The Curse of the Wolf Girl (6 page)

The two werewolves chose not to respond. The high price the merchant charged them for laudanum had never endeared him to them. Dominil settled the bill, and they left the shop, carefully sniffing the air for a sign of more hunters. Halfway along the alley, they paused to look down at the corpse.

“I recognize him,” said Dominil. “He was one of the hunters who attacked us at the rehearsal studio. That means he’s from the Avenaris Guild.” She narrowed her eyes. “I’ve had enough of the guild harassing us.”

Kalix nodded in agreement. She herself had been pursued by their agents many times.

“Perhaps it’s time the clan did something about it,” said Dominil.

They walked on quickly, out of the alley, back into the modern world of tower blocks, where office workers were now spilling out of their buildings, heading for home.

Decembrius walked through the center of London, pausing on Charing Cross Road in front of St. Martin’s College of Art. The building itself was of gray stone, almost indistinguishable from the buildings around it save for a small window exhibiting some work by their students, but Decembrius stood there a while anyway. The Sex Pistols had played their first gig here, which interested him. He’d watched a program last week about famous gigs in London, and that had been one of them. Several students walked past him on their way into the building. The girls examined him with interest. With his swept-back red hair, leather jacket, and multiple earrings, Decembrius was quite a noticeable figure these days.

He walked on down Charing Cross Road and turned the corner into Oxford Street, crossing the road swiftly to avoid the constant stream of taxis and large red buses. He paused again in front of the 100 Club, an unprepossessing entrance. Outside there was a small board advertising tonight’s gig, featuring some jazz musicians he’d never heard of. But here at the 100 Club, Decembrius now knew, the Sex Pistols had played at a famous punk festival in 1976 with other very early punk rock innovators. That had been an influential gig too, according to the program he’d watched.

Decembrius was on his way to meet the Douglas-MacPhees, not an encounter he was looking forward to. He wondered why they’d contacted him. If they were hoping that he might use his powers of seeing to find something, they were going to be disappointed.

Though his prescience had vanished, and his moods were tending towards depression, Decembrius at least felt physically well. Last night in his apartment, he’d slept as a werewolf. He usually did. The transformation was a revitalizing experience for any MacRinnalch, though changing into werewolf form in the city could be awkward. A MacRinnalch werewolf didn’t lose control but did feel rather differently about life. The urge to prowl through the night and hunt could be very strong. Decembrius was experienced enough to control his urges. He had no intention of being discovered, particularly as the Avenaris Guild had their headquarters in London. The guild had killed many werewolves, and Decembrius was acutely aware that, since the death of Sarapen, he was on his own. He had no allies to turn to for assistance.

He walked on for a while then hesitated, unsure of his direction. He scowled and cursed silently. “I’m not supposed to get lost. I’m a werewolf,” he thought.

But lost he was. There had been a time when Decembrius could track anyone anywhere, always knowing by instinct where he was. Now he found himself wandering around looking for any street or building that looked familiar. Eventually he was obliged to go into a small tourist shop and buy a street map of London, an experience that he found rather embarrassing. He opened it as discreetly as he could, huddling in a doorway, checking his directions, and trying not to look like a tourist.

In the lair of Baron MacPhee, Marwanis MacRinnalch was courted by both Wallace MacGregor, the baron’s son, and Lachlan MacGregor, the baron’s chief advisor. Marwanis had no interest in her suitors. She wanted revenge for the death of Sarapen, whom she had loved.

“Sarapen was murdered. He was the eldest son of the Thane. The clan should take revenge, but it won’t because the clan is run by accomplices to his murder. His family should take revenge, but it won’t because his family were the killers. The Great Council should take revenge, but it won’t because the council is dominated by his murderers. There’s no one to take revenge for Sarapen’s death.” Marwanis raged against the injustice of it. “The Thane, the Mistress of the Werewolves, and their lackeys on the council might think they can forget that Kalix killed Sarapen. I’ll show them they can’t. I’ll see Kalix dead for it if it’s the last thing I do.”

Lachlan MacGregor was troubled. He’d hoped that here, in the house Baron MacGregor had provided for Marwanis on his estates in the Rinnalch hills, far to the north of Castle MacRinnalch, Marwanis might start to forget. Like many of the MacGregor werewolves, Lachlan had supported Sarapen. But he was dead now, and the feud was over.

“There’s no point in more bloodshed,” Lachlan declared.

“No point if you’re a coward in a clan of cowards who’ll lie down and roll over for Markus and his mother,” said Marwanis. “You make me sick, all of you. And if none of you are prepared to do what should be done, I’ll find some werewolves who are.”

Lachlan had the uncomfortable feeling that there might be plenty of werewolves prepared to do what Marwanis wanted. Marwanis wasn’t a warrior or even particularly strong by the standards of the werewolf clan, but she was much admired and persuasive. Marwanis had long been the most popular of the younger werewolves who made up what could be termed the MacRinnalch ruling family. In contrast to Thrix, who’d abandoned the clan to seek fame in London; Butix and Delix, who’d departed to bring shame on the clan with their degenerate lifestyle; and Dominil, with her notoriously hostile demeanor, Marwanis was a symbol of MacRinnalch tradition: respected, respectful, elegant, and almost everything that a proper werewolf should be.

The older werewolves, and many of the younger ones too, didn’t approve of those who left home in search of excitement. It was a danger to the clan and shouldn’t be encouraged. It was something of a blemish on the reputation of even such a renowned werewolf as Verasa MacRinnalch that her children had not turned out as respectably as Marwanis.

There was no need to make comparisons with Kalix, of course. Kalix was universally regarded as mad and beyond redemption.

Marwanis, for all her respectability, had refused to declare peace after the feud was over. She’d stopped attending meetings of the Great Council. She asked Lachlan if he could put her in touch with the Douglas-MacPhees, and though Lachlan was troubled at the thought, he nonetheless did as she asked. Marwanis made contact with them, arranged to meet, and then wondered who else she might recruit in her quest for revenge against Kalix.

Dominil drove Kalix back to Tottenham Court Road tube station where Kalix caught a late train to Kennington. She had a fresh bottle of laudanum in her pocket and kept her hand on it. As Kalix journeyed south, she was deep in thought, oblivious to the passengers around her. The attack by the werewolf hunter hadn’t troubled her unduly, but Gawain’s letter had. Kalix wished she’d been able to formulate some sort of question about Gawain that Dominil might have been willing to answer, but Dominil had been characteristically unforthcoming. Dominil was focused on helping the twins’ band and had no time for Kalix’s problems.

As always, Kalix’s recent change into werewolf shape had invigorated her. She drew strength from it, and it showed. These days she was quite a striking figure. The current generation of female MacRinnalchs were noted for their beauty. Dominil, Marwanis, Beauty, and Delicious all caused heads to turn. The seventeen-year-old Kalix was perhaps the most beautiful of them. She was skinny, waif-like, with thick, dark hair flowing down to her waist. Her eyes were large and very dark, and she had an unusually wide mouth, characteristic of the MacRinnalch women. Now that she was looking after herself better, her complexion was clear, and the dark shadows under her eyes had disappeared. As some of the passengers eyed her surreptitiously, they wondered about her. Why, for instance, was such a beautiful young girl dressed so shabbily, in an old coat, an oversized shirt, and boots that were falling apart? Was she too poor to buy clothes? Or just following some trend for ragged garments? A fashion student making a statement, perhaps? It was difficult to say.

Kalix stared at her feet, unaware of the attention. The news that Gawain wanted to see her was monumental. Her mind raced in all directions. In the past few months, she’d felt every possible emotion towards Gawain, from the deepest, most painful yearning to savage, murderous fury. Gawain, the son of a very respectable werewolf family, had once been her lover. Her lover at far too young an age for the family’s liking. Kalix’s father, the Thane, had banished him from the castle, exiling him from the clan. It was this that had finally tipped the troubled young Kalix over the edge, leading to her madness, her attack on the Thane, and her own exile. In the three years they’d been apart, Kalix had never stopped thinking of Gawain. When they’d finally met, thrown together by the chaotic events that followed the Thane’s death, it had not gone the way either of them planned. Gawain, believing himself to be rejected by Kalix, had become involved in an affair with Thrix, Kalix’s older sister. To Kalix, this had been a staggering act of betrayal. She’d probably have attacked them both had she not simultaneously been plunged into battle with her elder brother Sarapen and his supporters. By the time the ferocious combat was over, Sarapen was dead at Kalix’s hands. Sarapen, the strongest and fiercest werewolf in the country, had been unable to overcome her.

Afterwards Kalix had been too drained to think of anything. Gawain had survived, badly wounded. He’d limped off without speaking to anyone. Though Kalix had seen her sister Thrix since, she’d never raised the matter of the affair with her ex-lover. It was too painful. She’d been miserable in a way she thought would never end. Though the raw wound had lessened a little over the past few months, it hadn’t gone away. Kalix still yearned for Gawain but now it was more hurtful, with the image of Thrix mixed in with it. Sometimes she still felt like killing them both. Other times she wished she could just be back with Gawain, forgetting all their troubles. Occasionally she wished she’d never met him in the first place.

Now Gawain wanted to meet her. Kalix didn’t know what to think. She felt a familiar anxiety creeping up on her and wished she could drink some laudanum here in the underground. Kalix was frequently plagued by anxiety. Any unusual event could trigger it. She felt her palms go moist and began to fear that she might have a panic attack right now. She clenched her fists and tried to ward it off.

When the train eventually pulled into Kennington station, Kalix rushed off, barging her way past people and running up the escalator, desperate to be above ground. As she reached the outside world and felt the night and the moon above her, she felt a little better. She had an urge to take on her werewolf shape for comfort, but there were still too many people around. So the young werewolf hurried on towards the flat she shared with Daniel and Moonglow, where she could retire to the privacy of her own room, drink laudanum, curl up on her bed in her werewolf shape, and perhaps stop feeling anxious about the letter from Gawain.

In Daniel and Moonglow’s small flat above an empty shop in Kennington, an unfashionable part of South London, Daniel was stressed. Exams were not far away. Having turned in some fairly acceptable coursework, he was approaching them in better shape academically than he might have been if he hadn’t had extensive help from Moonglow. Without her, he’d have been sunk already, which he freely acknowledged. Nonetheless, he railed against his fate. Surely this system of exams was antiquated and out of place in the modern world?

“Don’t they want us to be fully developed, capable of tackling problems in a non-conventional way?” he complained.

“Possibly,” replied Moonglow. “But you still have to pass your exams.”

“It’s ridiculously old-fashioned. You’d think we were stuck in the eighteenth century or something.”

Moonglow looked up from her book. “Study,” she said, “and stop complaining.”

Daniel made a face and tried to reapply himself, meanwhile thinking harsh thoughts about the novels of George Eliot, which he’d never particularly taken to. Both young students sat at the table in the living room, studying, but the silence lasted only for a few minutes.

“It’s not a fair system. Look at all these other students with nothing to do except study. Then think of the problems we’ve faced. We have a werewolf to look after.”

Moonglow smiled. It was a reasonable point. They did have a werewolf to look after. Since meeting Kalix they’d had a lot of distractions. They’d found themselves pitched into the middle of a ferocious war, an affair that involved not only Scottish werewolves but also strange beings from another dimension. The queen of the Fire Elementals had actually stored clothes in their attic. Surely no other students had encountered such difficulties.

“We haven’t had that many werewolf distractions recently,” Moonglow pointed out. “The feud’s over, and Kalix has been fairly quiet.”

Daniel was unconvinced. It still seemed unjust. “Anyone that has to look after a werewolf should get extra marks on the exam. It’s the only fair thing to do.”

Daniel’s tirade against the iniquities of the education system was interrupted as they heard the door slam downstairs.

Moonglow smiled as Kalix entered the room. “Hello, Kalix. You’re just in time for a tea break. We’ve been studying, and Daniel keeps complaining about everything.”

“I was just pointing out—”

Daniel halted. Kalix was gone. She’d barely acknowledged them before disappearing to her own room. “You still couldn’t say her social skills were great, could you?”