riposte!

“Well, putting that aside my panty-less employee, don’t you think “Miss MacConall” is a bit too formal?”

“Y-y’mean me first name? …Is MacConall not good enough?”

Touche.

“I’ll be serious, and I’ll even ask for forgiveness if I’ve forgotten it, but I think you’ve got enough advantages on me as is; please MacConall?”

“…Ye haven’t forgotten it; I don’t think we ever even properly met when I was in human form when we were wee. Though I’d still be “MacConall” to ye back then anyways. I… I’ve never liked m’name.”

“The suspense is killing me, what is it? Please, pray tell.”

“Look! If ye’re enjoying this s’much y’can just go ‘n’ fuck y’self for all I care!”

She pouts, the big bad wolf actually pouts, and it’s adorable. When she stamped a fo-wait, paw down for emphasis, I expected the weighty clunk of airware soles on lino. My expectations were not met. As she pouted and seemed to pull together some new avenue of attack whilst I tried not to grin too openly, I decided to investigate her paws… feet. Somehow she had managed to quickly unlace the tall boots and kick them off without me noticing. Even as I stood there, moderately impressed, her black furred legs began to restlessly fidget: seems she had reached a conclusion.

“I’m shivering with anticipation here.”

“Marcy damnit! Marcy MacConall. The longer version’s th’worse offence. Too damn French.”

“Hey, Marcy, us Scots have had a long working relationship with the French.”

“Y’well, their rugby team’s utter shite. H-Hey! Look, just ’cause I told ya m’name, don’t mean ye can bandy it about willy-nilly, y’ken?!”

How else could I react? Marcy, the big bad wolf girl, blushing for the nth time tonight looked picture perfect: the tough Scottish lass getting toyed with, the tail swishing low, bristling fur and perked ears only added to the effect. They should’ve also warned me to shut up and stop laughing. I learnt a swift lesson in body language when she gut punched me and left me winded; it was her turn to snigger when I collapsed on to a knee, forehead on her chest, my hands on her shoulders for support, trying to regain my breath.

“There, there boyo, I’ll have t’beg ye pardon, I clear forgot tha’ ye’re just a wee thing; I’ll be more careful in the future, I promise.”

Shocking as it may seem, I couldn’t exactly find her words sincere; not as she patted my back in a manner that some would describe as “condescending”, luckily I wasn’t that petty. Plus I was asking for it. So I simply looked up with what I assume must’ve been a slightly pained grin and coughed in a way that suggested a chuckle to match her own.

“I… I’ll forgive you this once, uh, MacConall.”

“I’m jus’ so pleased t’hear that, love.”

I would’ve noticed how close, intimate, this position was even if the wolf-girl hadn’t brushed a furred paw through my hair, if she hadn’t let her paw linger on the back of my neck. I couldn’t ignore how slight her shoulders felt underneath her jumper, beneath my grasp. Her warm breath cascaded across my forehead, looking up I could count the freckles across the bridge of her dainty nose, I could gaze into her pale blue-grey eyes, see the sides of her cute lips curl upwards into a pleased grin. Yet, even in this intimate embrace, with a girl with whom memories still continued to surface at the forefront of my mind’s eye, I felt no urge to break contact, to shy away from her. It was… nice.


Part IV

	That is until the front door of MacConall’s shack slammed open, and a hunched figure stood silhouetted in the entrance, I half expected the crack and flash of lightning to follow in its wake; weather phenomenon aside, I quickly recognised the stranger. Apparently Marcy did too, judging by her helping me to my feet in a flash. With much the same alacrity she said, to no one in particular, ‘I’LLJUS’PUTTHEKETTLEON!’ and then tried her hardest to become one with the kitchen corner she now inhabited, looking as busy as possible.

                Thanks for backing me up sweetheart.

                Not that I could necessarily blame her; the silhouetted figure was immediately recognisable. My grandmother may be approaching 90, be 5 foot nothing and nearly blind in one eye, but she religiously upheld the stereotype of the scary Scottish grandmother. Rumour has it she nearly broke one of my uncle’s hands with a single fell swoop of a wooden spoon when she caught him trying to knick some food before it was served.

                “G-Granny! What can I help you with?”

                “Don’ you “Granny” me you little shite, where the blazes have you been?! You’re the last damn relation o’ mine not to vote on the stupid title dispute, damnit. I wanted to serve dinner an hour ago! An’ what dlood. I guess MacConall’ke with the damn help!”

                Well, it’s nice to see Granny’s tongue hasn’t dulled with age.

                “Speakin’ of! What’re you doin with that damn kettle!? Jesus H Christ girlie, how long does it take to boil a bloody kettle?”

                If Marcy thought herself free of my Grandmother’s leery gaze she apparently had another thing coming, she couldn’t hide her squeak, her downcast ears or low tail.

                “I-It won’t be t’long now, ma’am!”

                “Damnit Marcy, how many times must you be told? Y’can call me Granny just like everyone else in th’family, I looked after you f’long enough haven’t I?”

                Huh, not that I should be too surprised, but Granny can apparently get away with calling her Marcy, and judging by how much her tone softened by the end of that my grandmother has quite the soft spot for the girl. Memories of a long string of saved and carefully nursed wild animals resurfaced. Does Granny like her because they both have a soft spot for “wee critters”, or because Marcy is a wee critter herself? Let’s find out.

                “Haha, Granny, you’ve always had a soft spot for cute and fluffy things like Marcy, eh?”

                Even as the wolf-girl took the kettle off the heat and poured the water into the teapot her hackles rose, but she didn’t utter a complaint. I wonder if she took more offence at being called cute and fluffy or “Marcy” again. The question remained unpondered after a box of shotgun shells exploded against my forehead, showering 12 gauge buckshot shells around the kitchen table.

                “Oi! Don’t be a smartarse you little shite; right now sweet, young Marcy here’s miles ahead of you when it comes to things I like. Now shut up and pick up all those shells. Marcy! What’re you doin’ leaving shotgun shells lying around? You should know better than that.”

                “Sorry Granny. Here’s your tea.”

                “Ah, you’re a good girl aren’t you dearie? Let’s ‘ave a cuppatea and a wee chat whilst my useless grandson picks up those shells; we can keep everyone else waiting for a little while longer, I don’t care s’much if it’s me people’re waiting after. It’s a privelege of age, y’ken?”

                I really do love my grandmother, she may seem gruff but throughout my life, whenever my grandfather was there to look after me, Granny was right beside him, making sure everything ran smoothly and keeping the extended family more or less in line. It was a testament to her force of will and character that she could stay this strong, even so soon after her loving husband’s passing. If I honestly thought about it, whenever I saw her over the last few days she’s been the rock of the family, as she always has been; even as some of the relations have brought home monstergirl brides, Granny’s cowed them into doing her bidding, which is an impressive feat for a nigh-90 year old human woman. Yet as I stand here, putting shotgun shells back into their box, I can’t help but see her as an old, increasingly decrepit, widow; she looks so very small and tired, now sitting at the table, sipping on her tea, with MacConall’s furry hand supporting one of her shoulders, perhaps she just wanted an excuse for a break.

                “Look dearie, I’m not so damn old I need help sitting upright!”

                Maybe she’ll be all right after all.

                “So, Granny, do you have any news for me in regards to the voting? I don’t want to rock the boat with my vote, I’m sure you know full well how much I care for this charade.”

                “Well care you damn well should! This tradition’s been in your blood since our family first settled this land time untold ago!”

                “I do care, honestly I do, but this byzantine bullshit that’s been going on is just too much, why is it being so difficult this time around? Wasn’t it a lot easier when Grandda’ took the chieftainship?”

                “Well, that’s because he was basically unopposed, everyone knew he’d be the best choice, and god rest his soul, he was. This time though? That damn uncle of yours is playing silly buggers. Your father’s a good man; he’s proved how good a head he has on his shoulders running the family’s interests down south o’the border. If it were up’ta me I’d give him the title and be done with the entire thing. Yet that damn son-in-law o’mine won’t listen to me, and will bribe who he needs to. Last I heard the vote’s split straight down the middle and because you’ve been hiding with your tail between your legs all day the vote’s down to you. If it wasn’t so close, no one would give a shite and you could stay here cuddling with Marcy, y’ain’t that lucky though.”

                “Granny! We weren’t cuddlin’!”

                “Hush Marcy, y’think I didn’t see how you looked at him from afar when you were jus’ a wee thing? Ah, there’s something that must be said about all that though, but that need wait. Boy! Y’seem to be glad to jus’ stand there an’ let poor Marcy do all the talkin’, so you should take your paragon of manliness’ arse down to the main hall, vote for your father and hurry back here, d’ya understand me boy?! Your grandfather’s memory, god rest his soul, won’t be enough to save y’hide if you vote for that damn uncle of yours!”

                I took that as my cue to leave, stole Marcy’s teacup, drained it before she had a chance to sip it and bolted out the door before either of the women could continue to scold my ears off. The cold Scottish night nearly knocked the wind out of me as effectively as Marcy had earlier. Shoving my hands deep in my armpits for a measure of warmth, I hurried over to the warm glow of the manor, walking around the collection of Landcruisers and Rangerovers before finally reaching the front entrance; as soon as I opened the heavy wooden door I was met with the stuffy warmth of too many people packed in too old a building and each and every one of those soul’s voices were raised in an argument, quickly turning bitter. Coincidence favoured me for once and it was mum who first saw me; quickly grabbing me by the arm and leading me towards the main hall, attempting to wave away other family members whilst asking me the same questions they were. I just answered by way of shrug. Mum’s expression told me that that wasn’t a good enough explanation but it’d have to wait for later. If I was lucky she’d forget. She wouldn’t. My entrance in to the great hall was met with a mixture of exasperated and relieved sighs; an uncle I quite like, drunk as per usual, begged me to deliver him from the interminable boredom and bullshit. I’ll save you uncle!

                Yet another uncle separated my father from his political opponent, the husband of an aunt, (Granny and Grandda’ apparently had a lot of time on their hands and not much else to do with it) raised up on the platform at the head of the main hall they could look down upon the increasingly rowdy and well soaked family reunion, arrayed on the tables running parallel up the length of the hall. From his vantage point the uncle playing at being the master of ceremonies asked me to vote, with a surprising lack of ceremony; I guess he had had enough just like everyone else in the room.

                “I’ll be brief, and this may well shock you, but I’ll be voting right now for my f-“

                I didn’t get the chance to finish, not with my “uncle-in-law”(?) jumping to his feet with a grand flourish and a booming voice, declaring to all and sundry:

                “Boy! Why be so hasty? You’ve only just arrived, how about we all go over our arguments one more time and see if you can’t make a… well informed decision!”

                The threat of delaying the result for even a second longer just about caused a civil war amongst the people gathered in the hall, even some of the family members he had bribed were beginning to turn against him, judging by the amount of jeers, glasses and mugs thrown at him from both sides of the room.

                “Nah, I’m good. I vote for dad.”

                The room exploded. There wasn’t any other way to describe the flurry of motion and wall of sound that followed my words. A table was flipped, the apparently defeated uncle-in-law kicked his chair from the dais, smacked away anyone trying to console him and marched off in a sulk, whilst my father simply collapsed wearily, shook the hands shoved at him and downed the drinks given to him, whilst trying not to confuse the two amongst the general row. Liquor flowed even more freely and the mood went from sour and dangerous to relieved and overjoyed in the space of a sentence, my drunk of an uncle grabbed me around the shoulders and openly sobbed into my neck, I could only pat him on the back with a grin as family members who wouldn’t usually look at me twice slapped me on the back and forced ale and whisky on me as well. It’s nice to be popular, even if it’s only fleeting. Some of the braver men had even raided the kitchen, taking it upon themselves to serve Granny’s dinner, probably much to their own detriment later, even if they lost a few of their number to their wives, monstrous or otherwise. In the general ruction that followed, as everyone tried to secure what seating, liquor and pork crackling remained before a vengeful Granny could reappear and start laying into everyone with her dreaded spoon, I slipped away once again and started off back to Marcy’s cottage. Though not before quickly apologising to mum and congratulating dad, getting a sincere smile through his rather exhausted facade.


Part V

	Weaving between the jeeps, my breath misted before me as I quickly made my way through the cold; only briefly stopping to laugh at a couple enjoying their freedom from the voting with a quickie in their car. Or at least, I hope it was their car. I expected to see the car fogged up from the… “strenuous exercise” they were in the midst of; yet the windows were crystal clear. To drive the point home a light blue-tinged hand slapped against the glass and dragged itself down, as if in the grip of ecstasy. I had to deduce that she was some manner of undead creature, maybe that gorgeous, stately blonde walking around in that tartan dress with the plunging decolletage was a… That thought cut short when I saw the other occupant of the car: my drunk of an uncle. My bachelor-for-life, soak of a relation had snagged that personification of class. There is no justice in this world or the next apparently. I had to console myself by wishing them all the best, and hope the adventure doesn’t leave my uncle… “stiff”?

I was still chuckling to myself when I let myself into Marcy’s cottage; I was already half way through the door when the thought occurred that I probably shouldn’t be so easy going with another person’s house. A thought confirmed when a low conversation was cut off and a pair of heads swiveled in my direction, somehow in unison. Had they practiced?

“Yee don’t do anythin’ with any punctuality, do ye boy? Well?”

A part of me wanted to be a smart-arse and play dumb. A larger part of me wasn’t willing to be hit by another geriatric fired missile.

“I voted for dad, granny. Who else was I going to vote for?”

“Don’t give me lip boy! Regardless, ye’ve done a good t’ing fer ye family. Well, now tha’ that mess is out o’the way, we can start the next conversation, eh?”

The fact that MacConall immediately went red and refused to make eye contact with me didn’t exactly fill me with confidence, but my curiosity was certainly piqued. For better or for worse.

“So. Boy. Just what the hell do ye think ye’re doin’! Do ye ever just think fer 5 damn seconds before yee go’n do whatever you s’please? This poor wee thing has been lead around by th’nose all day by ye, bonnie Prince Charming y’are, and now what? Jesus H. Christ boy ye decided t’have a nice country stroll in the middle of a hunt; have ye e’en thanked Marcy yet?”

She paused her verbal assault for a series of hacking coughs and a breather; I took it as a chance to get a word in edge-ways before our venerable matron could continue her scolding.

“Grandma! Of course I damn well thanked MacConall, I’m not that daft as to fail to thank the girl whom saved my life!”

“Don’t ye swear at me boy! Ye damn well don’t hear me swearing do you? If ye grandfather, god rest his soul, were here to see y’now, oh, he’d be right cross,” or he’d be having a good laugh at my expense, but I’ll keep that to myself, “don’t y’look at me like that. Now if y’goin’ to happily traipse up hill and down dale ‘cross the moors with Marcy here, and damn well call her Marcy, and… Ah, where was I?”

I felt a familiar guilt and sense of worry for my dear old grandmother; sure she had a tongue like a whip, but sometimes that’s worth more than a dozen sugared words. Not to mention, every now and then, you’d get a kind, warm smile that’d turn her wrinkles to loving crags and left you with no doubt to the depth of her love for all of us. Helping her onto MacC-Marcy’s couch, Marcy rubbed her back and I steadied and supported her descent. With a final sigh the old woman came to rest on the couch and seemed to be in the process of quickly collecting her thoughts. I took the opportunity to take a seat opposite Granny at Marcy’s dinner table; Marcy made to take a seat at the table too. Granny apparently had other plans; an old, weathered hand shot out with surprising speed and grabbed a black furred hand-paw and held on with all the strength of rigor mortis. Marcy shot me a pleading look, I shrugged; she’s on her own for this one. Marcy gave in and took a seat to the right of Granny; who, with a cunning swiftness, shifted Marcy’s paw to her left hand and patted the creamy flesh of Marcy’s thigh with her right hand. There would be no escape.

“Ah. If ye’re goin’ to get friendly with this dear girl there’s a few thing ye’ve got t’know. T’understan’.”

“Granny, we’ve only just, uh, reunit-“

“Shut it boy! Ye’re walkin’ on thin ice wi’that there statement. Now shut up, before y’shoot yeself in th’foot. Firstly, let me just say this: y’grandfather (god rest his soul) n’I both watched y’two play, it warmed us right well; an’ I saw how Marcy looked at y’even back then, if y’can follow what I’m tryin’ to tell ye boy. Damnit, stop shifting around girl, sit still! …So!”

“…So?” I venture.

“So! What the blazes d’ya think ye’re doin’? Pussy footin’ aroun’ w’yee childhood frien’? Get y’head clear boy, ’cause what ye decide t’do won’t jus’ affect you, y’ken? ‘Ave you never heard the ol’ family lore boy? Or were ye too busy down south o’the border to remember yee roots? Shut it, and hear this well!

“There weren’t always Werewolves tendin’ our land, but it’s hard t’say when they started. Christianity hadn’t reached our lands yet, so we’re talkin’ long before the 5th century, an’ that was, an’ still is, a time where it isn’t easy t’separate the legend from the history.

“Now, waaaaaay back in our line t’was a rather naughty boy, a Laird o’ old who coo’nae keep his privates in his pants so it’s told. This lad, not totally unlike ye’self boy, was ensnared heart an’soul by a gorgeous young Lass: her hair as red as fire, her beauty just as fierce. T’bad he was already married, eh? Don’ think bad of the poor wee Lass, for she t’were a sweet thing, as pure as the driven snow, that di’nae stop the Laird’s advances though.

“The Laird’s lawfully wedded Wife was a beauty too, as befitting a Laird, but it t’were a terrible thing to behold. A single look could kill y’true. As t’legend goes she had access to some dark things tha’ ought be left well enough alone; magic o’ earth, blood and bone. The Wife weren’t no fool, she could sense her husband’s sins, saw the signs in the scrying pool. It was a simple matter o’ time till that dire Wife discovered Laird an’ Lass in the midst o’ their crime.

“Her rage was a terrifying thing, it was if she had brought the Sword o’ Damocles down upon both their necks; the Wife screamed curses, till she moaned her final hex. If the Lass t’were goin’ to be a bitch, then she could be a beast; for she had turned their marital bliss into Lycaon’s feast. Consumed by jealousy and wrath the Wife cursed her rival into a dire wolf, cursed her and her kin to never put their thieving paws on her’s and her own. Finally the Wife cast out the wolf with a final prophecy: Whoever lays w’the wolf will doom the clan’s name to dark history’s gloom.

“And here we are boy, w’ye and Marcy here. Now don’ ye think fer a second I put any stock in that story, but don’ think others are as rational as y’grandfather, god rest his soul, an’ I are. So tread carefully m’boy, ye… friendship can have consequences ye cannae foresee.”

With that Granny ended her story; Marcy seemed… tense, not that I could blame her. Her paw was tight around Granny’s hand, even being pet didn’t seem to allay the girl’s stress. Marcy’s gaze couldn’t lift off the floor, I’m not confident I could meet it even if she were to try and look me in the eye. An awkward silence descended upon the small cottage. It was quickly dispersed by the ever resourceful Granny.

“So, boy, got anythin’ t’say?”

Marcy shifted her attention to my direction, but thankfully didn’t attempt eye contact; apparently content to watch me fidget. Well, I’m not going to let Granny say all that without a single comment of my own.

“Yeah, when I was leaving the hall some of the lads were beginning to serve your dinner.”

I’ve never seen Granny stand up that quickly in my life, I doubt I will ever see her rise like that again either. She was like Lazarus summoned from the grave, but a shadow of our ancestor’s wrath was what was fueling her. Marcy nearly jumped out of her skin, low fluffy ears now stood on end, Marcy even lost her grasp on Granny’s hand.

“Damnit boy! Why di’nae ye say anythin’ t’me?! Those boys’re in fer it, I swear. I’m going t’lay in t’them, boy, look after Marcy! Ye hear me?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, satisfying herself by swiftly swatting the back of my head as she passed me by. It wasn’t a soft slap either damnit. The door slammed behind the small, crook backed woman; a slap on glass and a pair of girlish shrieks signaled Granny’s passing of Wight and Uncle, their post-coital cuddles apparently cut short. By the time Marcy and I had heard the heavy slam of the Manor’s front door, we had looked at each other without meaning to. Her composure failed first, her dark look quickly cracked into her usual wolfish grin, until she ended up howling laughing, her cheeks reddening, her eyes watering. I couldn’t help but join in; the oppressive atmosphere had been lifted.

“Hey, c’mere, how’s yee poor head?”

A black paw patted at the space next to the Werewolf.

“It’s fine Marcy, I had it coming. Probably.”

I still took her up on her offer though, tired legs carried me to Marcy and left me more or less collapsing beside her. She pounced immediately, hugging my head to her shoulder and petting the apparent wound; I considered complaining but left it. We’re both enjoying it. After a few minutes her habitual grin faded to that sad smile and she released my head, bumping it off her shoulder with a light shrug and a flash of a smirk; before that too flew away from her face and left her staring at her paws, left lying in her lap.

“Hey, wha-what do ye think of all that? The legend? I mean… I’ve always wondered why I’m like… this. I guess it makes sense why dad rejected mum then hey? …What am I even doing here?”

Who dares, wins.

Or at least, that’s what I hoped as I swiftly stole a black furred hand with my smaller, weaker own; its twin sought Marcy’s face; a thumb wiped away the beginnings of a tear as I cupped her cheek. My lips sought her softer, sweeter reflection. She tensed, hard; her paw grew in my grasp, claws threatened to tear at my skin, her other paw grabbed my shirt front; I could feel her canines grow behind her lips, even with my eyes closed I could clearly see her ears perk and her tail fluff out. Then she relaxed, softened, her free paw sought my face in turn, and our kiss grew deeper. Finally, after aeons had passed, our lips broke apart, and I opened my eyes to see a pair of watery, wolfish mirrors gaze back at me. I could see the confusion, the fear, in that blue-grey expanse, I could see the tears, but I could see a glimmer of hope; that she’d be accepted, that that was all that she had ever wanted from anyone. Then she kind of ruined the moment by ducking her face into my shirt front and wiping away her tears, and there she stayed: muffled and hidden.

“What do ye think y’doin’? I tol’ ya I was jus’ a simple lass, like to be swept off her feet. Then y’go an’-an’… y’know!”

I hugged her head to my chest and muttered an apology to her.

“Don’ think y’can get away with this s’easily! That was my first… Ah goddamnit! Why? Seriously… Why?”

“I wanted you to know that I didn’t give a damn about that legend, that that wasn’t nearly enough to change how I see you.”

“There’re easier ways of doin’ that than what y’damn well chose!”

“I-It was the first thing that came to mind!”

“K-Kissing me was the first thing you thought of?”

That I didn’t answer, instead I fell back on to the couch, and brought Marcy down with me, almost like a mirror of earlier in the day. We didn’t stay like that for long before the wolfgirl shoved off of me and slammed a fist into my solar plexus, leaving me gasping for air; I thought I could hear a boxing ring’s bell. By the time I had regained my breath she had pinned me down by the shoulders, looking down upon me, her cute red pony tail with its black velvet band dangled down and threatened to tickle me. Hey eyes threatened a lot worse.

“I’m not jus’ some foolish country bumpkin, asshole; accent or not! Don’ ye think fer a second that ye’ll get away with just doin’ whatever the hell y’like! Are ye just playin’ around? Or worse, pitying me and throwin’ me a goddamn bone?!”

“Marcy. I’m deadly serious. I’ll say this once: I accept you in all that you are, I accept our pasts, and I want to try accepting the future with you too. If you’ll have me, and are willing to be patient with my fuck ups?”

Her killing look broke immediately, in its stead the brightest grin I’ve ever seen lit up her face, and I became aware of a tear or two falling upon my face; all that was quickly washed away when the wolf-girl pushed her face back into my chest and managed an ‘aye’ almost too muffled to hear. Stroking the Werewolf’s hair, I felt like I had finally accomplished something, out here on the moors; and as sleep retook me I wondered if Marcy could blush up to her ear tips.


A grey, cold morning met us; I didn't even notice until I shifted the werewolf off of my chest. Bitterly chill air made me regret my decision immediately. Marcy woke up with a groan, and pawed at the space I was occupying until a minute ago; my missing presence bringing her back to the waking world quickly. I was due back at uni in the coming days, yesterday the last full day here up at the moors; I would be back on a plane southbound before nightfall. Marcy didn’t need to be told that. When I rose wordlessly to collect the odds and ends I had left strewn about her kitchen she grabbed my hand and yanked me back to the couch. We sat there in silence, the werewolf taking the opportunity to lean herself against my arm. She broke the silence first.

“Ye’re comin’ back ta see me. N’ soon ya ‘ear?”

“Mmm. Of course.”

“I can look after m’self up ‘ere, it’s you tha’ I’m worried abou’.”

“Do I inspire so little confidence?”

“…Jus’ come back soon.”

I mustered a nod, and let her stay beside me. Or, more likely, I couldn’t leave her warmth so easily. Time passed quickly in its way, things were found, family members marshalled and farewelled; but leaving Marcy so soon felt wrong. Guilt found me and settled in. I didn’t see her for the rest of the morning. It wasn’t until my mum and I had said goodbye to Granny and had started to trek back to our car that I saw Marcy again; she had collected all our bags and was shoving them in the boot, with a certain flair that'd leave any witness cringing. Dad was staying behind a while, finalising the business that came with his fancy new position as head of a sprawling family; he’d follow on a much later flight. Mum gave Marcy a hug, shocking her as much as I, had Granny mentioned something? We couldn’t put it off any longer, and we were both old enough to not drag farewells out. With the cold morning light shining off the Manor's windows behind her, perking up when I took a step forward, the werewolf fixed me with a perfectly rehearsed grin, you could barely tell it apart from the real thing.

“Yer gunna miss me, I know it.”

She closed the gap between us in a stride, the drive's gravel crunching underpaw, and shoved her face in my chest, ears flattened back, red fringe hiding her creamy cheek smushed against my ribs.

“Y’bastard. Yer disappear fer years then come waltzin’ back, then leave jus’ as quick. What’re yer even thinkin’? Ya shoulda just stayed put… Yer gunna miss me.”

“Of course I’ll miss you Marcy, so much that I’ll come right on back.”

She slammed her paws into my shoulder and pushed us apart, with watery eyes but not a tear in sight, and finally, an honest grin on her face.

“Y’damn right ye will!”

Once again my homeland sped past me from behind a tiny plane window.


Part VI

South of the border, real life hit me like a sledgehammer. A flight above the surface of the planet, even as short a hop as it was, was enough to make the last week seem like a dream. I had wandered back out of a labyrinth of Scottish folklore confused for a romantic comedy. Still, I only had to remember Marcy’s sweet face, the feel of her soft, full lips, yielding flesh, tensed muscle, and the soft susurrus of her tail on my skin, and my chest would twist into a vice. I wondered how she felt up there, looking after Granny, and found my teeth grinding together. I hadn’t been home for more than a week and I was already ready to fly back up. Marcy took the initiative instead.

“Uh, h-hey, is that you? Ah i-it’s Miss Marcy-Marceline MacConall speaking.”

“You’ve called me on my mobile ‘Marceline’, who else would it be?”

“Damnit! I ain’t good w’phones, never had any practice, don’ y’dare call me tha’ again.”

“I guess you wouldn’t have very many people to chat to right, Mar-ce-line?”

I thought she had hung up on me. I mean, I don’t know why, but I just couldn’t resist teasing her a little. Maybe I was just a little too happy to hear her again. Or I’m just a terrible person. It turns out Marcy was just catching her breath.

“-AND WHA? Ah. AH! Granny! I didn’t mean t’shout s’much, it’s jus’ tha’-yes... Yes Granny… Boy-boyfriend?! Well at the current rate, he won’ be fer much longer... Mhmm, I’ll tell him. Granny said tha’ yer ought to thank y’lucky stars that yer in England f’the first time in y’life. Tha goes f’me too. Double.”

I sincerely thanked the hundreds of kilometres that sprawled between our two locations for what would be the first and last time. It was probably the first time I noticed that Marcy could be as formidable as Granny, with more than enough bite to back up her bark. It was also the first time that I involuntarily saw Marcy instead of her mother in that filling draw in my memories marked “Do Not Open.”

I quickly patched things up with my long distance wolfish lover.

“It feels like ye’ve got a really gross grin on yer mug right now.”

“Perish the thought Marcy. How’s things up there?”

“Fuckin’ cold. Not jus’ the nights any more either. Yer really gone again aren’t ye? I know yer comin’ back, I mean… y’have once already. But.”

But you’re not here right now, when I need you.

“I’ll be back soon Marcy.”

“Mmm, I know.”

“I just need to finish off uni…”

“Mmm.”

“And then I’ll get an awesome job in Scotland as some crazy Laird of a fantasy castle and wear nothing but a kilt and whack things with a claymore all day and make you wear a serving wench costume and change my name to Macbeth!”

I heard her lilting laugh through the static fuzz, I could feel her grin again, “Jus’ what kinda messed up idea o’ y’homeland d’yer have stuck in tha’ head of yer’s? Still… I look forwar' t’seein’ ye in nothin’ but a kilt love.”

“To wear underwear, or to not wear underwear, that is the question. Tis’ nobler a tradition to suffer the gropes and predatory gaze of my girlfriend? Or to take up jocks against a sea of troubles in werewolf form.”

“Aye, aye, ye real smart, university boy.” I could almost see her try and keep a straight face. Ah. I’ve got it for her bad.

Then silence. Neither of us really knew what to do, what to say. Neither of us wanted to hang up. So we just chilled out for a while. Topics would crop up and then fade away; we learnt a bit more about each other and what we both wanted. We both felt a little better about our memories; of course the gap between Marcy and I was still terrifying wide, it wasn’t something we needed to bring up though, we both felt it. Yet, neither of us was willing to run away. We filled in some of the blanks in our mutual pasts, the lost years between us until, eventually, my mobile’s battery burned away. I promised to call her again soon.



And I did, often. It wasn’t easy. To try and deal with feelings you knew were true, but impossible to validate in reality. To have a lover you couldn’t hold. To have to try and constantly balance the idea of the girl in your head with the actual girl on the other end of the telephone. It wasn’t any easier for Marcy, of course. I worried about her constantly, a product of the distance between us; the girl in person hardly ever needed my concern. Regardless, I could feel the frustration and loneliness rolling off of her, and like a perfect harmonic frequency, I could feel my own feelings tightening to jagged, shattered edges.

In that state I went back to university, and barely scraped out a pass. My head was basically anywhere but my lectures, or my theses, back in purple heather at the least provocation. Or trying to block out the idea of Marcy instead of her mother in my nightmares, or worrying about how she was going. The heather was obviously the best choice. As it was I was functioning on a pretty shitty autopilot. Fancy sheet of paper with my name on it in hand I immediately set the gears of nepotism in motion, bothering everyone from my father to my honeymooning uncle, deep in the barrow-mounds, for work north of the border. The only 2 people I didn’t bother were Marcy or Granny.

Even as unpopular as I am, within the branches of my family tree, the effort still paid off. If “sitting in a cubicle for 8 hours a day as a middle manager making up work for people to pretend to do” is your idea of a dream job anyways. At least it paid well enough that I could live somewhat comfortably in Edinburgh, with enough left over for a car; nepotism is great when it works out in your favour. So I quietly packed up my scant belongings, organised their delivery to coincide with my arrival, had a goodbye dinner with my parents, sorted out the reams of paperwork and prepared for my new life of surreptitiously reading in my cubicle, drinking Buckfast and eating Indian carry-out in a shoebox apartment.

Spring hadn’t yet properly sprung when I arrived in Edinburgh. The weather was still pretty miserable when I unlocked the front door of my sad flat: a tiny box, suffocated in a row of other tiny boxes, Edinburgh castle looming over on it's hilltop. Speaking of boxes, I found my possessions by nearly breaking my neck on them; they sat, miserable and vindictive, in my narrow doorway. Even though it was just a bit after midday, no warmth had yet seeped inside. I kept my coat on whilst hunting for the heater, exploring the place as I went. It wasn’t worth describing. Bedroom, bathroom, kitchen/lounge, plonked down by a bureaucrat instead of an architect 70 years ago, and forgotten apart from periodic affectations of renovations. A few hours later and my belongings were in more or less the correct kinds of places and I was considering surprising Marcy with a phone call.

I didn’t get to finish making the decision to annoy my wolfy-girlfriend before someone began trying to sledgehammer my front door in.

“Christ! Lemme in, it’s as cold as a wight’s tit out here. C’mon, or I’ll huff ’n’ puff an’ not talk to y’fer a week."

A redheaded werewolf stood on my stoop as I inspected the dents in my rented flat’s door, “Uh. Surprise! I moved to Scotland! Did you need to do that to my door?”

“My nipples cou’ cut diamonds, damn y’door. Let me in. Move, move, move.”

With that a redheaded blur ducked under my arm, kicked off her shoes and plastered herself to my back. Paws were immediately wrapped around my middle, her fluffy tail swished around my legs and snuggling soon followed. Her nipples really could cut diamonds, I could feel them both poke into my back.

“Hey Marcy.”

“Y’smell good. And ye’re warm. Yer flat’s shite though.”

“Ah… Thanks Marcy.”

“Y’welcome. I missed you.”

“Mmm, I was going to surprise you.”

“Y’Uncle ratted you out to Granny; she browbeat another uncle into givin’ ya the job. Y’uncle, the 1st one, said it was revenge f’bothering him on his honeymoon.”

“Ah, so you came to surprise me before I could surprise you.”

I could feel her smoosh her grin into my back, “y’got it in one! Are y’goin’ t’close the door, or are we just goin’ to stan’ here?”

“Are you going to let go first?”

“No.”

The door was soon closed and I waddled with Marcy into the lounge, she took the chance to toss me on to my own sofa. Damn werewolf strength. I got the chance to actually eye her up though; having purposefully tried to ignore her when I was being kinda-not-but-still-actually-kinda-concerned about my front door. She was still fluffy, her grin was still there, and her hair was still red and barely contained in that black velvet band. She was actually close enough to touch, standing right in front of me.

I was brought back to reality by a wolfish chuckle, “Thaaaaat’s th’look I was waitin’ fer.”

“Which look is that?”

“Wow, Marcay, you look absolutey gooorgeous, years, one is eeeever so lucky to be able to caaall a girl like heeeer one’s beloved.”

“I object to the blatantly unfair misrepresentation of my accent. You’re the one with the ridiculous accent here.”

“Oi. Don’t change the topic either, or d’ye-do you just not have anything to say?” Aww, she tried to speak normally. Ah. She’s getting mad.

“Marcy, please, you look great! No. Seriously. Marcy! Sto-“

The werewolf had closed the short distance between us with a long legged stride and had basically fell on top of me, using her elbows to soften the landing. For her anyways. Marcy grinned down upon me, her head eclipsed the light and a burning red halo wreathed the girl, canines lengthening, ears perked, paws and claws growing. The lizard part of my brain wanted to get the fuck out of dodge.

“Hey, lover, how long has it been since we’ve seen each other?”

“Several months.”

“Mmm. Several months. Several months o’ no: Jesus Christ Marcy! You look amazing! It’s all I can do to stop myself from ravishing you right now! I want to write a sonnet about your beauty!”

Her face closed the gap between us, grin tensing in a grim parody of friendliness. I got the feeling that she was getting a bit of a sadistic thrill off of my surging adrenaline levels, even as she was palpably pissed at me; maybe werewolves could smell fear too.

“Marcy.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s just: here’s this girl you’ve thought about non-stop for months and months and months and now she’s here and I’m going round in circles in my head shouting, ahh what am I doing?! …honestly, I’m really am happy you’re here.”

“…Happy I’m here? Happy I’m here.”

“You made this flat feel like home the second you turned up on my doorstep. Plus you do look fucking great… Sorry. Let me surprise you properly next time so you can be the one to freak out.”

In all fairness, she did look fucking great today. It was little wonder she was freezing getting to my flat, even with the fluffy thigh highs and gloves, her body was left to fend for itself; a cute green woollen knit dress/jumper thing was the only thing between her nipples and the biting early spring wind.

Her killing look broke by degrees, grin slowly turning genuine. But then the grin faded away too and those big grey-blue eyes locked on mine; her charming, slightly chunky, eyebrows knitted into a look that couldn’t really be defined either as melancholic or quietly pleased. It stabbed me in the heart.

“Y’promise? I want t’be suuuuuper surprised.”

“I’ll surprise you so good your ears will never un-perk.”

She kinda laughed at that, and lightly whacked my shoulder, “What does tha’ even mean? …Yer happy I’m here?”

“So happy. I wouldn’t let you leave even if you wanted to.”

Marcy chose that moment to realise how close our faces were, to click that she had straddled my thighs a solid 5 minutes beforehand. She made a valiant effort to not blush, forcing a grin. All the same it was doomed to fail. Her freckles were lost to the bloom that came to her cheeks by degrees. I started when she inhaled deeply, letting her head fall just as she emptied her lungs.

“Yer sleepin’ on the sofa. I’ve got yer bed for the night. G-got it?”

“Ah-“

“Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Man. I really missed ye. Somethin’ fierce.”

Marcy gave me the sincerest grin of the night.

I was already more or less forgiven for being a jerk who couldn't just ignore the messed up parts of his psyche. We spent the rest of the night catching up; at least until both of our stomachs demanded nutritious sustenance, we compromised and got Indian carry-out instead. Curry's great, even when you're eating it on paper plates with plastic cutlery; much to Marcy's chagrin. Plastic forks and knives can be a challenge when you have the grip strength of a legendary beast.

Even though she had said it herself; after filling her stomach, and deciding she wasn't so grumpy that she couldn't snuggle a bit, the werewolf ended up passing out more or less on top of me; so we both ended up spending the night on my sofa. I wasn't going to complain.

That's more or less the way we woke up too, except that it seemed as if Marcy had gotten chilly during the night. She had somehow squirmed her way between myself and the couch and had happily claimed the big spoon; at least her paws were comfy and her tail warm. The werewolf woke up first, I know because she woke me up just because she had to go to the loo. After having a serious internal discussion re: actually getting up, I relented, and busied myself brewing some tea, 2 steaming cups ready by the time the wolf bounced back into the kitchen/lounge/small box. In the 15 minutes she was gone, she had somehow gotten rid of her bedhead, the trace of drool on her chin and her skin seemed extra nice and milky.

Apparently I was totally forgiven; as soon as I was in range she kissed my cheek and took a cup of tea.

"Y'need t'shave. Also, I used y'toothbrush, hope y'don't mind." She couldn't choose between giving me sultry eyes or a teasing smile so she just went with both. I totally didn't mind.

Not long afterwards she was already getting ready for the trip back to the Manor; she had to catch a couple of trains to get to my place, so she had to leave early if she was going to be any help to Granny for the day. I gave her a lift to the station, on my way to work for the first time, and promised to pick her up in future if she gave me forewarning. "Where's the fun in that?" was her response. We made plans anyways, as we made our way through Edinburgh's traffic. All too soon we were at Marcy's station, and she was stretching over the centre console to kiss me goodbye, holding on for just that extra second so I could promise to come up to the Manor as soon as I had some free time. The last thing I saw in my rear-view mirror was Marcy goofily waving goodbye, tail trying not to wag, with a smile on her face.


PART VII

It wasn’t too long after that day that I found myself crunching along the gravel drive that led to the Manor. It sat, forlorn, amongst the low hills of the moor, it’s lonely air driven away by Marcy’s warm little cottage nestled beside it. Dark, ancient, and full of memory, the Manor asserted it’s presence amongst the greenery and the purple of the heather in full summer bloom. Marcy’s cottage door slammed, followed by the girl herself, nearly bouncing; she quickly reached me and stood to mock attention.

“Y’bags sir? I’ll put them away in th’room prepared f’ya. W’the utmost care,” straight face wavering, tail bushy and straight back, a warm blush to her cheeks, and a quiet twinkle to her greyish eyes.

“With the utmost care you say? Well, if that be true, I’ll happily reward you.”

“Sir, yer much t’kind!”

With that she popped the boot of my car, wrenched out my bags, and dumped them on the gravel one by one. Having sorted out how she was going to haul them, she picked them up, her shoulders broadening slightly underneath the old jumper she was wearing, the black fur of her hand/paws inching towards her elbows. Tottering slightly for effect, she sped off to the Manor giggling. The front door slammed open and closed. Granny’s muffled scolding reached me even out on the drive.

The brief quiet was broken by the Manor’s door opening at a much more reasonable pace, Marcy’s red hair easily recognisable as she held the door open for the stooped silhouette of my much beloved Granny. As soon as the old woman had cleared the door, Marcy was off like an arrow to its target. The target was me. I saw a flash of a predatory grin distorting what should’ve been a sweet face and put up a guard against the inevitable tackle. The inevitable never came. Instead Marcy just wrapped her arms around me, forcing her head between my forearms, shoving my elbows up with her shoulders, I was left defenceless with my hands in the air and my girlfriend’s face an inch away from my own. She hesitated, enjoying the moment, looking up at me through her lashes, choosing a ridiculous time to be coquettish; her lips quickly found mine.

 “Got ya,” whispered off her lips as she broke our deep kiss, her trademark grin returning.

I couldn’t help but smile back at my wolfish-girlfriend, as close as she was. My world shrunk to her arms lightly squeezing around my back; her scent; her cute upturned, button nose; fair freckled cheeks; proud chin; her dazzling greyish eyes, the blue retreating away today; small but bold orange eyebrows; red hair catching the sun even as her pale face glowed in the half-light of our embrace; the fluffy black ears crowning her head down at rest. All of her features screamed for my attention at once, all of her features were in concert with the blush coming to her face, all of her features said one thing: she was with whom she loved.

I slightly opened and closed my mouth, trying to break the silence, “you got me.”

“mhmm~”

“Can I put my arms down?”

“Only if it’s t’hug me.”

I nodded and hugged the wolf-girl to me as soon as I could move my arms. Her body pressed against mine, I enjoyed her fluffy ear flicking my nose as I breathed out. Marcy heaved a happy sigh and shoved me away.

“That’s enough o’that, ye’ll spoil m’rotten one o’these days… Plus Granny’s getting’ close and she looks pissed off, so I’m gunna go’n look busy, see ya lover!” She was already gaining speed by the end of her sentence, gravel spraying behind her.

She wasn’t wrong, Granny was bearing down on us; a rather dark aura surrounded her pleasant, smiling face. Too pleasant. That’s when I barely remembered to put my plan for the day in action.

“Marcy wait!”

She turned and jogged on the spot, “Wha?”

“Dress up a bit, I wanna take a walk out on the moors with you later today!”

The wolf-girl beamed at me, nodded, and doubled her pace to her cottage, giving Granny a wide berth.

I took that as a queue to start wandering towards the Manor myself, meeting Granny half way. I offered the elderly woman an elbow, but she waved it off immediately.

“Thank y’for the thought boy, but I ain’t tha’ bad jus’ yet. Ye’re gettin’ along well w’Marcy I see…”

I left that well enough alone. Granny eyed me up, but continued talking regardless.

“What’re y’gunna do abou’ tha’ girl?”

“Do I need to do something about her? She’s an adult.”

“Don’ try that on me boy, I’m much t’old to fall fer smokescreens like tha’. Marcy’s a good girl.”

“Mmm, of course she is… I love her.”

Finally the old woman laughed with a genuine golden mirth, “No shite boyo! Were ye the las’ to figure tha’ out? Y’Love her… Y’Grandfather, bless his soul, knew as soon as lookin’ wha’ y’two futures would b’like… Don’ look at m’like tha’. Y’Grandfather, bless ‘is ‘eart, knew from th’moment he laid eyes on me tha’ he’d marry me. He was jus’ like tha’, y’know…”

We crunched up the drive in silence for a while; it was myself who broke it when I opened the door for my Granny.

“It’s not like I don’t have any plans Granny.”

“Oh ho? Wha’s this?”

“I’ll show you when we get to m’room. Just the usual guest one, right?”

The ancient woman nodded. She accepted my help up the stairs, pride not worth the looming threat of a broken hip. At last we reached what would be my room for the duration of my stay: an old, slightly dusty guest room; the view overlooking the heather, the front door of Marcy’s cottage clearly visible. The furniture was limited to a dresser, an old fireplace and my bed. My luggage had been thrown into the room with the utmost care; it took a bit of scrabbling under the bed to fetch the bag I was looking for.

I handed the small box I found inside the bag to Granny, “have a look.”

“Aaaah… a golden luckenbooth? Tha’s almos’ too sweet boy. So, ye’re serious then, w’this ridiculous little token.”

“Hey! You know how hard it was to get this thing made?”

“I can imagine boy; they’re not exactly in style y’know.”

“Marcy’ll appreciate it.”

She snorted at that, “I’m sure she will boy. Still… yer makin’ y’Granny happy with this. Y’parents know?”

“Of course. They’re behind me 100%.”

“Tha’ll be important.”

“Mmm. Do you think there’ll be any problems?”

“In this day’n’age? God knows, there shouldn’ be… Still, even with y’Uncle marrying tha’ sweet Wight there were some mutterin’s from some members o’this big, lovin’ family.”

“Hmmm…” was all I managed before lapsing into contemplative silence. Well, I was going to, but Granny had other ideas. Shoving the golden brooch back into my hands she turned to leave.

“Good luck boy. Y’know, we’re only assumin’ she’ll say yes t’begin with. Get over this first hurdle, then worry about the res’ as they come, ya ken?”

I listened to her carefully navigate her way down to the stairs, then when I was sure she had made it down okay, flumped back onto the slightly rickety bed. Strangely, even with Granny’s teasing, I wasn’t feeling that nervous about what was going to come later on today. It was just the only outcome that I wanted, and I wanted it entirely. So there was no room to be nervous. Only anxiety and restlessness teased at my composure. All too soon I had changed: decent boots, socks, knife, kilt, oxford shirt and a blazer. I rechecked everything repeatedly. Double, triple, quadruple checked that the brooch was in my right breast pocket. Got everything we’d need for a picnic. Then I really only had to wait for the redheaded storm that was my lover to finally make her presence known. Daylight was burning.


And burning.


And burning.


I checked my watch; barely an hour had passed since I finished getting ready. Before I could start to try and hurry the girl up with my latent (read: made up) psychokinetic powers, a light crack echoed throughout the small room, disturbing my attempt to faux-meditate. Followed by another. Followed by a shower of gravel rattling off my window panes. Scrambling up to the window I searched for the source of the squall of stones.

Marcy posed beneath my window, a much larger rock than necessary wound up, ready to throw. She quietly dropped it, trying to look innocent. She wouldn’t have thrown it anyways. Probably wouldn’t have. Giving up the innocent act Marcy twirled around and curtsied, a blur of tartan dress, white cardigan, red hair and black fur, before beckoning to me. I grabbed my stuff and dashed down the stairs, two at a time. Granny winked at me as I rushed past her and opened the heavy front door. A brilliantly blue summer afternoon light filled my senses after the dark stuffiness of the Manor, but even that paled in comparison to the girl waiting for me on the drive.

This time Marcy properly modelled what she had picked out, and she had chosen well. Slowly spinning on the spot she showed off her green tartan dress, tight over her shoulders and chest, flaring out over her thighs; a short, white, chunky cable knit cardigan kept the sun off her arms. Cheekily she flicked the back of her dress up with her tail to show off the pure white lace garter-belt and panty combination she wore, the straps that barely bit into the creamy flesh of her thighs kept up a pair of equally white, chunky cable knit socks, coming up to just below her own black fluff. She kicked a heel up as a final flourish, displaying a new pair of those custom made boots she was so proud of. This time in a brown brogue, she still chose to have heels on them though.

It needn’t be said, but I stood there flabbergasted. Nor need it be said that Marcy ate up my reaction like a flock of untended sheep. She stalked towards me, running her hand through her hair, bringing her loosely braided ponytail around to rest on her shoulder; the wolfgirl’s ever present black velvet band tied up higher than usual. Coy eyes sought my own as she linked her arm inside the crook of my elbow, hunting for a verbalised response that I just wasn’t capable of providing at that current time and place.

“Wow love~ am I jus’ tha’ cute?”

“…Mmm. Y-Yeah. Way too cute.”

Her sweet, lilting laugh filled the sky around us as we made our way on to the moors.

“So, y’wanted ta take me out for a walk didya? Y’know, I’m not a dog, I don’t need t’be exercised daily.” Ah. There was that grin. The “Is she messing with me, or is she pissed off?” grin... “Relax, I’m messin’ w’ya. How could I be unhappy on a walk w’ya?”

True to her word she closed the already small gap between us, I could feel her tail lightly flump against the back of my legs every now and then, two lovers being disgusting flirty with one another. At least the moors were empty of all judgmental eyes, the only other living beings around for miles were critters, and they weren’t about to start gossiping.

“So… did you go traditional today too?” was what Marcy thought was great stroll conversation.

“Marc-“

	“Penis check!” I didn’t even get a chance to protect my modesty. What was more surprising was that Marcy was the one who went red. Quietly she patted down my kilt and took up my arm again.

“What were you expecting Marcy?”

“Dunno…” The werewolf desperately fumbled for a new topic, “The moors are pretty aren’t they?”

They were. I couldn’t have chosen a better day. The sunlight almost vibrated amongst the hills as we walked at our own easy pace; with every step the landscape would shift and the colours of the summertime moor would explode in intensity, or fade into harmony with the blue sky; moor and sky echoing back under the great yellow sun, stretching into infinity.

The smokiness of the heather played with my senses, even as I was surrounded by Marcy’s scent, I was almost lost to the world. Marcy had as dopey a smile on her face as I did, a light blush coming to her cheeks as we trekked arm in arm up and down the low hills.

We had wandered around for a lifetime on those moors; the purple bloom of the heather rolling with the hills into an unknowable and unconquerable distance, even as the healthy green stalks crunched under our feet and fowl and fox escaped our presence. My watch said we had only been walking for an hour. It was now or never, that was what I thought as I pulled the werewolf toward a likely looking hilltop.

“Wanna have a bite t’eat Marcy?”

“Mhmm, tha’ sounds great. Where’re we gunna lay the blanket?”

“Just there, I reckon. Gimme a hand.”

I watched as the redheaded girl set about crushing down some of the plant growth, rolling out the blanket over the top. I fingered the box in my pocket.

“Marcy. Marceline.”

Her ears instantly perked up. She didn’t turn around, but her entire body tensed.

“Y-yes, m’love?”

I got down on one knee, and flicked out the box. Marcy slowly turned around, her eyes going as wide as dinner plates as soon as she saw what was in my hand.

“Marceline MacConall. Will you marry me?” I opened the box in time with my question for added effect and waited.

It was her turn to be flabbergasted; Marcy recovered quicker than I did though.

A teary-eyed mess rocketed towards me, spun around my neck and hung from my shoulders; her lips locked to mine.

Lightly our lips parted, only for her to breathe out a “yes” that sent every single nerve in my body alight. That one word utterly changed my life, utterly changed the very fabric of my being; Marcy must’ve been the same. Every single nerve that wasn’t needed for loving one another was burned away. Our lips met again for a much deeper kiss, different from those before; lust proper had opened the door and blocked it with its foot. We gasped in unison as our lips broke apart once more, and I suddenly became incredibly aware of the desirable girl beneath me, I let my hands roam up her sides even as I gently let her fall back on to the blanket.

Her lips found mine again, hungrily, as deep as a kiss can be, passion communicating through every twitch, gasp, hum and sigh. Swept up in Marcy’s almost forceful pace I let my hand brush up the girl’s creamy thigh, lightly indenting the soft flesh as my fingers slipped beneath her garter strap. Silver eyes flashed before me, and once again I found myself staring up at the brilliant blue vault of the sky, my wolfish fiancée bearing down on me, filling my field of vision, flushed face grinning, sparking eyes full of want.

“Of course I’ll marry ya… Of course I’ll marry ya, of course…” she finished her sentence by nuzzling into my chest, ears flicking my chin, “…wha about y’family though?”

“Mum and dad are fine, Granny too. No one else matters. Even if they were against it, I’d still propose.”

That earned me a tenderer kiss than the last.

“…Someone like me?” was all I caught of a muttered sentence, addressed to my chest.

“Marcy. I love you, I want you. No one else on the planet could be m’bride, your love is more than I deserve.”

The redhead pulled her head from my chest, wiped the tears from her eyes with a fluffy white sleeve, and beamed at me. Soon the smile slipped, a full bottom lip bitten between two wolfish fangs, those silver eyes sizing me up once more. Silver eyes?

“M-Marcy, aren’t your eyes usually blue-grey?”

“They are at tha’ fiancé~”

“Your eyes are awfully silver in that case.”

“Ah. It’s just that time of month,” she paused when she saw the automatic look on my face, and lightly whacked my shoulder before pointing over her own in turn. A full moon hung in the blue sky, washed out and overpowered by the colour around it.

“A full moon?”

“Y’picked a hell o’ a day to propose love~”

I replied by way of reaching up, stripping the cardigan from her shoulders and casting it away as I kissed the girl’s perfectly white neck.

“C-could you get my zip too, love?”

“The zip? You mean?”

“Mhmm, I mean, y’have proposed, so we should… consummate the relationship right? …Don’t worry about me, I want this, I want it a lot,” she had taken my face in her hands, claws lightly scratching at my cheeks, her eyes blazing in to my own. The only thing left in those silver wells was want and love; no apprehension to be found. True to her nature Marcy had made a decision and she was seeing it through. That was all I thought when I pressed my lips to hers and unzipped her dress, freeing a delicate shoulder blade.

Her fur rose as a wind picked up round her shoulders, even as she easily flipped her dress over her head. Breasts near glowing in the summer sun, her skin warm against the empty blue vault above; nipples hardening to my gaze’s caress.

My clothes soon joined Marcy’s.

Even as her wolfish pelt slid against my thighs, and her paws, claws, tightened into my shoulders, the feel of her pubic hair brushing against my groin shocked my conscious into the moment. The werewolf let my penis find the cleft of her arse and slid back comfortably, slowly, forcing me to notice every detail of her sex as it slid along the top of my cock, until her clitoris found the root of my cock and my cockhead found itself in the cold, escaping the confines of the girl’s warm and slickening groin. Marcy enjoyed toying with her prey before the kill.

Muscles tightened, stretched and cracked around me, her arms drawing me into a deeper embrace. Even as her head found the crook of my neck, and an ear tip my mouth, the girl let her teasing go on. Smoke, fire, heather, sex, smell clung to sweaty skin and fur. Rhythmically her hips loped along, pussy grinding, a starving wolf in a long winter.

I’m consumed by a bottomless well of blood; ancient need gnaws at my nerves even as Marcy MacConall howls her fulfilment into the infinite void above, as we lie entwined on the silver moon below.

The borders between us are loosening, their relevance losing any meaning; id, ego, super ego all become abstractions as the wolf/girl rises and falls on my rock-hard cock in time with the creation and erosion of the hills around us.

Even as the cold sun above becomes a white dwarf somewhere in my brain, even as the limbs of my lover tightened around me like a choking forest, even as the alabaster flesh of her thighs gave way like cream, even as I felt the iron and viciousness of her muscles tense, even as I sought out that blazing red halo that marked out my wife, even as I could feel her warmth and wetness gripping at my cock, I could feel a demand echo through my veins, through my father’s veins, my grandfather’s veins. My granduncle’s sins.

I knew as the white dwarves exploded into million-coloured supernovae behind my eyelids, as my hips rose into Marcy, filling her need with my seed, and as everything of me fell away through 10,000 kilometres of living stone; I knew that the wolf above me was mine to love, and only mine. I knew I loved the Wolf/Woman as she followed me down, riding on her own orgasmic bliss and carried me back to the living heathen moor, howling.

We dressed quietly, and set off; arm in arm amongst the purple heather.