With so much werewolf activity in the country just now, the Guild had stepped up its patrols. Between Kennington and Vauxhall, Kalix walked right past a group of three hunters, and one of them recognised her. He’d followed her last month, before she evaded him. The hunter waited till the sensitive-eared werewolf was some distance away before whispering to his to companions.
“That’s Kalix MacRinnalch.”
“The werewolf princess?”
His companions had been expecting someone more impressive than the skinny girl with very long hair who was currently walking unsteadily down the road that led to Vauxhall Bridge.
“She doesn’t look a like a princess.”
“Never mind what she looks like. Let’s go.”
They followed on, discreetly at first, but more confidently as it became clear that Kalix was paying no attention to her surroundings. The werewolf seemed unaware of what she was doing, and more than once came close to bumping into other pedestrians. The leader knew this area well. The street that ran down to Vauxhall bridge passed under several railway bridges close to the river. Around these bridges were some desolate areas that had once contained small industrial units, now mostly empty. It was an ideal place for an attack. The hunters each had a gun concealed in a shoulder holster, loaded with silver bullets. Though the Guild preferred to kill werewolves while they were in werewolf shape, a daughter of the Thane was too important to let escape. Besides, there was no possibility that they might be attacking a human by mistake. This was Kalix MacRinnalch. When she was dead, no one was going to complain to the police. They closed in, ready for the kill. When the girl stepped into the shadows of the first bridge their leader gave an order and the three men sprinted forwards.
Kalix’s dreadful anxiety had negated her normally keen senses, preventing her from scenting or hearing her pursuers. It almost got her killed. At the last second, she sensed the hunters. She whirled round, saw three men running at her, and fled. Her anxiety vanished, as did her weakness. No amount of vomiting could clear all of last night’s food from her system and whether she liked it or not, Kalix was strong again. The young girl, the only member of the ruling family born as a werewolf, took flight with a speed which left her pursuers gasping. Kalix disappeared beneath the arch of the bridge before anyone could fire a shot. The hunters sped after her, hurtling round the corner before coming to a halt, straining their senses for any trace of her.
“Look down that - ” began their leader, then broke off as Kalix fell on him from above. Realising she was strong again, and not wanting to run from the hated Guild, Kalix had decided to bring the fight to them. She’d scaled the wall and clung on till the hunters were right beneath her. She landed squarely on the leader and pulled his head violently to the side as they went down. Kalix sprang immediately to her feet. The hunter, his neck broken, remained where he was. The other two went to pull their guns from their shoulder holsters but Kalix was far too quick for them. She kicked one backwards then smashed her fist into the other’s throat. He fell down unconscious. The third hunter, his ribs cracked from the force of Kalix’s kick, tried to scramble to his feet but Kalix kicked him again full in the face and he slumped to the ground.
It was over in seconds. Kalix studied the three bodies. One dead, one maybe dying and one that would probably recover. Kalix was not inclined to let him recover. The Guild had hunted her kind and killed them without mercy. She stepped over to the man with the bloody face and stamped her heel onto his chest so hard that his ribs broke. Blood gurgled from his mouth. Before making her escape the werewolf girl quickly slipped her hand inside their jackets, taking their wallets. Satisfied, Kalix trotted off.
She felt better. Her anxiety had gone, the excess adrenaline used up in the fight. Kalix passed by a cafe and noticed her reflection in the window. She looked a mess. She wiped her face, then fished around in her bag, found her sunglasses, and put them on. Then she started jogging up the road, the words of Cherry Bomb playing in her head. She ran over Vauxhall Bridge, running now not out of fear, but because she felt like it. As she ran, her long hair billowed out behind her like a vast sail. On the other side of the river she hopped nimbly over a tall fence, heading down towards the river bank where she would be alone. She settled down with her feet dangling over the dark water of the Thames, took out her journal, and started to write.
66
As soon as the funeral was over Gawain was arrested. He went without a struggle. He was taken to the dungeon, which was dark and damp. It was rarely used these days but the walls were extremely thick and the doors were strong. It was a place from which even the most powerful werewolf could not escape. Gawain made no attempt to escape. He intended to see the Mistress of the Werewolves, and learn news of Kalix.
Gawain sat with his back against the wall, and thought of other, happier, times in his life when he’d visited the castle. Gawain was the great-great-grandson of the renowned warrior Gerrant Gawain MacRinnalch. His family had always been welcome guests. Their status had only been slightly diminished by Gawain’s grandfather marrying a human. Gawain’s one quarter human blood would not have precluded him from much though it did mean he could never ascend to a position on the Great Council. Apart from that, he was free to do anything he liked, except sleep with the Thane’s adolescent daughter.
High above the dungeon, in the chambers of the Mistress of the Werewolves, Verasa was taking to Markus. Thrix had already left, keen to get back to London as soon as possible. Sarapen had also departed, heading east to his own large keep. After the funeral he had not spoken again to either Verasa or Markus. He’d left formal notice with Rainal that he would return in one month’s time for the next meeting of the Great Council. As for Baron MacPhee and Baron MacGregor, their farewell salutations to the Mistress of the Werewolves had been respectful but there was no hiding their disquiet at the events of the past few days.
Verasa sighed.
“If the Thane had only managed to live for a few more months I could have delivered the Thaneship to you in one easy meeting.”
Markus nodded. His mother was still confident that she could gather sufficient votes, but what would Sarapen do in the meantime?
“Attempt to capture or kill Kalix, work on Baron MacAllister, possibly make representations to Thrix,” said Verasa. “No doubt if left to his own devices he’d try to kill everyone who opposes him, but he has some good advisors. Mirasen is clever.”
When his mother had first mooted the idea of Markus as Thane, her younger son had been uncertain, not really thinking it was possible. Now he believed it was. The prospect of finally gaining dominance over his brother was enticing.
“Will Dominil really go to London?”
“Yes.”
Apart from her sojourn at Oxford, Markus could not remember Dominil going anywhere.
“I’m amazed, mother. The idea of Dominil rousing her languid self to travel south is astonishing. And to look after the twins?”
“She was bored, my dear. I believe that boredom may be the strongest factor in her life.”
“What has she been doing for the past six years?”
“Translating Latin poetry. And studying her computers, I believe.”
Verasa knew more than Markus about Dominil’s private life but she did not share the information.
“But now she wants to do something. The twins need help. And who knows, perhaps Dominil will find the task to her liking.”
“Does she know what she’s letting herself in for?” asked Markus.
“Probably not. But I expect her to cope.”
“Does she know anything about the music business?”
“She says not. But I have confidence in her. Whatever Butix and Delix need, I am sure that Dominil can provide it.”
Markus didn’t believe that the degenerate twins would ever appear at Castle MacRinnalch to vote for him no matter how his mother bribed them, but he agreed it was wise to protect them. If they died, their places on the council would be taken by were
wolves who would vote for Sarapen.
“And now, I suppose I had better give some thought to Gawain.”
“Why did he come back?” growled Markus.
“Who knows? But I’m sure he’ll be keen to tell me now. The dungeon is not a comfortable place. And rarely used these days, I’m pleased to say. I don’t think we’ve had a guest there since Baron Mac-Gregor’s youngest nephew got drunk and tried to climb down the north wall of the castle. And I only incarcerated him because the Baron wanted him taught a lesson.”
67
Kalix had run out of laudanum. She urgently needed more. She’d have to travel over to the east end of London where the Young MacDoig had a small premises, hidden away in Limehouse. Laudanum was virtually unknown in the world these days. The opium tincture had been replaced by other drugs, heroin or cocaine. Where the MacDoigs obtained their supply was unknown. Not from this world, perhaps. The price they charged for it was certainly high enough. When the Merchant had first sold her a bottle, back in Scotland, he’d let her have it cheaply. As a favour, he said.
Having taken the wallets from the hunters, Kalix now had enough money and she wondered which would be the quickest way to travel to Limehouse. Kalix had often walked the whole length of the city but she knew how to use the underground or the bus if necessary. The underground would be quicker. She hurried up to Victoria where she bought a ticket to Limehouse after first consulting the tube map on the wall. Kalix liked the tube map. With its different coloured lines for each route it was clear and easy to follow, even to someone with her limited reading skills. She took the circle line to Tower Hill then changed on to the Docklands light railway for the last two stops.
A hundred years ago this area by the river had been home to the capital’s opium dens. These were long gone, but there were, here and there, a few pockets left which had not entirely lost their connections with the old days. Kalix walked down to Narrow Street by the river bank then disappeared into a tiny alley. Far along the alley, almost invisible in the gloom, was a black door. Kalix rang the bell four times and waited. The door opened and Kalix slipped inside.
The small room she entered was crammed full of artefacts, some ancient, some unrecognisable. Some objects were of obvious value but others appeared worthless. Probably they were of use to someone, somewhere. The Merchant was a shrewd trader with a keen eye for a profit. Kalix had occasionally sold him things she’d stolen and he’d never asked too many questions about their origin. Verasa herself had bought works of art from the Merchant and there were several pieces at Castle MacRinnalch the legality of whose origins might not have stood up to close examination.
Kalix was let in by the Young MacDoig. His father, Merchant MacDoig, was already in the room. Merchant MacDoig was a very stout man, corpulent, and quite effusive. In keeping with the antiquity of his surroundings he wore a suit that had gone out of fashion in the nineteenth century, and a black hat. He wore side-whiskers and carried a cane. It gave him a Dickensian appearance, though genial rather than sinister. His son, if slightly smaller, was also a man of considerable girth who favoured old-fashioned clothes. Unlike his father, his thick red hair had not yet turned grey. They beamed when they saw Kalix. Kalix looked back at them without expression. She didn’t trust either of them.
“Young Kalix MacRinnalch!” cried Merchant MacDoig, as if greeting an old friend. “It’s fine to see you again. Have you brought me anything today?” He winked conspiratorially, either because he was making a joke or because he really thought Kalix might have something of value. Kalix shook her head.
“I have only recently been in the company of your fine mother,” continued the Merchant. He had the soft lilting voice of a Highlander. He had been born in Nairn; how long ago, no one could guess. Certainly long enough for his lifespan to be not entirely natural.
“Such a sad business about the Thane!” He shook his head. “It was a bitter blow to all who knew him, may he roam peacefully in the forests of the werewolf dead.”
It was odd to hear a human use this phrase, but the Merchant was familiar with the ways of werewolves and may have thought Kalix expected it. Or he may have been mocking her.
“Still,” continued the Merchant. “There was much trade to be done. Nothing but the best would do for the Thane’s funeral, and I, fortunately, have access to the best.”
Young MacDoig hung back in silence. Though he ran the business in London he obviously deferred to his father when the Merchant chose to visit. Kalix wanted to make her transaction and depart as quickly as possible but the Merchant was a man who liked to talk.
“You will be here for laudanum, I imagine? Excellent, excellent, we have a fresh supply in this very morning, the very best. You won’t find the like of this anywhere else in the world, young Kalix MacRinnalch. Have you been in contact with your sister at all? I’ve frequently thought the Enchantress would do well to use my services for her sorcerous supplies, though she’s never shown any such inclination. But she’s a fine young woman, I’ll give her that, and becoming quite a force in the world, so they say.”
Kalix tried to suppress her agitation. No matter how aggravating the Merchant or his son were, she could not afford to lose her temper. To be cut off from her supply would be disastrous. She fumbled in her pockets for money.
“Ah,” said the Merchant, turning to his son. “The young wolf’s in a hurry to be off. She was always a secretive one!”
“She is, father,” agreed the Young MacDoig, only slightly less effusively. “But she’s a fine customer, visits me often.”
“I’m pleased to hear it boy!” he said, clapping his son on the shoulder. “Tell me, Kalix, are you settled in London? Have you a good place to stay?”
“Why?” said Kalix.
“No reason, no reason. I’m just anxious for your health.”
“I’m fine,” muttered the werewolf, who didn’t intend giving away any personal details to the Merchant. When the Young MacDoig produced her laudanum, Kalix handed over the money and departed as fast as she could, declining Merchant MacDoig’s offer of a glass of whisky to warm her against the cold.
“Hurry back,” said the Merchant. “We’re always pleased to see you here, young Kalix.”
Kalix hastened away from the MacDoig’s. She spent the rest of the day on the bank of the river. She walked all the way back to Vauxhall Bridge, just north of where she had encountered the hunters. Occasionally she sipped from her bottle but she felt healthy, and reasonably content, so did not require too much in the way of chemical sedation. Here, just south of Pimlico, the riverbank was not open to the public. It was overgrown, and hidden from the road above. She wandered around, pausing to make entries laboriously in her journal. She wrote about how she had fought with hunters, then visited the MacDoigs, and how she had stood on Westminster Bridge and looked at the Houses of Parliament. She also wrote some harsh words about Moonglow, who’d tricked her into eating so much food.
There were tourist boats on the river, and a few long flat barges loaded with cargo. As far as Kalix could remember she had never been on a boat. She wondered what it would be like. The MacRinnalchs had property on various islands in Scotland and she remembered that her parents had sometimes sailed over to visit, but they’d never taken her with them. A rat ran over her foot and Kalix chased it for fun, scooping it up to look at it before letting it go.
Kalix did not meet anyone else. By her standards it was a good day. But as dusk was falling she was struck by a peculiar feeling which she could not quite identify. She felt healthy, healthier than she had done for a long time. She had gained energy from her werewolf transformation. She’d taken enough laudanum to satisfy her craving. The battle with the hunters had bolstered her spirit. She felt good, apart from… apart from what?
The young werewolf sat down and looked at the water. There was something troubling her. Not the ever present yearning for Gawain. Not the bad memories about growing up in the castle that sometimes overwhelmed her. Something else. Kalix realised
she felt lonely. She shrugged. She always felt lonely. Or did she? When she tried examining the feeling she couldn’t say for sure if she was always lonely or not. Usually she was sick, or running, or hiding. Now, on this rare day when she was feeling healthier, she seemed to have a little more time to notice her emotions. She thought that she might indeed be lonely.
Kalix looked down at her new pendant. For the first time it struck her that it must have been difficult to find it for her. Kalix wasn’t certain who was responsible for giving it to her. Thrix? Or the Fire Queen? Or Moonglow? She thought about Moonglow and felt something close to regret that she’d hit her that morning. Kalix had been in a panic but she knew the human wouldn’t understand. It meant she couldn’t go back. Such was her life. Anywhere Kalix went, she was never welcomed back.
Kalix had an idea that if she saw Moonglow again she might have to apologise, and she would never do that, particularly to someone who had made her eat food when her resolve was weak. Kalix grew quite angry. Who did the girl think she was, forcing food down her throat? Kalix growled. Moonglow was as bad as everyone else. There again, she had brought her a hot water bottle to keep her warm at night. Whichever way Kalix looked at that, it seemed like a kind act.
The werewolf frowned. Daniel had talked to her about Joan Jett. She’d liked that. She’d have liked to hear more Runaways records. She tried listening to her favourite Runaways tape but the battery on her walkman was running low. She decided to remain where she was for tonight. The riverbank was quiet and no one would disturb her.
68
Moonglow spent an arduous afternoon at university studying Sumerian history and cuneiform. Later she had attend a seminar on the legal code of Hamurrabi, which, she was interested to learn, was the first code of laws ever to be written down. After the classes and seminar Moonglow now knew that the largest city in ancient Sumeria was Ur, the penalty for adultery in the time of Hamurrabi was four goats, and cuneiform, a form of writing somewhere between hieroglyphics and an alphabet, was really difficult to learn.
Lonely Werewolf Girl Page 18
