Lonely Werewolf Girl Page 2

  “I don’t need the full moon,” she muttered. “I belong to the werewolf royal family.”

  Kalix breathed deeply to halt the shuddering, then set off along the dark street, disappearing down the first alley she came to.

  4

  Kalix wished that she was someone else. She had an elaborate fantasy in which her true parents had abandoned her at birth, leaving her at the mercy of the MacRinnalch Clan. Either that or she had been stolen away as a baby and sold to the Thane. Her favourite fantasy involved her being the secret love child of one of the Runaways, preferably Joan Jett.

  ‘Joan Jett could well be my mother,’ thought Kalix, sometimes. Except Joan Jett wasn’t a werewolf, as far as anybody knew.

  Her nomadic ways meant that Kalix had very few possessions. All she owned were her ragged clothes, an ancient walkman for playing tapes, and a bag for carrying her pills and her laudanum. Her clothes came from charity shops. Her boots were full of holes and her coat was worn and filthy.

  Kalix had been taking laudanum for some years. Laudanum was an opium derivative dissolved in alcohol. She’d first bought it from MacDoig the Merchant, a strange character who regularly appeared at Castle MacRinnalch with fabulous goods for sale, goods from various realms, some of them not of this world. He was a man of some power who’d long outlived the normal short human span, and in that time travelled where few others had. Somewhere along the way, he’d located a supply of laudanum which he sold to anyone desperate for relief from their suffering. Kalix’s mother, the Mistress of the Werewolves, would have killed the MacDoig if she’d learned what he was selling to her youngest daughter. It was not cheap, and Kalix had learned to steal to finance her needs. Since she’d arrived in London she’d bought the liquid from the Young MacDoig, who carried on his father’s business in the South. That was why she no longer had her pendant. She’d swapped it to the Young MacDoig for laudanum.

  As for Kalix’s walkman, she only had two tapes, both by the Runaways: their eponymous first album, and Live in Japan. Kalix loved the Runaways even though both these albums had been recorded before she was born. She had a picture of the band, torn from a newspaper. Once, when a young man had tried to deface it she’d bitten his hand so hard he’d had to go to hospital to have it stitched together. That was while Kalix was in human form. Even as a human, Kalix was a ferocious opponent. As a werewolf she was abnormally strong, and when the battle-madness came over her, she was murderously savage.

  Kalix had once gone to an internet café to hunt for information about the Runaways but she found very little. Not that much had been written about them and what there was, Kalix could barely read. Although the MacRinnalch werewolves were well educated as a rule, Kalix’s peculiar background had left her almost illiterate. But it seemed to her, from the few sentences she could understand, that her favourite band had never been very successful. This baffled Kalix, and angered her, and made her hold the world in even greater contempt.

  Kalix’s bed was a bundle of old sacks. The abandoned warehouse was damp and the cold chilled her bones. Occasionally when night fell she would change into her werewolf shape just to gain warmth from her thick coat. As a purebred werewolf of the MacRinnalch Clan, Kalix could do this any night she chose, but it was hazardous now that she no longer had her pendant for protection. Changing into werewolf form made her easier to detect.

  Kalix hadn’t eaten for many days. This was good. Kalix didn’t like to eat. There was no one here to tell her she had to. She might never eat again and no one could make her. Buoyed by this happy thought the young werewolf buried herself under the sacks and drifted off to sleep to dream about Gawain. Gawain was the most handsome of werewolves, and he had once been her lover. On her fourteenth birthday she’d crept into his bed at Castle MacRinnalch and after that they were never out of each other’s company. They had a year of insane joy before he was banished. Kalix yearned to see him again, but she knew he was never coming back.

  5

  The Fire Queen, whose extreme beauty existed somewhere between a Babylonian death goddess and an Asian supermodel, advanced towards Thrix’s desk, fire smouldering in her eyes.

  “Prepare to suffer appalling and dreadful torments, you treacherous werewolf!”

  Thrix raised one eyebrow.

  “What exactly is the problem, Malveria?”

  The Fire Queen reached back into the depths of her nether realm and dragged forth a pair of red high heeled shoes. She slammed them onto Thrix’s desk.

  “These shoes you sold me!” yelled the Fire Queen, “The heel broke! One moment I am walking up the volcano with a ceremonial knife in my hand, sacrifice at the ready and subjects bowing down before me - I was looking fabulous, of course - the next I’m hobbling up and down like a servant-girl with ill fitting boots!”

  Thrix pursed her lips.

  “Well, Malveria, these are clearly intended as dresswear only. You can’t expect a fashion item to stand up to ritual sacrifice on the volcano. I’ve told you before about choosing the right footwear for the right occasion.”

  The Fire Queen exploded in a furious rage, cursing Thrix with dreadful oaths never before heard in the mortal world.

  “You expect me to appear at the most important sacrifice of the year wearing some dull but sensible footwear? What sort of fashion adviser are you?”

  “A very good adviser,” replied Thrix, calmly. The Enchantress knew the Fire Queen very well - well enough to know her real name - and was not overly troubled by her wrath. As Queen of the Hiyasta, a race of fire elementals, Malveria was immensely powerful. Thrix would not lightly pit her skills against her, but her rages tended to subside quickly, particularly in the matter of fashion. Generally the prospect of an elegant new outfit was enough to calm her down. The intercom sounded. It was a slender silver box, delicately designed, in keeping with the decor of Thrix’s elegant office which was calm and stylish, and only slightly spoiled by the untidy rail of clothes samples against the far wall.

  “Your mother is on the phone.”

  Thrix made a face.

  “Excuse me, Malveria. Mother… what is it? Kalix? No I haven’t seen her. Why would I? Father’s asking for me? Father can go to hell, and quickly… I have to go, I’m with a client.”

  Thrix ended the call.

  “Family problems?” asked the Fire Queen.

  “As ever.”

  The beautiful Hiyasta was sympathetic.

  “I disposed of mine a long time ago. Is the young wolf in trouble again?”

  “She is, but she won’t be for long. They’ll get rid of her soon.”

  “What does your mother want you to do?”

  “Find her, I think,” said Thrix, without enthusiasm.

  “This is very interfering,” observed the Fire Queen. “Does your mother not know you are busy making fabulous clothes for notable clients like myself?”

  “My mother lets nothing stand in her way.”

  “How very irritating,” said Malveria. “As a daughter of the werewolf royal family, can you not simply order everyone to leave you alone?”

  This brought a smile from Thrix.

  “We’ve never actually proclaimed ourselves royalty. Well, perhaps once or twice, when we’re feeling grand. Ruling family would be more accurate, and that’s trouble enough. Now Malveria, about these shoes.”

  Malveria waved her hand dismissively. The scent of jasmine filled the room, as it always did when Malveria visited. Whether it was perfume, or Malveria’s natural aroma, Thrix wasn’t sure.

  “Pah, it is nothing. I regret ever threatening my most beautiful and valued fashion designer over such a trifle. The shame of the heel breakage was temporarily overwhelming but I have now made a strong recovery.”

  Malveria smiled. Though the fire elementals inhabited their own dimension, and had little contact with the world of humans, they were historical enemies of the MacRinnalchs. It was very unusual for a Hiyasta to be friends with a MacRinnalch werewolf. Despite this, the Fire Queen liked
the Enchantress a great deal. Without Thrix’s help the Queen would still be turning up at social events in her realm wearing really bad clothes. She still shuddered at the memory of some of her previous outfits.

  6

  Kalix woke with a pain in her stomach. She often suffered from this, when she hadn’t eaten for a long time. She sipped some laudanum and fished her journal out of her bag. Kalix’s journal was precious to her. It was a diary of sorts, used for recording both her thoughts and her actions. Yesterday’s entry read: My father is Thane of the Werewolves. I hate him.

  That, at least, was how it read to Kalix. To anyone else, it would have been an almost illegible scrawl of misspelled words and misshapen letters. The day before that was blank and the day before that read: My brothers hate each other. I hate them both. Further down the page it said: I miss Gawain.

  Kalix wrote a new entry in her journal. The Runaways are the Queens of Noise. Today I killed two hunters. Or yesterday. It took her a long time to complete each word. She had to concentrate fully to form each troublesome letter. Though Kalix was naturally intelligent, she had never made up for her lack of schooling. Kalix was seventeen but in terms of education she was far behind girls of her age.

  Outside it was still raining and water continued to drip through the roof. Kalix ignored it. Tired, her stomach still sore, she drifted back to sleep. When she next woke, sometime in the afternoon, she was still drowsy from the laudanum. Because her senses were dulled it took her a few moments to realise she was not alone. Duncan Douglas-MacPhee was standing next to her, staring at her with his cold dark eyes. Duncan worked for her eldest brother Sarapen. He was a large, strong werewolf, with a reputation for violence. He wore an old leather jacket and his long hair was held back by a black bandana. Alarmed, Kalix leapt to her feet, ready to defend herself.

  Duncan regarded her silently. His eyes shifted to her squalid bed, then took in the rest of her surroundings. He looked down at the bottle of laudanum at his feet.

  “You are disgusting, Kalix MacRinnalch. Fourth in line to the Thaneship and here you are with habits suited to the lowest scum of werewolf society.”

  “You’d know about the lowest scum,” growled Kalix.

  “I would that,” agreed Duncan. His own reputation was very unsavoury, as was that of his brother Fergus and his sister Rhona. The Douglas-MacPhees were an unwholesome trio of werewolves in every respect. Kalix was worried. In daylight neither she nor Duncan could transform and in human form he was certainly more powerful than her.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “I can’t,” said Duncan. His Scottish accent was stronger than Kalix’s, and very harsh. “The Great Council wants you back.”

  “I’m not going back to be tried,” said Kalix, edging away.

  “You’ve already been tried. And found guilty. Now they want to sentence you.”

  He stared at her.

  “Sarapen’s not too concerned what condition you reach the castle in. In fact he’s not too concerned if you get there at all.”

  From the depths of his leather jacket he drew a long machete.

  “Just your heart will do.”

  “I’ll kill you,” snarled Kalix.

  “I hardly think so. Not in daylight. Not when you can’t transform.”

  Duncan Douglas-MacPhee advanced. Kalix sank into her defensive posture, ready to fight for her life. Suddenly the door to the warehouse opened and a young man appeared.

  “Is this the sorting office?”

  Duncan growled at the intruder. The young man was startled.

  “My music magazines didn’t arrive…” he said, by way of explanation.

  Kalix moved like lightning. She grabbed a rock from the floor and flung it at her assailant. It caught him sharply on the head and he collapsed. As he tried to rise Kalix kicked him savagely then ran for the door, grabbing her coat and bag on the way. The young man looked confused but at the sight of Duncan struggling to his feet with his machete still in his hand, he swiftly followed Kalix out the door.

  “In here!” yelled Daniel, pointing to his car.

  Kalix didn’t want to get into the car but the Douglas-MacPhee was already emerging from the warehouse. Daniel flung open the passenger door and Kalix leapt in, and they sped away from the murderous attacker as fast as Daniel’s ancient vehicle could take them.

  Daniel was scared. He was a nineteen year old student and not used to confronting men with machetes. He paid Kalix little attention till he’d put several long streets between them and Duncan. When he finally stopped the car and turned towards her, he was immediately unsettled by the intensity of her expression. Kalix’s eyes were larger and darker than any he had ever seen, quite startling against her very pale skin. There was something quite shocking about her appearance. Her face was dirty, she was painfully thin, and her hair, unusually long, was thick, filthy and matted, as if it had never been washed. The whole effect was very unsettling.

  “Drive further,” she said.

  “It’s okay, we’ve lost him now.”

  “Drive further. He can still smell us.”

  Daniel was puzzled, and slightly insulted.

  “Smell us? I don’t really think - ”

  “Drive!” yelled Kalix.

  Daniel put the car back into gear and drove on through South East London, leaving the industrial area behind as he headed towards his home in Kennington. Kalix sat in silence. She was recovering her composure but felt no desire to enter into conversation with a stranger. Daniel, however, did not feel like remaining silent. The whole experience was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him and now that his terror was receding he was starting to think quite well of his conduct. He imagined himself describing it to his flatmate, Moonglow. She could hardly fail to be impressed.

  “Who was that man?”

  “He works for my brother,” replied Kalix.

  “Was he trying to cut you out of the family?” asked Daniel, trying for a lightness of tone that would show he hadn’t been scared.

  “He was trying to cut out my heart,” replied Kalix, flatly.

  Daniel winced at the image.

  “Any reason for that?” he said, after a while.

  “The family condemned me.”

  They drove on in silence. Daniel found it hard to carry on the conversation. Nothing seemed quite appropriate and besides, he was becoming tongue tied, as he generally did while trying to make conversation with young women. Even in the midst of the excitement and danger, Daniel had not failed to notice the young girl’s extraordinary beauty. She might be skinny, ragged, and dirty, with an air of madness about her, but she was undeniably beautiful. Daniel had never seen her like, outside of a magazine.

  “Eh… we’re almost where I live now…” said Daniel, and felt embarrassed in case she might think he was trying to invite her home with him. Unconsciously, he let his long hair swing in front of his face, which he always did to mask embarrassment.

  “Do you want to come in… maybe call the police?”

  But Kalix had gone. She’d swiftly opened the door, slid out of the car and was already disappearing along the street.

  7

  As leaders of the MacRinnalch Werewolf Clan the Thane’s family were very wealthy. They owned property all over Britain. Verasa, wife of the Thane and Mistress of the Werewolves, held land in the Scottish highlands, more land in the Scottish isles, and considerable estates in Kent. Her London home, in Kensington, was large enough to be classed as a mansion. Verasa spent a lot of time there. Too much time, in the opinion of her husband the Thane, but it was a long time since they had agreed about anything.

  Verasa was two hundred and fifty years old. In human terms, she would have passed for forty-eight. Like most female members of the clan her hair hung long and dark round her shoulders. Unlike her wayward daughter Kalix, Verasa was a frequent visitor to the salons of Edinburgh and Knightsbridge, and her thick mane was beautifully coiffured. Her clothes were elegant and her features striking.
While taking tea at one of the smart little places in Kensington she sometimes favoured, she would always be the subject of a few discreet glances as the clientele wondered who she might be, what films she might have starred in when she was younger, and what wealth she might have married into.

  Verasa was drinking a glass of wine from a crystal goblet that had been in the family for four hundred years. A servant entered.

  “Your son, mistress.”

  “Send him in.”

  Markus strode into the chamber. Markus was her younger son, and her favourite. Markus, who didn’t look much like a werewolf, having a somewhat rounder face than was usual, less lupine around the cheekbones. His hair was a little lighter, more chestnut than was common among the MacRinnalchs. Slightly feminine. Pretty even, which was unusual in a male werewolf. It didn’t mean that he was weak. No werewolf with the blood of the MacRinnalchs flowing in his veins had ever been weak. He was certainly a more congenial companion for his mother than Sarapen, her eldest son, who had turned out to be the double of his father the Thane; strong and grim, and not given to shows of affection.

  Markus’s main residence was in Edinburgh but he was a frequent visitor to London. He embraced his mother and she responded with a warmth she felt towards no other member of her family. As Markus finally withdrew from the embrace, she looked at him questioningly.

  “Kalix killed some hunters,” said Markus.

  “From the Guild?”

  “No, just some freelancers. Of no account.”

  Verasa nodded. Bounty hunters were an occasional annoyance, but rarely able to trouble the powerful MacRinnalch Clan.

  “And the Douglas-MacPhees?”

  “Kalix encountered Duncan yesterday,” answered Markus. “She escaped.”

  “Escaped? Was he trying to harm her?”

  “No doubt. You don’t send the Douglas-MacPhees after anyone unless you want to harm them.”

  Verasa frowned. Duncan, Fergus and Rhona were a notorious trio. It was infuriating that her own son Sarapen should employ such people. She poured wine for herself and Markus. As she handed him his glass she thought, as always, that she was fortunate to have at least one child who loved her.