by Alexis Hall
We seemed to be doing what BBC costume dramas called “taking a turn about the room.” Henry steered me expertly through the crowds and the canapés.
“But doesn’t Jumbo work for the pack?” I asked. “What if someone ordered him to?”
“He doesn’t really do orders.”
“What about the rest of them?”
“Well. Bunny’s in charge, but that’s just not the way it works.”
We got ourselves tucked into a corner out of the way of the other guests. “Sorry, who’s Bunny again?”
He burst out laughing. “Tara. We called her Bunny at Roedean.”
There was a pause.
“Why would you do that?”
“It’s just a nickname. Who knows where nicknames come from?”
“If people started start calling me Bunny, I’d want an explanation.”
He patted my hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry, you don’t look like a Bunny. Anyway, if Tara had wanted Andrew dead, she’d have done it herself, and we’d all know about it.”
“I bet that makes for awkward Christmases.”
“Less than you might think.”
“So there’s no one else?” I pressed him.
He shook his head. “If this were a country house murder, I’d suspect Tara’s mother, but only because she has no connection to the crime whatsoever.” He gestured discreetly. “That’s her over there. See the resemblance?”
I could definitely see the resemblance. Tara’s mother was tall, blonde, and fabulous. And I wasn’t going there. I have a one generation at a time policy. To go with my one supernatural creature at a time policy. And my not at a funeral policy. I needed another drink.
“She seems . . . nice. Unmurderous.” I was really trying to avoid the word MILF.
“She is,” agreed Henry. “Nice. And unmurderous.”
“You do realise that now we’ve had this conversation, she probably did it.”
Suddenly Henry’s head snapped up like a meerkat, and he actually sniffed the air.
“What’s wrong?”
“Who are they?”
Kauri and a few other performers I recognised from the Velvet were standing respectfully by the body. Kauri was wearing a dark suit over a white shirt and a black velvet corset. There was a dusting of gold across his eyes. He had that sad, quiet look you get when you don’t want to piss on other people’s grief.
“That’s Andrew’s boyfriend. And Cabaret Baudelaire.”
Henry relaxed. “I should have guessed. It was kind of them to come.”
“Come on,” I said. “I’ll introduce you.”
Henry followed me across the room. “And you said you were shit at parties.”
I did that thing and left them having a not-entirely stilted conversation about the dead guy. I didn’t feel like making small talk with strangers, and I didn’t think I could learn much more in here, so I grabbed another drink and slipped out into the corridor. I was leaning away from suspecting the werewolves. I obviously couldn’t take Henry’s word for it, but the way Andrew had died didn’t seem their style. The Dowager looked as ruthless as they come, but if she wanted to stop a member of her family dating a vampire, surely she’d just kill the vampire? And werewolves didn’t generally need to summon monsters to do their murdering for them—unless it was an exceptionally thorough cover-up. Which basically left me back where I’d been last Sunday: with the exsanguinated body of a guy nobody wanted to kill. I was fast running out of options that weren’t “random act of monster.”
Passing another one of those pointless function rooms, the sound of lowered voices made my PI senses tingle, and I couldn’t help lurking by the doorway. If someone came by, I could always pretend to be lost or drunk, and I wouldn’t even be lying.
“You will not tell me how to manage the affairs of this family.” That was Tara’s voice. She sounded narked. But then, that was how she usually sounded when I was around.
“This is an insult to the memory of our cousin. There are vampires here and, worse, mortals.” I recognised that voice too. It had been horrible to me earlier.
“That is my decision, not yours.”
“Your decisions will lead the pack to ruin,” snarled the Dowager. “We should have strangled you at birth. That I should live to see my family ruled by the daughter of a whore and an exile.”
Wow. Henry had said his grandmother was a terrible human being.
“Your counsel is noted.” Tara sounded calmer than I would have. “Leave me.”
I nipped out of the way as the Dowager swept out. I leaned against the wall and decided to finish my drink while I waited for the coast to clear. Then I could rejoin the party. Joy.
“You’ve got a lot to learn about spying on werewolves.” Tara stepped round the corner. “You smell of cheap cigarettes and dirty sex. I’d recognise it anywhere.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls as well.”
Busted.
She put her hands flat to the wall on either side of my head and leaned over me. This woman had no concept of personal space. “You should be careful, Kate Kane. My indulgence has limits.”
Being trapped in a corner by a hot lingerie model might be fun under the right circumstances, but right now I wasn’t sure whether it was sexy-threatening or just threatening. I had a knife, but stabbing the host at a funeral would probably be considered rude. Besides, she was a werewolf, and it would just piss her off and ruin a perfectly good dress.
There was only one thing for it. Sex my way out. Oh, my life is so hard.
I raised my knee and slid it up the inside of her thigh. “You should be careful who you pin to walls, Tara Vane-Tempest.”
She hooked her foot round my leg, holding me off balance, and pressed in further, a spill of golden hair brushing my cheek. I was even less in control of the situation than I thought I was. I could feel the heat of her body . . . quite a lot of her body, actually. Her eyes gleamed amber.
“Who killed Andrew?”
Well, fuck.
I’d just lost sex-chicken. I tried to lean back, but the wall was there. Damn you, wall.
“I don’t know for certain,” I babbled, trying to wriggle away from all the skin and warmth and eyes and hands. “I’m still sort of working on it.”
She caught me under the chin, forcing me look up at her. “Tell me.” Her breath rushed across my lips like a kiss.
“It’s complicated. I need more time. There was a mage involved, but—”
“I thought so.” Tara pushed away from me and swept off. I guess sweeping ran in the family. Well, fuck. Fuck. You fucked up, Kate Kane.
I had to warn Nim that I’d just dropped her in it. And I was stuck in a tight dress without a phone in a Gothic ruin full of werewolves. I grabbed one of the catering staff, who directed me to, I shit you not, a telephone room. A room. For a telephone. What the hell.
Sitting in state on a mahogany table was an actual black Bakelite. You know, one of the manual dial things. Nim changes her phone every couple of months, and I didn’t have the new number, but one of her lieutenants—Rachel, the Guardian of the Watchtower of the East—did weird telecommunications magic from a call centre in Hackney. I dialled that number and got through to an automated voice, which told me my call was important. It started playing that tune you always get when you’re on hold: da da da da dada daa, da da da da dada daa, didi dum didi dum di dum dum dum.
I spoke into the music. “I need to speak to the Guardian of the Watchtower of the East.” The line faded into an eerie static. And then a voice with a broad Estuary accent said: “Hi, this is the Guardian of the Watchtower of the East. I’m not ’ere right now. Please leave a message after the beep.” Beep, said Archer’s voice in my head.
There was a beep, then silence.
“Fuck. Uh, this is a message for Nim. From Kate. Kate Kane. I forgot about the werewolves, and they know. They’ll be coming for you. Be ready. I’m really fuck
ing sorry. Fuck.”
I fucking hate answering machines.
I put the phone down and went back to the party, hoping to find Tara and explain. But she was already tinging on a glass for silence.
“Brothers, sisters, friends,” she said. “We come together to guard Cousin Andrew on his final journey. The woods are dark and our enemies myriad. But we are the wardens of the ways between worlds. From the beginning, we have stood and we have watched and we have fought. Tonight, we commend Andrew’s body to his ancestors. The shadows will come for him, and we will hold them back.”
Beside her, Henry began a low, mournful howl and, one by one, the others joined in until the room echoed with the grief of wolves. At last, Tara threw back her head, the strength of her voice uniting the others. I stood quietly and listened. It should have been weird as hell, but I guess pain is pain.
Tara put one hand to her shoulder and released whatever was holding her impossible dress in place. There was the briefest flash of skin and then an enormous golden wolf was shaking out its coat. The French windows had been thrown open and people were spilling onto the terrace, some of them sprouting claws and fangs and gleaming lupine eyes. There were about a dozen full werewolves, emerging from discarded gowns. One of them was silver-grey and lean. I would have recognised the Dowager anywhere. Henry had thrown off his jacket and torn off his shirt. A moment later, he padded outside in wolf form to join Tara.
I hung back, not sure what was expected of me. I had no intention of taking my dress off. Unless I got a very good offer. And, to be honest, I didn’t fancy wandering round the forest of Safernoc again. On the other hand, I had to find Tara as soon as possible, and I guess, since Maeve was probably off the hook for Andrew, I should have been looking a bit more deeply into the monsters that seemed to be trying to kill his family.
It wasn’t long before I was the only person left in the room. Not fun. Oh wait, not the only person left.
The man Henry had called Jumbo uncurled himself from an armchair and came reluctantly to his feet, stifling a yawn. He finished his drink, ate a canapé, and sauntered over to me.
“Playing the wallflower, Ms. Kane?”
“Is that a polite term for standing around like an idiot?”
“I rarely use polite terms for anything. But you do look a little lost. I take it nobody has explained the traditions to you?”
“I need to find Tara,” I said. I didn’t think it was worth mentioning that I needed to find Tara to try and talk her out of eating one of my ex-girlfriends.
Jumbo laughed, an unhurried, indulgent sort of laugh. I think it meant I’ll try to help, but you’re fucked. He stretched out a hand, his fingertips lengthening one by one into claws.
“Well, my dear,” he drawled, “you’ll have to catch her first. And that would be quite extraordinarily dangerous. I strongly recommend that you remain with the main hunting party and do not even consider taking one of the horses off the beaten path into the dark heart of the woods. Nor should you follow the ghost lights until you reach the withered grove and the realm of the pale stag.”
It’s possible the angry silver faery with the antlers I’d met last time I was here was something completely different, but I doubted it. “What’s the deal with that thing?”
Jumbo wagged a chiding claw at me. “One shouldn’t delve too deeply into family secrets. It’s a powerful local spirit, and that’s all you need to know.”
“Look, I’m all for privacy and everything, but I’m investigating a murder here.” This was getting serious, so I ditched my drink. “Faeries hold grudges. Trust me, I know. So, as far as I’m concerned, this stag thing is a suspect.”
“You reason that such a creature, angered from years of conflict with our family, would choose to lash out at one of its most isolated and vulnerable members?”
“Basically . . . yes.”
“I fear you’re, if you’ll forgive the expression, barking up the wrong tree.” Jumbo twitched an infuriating eyebrow at me. “Without going too deeply into our family history, the stag and his servants hunger for lives and souls, not for blood. If you wish to see his workings for yourself, you need only join the hunting party.”
“You wouldn’t be trying to get me killed, would you?”
“You hardly need my help for that.” The tips of Jumbo’s ears were narrowing lazily to points. “Come, let us join the others.”
He led me onto the terrace. Andrew’s body was being gently lifted into a hearse drawn by two black horses. They even had those plume things on their heads like in BBC costume dramas.
“The wolves have already breached the woods,” explained Jumbo. “They’ll hold back the worst of the shadows while we protect poor old Andy.”
The family were gathering round the hearse, some on foot, some of them on horseback armed with shotguns, and some piled onto the tallyho wagon. Kauri and the other vampires had fallen in with the hunters, keeping clear of the horses.
“This is pretty hard-core for a funeral procession,” I said.
“You do realise that all that talk about holding back the shadows wasn’t symbolic? As you astutely surmised, Ms. Kane, our family has many enemies, and we’re never more vulnerable than when we’re dead. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to lose the power of speech.” Jumbo’s jaw lengthened into a canine wedge, his teeth growing into fangs. He dropped briefly to all fours and sprang forwards like a sprinter, running with surprising speed to join the rest of the pack.
I went to get myself a horse. Servants were giving them out like party favours. I’d never actually learned to ride, because I wasn’t middle class enough, but horses just seem to do what I want. I think it’s a faery princess perk. I was helped onto what was blatantly the beginner model, and I declined the complimentary shotgun. I had to go sidesaddle, which turned out to be bloody uncomfortable, but at least I wasn’t flashing my arse at a funeral. I had no idea how normal people got this to work, but I thought very firmly about where I wanted to go, and the horse trotted over to join the rest of the party.
Somebody sounded a horn, a chorus of howls answered from the woods, and the procession moved slowly forwards. As we neared the treeline, ghostly figures like the ones that had watched me chase the pale stag began sliding from the shadows. Shots rang out. Here and there, the wraiths dissolved into mist. Then the first wave of shifters charged towards the undergrowth, shaking loose more of the pale spirits. Some took to the air and were brought down in a hail of shotgun pellets. The rest were set upon and torn to ribbons of smoke by claws and fangs.
I stuck a hand up my skirt and grabbed my knife. The spirits were coming thick and fast, filling the air with clinging vapours. The shotgun fire was almost continuous now, a staccato cracking like fireworks. Something rushed towards me, reaching out with slender, ash-pale fingers. I slashed into it, and it recoiled with an inhuman shriek, scattering papery flakes of leaves and bark. Another came at me, and Jumbo burst from the pack, in full Hammer Horror wolfman form, and dragged it down. We pressed forwards, spirits falling to knives, claws, and shotgun blasts, and eventually they stopped coming.
The woods grew dark and quiet.
From the deepest shadows came a sweet and melancholy music, silver voices singing softly. I’d heard that before. My fingers slackened on my knife. I thought I might want to go towards the music. And then I changed my mind. One thing I’ve learned in this business is that ghostly singing chicks are never good. For the first time that evening, I felt real fear from the pack. There was a shimmer of light between the trees, and suddenly we were surrounded.
Surrounded by ghostly women riding honest-to-God motherfucking unicorns, and singing at us. Each held a slender silver bow. One of them tilted her head curiously at me.
I heard a volley of gunshots, and small wounds, weeping pale blood, opened across her face and body. She didn’t even flinch, she just carried on singing. Then she raised her bow, a gleam of moonlight catching on the arrowhead.
Here lies Kate Kane, s
hot by a ghost on a unicorn. Beloved daughter. Sorely missed.
The arrow whistled past me. And from behind, I heard a strangled howl. Even partial shifters were damn difficult to stop, so an arrow shouldn’t have been a big deal unless it was . . .
Well, fuck.
Ghost chicks on unicorns with fucking silver arrows.
More arrows came raining down on us. It was chaos. The wolves scattered but had nowhere to go. Some of them charged directly at the spirits, others scrambled beneath the hearse and the tallyho wagon. I pressed myself to the neck of my horse. Sorry, mate, better you than me.
To my right, Kauri flew forwards in a rush of shadows. Arrows struck him in the chest, but, being a vampire, he didn’t really give a fuck. He crashed into one of the unicorns, bringing it thrashing and screaming to the ground. The other vampires attacked as well, falling on the riders in a blur of flashy supernatural powers. World’s deadliest boylesque troupe.
An arrow grazed my arm. Bleeding again. Sigh.
This dress was not going to make it, was it?
I’m not the heroic type, but between sitting here waiting to get shot and trying to do something, I decided to do something. I wheeled my horse to face one of the women. I could tell the poor animal was terrified, but it charged anyway. Another arrow whistled past me. The next thing I knew the unicorn’s horn rammed through my horse’s neck and damn near stabbed me in the ribs. I rolled clear as my faithful doomed steed toppled to the ground in a mess of blood and flailing hooves. I’d have felt sorry for the fucker if I hadn’t been in serious risk of joining it.
While the unicorn was ripping its horn free from the horse carcass, I dragged myself to my feet and threw myself over its neck to face the rider. She wrapped cold, dry fingers round my throat and squeezed. Long experience has taught me that when someone is trying to strangle you, the trick is to stay calm and fuck them up as fast as possible.
I hooked a hand over her shoulder to brace myself and drove my knife up into her heart. Her flesh cracked like an eggshell, spilling silver fluid all over my now completely ruined dress. And this is why I can’t have nice things.
