The Curse of the Wolf Girl (2 page)

“Werewolves? What werewolves?”

“The MacRinnalchs.”

The empress was puzzled. The Hainusta had little contact with the Earth these days, and almost none with the MacRinnalchs or any other werewolves.

“I need to punish them,” continued the princess.

“Punish them? For what?”

“For illegally attacking Sarapen and placing Markus MacRinnalch at the head of their clan.”

Empress Asaratanti could make nothing of this. The MacRinnalchs lived in Scotland, a small country on the planet Earth, a whole dimension away from the Fire Elementals. Why the princess should pay them the slightest attention was beyond the empress. “Why should I involve myself with a small subspecies of the race of humans? I have affairs of state to occupy my mind, and no time to waste on obscure groups of ill-bred creatures in different dimensions.”

“‘These werewolves’ actions have affected our dimension. They should be punished.”

“The only effect I’m aware of, dearest daughter, is that Queen Malveria now seems to be better dressed than you. Which is regrettable, as it reflects poorly on our people, but hardly enough reason for me to start breaching the dimensional walls.”

“I have suffered!” cried the princess, her voice rising in anguish, “and I want revenge! I appeal to you, Empress Mother, for help in taking this revenge.”

Queen Malveria transported herself to the apartment of Thrix MacRinnalch, Scottish werewolf and enchantress, currently residing in London. She composed herself before knocking.

“My dearest Thrix!”

“Malveria. Is there something wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Enchantress. Why do you ask?”

“You’ve got flames coming out of your fingers.” Thrix ushered Malveria inside before anyone appeared in the corridor. The Fire Queen knew how to blend in with the human realm, but there were times when her emotions got the better of her. Malveria had been known to destroy a new pair of shoes, scorching them with the force of her excitement. Not that Thrix could blame Malveria too much. She felt as much excitement over new shoes as the Fire Queen.

Malveria quickly extinguished the flames.

“I’m sorry. I’ve just seen Agrivex. One tries not to become upset, but really, she is an immense trial. Do you know she was actually wearing a plastic T-shirt?”

Thrix winced. It did sound bad.

“And then she proceeded to call me Aunt Malvie, which I particularly hate. It shows such disrespect. Also, it makes me feel old. Do you have a glass of wine?”

Thrix snapped her fingers, bringing a bottle and two glasses from the drinks cabinet.

“At least she’ll be out of your way for a while.”

Malveria nodded in agreement. “Her three days a week at this human college will be a blessed relief. One only wishes it could be longer. But much sorcery is required to allow a Fire Elemental to remain in this world, particularly one with so little natural power as my appalling niece. The foolish girl would wither and die without the spells of protection I’ve placed around her.”

The queen sipped her wine with some relish. “No doubt she will never study but will instead spend her time swarming around boys, musicians, and dubious market stalls. Disaster will ensue, I am certain.”

“Wasn’t the whole thing your idea?” asked Thrix.

“Yes,” admitted Malveria, “but I had to get her out of the palace somehow. I was driven to desperation by the hedgehog affair.”

“Hedgehogs?”

“Agrivex had been wearing a T-shirt featuring a picture of a hedgehog, though I had forbidden her to do so, naturally.”

“Why?”

“Hedgehogs are foul and dangerous creatures, filthy and taboo in the land of the Hiyasta. Is it not the same here? No? Very strange. I would have thought that hatred of hedgehogs was universal. Agrivex’s T-shirt was a clear act of rebellion. What goes on in that girl’s mind is a mystery to me.”

“Perhaps what was going on was a desire for you to send her to college in London.”

“Quite possibly. While lacking intelligence, Agrivex is not without her share of devious cunning.”

Thrix had been the one responsible for finding a suitable college for Kalix and Vex. It wasn’t a task the enchantress had relished, given her aversion to her younger sister, but she’d felt obliged after the request from her mother, the Mistress of the Werewolves. Thrix had turned the task over to her assistant Ann, who’d come up with a range of likely establishments. There were plenty of places willing to teach remedial skills to slow learners, for a price. It had been only a matter of making sure that Kalix and Agrivex ended up somewhere reputable. The small college they’d settled on was associated with the university that Daniel and Moonglow attended, and that was reassuring. Thrix didn’t much care for Daniel or Moonglow, but she did admit they’d had a beneficial effect on Kalix.

Malveria picked up a copy of French
Vogue
. She couldn’t read French, but was very attracted by the shoes on the cover. “A pleasing shade of lilac. But I am already well equipped with lilac shoes for the coming season, am I not?”

“You are,” replied Thrix, who had successfully kept Malveria ahead of the trends for some time now.

Malveria looked pleased, though even the knowledge that she was well supplied with fashionable shoes could not entirely drive Agrivex from her mind. “It is strange. The Hiyasta used to persecute mankind. When men lived in caves, we would make war on them over the use of fire. Now I’m spending my gold sending my niece to a human college.” The Fire Queen frowned and shook her head. “My advisory council found it hard to understand, though they did appreciate that desperate measures were permissible in getting rid of Agrivex. Her hedgehog garments had already caused widespread offense. As had her mittens.”

“Mittens?”

Malveria shuddered. “She must be the only Hiyasta ever to wear them. One would think that no matter how hopeless a Fire Elemental she is, she would at least be able to keep her hands warm. Do you think Daniel and Moonglow will be able to cope with her?”

Thrix shrugged. “You probably know them as well as I do. Since Markus became Thane, I’ve hardly seen them.”

“You are not monitoring Kalix, as your mother wished?”

“No, I’m not,” stated Thrix, forcibly.

“You still resent that her lover Gawain toyed with your affections before cruelly discarding you?”

Thrix’s lips tightened and she swallowed an angry retort. “It’s not about Gawain. You know how I hate getting dragged into clan affairs.”

“One might almost think you regret being a werewolf,” said Malveria, archly.

“I’m fine being a werewolf,” replied Thrix. “It’s all the other werewolves that bother me.”

“I would like to remain longer, Enchantress, so that we may watch the Japanese fashion show together on your excellent cable television. But now I must away to play whist.”

“Whist?” Thrix was surprised. “I didn’t know you played.”

“Since the Duchess Gargamond initiated a whist evening at her castle it has become popular with the ladies of my court. I don’t love the playing of cards but it will give me a splendid opportunity to show off the fabulous pale blue dress you provided me with last week.”

Malveria dematerialized in an aroma of jasmine. Thrix wasn’t sure it was a good idea for Agrivex to move into the same household as her young sister Kalix. A household consisting of two young students, one young werewolf, and one young Fire Elemental was a troubling mix. As long as it didn’t engulf Thrix in some sort of family crisis, she didn’t much care. Thrix and Kalix’s friendship had never been strong, and it ended the day her younger sister discovered Thrix had been sleeping with Gawain, the great love of Kalix’s young life. Since then they’d taken care to avoid each other, and Thrix wouldn’t have minded if she were never to encounter her sister again.

Decembrius MacRinnalch remained in London after the great battle. He had no desire to return to the castle in Scotland. Decembrius had been a loyal supporter of Sarapen. Now that Sarapen was dead, the young, red-haired werewolf didn’t know what to do with himself.

He could have gone home had he wanted. Markus, the new Thane, had extended a pardon to everyone who’d fought against him. The werewolf barons—MacGregor, MacAllister, and MacPhee—had all made their peace with the MacRinnalch clan. Some more sincerely than others, no doubt, but now Sarapen was gone, there was nothing more to fight about. Markus might not be to everyone’s taste as Thane, but it was done now.

Decembrius sat in a small Italian café in Camden, as he often did in the afternoons. He drank coffee, read a newspaper, and felt dissatisfied with life. Really, he should go back to Scotland. Due to the deaths in the recent feud, he’d found himself elevated to the Great Council of the MacRinnalchs. That was an honor that his mother Lucia had trumpeted all around the clan, but Decembrius couldn’t share her enthusiasm. He’d looked up to Sarapen. He’d been sure that the huge, forceful werewolf, eldest son of the late Thane, would emerge victorious in the struggle over the thaneship. His death had left Decembrius shaken and disillusioned. He couldn’t raise any enthusiasm for clan affairs.

He stared over the top of his newspaper, focusing his eyes on a spot just above the Michelangelo print of
The Last Supper
that adorned the café wall. He let his gaze float over the wall then tried to focus on nothing. After a few moments, he frowned and shook his head. From a young age, Decembrius had had the ability to glimpse the future and observe things that were hidden to others. Though he’d never been able to control the power well, in the past year he’d been making some progress. Since the battle in which Sarapen had fallen, his powers of prescience had disappeared. Whatever was in his future, Decembrius couldn’t see it.

His mother, Verasa’s sister Lucia, couldn’t wait to see him in the council chamber. But the thought of sitting round a table with Thrix and Dominil horrified Decembrius. Both had fought against Sarapen. Thrix had protected Kalix, and Dominil had killed Andris, Sarapen’s bodyguard, another werewolf whom Decembrius had held in high regard.

His anger subsided back into depression. Decembrius had always had a tendency towards depression and he was worried that he might be heading for a serious episode. While he’d been busy working for Sarapen, he hadn’t noticed it. Now that Sarapen was dead it had come back, and the loss of his powers made it worse. It was another reason not to return to Scotland. The MacRinnalch werewolf clan tended to lack sympathy for depressed werewolves.

Decembrius tried to distract himself from his gloomy thoughts by looking round the café and by staring openly at two girls who’d just sat down at one of the small tables. Decembrius was young and good-looking in an angular sort of way. As a werewolf of the MacRinnalch clan, his vigor shone through. Here in London, he wasn’t short of female company. Decembrius preferred to keep these affairs hidden from prying eyes at Castle MacRinnalch, particularly his mother’s. Like many of the traditional werewolves in Scotland, Lucia didn’t really approve of the philandering of the younger generation.

Decembrius brushed his fingers through his thick, dark red hair—he’d grown it longer in recent months—and swept it back. He had another gold stud in his left ear. Since encountering Beauty and Delicious, the notorious cousins of whom the family did not used to speak, Decembrius had made an effort to make himself more stylish. The twins’ wild appearance and lifestyle had made him feel older than his twenty-six years.

The twins had fought against Sarapen too, of course, albeit not very effectively. Beauty and Delicious weren’t fierce, by werewolf standards. Not like Kalix. There was a werewolf you wouldn’t want to encounter in battle. Even Sarapen had been unable to subdue her. Of course, Kalix was mad. She probably didn’t feel pain like a normal werewolf. Her father, the Thane, had died of injuries she’d inflicted, resulting in her being banished and setting off the whole chain of events that led to the vicious feud. His wife Verasa had nominated her second son Markus as Thane instead of Sarapen her eldest. It led to war and to many deaths. Kalix had started it all, and she’d finished it. Kalix delivered the fatal blow. She’d killed Sarapen. There were many in the clan who would never forgive her.

Outside an ambulance went by, its siren wailing as it edged its way through the heavy traffic. The bustle of London was very different to the peaceful Scottish Highlands where Decembrius had been raised. These days, he preferred the noise of the city. He stared into his empty coffee cup and realized he’d been thinking about his young cousin Kalix a lot recently. He could still picture her, fighting with an unquenchable fury. Decembrius almost smiled. Kalix was insane in battle. Insane in other ways too, depending on which member of the family you listened to.

She was beautiful as well, in a waif-like way. What had she been doing since Sarapen’s death, he wondered. But Kalix’s location was a secret. Technically she was still a fugitive from the clan, and the Mistress of the Werewolves was not about to risk having her youngest daughter dragged back to Castle MacRinnalch to face punishment. Thrix and Dominil probably knew where she lived, but they wouldn’t pass on any information to a recent enemy like himself. Kalix was hidden, by secrecy and sorcery, and couldn’t be found.

Decembrius pursed his lips. Was she still seeing Gawain? She had taken up with him at a young age, in an affair that had scandalized the clan. Gawain had been banished, though they’d gotten back together eventually. Whether their renewed relationship had survived the trauma of the MacRinnalch feud, Decembrius didn’t know. He hoped it hadn’t. Decembrius had never much liked Gawain.

Decembrius scowled as he ordered more coffee. He glanced at the clock on the wall. He still had some time to kill before meeting the Douglas-MacPhees. It wasn’t an encounter he was looking forward to. Duncan, Rhona, and Fergus were a vicious, criminal trio of wolves who had no regard for the clan or anyone else. Or rather, they had been a vicious trio until Kalix had killed the huge werewolf Fergus. Remembering this, Decembrius almost smiled. Fergus had also been fighting for Sarapen, but Decembrius couldn’t pretend he was sorry about his death. Kalix had destroyed him—ripped him apart in the full fury of her battle madness. Fergus’s superior size and strength had counted for nothing.