Wolfsbane: 3 (Rebel Angels) (8 page)

‘That man,’ he said. ‘He’s not your father.’

I shook my head violently. ‘Stop that. Get out.’ I jumped back, and that’s when I spotted the woman behind him.

She’d approached in silence and now she stood there watching me, her arms folded. Short-cropped dark red hair, golden brown eyes, the most extraordinarily beautiful face I’d ever
seen. Seth must have seen my eyes widen, because he glanced over his shoulder. Then back at me. He shook his head as if dismissing a thought.

‘Why don’t you stay?’ he said.

I breathed hard. ‘What?’

‘You won’t find him anywhere else. Probably.’

Tears sprang to my eyes and I blinked furiously, gritting my teeth. ‘I’m not looking,’ I hissed.

‘Yes, you are. He’s from here, you know that?’

‘Stop it! That’s my business! It’s my – father!’

He shrugged. ‘Sorry. It’s like looking in a lit window. Sometimes we can’t help it.’

‘Doesn’t anybody believe in
privacy
?’ I almost shrieked.

‘I said I’m sorry. But aren’t you curious about your father? I know I am.’

‘Yeah? I thought I was a
mongrel runt
?’

He hooted a laugh, and then his voice dropped so low only I could have heard it. ‘We won’t hurt you.’ The ‘we’ was stressed, just enough; then his voice was normal
again, volume, tone and all. ‘Oh, and
he
wants you to stay the summer.’ Seth jerked a thumb at his son.

‘He does?’ I gave Rory a shocked sidelong glance. He’d brightened so much he almost seemed taller. His face was all hopeful innocence as he raised his eyebrows at me.

Seth had known exactly what to say. That disturbed me a lot more than it encouraged me. The wild prospect of finding my father wasn’t one I could just ignore. He knew that. Bastard.

The thing was that I considered the rival attractions. Vodka hidden in Sprite bottles in the park; drinking it with girls I barely liked and boys I loathed. Shoplifting for fun, taking bets on
who’d get the next visit from the community support officer. Trying, without looking too uncool, to avoid the drugs that managed to make me simultaneously hyper and bored. Endless sniping
from Sheena; gladiatorial bitching contests with my cousins; Marty’s leering eyes and pawing fingers. Oh, and a whole summer’s taunting from Lauren, just because I so desperately wanted
my father, I’d been stupid enough to put it in writing.

Would they even report me missing? Even if they did, nobody would look that hard.

I took a surreptitious look round the stone courtyard. Those were stables on the south side, and I’d been passed by at least six perfectly normal horses that hadn’t tried to eat me.
I liked riding; I’d been not bad at it when I was eight, brilliant when I was nine.

To the right was a large sand arena where a woman in a black t-shirt, her long blonde hair woven into a thick braid, was galloping a horse past a line of butts and firing arrows with scary
consistency. Out on the machair the anarchic football match was back in progress, and I felt like I could belt right down there and join in, and would be perfectly welcome if I did. The sun was
high and warm, and there were two beaches close by, white sands laced around clear turquoise water. I didn’t want to go back the The Paddocks. Ever.

And Rory was the hottest thing I’d seen
all year.

‘Here’s the deal.’ Seth grinned at me. ‘You, Ginger, can keep your hands to yourself. And I’ll smooth things over with your aunt.’

‘It’s strawberry blonde,’ I said. ‘Yes please.’

I knew the dream wasn’t real. Never was, not these days. I was aware even in sleep that I wasn’t a small child any more, but not being real isn’t the same as
not being true. Watching my father crawl on the stone floor of our shared room, moonlight dancing on his twisted back muscles, I was quizzical; and even my unformed baby brain was needled with pity
as well as fear. But there was nothing I could do. Never was.

Seth hadn’t seen me, didn’t know I was awake. He curled on the rug like a wounded animal, clawing at his shoulder blades. When each spasm passed, he hugged his legs, sobbing
soundlessly. Everything was done silently. I think it wasn’t just pride; I think he didn’t want to wake me. He didn’t know I was always awake.

Towards the end of the dream – because I always dreamed of that one particular night – he raised his head and blinked and he saw me. The pain ebbed and he drew breath; he uncoiled
and clambered onto all fours; and his eyes met mine.

His ribs still heaving, he couldn’t speak. He must’ve thought it was my first time seeing it, and the horror in his eyes was worse than all the grim agony that went before.

‘Rory,’ he gasped. ‘Gods, boy, I’m only fooling.’ The rictus smile belied it all. ‘Rory. It’s a
game
.’

I was three years old. Three.

‘Ah, Rory. Oh, lad.’ The smile grew more real, and more regretful, as he regained his sanity and the world. ‘You’re going to need a room of your own.’

I could never sleep after that dream, or rather that recalled memory. I hadn’t for a second assumed the torment had stopped once he’d banished me from my small cot
in his room. I’d taken it for granted that it went on happening; just without me there to see it. And often I thought that it wasn’t a dream at all, but Seth himself, in real time, out
of control and bleeding into me.

I tried not to feel guilty, because they told me often enough it hadn’t been my fault. Seth was shot in the back because he’d betrayed his own brother, and if he’d had to
rescue me, it was because he’d handed me over to the enemy queen in the first place. He had no-one to blame but himself; and the clann had had every right to flog him for what he did; and
perhaps there was a reason he’d never been competently healed of his wounds.

That didn’t mean I couldn’t rage at them all, safe in the privacy of my own head. I loved my clann; that didn’t mean I thought they could do no wrong. All I could do, on the
nights when the dream visited me, was stumble out of bed and walk the stone passageways till I felt tiredness creep up the nape of my neck again. I didn’t – couldn’t –
resent Seth for the disturbed nights, and there was no point being permanently furious with the clann; and anyway, the dun was so still and so peaceful in the small hours. No running feet, no
raucous laughter or angry shouts or clipped commands. So late, there wasn’t even music. It was always a good time to think.

Tonight I wondered if I should knock on Hannah’s door. Maybe she was lying awake herself, wondering what she’d got herself into. I knew she believed the evidence of her senses
– she was smart enough for that – but she was willing to use only five of them.

I uncurled my fist just as it touched the smooth oak of her door, and placed my palm softly against it. No. Asleep or awake, it was no time to disturb her. My father, entirely free of scruples
where full-mortals were concerned, had taken Eili with him across the Veil and paid a visit to Hannah’s aunt and uncle. In minutes the couple who were in loco parentis understood that Hannah
should spend her summer not at The Paddocks, in the off-license and in the Sheriff Court, but with distant relatives in an unknown place doing God-knew-what with her time.

I believe he forgot to mention the war.

Hannah had agreed to it all, of course, and with some enthusiasm, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t thinking it over. About the fact they’d let her go so easily, that they really
couldn’t have cared less.

Tactlessly, Eili had laughed when she and Seth returned and told their story. There were none so malleable, she told me waspishly, as those who wished to believe. And Sheena, at least, had
wished very much to be rid of Hannah. Why, it took barely a tweak of the brainwaves. The reassuring presence of a scrubbed-up and responsible-looking female had been wholly unnecessary, she
muttered as she strode back to her forge, ostentatiously messing up her hair with her fingers. She’d clearly resented Seth robbing her precious time just to provide me with a companion.

It was the kind of thing that gave our race an evil name, Sionnach reminded us all: seducing full-mortals across the Veil and keeping them there for our pleasure and distraction. It wasn’t
ever
quite
like that but it did give us a bad reputation.

Except that Hannah wasn’t a full-mortal. And there was no-one my age in the dun. And growing up a half-breed runt in a clann proud of its bloodlines, you sometimes want to meet someone of
your own kind.

I wasn’t a runt any more. You can’t afford to be a runt when you’re allegedly the mythical Bloodstone and the saviour of your race. Or even when you
aren’t
– because there’s no such thing according to your rationalist father – but you still have to live up to a legend you never earned or believed. Because it isn’t only your own
clann who believe it; it’s the enemy clanns, too, and their powerful queen, and they’d do anything or kill anyone to get their hands on you. As a reason for one’s existence
it’s a lot to live up to, particularly when your own father dismisses it as the superstitious ravings of an ancient madwoman.

It was also why the mother I never knew had died at the hands of a Lammyr, and my uncle Conal had been murdered defending me, and my whole clann spent their years fighting and dying and killing
for me. And that was why I’d grown up a virtual prisoner in what would one day – faery queens permitting – be my own dun.

I could hardly be blamed for wanting some fun. I’d have to wait, though, for their memories of my latest escape to dull. When I slipped down the stairs and out through the main door,
Sorcha stepped lightly in front of me.

‘No, you don’t, Rory Bhan.’ Her sheathed dagger tickled my chest playfully. ‘Seth–’

‘Says I’m not allowed out of the dun.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘That’s why I’m not going, then.’

‘I’ve heard that one before,’ drawled Sorcha’s fellow-guard, a sturdy sod called Eorna who’d once taught my own father to fight.

‘Yeah, well. This time I mean it.’

Sorcha narrowed her eyes and leaned closer to me, the leather-and-silver scabbard digging painfully into my ribs. I pushed it crossly aside.

‘So help me, you wee bastard. You take one step past the courtyard boundary, and I’ll be thrashing your arse before you can take a second one.’

I knew she meant it. As far as Sorcha was concerned, I might still be three years old. I grinned. ‘I won’t, Sorcha. Promise.’

She grinned back and withdrew the sheathed dagger, slapping my backside with it by way of farewell. ‘In that case, bugger off and let us gossip in peace.’

I didn’t dare head even vaguely towards the eastern courtyard and the gate beyond, and besides, I’d told Sorcha the truth: the sole point of my small-hours expedition was to visit
the stables. I wouldn’t be daring to hijack Seth’s horse again – well, not for a few weeks – but I felt that if I could only look into its eyes, study the winding course of
its unfathomable mind, I might find some keystone clue to its whole species. If I could once tame that kelpie at the little loch in the pass between the hills, my father might finally call me an
adult. He might begin to respect me. He might even trust me to leave the dun walls for longer than five minutes at a time, I thought bitterly. If I could only tame the kelpie; and to do that, maybe
I needed to understand Seth’s.

Unfortunately, on this occasion, he’d beaten me to it. It must have been another sleepless night. I didn’t speak to let Seth know I was there; instead I blocked my mind and edged
silently back into the shadows.

If there was a creature he could trust with his lonely nights and his racked conscience, it should have been me. Instead he slumped lazily against the partition of the blue roan’s stall,
barefoot and bare-chested, his eyes shadowed with insomnia but glittering deep down with the moment’s happiness. Branndair stood above him, licking his face and neck like a mother wolf
quieting a pup, and Seth laughed hoarsely, grabbing the wolf’s black-maned shoulders and hauling him down for a hug.

Branndair gave a huge sigh and rolled over in my father’s arms. The one arm Seth could still move went round the wolf to rub his belly, and Branndair squirmed with delight. All the while
the blue roan shifted lazily above them both, a great protecting beast. Seth closed his eyes as Branndair whimpered happily and wriggled more comfortably against him.

I ached to go and sit beside them, to snuggle beneath my father’s free arm and feel it go round me instead of the wolf, but it was out of the question. He’d wake, and the grey eyes
would freeze, and that guarded shutter would come down across his face and his mind. I’d disappoint myself, and I’d ruin his easy happiness, and this was such a contrast to the Seth of
the daytime I found it was enough just to watch him.