Wolfsbane: 3 (Rebel Angels) (35 page)

And then the black horse moved its hoof.

Rory seized its fetlock, uselessly. The sneaky brute.

The man had gone absolutely still; he was holding his breath. Slowly, reluctantly, he turned once more. He walked trembling towards our hiding place.

I’d never seen anyone physically jump with fright, but the little tour guide did. In an instant his fear turned to rage, but when the horse lightly shook its neck, he took an involuntary
step backwards. The horse nickered softly, top lip curling back from grinning teeth.

The guide stared at it. His hand was shaking uncontrollably but he was reaching out to the horse’s muzzle, fingers splayed and straining to touch it. Trance-like he took a step forward,
and the black arched its neck and reached for his hand.

‘No.
Eachuisge,
don’t.’ Rory stood up, easing between tour guide and horse. The black’s teeth shut with a disappointed snap, an inch from the little man’s
hand, and it blew through flared red nostrils. As its hot breath touched his skin, the man snatched back his hand, eyes wide.

‘I do not believe it,’ he hissed, recovering. ‘You again! Why do I never remember to report you?’

‘Hello,’ said Rory. Awkwardly he kicked at the cobbles, glancing up at the guide from beneath long dark lashes. Strands of blonde hair fell endearingly forward into his huge grey
eyes, and I chomped hard on my cheeks to stop myself laughing.

The guide looked more confused than convinced. ‘I can’t believe you’ve got the brass neck. I’m calling your parents. Tell me their name and address right now, or
I’ll call the police. This time I
really will.
’

‘My mum’s dead,’ whispered Rory, his voice catching. ‘My dad’s dead too.’

I was awestruck, but uneasy. He was good, but it shocked me that he could even say that.

‘Well, I’m – look, I’m sorry. I’m very sorry for your loss, but you can’t loiter around this castle. This is private property and the stables are under
renovation.’ Glowering, he tugged at his collar. ‘I cannot allow you to play in these stables, horse or no horse. They are a dangerous place to be.’

‘That’s an understatement,’ said a new voice.

Rory froze. His block was back up in an instant; I felt it slam down and I followed suit. Meeting his eyes, I edged up the wall to a standing position. Rory nodded at me, his hand slipping into
the mane of the horse.

The guide turned, exasperated. ‘Now, look here, there are clearly marked barriers. These stables are out of bounds and the general public are not permitted–’

‘I’m not the general public,’ said the newcomer, smiling. ‘I’m the owner.’

‘Mr Stewart?’ The guide squinted into the dimness, neck reddening. He gaped at the long scruffy leather coat, at the untidy black beard and woven braids. Glancing over the burly
shoulder, he frowned. It was too dark for the sword hilt to be clearly visible, but something was worrying him. ‘I don’t…’

‘That’s me. Alasdair Farquhar-Stewart.’ The bearded man gave him a thin-lipped smile, and his employee returned it uncertainly. ‘You’ve met me before, remember? Oh,
come to think of it: probably not.’

‘I...’

Alasdair Farquhar-Stewart rolled his eyes wryly at me and Rory. ‘Bloody Veil. Doesn’t it drive you
mad
?’ He turned back to the guide. ‘These…
children… are trespassing on my property. There is no need to involve the police, understand? I will deal with this myself.’

The guide glanced back at us in the shadows. For the first time a flicker of self-doubt crossed his angry features. ‘Look, that’s all very well, but…’

‘I don’t think you heard me. I said I’ll deal with it.’

‘Mr Stewart – Mr Farquhar-Stewart, I know it’s your property, but there are procedures. I’m sure…’

‘Yes. It’s my property. It’s mine twice over.’ Pushing his hair out of his face, the man stepped into a better light and smiled at the guide. ‘Do you see what I
mean?’

‘I…’ The little man stopped, swallowing. At least, he tried to swallow. There was a dry clicking sound in his throat where he couldn’t quite manage. As he stared up at
the grinning bearded face, I knew a shock of horrible recognition.

My mouth dried. I knew what the tour guide was feeling: the disbelief, the realisation, the crawling horror. Oh, I knew exactly what was in his head. It was in mine too.

The eyes of our minds were seeing the same thing, after all. The guide was seeing that portrait in the library, my own favourite and most special attraction: the Wolf of Kilrevin. And he was
thinking how awfully like Alasdair Farquhar-Stewart it looked.

‘I… well, my goodness, I didn’t know you were a direct descendant. Because I mean, I quite see it now, and I must say the family resemblance is startling…’

The Wolf’s hand went to the hilt on his back. ‘I’m not a descendant.’

‘You’re not.’ The tour guide licked his lips. ‘No. You’re not. Oh, my God.’ His beady eyes widened as the bright blade slid out of its scabbard.

‘Please stand aside, now. There won’t be a problem.’

‘But…’

The Wolf rolled his eyes. ‘Please be assured. There
will not
be a problem. These brats do not exist, do you understand? They don’t exist, any more than I do. There will be
no ramifications, and no-one will blame you for anything, and you will forget this ever happened. Really. It’ll be like a bad dream.’ The casual voice took on a new edge as the guide
went on staring at him in disbelief. ‘Now kindly get your scrawny arse out of the way.’

Terror flowed cold in my veins. The guide was going to stand back and let this psycho get on with it. It wasn’t as if he even liked us. And I’d gone right off the Wolf of
Kilrevin.

‘Listen.’ The guide glanced back at me. His eyes were dilated, and there was a sheen of sweat on his skin. ‘Mr Farquhar… Mr, uh, Wolf… I don’t know what
you’re thinking of, but…’

‘You do know.’ The Wolf’s voice had gone entirely cold. ‘So stand aside.’

I felt Rory’s fingers close on my wrist, and I realised he was already on the horse’s back, leaning low over its neck as he reached for me. Frantically I scrambled, my feet kicking
the horse’s foreleg as I tried to climb up, and Rory grunted with the effort of dragging me. My foot flailed its black flank.

The tour guide’s voice was high-pitched, a vein throbbing in his temple. ‘They’re children. They’re just children. You can’t–’

I wasn’t properly astride the black as it sprang forward, so all I could do was cling to its side like a desperate spider. One of Rory’s hands locked tight around my wrist as he bent
low on the horse’s neck, gripping its mane.

The Wolf of Kilrevin gave a shriek of anger and frustration, and his blade sighed as it cut the air. I didn’t hear another word from the tour guide: only a small surprised gasp, abruptly
cut off.

From the wrong side of the horse I saw almost nothing. I saw Rory turn his face and lock horror-struck eyes with me. I saw dim light catch a swinging blade. I saw a fountaining fan of blood. And
that was all. I did not see the guide hit the ground, but I heard two separate thumps and knew with a lurch of nausea that he’d hit it in two halves.

Then the blade was swinging again, missing only because the black horse shouldered the Wolf aside and he stumbled against the wooden partition. By the time he’d righted himself the black
was flying through the stable entrance and across the tarmac of the car park, its hoofbeats deafening. Screaming tourists flung themselves out of our path.

Rory leaned away from me, far out of the saddle like a yacht racer, grunting as he hauled my wrist. When desperation at last gave me the strength to drag myself on board and properly astride,
Rory righted himself and urged the horse on.

I didn’t think we merited so many screams of horror, until I looked down and saw that the horse’s side was drenched with the tour guide’s blood, and so was a great deal of
Rory. Droplets of it sprayed the nearest people, flying off with the speed of the horse.

I couldn’t see faces, and didn’t want to. Clutching Rory’s waist I shut my eyes tight as the black galloped across the car park. My stomach lurched as it leaped the wire fence
on the boundary; then the clattering hoofbeats became soft thunder and the racket of screams died behind us.

He breathed hard, glaring down at the aggravating jobsworth who’d lost him his prey. He was too efficient, that was his curse. If only the little tosser was alive again,
he could take out some of his frustration.

Alasdair was an easygoing man. He didn’t usually lose his temper so comprehensively, but the fool just wouldn’t get out of the
way
. Rolling his eyes, he wiped his blade
fastidiously on a corner of the little man’s jacket, then rose to his feet and looked down at him. Well, at both of him, in a sense.

That was droll. Alasdair chortled and shook his head. It was a gift, being able to see the humour in any situation.

But this was going to put the cat among the panicked pigeons.

It already had. He tried to walk casually across the car park, and in fact he wasn’t drawing too many stares, since the tourists and guides were still stunned by the passage of the black
horse and its bloodied riders. All the same, a few eyes turned towards him, and there was no hiding the sheathed sword now. There were gasps, and stifled squeaks, and as Alasdair passed by, the
surreptitious bleep of mobile phones making follow-up calls to the police. Taking no notice he strode on, and when he reached the wire fence he leaped it easily and began to run again in his easy
loping wolf-stride. It was a practised pace that let him run for hours.

Alasdair knew this country. He knew how to be inconspicuous, so long as people weren’t forcing him to slice them in half, so long as reckless youngsters weren’t spurring kelpies
across crowded car parks. He sighed. There was going to be a reconstruction now, all right, and a distressing amount of newspaper coverage.

He needed a bath, transport, a change of clothing, but what he needed most was a safe house. And Alasdair knew exactly where to find one.

‘I’m glad it’s summer,’ said Rory. The pool had a reddish tint to its clear brown water as he scrubbed at his blood-stiffened hair.

I sat on the bank and stared at him. I was still too shocked even to look decorously away from the naked boy who stood up to his waist in the water. I did like the wet green place he’d
chosen, a cleft in rocks where a burn fell almost perpendicular through lush green foliage, then pooled in a deep and broad hollow. Around us the trees and ferns were almost tropically dense, and a
hunter would have to be standing five feet away before he saw us.

Rory backed against the mossy black rocks to rinse his hair clean under the running burn. Above us, among the ferny rowans, the black horse grazed in a desultory way, turning now and again to
stare out towards the sea.

Rory glanced at me. ‘You ought to take a bath too,’ he said critically. ‘There’s blood all over you. Who’d’ve thought that little prig had it in
him?’

‘That’s like Macbeth.’ I was barely able to focus. ‘Who’d have thought he had so much blood in him? Or something. Lady Macbeth. I think.’

‘Well, that’s not quite what I meant.’ Rory ducked his head underwater, and reappeared gasping. ‘Anyway, thank the gods for the Wee Prig. We’d be dead if he
hadn’t got in the way.’

I felt as if I was going to faint, like there was no blood in my head at all. ‘I suppose he had a name,’ I whispered. ‘He tried to protect us.’

‘He’d no idea,’ said Rory shortly. ‘Just as well. He’d have run a mile if he did.’

‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘but he had a bit of an idea, didn’t he? And he was brave enough to try and stop him.’

‘He did stop him. So you don’t need to feel so terrible for him, do you? I don’t suppose he ever imagined he’d die a hero.’ Rory gave me a hard look.
‘You’re going to have to get a grip, y’know. Feeling bad about him isn’t going to help us.’

I stared at him. ‘You’re different.’

‘Found out I want to stay alive.’ Rory shrugged, cupped water in his hands and threw it on his face. ‘Hannah. Get washed.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Some healthy sarcasm brought me back to myself a bit, so I stood up and stripped off my t-shirt. Rory turned his back politely as I undressed and put a toe in the water.
Fast, I had to do this fast. Gasping, I plunged in till the water was up to my armpits.

‘Summer. Huh. You could call it that.’ Teeth chattering, I wrung the blood out of my t-shirt, then flung it clumsily up onto a branch. I scrubbed more blood off my skin. ‘What
do we do now?’

Rory let himself float backwards in the water, toes breaking the surface, pale hair drifting around his head. He looked like some beautiful pre-Raphaelite youth in a painting, I thought with a
pang of vague longing. Those were the kind of paintings I’d stick to in future, come to think of it.

As he floundered upright, I ducked my head underwater and shook it out. This pool was more effective than a cold shower. ‘Where to, then?’

‘Oh, ’scuse me.’ Blushing scarlet, Rory turned away as I clambered out of the water. ‘We need to head across country. If my father’s going to come across I’m
pretty sure which watergate he’ll use, and it comes out near his old house. All we need to do is get to him before the Wolf gets to us.’

‘Oh. No pressure then.’

‘We’ll go cross-country. Try and avoid roads.’ Rory hauled on his jeans and pulled his damp t-shirt over his head. ‘Avoid people, too.’

‘Yeah. For their good as much as ours.’ I stepped back and slapped the black horse’s neck.

That was probably a little over-familiar. It snapped its head round to glare at me, turning empty black eyes on mine.

Hypnotised, I stared back. I felt a dizzying vertigo, as if I was toppling into its alien mind. The wood blurred and I felt a presence rub against my consciousness, a memory inside the horse.
And I saw

someone almost familiar, his features clear: grey eyes lit by a mercury spark, a near-smile on his lips. He crouched, glancing back over his shoulder at me, a naked sword
across his knees, a white wolf alert at his side. His face was sharp and beautiful and a little like my own, his dark blond hair short and damp with sweat, sticking out in tousled spikes over his
forehead. His clothes were like something from last century, the nineteen-twenties or thirties: brogues, rough brown trousers and braces, and a collarless white shirt. He crouched there as if
waiting for an unseen attack, but he was smiling, looking at me with absolute trust. And I stood among the trees, silent and loyal, and waited on his word