194
Merchant MacDoig settled back in his armchair in front of the fire, a satisfied smile on his face, a tumbler of whisky in his hand. A fine crystal decanter rested on the small mahogany table at his side, one of the numerous pieces of antique furniture that adorned the upstairs rooms of the Merchant’s London premises. The Young MacDoig sat on the other side of the fire in another armchair which, while not quite a match for the Merchant’s, was also old, and very comfortable.
“It’ll be time for me to get back to Scotland soon,” said the Merchant. “It’s been a bitter feud, but it’s coming to an end now. And it’s been a profitable affair for us, son.”
The Young MacDoig nodded. He inhaled on his cigar, which he preferred to the pipe smoked by his father. His father drew out a great silver hob watch and stared at the dial.
“Two days till the MacRinnalchs go to war. And not much more than a day after that, I’ll wager, till the war ends.”
“There are a powerful lot of werewolves on each side,” his son pointed out. “I’d say it might last a while.”
Merchant MacDoig shook his head.
“Sarapen MacRinnalch will sweep them all before him, son, mark my words.”
The Merchant knew something about most of the affairs of the MacRinnalchs, and he’d made a profit from many of them. He’d sold the Begravar knife to Dominil and he’d helped import Kabachetka’s sorcery for Sarapen. He’d sold laudanum to Kalix and Dominil, provisions to the Barons, and found a discreet source of silver bullets for Decembrius. Equally profitably, he’d sold information to various interested parties.
“The Barons have all met on the field, you know. MacGregor, MacAllister, and MacPhee’s son Euan. And Red Ruraich MacAndris, who fancies himself as a Baron one day too, I’d say. Sarapen will find a way to lead them into the castle. Just like he’s found a way to defeat that sister of his.”
The Merchant looked thoughtful.
“It’s not like the old days, of course. I remember when it took an army months to march from one end of the land to another. Now Sarapen can fight in London one day and fly to Scotland the next. It’s not the same at all. It’s not what a man would call a proper campaign.”
He poured himself whisky from the crystal decanter.
“But the result is the same. The strongest son gets to be Thane.”
He glanced at his own son.
“Be sure to reduce our order for laudanum. We’ll not be selling so much of it after this. Dominil MacRinnalch is unlikely to be alive in a few days time, and Kalix certainly won’t be.”
The Merchant looked thoughtful.
“It’s a fine reward he’s put on her head. Five gold nobles. She won’t last long. “
The Young MacDoig leaned forward to prod the fire with a poker, and flames leapt up the narrow chimney. It was no longer legal to light a coal fire in London, but the Merchant was too attached to the warmth of his fire to abandon the practice.
“What did Mr Carmichael want?” he asked.
“Just some information,” replied his father. “As to the timing of the werewolves’ music event, and suchlike. He’s never been a generous payer, Mr Carmichael. It takes some negotiating to get a fair price off the man. And I’m not sure he’ll be with us much longer either, to tell you the truth. I wouldn’t say it was prudent for the Avenaris Guild to involve themselves with the MacRinnalchs at this moment. But he seemed confident, so perhaps he knows some things I don’t. In an affair like this, there’s always a lot of plots and treachery going on behind the scenes.”
The Merchant drew out an unusually large gold coin from his purse and studied it fondly. Hiyasta gold, very old and very pure. It was part of his payment from Princes Kabachetka.
“The Princess is counting on profiting by some treachery she’s worked up for herself. Some information she has from a youngster, I believe. She can be persuasive woman.”
War was always good for trade. It was as true now as it had been when the Merchant’s great-grandfather established the family business with the profits gained from selling weapons to the Scottish Covenanters before they marched south in 1640. The Merchant puffed on his pipe.
“I’ll miss dealing with the Mistress of the Werewolves. But no doubt Sarapen will continue to put business our way, when he’s Thane.
195
The day before the gig the twins’ house was in uproar. Beauty and Delicious rushed from one room to the next carrying bundles of clothes and make-up, trying on endless outfits and dismissing each quicker than the last. The sisters were not well focused. The final rehearsal had been chaotic. The other members of the band had managed to play quite competently but the sisters were over excited and had put in some of their worst performances ever. Dominil was frustrated, though not as angry as she once would have been. She knew they’d been making an effort. Unfortunately the twins were becoming overwhelmed. Even though it was only a small gig, the prospect of performing in front of an audience again had caused Beauty and Delicious to work themselves up into a state where they could hardly remember how to play the most basic chords. Dominil reminded them of their relaxation exercises, tried to prevent them from consuming too many intoxicants, and hoped for the best.
She hadn’t informed them that Sarapen might attack the gig. The twins were scared of Sarapen. If they even suspected he might turn up they’d never be able to play.
“Do you like this top?” yelled Beauty, hurrying into the room wearing a small strip of red latex.
Dominil raised her eyebrows. The tiny piece of latex didn’t seem large enough to qualify as a garment.
“It depends. What effect are you trying to achieve?”
“Rock’n’Roll slut.”
“Then you’ve succeeded. Wear it.”
Beauty looked in the mirror. She wasn’t satisfied.
“Maybe the black one was better,” she muttered, and hurried back to her bedroom to change.
There was nothing more for Dominil to do in the way of publicity or promotion. To escape from the twins’ manic behaviour she retreated upstairs to her room. She took the Begravar knife from its hiding place and spoke the Sumerian words that were engraved on the handle. Dominil frowned. She wasn’t certain that the knife was properly activated. It could be that her translation was wrong. She sipped sparingly from her laudanum, and logged onto the university website she’d been consulting, to check her it again.
A long way off, in the west of the city, Mr Carmichael sat with the other members of the board of the Avenaris Guild, finalising their plans for attacking the gig. They had already checked the venue, examining the upstairs room where the bands played. The Guild planned to wait till Yum Yum Sugary Snacks had finished their set and people were leaving, then attack. If the hunters moved quickly it should be possible to trap the werewolves upstairs and destroy them all in a hail of silver bullets.
196
Markus spent his days either on the walls, or planning the defence of Castle MacRinnalch with Verasa, Rainal, and Eskandor. He spent his nights with Beatrice MacRinnalch, the assistant curator of the castle relics. Verasa didn’t object to Markus associating with her. She was an intelligent and respectable young werewolf, and her son needed some form of relaxation.
The Mistress of the Werewolves was pleased with her son’s conduct since arriving back at the castle, but she was worried by his most recent suggestion. Markus proposed that, rather than wait for Sarapen to arrive in Scotland, the defenders should make a pre-emptive sally against the Barons. It was a bold plan, and not without its merits. The Barons wouldn’t be expecting an attack. Furthermore, if it were done before the full moon, many of their followers would not be able to transform into their werewolf shape.
“Why wait?” asked Markus. “We’re certain that Sarapen will fight in London tomorrow. The next day he’ll be here. Let’s deal them a blow before he arrives.”
Rainal was against it.
“I’m not sure we’d take them by surprise. Baron MacGregor leads their for
ces and he’s an experienced werewolf. He’d pull his troops back the moment we appeared. We might make some gains but nothing substantial. If we suffered losses we’d be weaker when Sarapen arrives.”
The Barons now completely encircled the castle. The smoke from their campfires could be seen from the battlements. Markus was not so convinced of the Baron’s qualities as a leader.
“MacGregor is the senior Baron on the field but are the others really following him?”
Again, it was a reasonable point. There were four factions outside the castle walls, and none of them could claim to be their natural leader. Baron Douglas MacAllister was far too young. Baron MacPhee was well respected but he was not on the field, and had sent his son Euan, who was not a noted warrior. No Baron’s troops would follow the lower ranked Red Ruraich MacAndris. Which left Baron MacGregor. He was the senior Baron present, and nominal leader in Sarapen’s absence, but he had arrived late, and was not thought to be such a willing participant.
The Mistress of the Werewolves came out against the plan. She still believed that they could defend the castle against assault and was unwilling to risk sending Markus into battle. That night Markus complained to Beatrice about his mother’s lack of faith in him. He chafed against her restraints.
“I’m captain of the castle guard,” he told her. “I should be leading the defence. It’s time my mother let me have my way.”
Beatrice sympathised, although she was secretly relieved that Markus was not about to lead a dangerous mission outside the castle walls. Like many before her, Beatrice was overwhelmed by Markus’s beauty, and already loved him dearly.
197
The day before the gig was uncomfortable for Kalix. She dreamed of Gawain and woke up feeling warm and content but as the dream faded, her misery returned. She kept picturing him with someone else, and tormenting herself with thoughts of who it might be. She had a wild notion of hunting Gawain and his lover down and killing them both.
“No,” muttered Kalix. “I won’t do that. I’ll kill myself.”
It was momentarily comforting to think how sorry Gawain would be when she killed herself. But probably he wouldn’t be sorry for long. He’d have his new love to comfort him.
Dominil didn’t need any more help and Kalix couldn’t find anything else to take her mind off her unhappiness. She watched her Sabrina the Teenage Witch DVD but she’d already seen it so many times it failed to distract her. She felt angry at the TV stations for not showing more new episodes. Since getting cable Kalix had learned that just because a channel showed her favourite programmes regularly it didn’t always mean they were new. When the afternoon episode of Sabrina turned out to be repeat which she’d already seen several times, Kalix felt tempted to bite the television.
The atmosphere in the house was again strained. Moonglow was still unhappy. Worse, she was in a bad mood with Daniel, and they had an argument about the dirty dishes in the kitchen. This was unusual. They’d never argued about the dishes before. Now Moonglow seemed to be implying that Daniel had carelessly neglected his share of cleaning due to seeing too much of Alicia.
“Who did all the dishes when you were spending time with Markus?” retorted Daniel, which made the argument worse. Kalix didn’t like to be around when Daniel and Moonglow were arguing. It made her anxious. She grabbed her laudanum, went to the kitchen, took a carton of cheap wine from a cupboard, and hurried out of the house.
Outside it was snowing. Kalix headed towards Kennington Park, looking for somewhere private. She made for an isolated clump of bushes and felt a little more secure as she crawled inside. She began to breath a little more easily. Finally noticing the cold, she transformed into her werewolf shape, then used her claws to rip off the top of the wine carton. It didn’t take long for the wine to affect her. Mixed with the laudanum it quickly began to dull her senses.
Kalix put one paw to her neck. There seemed to something missing. What was it? She remembered she’d taken her pendant off to have a bath, and hadn’t put it on again. She was outside without her protection, and she was in werewolf shape. Very dangerous. Kalix shrugged. She didn’t care. If anyone was looking for her, let them find her.
198
The day before the gig was also the day before the start of the Sorceress Livia’s 500th birthday celebration. Malveria’s moods swung wildly between calm, despair, and elation. She felt calm while planning her five-day campaign of aggressive fashion warfare. Directing her dressers, handmaidens, and make-up artists was not unlike planning a military campaign, and she was good at this. As each stage of her plan was finalised, Malveria felt a great surge of happiness. She simply couldn’t wait to walk into Livia’s celebration wearing Thrix’s wonderful clothes.
There were also moments of despair. Her final batch of shoes had not yet arrived from Italy. The Enchantress was even now on the phone, threatening the postal services with dire retribution if they didn’t come up with the goods. No matter how impossible the odds against her had been as she fought to gain control of the kingdom, Malveria had never given way to despair. Now, faced with the prospect of wearing her astonishing new blue chiffon evening dress with anything other than the perfect high heeled leather sandals Thrix had designed for her, the Queen felt she could just sit down and cry. Finally she could stand it no longer. She teleported to the premises of Thrix Fashions, erupting into the Enchantress’s office in a blur of flames, jasmine and burning tears.
“I must have my new shoes!” she screamed, and collapsed sobbing on the couch.
“They’re here,” said Thrix. “I dragged them out of the sorting office with sorcery - ”
Malveria wasn’t listening. Having spotted the shoes in question resting beside Thrix’s desk she’d rushed towards them and was feverishly tearing open the box. Thrix took Malveria firmly by the shoulder and led her back to the couch.
“I must try on the shoes immediately,” gasped the Queen.
“Malveria,” said Thrix sternly, looking her in the eyes. “You’re not in a fit state to try on shoes. You’ll set them on fire. Calm down.”
“Please!” wailed the Fire Queen, and made another move towards the shoes. Thrix flung herself in the way.
“As your fashion designer I order you to sit on the couch till you cool down,” cried Thrix, even more sternly. “It’s for your own good.”
Malveria reluctantly did as she was told. The flames that flickered around her gradually began to fade. Thrix snapped her fingers, causing a glass of water and a glass of wine to float to her side. She helped Malveria sip from both. Malveria took some deep breaths.
“Thank you dearest Enchantress. The thought of my new shoes not arriving in time quite undermined my famous self-control. Are they really all here?”
“Yes, all of them.”
Thrix had been up the whole night putting the finishing touches to the Fire Queen’s new collection of handbags. In themselves the bags were a collection worthy of a page in a fashion magazine. The Fire Queen, who loved a good handbag, would derive a great deal of pleasure from them, but not until she’d spent some hours revelling in her new footwear. The Enchantress sat on the couch, briefly watched as Malveria tried on her shoes, then drifted off to sleep, exhausted by her endeavours.
199
Gawain was patrolling, as he did every night. Though he had no hope of ever being re-united with Kalix, he was still protecting her. During the past week Gawain had noticed several unfamiliar werewolves in the South London Streets. He didn’t know about the price Sarapen had put on Kalix’s head but he sensed that she was in more danger than ever. He patrolled for as long as he could, a lonely figure in the snow, prowling through gardens, occasionally taking to the rooftops, always ready to intercept anyone who might be a threat to Kalix.
As Gawain hurried past Kennington Park, he halted, and looked up sharply. He was so used to straining his senses for the slightest sign of danger that it was a shock to be suddenly aware of Kalix’s presence. She was nearby, in werewolf form, and not maki
ng any attempt to hide. The moment he sensed her Gawain knew she was in trouble.
It was not yet the full moon. Gawain’s werewolf shape would not come on naturally. Despite the urgency of the situation, he was forced to concentrate for a few moments to bring on the change. As soon as he transformed he charged through the park towards the bushes in the distance. Snow was falling, hindering visibility. Gawain didn’t see his quarry till he was almost upon them. Four werewolves, all still in human shape, also heading towards the bushes. Gawain knew that Kalix was there. He snarled. The four men turned to face him.
“Back off,” said one of the men. “You’re not getting a share.”
“A share?”
“Of the reward.”
The man looked at his companions.
“Thinks he can just come here late and pick up five gold nobles. Maybe he thinks he’s special because he can change without the moon?”
As he spoke the man transformed into a werewolf. One of his companions did the same. Gawain realised that these werewolves were not from Sarapen’s entourage. They weren’t seeking Kalix as part of the feud over the Thaneship. They weren’t trying to drag Kalix home to face the Great Council. They were just vagabond werewolves, come here to kill her and pick up a reward. It filled him with fury. He leapt on the largest werewolf, dragging him down to the snow-covered ground. There was snarling and howling as Gawain engaged with his four opponents. The battle was brief. Gawain was a warrior, from a line of warriors. His opponents couldn’t cope with his fighting skills. Five gold nobles was a fine reward but not worth losing their lives over. Within minutes the two who were unable to make the werewolf change had fled. Their werewolf companions followed shortly after, limping away from the scene, blood seeping from their wounds.
As soon as they were out of sight Gawain rushed into the bushes. He was frantic about Kalix. He knew she would never ignore a fight. It was so unlike her he feared she might already be dead.
Lonely Werewolf Girl Page 56
