Lonely Werewolf Girl

by Martin Millar

  Dominil glared through the small window at her captor.

  “How dare you kidnap me. I’ll kill you for this!”

  Sarapen looked at her in silence for a moment. He still hadn’t been able to make up his mind exactly what to say to Dominil. He tried to reason with her.

  “I will be Thane, Dominil. The Mistress of the Werewolves can’t prevent me. Withdraw your nomination of Markus and I’ll let you go.”

  Dominil refused to even answer this.

  “Why side with Markus anyway? He’s weak. You know he’s weak. Everybody knows, except the Mistress of the Werewolves. Do you really think he’d make a better Thane than me?”

  “Any half bred dog-wolf would make a better Thane than you.”

  As always, Sarapen could not argue without becoming angry.

  “I will be Thane. And you can rot in this cell if you like!”

  “I’d rather rot here than vote for you.”

  “Why is that?” yelled Sarapen. “You have no reason to hate me. Is this all because of what happened to your human lover?”

  Dominil’s eyes burned at the memory.

  “You killed him.”

  “I did not.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  Sarapen put his snout close to the small window.

  “No one can call me a liar and live.”

  “Open the door then, liar, and let’s see who lives.”

  But as Dominil said this, her voice faltered and for a second she seemed to sag. She recovered quickly but not before Sarapen noticed. He was puzzled. Perhaps Dominil was not as strong as she used to be. Perhaps living with the twins had corrupted her. He felt contempt for her, and then sympathy. Sarapen shook his head furiously. Every time he felt something about Dominil the opposite feeling seemed to arrive at the same time. It was a relief when his phone rang, informing him of a visitor upstairs. Sarapen looked balefully at Dominil then hurried off. Much longer in her company and he’d have been telling her he loved her.

  Dominil sagged onto the small bed in the cell. She was now feeling very unwell. She’d expended a great deal of energy in trying to break out. Worse, she needed laudanum. Lack of the opiate was starting to make her feverish. She sat on the bed and tried to compose herself. If she couldn’t have laudanum then she would just have to do without it. Dominil would not allow Sarapen to see that she was suffering.

  Madrigal had arrived upstairs. A thin, non-descript sort of man of average height, thirty years old, with light brown hair. Not a man to stand out anywhere. He told Sarapen of Gawain’s encounter with the hunters, how he’d tossed them aside as if they were nothing, before going on to visit Thrix.

  “After that he travelled east to Limehouse.”

  Sarapen nodded. “The premises of the Young MacDoig. No need to wonder why Gawain searched for news of Kalix there. And then?”

  “He returned to Thrix’s establishment in Soho. But after that…” Madrigal paused. “I lost him.”

  Sarapen frowned. “How?”

  “I can’t explain. It was as if I became disorientated. As Gawain left Thrix’s I suddenly couldn’t track him. I don’t know why it happened.”

  Madrigal looked abashed. He was good at his job, and not used to failure. He shifted uncomfortably. Madrigal had worked for Sarapen often enough to know that he was not a werewolf with an even temper. Sarapen frowned deeply, pondering this. Though displeased, he knew his agent well enough to appreciate that he didn’t lose concentration for no reason. He was exceptionally reliable, and he had good reason for serving Sarapen well. Madrigal wanted to be a werewolf. He’d grown up in the region of Castle MacRinnalch and had played with the young MacRinnalchs and MacAndrises when he was a child. Though the young werewolves took care not to divulge their secret to humans, it so happened that Madrigal had learned of it. Now he wanted to be a werewolf, which was not impossible, if a werewolf like Sarapen agreed to make it happen.

  “Could you have been entranced by sorcery?”

  “Sorcery? I didn’t feel anything.”

  “The Enchantress may have been responsible for your disorientation. She could have placed some spell on Gawain as he left the building, rendering him impossible to follow.”

  Sarapen didn’t like the way he was being forced to encounter sorcery. Not just from Thrix. There was the Queen of the Hiyasta to contend with as well.

  “Keep looking for Gawain,” he instructed. “When you find him, keep following. He’ll lead us to Kalix. Have you reported your findings to the Douglas-MacPhees?”

  “I have.”

  From his tone, Sarapen knew that Madrigal did not care for the Douglas-MacPhees. That was not surprising. Few humans would.

  130

  Sarapen sat all night alone on the upstairs balcony, sipping whisky from a glass. Sometimes at night he’d change into werewolf form and roam in the park. It was a poor substitute for his own lands in Scotland. Here the air wasn’t clean and even on the clearest night, there were few stars in the sky. His thoughts turned again to Dominil. What was she thinking, helping the detestable twins? It was bad enough supporting Markus without becoming involved with Butix and Delix. Was she conniving with them, encouraging them to vote for Markus? Sarapen didn’t believe there was any chance of the twins ever returning to the castle to vote, but perhaps the Mistress of the Werewolves thought otherwise. Perhaps that was exactly what Verasa and Dominil were plotting. Sarapen was suddenly filled with loathing for the twins. He should make it clear to them just how unwise it would be to get in his way.

  The great werewolf scowled, suddenly remembering the jealousy he’d felt at Dominil taking other lovers. He couldn’t go on like this, indecisive and uncertain.

  “She’s going to join with me or I’m going to kill her,” he muttered.

  Sarapen drained his glass then headed towards the basement. Dominil was slumped on the bed in her cell but as Sarapen entered she rose to her feet and glared defiantly at him.

  “Release me,” she demanded.

  Sarapen glared back at her.

  “Were this door not between us I’d kill you now, dog,” spat Dominil.

  ‘Who else would dare to call me a dog to my face?’ thought Sarapen. Dominil had not threatened to complain to the Mistress of the Werewolves about her abduction, as might have been expected. She simply stated her intention of killing him. She was a fine werewolf.

  “Join me,” he said, abruptly.

  “What?”

  “Join me. I’ll be Thane and you’ll be Mistress of the Werewolves.”

  Dominil was astonished.

  “Sarapen,” she said, speaking slowly. “You are a dog who deserves to be put down. As a man and a werewolf you’re a brute and as a lover you were a failure. I’d rather dally with a farm-hand on the MacRinnalch estates than spend a minute in your company.”

  Sarapen roared with fury and threw open the cell door. Before Dominil could move he struck her full in the face and she tumbled to the ground. As soon as she hit the floor she transformed into her werewolf shape but even as she leapt for Sarapen’s throat she could feel the sapping of her strength brought on by the lack of laudanum. Her jaws were still a long way from Sarapen’s neck when he transformed and stuck her again, harder this time. Dominil hurled herself once more at her captor but Sarapen, furious and no longer in control of his actions, fastened his jaws around her neck and wrestled her to the ground. He inflicted savage wounds on her with his teeth and claws, biting and striking her again and again till the white werewolf’s coat was a mass of bloodied fur.

  Sarapen might have killed her had he not been interrupted by Andris arriving in the basement. Thinking that Sarapen would regret killing Dominil when he regained his senses, Andris called out in alarm, but made ready to flee in case Sarapen’s rage was such that he turned on him as well. Sarapen looked round. For a moment he seemed undecided. He looked down at Dominil’s broken body, unconscious at his feet, then rushed from he cell.

  “Lock the door,” he ordered, then left th
e basement.

  Sarapen’s fury had subsided just enough to prevent him from killing Dominil but it flared up again when he found the three Douglas-MacPhees waiting for him upstairs.

  “Well?” demanded Sarapen. “Have you found Kalix?”

  “No,” responded Duncan Douglas-MacPhee, shaking his head so the black feather earring that hung from his right ear touched his chin.

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “We need money.”

  “I gave you money,” said Sarapen.

  “It’s expensive in London,” said Rhona. “You expect us to live like dogs?”

  Sarapen roared and snatched Duncan and Rhona from their chairs, lifting them into the air, one in each hand.

  “I expect you to do as I tell you!”

  He flung them from him and they skidded over the wooden floor to clatter into the far wall.

  “You bunch of petty thieves. Show me results or you’ll regret it.”

  “It’s not our fault,” protested Duncan, picking himself off the floor. “She’s hidden. She doesn’t even have a scent.”

  “You haven’t been looking hard enough!” roared Sarapen. “Kalix skulks in alleys and so do you. Find her for me!”

  The Douglas-MacPhees backed away. Sarapen held up his hand, halting them.

  “Listen well. Before you resume your hunt for Kalix, I have another task for you. Do it, and you’ll be paid. I want you to visit someone.”

  Outside, the air was cold, and the winter rain was threatening to turn into sleet. In Camden, Butix and Delix shivered, and turned up the heating. They had quickly relapsed into their old ways. Beauty lay on the couch with a bottle of the MacRinnalch whisky in one hand and a large joint in the other.

  “So much for the great musical revival,” she muttered.

  “It’s all over,” agreed Delicious.

  Pete called up to ask about their next rehearsal.

  “No rehearsal ever,” Delicious told him. “We’ll never play again.”

  She put the phone down with a heavy sigh. After the initial excitement, Yum Yum Sugary Snacks were now heading the way of all the twins’ other bands, rapidly into oblivion. The cousins about whom the family did not speak had come to rely completely on Dominil. Now she was gone they had no idea what to do, apart from curse all the MacRinnalchs for their ridiculous family feuds.

  They watched TV till they passed into unconsciousness in a haze of marihuana and whisky. Both would have slumbered late into the day had they not been wakened before dawn by an extremely loud banging. Wondering if it might be Dominil, Beauty struggled to her feet and made her way unsteadily to the door.

  It wasn’t Dominil. It was the Douglas-MacPhees. They marched into the front room, pushing Beauty before them. Delicious tried to rise but Rhona MacPhee kicked her back onto the couch. Beauty attempted to help her sister but was clubbed to the floor by Duncan.

  “A message from Sarapen,” he said.

  The Douglas-MacPhees changed into werewolf shape and began to wreck the house. The sisters were powerless to prevent them. They couldn’t transform. Their protests were met with violence and in a space of only a few seconds Beauty and Delicious lay battered on the floor and the MacPhees were smashing furniture and hurling guitars around the room. The destruction was swift and thorough.

  Fergus put his foot through the twins’ DVD player and kicked the remnants at Beauty’s head.

  “Don’t vote against Sarapen,” he said. “Don’t do anything that might annoy him. If you do we’ll kill you.”

  “Dominil won’t be coming back to protect you,” added Rhona. “The white bitch is dead and so will you be if you misbehave.”

  The Douglas-MacPhees marched out of the house, slipping into their filthy black transit van and driving off.

  Beauty and Delicious helped each other to the couch. Neither of them had wanted to cry while the Douglas-MacPhees were there but now they gave in to the urge. Finally Beauty rose. She locked all the doors and windows and phoned Castle MacRinnalch.

  “The Mistress of the Werewolves. Quickly. We’re in trouble.”

  131

  Andris MacAndris looked dubiously at Dominil. She was lying motionless on the concrete floor. Was she dead? He entered the cell and leant over her carefully.

  Dominil was still in her werewolf shape. She wasn’t unconscious. She’d passed out briefly under Sarapen’s terrible assault but had regained consciousness in time to hear him leave. She lay still, aware that Andris was entering the cell. Dominil ached. Her body, already weakened by the laudanum withdrawal, had been severely damaged by the cruel talons and fangs of Sarapen. She felt as if her life was draining away. Dominil banished this thought. As she sensed Andris bending over her, she sprang. She clamped her jaws round his throat, lifted him from the ground and threw him against the wall. She followed up with a crushing blow to the head that rendered him senseless.

  She slung her coat over her werewolf shoulders and limped from the cell. She could hardly walk. Sarapen’s jaws had torn a great gash in her leg, ripping her thigh muscles. Despite her poor physical state, Dominil was now thinking clearly. At the foot of the stairs she sniffed the air. There were many werewolves upstairs, but not Sarapen. Dominil made her way painfully up the stairs and crept through the door. The corridor was empty. She swiftly advanced, entering the first empty room she came to. Dominil had to escape without encountering anyone because she knew she didn’t have the strength to fight again. Blood continued to seep from her wounds, and her white coat was stained red in many places.

  She found herself in a small room overlooking the park. The window was locked. Dominil swayed. Her injured leg would barely support her.

  ‘This,’ she thought in her calm way, ‘is difficult.’

  It would have been better to leave quietly but Dominil had no time to work on the window fastenings. She picked up a heavy chair, smashed the window, leapt through the ragged gap, and fled into the park. The moon above gave her strength and she struggled on for as long as she could before her damaged leg gave way. She sank into a clump of bushes. Her strength was almost gone. Dominil summoned her last reserves. She hadn’t put enough distance between herself and Sarapen’s mansion. She gritted her teeth and began to crawl. At this moment, though she had troubles enough, a terrible craving for laudanum washed over her, followed by a feverish heat that brought sweat oozing from her pores. She felt that if she didn’t have laudanum soon she would burn up and die. Dominil wiped the sweat from her eyes and kept on crawling.

  132

  Daniel couldn’t find Moonglow. Thrix was not at her office, and no one else who knew Moonglow had seen her.

  “No sign of her?” asked Vex.

  “No. And I think I’ve managed to panic her parents.”

  “What now?”

  Daniel didn’t know. Once he’d looked in the obvious places he had no inspiration about what to do next. Vex was now feeling bored.

  “Maybe we should just go home and wait for Aunt Malvie and Thrix to come back,” she suggested. “They know spells and stuff. They’ll find her.”

  “They’re busy looking for Dominil. They don’t care about Moonglow.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Vex. “Could we go back and play on the pinball machine? It looked really entertaining.”

  Daniel was aghast.

  “We have to keep looking,” he said, sternly.

  Vex shrugged, and ran her fingers through her spiky blonde hair, pushing some strands back into vertical position.

  “Okay.”

  She looked at her feet.

  “I’m not completely satisfied with these boots.”

  Elsewhere in London the hunt for Dominil continued. The Enchantress and the Fire Queen were interrupted several times by anxious calls from the Mistress of the Werewolves. Thrix told her that she was on her way to Sarapen’s mansion.

  “I’ve just learned that Sarapen has taken Dominil there.”

  “Learned? By sorcery?” said Verasa,
disapprovingly.

  “Yes, by sorcery.”

  “Was there no other way?”

  “You do want me to find her quickly, don’t you?”

  Verasa was worried about her daughter.

  “Please be careful. Sarapen has obviously descended into madness.”

  Thrix doubted that Sarapen had lost his reason. He was just acting like Sarapen. Violent and impetuous. No matter what the state of Sarapen’s mind, there was good reason for Verasa to worry.

  “Remember, he has the Begravar knife. It’s a lethal weapon.”

  “We don’t know for sure he took it.”

  Verasa was frustrated by her daughter’s words.

  “Talixia’s death was proof enough. If Sarapen didn’t wield the knife then one of his henchmen did.”

  “Don’t worry, Malveria’s here. We’ve enough power to protect ourselves.”

  For the first time Verasa didn’t find herself disapproving of her daughter’s association with the Hiyasta Queen. Thrix asked her mother if she had heard from Markus. Verasa told her he was resting at a concealed location, and would remain there till she told him to leave. Thrix wondered if this was true. She half-suspected that Markus had lost his nerve in the face of Sarapen’s fury, and fled the city.

  The Mistress of the Werewolves had other news, also serious.

  “The new young Baron MacAllister has been prowling around the edges of Colburn Wood. Perhaps he’s eager to show his allegiance to Sarapen. He’s there with a whole company of MacAllisters.”

  “Are they heading for the castle?”

  “No. They’re still in the wood. Don’t worry, they’re not a threat. They wouldn’t dare advance on the castle. Please find Dominil as quickly as you can. Let me know if she’s alive.”

  Verasa feared that Sarapen would kill Dominil. So did Thrix, but Malveria was doubtful.

  “I believe he has a mighty passion for her. He won’t kill her. Not on purpose. But possibly the mighty passion may spill over into violent death. I have known it to happen.”