Martin Millar - Lonely Werewolf Girl (4 page)

Kalix was always doing foolish things. It had been foolish to
attack her father. It had been foolish to crawl into Gawain's bed when
she was fourteen. It had been foolish to drink the entire contents of
her family's malt whisky cabinet when she was thirteen, though Kalix
had protested that as a Scottish werewolf, she was merely exploring her
heritage. And it had been foolish to eat the contents of her mother's
medicine cabinet just to see what would happen, an escapade that led to
her being the only teenage MacRinnalch werewolf ever taken to hospital
for an emergency stomach pump. On each occasion the Mistress of the
Werewolves left Kalix in no doubt as to the foolishness of her actions,
and the disgrace never really went away.

After running the length of several streets Kalix knew that
she had outdistanced the Douglas-MacPhees. They might still be
following her scent, but in the city they couldn't track her as easily
as they could in the wilds. There was too much pollution for her scent
to linger for long. Kalix disappeared down an alleyway, over a fence,
through several gardens and back out onto another quiet street where
she stopped, and sniffed the air. She couldn't smell another werewolf.
She had escaped. She sniffed again. There was another scent she
recognised. The young man who had driven her in his car away from the
warehouse.

Kalix remembered her journal. Could she have left it in his
car? The young werewolf trotted along the street, following Daniel's
scent. Escaping from the Douglas-MacPhees had left her weak. She hadn't
eaten for a long time. She craved laudanum, but she had to recover her
journal first. Every part of her unhappy life was recorded there. In
some ways Kalix's journal was more real to her than her own being.

10

"There's nothing worse than moving," declared Daniel, who was
struggling to pack plates and cutlery into an unsuitable cardboard box.

Moonglow nodded. She accepted the toil more stoically than
Daniel but it wasn't something she enjoyed.

"Funny how everyone was too busy to help," said Daniel. He was
staring rather forlornly at a frying pan, wondering whether to try to
fit in the box or put in a plastic bag. Perhaps he could just throw it
in the van. After all, what harm could come to a frying pan?

"Colin claimed he had to study for an exam. Is that a feeble
excuse or what?"

Moonglow nodded. She was struggling with their CD collection.
While these weren't difficult to fit into boxes there were a great many
of them and she had unwisely determined to sort them out first, putting
them all back in their correct covers. This was proving to be an
impossible task. The covers for Daniel's Slayer CDs all seemed to be
missing and there was no sign at all of the first disc from her Kate
Bush boxed set.

"I notice Jay hasn't made an appearance," said Daniel,
pointedly.

Moonglow was immediately defensive.

"He had to visit Stonehenge."

Jay was Moonglow's boyfriend. Daniel was jealous, though
Moonglow wasn't meant to know this.

"As if Stonehenge wouldn't be there next week."

"It had to be now. Horoscope said so."

Daniel was derisive.

"Very convenient. Boyfriend avoids work by
means of astrology."

He put down his box with a thud.

"Hey careful! Plates and glasses!"

Daniel was always mean and sarcastic about Jay. Moonglow
understood this. Even if her friend Caroline hadn't informed her that,
while under the influence of alcohol, Daniel had confessed to her his
love for Moonglow, she would have known anyway. It was fairly obvious.
At nineteen, Daniel hadn't learned how to shield his emotions.

The doorbell rang. They were immediately nervous. If it
happened to be their landlord paying a surprise visit the boxes were
going to be very hard to explain. Daniel crept to the front door and
peered through the peephole. Seeing Kalix, he was hesitant. The bell
rang again. Daniel opened the door a few inches.

"Eh… is that guy right behind you with a really big knife?"

"You have my journal," said Kalix, coldly.

"Right… come in."

Kalix marched inside. Daniel made an attempt at introducing
their visitor to Moonglow.

"This is - "

"Where's my journal?" demanded Kalix brusquely.

Moonglow was startled by Kalix's appearance. So thin and
ragged. In the gap between the ends of Kalix's threadbare black
trousers and her boots, her ankles showed like two white twigs. And she
was so intense. Her large dark eyes burned as she scanned the room for
her possessions. Her gold nose ring was very noticeable, larger than
normal. As for her hair, trailing down lankly to her waist, Moonglow
had never seen its like, not even on the most unkempt beggar.

"Are you the werewolf girl?" asked Moonglow.

"What?" demanded Kalix, suspiciously.

Moonglow realised that this had not been the politest of
greetings.

"I mean the girl who wrote the werewolf poem? I thought it was
really cool.
My mother is a werewolf, my father is a werewolf
.
I wrote a poem like that once, I kind of imagined my… eh…"

Moonglow ground to a halt under Kalix's withering glare. Kalix
turned to Daniel.

"Where is it?"

Daniel picked up the carrier bag which contained Kalix's
journal and her book. Moonglow was immediately concerned that she'd
offended the girl.

"Are you annoyed I read it? Sorry… it was a really good poem."

"Stop talking," snapped Kalix. "I've no time to waste."

Her voice seemed too strong to emanate from such a skinny
frame.

Moonglow was rather shocked. She was about to make a
conciliatory response when the front door suddenly flew open and,
terrifyingly, two strangers burst into the room.

"Get her," said Duncan Douglas-MacPhee.

11

The Fire Queen was always happiest when surrounded by clothes.
She loved visiting Thrix's establishment and had now completely
forgotten her anger towards the Enchantress. As she gazed with pleasure
at Thrix's rough drafts for her new Spring catalogue, the mighty Fire
Queen looked much more like a model than a powerful supernatural being
who ruled her own realm. A smile spread over her dusky features as she
examined some sketches for an evening gown which Thrix had promised to
make exclusively for her.

"Could it be ready for a cocktail party at the Duchess
Gargamond's next week?"

"Next week?" said Thrix. "Malveria, you know I can't work that
quickly."

Malveria was one of the Fire Queen's names. Not the most
secret of her names, but one that very few creatures of any sort were
free to use. A person had to be on very, very good terms with the Fire
Queen before they could call her Malveria.

Before meeting the Werewolf Enchantress, the Queen of the fire
elementals had been very poorly dressed. Her wardrobe was full of
dramatic but very gauche outfits which somehow never seemed to suit
her. Malveria had found herself continually overshadowed at some
elemental event or other by finely arrayed nether-world princesses
who'd arrive in fabulous new outfits purchased from the catwalks of
London, Paris, or Milan. The Fire Queen knew that her rivals were
laughing at her behind her back. The young aristocrats from the Ice
Kingdoms could be particularly cutting, and as for Princess Kabachetka,

Malveria's great rival from the neighbouring land of Hainusta,
there was no saying what spiteful gossip she might have spread.

Thrix had changed all this. Now, dressed by the Enchantress,
Queen Malveria was widely admired in the nether worlds as a Fire Spirit
who really knew how to shop. Her wonderful collection of shoes was
particularly envied.

"Do you know how long it takes to put a collection together?"
said Thrix.

"No," admitted the Fire Queen, shaking her head. Her hair,
long, black, gleaming, in perfect condition, was attended to by a salon
in Kensington that Thrix had recommended; one more reason to be
grateful to the Enchantress.

"It takes months. I start off with drawings, consult with my
designers, cost fabrics, make up patterns, send the patterns for
cutting, and that's just to get the process in motion."

Malveria frowned, and only just prevented herself from pouting.

"Furthermore," pointed out Thrix, brushing back her golden
hair and pointing to the mass of paperwork on her desk. "I've got a
hundred things to get done and they're all urgent. I've got people to
interview, photographers to hire, models to send to assignments, and
the plumber needs instructions."

"The plumber?" said Malveria, puzzled. She had little idea of
what life in this world was really like.

"The pipes downstairs are leaking again."

"Surely you have minions to do these things for you?"

"I do. But the junior minion got it wrong last time and the
senior minion - my property manager - is away at a
conference so I have to take care of it
myself."

Malveria shook her head.

"This is all very mysterious to me. If your minions get things
wrong surely you should simply kill them and get new minions?"

"Tempting," admitted Thrix. "But it would lead to a lot of
trouble with the union. Besides, my minions aren't so bad."

As if to demonstrate the difficulties of running a fashion
empire, the plumber chose that moment to arrive. Thrix's personal
assistant buzzed through to let her know he was here.

"I have to see him now," said Thrix, apologetically. "If you
miss your plumber's appointment, you've no idea of the trouble it
causes."

Thrix spent a long time talking to the plumber. The Fire Queen
sat in her chair, still mystified by the entire process. After the
plumber departed to gather his crew and sort out the pipes downstairs,
she again voiced her puzzlement.

"I could not tolerate such a long discussion about such a
tiresome subject. Surely your slaves could perform these tasks for you?"

"They're called employees," replied Thrix. "But there comes a
time when the boss has to get her hands dirty. How do you think I get
my collections together? By magic?"

"Yes," said the Fire Queen. "Isn't that how you do it?"

"Afraid not."

"Oh." Malveria looked thoughtful. "But all these lovely shoes.
They arrive by sorcery, surely?"

Thrix shook her head.

"No. People make them."

"Really? No sorcery at all? People must be cleverer than I
thought. Because these are beautiful shoes."

Thrix took Queen Malveria downstairs to her showrooms to find
her some new clothes because really, she wouldn't want to let down such
an important client. While there was no time to make something special
she could certainly put together an outfit for the Fire Queen that
would impress on the day. As Thrix readied some young models for an
impromptu fashion display, the Fire Queen was thoughtful. Normally,
being surrounded by clothes was enough to occupy her attention
entirely, but an amusing thought had struck her.

"Thrix. I keep remembering something I read in one of your
magazines. Vogue, I think, which has made me so happy since you
procured for me a - what was the word - subscription? This article was
about a designer who always worked hard. It contained a phrase I had
never seen before.
Work Ethic
, I believe."

"And?"

"And I think this is something you suffer from."

The Fire Queen was entertained by the thought.

"Because really, my wonderful Enchantress, you could use your
sorcerous powers to speed up much of this work. I'm sure you could have
fixed your piping difficulties with a wave of your hand."

The Enchantress looked wary.

"But you don't use your sorcery nearly as much as you could.
Is this because you must work? Do you suffer from this thing called
work
ethic
?"

"Though there's nothing wrong with a little hard work," said
Thrix, and tossed her golden hair a little.

The Fire Queen laughed. She could be shrewd when she chose to
be. She had an amusing vision of Thrix's mother telling the young
werewolf that a proper daughter of the Thane should work hard, and not
rely on sorcery to sort out her problems.

12

The Mistress of the Werewolves and the Thane had been married
for a very long time, and Verasa was long past the stage of wishing to
be in her husband's presence every day. She travelled south regularly,
although on the three nights a month when she was obliged to transform
into full werewolf shape, London was not the easiest place to be. A
MacRinnalch werewolf as pure-blooded as Verasa could transform at will
any night, but on the night of the full moon and the two nights that
surrounded it, there was no choice. The change was automatic.

Of course, Verasa never completely lost control. It would be
unseemly. But even such a powerful and disciplined figure as Verasa
could find it sorely tempting to rush out into the night-time streets
when the wolfness came on, and give in to the desire to hunt for food.

Some werewolves did just that. The clan discouraged them from
taking on werewolf wolf form next to any populated area. These days, it
did not pay to go around killing humans any more than was absolutely
necessary. With today's modern communications and the all pervading
media, any mysterious killings would soon be investigated by the
police. Worse than that, it would attract the attention of the Avenaris
Guild, the hated hunters who made it their mission in life to kill
werewolves. The MacRinnalch Clan, with its wealth and power, did not
fear the police, or the Guild, but there was no point in attracting
unnecessary attention.
One must adept to the modern world
,
as Verasa often said. She herself could hardly remember when she had
last killed anyone. More than thirty years ago, certainly.

Verasa and her younger son Markus sat next to each other on a
gilded couch, sipping wine from silver goblets. As mother and son, they
were very close. Too close perhaps, by human standards, though not
necessarily by the norms of werewolf society.