Satans Master

Sabina smiled. ‘I thought I might try and get as far as Fort Augustus.’

He shook his head, frowning darkly. ‘I wouldn’t recommend you going anywhere, not in this weather.’

Sabina looked down at the light drizzle. ‘It doesn’t look too bad to me.’

‘It never does. But the heavy mist can come down mighty fast. It’s a fair trek to Fort Augustus, I wouldn’t want you to get lost.’

‘But it’s a straight road, isn’t it?’

‘Aye, it’s straight,’ he nodded. ‘But there’s tracks leading off the road to the cottages, ye ken, and it’s mighty easy to take one of them by mistake.’

‘I’ll take care,’ she promised lightly, pulling her hood over her hair and braving the light rain.

The castle stood in the curve of Urquhart Bay, overlooking Loch Ness in all its glory, although the mist clung to the water like a thin white sheet. The guidebook she had bought in Inverness told her that the castle dated back to the thirteenth century, although improvement had been made during the sixteenth century.

The castle was placed perfectly for watch over Loch Ness, and had obviously been a stronghold for the Scottish Crown in the past. Now all that remained was the square keep, the crumbled ruins of its turret and outer walls. Sabina wandered amongst what must surely have once been a magnificent castle, its splendour still evident in the grey stones that made up its structure.

In the end she decided not to take any photographs now but try and get some on the way back if she could. The last thing she wanted was to show her father pictures of it pouring with rain! And it was pouring now, absolutely bucketing down. She decided to have a coffee in the hotel lounge while she waited for the rain to abate somewhat.

‘You’re going, then?’ the proprietor asked as she made a move about an hour later.

‘I thought I would,’ she nodded.

He shook his head dourly. ‘I think you’re making a mistake.’

‘If it looks like getting any worse I promise I’ll turn around and come back.’

In actual fact that was something she couldn’t do, not unless she walked. The front tyre of her bicycle suddenly went flat, and no amount of pumping it up made any difference to its condition, and the mist chose that moment to close in on her like a blanket, making it impossible for her to see farther than a few feet in front of her. There was nothing else for it, she would have to walk, and as she was sure she was nearer to Fort Augustus than Urquhart Castle she decided to go on rather than turn back.

Just where she went wrong she didn’t know; all she did know was that the surface of the road didn’t feel smooth any more, and groping down on her hands and knees she found that it wasn’t the road at all but a roughly cut dirt pathway. Where it led to she couldn’t even begin to guess, and she couldn’t even see her map in this mist, let alone read it.

If only she had listened to the man at the hotel! He had sounded like a local, had probably lived here all his life, and he obviously knew a lot more about the sudden dropping of the mist than she did.

Well, it was no good standing here berating herself; should she go on or should she attempt to find her way back to the road? One thing groping about on the pathway had told her, there was the mark of hoofprints there, hoofprints going forward, not back. But where would the path take her? She didn’t remember seeing a village in this direction when she checked the map this morning.

She sighed. She really had no choice but to go on; she wasn’t sure of her way back, and at least she knew there must be some form of habitation in this direction. She only hoped the owner of that habitation wouldn’t mind an uninvited guest for the night—she could hardly pitch her tent in this.

Keeping to the roughly hewn pathway didn’t prove too difficult; either side of her were tall trees, making it impossible for her to deviate. Nevertheless, she almost felt faint with relief when she saw a glimmer of yellow light in front of her. After almost an hour of this stumbling progress she had been beginning to doubt ever seeing another human being again.

But there had to be humans where there was electric lighting, and as she reached the front of the low, white-painted cottage she saw a spiral of smoke drifting through the lighter coloured mist. Light and warmth, it sounded like heaven to Sabina, and reminded her of how damp her clothing had become.

A sharp tap on the door heralded no reaction whatsoever, so she knocked again. Still no answer. There had to be someone here. She walked along the front of the cottage to the window with the chink of light showing through, trying to see in through the tiny gap in the curtains. She felt herself tense as the curtains moved slightly, two venomous green eyes suddenly appearing in front of her and making her let out a bloodcurdling scream.

‘Satan’s no more enthusiastic about nosey-parkers than I am,’ remarked a cold voice from behind her.

Sabina swung round to see the owner of that unwelcoming voice. Standing in front of her, the mist swirling eerily about him, stood a tall dark man dressed completely in black—black cords and black jumper, his hair also jet black, long and unkempt. His face was gaunt, all strong angles, the focal point being a pair of cold grey eyes that remained unblinkingly on her white face. He was a handsome man in a pagan sort of way, the handsomest man Sabina had ever seen.

‘Wh—who are you?’ her voice quivered.

His mouth twisted tauntingly. ‘I’m Satan’s master, who else?’

Sabina woke to find herself lying on a sofa, the hardest article of furniture she had ever sat on in her life. She had never fainted before either, for that was surely what had happened. God, that man—Satan’s master! She swung her legs to the floor, sitting up to come face to face with him.

He turned from his morose study of the fire, a man possibly in his late thirties, his expression not lightening as he saw her looking at him with wide frightened eyes. ‘So you’ve decided to wake up, have you?’ he rasped, pushing the black cat off his lap and standing up. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘And what are you doing here?’

Sabina’s mouth felt dry. ‘I—er—I asked you first,’ she said with a return of her usual spirit.

‘And I told you,’ he replied sharply, his voice deep and husky.

‘Of course you didn’t,’ she said with a nervous laugh. She had behaved stupidly a few minutes ago; this man might be dark and frightening, but he certainly had no connection with the devil. ‘That cat is Satan, isn’t he?’

‘He is.’

‘And you’re his owner.’

White teeth showed in the glimmer of a smile. ‘No one owns Satan. He just goes with the cottage. The locals believe the previous owner, a certain Mrs McFee, was a witch.’

‘That’s ridiculous!’

His steady gaze remained levelled on her. ‘Is it?’

Sabina swallowed hard. ‘You know it is.’

‘Do I?’

‘Of course it is! No rational human being—–’

His dark eyebrows rose, straight black brows that disappeared into the untidy swathe of dark hair that fell over his forehead. There was something about this man, something familiar … ‘Who says I’m a rational human being?’ his soft attractive voice taunted. ‘Who says I’m even human?’

‘Stop teasing me!’ She pushed back the hood that had been hiding her hair, unzipping her anorak. ‘Would you mind if I took this off?’ she indicated the damp garment.

‘Take off anything you want,’ he invited, already insolently appraising the curves she had revealed. ‘Female company has been in short supply around here.’

Sabina blushed under his intent stare, and left her coat on, wanting to wrap her arms protectively about her as he continued to look at her. ‘Then why do you live here?’ she snapped angrily. Her first impression of this man being a ghostly figure was completely wrong, he was all too human, despite his casting doubts upon the fact minutes earlier.

His face hardened, the angles sharper than ever, his eyes glacial. ‘I live here because it suits me to. Now I repeat, who are you?’

‘Sabina—Sabina Smith.’ She couldn’t stop looking at him, there was something so familiar about him, something at the back of her mind telling her she should know him, or someone like him. Without the dark growth of two or three days’ beard he would be—–

‘What are you staring at?’ He kicked viciously at one of the logs burning in the fire, sending sparks all over the hearth. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Answer me!’

‘I—I—– You—–’

‘Yes?’ His eyes bored into hers, holding her immobile.

‘You remind me of someone,’ she said nervously, the anger about that firm sensuous mouth making her cower in her seat.

He stepped forward, his hands biting painfully into her upper arms as he wrenched her to her feet. ‘Who?’ His face was only inches from hers as he shook her. ‘Who do I remind you of?’ he repeated.