“It’s an artistic convention,” explained Thrix, which only added to the queen’s puzzlement. In reality, Thrix herself was unsure about operatic conventions. She’d only been a few times, each of these for reasons of fashion rather than art. She was looking forward to showing off her excellent outfit but she wasn’t particularly excited by the prospect of the performance.
“It all seems most baffling,” said the Fire Queen for the twentieth time, “but if, as you say, it is a fashionable place, I am satisfied to attend. Explain to me again why we’re going?”
“My mother wants me to impress a singer. Felicori, the tenor. He’s the star of the show. She’s planning on asking him to sing at some charitable event she’s sponsoring. I’m part of the advance party to weaken his resistance.”
“Ah.” Malveria nodded. “You are to seduce him with your golden beauty?”
The enchantress looked alarmed. “I hope not. I’m just supposed to impress on him how worthwhile the MacRinnalchs are. Without revealing we’re werewolves, of course. That would probably put him off.”
Thrix finished the last of her wine and waved her hand, causing the glass to float through to the kitchen.
“It’ll be quite a coup for Mother if she pulls it off. Felicori’s a big star.”
“He is big indeed!” cried Malveria, and she laughed quite raucously. When Thrix had shown her a picture of Mr. Felicori, the queen had marveled at his girth and wondered how it was possible that such a large man could be an object of adoration. Malveria had very strict views on all matters pertaining to weight, views that were completely unmitigated by human standards of charity or tact. She was apt to shudder and shift uncomfortably in the presence of overly large people. Thrix had not yet informed her that some of the women on view at the opera might not be quite sylph-like either, and was quite looking forward to Malveria’s reaction when she first set eyes on them.
Malveria checked her lipstick. “So, we attend the opera, we dazzle the crowd with our fabulous dresses, and afterwards, you enthrall this Mr. Felicori so that he follows you to Scotland and sings at your mother’s important event. I have the whole program memorised and will do my utmost to help.” Malveria paused and looked troubled. “This lipstick. Now it is perfect, but in a few hours, I know it will have faded. Why cannot a lipstick be manufactured that does not rub off? Sometimes my evenings have been quite ruined by this dreadful phenomenon.”
“It’s a trial,” agreed Thrix, “but we just have to carry on the best we can.”
Malveria adorned herself in her wrap and accompanied Thrix downstairs to the waiting taxi. Though it was a short journey to the opera house, the evening traffic was heavy and progress was slow.
“Though I remain dubious about this large man telling us his problems through song, I welcome the diversion,” Malveria said. “Life at court has been stressful of late. First Minister Xakthan has once more been dropping hints about the succession. Much as I don’t wish to discuss this, it is a problem. Were I to die with no one in line to succeed me, the nation would descend into chaos. It is a poor prospect for everyone. So poor that there have even been hints that it may be time for me to formally adopt Agrivex.”
The enchantress raised her eyebrows. “Surely you can’t really be considering Vex as the next queen?”
Malveria shuddered. “Indeed not. Having built up my realm, one would not like to see it destroyed by the foolishness of my almost-adopted niece. But if I were to adopt Agrivex, she would at least be a figurehead behind whom my First Minister Xakthan could rally support. With Agrivex as figurehead and Xakthan in control, the nation might be spared a great deal of strife. It would placate those ministers who are becoming anxious until I think of some better plan.”
“Have you thought of actually producing a successor?” asked Thrix.
Malveria sighed. “Again, very difficult. I really don’t know of any suitable Fire Elemental with whom I would wish to raise children.”
The queen fretted at the memory of the last meeting of her advisory council. “My councilors are intensely annoying. Really, Distikka is the only one I trust.”
“Distikka?” Though the enchantress was familiar with the queen’s court, she hadn’t heard the name before.
“A new member of my council, and our only female. Though the history of the Hiyasta is littered with queens and princesses, our females do not make politicians, as a rule. Distikka, however, has recently come to prominence. She talks good sense, even if she does have an unfortunate habit of being badly dressed.”
The taxi slowed to a crawl as the narrow streets around the opera house became crowded with pedestrians, pushing their way between the traffic. Many of them were formally dressed, having parked nearby to walk the last few yards to the opera.
“And yourself, Thrix? Do you have any romantic dalliances in prospect?”
“Definitely not,” Thrix answered, firmly.
“You cannot give up. Though your recent affairs all ended in disaster, your next may not necessarily do so.”
Thrix wasn’t flattered to hear her affairs described as disasters, but she didn’t protest. It was true. “I think I’ll just manage without male company for a while.”
The queen was about to lecture Thrix on the necessity of finding a suitable lover when she halted and peered closely at her friend.
Thrix shifted uncomfortably. “Would you mind studying me a little less closely?”
“I apologize, dearest Enchantress. But I thought I saw in your aura some longing for Gawain?”
“Absolutely not!” cried Thrix.
“It would not be so strange. After all, it was a passionate affair, and he was a handsome wolf.”
“I’m not longing for anyone,” declared Thrix. “I’m concentrating on business.”
“Sometimes you terrify me with your business obsessions. Surely you deserve some enjoyment?”
“If I can’t persuade some buyers to start stocking my clothes soon, I won’t have any business,” muttered Thrix, but the queen didn’t hear her. She was too preoccupied with observing the fashionable crowd that was assembling.
Malveria became excited. “It’s time to dazzle the public. Let us proceed inside where we may make the men in the audience regret that they are not in our company. There will be sadness tonight as they return home with their frankly unsatisfactory wives, still yearning hopelessly for Queen Malveria and Thrix MacRinnalch.”
Chapter 10
Dominil drove from Camden through East London with Kalix beside her. They sat in silence as Dominil carefully negotiated the heavy traffic, edging her way past temporary traffic lights that bordered a long stretch of roadwork. Kalix was occupied with thoughts of Gawain. Occasionally she’d glance at Dominil and make as if to ask her a question, but she held back. It took some nerve to broach any sensitive subject with Dominil, who could be alarmingly unsympathetic.
“So do you think I should go and visit Gawain?” she asked eventually, trying not to sound too emotional.
Dominil remained silent for a few moments then looked around as they halted in traffic. “Do you want to see him?”
“I think so.”
“Then visit,” said Dominil.
“But what if it turns out badly?” said Kalix, anxiously.
Dominil frowned. “Well, you will just have to take the risk.”
“Do you think it’s a bad idea?”
Dominil’s frown turned into a scowl. “Do we really have to continue discussing this endlessly?”
Kalix sank back into her seat, feeling young and stupid, and the conversation, like the car, ground to a halt.
They were on their way to Merchant MacDoig’s shop to buy laudanum. Kalix’s shameful addiction to the opiate was widely known throughout the MacRinnalch clan, but Dominil had managed to keep her dependency a secret. Only Kalix knew of it. Were it to become widely known, Dominil would be disgraced. However, though Dominil took pains to be discreet, she hadn’t been that displeased when Kalix learned her se
cret. The white-haired werewolf guarded her personal affairs very closely, but having a sympathetic fellow addict made the whole thing a little more bearable for some reason. The shared addiction had occasionally caused Dominil to confide in Kalix. Not much, but more than with anyone else.
Merchant MacDoig plied his trade mainly in Scotland. He’d done a great deal of business with the werewolf clan in the course of his unnaturally long life. Quite how the merchant had managed to extend his lifespan, no one knew, but as he was fond of saying, when a man had traveled as far and wide as he had, he picked up a thing or two. The small shop in East London was normally staffed by his son, the young MacDoig, who, like his father, was a curious figure: large, florid, and dressed in a peculiarly old-fashioned manner. An encounter with Merchant MacDoig and his son, with their black hats, silver-topped canes, stiff collars, and embroidered waistcoats, was like stepping back into the nineteenth century and into the world of Dickens.
Dominil was a precise driver. Near the River Thames she parked, very carefully. The two werewolves emerged from the car into an area that had once been part of the old docks but was now completely renovated, and they strode past an array of high, glass-fronted business blocks. Business men and women who passed between offices glanced curiously at the pair as they walked by: two unusual young women, both with exceedingly long hair and long coats, both wearing rather sturdy boots, though Dominil’s were new, and Kalix’s were shabby. Dominil ignored the attention. Kalix felt uncomfortable.
As they turned into the small alleyway that was their destination, the modern world abruptly disappeared. Here in the narrow darkness there was a smell of dampness and antiquity, with green mold on the walls and cracked cobblestones underfoot. Huge rats looked up in alarm and quickly scuttled away, sensing that Dominil and Kalix were not creatures to be interfered with. They made their way silently down the alley in the fading early-evening light. As darkness fell, Dominil suddenly took on her werewolf shape, changing in an instant into a creature that remained on two legs but was covered in shaggy fur, with a wolf’s face, claws, talons, and very sharp fangs. Kalix was puzzled. In the alleyway, they were unlikely to be observed, but even so, it was unusual for any of the MacRinnalch werewolves to make the change while there was a possibility of being observed.
Dominil turned and scanned the alleyway suspiciously. Kalix followed her lead and changed into her own werewolf shape. As she did, she too sensed danger—danger she hadn’t noticed earlier due to her preoccupation with Gawain.
Suddenly Dominil sprinted towards the mouth of the alley, and as she approached, a man with a gun appeared out of the gloom. He seemed untroubled as the werewolf raced towards him, perhaps confident of his ability to put a silver bullet through her heart. It was a serious mistake. Whatever training he’d received had not prepared him sufficiently to meet the fury and athleticism of a MacRinnalch werewolf. Dominil leapt high in the air, launching herself off the wall and pouncing on her attacker even as a bullet whistled harmlessly past her shoulder. She slashed out with a great talon, catching the man hard. He spun backwards. Before he could fall to the ground, he was caught in Kalix’s jaws. She’d followed Dominil, at great speed, and arrived in time to finish off the affair. The werewolf hunter fell dead at her feet, blood gushing from the teeth marks in his throat.
Dominil gazed down the long dark alleyway, sniffing the air. “He’s on his own,” she muttered eventually. “Let’s go.”
Dominil changed back into her human form, a change that was as smooth and instantaneous as before. But Kalix remained as a werewolf and snarled. Fighting always brought on Kalix’s battle madness, and she paced around expectantly, hoping for more hunters to kill.
“Come on,” said Dominil, but Kalix refused to move. She kept turning this way and that, still snarling and growling.
Though Kalix could still think rationally while in werewolf shape, any form of violence propelled her into a state of extreme aggression that she couldn’t easily control. It could be hard to bring her back to normal.
Dominil laid her hand on Kalix’s shoulder. Kalix angrily shook it off. The white-haired werewolf stared into her eyes. “Kalix. Calm down. Return to human.”
Kalix only growled more and bent down toward the hunter’s body, thinking perhaps to savage it again. Dominil drew a small, antique bottle from within her long leather coat. She unscrewed the top. The bottle was empty but still smelled strongly of laudanum. It was strong enough to capture Kalix’s attention.
“We need laudanum,” said Dominil, calmly.
Kalix shuddered then changed back to human, the change being less smooth than Dominil’s. Laudanum was a powerful factor in the young werewolf’s life; powerful enough even to penetrate her agitated state of mind. She shook her head to clear it then followed Dominil along the alleyway. Neither of them spared a thought for the dead hunter. Dead hunters were a way of life to the MacRinnalchs. Neither side showed any mercy in their endless war.
At the far end of the long alley there was a small black door. Dominil knocked, quite heavily.
“Who’s there?” came a voice with a familiar Scottish accent.
“Dominil MacRinnalch.”
“Come in,” came the reply, friendly enough, and there was the sound of bolts being drawn. The young MacDoig appeared at the door, red-haired and red-faced, wearing an old black hat, shiny with age. Dominil stepped swiftly inside, followed by Kalix.
“Did you know there were hunters in the alleyway?”
The young MacDoig shook his head, looking concerned. When a man traded with werewolves, it was bad news to learn that hunters were close. Dominil regarded him with suspicion. The MacDoigs were dealers in all things esoteric. It wouldn’t have surprised her to learn that they’d traded with werewolf hunters in their time. Merchant MacDoig was notorious as a man who liked a profit from any source. But whether the MacDoigs would actually betray a werewolf to the hunters, she doubted. They did too much trade with Castle MacRinnalch to risk it. She told the merchant’s son briefly about what had happened. “You should get rid of the body.”
“We’ll take care of it,” said the young MacDoig, “and I’ll tell Father what’s happened. He’s due in London any day now. You’ll be here for your laudanum, I expect? Would you like a dram while you wait?”
Neither Dominil nor Kalix were keen to remain in the merchant’s shop any longer than necessary, but they accepted the whisky anyway, drinking it back quickly while the young MacDoig fetched the laudanum for them. The faintest expression of distaste flickered across Dominil’s face. The whisky the MacDoigs provided for their customers was far below the quality of the private supply the MacRinnalchs distilled for themselves. Kalix gulped hers down eagerly, hardly noticing the difference.
“It’s fine to see the pair of you anyway,” said the young MacDoig, in the jovial manner he’d learned from his father. “The MacRinnalchs are always welcome in our shop.”
The two werewolves chose not to respond. The high price the merchant charged them for laudanum had never endeared him to them. Dominil settled the bill, and they left the shop, carefully sniffing the air for a sign of more hunters. Halfway along the alley, they paused to look down at the corpse.
“I recognize him,” said Dominil. “He was one of the hunters who attacked us at the rehearsal studio. That means he’s from the Avenaris Guild.” She narrowed her eyes. “I’ve had enough of the guild harassing us.”
Kalix nodded in agreement. She herself had been pursued by their agents many times.
“Perhaps it’s time the clan did something about it,” said Dominil.
They walked on quickly, out of the alley, back into the modern world of tower blocks, where office workers were now spilling out of their buildings, heading for home.
Chapter 11
Decembrius walked through the center of London, pausing on Charing Cross Road in front of St. Martin’s College of Art. The building itself was of gray stone, almost indistinguishable from the buildings around it save for
a small window exhibiting some work by their students, but Decembrius stood there a while anyway. The Sex Pistols had played their first gig here, which interested him. He’d watched a program last week about famous gigs in London, and that had been one of them. Several students walked past him on their way into the building. The girls examined him with interest. With his swept-back red hair, leather jacket, and multiple earrings, Decembrius was quite a noticeable figure these days.
He walked on down Charing Cross Road and turned the corner into Oxford Street, crossing the road swiftly to avoid the constant stream of taxis and large red buses. He paused again in front of the 100 Club, an unprepossessing entrance. Outside there was a small board advertising tonight’s gig, featuring some jazz musicians he’d never heard of. But here at the 100 Club, Decembrius now knew, the Sex Pistols had played at a famous punk festival in 1976 with other very early punk rock innovators. That had been an influential gig too, according to the program he’d watched.
Decembrius was on his way to meet the Douglas-MacPhees, not an encounter he was looking forward to. He wondered why they’d contacted him. If they were hoping that he might use his powers of seeing to find something, they were going to be disappointed.
Though his prescience had vanished, and his moods were tending towards depression, Decembrius at least felt physically well. Last night in his apartment, he’d slept as a werewolf. He usually did. The transformation was a revitalizing experience for any MacRinnalch, though changing into werewolf form in the city could be awkward. A MacRinnalch werewolf didn’t lose control but did feel rather differently about life. The urge to prowl through the night and hunt could be very strong. Decembrius was experienced enough to control his urges. He had no intention of being discovered, particularly as the Avenaris Guild had their headquarters in London. The guild had killed many werewolves, and Decembrius was acutely aware that, since the death of Sarapen, he was on his own. He had no allies to turn to for assistance.