The Curse of the Wolf Girl (14 page)

There were twelve werewolves in the great chamber, five short of the council’s full compliment. Butix and Delix were not expected to attend. Though Dominil had miraculously succeeded in dragging them to a meeting some months ago, they had no intention of returning. Kalix could not attend, still being outlawed. Marwanis was still furious about Sarapen’s death and hadn’t been to a meeting since the feud. The other missing council member was Decembrius, for whom there was no excuse.

The meeting began peacefully. There seemed to be no business of great importance to discuss, which made Thrix even more annoyed than usual to be there. As Baron MacPhee related a dull account of some drainage problems he’d been having on his estate, her thoughts turned to her business and to the problem of getting shops to stock her clothes. The public couldn’t buy her clothes if shops didn’t stock them, and Thrix had had very little success so far in persuading stores that they should.

“The chief buyers for these stores are idiots,” thought Thrix. “They’ve got no taste. And you can’t get through to them anyway.”

Persuading the people who ordered the stock for the main retailers was extremely difficult. Only recently, Thrix had seemed to be on the verge of a breakthrough. Kirsten Merkel, chief buyer for Eldridges, one of the capital’s most important outlets, had expressed an interest. If they decided to start stocking Thrix’s clothes, it would be an enormous step forward. Unfortunately, Merkel had gone quiet of late and wasn’t returning Thrix’s calls.

“If only that damned journalist had written the piece she said she was going to write,” thought Thrix, bitterly, and broadened her anger at clothes buyers to include fashion journalists as well. She stifled a sigh and waited for the meeting to end. She swept back the golden hair that hung in long tresses from her werewolf head and shoulders and was surprised to find her mother asking her a question. Thrix looked at her mother quite blankly. “Pardon?”

Verasa clamped her jaws together, the werewolf equivalent of pursing her lips. “I was asking you what you felt about Dominil’s comments.”

“What comments?”

Thrix felt the eyes of the council boring into her.

“Eh…”

“Do you feel an increased danger?” prompted the Mistress of the Werewolves.

Thrix still had no idea what they were talking about.

“From the guild,” interjected Dominil, coolly. “I’ve been telling the council that the activity of the Avenaris Guild has not decreased as we anticipated.”

“I’m not in any danger. No werewolf hunter can trouble me.”

Dominil nodded. “Probably not. Your powers of sorcery are a considerable defense. Although Princess Kabachetka did manage to overwhelm your defensive sorcery not long ago. But regardless of that, Butix, Delix, Kalix, and any other werewolf traveling through London are in danger. Not only that, I believe I may be being targeted.”

“Have you been reading their private files again?”

Dominil nodded. “So perhaps we should do something about it.”

“I agree with Dominil,” said Markus, sounding keen.

His mother was less eager. “There would be no danger if you all moved back to Scotland.”

“Butix and Delix will never return willingly. Kalix is forbidden to return.”

“I don’t see why the twins can’t come back to Scotland,” said Kurian, brother of the old Thane, and there were murmurs of agreement from the barons. They tended to agree with Verasa’s view that the MacRinnalch werewolves should stick to their homelands where they were safe instead of moving to faraway cities where the guild could trouble them.

“Would it be such a bad idea to take action against the guild?” asked Markus. Verasa looked with displeasure at her son, but the young Thane met her gaze. “We’ve been running from them for a long time. Always reacting to their attacks instead of initiating our own. Dominil’s right. We should do something instead of waiting till they pick us off.”

But though the council took the Thane’s opinion with due seriousness, they were more inclined to follow his mother’s lead. Most of them were safe in their castles and keeps in Scotland. Why start a potentially damaging war with the Avenaris Guild?

“We lost enough werewolves in the feud,” growled old Baron MacPhee. “I don’t want to send more of my wolves to London to fight for Butix and Delix.”

Markus was frustrated. Even though he was Thane, the barons inevitably favored his mother’s opinion over his own. He opened his great jaws to speak again, but was interrupted by Thrix’s mobile phone. The enchantress jumped in her seat as it rang. It was a dreadful breach of etiquette, and the enchantress found herself confronted by eleven sets of angry werewolf eyes. Never before had anyone been careless enough to allow their phone to ring during a meeting. Barons MacPhee and MacAllister, both grown to adulthood long before mobile phones were invented, looked particularly outraged.

“Sorry,” mumbled Thrix, and groped on her chair for her phone, which was concealed beneath the werewolf fur of her thighs.

Markus looked at his sister with particular disdain. It was so like her to disrupt the affairs of the MacRinnalchs with her own outside concerns. As the respected members of the Great Council looked on in disgust, Thrix finally managed to locate her phone, picking up the tiny object with some difficulty in her paw.

“Sorry,” she muttered again as the ring tone thundered out with surprising volume, its electronic notes reverberating off the stone walls of the chamber. Finding it impossible to switch it off with her werewolf talons, the enchantress did the next best thing and fled from the chamber. The corridor outside was better lit, and, free from the intimidating stares of her fellow werewolves, the enchantress finally succeeded in answering the phone. “Who is it?” she snapped, angrily.

“Moonglow,” came the reply, which made her angrier.

“What’s the idea of phoning me here?”

“Kalix is in trouble.”

“Sort it out yourself,” snarled the enchantress.

“She’s been shot,” said Moonglow. “And I think she killed some hunters. And that’s not all.”

The enchantress gritted her fangs. Would the trouble surrounding Kalix never go away? She listened as Moonglow related the recent events. When she was finished, Thrix grunted in frustration and annoyance.

“I’ll have to tell the Council,” she said. “I’ll call you back.”

She snapped her phone shut and muttered a curse under her breath before striding back into the council chamber. Thrix didn’t bother to conceal her phone, and she paid no attention to the hostile glares of her fellow council members. She sat down quite heavily then looked directly at the Mistress of the Werewolves.

“Kalix has been shot. A silver bullet through the hand. As far as her roommates can gather, she was involved in a fight with some hunters and killed them. Unfortunately the police arrived, so God knows what’s going on there now.”

There were alarmed expressions all round the table. Kalix’s reputation in battle was well known. If some scene of carnage had been discovered by the police, it was already a major incident and exactly the sort of thing the clan tried to avoid.

“Is Kalix safe?” asked Verasa.

“I think so. But if it really was a silver bullet, she’ll need attention anyway. There’s more. Gawain MacRinnalch is dead.”

There was a ripple of shock in the chamber. Gawain MacRinnalch was a notable werewolf. Though he’d been banished from the clan, he came from an ancient and well-respected family.

“Gawain is dead? Who killed him?” asked Tupan, eldest brother of the late Thane and Dominil’s father.

“The hunters, I suppose.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t Kalix?” asked Tupan, voicing a thought that had already occurred to everyone. Given Kalix’s instability, it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption. Gawain had been a fierce warrior himself. He wasn’t the sort of werewolf to fall easy prey to the guild.

“My daughter does not murder her fellow werewolves,” growled Verasa, looking menacing. “You should return to London, Thrix. They’ll need you there.”

The enchantress nodded. Normally she’d have been pleased at the opportunity to return early, but only if it involved getting back to her fashion business. Hurrying back to deal with another Kalix-related incident was not what she had in mind, and she silently cursed her young sister for yet again plunging them all into crisis.

In the early afternoon, Decembrius called into one of the bookmakers’ shops on Camden High Street. Betting on horse racing was a habit he’d developed recently. He staked only small amounts but found that the temporary excitement distracted him from his depression. The shop was small and clean, though the ten or so customers had a slightly shabby air about them. Decembrius looked out of place, though no one paid him much attention. Everyone was too preoccupied with the racing results that were displayed on the screens on the wall.

Decembrius took one of the tiny pens and scribbled a few words on a small betting slip then lined up at the counter to place his bet. The assistant took it swiftly and gave Decembrius a friendly smile. As he left the betting shop, Decembrius paused, musing on what he might do with his winnings if he was fortunate, before walking along to the tube station and disappearing underground.

* * *

In East London, he was warmly welcomed by Merchant MacDoig.

“Decembrius MacRinnalch! Come in, lad. I’ve hardly heard a word of you since the sad affair of Sarapen.” The merchant shook his head. “I’ve not long since come from the castle, doing some business for the Mistress of the Werewolves. It’s not the same place these days, what with Markus as Thane. Not the same at all. Sarapen would have been much the better choice in my opinion.”

Merchant MacDoig would have undoubtedly said the opposite to the Mistress of the Werewolves. The merchant’s opinions were famously malleable, depending on which customer he wanted to please. There was something about his wholehearted manner that made this less objectionable than it might have been.

“I believe your mother was asking after you,” the merchant added.

Decembrius didn’t reply. Merchant MacDoig always liked to be abreast of the latest gossip, but Decembrius wasn’t going to provide him with any if he could help it. Sensing his reluctance to speak of clan affairs, the merchant smiled affably, tapped his silver-headed cane on the wooden floorboards of his ancient shop, and asked the red-haired werewolf how he could help him.

“I have some books to sell. Old books. Valuable, I’d say.” Decembrius fished for the list he’d been given by the Douglas-MacPhees. It was very neatly handwritten. Even a degenerate gang of werewolves like the Douglas-MacPhees had been well educated in their youth. The Mistress of the Werewolves insisted on it, and Baron MacPhee made sure that all the wolves in his clan went to school.

The merchant took a seat on an old leather couch, put on his reading glasses, and studied the list. After a few minutes, he looked up and told Decembrius that, while books weren’t his specialist subject, he imagined there were a few items on the list that might be of some value.

“More than a few, I’d say,” Decembrius responded. “The sellers will want a reasonable price.”

“The sellers might have difficulty obtaining any price. I imagine they came by them under dubious circumstances?”

“I imagine they did,” agreed Decembrius.

Merchant MacDoig felt for his tobacco in the pouch of his embroidered waistcoat. In keeping with the rest of his attire, it belonged to a bygone era. He lit his pipe and smiled. “Would you care to tell me who’s selling them?”

“No. But they’re not the sort of werewolves you’d want to take advantage of.”

The merchant chuckled. He had no fear of werewolves. “I’m not a man that takes advantage, young Decembrius, as many a MacRinnalch can tell you. You wouldn’t be working for the Douglas-MacPhees, would you?”

“I can’t say.”

The merchant chuckled louder. “Last time they were here, they tried to take a few things that didn’t belong to them. I had to chase them off.”

Decembrius remained impassive, though inside he was wondering exactly what sort of protection, sorcerous or otherwise, the merchant had that could allow him to speak casually of chasing off the Douglas-MacPhees.

Merchant MacDoig took another glance at the list. “Well, I’m sure we could come to some arrangement. If you’ll give me a moment to consult a few books of my own, I’ll see about offering a price.”

With that, Merchant MacDoig rose rather stiffly to his feet and left the room, leaving Decembrius to gaze at the incredible clutter in the small shop, a mixture of ancient artifacts, jewelry, works of art, and items that didn’t seem to fall into any specific category. Decembrius wasn’t enjoying his mission as a go-between for the Douglas-MacPhees. He dreaded to think what his mother would say. Or Kalix. Decembrius knew that Kalix was a regular visitor to the merchant’s shop. He wondered if MacDoig might give him any information as to her whereabouts. He decided against asking. If he did, word would probably get back to the castle, somehow or other.

MacDoig returned wearing the expression of a man who’d just received very bad news. He puffed seriously on his pipe and shook his head.

“Not so valuable after all, I’m afraid.”

“Have you seen Kalix recently?” blurted Decembrius, and regretted it immediately.

The merchant eyed him with interest. “Young Kalix MacRinnalch? Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” said Decembrius. To get over the embarrassment, he proceeded to haggle as hard as he could over the value of the ancient books. But as he left the shop, having obtained a price that was barely satisfactory, he was still regretting the impulsiveness that had made him mention Kalix’s name.

When he arrived home, he put on the TV to check the racing results. The horse he’d backed had finished fifth. Decembrius immediately felt depressed and spent the next hour or so thinking gloomily about Kalix, who, he admitted to himself, he wanted to see very much.

When night fell and the moon rose, he changed into his werewolf form, alone in his flat. It helped his mood a little, though he still felt depressed about losing his bet, and though he still wanted Kalix.