The Curse of the Wolf Girl (25 page)

Verasa stared. Princes Kabachetka was a member of a royal family, but not of her world. She rose from her chair and spoke rather urgently. “Kabachetka? She was an ally of Sarapen and an enemy of Thrix.” Verasa stubbed out her cigarette and finished her wine with a quick gulp. “Tell the guard to escort her to my reception room. Make that several guards. And don’t let her out of their sight.”

* * *

Minutes later there was a hasty conference in Verasa’s chambers as Clan Secretary Rainal arrived in a hurry, as troubled and perplexed as Verasa. Fire Elementals were not welcome visitors at Castle MacRinnalch.

“Has Markus returned from Edinburgh?” Rainal asked.

The Mistress of the Werewolves shook her head. The Thane was away on business and wasn’t expected back till the next day.

“Perhaps you should delay the interview till night falls,” suggested Rainal.

“So I can transform? Rainal, I hardly think it’s going to come to open combat.”

“She fought for Sarapen.”

“The war’s over. I can’t see why she’d carry it on. It’s not like the MacRinnalchs have ever been enemies of the Hainusta.”

It was true. The Hiyasta and the MacRinnalchs had been enemies for a very long time, due to some unfortunate incidents in the past, but the antagonism had never extended to the neighboring realm of the Hainusta. Indeed, it was hard to remember any contact between the two races.

“It’s like stepping back in time,” mused Verasa. “The Fire Elementals hardly trouble the Earth these days. Or at least, they didn’t till Thrix started making clothes for them.”

“Princess Kabachetka was the last person to see Sarapen alive. She took his body away.” The disappearance of Sarapen’s body was a lingering cause of discomfort.

“I suppose I should find out what she wants,” said Verasa, briskly. She made her way down the short stone corridor that led to her reception rooms. Like the rest of her chambers, it was more comfortably furnished than the rest of the castle. Outside the reception room, Verasa greeted the guard, opened the door, and strode inside.

The princess, sitting on a red chaise longue, rose gracefully to meet her.

Verasa’s first reaction was one of surprise. In her limited experience of Fire Elementals, she’d never encountered one with blond hair before. She hadn’t imagined they existed.

“Verasa MacRinnalch, Mistress of the Werewolves? I am Princess Kabachetka, eldest daughter of the Empress Asaratanti, ruler of the realm of the Hainusta.” If the princess was at all uncomfortable to find herself in the midst of a clan of werewolves, she didn’t show it. Her voice was relaxed, each syllable rolling off of her tongue in what seemed like an exaggeratedly exotic manner.

The Mistress of the Werewolves eyed her curiously, taking in her expensive clothes, her perfectly coiffured hair, her elegant high heels. She could see why she was a rival to Malveria.

“I apologize for turning up unannounced, in breach of all protocols. But I felt a swift visit in person was best. I have come about Sarapen.”

“What about him?” said Verasa, stiffly.

“I am sorry to tell you that he is dead.”

“I believe we knew that already. The Begravar knife to the heart was a killing blow.”

“Not quite,” said the princess. “I withdrew the knife and removed his still-living body in an attempt to save him. I placed him in a state of suspended animation at the root of the great Eternal Volcano of the Hainusta. There, the energies kept him alive. It was my intention to try and revive him. To that end, I utilized all the power of the Hainusta—our fire, our volcano, and our sorcery. For months, I struggled to save his life.” The princess paused, and her brow wrinkled delicately. “I am most sorry to report that I failed.” Her brow wrinkled further, and she passed her hand across her forehead. She pursed her lips, as if struggling to control some deep emotion.

“Do you mind if I sit? The teleportation from my dimension to your castle was long and cold.” She took her seat on the chaise longue and stared at the floor.

When she looked up again, a tear was glistening on her cheek. “I held your son in very high regard. I’m so sorry I could not save him.”

The Mistress of the Werewolves was quite startled by the princess’s tale. She’d believed that Sarapen had died months ago, victim to the mortal wound of the Begravar knife. Apparently this wasn’t the case. She sat down beside the princess.

“Did he regain consciousness?”

Princess Kabachetka shook her head. “No, we could not bring him back to consciousness. But he rested peacefully in these last months, sustained by the volcano.”

The Mistress of the Werewolves found herself unsure of what to say and touched by more emotion than she’d expected to feel. At the end of his life, Sarapen had been her bitter enemy. In truth, they had never really been friends. Sarapen had been the Thane’s favorite. Verasa much preferred Markus. But now, hearing of his last days and of Princess Kabachetka’s efforts to save his life, she found herself almost sharing in the princess’s tears. Verasa held out her hand and placed it on the princess’s shoulder to comfort her.

Kabachetka cried for a minute or so then shook her head and brought herself under control. “So now I must return the body to you for proper burial, which is the fitting thing to do.”

“I appreciate you coming here,” said Verasa. She felt genuinely grateful to the princess. It couldn’t have been easy to walk alone into her enemies’ stronghold bearing such news. It spoke well of Kabachetka’s character.

When her lessons ended for the day, Kalix felt as if there was a wide open space where her thoughts would normally be. Several hours of studying English and math had led her through anxiety, anger, unhappiness, and depression; at the end of it all, she just felt blank.

“I hate going to college,” she thought, making her way wearily from the building. “I’m never coming back.”

She quickened her pace, hoping to make it to the bus stop before Vex appeared. She turned a corner, speeded up, and then abruptly collided with the youthful Fire Elemental who’d suddenly materialized in front of her.

“Whoa!” cried Vex as they tumbled to the ground. “Watch where you’re going!”

“What do you mean watch where I’m going? You materialized right in front of me! You’re not supposed to teleport around here!”

“Is there a rule against it?” asked Vex.

“You’re supposed to be human!” said Kalix, lowering her voice as other students appeared. “Humans don’t teleport.”

Vex nodded as she rose to her feet. “I forgot. Wasn’t that another good day?”

Kalix glared at her and marched on, hoping that Vex might leave her alone. She was wasting her time. The concept that someone might want to be on their own seemed completely alien to Vex, and she skipped after the werewolf, still chattering away brightly. “Did you understand that long division?”

“Not really,” grunted Kalix.

“Me neither. But I did highlight everything, and I think that was the main point.”

The street outside the college was surprisingly dilapidated. Though they were just south of the river, the area around the college had not been renovated. Even at the main junction, close to the railway station, there were shabby billboards, and the pavement was cracked and broken. At the bus stop, they met Decembrius. Kalix’s heart sank further.

“It’s the funny, red-haired werewolf,” said Vex, cheerfully.

“What do you want?” demanded Kalix.

“I’ve come to carry your schoolbooks,” said Decembrius.

Kalix scowled. “Is that meant to be funny?”

Decembrius shrugged.

Kalix had had enough strain for one day and felt herself losing her temper. “You better hope the bus comes before the darkness does,” she said, quite loudly, “because if it gets dark, I’m going to transform, and then I’m going to kill you.”

“Right here in this busy street?”

“Yes.”

Kalix looked fierce enough to mean it. Decembrius realized that he wasn’t going to impress Kalix with small talk at the bus stop. “I thought you could do with some help finding out who killed Gawain,” he said.

“Why would I want your help?”

“I don’t see anyone else volunteering. The rest of the clan doesn’t care.”

A bus arrived at the stop, a bright red double-decker. Kalix and Vex pressed their bus passes onto the scanner beside the driver. Neither would have managed such a feat had Moonglow not taken them to the local shop and organized their bus passes for them. Behind them, Decembrius was forced to scrabble in his pockets for change, while passengers behind him grumbled at the delay.

Kalix climbed the stairs, sitting upstairs at the front. Vex planted herself firmly beside her.

Decembrius came up the stairs a minute later, having finally sorted out his ticket, and sat behind them. He leaned forward to speak in Kalix’s ear. “Have you talked to Thrix yet?”

Kalix shook her head.

“You should. She examined the crime scene. She could probably tell you a lot about what happened.”

“I don’t want to see Thrix.”

“No doubt. But you need to. I’ll come with you.”

Kalix twisted her head and looked fierce. “I don’t need your help,” she hissed.

“Suppose it was the guild that killed him? How are you going to take revenge? Do you even know where the guild’s headquarters is?”

Kalix looked blank. She didn’t know. No one knew.

“I could find it, if I put my mind to it,” said Decembrius. “I’m good at finding things.” He grinned and showed his very white teeth under his angular features. He knew he was presenting quite a strong argument. No matter how determined Kalix might be to hunt down Gawain’s killer, there didn’t seem much she could do on her own. The trail was too cold for her to follow. It would take some serious detective work to warm it up again.

“Why do you want to help?” asked Kalix.

Decembrius shrugged. “I liked Gawain. He deserves some justice.”

Kalix sat in silence for a while, considering Decembrius’s offer. “Can you really see things?”

“I can,” replied Decembrius, blithely, though in reality his powers of seeing hadn’t shown any signs of returning.

Dominil stood in front of the gigantic statue of Ramesses the Great, pondering both its smooth lines and the damage inflicted by age. A large crack ran across the left shoulder, but neither the injury nor the three thousand years that had passed since its creation had lessened its majesty. Dominil stood as motionless as the statue, while visitors to the museum flowed slowly around her. She remained there for a long time. As others arrived to admire the statue, many of them discreetly studied Dominil herself. Dominil didn’t react. With her snow-white hair and frozen beauty, she had grown used to being stared at. Finally she gave way to the pressure of a stream of small children and moved on through the gallery, pausing at the Rosetta Stone, the huge slab of carved letters and ideograms from which Egypt’s ancient pictographic writing had first been deciphered.

Since arriving in London, Dominil had made numerous trips to the British Museum. Though not specifically a student of ancient history, Dominil had a keen interest in the subject. She knew much about the history of the ancient world and always took a quiet pleasure in studying the mass of artifacts gathered in the galleries. The British Museum always relaxed her. Even when her phone vibrated in her pocket and she guessed, correctly, that it was a text message from Pete, she didn’t feel too annoyed.

Why Pete the guitarist had decided to start obsessing about her was a mystery. They’d slept together once, on the night before the confrontation with Sarapen. Dominil had initiated the brief affair. It had seemed quite likely she was going to die the next day. Spending the night in company had seemed like a good idea. It had proved reasonably enjoyable. Pete was quite a pleasant-looking young man and not too foolish, by the standards of Beauty and Delicious’s friends. Next morning Dominil had asked him to keep their rendezvous quiet and then dismissed it from her mind. Or she would have, had Pete not later decided that he felt passionate about her. Now he was missing rehearsals, calling her constantly, and generally interfering with the smooth running of Yum Yum Sugary Snacks. Dominil felt rather irritated about it.

“And it will be worse if the twins find out,” thought Dominil, pausing again in front of another huge statue, this one of Amenhotep III, ruler of Egypt a hundred years before Ramesses. Dominil wasn’t looking forward to the glee with which Beauty and Delicious would greet the news that the reason for their guitarist’s current misery was that he’d fallen hopelessly in love with her. Dominil spent much of her time lecturing the pair on acting responsibly. The twins would doubtless spare no efforts in mocking her were they to get the chance.

“How can the idiot be brokenhearted anyway?” fumed Dominil. “I made it quite clear that we should sleep together only on that one occasion. There was never any question of our association continuing.”

Dominil returned her attention to the Rosetta Stone. As she compared the lettering and ideograms, she could see the reflection of her long white hair in the glass that covered the artifact. She noticed another reflection, quickly followed by the thought that the person it belonged to seemed to be very close to her. She turned around swiftly. No more than a foot away from her stood a man she recognized.

“Albermarle.”

“Dominil.”

He grinned at her. Dominil regarded him impassively. Albermarle shifted uncomfortably and took a step back. Dominil noticed that, though he was still large, he’d lost weight. His wavy brown hair was unkempt, a little shorter than when she’d known him at Oxford, but still tumbling over his collar.

“How have you been?”

“Very well,” said Dominil. “Excuse me, I’m heading for the Roman galleries.”

Dominil made to leave, but Albermarle moved sharply to intercept her.

“Hey, we should catch up. You know…tell each other what we’ve been up to since university.”

Dominil stared at him blankly. She had had no interest in finding out what he’d been up to. A further stream of schoolchildren jostled past them, foreign students on a trip, very noisy, shepherded through the galleries by two harassed-looking teachers.