The Curse of the Wolf Girl (56 page)

“What is this? Where are we?”

“We’re near the Forests of the Werewolf Dead,” said Thrix.

“What? Why?”

“The spell was too powerful. I couldn’t control it properly.”

Kalix glanced around her anxiously. “Get us out of here,” she said.

“I can’t,” whispered Thrix. “No escape from the Forests. But it’s a pleasant place. We’ll walk to the Forests together when I get my strength back.”

With that, Thrix smiled, closed her eyes, and lay on the grass. In the distance, Kalix heard the call of a werewolf, waiting in the Forests to welcome them.

“Well, this is stupid and annoying,” thought the young werewolf. She shook her sister, but there was no response. “Great rescue!” she cried. “You’ve killed us both!”

“Welcome to the outskirts of the Forests,” said a huge gray wolf, emerging from the shadows. “Shall I accompany you inside?”

“I’m not coming inside. I’m not ready to die yet.”

The wolf smiled. “But you’re here. Let me accompany you.”

Kalix held up her hand. “Not interested. I’m leaving.”

The gray wolf smiled. “You can’t leave.”

“That’s what you think,” said Kalix, and batted him out of the way. She picked up Thrix, tossed her over her shoulder, and set off in the opposite direction of the Forests.

“This is quite irregular!” called the wolf from behind her, but it didn’t attempt to follow.

Kalix marched through long swampy grass with her sister over her shoulder. Above her the sky was an ominous gray, and the air was damp around her werewolf snout. Thrix opened her eyes a fraction and asked Kalix what was happening.

“Your stupid spell took us to the Forests of the Werewolf Dead, and now I’m taking us out.”

“You can’t leave the Forests,” whispered Thrix.

“Would everyone stop saying that?” said Kalix. “I’m leaving. I’m not dying yet.” Kalix marched on. As a werewolf, she felt strong enough to carry her sister over the rough terrain. In the distance, she fancied she saw a patch of blue sky and made towards it. The dampness turned into rain and a wind sprang up, cold enough to penetrate Kalix’s thick fur. She shivered and kept on going. As she rounded a clump of bushes, she found herself confronted by a werewolf she recognized. She looked at him suspiciously.

“Ian MacAndris,” he said politely.

“Do I know you?”

“You killed me. After the gig, in the fight with Sarapen.”

“Sorry about that,” said Kalix, and she marched past him.

“You can’t leave the Forests,” he called after her. “You’ll like it here.”

“I’ll be back soon enough,” muttered Kalix. She tramped on towards the patch of blue sky. The enchantress had now lapsed into unconsciousness, and her weight was pulling Kalix down. She paused for a second to catch her breath.

“I refuse to give up,” she said to no one. “I’m not being killed by some stupid spell. I still have to avenge Gawain.”

A sudden distressing thought struck her. “I have to hand in my assignment!”

There was a chuckle from in front of her. Another werewolf had appeared. “No need to worry about assignments in the Forests. Stay here where you belong.”

Kalix eyed the stranger. “Did I kill you too?”

“No. The enchantress did.”

“Then I expect you deserved it,” muttered Kalix, and attempted to walk on by.

The werewolf stepped in front of her. “Why do you want to leave?”

Kalix scowled. She was rapidly becoming fed up with all this. “I’m going to hand in my assignment. Now get out of my way before I bite you.”

The werewolf moved to one side.

“At least,” thought Kalix, “they don’t seem violent. Am I really in the Forests of the Werewolf Dead, or is this just some delusion brought on by Thrix’s spell?” Kalix couldn’t tell. But she thought that if she really was in the Forests of the Werewolf Dead, she might feel more at peace.

Kalix moved Thrix onto her other shoulder and started walking. Now she was confronted by more werewolves who looked balefully at her as she passed by. Kalix recognized some of them as werewolves she’d killed. She knew they hated her.

“It’s not my fault,” she thought. “You’d have killed me if you could.”

The ground seemed heavier, and the rain came down in torrents. The wind picked up so that Kalix had to struggle with her burden, pushing her way against the elements. Suddenly Gawain stepped out of a shadow. Gawain, her great love, now dead. “Don’t leave, Kalix. Stay here with me.”

“I’m not ready,” said Kalix, and started to cry. “I’m going to avenge you.”

“I don’t need vengeance. Forget your troubles. Stay here with me.”

“No!” Kalix’s tears mixed with the rain. She lost her grip of Thrix, and her sister tumbled to the ground, sending muddy water splashing over them. Gawain moved forward to help, but Kalix screamed at him to get back. “You’re not really here! This isn’t real!”

“It is.”

“No, it isn’t.” Kalix steeled herself to ask Gawain a question she really didn’t want to ask. “If you’re really here, who killed you?”

Gawain smiled. Kalix used to love his smile, but it didn’t seem appropriate now. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

A strong gust of wind rocked Kalix back on her heels. Gawain seemed to be going backwards, fading away from her.

“Who killed you?” she yelled.

Gawain waved. “Ask your sister.”

“Thrix? Why? Does she know?”

But Gawain was gone, lost in the torrential rain that now poured down from above. Kalix grabbed Thrix, threw her over her shoulder, and marched on, slower as the wind and the rain and the distant forest sapped her will and energy.

“You can’t go back,” came a distant voice.

“Just watch me,” muttered Kalix, and struggled on. For the first time, she was gripped with fear, and she knew there was something unpleasant in front of her. She tried to wake her sister.

“Wake up, Thrix,” said Kalix, miserably. “Father is round the next corner and I can’t face him.”

Thrix wouldn’t wake. Kalix sighed and tramped past some bushes, eyes downcast. She knew her father was waiting for her. All her life, Kalix had hated and feared him. She’d never regretted her final burst of madness that drove her to attack him, nor had she regretted his death. Now she had to confront him again. As she turned a corner in the path, the rain intensified, the distant patch of blue sky disappeared from view, and her father stepped out from the trees. Unlike the other werewolves she’d met here, her father still had the wounds that had sent him to his death. There was blood on his face and neck. Kalix shuddered at the smell of it.

The old Thane had been a huge werewolf. Even late in life, his strength had been immense. Not even Sarapen had surpassed him. No one had harmed him in battle until the thin, scrawny, and insane Kalix took it upon herself to hurl herself at him at the top of the main staircase in Castle MacRinnalch, fixing her jaws around his throat and dragging him down. He’d never recovered from the wounds she inflicted.

Kalix looked up at the tall figure of her father and remembered that, while she’d lived at the castle, she could never recall a single kind word from him, but she could remember many, many bad things.

“You are a piece of filth,” said her father.

“I know,” said Kalix.

“You weren’t fit to live, and you’re not fit for the Forests. The clan was cursed the day you were born.”

“Let me past.”

“Never. You died, and I’ll kill you again, right here.”

“I didn’t die, and you won’t kill me.” Kalix laid Thrix down on the wet grass and prepared to defend herself, but as she did so, lightning flashed overhead, and her father seemed to flicker, as if he was an apparition rather than solid. Kalix waited, but no attack came. “I don’t think you’re even really here.”

Kalix hauled Thrix over her shoulder again and pushed past her father, though in the growing storm, with the wind now buffeting her, she couldn’t tell if he was real or not. But she could feel his hatred quite distinctly and the hatred of the other werewolves she’d met, the ones she’d killed and those slain by the enchantress, their malice reaching out and clutching out at them, trying to drag them back.

“If this is really the Forests of the Werewolf Dead,” thought Kalix. “I hope there are some nicer parts.”

She struggled on, now up to her ankles in mud, with the dead weight of her sister dragging her down, the wind and rain pulling at her ragged coat, and the dreadful malevolence of her enemies threatening to crush her completely. Her ever-present feeling of self-loathing became so intense that it seemed to solidify and hover around her head in an ugly black cloud, thick and cloying.

“I refuse to give up,” she said out loud then felt foolish for saying it but struggled on anyway. She lifted her head. In front of her, the patch of blue sky was visible again. If she could just reach it, she could leave this place, which she had to, because she had things to do, though at this moment, Kalix couldn’t remember what they were.

Kalix struggled towards the sliver of blue sky, half-dragging and half-carrying Thrix. She could still hear the voices of the werewolves behind her, some threatening, some imploring her to stay, but she ignored them all. When she finally reached the slender rays of sunlight that penetrated the gloom, she felt a tinge of warmth enter her body. Kalix and Thrix immediately tumbled back into the real world, sprawling heavily on the floor of the boiler room, where Kalix lay gasping from her exertions. She’d hauled herself and her sister back from the netherworld.

There was no sign of the Douglas-MacPhees. Thrix coughed heavily and woke up. “What happened?”

“Your stupid spell took us to the Forests of the Werewolf Dead, that’s what happened. And you were no help when we got there.” Kalix rose to her feet and winced with pain. She ached everywhere and struggled to control her nausea. She was wet and filthy. She attempted to dust herself off but gave it up as hopeless.

Thrix rose to her feet, quite lithely. Having been unconscious throughout most of the ordeal, she didn’t seem as badly affected as Kalix. “Was that really the Forests? I’m not certain.”

“Wherever it was, I don’t want to go back. Next time you’re going to rescue me, don’t bother.”

“Don’t bother? If I hadn’t bothered, the Douglas-MacPhees would have killed you by now. You weren’t going to beat those three in human shape.”

“You took me somewhere I had to meet my father and Gawain!” screamed Kalix. “You hear that? Our father! And Gawain! And I still want to know who killed him.”

Kalix put her face as close as she could to her sister’s, though she was several inches shorter than Thrix. “Who killed Gawain?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying. Gawain said you knew.”

“Gawain?”

“He was in the Forests.”

Thrix shook her head. “I think that was an illusion.”

“You’re lying anyway. You know who killed him.”

They regarded each other with stony dislike. Thrix wondered if she was going to have to defend herself. “Don’t you have an assignment?”

Kalix growled. She’d almost forgotten about her assignment. She picked up her bag and hurried from the boiler room, up the stairs into the corridor, and along to her tutor’s room. She was still shivering as she passed a few other students in the corridor.

“It’s not fair,” she thought. “They only had to get on a bus to hand in their assignments. I had to fight my way out of the Forests of the Werewolf Dead.”

The Fire Queen prepared herself with the greatest of care, calling on her full complement of dressers, makeup artists, and hairstylists. This evening she was due to attend the reception organized by the Mistress of the Werewolves to welcome Felicori to Edinburgh, and she intended to dazzle from the outset.

“I owe it to Mr. Felicori to look my best,” she explained to her assembled staff. “He’s about to visit Scotland for the first time, and I do not want him to suffer from shock. The kindest critic could not call it a civilized nation. When one considers that, as well as local dignitaries, there will be several werewolves in attendance, one can see the need to take precautions. One does not expect the MacRinnalchs to turn up in kilts and start eating people, but you can never be sure.”

“Does Mr. Felicori know Verasa MacRinnalch is a werewolf?” asked Iskiline, the Fire Queen’s chief dresser. Like all of the queen’s attendants, Iskiline had only the vaguest notion of life on Earth.

“No, Verasa will never be discovered as a werewolf. She is too controlled a woman. But as for some of her clan…” Malveria glanced at the attendant who was adjusting the hem of her evening dress and raised a cautionary finger. “Careful,” she said. “It may not be safe to expose too much flesh. The Scots are a pale-skinned people as a rule, with a sickly hue. Too much exposure to the warm and resplendent coffee-tones of Queen Malveria may drive them into a frenzy.”

Malveria’s evening dress, in pale gray, had been designed by the enchantress and had succeeded in satisfying her desire for something both conservative and alluring. She put on her shoes, adopted a suitable expression, and looked at herself in the mirror. She smiled. “I do look splendid as the refined woman of culture. Thoughtful and intelligent, yet with hidden fire? Do I have hidden fire?”

“You are full of hidden fire,” Iskiline assured her.

“Like a queen who, after listening to the opera in a refined manner, may yet privately indulge in the broad pleasure of the boudoir?”

“Definitely.”

“Good. One does not like to be thought of as incapable of enjoyment. Bring me my wrap. Not the dragon scale—dragons are extinct on Earth, and it may cause comment.”

Distikka arrived as Malveria was about to depart. Though the Fire Queen was pleased to see her, her attendants were not. The queen’s dressers always had the impression that Distikka regarded them as frivolous.

“Distikka! Are you ready to assume the reins of command while I attend this important function? Splendid. Now stand back, my journey to Edinburgh will take concentration. I do not want to materialize in the wrong place. If I miss my destination, I may end up in some wretched fishing village with rain pouring from the sky.”