“A timely intervention,” she said, calmly. She turned to Sarapen.
“And a timely intervention from you, cousin.”
If Dominil was surprised to see Kalix and Sarapen together she didn’t show it, concentrating instead on giving some brisk instructions to Delicious as to the quickest route away from the studio. When they were some way north of the river, she told Delicious to turn down a side street and stop the car.
“This is as far as you go, Sarapen.”
There was a trickle of blood on Sarapen’s arm where he’d been grazed by a silver bullet. It wasn’t a serious wound but even so, it was painful. An injury caused by silver was always painful for a werewolf. He ignored it. Sarapen changed back into his human shape, and looked over at Kalix.
“Well fought, sister. Like a MacRinnalch.”
It was a strange fortune of war, thought Sarapen. Only days ago he had sent out the Douglas-MacPhees to find Kalix. Now Sarapen had encountered her, but honour prevented him from taking her prisoner. He could not resume hostilities so soon after she’d fought by his side. But it was interesting that something was masking her scent, and he would pass on the information to the MacPhees. He turned back to Dominil and they stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment. Then Sarapen opened the door and exited into the street. Unexpectedly, Dominil followed him.
“Cousin,” she said, quietly, so those in the car couldn’t hear. “What brought you to the scene?”
Sarapen didn’t answer. The rain poured down but it didn’t wash away the tension than flowed between Dominil and Sarapen.
“Were you tracking me?” demanded Dominil.
“No. I was hunting Markus. But I warn you, the situation has now become worse. If you continue to support Markus you may come to harm.”
Dominil’s face was hard and emotionless.
“You need not fear for me. Why has the situation become worse?”
“Markus killed my counsellor Mirasen. I’ll make him pay for it.”
Sarapen stared into the dark, dark eyes of his former lover. His look was so intense than Dominil made ready to defend herself. Sarapen stepped forward. Dominil held her ground. There faces were only inches apart. They remained like that for several seconds. Abruptly, he turned on his heel to vanish into the rain. Dominil climbed back into the car.
“Drive,” she said. “Quickly. I don’t trust him not to follow us.”
112
Thrix had spent the day trying to make up for lost time. As she had important shows in Milan and New York coming up, Ann suggested that she delegate some of Malveria’s outfits to other designers. Thrix rejected the idea.
“You can’t delegate Malveria. She’d have a fit. Besides, Malveria’s money has been keeping me afloat for the past year. Without her I’d never have made it this far. I owe her.”
For Livia’s 500th birthday party, the Fire Queen’s outfits had to be perfect. The sorceress’s party would be the highlight of the social calendar. Her four hundredth birthday celebration had gone down in legend and this one was set to surpass it. Everyone of importance would be there, even the ladies from the court of the iron elementals, and they hardly ever went out to social events. Last night at Thrix’s apartment a tear had formed in Malveria’s eye at the thought of Princess Kabachetka once more outdoing her in the fashion stakes.
“If she is judged to be better dressed than me I shall simply die,” said Malveria, dabbing her eyes with a small handkerchief. “There are many jealous elementals who are now envious of my excellent style. It is not easy, darling Thrix, to be the fashion leader in the realm of the Hiyasta. Jealousy lurks around every corner. Apthalia the Grim would like nothing better than a chance to gossip about my poor garments, if poor they were.”
“Doesn’t Apthalia the Grim spend her time waiting on quiet roads, trying to ambush lonely travellers?” asked Thrix.
“Not so much now,” replied Malveria. “These days she’s more interested in fashion. And since she had her warts removed and her nose done, and started buying her clothes from Dior, rather than simply robbing the corpses of her victims, she is not so bad looking, I admit. But she is a terrible gossip. When the Duchess Gargamond, Lady of Blazing Destruction, wore the same aquamarine frock with matching shoes and handbag to two separate sacrifices, Apthalia the Grim had spread it all round the realms before the day was out. Poor Duchess Gargamond was forced to retreat to her castle in shame and has never been the same since.”
“I see,” said Thrix. “That would explain why she hasn’t been responding to summonses recently. I understand her devotees are devastated.”
“Indeed they are,” agreed Malveria. “But really, who can blame the Duchess? One cannot be answering requests to deal out blazing destruction when one’s frocks are the subject of public ridicule.”
Thrix showed her most recent sketches to Ann.
“What do you think of this line for Malveria? I mean a formal coat like this in dark blue for her arrival in the horse drawn carriage, then a dress something like this for the start of the evening?”
“It’s a beautiful dress but Malveria will probably want something a little more daring.”
Thrix nodded. It was a continual problem, trying to merge Thrix’s good taste with the Fire Queen’s liking for the dramatic and the revealing.
“I think I can persuade her, particularly as I’ve been working on these for the night-time carnival.”
The Sorceress Livia’s birthday party was spread over five days - which was appropriate, as the birth of the sorceress had taken five days - and Malveria would need a lot of outfits. Ann nodded with approval as she saw Thrix’s design for carnival night, a short golden skirt and halter top which might have been worn by a dancer in a video on MTV.
“She’ll like that.”
“She will. Malveria’s been doing sit ups for the past three months and is keen to show off her flat abdominal muscles. Ever since she read about Heidi Klum’s exercise regime she’s been hard at it.”
Malveria would need around twenty complete outfits. It was a major task for Thrix, and she was already falling behind schedule. At the end of her working day she only had time for a hastily eaten sandwich before hurrying out with Ann to a fashion show she could not afford to miss. When she had settled down in her seat - not as important a seat as she would have liked - she noticed with displeasure that Donald Carver was in the audience.
“My last miserable date,” she whispered to Ann, with some suspicion. “Are you trying to set me up again?”
Ann shook her head.
“I couldn’t if I wanted. You messed it up too badly.”
At the drinks party after the show Thrix studiously tried to avoid coming into contact with Donald Carver and consequently bumped into him every time she turned round. She felt embarrassed, and the fact that he seemed to have become very close to the new accessories editor at Cosmopolitan didn’t make it any better. Thrix took refuge with Ann behind a phalanx of Japanese buyers who were grouped together near the bar.
“Every time I take a step I’m practically falling over him.”
“Don’t worry,” said Ann. “You didn’t like him that much anyway.”
“What’s that got to do with it? He never called me back. Which he should have. A woman is entitled to at least one phone call even after the worst dinner date. So now I’m standing here on my own while the man who never phoned me back is waltzing round with a new date. I might as well just carry a sign saying don’t date Thrix MacRinnalch she’s a complete waste of time.”
Thrix took a glass of wine from the tray of a passing waiter, downed it quickly enough to replace the glass on the tray of the next waiter and take another, then walked to the bar to see what they had in the way of whisky.
“You never find a decent whisky at these things,” she complained to her assistant.
“There’s not that many Scottish werewolves wanting service, I suppose,” said Ann.
By the time she took a taxi home, Thrix was i
n a very bad mood. The strain of over-work, the annoyance of dealing with her family and the embarrassment of meeting Donald all combined to put her in a foul temper which was exacerbated by her intake of alcohol. She regretted going to the show, particularly as they hadn’t even provided her with a good seat. Thrix felt the familiar resentment of the outsider who couldn’t quite force her way in. She drummed her fingers on her lap. She would triumph in Milan and New York and then perhaps she might get the respect she deserved.
Thrix noticed where they were and abruptly instructed the driver to stop the cab. She paid for her ride, climbed out of the taxi then looked around her with a malevolent expression. It was cold, and teeming with rain, but Thrix paid no attention to the weather. This small street, just north of Oxford Street, was home to Zatek’s headquarters. It was now two in the morning and no one was around apart from a tramp who slept in a doorway nearby, wrapped in a filthy blanket with a layer of cardboard beneath him. Thrix scanned the dark buildings around her. She soon found what she was looking for. One of the buildings positively radiated magic. Thrix marched towards it, her high heels clicking on the pavement, her eyes narrowed to slits. So Zatek thought he could spy on the Enchantress. A bad mistake.
Thrix stood in front of his building. It was protected by a spell. A very minor spell, thought Thrix, examining it with her own sorcery. Not nearly enough to protect Zatek from the wrath of Thrix MacRinnalch: werewolf, enchantress, and currently in a really bad mood. Zatek was about to learn the power of a true sorceress. The Enchantress brushed her wet hair from her face, then chanted a spell to burst through Zatek’s protection. The magic Thrix used was powerful. It would cause such devastation in Zatek’s headquarters that he would never dare meddle with the Enchantress again. A bolt of energy flashed from her fingertips towards the building. Thrix laughed. This felt good. She should have done it before.
Unexpectedly, the bolt of energy bounced off the wall, and struck Thrix. She was thrown all the way across the street and landed unconscious on the opposite pavement. Sparks of blue light flickered around her body. The Enchantress lay motionless in the rain, her golden hair splayed out around her. Further up the road the tramp slumbered on undisturbed. In the next street, a few late night travellers, seeing the flashes of light, thought that a thunderstorm had begun. They pulled their coats around them and hurried home as quickly as they could.
113
As Daniel had predicted, Moonglow was not in the best of moods. When she woke up on the floor of the living room beside Jay she was stiff, cold, and very dissatisfied with last night’s events. The evening had started off well, but from the moment Kalix stumbled in and crashed into Jay, it had gone terribly wrong. It had been bad enough having an intoxicated girl falling all over the place, but why had Daniel insisted on starting a foolish argument about Motorhead? Daniel’s music obsessions were usually quite funny but there was no excuse for using them to harass her boyfriend. And why had Malveria and Thrix chosen that moment to arrive? The Fire Queen hadn’t really seemed to take to Jay. That was no reason to mock his theories on Stonehenge thought Moonglow, angrily. Worst of all had been Malveria’s unexpected decision to stay the night in Moonglow’s bed. In response to Jay’s questioning look Moonglow could only explain, rather lamely, that her friend Jane was slightly eccentric, and needed to have her whims indulged.
“Couldn’t you indulge them another time?” suggested Jay.
“Sorry,” said Moonglow. “But I’m sure we can be comfy on the floor.”
They hadn’t been. Moonglow had tried to make the best of it, even suggesting that it was quite romantic, but Jay hadn’t seen it that way. When Moonglow tried to get close to him he’d claimed to be tired, and turned over.
Moonglow’s resentment did not last for long. Really, she was too good-natured for that. By the time she was getting off the bus outside college, she was almost back to her normal self. She gave her seminar, leading a small group of students through a translation of a Sumerian text. The text in itself was not that interesting, being mainly a list of the crops produced by farms belonging to the King of Ur, but it had been a challenging task. She was gratified when her tutor congratulated her on her excellent work.
Almost next door to King’s College was Brettenham House, a large Georgian building which had been renovated a few years ago. It was hidden away behind a small doorway in the Strand, but once through the door a visitor arrived in a grand courtyard full of fountains. Today was damp and chilly, and not really the time for admiring architecture, but after her seminar Moonglow took a walk there anyway, wanting some fresh air before her afternoon classes. There were few people in the courtyard. Moonglow shivered in the cold. She decided against sitting down. She’d just walk round before heading back.
A tramp sat on one of the chairs in the courtyard. Not old, but lost and hopeless looking. Dirty and unshaven, he looked forlornly at the paving stones in front of him. A pathetic young man with the weight of the world on his shoulders, from the looks of him. Moonglow felt sorry for him. She fished in her quaint little purse for some money. The young man did not look up. Moonglow noticed that he was wearing what had once been a smart suit, though it was now very ragged. His hair was rather long, matted, and seemed to be stained with blood.
“Do you want - ” began Moonglow, trying to attract his attention so he would take the coins.
The tramp looked up. Moonglow took a step back. She almost ran away but there was something too hopeless about him for her to run.
“Markus?” she said.
Markus looked right through her. He didn’t recognise her. Moonglow stood there staring, not knowing what to do. She should leave. This was the werewolf who had brutally attacked Kalix. He couldn’t be trusted. But he looked so pathetic.
“Markus? What happened?”
Markus didn’t answer. Moonglow stood in front of him, unsure whether to leave him there or help him. She didn’t know why she should be helping him. It was foolish to get involved with Kalix’s enemies. The rain intensified. Moonglow was too moved by sympathy to just walk away.
“Do you need help?” she asked.
Markus didn’t respond. Moonglow could see that he was in shock.
“Markus,” she said, quite loudly. “What’s the matter?”
Markus lifted his face a fraction of an inch.
“Talixia,” he said. A look of anguish spread over his features. Moonglow didn’t know what Talixia meant. As far as she could see, Markus’s injuries weren’t serious. If she could just get him home, he could rest and recover. She’d already seen the healing powers that the werewolves had.
“Where do you live?”
Markus didn’t respond. Moonglow had now had enough of standing in the rain so she took Markus’s hand and helped him gently to his feet. He didn’t protest. She led him back to King’s College, downstairs to one of the men’s washrooms. Moonglow would probably have to take Markus home in a taxi and she knew that a London taxi driver would object to picking up a fare with blood on his face.
“Wash your face,” she instructed, “And then you can go home.”
Markus stood dumbly in front of the basin. Moonglow sighed, and took a handkerchief from her bag. Here she was, washing another werewolf. It was very strange, when you thought about it. She gently dabbed the dirt and blood from his face. All the while he stood unprotesting like a man in a trance. Soon he was looking better. Not great, with his suit ripped, but not so bad that a taxi driver would refuse to pick him up.
“Now,” said Moonglow. “I’m going to check your wallet. Don’t do anything crazy.”
She felt around inside Markus’s jacket and found his wallet.
“Is this where you live?”
Markus nodded.
“Then let’s go.”
As they crawled through the heavy London traffic, Moonglow again wondered why she was doing this. She couldn’t have explained why exactly. The taxi dropped them off in Bayswater and Moonglow led Markus towards the door of his apa
rtment block. She was about to start hunting in his pockets for keys when she found herself abruptly confronted by two men, both dark haired, both with the look of the MacRinnalchs about them. They regarded Moonglow with suspicion.
“Who are you?”
“I found him sitting on a bench,” replied Moonglow, not wanting to give out her name.
“We’ll take him from here.”
Moonglow moved protectively in front of Markus.
“Why? Who are you?”
“Gregor MacRinnalch,” said one of the men. “I work for Markus.”
Markus seemed to come back into the contact with the real world. He spoke to Moonglow in a quiet voice.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I know Gregor. He’ll look after me now. Thanks for helping me.”
With that, Markus left, led off by Gregor. Moonglow watched as they took him inside. She couldn’t afford a taxi back to college so she headed for the nearest tube station. She had missed her first English lecture of the afternoon but if she hurried she might make the next.
114
Thrix woke up in her office. Gawain was standing over her. She leapt to her feet.
“What happened?”
“I found you unconscious in the street. I brought you here.”
The Enchantress remembered her spell bouncing back off Zatek’s building. Not only had her spell been deflected it had come back onto Thrix with terrific force and were it not for the strength of her own magical protection it might well have killed her. Obviously she had seriously underestimated Zatek’s power. It was something to worry about later, after she’d dealt with Gawain.
Thrix’s outfit was ruined and her hair was streaked with muddy water. It was humiliating to have Gawain see her in this condition. Fortunately she was uninjured, apart from a few bruises.
“Were you following me?” she demanded.
Gawain shook his head.
Lonely Werewolf Girl Page 32
