The Curse of the Wolf Girl (11 page)

As she lay on the bed, she had the troubling feeling that she was spending her life pretending to be a normal person, making a budget and paying bills, when really she wasn’t normal at all. She was a werewolf. She’d never felt strange about being a werewolf before. But now, trying to fit in with the rest of the household, she found herself troubled by the differences between them all, and it made her unhappy.

She took Daniel’s werewolf comic from her table to distract her attention and struggled to read more of it. As far as Kalix could make out, Arabella Wolf had been bitten by a werewolf, changing into a werewolf herself, and now terrorized New York every full moon. Kalix looked disapprovingly at a picture of Arabella, growling at a pair of young lovers in an alleyway.

“She looks ridiculous. Werewolves don’t look like that.”

Later Arabella woke up in Central Park. She couldn’t remember anything that had happened. Outside the park, newspaper vendors were selling papers with headlines about more grisly murders. Arabella was worried as she made her way back to her boyfriend’s apartment. Her boyfriend worked for the FBI.

“I’ve been assigned to solve these terrible killings,” he told Arabella. “There’s an insane beast on the rampage, and the city is terrified.”

“I hate this comic,” muttered Kalix. “It’s completely anti-werewolf from start to finish.”

Thrix arrived later than she intended at Castle MacRinnalch. Her mother was displeased.

“Markus needs your support, Thrix.”

Thrix scowled. She and her brother Markus heartily disliked each other, as her mother knew very well.

“Support? What for? The war’s ended.”

“There are plenty of other affairs the MacRinnalchs need to attend to.”

“I have more important things to worry about.”

The Mistress of the Werewolves was shocked. The enchantress cared more for her business than she did for the clan, but there was no need to be so rude about it. Verasa looked at her daughter curiously. Thrix was as glamorous as ever, golden-haired and beautifully attired, but there was something unusual about her manner.

“Is anything wrong?” she asked Thrix.

“I told you, I’d rather not be here.”

“You’d always rather not be here, but you’re not normally this hostile. Has something upset you?”

Thrix felt uncomfortable. Though she was a skilled sorceress who’d studied with the renowned Minerva MacRinnalch, it was difficult to fool her mother. The Mistress of the Werewolves was a very shrewd wolf. Not much escaped her notice, particularly in family matters.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just stressed from work.”

“I thought business was good? Didn’t
Tatler
print that nice piece about your last show?”

Thrix made a face. “They did. But it’s not enough. Buyers are not necessarily impressed by catwalk reviews. I’ve spent the last three months trying to persuade London stores to sell my clothes, and I don’t seem to be getting anywhere.”

It was a problem that was much on Thrix’s mind at the moment. Her standing in the fashion world had risen recently. Her clothes were generally liked. Unfortunately, she needed to sell them to keep her business going, and fashion outlets had a remarkable ability to delay making decisions.

“They keep you waiting for months and then tell you they’ve decided to go with someone else. It’s infuriating.” Thrix poured herself whisky from the crystal decanter on the table. In common with virtually every other member of the family, the enchantress was fond of the MacRinnalch malt.

“Have you seen Kalix?” asked Verasa.

If this was an attempt to change the subject, it was a poor choice. Thrix bristled at the mention of her young sister’s name.

“No, I have not. And please don’t say you need me to look after her. I’ve done enough of that.”

“I wouldn’t say you ever took to the task that well.”

“I helped her to hide,” said Thrix, “which was more than anyone else in the family did for her.”

Verasa nodded. It was true. Thrix had helped to hide Kalix, and she was grateful for that. The Mistress of the Werewolves was an elegant woman who always looked her best for council meetings. If her clothes were conservative by Thrix’s standards, she couldn’t fault them. Verasa was never less than immaculate. The MacRinnalch children had inherited her good looks. At least Thrix, Kalix, and Markus had. Sarapen had been much more like their late father.

Sarapen was on Verasa’s mind at the moment. Her eldest son had died in battle, but there had been no burial. At the moment of death, his body had been spirited away by Princess Kabachetka. It was not fitting that his body should be missing. It should be buried respectably on the estate. Verasa had asked Thrix to make inquiries through Queen Malveria about its return, but that was awkward, with Verasa’s aversion to the Hiyasta queen and with the queen’s aversion to the Hainusta princess.

“Malveria’s doing her best,” Thrix told her mother, “but Princess Kabachetka is more than a rival, she’s an enemy. I don’t know if we can get the body back. It’s possible.”

Verasa nodded and asked her daughter to keep on trying.

The enchantress was keen to return to her rooms to check her business email, but her mother wasn’t finished.

“Do you think Kalix is back in contact with Gawain?”

Thrix gritted her teeth. “Who knows?”

“You should be more concerned,” said Verasa. “He’s still banished from the clan, you know—”

“I don’t want to talk about Gawain!” yelled the enchantress.

“You’re surely not still concerned about him?”

Thrix didn’t reply but looked uncomfortable.

“Have you seen him?” demanded Verasa.

“No,” replied Thrix.

Verasa wasn’t convinced. “Gawain is still exiled. I really can’t understand why you would—”

The Mistress of the Werewolves broke off. Thrix had picked up her handbag and stormed out, her high heels making a rapid clicking sound as she departed swiftly along the stone corridor. Verasa was puzzled. Minor arguments with her daughter were not uncommon, but it was unusual for Thrix to storm from the room. What was the matter with her?

The Empress Asaratanti’s palace sat on the northern edge of the Eternal Volcano, the huge natural feature that dominated the central plain of the Hainusta nation. Despite the violent nature of the volcano, the palace was unthreatened. Empress Asaratanti controlled the volcano, or rather, she existed in harmony with it. The empress claimed to be the most powerful Fire Elemental in existence, and though Queen Malveria might dispute this, the Hainusta believed it. The harnessing of the power of the Eternal Volcano was a visible sign of the empress’s strength. Her subjects looked to her in awe, as they had done for more than a thousand years. She was ageless and immutable.

“Or so we are led to believe,” muttered the empress’s daughter, Princess Kabachetka, alone in her secret cavern. “But is it really so?”

North of the palace lay the simmering Pools of Chelios, a huge expanse of lava pools and melting rock. Beneath these lava pools lay a small network of caves and tunnels, and there Princess Kabachetka had her secret caverns. Recently the princess had found herself spending more of her time there. She was pondering the future and not liking what she saw. For instance, there was the disputed territory in the western desert. The empress had been content to let her army handle it. There was a time when she would have gone there herself and taken control.

“Perhaps,” mused Kabachetka, “she’s growing old and careless. Careless enough to allow some treacherous snake to usurp her power. And there’s only one snake treacherous enough to make the attempt. My brother.”

The princess pursed her lips. Really, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen this before. All it would take would be a swift, decisive move by Prince Esarax, and the empress would be gone. He’d take her place unopposed with the full support of the army. The government, the aristocracy, and the population would all fall into line. And where would that leave the princess?

“It would leave me making a swift trip to the Eternal Volcano,” bridled the princess, and she clenched her fists angrily. “My brother would like nothing better than to throw me into the volcano.”

Princess Kabachetka paced anxiously around her secret cavern. It made it worse that there was no one she could confide in. In the gossip-ridden environs of the palace, any such talk would soon reach unwelcome ears. The empress had spies everywhere. Probably her brother did too. The princess felt alone and powerless, and she shook her head in frustration. Though she would never admit it to the outside world, Kabachetka was aware of some of her own failings. She knew, for instance, that she was not a great strategist. She’d seen her plans fail before.

“My brother will defeat me. I’m not cunning enough. I’m doomed to end up in the volcano.”

She strode to the furthest edge of her cavern, to the place where the realm of the Fire Elementals merged with that of the ice creatures and of the beings of the Earth. A place in between realms, where time never passed. There lay the body of Sarapen, greatest of the MacRinnalch werewolves. Not alive, but not quite dead. He’d been struck down by a Begravar knife, a weapon so deadly to werewolves that there was no recovering from its wound. Princess Kabachetka had brought his body here, placing it in a state of suspended animation just before he expired. Having done that, she could do no more. Were she to attempt to revive him, he would certainly die. No one could prevent it.

Apart from, possibly, the Empress Asaratanti. With her mastery over the Eternal Volcano, she had a fantastic amount of power at her disposal. Enough, perhaps, to save Sarapen’s life. But the empress would never expend that power to save a werewolf. The empress regarded werewolves as low creatures. As did Princess Kabachetka, normally. It was the princess’s misfortune that she’d fallen in love with Sarapen.

“A partner not suitable for your fire,” muttered the princess, quoting a line from a well-known Hainusta poet whose name she couldn’t remember.

“Of course, if I were Empress, I’d be in control of the volcano. I’d have enough power to revive Sarapen, suitable partner or not.”

She had a happy vision of herself as ruler of the nation, fabulously dressed, with Sarapen at her side, sweeping all before them, disposing of her annoying brother, and then crossing the border to conquer Malveria’s realm.

“That would teach the Queen of the Hiyasta not to give herself such airs just because she happens to have a few nice frocks,” thought the princess crossly. She desperately wanted to defeat and humiliate Malveria and Thrix and Kalix and her own brother—everyone who’d conspired against her and harmed her. Unfortunately for the princess, she couldn’t think of any way to do it.

It was the night of the full moon. When darkness fell, every werewolf in Castle MacRinnalch would make the change. Verasa could feel it tingling in her bones already. Every werewolf could. Apart, possibly, from Dominil. Verasa wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the white-haired werewolf underwent the change without feeling anything at all. It was hard to warm towards Dominil. That didn’t mean the Mistress of the Werewolves didn’t appreciate her.

“We were all amazed that you managed to discipline the twins into actually playing a concert. Have they stuck with it or reverted back to their old ways?”

“Somewhere in between. Though they still drink too much I’ve managed to make them keep rehearsing. They sound reasonably good by the standards of their contemporaries.”

Dominil had a strange, formal manner of speaking, and she had discarded her Scottish accent at Oxford. Here in Castle MacRinnalch, her neutral tones stood out.

Verasa was grateful for Dominil’s help. Though the Mistress of the Werewolves had never previously imagined that she’d find herself willing a rock band to success, particularly one containing Butix and Delix, it was better that the twins did something positive than roll around in drunken degeneracy.

“I still worry about them giving themselves away.”

“With good reason,” said Dominil. “It’s something of a miracle they’ve concealed their werewolf nature for so long. It’s fortunate they find it difficult to make the change most nights.”

Though the pureblooded MacRinnalch werewolves could transform on any night they chose, Beauty and Delicious were so degenerate and intoxicated they’d forgotten how to do it. They only became werewolves on the three wolf nights around the full moon.

Verasa shook her head. “They’ll bring the hunters down on their heads.”

“Perhaps. The Avenaris Guild has regrouped more quickly than I anticipated.” Dominil had informed the clan that a new group of experienced hunters had arrived in the country from Poland and Croatia. “The MacRinnalchs are famous in certain circles. It seems there is no shortage of humans eager to kill us.” She paused and stared at the wall for a while. “I’ve been wondering if we should start taking the fight to them.”

“How do you mean?” asked Verasa.

“Up till now, we’ve merely reacted to their attacks. I know you want the clan to move forward, but I’m not certain we can while this carries on. Perhaps it’s time we took some offensive action.”

“What sort of action?”

“Attack the guild’s headquarters, if we could find it.”

The Mistress of the Werewolves was alarmed. She hadn’t expected to hear such a suggestion from Dominil.

“I was offended to be attacked in London last week,” continued the white-haired werewolf. “I’ve a right to go about my business the same as anyone else without someone trying to kill me.”

“You’d all be safer if you came back to Scotland,” pointed out Verasa, which was true. Castle MacRinnalch was a stronghold that the guild could never attack.

“Perhaps. But you know the twins won’t come back. Nor will Thrix, nor Kalix.”

Verasa wasn’t pleased to hear her two daughters named among the werewolves who had no desire to return home, though she knew it was true.

“I’m not in favor of initiating violence,” she said. “We’ve had more than enough recently. I don’t believe the guild can seriously hurt us. There aren’t that many werewolves who are vulnerable.”