The Curse of the Wolf Girl (16 page)

“But she’ll never be punished as long as Markus and Verasa protect her.”

Rhona’s face appeared onscreen over her brother’s shoulder. “We’re not giving up. She killed our brother Fergus.”

Ruraich looked over his shoulder. “The music’s starting again. I have to go.”

“We’ll be down in London soon,” said Morag.

Ruraich disconnected, followed swiftly by the Douglas-MacPhees.

“That went better than I expected,” observed Marwanis. “Who says werewolves can’t adapt to technology?”

“When are we going to London?” Morag asked.

“As soon as possible.”

“If the council finds out, there will be trouble.”

“They won’t find out,” said Marwanis, firmly. “Who’s going to report anything to Markus or Verasa? Everyone despises them.”

Kalix woke up in her small bedroom and couldn’t remember where she was. Though her eyes adjusted instantly to the darkness, she felt disoriented. Not until she moved and her hand burned with pain did she remember what had happened. Gawain had been murdered. Immediately she was swamped with feelings of rage and despair. She leapt from her bed and transformed into her werewolf shape, ready to rush out and kill whoever had murdered Gawain. She halted. She didn’t know who had killed him.

Kalix stood for a few moments in darkness then put on the light, changed back to human, and sat on the bed. She looked at her hand. It hurt, but the wound seemed to be healing rapidly. She remembered the dreadful pain as the silver bullet had penetrated her skin, a burning sensation the like of which she’d never experienced. The memory made her shudder, and she reached out for the bottle of laudanum hidden in her small cabinet beside the bed. She took a sip and then, because she was feeling anxious, took another.

The young werewolf tried to piece together her thoughts. If she was to take revenge for Gawain’s murder, she had to know who was responsible for his death. It could only have been the hunters. They must have come from the guild. Kalix stood up. All she had to do was visit the guild’s headquarters and then kill everyone there. Kalix realized that she didn’t know where their headquarters was. She sat down again. Abruptly, a tidal wave of misery engulfed her as she realized that Gawain was really dead and that she’d never see him again. Tears formed in her eyes. Kalix hated crying and would normally strive not to, but this time she let the tears flow. Full of misery, she took another sip of laudanum to dull the pain. She hung her head so her huge mane of hair hung down like a curtain in front of her face. She closed her eyes, but immediately the image of Gawain lying dead in the hallway began to haunt her, and she opened them again in a panic. What would happen to Gawain now? Where was his body? Who would take it? She remembered the police flooding up the stairs and thought of Gawain lying in some police morgue, which made her feel even worse. She should have stayed where she was, killed them all, and taken Gawain’s body away to safety.

Then she remembered that, as she’d fled, she’d seen one of the Douglas-MacPhees. What had he been doing there? Had he killed Gawain? Kalix felt confused. The young werewolf sipped more laudanum and felt scared of everything. Any strong emotion tended to bring on anxiety, and when she felt herself in its clutches, she would panic, which made it worse. The anxiety and the panic fed off of each other. She clenched her fists and tried to pull herself together. Kalix slammed her bottle of laudanum down on the cabinet and rose to her feet.

“I’m not going to panic,” she thought. “I refuse to panic. Gawain is dead and I’m going to take revenge and nothing is going to stop me.”

But even as she thought this, she was aware she was lying to herself. The walls were starting to close in, and a disturbing darkness was visible at the periphery of her vision. Her palms began to sweat.

“I’m not going to panic,” she repeated, this time out loud, “and I don’t need laudanum. I’m going to take revenge.”

She sat down again and drank some more laudanum. It made her feel sick. She had a sudden memory of the huge pool of dried blood under Gawain’s body, a sight so horrifying that she wished she could somehow go back in time and make it never happen. The anxiety grew worse. Kalix screwed up her face and changed back into her werewolf shape. It helped a little, and she felt fierce again, but it didn’t last. Kalix clumsily manipulated her bottle of laudanum into her werewolf paw, drank some more, then lay down. Exhausted by her exertions and her wound, worn out with anxiety and dosed with a great deal of laudanum, Kalix abandoned her thoughts of immediate revenge. She curled up on her bed, drew the quilt over her head to protect her from the world, and fell into a stupor.

Markus had enjoyed his first few months as Thane. Since being elected as head of the clan, he’d reorganized business affairs to his liking. At one time, the Mistress of the Werewolves had expected him to look after much of the clan’s properties. Markus always found this tedious and had now delegated the task to others. He was an enthusiastic supporter of the planned fundraising event. Like his mother, Markus was a great opera enthusiast, excited at the prospect of Felicori coming to perform.

He was listening to a recording of Felicori when Dominil appeared at his door. He greeted her with a show of conviviality, which was rather forced. Markus often felt uncomfortable in Dominil’s presence. Many people did. Her frozen demeanor didn’t help to put a person at ease. Even the werewolves in the castle who’d known her for a long time rarely felt much warmth towards her, nor did they receive any warmth back. She preferred to keep her own company and was reputed to spend her time working on her computer skills and translating Latin poetry. That was odd in itself. The Latin poetry and computer skills didn’t seem to sit easily together as interests, though both might be seen as indications of her intellect. Dominil’s intelligence was commonly acknowledged: it didn’t make her any more popular.

“We should do something about the Avenaris Guild,” said Dominil, coming straight to the point.

“The council didn’t think so.”

Markus smiled, which made him look young. He had soft chestnut hair, thick and curling around his shoulders. He was rather pretty for a werewolf, which wasn’t really a good attribute for the Thane.

“They didn’t,” agreed Dominil, “but the council members are safe in their castles and keeps. It’s different in London. I’m offended that I should be attacked. Furthermore it’s making my work with Yum Yum Sugary Snacks difficult. We should move against the hunters.”

“The council has never agreed to preemptive action. You know how much my mother wants us all to fit in with the world. She’ll never consent to any sort of offensive.”

Dominil waited till Markus offered her a glass of whisky. She sipped from it before speaking again. “Last week four new hunters flew in from Croatia. They’re being trained specifically to search for Butix, Delix, and me.”

“How do you know that?”

“I still have access to the guild’s computers.”

Markus nodded. It was said that Dominil’s prodigious computer skills extended to hacking, which was a mysterious art to Markus and quite troubling in its way. He wondered if Dominil might have reason to examine any of his own private files. There were many things on his computer he wouldn’t want her to see. Pictures of him in women’s clothing, for instance, for which he had a liking. Suddenly uncomfortable, Markus paced around the room.

“My mother would really rather you all returned to Scotland.”

“I know. But I don’t intend to be chased out of London.”

“Attacking werewolf hunters doesn’t sit well with integrating into society.”

“Perhaps not. Although I don’t see why werewolves killing hunters is any more likely to expose us to society than hunters killing us. We just need to do it discreetly.”

“We could raise the matter again at the next meeting,” Markus suggested.

“I have something else in mind. The guild pays its hunters a bonus each time they kill a werewolf. I suggest we turn that around.” Dominil sipped her whisky. For a second, there was an expression on her face that could almost have been described as a smile. “I’ll kill the hunters, and you pay me for it.”

Markus laughed. “That’s not a bad idea, but no one’s going to agree to it.”

“No one has to agree. As Thane, you have access to the clan’s money. You can pay me in secret.”

Markus stared at the white-haired werewolf, realizing that she was serious. “Just how offended are you that you were attacked?”

“Very offended,” replied Dominil, “but that’s not my main reason. It’s the logical thing to do. There’s no point waiting for the Avenaris Guild to attack Beauty, Delicious, and me. I’m certain it’s going to happen, so I’d be better off simply preventing it.”

Markus didn’t know how to reply. He was in favor of killing werewolf hunters but dreaded to think what his mother would say if she learned of the scheme. Besides, he wasn’t entirely convinced by Dominil’s reasoning. Was she really in such danger that she need to embark on a campaign of assassination? Perhaps she just wanted to earn money. It was whispered around the castle that Dominil’s father Tupan wasn’t liberal with his wealth. Though Dominil was now twenty-six, he hadn’t turned over any substantial portion to her.

There was a long silence.

“So are you prepared to pay me for killing werewolf hunters?”

“I’ll need to think about it.”

“Kindly think about it quickly,” said Dominil.

Captain Easterly was no longer in the army, but the title of captain still lingered. Partly, this was because the staff at the magazine regarded it as strange that an ex-soldier was now deputy editor in charge of fashion. When he first arrived, there was suspicion; it was widely reported that he’d only gotten the job because of his father’s connections. The term “captain” had been used about him in a rather derogatory way. But he won them over by proving to be good at his job. His connections helped rather than hindered his work. He seemed to have no problems procuring samples, tickets, invitations, and anything else that his staff needed to make their work run smoothly. At thirty-five, he was young enough to fit in with his readership and old enough not to be carried away by ridiculous fads, and he brought to the men’s fashion pages a solid style that they’d previously lacked. He was now well liked, and though the title of captain had stuck, it was no longer used in a derogatory manner.

As for his simultaneous career as a werewolf hunter, his fellow employees were completely in the dark. Easterly was far too discreet to let anything about his other life slip through into his life at the magazine. The need for discretion was one of several reasons he regretted living in the same apartment block as Albermarle. His distant cousin was a fellow member of the Avenaris Guild who, in Easterly’s eyes, was everything a werewolf hunter shouldn’t be: indiscreet, foolish, juvenile, and as far as could be ascertained, mainly interested in watching science fiction on TV. Albermarle had done good service for the guild in intelligence gathering, but Easterly still found it difficult to believe that his cousin was actually going into active service. He didn’t like Albermarle at all but would still be sorry to hear that he’d had his neck broken by a werewolf.

Easterly took the unusual step of visiting his cousin. They both lived in a large block by the river in the borough of Chelsea. It was an expensive area to live in, which made Easterly regret that the same family money that had supported him throughout his career was also available to Albermarle, albeit not quite so much. Albermarle had inherited enough money to let him overeat and to buy endless computers and a host of paraphernalia, which Easterly found almost inexplicable. His three-bedroom apartment was crammed with an incredible array of comics, figurines, DVDs, and so on, more suitable for a fifteen-year-old boy than a grown man. Albermarle had been to Oxford and done well there. There was no disputing his intellect. But, as Easterly thought when Albermarle opened the door with a slice of pizza in one hand and a comic in the other, raw intellect didn’t count for everything in the real world.

“What do you want?” asked Albermarle, suspiciously.

“You not to get yourself killed,” replied Easterly. “Or at least, not while I’m supposed to be looking after you.”

Thrix’s assistant Ann wasn’t surprised to receive a phone call from her employer informing her that the enchantress would be returning home earlier than expected. She knew Thrix resented the time she was obliged to spend away from work. She also knew that Thrix was a werewolf; Ann was the only person to whom Thrix had volunteered this information. Thrix was almost ninety years old, which was still young in werewolf terms. She had the appearance of a thirty-year-old woman and a glamorous one at that. Her mother Verasa was almost two hundred and fifty years old, and she hadn’t lost her style either.

Ann was surprised at Thrix’s poor temper. An early departure from Castle MacRinnalch should have put her in a good mood.

“I’ve been dragged back into clan affairs,” explained Thrix, testily, on the phone, while driving into London from the airport. “No matter how I try and distance myself, Kalix always drags me back in.” Thrix lowered her voice. “And Gawain’s dead.”

Ann wasn’t sure what to say. She knew Thrix didn’t remember her affair with Gawain as a particularly glorious experience. It had involved deceiving her sister and her mother and cavorting with a banished werewolf. A werewolf to whom, Ann, suspected, Thrix had become much more attached than she’d ever admitted. A werewolf who’d abandoned her for Kalix at the earliest opportunity. No wonder Thrix didn’t remember the affair fondly. Ann wouldn’t have been that surprised to learn Thrix had killed him herself.

She made arrangements to postpone Thrix’s business engagements while her employer went about the difficult business of smoothing over the difficulties in which the MacRinnalch clan now found itself. The police were in possession of a werewolf body, and that in itself was troubling. A werewolf body looked much the same as a human, even on the inside, but there were certain organic and chemical differences which a careful autopsy might discover. Even if that didn’t happen, Gawain’s body had been discovered in the midst of a scene of carnage. His identity and his death were now the subject of a police inquiry. Gawain had one living relative in Scotland: his werewolf sister who was attending St. Andrew’s University. Neither she nor the clan would welcome close investigation.