Martin Millar - Lonely Werewolf Girl (2 page)

"I like it better when they fight," muttered the second
hunter, drawing his gun. "Let's do it."

Kalix dragged her gaze up from her boots to the face of the
larger man. She spoke, quite softly.

"I'll kill you."

The hunters laughed.

"You'll kill us? What with? Your werewolf strength?"

"You can't transform. No full moon, dummy," said the second
hunter, pointing at the sky where the crescent of an old moon showed
through a break on the clouds. Both hunters raised their weapons,
preparing to fire silver bullets through the young werewolf's heart.

Kalix thought, as she often did, how pleasant it would be to
die, and end it all on this bleak London street. But somehow, she just
couldn't do it. As the hunters raised their guns she transformed in a
split second from helpless adolescent runaway into the savage, bestial,
werewolf who'd killed hunters from one end of Britain to the other,
who'd torn the very gates from the prison the clan had held her in
after she almost killed the Thane. Before the hunters had time to
squeeze their triggers they were torn apart, shredded by the
unparalleled savagery that had been both a gift and a curse to the
lonely werewolf girl.

It was over in seconds. Kalix let out a frightful howl then
shuddered as she reverted back into human form. She looked down bleakly
at the carnage beneath her. Already the rain was washing the blood away.

"I don't need the full moon," she muttered. "I belong to the
werewolf royal family."

Kalix breathed deeply to halt the shuddering, then set off
along the dark street, disappearing down the first alley she came to.

4

Kalix wished that she was someone else. She had an elaborate
fantasy in which her true parents had abandoned her at birth, leaving
her at the mercy of the MacRinnalch Clan. Either that or she had been
stolen away as a baby and sold to the Thane. Her favourite fantasy
involved her being the secret love child of one of the Runaways,
preferably Joan Jett.

'Joan Jett could well be my mother,' thought Kalix, sometimes.
Except Joan Jett wasn't a werewolf, as far as anybody knew.

Her nomadic ways meant that Kalix had very few possessions.
All she owned were her ragged clothes, an ancient walkman for playing
tapes, and a bag for carrying her pills and her laudanum. Her clothes
came from charity shops. Her boots were full of holes and her coat was
worn and filthy.

Kalix had been taking laudanum for some years. Laudanum was an
opium derivative dissolved in alcohol. She'd first bought it from
Mac-Doig the Merchant, a strange character who regularly appeared at
Castle MacRinnalch with fabulous goods for sale, goods from various
realms, some of them not of this world. He was a man of some power
who'd long outlived the normal short human span, and in that time
travelled where few others had. Somewhere along the way, he'd located a
supply of laudanum which he sold to anyone desperate for relief from
their suffering. Kalix's mother, the Mistress of the Werewolves, would
have killed the MacDoig if she'd learned what he was selling to her
youngest daughter. It was not cheap, and Kalix had learned to steal to
finance her needs. Since she'd arrived in London she'd bought the
liquid from the Young MacDoig, who carried on his father's business in
the South. That was why she no longer had her pendant. She'd swapped it
to the Young MacDoig for laudanum.

As for Kalix's walkman, she only had two tapes, both by the
Runaways: their eponymous first album, and
Live in Japan
.
Kalix loved the Runaways even though both these albums had been
recorded before she was born. She had a picture of the band, torn from
a newspaper. Once, when a young man had tried to deface it she'd bitten
his hand so hard he'd had to go to hospital to have it stitched
together. That was while Kalix was in human form. Even as a human,
Kalix was a ferocious opponent. As a werewolf she was abnormally
strong, and when the battle-madness came over her, she was murderously
savage.

Kalix had once gone to an internet cafe to hunt for
information about the Runaways but she found very little. Not that much
had been written about them and what there was, Kalix could barely
read. Although the MacRinnalch werewolves were well educated as a rule,
Kalix's peculiar background had left her almost illiterate. But it
seemed to her, from the few sentences she could understand, that her
favourite band had never been very successful. This baffled Kalix, and
angered her, and made her hold the world in even greater contempt.

Kalix's bed was a bundle of old sacks. The abandoned warehouse
was damp and the cold chilled her bones. Occasionally when night fell
she would change into her werewolf shape just to gain warmth from her
thick coat. As a purebred werewolf of the MacRinnalch Clan, Kalix could
do this any night she chose, but it was hazardous now that she no
longer had her pendant for protection. Changing into werewolf form made
her easier to detect.

Kalix hadn't eaten for many days. This was good. Kalix didn't
like to eat. There was no one here to tell her she had to. She might
never eat again and no one could make her. Buoyed by this happy thought
the young werewolf buried herself under the sacks and drifted off to
sleep to dream about Gawain. Gawain was the most handsome of
werewolves, and he had once been her lover. On her fourteenth birthday
she'd crept into his bed at Castle MacRinnalch and after that they were
never out of each other's company. They had a year of insane joy before
he was banished. Kalix yearned to see him again, but she knew he was
never coming back.

5

The Fire Queen, whose extreme beauty existed somewhere between
a Babylonian death goddess and an Asian supermodel, advanced towards
Thrix's desk, fire smouldering in her eyes.

"Prepare to suffer appalling and dreadful torments, you
treacherous werewolf!"

Thrix raised one eyebrow.

"What exactly is the problem, Malveria?"

The Fire Queen reached back into the depths of her nether
realm and dragged forth a pair of red high heeled shoes. She slammed
them onto Thrix's desk.

"These shoes you sold me!" yelled the Fire Queen, "The heel
broke! One moment I am walking up the volcano with a ceremonial knife
in my hand, sacrifice at the ready and subjects bowing down before me -
I was looking fabulous, of course - the next I'm hobbling up and down
like a servant-girl with ill fitting boots!"

Thrix pursed her lips.

"Well, Malveria, these are clearly intended as dresswear only.
You can't expect a fashion item to stand up to ritual sacrifice on the
volcano. I've told you before about choosing the right footwear for the
right occasion."

The Fire Queen exploded in a furious rage, cursing Thrix with
dreadful oaths never before heard in the mortal world.

"You expect me to appear at the most important sacrifice of
the year wearing some dull but sensible footwear? What sort of fashion
adviser are you?"

"Avery good adviser," replied Thrix, calmly. The Enchantress
knew the Fire Queen very well - well enough to know her real name - and
was not overly troubled by her wrath. As Queen of the Hiyasta, a race
of fire elementals, Malveria was immensely powerful. Thrix would not
lightly pit her skills against her, but her rages tended to subside
quickly, particularly in the matter of fashion. Generally the prospect
of an elegant new outfit was enough to calm her down. The intercom
sounded. It was a slender silver box, delicately designed, in keeping
with the decor of Thrix's elegant office which was calm and stylish,
and only slightly spoiled by the untidy rail of clothes samples against
the far wall.

"Your mother is on the phone."

Thrix made a face.

"Excuse me, Malveria. Mother… what is it? Kalix? No I haven't
seen her. Why would I? Father's asking for me? Father can go to hell,
and quickly… I have to go, I'm with a client."

Thrix ended the call.

"Family problems?" asked the Fire Queen.

"As ever."

The beautiful Hiyasta was sympathetic.

"I disposed of mine a long time ago. Is the young wolf in
trouble again?"

"She is, but she won't be for long. They'll get rid of her
soon."

"What does your mother want you to do?"

"Find her, I think," said Thrix, without enthusiasm.

"This is very interfering," observed the Fire Queen. "Does
your mother not know you are busy making fabulous clothes for notable
clients like myself?"

"My mother lets nothing stand in her way."

"How very irritating," said Malveria. "As a daughter of the
werewolf royal family, can you not simply order everyone to leave you
alone?"

This brought a smile from Thrix.

"We've never actually proclaimed ourselves royalty. Well,
perhaps once or twice, when we're feeling grand.
Ruling
family
would be more accurate, and that's trouble enough.
Now Malveria, about these shoes."

Malveria waved her hand dismissively. The scent of jasmine
filled the room, as it always did when Malveria visited. Whether it was
perfume, or Malveria's natural aroma, Thrix wasn't sure.

"Pah, it is nothing. I regret ever threatening my most
beautiful and valued fashion designer over such a trifle. The shame of
the heel breakage was temporarily overwhelming but I have now made a
strong recovery."

Malveria smiled. Though the fire elementals inhabited their
own dimension, and had little contact with the world of humans, they
were historical enemies of the MacRinnalchs. It was very unusual for a
Hiyasta to be friends with a MacRinnalch werewolf. Despite this, the
Fire Queen liked the Enchantress a great deal. Without Thrix's help the
Queen would still be turning up at social events in her realm wearing
really bad clothes. She still shuddered at the memory of some of her
previous outfits.

6

Kalix woke with a pain in her stomach. She often suffered from
this, when she hadn't eaten for a long time. She sipped some laudanum
and fished her journal out of her bag. Kalix's journal was precious to
her. It was a diary of sorts, used for recording both her thoughts and
her actions. Yesterday's entry read:
My father is Thane of
the Werewolves. I hate him
.

That, at least, was how it read to Kalix. To anyone else, it
would have been an almost illegible scrawl of misspelled words and
misshapen letters. The day before that was blank and the day before
that read:
My brothers hate each other. I hate them both
.
Further down the page it said:
I miss Gawain
.

Kalix wrote a new entry in her journal.
The
Runaways are the Queens of Noise. Today I killed two hunters. Or
yesterday
. It took her a long time to complete each word.
She had to concentrate fully to form each troublesome letter. Though
Kalix was naturally intelligent, she had never made up for her lack of
schooling. Kalix was seventeen but in terms of education she was far
behind girls of her age.

Outside it was still raining and water continued to drip
through the roof. Kalix ignored it. Tired, her stomach still sore, she
drifted back to sleep. When she next woke, sometime in the afternoon,
she was still drowsy from the laudanum. Because her senses were dulled
it took her a few moments to realise she was not alone. Duncan
Douglas-MacPhee was standing next to her, staring at her with his cold
dark eyes. Duncan worked for her eldest brother Sarapen. He was a
large, strong werewolf, with a reputation for violence. He wore an old
leather jacket and his long hair was held back by a black bandana.
Alarmed, Kalix leapt to her feet, ready to defend herself.

Duncan regarded her silently. His eyes shifted to her squalid
bed, then took in the rest of her surroundings. He looked down at the
bottle of laudanum at his feet.

"You are disgusting, Kalix MacRinnalch. Fourth in line to the
Thaneship and here you are with habits suited to the lowest scum of
werewolf society."

"You'd know about the lowest scum," growled Kalix.

"I would that," agreed Duncan. His own reputation was very
unsavoury, as was that of his brother Fergus and his sister Rhona. The
Douglas-MacPhees were an unwholesome trio of werewolves in every
respect. Kalix was worried. In daylight neither she nor Duncan could
transform and in human form he was certainly more powerful than her.

"Leave me alone."

"I can't," said Duncan. His Scottish accent was stronger than
Kalix's, and very harsh. "The Great Council wants you back."

"I'm not going back to be tried," said Kalix, edging away.

"You've already been tried. And found guilty. Now they want to
sentence you."

He stared at her.

"Sarapen's not too concerned what condition you reach the
castle in. In fact he's not too concerned if you get there at all."

From the depths of his leather jacket he drew a long machete.

"Just your heart will do."

"I'll kill you," snarled Kalix.

"I hardly think so. Not in daylight. Not when you can't
transform."

Duncan Douglas-MacPhee advanced. Kalix sank into her defensive
posture, ready to fight for her life. Suddenly the door to the
warehouse opened and a young man appeared.

"Is this the sorting office?"

Duncan growled at the intruder. The young man was startled.

"My music magazines didn't arrive…" he said, by way of
explanation.

Kalix moved like lightning. She grabbed a rock from the floor
and flung it at her assailant. It caught him sharply on the head and he
collapsed. As he tried to rise Kalix kicked him savagely then ran for
the door, grabbing her coat and bag on the way. The young man looked
confused but at the sight of Duncan struggling to his feet with his
machete still in his hand, he swiftly followed Kalix out the door.

"In here!" yelled Daniel, pointing to his car.