The Curse of the Wolf Girl (62 page)

As soon as he got through his front door, he was grabbed roughly by the throat. William Douglas-MacPhee held him in an iron grip. Duncan sneered at him.

“Careless, Decembrius. Did you not smell us?”

“He looks like he’s in a hurry,” said Rhona. She sniffed the air. “Have a nice time with Kalix?”

“Kalix isn’t here anymore,” said Decembrius.

“We weren’t looking for her. We were looking for you.” William rammed Decembrius’s head against the wall.

Decembrius tried to stay on his feet, but Rhona kicked the back of his legs, and he tumbled to the floor. The three Douglas-MacPhees began kicking him savagely. Decembrius was a strong wolf but no match for the combined ferocity of the Douglas-MacPhees. He attempted to rise but made it only onto one knee before a tremendous blow from William sent him crashing to the ground again. Rhona kicked him in the face, and Duncan stamped on his ribs before leaning down to drag his head roughly off the floor.

“Don’t annoy us again or we’ll kill you,” Duncan snarled then slammed his head down. William kicked him again. The Douglas-MacPhees took a step back, looking at their work. Decembrius had been very badly beaten and was bleeding both from his mouth and his nose. “Tell Kalix we’ll be seeing her soon.”

The Douglas-MacPhees turned and clattered their way heavily down the stairs. Decembrius tried to rise, but failed, and had to crawl back into his flat where he lay on the floor, his face contorted with pain from the savage beating.

Are you sober?” asked Dominil.

“No,” admitted the twins.

“Are you ready to play?”

“No.”

“Can you remember your songs?”

“No.”

“Can you at least remember the name of your band?”

Beauty and Delicious looked downcast. A few hours before they were due to play, stage fright had once again overwhelmed them. They were sitting in the largest room of the tenement in Leith Walk, staring blankly at the television.

“We thought we wouldn’t bother doing the gig,” said Beauty, and her sister grunted in agreement.

Dominil breathed heavily. “It’s time for us to leave.”

“We’re not going.”

“You see a pattern of behavior here?” demanded Dominil. “A gig is proposed. You are excited and keen. I organize everything. Then, at the last minute, you get stage fright and won’t go on.”

“Pattern? No, I don’t think there’s a pattern. Delicious, do you see any pattern?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Stand up,” said Dominil.

“We’re not going.”

Dominil picked up one sister in each hand, lifting them off their feet.

“If we weren’t so fashionably skinny, you wouldn’t be able to do that,” protested Beauty.

“It’s time to play. The rest of the band is waiting. Let’s go.” Dominil hustled the unwilling twins downstairs and into the band’s van.

Pete, Adam, and Hamil greeted them all enthusiastically. They were in a strange city, playing a small gig, and they were looking forward to it. They knew that they might be playing in front of a small audience that might not like them. They knew that they’d have to set up their equipment themselves and afterwards carry it all back into their van, probably receiving only a token payment. It didn’t trouble them. They’d enjoy the gig anyway. So might the twins, eventually, though at this moment they were slumped motionless in the back of the van, looking anything but enthusiastic.

“Stage fright again?” asked Pete. “Or just drunk?”

“Both,” replied Dominil. “They’ll be fine when they get there.”

* * *

As they drove through the Georgian streets towards the venue, the fog started to become thicker.

“I never knew Edinburgh was so foggy,” observed Pete.

“They call the fog
haar
,” said Dominil. “A cold mist from the North Sea. It’s quite common on the east coast of Scotland. The word comes either from Middle Dutch
hare
, a biting wind, or Frisian
harig
, meaning damp.”

“Someone make her stop talking,” groaned Beauty from the back of the van.

They arrived at the venue and began to unload their equipment. Dominil hefted a large amplifier cabinet onto her shoulder.

“Let me help you with that,” said Pete.

“I’m fine.”

“But it’s heavy.”

Dominil was irritated. “I don’t need your help.”

“I’m sorry I got drunk and told everyone we slept together.”

“Fine.”

“I didn’t mean to announce it to the whole warehouse.”

“Could we concentrate on getting our equipment inside?”

“I’ve never met anyone like you, Dominil. How about we give it a try?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“I do.” Pete smiled at her and started to look besotted again.

Dominil tried to ignore him. Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She read the message.

“hope the preparations for the gig are going well. albermarle”

Dominil was tempted to text back, telling Albermarle she was going to kill him the first chance she got. Tormenting her with unwanted text messages while she was already being tormented by a love-sick guitarist was surely the last straw. She restrained her urge.

“Who was that from?” asked Pete.

“No one.”

“Oh. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

They carried some more equipment inside.

“So who was the text from?”

“It’s really not your business.”

“Could we go out together sometime?”

Dominil turned to shout at the rest of the band. “Are you going to hang around out there all day? Get that equipment indoors, and be quick about it!”

Decembrius regained consciousness, crawled back into his flat, washed the blood off his face, then set out for Edinburgh. He had no money for a train or plane ticket, but he had petrol in his tank so he drove. The journey through North London was frustratingly slow, but when he reached the freeway the traffic was less, and he made reasonably good time up the M1. He knew he could cover the distance in eight or nine hours if there were no serious delays. His inner werewolf strength and his desire to save Kalix carried him through the start of his journey, but by the time he’d reached Northampton, he was starting to flag. The Douglas-MacPhees had beaten him badly, and he ached all over. He had a raging thirst, and his head pounded unpleasantly. He tried to keep a steady pace, ignoring his discomfort, but by the time he neared Leeds, he knew he couldn’t carry on. No matter how urgently Decembrius wanted to reach the capital of Scotland, he wasn’t going to get there like this. He was more likely to lose control of his car and crash.

As the sun went down, Decembrius pulled into a service station. He used the change in his pockets to put a small amount of petrol into the engine and bought a bottle of water from the store. The clerk looked at the livid bruises on his face but didn’t comment.

Decembrius returned to his parked car, drank the water, and then decided that he had to take something of a risk. It was ingrained into all MacRinnalch werewolves from the earliest age that they were never to transform while there was a chance that they might be seen, but this was an emergency. He moved his car to the furthest part of the compound, locked the doors, took off his coat, draped it over his head, curled up in the seat, and changed into his werewolf form. As the familiar shape descended on him, he immediately felt his strength returning. He closed his eyes to sleep for a little while as a werewolf and regain his strength.

* * *

Decembrius was not the only one having a difficult time reaching Edinburgh. Vex, with a bag of T-shirts in one hand and a map in the other, was attempting to negotiate the British Isles, despite her poor teleporting skills and her complete lack of any sense of direction.

“Is this Edinburgh?” she asked a stranger, hopefully, after materializing in an alleyway and wandering out onto the main street.

“Edinburgh? This is Southampton.”

“Is that near Edinburgh?”

“It’s about as far away as you can get.”

“Oh.”

Vex realized she’d traveled in the wrong direction. It was very confusing. Her aunt had made a path for her from the palace, through the dimensions, to Moonglow’s flat, but everywhere else all looked the same. Vex attempted to point herself in the right direction, slipped back into the space between dimensions, and teleported again. She popped back into existence several hundred feet in the air and began plummeting towards the ground.

“This is troubling,” she thought, and dived back into nether space. Some minutes later, she managed to land by the road side in an unknown town. She approached an elderly lady at a bus stop.

“Is this Edinburgh?”

“This if Cardiff,” replied the elderly lady. “You’re in Wales.”

Agrivex walked off glumly.

“This is difficult,” she thought. “Maybe I should give up.”

She remembered Kalix rescuing her from the bullies at college and how much she didn’t want Kalix to be arrested and thrown into a dungeon at the castle and then probably killed and eaten by her savage clan. Vex resolved to keep on going. Not bothering to check if anyone could see her, she popped out of existence again, clutching her map, and hoping for the best.

The enchantress was despondent.

“Don’t worry about the shoes,” said Captain Easterly. “So what if that woman Kabachetka gets her picture in
Vogue
? Soon you’ll be dominating the magazine when your collection hits the high streets.”

“My collection is never going to hit the high streets.”

“People are going to buy your clothes if I have to bully the entire staff at my magazine to write about you in every issue for the next six months.”

Thrix almost laughed. “You write for a men’s magazine.”

“Doesn’t matter. My family owns the magazine. I’ll get it done. Don’t worry; I’ll sort it out for you. I know that buyer at Eldridges, she doesn’t scare me. I’ll work something out with her.”

Easterly and Thrix had taken a seat in the reception hall, waiting, along with many others, for the performance to begin.

Easterly curled a strand of her hair around his finger. “You’re so beautiful.”

Thrix’s eyes became misty. “I love you,” she said.

“I love you too,” said Easterly.

She kissed Captain Easterly, quite passionately, though they were in a room full of people, most of them on their best behavior before the opera started.

* * *

In the private area behind the stage, the Fire Queen was not faring so well. Everywhere she went, the dreadful Princess Kabachetka seemed to follow her, tormenting her with her new Abukenti shoes. Malveria could hardly bear it. Making matters worse, the princess was accompanied by some dreadful Hainusta woman with a screeching voice and another Elemental who, Malveria thought, may have been her brother. She bridled. What was Kabachetka doing, inflicting her dreadful Hainusta family on this civilized gathering? Humans would not wish their gatherings to be infected with Hainusta. And nor would werewolves, she was sure. Yet Kabachetka was swanning around from one group to another, batting her ridiculous eyelashes in all directions and generally being a menace. Malveria could not imagine why anyone would be taking pictures of her, though it seemed to be happening constantly.

Malveria made up her mind to confront her and put her in her place but quickly realized it was hopeless. Kabachetka was armed with the best shoes in the room, and there was nothing Malveria could do about it. No matter how barbed a comment the queen might make, it would not puncture the princess. Malveria knew she would lose the encounter. She took a glass of champagne from a waiter, downed it swiftly, took another, and walked away from Kabachetka and her admirers. Finding herself in front of a door marked Private — Performers Only, Malveria whispered a word, causing the door to open, and went through unobserved.

Mr. Felicori, in conversation with his vocal coach, was surprised to find Malveria appearing as if from nowhere by his side. “Eh…delightful to see you. Wasn’t that door locked?”

“A wise precaution,” said Malveria. “Strong measures are needed to keep Kabachetka at bay.”

“Yes…I am just making some final preparations—”

“Of course, don’t let me interrupt.”

“I need to concentrate—”

“Absolutely. A superb singer such as yourself cannot be continually disturbed by fake-blond princesses tramping through your dressing room every minute, boasting about their footwear. A little wine?”

Malveria settled down comfortably on one of the couches in Mr. Felicori’s nicely appointed dressing room and sighed. “Life seems like a terrible trial, I must confess. I did not expect to be outflanked by Kabachetka, yet here she is, her feet clad in a superior fashion, being photographed at this very minute for a piece in the
Vogue
Fashionable Party People page. When DeMortalis learns of it, he will be very cutting.”

Malveria took out a tiny lace handkerchief and dabbed her eyes while Mr. Felicori and his vocal coach looked on, completely bewildered.

Alone at her small table in the crowded train, Kalix drifted off into a very uncomfortable sleep, full of bad dreams and intrusions from the outside world. Laudanum coursed through her veins, as well as the last of the whisky she’d taken from Decembrius. Her mind went back to the night she’d spent with him. She woke briefly to think that she didn’t like him any better now. Or perhaps she did. She didn’t want to think about it now. Kalix was too fixated on revenge. She drifted off to sleep again, this time leaning forward and sprawling over the table so that her hair splayed everywhere. While this still seemed like strange behavior, it was a relief to those on the opposite side of the aisle who no longer had to look nervously at the young’s girl’s maddened features, which had been upsetting them for the past 250 miles.