Read The Anxiety of Kalix the Werewolf Online
Authors: Martin Millar
“Trust Kalix to get Minerva killed!”
It was easy for Dominil to say that the Guild was responsible, not Kalix, but if Kalix hadn't been so weak-minded and inconsiderate as to take all her laudanum that morning, Minerva wouldn't have been left alone and defenseless on the mountain side, an easy target for the Guild's sniper.
Thrix wasn't feeling too kindly toward Dominil either. What was she doing getting addicted to laudanum anyway? And then bothering Minerva with her problems? Didn't Minerva deserve a peaceful retirement without interference from drug-addled werewolves?
If Kalix and Dominil had just learned to control themselves properly instead of getting addicted to laudanum, none of this would have happened, thought Thrix, and she felt even angrier.
Dominil was meant to be looking for the Avenaris Guild via the internet, land registries, company records and so on, but Thrix didn't believe that would get them anywhere. If the Guild possessed sorcery powerful enough to completely hide it from her spells, it had most probably taken care of everything else too.
She made a sound that was half sigh, half growl, and picked up a manuscript. It was one of Minerva's late writings, details of a spell she'd made but never fully described. As far as Thrix could make out, it was a spell for finding a lover anywhere in the world. That wasn't exactly what Thrix needed, but it contained some unusual and powerful features, and she wondered if she might somehow adapt it. She picked up a notebook from the floor and started to make some notes. A strand of hair fell over her face. She pushed it back impatiently. Thrix's golden hair was tied back and had been unwashed for several days. She wore a very old pair of jeans and she couldn't even have said what color the T-shirt she wore was without checking in a mirror. For the first time in her adult life, the Enchantress had abandoned all traces of vanity.
“I'm going to find them,” she muttered. “And then I'm going to kill them all.”
Another strand of hair fell over her face. Annoyed at her hair, and everything else, Thrix picked up a pair of dressmakers scissors from the floor and hacked off the loose strand.
I've got too much hair, she thought. It's getting in the way.
She cut off another strand and felt some satisfaction as she watched it fall to the floor.
The Fire Queen was sulking in her palace. Her mood had not improved. There was no word about her new dress for the fashion reception. Apparently Thrix was not going to make her a new dress. Malveria took it very badly. At meetings with her government ministers, she snapped at them for imagined failures and rudely dismissed plans that she herself had originally suggested. She told them she was disappointed in them all, and suggested it was no wonder the nation was in such a poor state if her government ministers were all so inefficient. Even the eternally loyal Xakthan was not immune from criticism. He was deeply wounded by the Queen's sudden decision not to attend his son's military graduation next week.
“But why,” raged the Fire Queen later, to Gruselvere and Iskiline, “should I attend the wretched ceremony? I've seen ten thousand young elementals graduate from military academy and this will be no different.
Besides”âMalveria shudderedâ“one cannot go anywhere these days without the dreadful Lord Stratov inviting me to his castle. Why does he keep bothering me?”
The Queen looked around at her chief dresser and her wardrobe mistress, but they were unable to supply an answer. It was undoubtedly true that Lord Stratov had been pursuing the Queen in recent weeks. He was never away from court.
“And Garfire is just as bad!” cried the Queen. “Yesterday he absolutely insisted I attend some foul hunt on his wretched estates. He was most persistent. Had a young handmaiden not provided a distraction by dropping a plate of hors d'oeuvre and then bursting into tears, I would have been hard pressed to make an escape. What is wrong with my lords and dukes these days? They are infuriating me. One longs to pick up Garfire and dip him in the Great Volcano, but he is of course Duchess Gargamond's brother and cannot be dipped in the Volcano, at least not just for being tedious.”
The Fire Queen drank very deeply from a bottle of red wine and sent a young courier hurrying to the cellars to make sure her personal supply was not running low.
“And when I escaped from the Duke, what do you think happened?”
Iskiline and Gruselvere looked inquisitively toward the Queen, though they had already heard the story. “The Earl of Flamineau practically leaped on me to invite me to a masked ball he's holding in his chateau. Since when does Earl Flamineau hold masked balls? The man is so decrepit I'm surprised he can still dance. What is the matter with them all?”
Gruselvere giggled.
“Are you giggling?” said the Fire Queen. “What is the source of this hilarity?”
“They're trying to woo you,” said Gruselvere.
The Fire Queen scowled. “I had worked this out for myself, Gruselvere. But why are they trying to woo me at this moment? I remain the same Fire Queen I have been for . . . uh . . . several years. Why this sudden upsurge of interest?”
Neither Iskiline nor Gruselvere could suggest a reason.
“I suspect First Minister Xakthan,” declared Malveria. “He's been trying to marry me off for years. One simply winces at his lack of subtlety. I will produce an heir when I'm ready and not before, and I will not produce it with Garfire, Stratov or Flamineau!” Malveria sat erect in her chair and slapped a palm noisily on the armrest. “None of them are at all suitable!”
“Who would be suitable?” wondered Iskiline, who, like her companion, was taking the opportunity to drink deeply from the contents of the Fire Queen's cellars.
“How can I think about that when I am in the midst of the most severe fashion crisis ever to hit these lands?” cried the Fire Queen. “With Thrix MacRinnalch shunning me and no dress for the fashion designers' reception? Now I cannot attend for fear of inferior frock shame. And yet I'm expected to attend ceremonies, run my government, get married and produce children as if nothing was wrong?”
Fire dripped from the Queen's fingers. “I always knew Thrix MacRinnalch would let me down in the end. No doubt she has been planning this outrage for years. It was simply foolish to trust a werewolf, and a MacRinnalch at that.” Malveria scowled mightily, and more fire emerged from her fingers. “Did I tell you I called in to her wretched office in Soho last week? Me, the Fire Queen, reigning sovereign of the Hiyasta nation, appearing cap in hand like a beggar, pleading for a new dress. And she was not there! And her assistant claims not to know where she is! I won't have it!”
The Queen's rage abruptly deflated. She sighed and sank in her chair. “Now I cannot attend the event. When the fashionable people assemble tonight, I will not be there.” The Queen drank heavily from her glass. “It is all very trying.”
A young attendant in a flawlessly embroidered red costume entered the room and bowed deeply. “Mighty Queen, Duke Garfire is without, asking permission to see you.”
“Garfire? Did I not instruct you to tell him I had left the palace?”
“Uh . . . no, mighty Queen.”
“Well, you should have guessed. Tell him I'm indisposed. The Fire Queen is not at home to anyone. Now begone, and apart from bringing wine at regular intervals, do not appear again.”
“This is where the Douglas-MacPhees live?” said Kalix, looking up at the very ordinary flat above a health-food shop in Hoxton.
“Yes,” said Decembrius.
“It looks just like a normal flat.”
“What were you expecting, a pirates' lair?”
“No,” said Kalix sharply. Really, she had been expecting something like that, and wouldn't have been surprised to find a skull and crossbones hanging out of the window.
The Douglas-MacPhees' van was parked along the street in a resident's parking space. Kalix got out of Decembrius's car. She noticed that he was arranging his hair in the rear-view mirror.
“Do you have to do that now?”
“Why not?” sad Decembrius, unabashed. “Nothing wrong with looking good.”
“It doesn't look that good.”
“That's not what you said before.”
“I've never said anything about your hair.”
“Yes, you did, you said you liked it now it was longer.”
“I don't remember saying that.”
Decembrius had changed in the past year. When he was an associate of Sarapen's, he'd worn a suit. Now he had a leather jacket and his hair was long, swept back and a brighter shade of red than it used to be. It did look good, but Kalix wasn't about to tell him that. They walked toward the door beside the health food shop.
Kalix hesitated. “What are we going to do? Just ring the doorbell?”
“Why not?” asked Decembrius.
“It's going to look strange, me ringing their doorbell.”
Kalix felt silly at the prospect of ringing the bell. Duncan Douglas-MacPhee would laugh at her, if he didn't just attack her first.
“Probably the hunters just followed them and now they've gone,” said Kalix. “We should leave. You can call them and tell them you saw hunters following them.”
Decembrius was no longer listening. He'd walked up to the door and was staring at it fixedly.
Kalix caught up with him. “What is itâ” she began, but didn't finish the sentence. She picked up the same scent as Decembrius. The smell of blood was coming from behind the door, unnoticeable to the people who walked by on the pavement, but distinctive to Kalix and Decembrius.
Decembrius looked around. “Give me some cover.”
Kalix leaned against him, spreading her coat a little, as if putting her arms around him. When there were no pedestrians nearby, Decembrius slammed his elbow into the door. There was a loud noise as the lock broke,
but with the traffic in the street, no one seemed to notice. Decembrius backed quickly inside, followed by Kalix. They found themselves in a dark stairway. The smell of blood was overwhelming. Decembrius pushed the light switch then ran up the stairs.
The door to the flat was open. Kalix and Decembrius rushed in. In the hallway, Duncan Douglas-MacPhee was lying face down in a puddle of blood. His sister Rhona lay beside him, on her side, with a wound in her heart. Their huge cousin William was slumped in the doorway to the next room. Decembrius swiftly felt for a pulse on each body.
“They're all dead,” he muttered. “And still warm.”
He turned Duncan over. “One bullet in the heart. They've all been killed with one bullet.”
Kalix ran through the flat, hoping to find the hunters, but they were gone. She arrived back in the hallway with a wild look in her eyes. “We have to find them and kill them!”
Decembrius shook his head. “Find them? They've gone. They followed the Douglas-MacPhees here, killed them and left, all before we got here.”
Decembrius saw the maddened look in Kalix's eyes. “There's no point going crazy. We can't do anything now.”
Kalix knew it was true. She tried to calm herself. Decembrius was using his phone, calling someone. He waited while it rang.
“Thrix isn't answering.” He looked uncertain. “Who should I call now?”
Kalix didn't know. Previously, when werewolves had been killed in London, Thrix had come and used her skills to investigate the scene. If Thrix wasn't around she wasn't sure what to do.
“Maybe you should call the castle?”
Decembrius nodded. He dialed quickly. “This is Decembrius MacRinnalch. I need to speak to the Mistress of the Werewolves. It's urgent.”
Kalix looked around at the hallway. It wasn't dark or dingy, as she'd imagined the abode of the Douglas-MacPhees would be. It was large and bright, as was the rest of the apartment. The decorations and furnishings were much better than those in the flat Kalix shared in Kennington. Someone among the Douglas-MacPhees had obviously had some taste, and their criminal lifestyle must have made them a reasonable income. Kalix looked down at Duncan's body and felt confused. This was a werewolf who'd pursued her, and tried to kill her. She'd fought him and his siblings more than once. She'd happily have killed him during any of these fights. But now he was dead, murdered by werewolf hunters. Kalix felt
her customary hatred and loathing toward the hunters, but about Duncan himself, she didn't know what to think.
The Mistress of the Werewolves was extremely alarmed to hear the news, particularly as they were still at the scene of the murder.
“You both have to get out of there immediately,” she said. “What if the hunters come back?”
“I don't think that's likely,” said Decembrius.
The Mistress of the Werewolves was insistent. The murders were another blow for the clan, but her immediate concern was for her daughter.
“Make the front door secure, then leave. I won't have you risking your lives. Thrix can't be far away, we can ask her to visit later, if it's safe.”
“Do you want to speak to Kalix?” asked Decembrius.