The Curse of the Wolf Girl (17 page)

“There’s no telling where this might end,” Thrix told Ann. She cursed her sister again and Gawain for good measure.

Thrix had agreed to visit the crime scene, after she was urged to by her mother. With her sorcerous powers, she might learn more about the affair. She arrived home, checked her email, showered, then, knowing that she couldn’t put it off any longer, headed for Camberwell.

The enchantress could transport herself through space for short distances. It wasn’t something she enjoyed. When Malveria teleported the journey was swift and painless, but the enchantress’s powers of dimensional travel were not equal to those of the Fire Queen. She had to drag herself through a cold, hostile vacuum, full of unfriendly shapes and disturbing whispers. The short journey drained her, and when she materialized in Gawain’s flat her mood worsened. The bodies were gone, but the blood remained, and the overwhelming scent of death was everywhere.

Thrix, perfectly attired in a blue dress with matching heels, looked and felt out of place in the tiny apartment with grime on the woodwork and blood on the walls. She could still smell Kalix’s presence, Gawain’s death, and the hunters’ blood. And there was something else. More werewolves. Who’s scent was that? She sniffed again, but couldn’t make it out. Though it was daylight, Thrix transformed into her werewolf shape. No other MacRinnalch could transform during daylight, but Thrix had learned how to from Minerva MacRinnalch a long time ago. It increased her sense of smell by a magnitude. Now the various scents were clearer. The Douglas-MacPhees had been here. So had Decembrius MacRinnalch. Thrix prowled the flat, absorbing it all. There were so many scents it was difficult to distinguish them all. Thrix’s werewolf brow furrowed, and she got down on all fours, padding around, her nose in the floor. As a werewolf, Thrix was still blond, and her long hair, which had once captivated the attention of her lover Gawain, trailed along the floor as she investigated the scene of his recent violent death.

Kalix woke in the afternoon. The weak sunlight made her blink. It was some days since she’d seen daylight. How many days? She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t remember exactly how long it was since she’d found Gawain. She climbed quickly to her feet. At least her mind had cleared. She intended to find out who killed Gawain and then take her revenge.

Kalix snarled, thinking of revenge, and even in her human form there was something disturbing about her expression. Like all the MacRinnalch women, Kalix had a very wide mouth, red lips, and a lot of white teeth. Enough to give a powerful bite, even before transforming.

Kalix crossed to the middle of her room and stood there uncertainly. Despite her determination, she was unsure of how to proceed. How could she find the killer? Had Gawain been murdered by the Avenaris Guild? It seemed most likely, but Kalix wasn’t sure. The men who’d arrived while she was there were certainly professional werewolf hunters, which meant they were probably from the guild, but had they been the killers? Gawain had already been dead when they arrived. Why would the killers come back? To look for more werewolves? Kalix wasn’t sure. They might have been hunting for Gawain, not knowing him to be already dead. Someone else might have killed him. Like the Douglas-MacPhees, she thought, remembering that she’d seen Duncan skulking in the shadows as she’d fled. He was definitely a possible candidate.

Kalix felt baffled, then had a sudden bolt of inspiration. She crossed over to the small table, one of the few pieces of furniture in her bare room, and took her journal from the drawer. She turned to the back of the book and, on a fresh page, wrote a list of suspects for Gawain’s killing. It took her a long time to form each letter and complete each word, but she stuck to her task, determined to make progress. She sipped some laudanum, from habit, and drew a line under her title. Then she wrote “the guild” and under that “duncan douglas-macphee.” After some consideration, she wrote “other douglas-macphees.”

Kalix shivered. The room was cold. She slipped her old coat round her shoulders and looked at her page. She was quite pleased at her progress. Then, in her shaky script, she wrote “Thrix,” because it seemed to Kalix that her sister might have been involved somehow. She wasn’t sure why. She just felt suspicious of her. Thrix might have been trying to win Gawain back and killed him when he spurned her. Kalix wouldn’t put it past her sister. She’d proved her treacherous nature in the past.

It occurred to her that Gawain had still been banished and her mother, the Mistress of the Werewolves, hadn’t approved of Kalix having a relationship with a banished werewolf. She’d never approved of Gawain. Markus had never liked him either. Kalix immediately felt suspicious. What if the clan had killed Gawain? They might have been trying to kidnap him and take him back to Scotland to punish him for having a relationship with her. But that wasn’t very likely. Or was it? Kalix began to feel confused. She’d started the list to help clear her thoughts, but now it was becoming more complicated. Suddenly she felt angry and wished that the murderer was right in front of her, because then she would rip him apart, no matter who it was. That was something she could certainly do. When Kalix found Gawain’s murderer, she’d tear his head from his shoulders, and nothing would stop her.

Kalix looked at her list again. She took another sip of laudanum, more this time. She hadn’t eaten for several days, and the opiate coursed quickly through her thin frame, instantly affecting her concentration. She shook her head and felt angry at herself for not being intelligent enough to know what to do. She thought of Gawain’s body again, and the smell of death in his apartment. All of a sudden, the creeping anxiety that had been playing around the edge of her consciousness since she woke expanded in a fearful manner and threatened to overwhelm her. Kalix gritted her teeth. She couldn’t let herself give in to the anxiety. She dropped the pen then fingered the ring that pierced her nose, turning it around sharply, a nervous habit she’d picked up recently.

Suddenly it was all too much. Kalix stood up as if to flee then realized she had nowhere to go. Her breath became irregular, as if she couldn’t catch it properly. Her palms became damp with sweat and her limbs went very cold. Her chest beat furiously as her heart pounded. Kalix was now in the grip of anxiety. When it came on, it fed on itself, and she became more and more anxious about being anxious. Now trembling quite violently, she thrust her hand into the drawer and grabbed the small knife hidden there. Then, naked save for the coat that was draped around her shoulders, she made a short, deep cut on her thigh. The skin opened, and blood flowed out. Kalix watched it flow down her leg. Immediately she felt a little better. Not well, but better. Her anxiety receded a little. She crossed to the bed, not caring about the blood that stained the sheet, dragged the quilt over her, drank some more laudanum, and sat back against the wall. The warm blood on her leg soothed her. It was a relief to feel better. She opened her eyes and tried to rise, to get back to her list of suspects. But it was too difficult. She was too full of laudanum. The young werewolf closed her eyes and drifted off into an intoxicated slumber, blood still seeping from the cut in her thigh.

Beauty and Delicious were bored and dissatisfied. They sat in their living room in Camden, on furniture that, while expensive, had been badly worn by their continual partying.

“We could watch some TV,” suggested Beauty.

“I’m too bored to watch TV,” replied Delicious.

There was a long pause.

“We could go and have our hair done.”

“We did that yesterday.”

“Oh.” Beauty took a strand of hair in her fingers and examined it. It was very long and a violent blue color. Delicious’s hair was also long and a very shocking pink. Despite intensive coloring, their hair remained in good condition. The stylist they frequented was more used to taking care of models, actresses, and young society women than two inebriates from Camden, but the twins were very wealthy and quite prepared to pay any amount of money to have their hair looked after well. Other clients were now used to the sight of Beauty and Delicious slumped almost unconscious in their chairs while a team of experts surrounded them, washing, styling, coloring, and conditioning with infinite care. Their hairdresser was fond of them. As well as being wealthy, they brought some exotic color to his establishment.

“We could try finishing the new song.”

“I hate the new song.”

Beauty sighed. “So do I.”

The twins lapsed into silence again and sipped idly from a bottle of the MacRinnalch malt whisky. It was sent to them from Castle MacRinnalch, though not as frequently as they’d have liked.

“It’s all Dominil’s fault,” exclaimed Delicious. “We should be playing more gigs. Then we wouldn’t be bored.”

“She’s useless as a manager.”

“Worst manager ever.”

A key sounded in the lock. Dominil strode into the house, placed her suitcase carefully on the floor, and regarded the sisters with distaste. The sisters glared back at her.

“You’re the worst manager ever,” said Delicious.

Dominil didn’t reply.

“And we’re bored,” added Beauty, “because you won’t let us play more gigs.”

“You have plenty to do,” said Dominil. “I left you with clear instructions on rehearsal and musical composition.”

The twins sniggered. Only Dominil would use a phrase like
musical composition
.

Beauty dragged herself upright in her chair. “We want to play. You were keen enough for us to play earlier. You practically forced us on stage before we were ready. Now you won’t get us more gigs. Why not?”

“She just got us one gig so we’d vote for Markus as Thane,” said Delicious, accusingly.

Dominil pressed her lips together with annoyance. “We have been over this many times. Your first gig was necessary to resurrect your careers. It gave you focus for getting your band back together. Now I’d like you to improve. Various music journalists have expressed an interest in seeing you play, and I don’t want you to disappoint them.”

Beauty and Delicious looked blank.

Dominil sighed. “I’ve got you a gig in Edinburgh.”

“Edinburgh? Who wants to play there?”

“Many people. It’s a vibrant city.”

Beauty and Delicious were unenthusiastic. Traveling to Edinburgh seemed like a lot of trouble.

“I hate Scotland. It’s too far away.”

“It’s less than an hour by air. And how can you hate Scotland? You’re Scottish.”

“There’s too much heather,” said Beauty, “and kilts.”

“It’s full of castles and stuff,” said Delicious. “I hate castles.”

“You’re talking nonsense,” replied Dominil, calmly. “Edinburgh is a modern city, the same as cities everywhere.” She paused. “I admit it does have a large castle right in the middle. Which may be surrounded by men in kilts. And some heather. But apart from that it’s a modern city. I thought you’d be pleased to play at a gig promoted by a fellow MacRinnalch werewolf.”

“Who is he?”

“Cameron MacRinnalch. Doctor Angus’s grandson. He’s a student at the medical faculty at Edinburgh University. He puts on gigs in his spare time.” Dominil paused, reflecting that she didn’t really approve of a student putting on gigs in his spare time. It seemed to imply a lack of application to his studies. Nonetheless, it suited her purpose.

“You’ll be less in danger of giving away your werewolf nature, and it will be an excellent opportunity to hone your onstage skills. Now”—Dominil bent down to pick up a CD from the floor, placing it safely on the cabinet beside her—“I suggest we work out an intensified schedule of rehearsal. We have no time to waste.”

Beauty and Delicious sighed. Anything that involved Dominil also involved a seemingly endless amount of work, and they suddenly felt less enthusiastic about playing than they had before.

Dominil left them to their dissatisfaction, retreating upstairs to the room she used as an office. She was hoping there’d be a message from a woman in Singapore she’d first met on a Perl forum some years ago and stayed in touch with since. The woman was particularly skillful in cracking passwords, and she ran a small, private online business providing these passwords to people who were prepared to pay. The message was there. Dominil copied it with satisfaction. The Avenaris Guild kept upgrading their online security, but with help from her acquaintance in Singapore, Dominil remained one step ahead.

Dominil was interrupted several times by her phone ringing. Each time she looked at the screen it said
Pete
. Pete was the guitarist in Yum Yum Sugary Snacks. The first few times, she ignored it. Finally she answered in frustration.

“‘Stop calling me. I’m busy.” Dominil switched off her phone and returned to her work. After another twenty minutes, she allowed herself the tiniest flicker of a smile, satisfied with her accomplishments. Having read more of the private files of the guild, she now had the address of a werewolf hunter she’d like to meet.

“I’ll be seeing you soon,” muttered Dominil.

She was interrupted by Beauty and Delicious stomping noisily into the room.

“Hey, we just heard from Pete!” cried Beauty. “He says he can’t play guitar anymore!”

“What?”

“He’s too depressed to play!” yelled Delicious. “Did you ever hear anything like it?”

“How can he be too depressed to play?” demanded Beauty. “Why is he depressed?”

They stared at Dominil expectantly.

“Why would you expect me to know?”

“You’re our manager. You should know stuff like that. Why is our guitarist too depressed to play?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Dominil, defensively.

“It’s probably some woman,” said Beauty. “Has he been seeing some woman?”

“I bet it’s that barmaid at the Red Lion,” declared Delicious. “Dominil, has the barmaid from the Red Lion broken Pete’s heart?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Well, you should find out. You can’t just let our guitarist go around being brokenhearted and depressed. You have to sort it out.”