“I have. Really Agrivex is not related to me. But I’ve come to regard her as a niece and may even one day adopt her in some way. She would be, I suppose, around seventeen in human terms, though our years are somewhat different as you know.”
The Enchantress was surprised to hear Malveria speak with warmth about any of her subjects. Normally when she talked of her realm, she just sounded bored.
“She was an orphan, the illegitimate - is that the right word? - daughter of a fire temple prostitute who died in childbirth. Around ten years ago, when Agrivex was seven, she was due to be sacrificed in the normal way. And yet, while the other children were queuing in an orderly fashion, prior to be thrown into the small volcano, which is considered quite an honour, she attracted my attention by marching around in an angry fashion, stamping her feet and saying over and over that we could not sacrifice her, as she was a little princess. She was very insistent, and refused absolutely to co-operate, calling me some very bad names and threatening terrible revenge. For instance, she said that if she was sacrificed she would never speak to me again. Naturally I was attracted to a child of such spirit, and spared her life. Since when she has moved into the palace where she plagues everyone, including me. I fear that she may one day attempt to steal my fine clothes, but she is at present going through a phase which involves wearing only the shabbiest of apparel. Yes, I am fond of young Agrivex’s spirit, though I was obliged to punish her for wearing ripped trousers to my last banquet. One has one’s limits, after all.”
The Fire Queen rose lightly to her feet.
“I now depart to consider the matter of the evil Princess and her filthy spy.”
Malveria smiled, waved her hand, and disappeared, leaving behind the scent of jasmine. Thrix had been meaning to ask her what happened with Kalix but she’d forgotten. She had more important things to think about. She used her intercom and asked Ann about the personnel files and Ann said she’d be right in with them.
72
Dominil put on the black leather coat which reached down to her ankles, packed a few extra clothes in one bag, her Latin poetry and her laptop in another, and flew to London. Her mission was to protect and assist the cousins about whom the family did not speak. She was not sure what to expect. At twenty-eight she was only six years older than the twins but Dominil had never had much to do with them. She mainly remembered them as a noisy pair of cubs who went around the castle wearing headphones all the time, listening to music and playing air guitar. Verasa believed that if Dominil could help the twins’ musical career, it might be enough to persuade them to vote for Markus. Dominil had agreed to the mission, partly because she was bored, and partly to help thwart Sarapen.
Dominil and Sarapen had fallen into a passionate relationship the year after she returned from Oxford. After being surrounded by students Dominil was surprised to find herself suddenly so attracted to the large, forceful werewolf. Their clandestine affair had been so intense that it was not uncommon for them both to wake up with their human bodies scarred from the attentions of their werewolf claws the night before. Then Sarapen had found out about an affair she was having with a young man in a neighbouring town. The young man had subsequently gone missing. Sarapen denied all involvement but Dominil was certain Sarapen had killed him. Dominil would never forgive Sarapen for that. She would have her revenge.
Dominil had not been in London for several years, not since Verasa had sponsored an exhibition of Byzantine art at the Courtauld Gallery. Dominil had liked the early religious paintings with their austere saints; liked them enough to later buy something similar from Merchant MacDoig and hang it in her chambers. It was one of the very few decorative items she possessed. Dominil was not fond of colourful trinkets. Under her black leather coat she wore black trousers and a black shirt, and no jewellery.
Dominil knew almost nothing about rock music. She’d been looking at some music websites, trying to gain an insight into the world she was about to enter. She was not impressed. Poor design, poor grammar and poor use of language, she thought. She hoped the music was better.
From Heathrow airport she took a hired car into London. She stopped off first at an apartment close to Regent’s Park, one of the family properties to which Verasa had given her the keys. The apartment was large and well appointed and quite satisfactory for her needs. She phoned the sisters but there was no reply, so she set off towards Camden, ready to encounter the decadent side of the family.
73
Sarapen stared over the battlements of his keep. Down below, workmen were rebuilding the old east wall. Human workmen, but the company was owned by a werewolf of the MacAndris Clan, who were historical allies of the MacRinnalchs. Sarapen’s keep dated back to the fourteenth century and the last occupant, an uncle of the late Thane, had not kept it in good repair. Sarapen was attending to the restoration, putting it back as close as possible to its original fourteenth century state. It was slow, laborious work, but Sarapen believed that the clan should preserve all of its historical buildings. He withdrew his head and turned to his companions.
“Kalix will have to die.”
He was quite certain of this. Kalix’s death would secure Dulupina’s vote. The alternative, bringing her back to the castle, would be difficult. Once she was there who knew what might happen. Sarapen would not put it beyond his mother to somehow secure Kalix’s release so that she could sit at the next council meeting and vote against him. It was best to get rid of her. In this, Sarapen’s interests merged perfectly with his emotions. Kalix had attacked the Thane. She had also attacked Sarapen when he went to rescue his father. She deserved to die for that.
“That means you’ll have one more vote, from Dulupina,” said Mirasen. “And provided it’s done before the next meeting of the Great Council, Kalix’s death will bring Decembrius onto the council. Another vote for you. Eight in total.”
Sarapen’s black-stoned keep was forty miles west of Castle MacRinnalch. A cold, hard place, built for defence rather than comfort. It was a coincidence that Sarapen should be at this moment repairing the outside walls. He had not foreseen that he may have to go to war. A happy co-incidence however; at this time it would be as well to have one’s fortifications in good repair.
The repairs were prohibitively expensive. Each stone had to be cut by masons skilled in the traditional crafts. He could have made basic structural repairs at less expense but Sarapen didn’t see any point in carrying out work which did not restore his keep to its original condition. The bills were huge, however, and this was a source of some anger to Sarapen. He thought the clan should be paying for the work, but the Mistress of the Werewolves would not sanction this. She controlled the clan finances. Sarapen didn’t believe that his mother had allocated him his due allowance of the family money over the years, though Verasa insisted that Sarapen had received everything to which he was entitled.
Sarapen had a huge fur-trimmed cloak around his shoulders, a traditional garment of the ruling MacRinnalchs, lined with cloth in the clan tartan, woven on the estates. It kept out the cold wind that whistled over the battlements. Sarapen’s keep stood at the top of a steep hill. Around the hill were farmlands which were worked by werewolves, all Sarapen’s supporters. If necessary Sarapen could gather a great many werewolves to his cause.
If he could garner nine votes at the next meeting there would not have to be a war. The prospect of war didn’t trouble Sarapen, but he was willing to go along with his advisors for now, and seek a more peaceful victory, if it could be done.
“Baron MacAllister?” said Mirasen.
Sarapen growled. He was outraged at the Baron’s perfidy in feigning illness.
“Were this last century I would have pursued him and killed him,” snarled Sarapen. “And if he does not assure me that he’ll vote for me at the next meeting I’ll do it anyway.”
If Baron MacAllister were to die, his son would accede to his place on the council.
“The young MacAllister would have no truck with my mother’s
plotting,” declared Sarapen. “He would vote for me.”
“Probably,” agreed Mirasen. “But let me try to win back the Baron before we do anything too drastic. Remember, we have six votes already. Dulupina and Decembrius will make eight. It may be possible to persuade the Baron that it would be best for him if he voted for you.”
Sarapen looked to Decembrius. Decembrius shook his head.
“I don’t see Baron MacAllister changing his vote now. But I agree that Mirasen should talk to him. What about the other available votes? Might we persuade Thrix to come round?”
“My sister has a powerful dislike of me.”
“She also has a powerful dislike of Markus. It may be worth approaching her again.”
Sarapen growled again. None of this was to his liking.
“The next Thane should not have to grovel for votes,” he declared, loudly. “The position is mine by right! Damn this family! Damn them all, particularly these women! What is the matter with them?”
“It’s interesting that the death of another council member after Kalix would ensure your victory,” commented Mirasen. “Because it will be Dulupina’s turn to appoint a replacement, and she’ll pick another of Kurian’s children. Who will certainly vote for you.”
“I’m aware of this,” said Sarapen, coldly. “And were it not for my advisors I might have attended to it already.”
74
Mr Mikulanec spoke on the phone to Mr Carmichael, chairman of the Guild.
“Three of your members dead?”
“Two are dead, one may recover.”
“Killed in daylight, I understand.”
“In daylight, yes.”
“So if this was the work of werewolves, they were strong, even in human form,” said Mikulanec.
“Werewolves are always strong in human form,” replied Mr Carmichael. He had to concede that it had been unexpected. For hunters to be killed in daylight was uncommon.
“You say the hunters were patrolling at random, not in pursuit of any target. So you presume they came across a group of werewolves, in human form, and the werewolves killed them.”
“Yes. With the Thane’s funeral, there have been a lot of werewolves passing through London,” said Mr Carmichael.
“But I understand that Kennington is not a place you would pass through on your way to an airport?”
This was true. It was a peculiar occurrence, for which Mr Carmichael had no ready explanation.
“What about the werewolf princess?” asked Mr Mikulanec. “Is that not close to the area in which she was last sighted?”
“Yes. But we’re sure she’s an outcast. She wouldn’t have been travelling with companions.”
“Perhaps not,” agreed Mr Mikulanec. “But what if she was on her own?”
“She couldn’t have beaten three hunters on her own, not in daylight. All reports say she’s a small girl, practically malnourished.”
“Perhaps you have never seen what a small werewolf, practically malnourished, can do, when the circumstances are right,” suggested Mikulanec.
Mr Carmichael was irritated. The deaths were bad enough without a foreign hunter implying that the Guild didn’t know its own business.
“I don’t think she was responsible. It must have been a werewolf gang we haven’t encountered before. We’re sending more men to patrol the area.”
The Guild had had some success in the past week. Several werewolves had been killed as they journeyed to and from the MacRinnalch Estates. Too few, of course, to hurt the clan, but enough to make the Guild feel that it was doing its work successfully. Until the matter of the hunters’ deaths in London. That was a major blow.
Mr Mikulanec still thought the werewolf princess might have killed them.
“I will find her and eradicate her.”
He hung up the phone. Mikulanec was under no illusions as to what a small, malnourished werewolf could do. Ten years ago a lone young werewolf had eliminated many of Mikulanec’s associates in Croatia. They too had been experienced werewolf hunters, but the wolf had been moon-born, a son of the oldest family of werewolves in Central Europe. Even in human form he had been a savage opponent. ‘And so,’ mused Mikulanec, ‘So it may be with this princess, if she was born on the full moon as a wolf, and has the purest of blood, and perhaps the same sort of wolf madness I encountered in Croatia.’
Mikulanec had killed the Croatian werewolf, though not with a silver bullet. He took out his knife and looked at it fondly. The Begravar knife. The only one of its kind left in existence, as far as he knew. It was a great advantage when it came to slaying werewolves. None could stand against it, no matter how strong or savage they were.
75
“I want to see more Sabrina the Teenage Witch,” said Kalix, eagerly.
Daniel was apologetic.
“No more till next week.”
“No more?” Kalix was cross. “But it’s the best programme. They must show more.”
She looked appealingly at Daniel as if he could somehow make the show appear again. Kalix was unfamiliar with TV scheduling and found it hard to believe that a programme she liked so much could only be shown once a week. Looking at the TV, which was currently showing a gardening programme she found deeply unappealing, she felt baffled.
“Is it on another station?” she asked, and worked the remote control.
“Not till Saturday,” repeated Daniel.
“But it’s better than these programmes,” complained Kalix. “Why won’t they show it again?”
“It’s TV,” said Daniel. “Lots of the programmes are bad.”
“Could we phone them up and ask them to show more?”
Daniel laughed. He suggested that Kalix might email the channel with her request. Kalix bounded upstairs. Moonglow was sitting at her computer, translating Sumerian Cuneiform.
“Daniel says if I email the television they might show more Sabrina,” she said, enthusiastically.
“Well, I’m kind of busy - ” began Moonglow, but stopped. Realising she’d never seen Kalix so enthusiastic about anything before, and thinking that it was probably a good thing, she obliged the young werewolf by finding the website of the relevant channel. Kalix watched, interested in the process.
“Do you want to write the email?” asked Moonglow.
“My paws are too big for the keyboard,” said Kalix.
Moonglow composed the email. She read it out loud to Kalix, knowing that the werewolf could not really read much of what was written, even though Kalix pretended she could. When Kalix was satisfied, Moonglow sent off her heartfelt plea for more Sabrina. Kalix thanked her then bounded downstairs again to tell Daniel that there would soon be more teenage witch adventures on TV.
“Do you think they’ll show more tonight?” she asked.
“It might take a bit longer for your email to reach the executives.”
Kalix nodded. She supposed it might. Daniel had a TV listings magazine which Kalix wanted to read. She made an attempt but again found it difficult. She had an urge to ask Daniel to check it, just in case he was misinformed about Sabrina, but held back. The young werewolf was ashamed of her poor reading skills.
Daniel also had work to do. He was meant to be speaking tomorrow at a seminar on Timon of Athens. Deciding that he could probably write something later, he put it out of his mind and went off to make tea and toast. Kalix followed him into the kitchen.
“Meat?” she said.
There was meat in the fridge for Kalix though both Daniel and Moonglow were nervous about what might happen tomorrow if the werewolf gorged herself again tonight. Would it lead to more vomiting and hysteria? Whether it did or not, it seemed best to provide her with anything she wanted. Moonglow had the accurate impression that this might be the only time in the whole month that she would actually eat. Kalix had shown amazing powers of recovery. Only two nights ago she had lain broken and bleeding in the alleyway. Now she was bounding around like an athlete. It was an indication of Kalix’s great inner vitalit
y. If she looked after herself properly there was no telling how vigorous she might be.
Daniel made tea. Kalix hung around talking enthusiastically about Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Daniel felt close to laughing. She was funny when she was enthusiastic and even her werewolf face with its alarmingly large teeth did not prevent her from sounding like an eager child. Spontaneously, he reached out to pat her furry head. Kalix looked shocked, and growled. Daniel hurriedly withdrew his hand.
“Too friendly?” he said.
“It’s all right,” said Kalix, and relaxed again.
She took her plate of meat and went to sit close to the TV, hoping for another good programme. Daniel called upstairs to Moonglow, telling her that she had to take a break.
“Too much cuneiform isn’t good for you.”
Moonglow, agreeing with this, appeared downstairs, and gratefully accepted a cup of tea.
“How’s your seminar going?”
“Great,” replied Daniel.
“You haven’t started yet, have you?”
Daniel admitted that he hadn’t.
“But I’m close. And I’m really making progress with Kalix. You see how cheerful she is?”
A savage growling noise caused them to turn round hurriedly.
“I hate this programme,” said Kalix, and banged her paw on the remote control. “I want cartoons.”
76
Beauty and Delicious lived in a quiet residential street, a little way from the centre of Camden. Knowing that she was unlikely to find a parking space, Dominil had left her car at a car park and walked the rest of the way. Heads turned as she strode past Camden tube station. Even in this part of the city, where an unusual appearance was not uncommon, Dominil’s severely beautiful face and ice-white hair drew attention.
Having memorised her street map, Dominil reached the house easily enough. It was larger and in better repair than she had been expecting. There was nothing to distinguish it from the other houses in the street, apart from the curtains being closed. She rang the bell for a long time. No one answered, though Dominil’s sharp ears could hear noises within. She stretched over from the steps and rapped her fist on the front window. The door eventually opened. Beauty stood looking at her, her eyes not quite focused.