“We should do something about the Avenaris Guild,” said Dominil, coming straight to the point.
“The council didn’t think so.”
Markus smiled, which made him look young. He had soft chestnut hair, thick and curling around his shoulders. He was rather pretty for a werewolf, which wasn’t really a good attribute for the Thane.
“They didn’t,” agreed Dominil, “but the council members are safe in their castles and keeps. It’s different in London. I’m offended that I should be attacked. Furthermore it’s making my work with Yum Yum Sugary Snacks difficult. We should move against the hunters.”
“The council has never agreed to preemptive action. You know how much my mother wants us all to fit in with the world. She’ll never consent to any sort of offensive.”
Dominil waited till Markus offered her a glass of whisky. She sipped from it before speaking again. “Last week four new hunters flew in from Croatia. They’re being trained specifically to search for Butix, Delix, and me.”
“How do you know that?”
“I still have access to the guild’s computers.”
Markus nodded. It was said that Dominil’s prodigious computer skills extended to hacking, which was a mysterious art to Markus and quite troubling in its way. He wondered if Dominil might have reason to examine any of his own private files. There were many things on his computer he wouldn’t want her to see. Pictures of him in women’s clothing, for instance, for which he had a liking. Suddenly uncomfortable, Markus paced around the room.
“My mother would really rather you all returned to Scotland.”
“I know. But I don’t intend to be chased out of London.”
“Attacking werewolf hunters doesn’t sit well with integrating into society.”
“Perhaps not. Although I don’t see why werewolves killing hunters is any more likely to expose us to society than hunters killing us. We just need to do it discreetly.”
“We could raise the matter again at the next meeting,” Markus suggested.
“I have something else in mind. The guild pays its hunters a bonus each time they kill a werewolf. I suggest we turn that around.” Dominil sipped her whisky. For a second, there was an expression on her face that could almost have been described as a smile. “I’ll kill the hunters, and you pay me for it.”
Markus laughed. “That’s not a bad idea, but no one’s going to agree to it.”
“No one has to agree. As Thane, you have access to the clan’s money. You can pay me in secret.”
Markus stared at the white-haired werewolf, realizing that she was serious. “Just how offended are you that you were attacked?”
“Very offended,” replied Dominil, “but that’s not my main reason. It’s the logical thing to do. There’s no point waiting for the Avenaris Guild to attack Beauty, Delicious, and me. I’m certain it’s going to happen, so I’d be better off simply preventing it.”
Markus didn’t know how to reply. He was in favor of killing werewolf hunters but dreaded to think what his mother would say if she learned of the scheme. Besides, he wasn’t entirely convinced by Dominil’s reasoning. Was she really in such danger that she need to embark on a campaign of assassination? Perhaps she just wanted to earn money. It was whispered around the castle that Dominil’s father Tupan wasn’t liberal with his wealth. Though Dominil was now twenty-six, he hadn’t turned over any substantial portion to her.
There was a long silence.
“So are you prepared to pay me for killing werewolf hunters?”
“I’ll need to think about it.”
“Kindly think about it quickly,” said Dominil.
Chapter 36
Captain Easterly was no longer in the army, but the title of captain still lingered. Partly, this was because the staff at the magazine regarded it as strange that an ex-soldier was now deputy editor in charge of fashion. When he first arrived, there was suspicion; it was widely reported that he’d only gotten the job because of his father’s connections. The term “captain” had been used about him in a rather derogatory way. But he won them over by proving to be good at his job. His connections helped rather than hindered his work. He seemed to have no problems procuring samples, tickets, invitations, and anything else that his staff needed to make their work run smoothly. At thirty-five, he was young enough to fit in with his readership and old enough not to be carried away by ridiculous fads, and he brought to the men’s fashion pages a solid style that they’d previously lacked. He was now well liked, and though the title of captain had stuck, it was no longer used in a derogatory manner.
As for his simultaneous career as a werewolf hunter, his fellow employees were completely in the dark. Easterly was far too discreet to let anything about his other life slip through into his life at the magazine. The need for discretion was one of several reasons he regretted living in the same apartment block as Albermarle. His distant cousin was a fellow member of the Avenaris Guild who, in Easterly’s eyes, was everything a werewolf hunter shouldn’t be: indiscreet, foolish, juvenile, and as far as could be ascertained, mainly interested in watching science fiction on TV. Albermarle had done good service for the guild in intelligence gathering, but Easterly still found it difficult to believe that his cousin was actually going into active service. He didn’t like Albermarle at all but would still be sorry to hear that he’d had his neck broken by a werewolf.
Easterly took the unusual step of visiting his cousin. They both lived in a large block by the river in the borough of Chelsea. It was an expensive area to live in, which made Easterly regret that the same family money that had supported him throughout his career was also available to Albermarle, albeit not quite so much. Albermarle had inherited enough money to let him overeat and to buy endless computers and a host of paraphernalia, which Easterly found almost inexplicable. His three-bedroom apartment was crammed with an incredible array of comics, figurines, DVDs, and so on, more suitable for a fifteen-year-old boy than a grown man. Albermarle had been to Oxford and done well there. There was no disputing his intellect. But, as Easterly thought when Albermarle opened the door with a slice of pizza in one hand and a comic in the other, raw intellect didn’t count for everything in the real world.
“What do you want?” asked Albermarle, suspiciously.
“You not to get yourself killed,” replied Easterly. “Or at least, not while I’m supposed to be looking after you.”
Chapter 37
Thrix’s assistant Ann wasn’t surprised to receive a phone call from her employer informing her that the enchantress would be returning home earlier than expected. She knew Thrix resented the time she was obliged to spend away from work. She also knew that Thrix was a werewolf; Ann was the only person to whom Thrix had volunteered this information. Thrix was almost ninety years old, which was still young in werewolf terms. She had the appearance of a thirty-year-old woman and a glamorous one at that. Her mother Verasa was almost two hundred and fifty years old, and she hadn’t lost her style either.
Ann was surprised at Thrix’s poor temper. An early departure from Castle MacRinnalch should have put her in a good mood.
“I’ve been dragged back into clan affairs,” explained Thrix, testily, on the phone, while driving into London from the airport. “No matter how I try and distance myself, Kalix always drags me back in.” Thrix lowered her voice. “And Gawain’s dead.”
Ann wasn’t sure what to say. She knew Thrix didn’t remember her affair with Gawain as a particularly glorious experience. It had involved deceiving her sister and her mother and cavorting with a banished werewolf. A werewolf to whom, Ann, suspected, Thrix had become much more attached than she’d ever admitted. A werewolf who’d abandoned her for Kalix at the earliest opportunity. No wonder Thrix didn’t remember the affair fondly. Ann wouldn’t have been that surprised to learn Thrix had killed him herself.
She made arrangements to postpone Thrix’s business engagements while her employer went about the difficult business of smoothing over the dif
ficulties in which the MacRinnalch clan now found itself. The police were in possession of a werewolf body, and that in itself was troubling. A werewolf body looked much the same as a human, even on the inside, but there were certain organic and chemical differences which a careful autopsy might discover. Even if that didn’t happen, Gawain’s body had been discovered in the midst of a scene of carnage. His identity and his death were now the subject of a police inquiry. Gawain had one living relative in Scotland: his werewolf sister who was attending St. Andrew’s University. Neither she nor the clan would welcome close investigation.
“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.
Chapter 38
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.
Chapter 39
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.”