Curse of the Wolf Girl

by Martin Millar

  “Worst manager ever.”

  A key sounded in the lock. Dominil strode into the house, placed her suitcase carefully on the floor, and regarded the sisters with distaste. The sisters glared back at her.

  “You’re the worst manager ever,” said Delicious.

  Dominil didn’t reply.

  “And we’re bored,” added Beauty, “because you won’t let us play more gigs.”

  “You have plenty to do,” said Dominil. “I left you with clear instructions on rehearsal and musical composition.”

  The twins sniggered. Only Dominil would use a phrase like musical composition.

  Beauty dragged herself upright in her chair. “We want to play. You were keen enough for us to play earlier. You practically forced us on stage before we were ready. Now you won’t get us more gigs. Why not?”

  “She just got us one gig so we’d vote for Markus as Thane,” said Delicious, accusingly.

  Dominil pressed her lips together with annoyance. “We have been over this many times. Your first gig was necessary to resurrect your careers. It gave you focus for getting your band back together. Now I’d like you to improve. Various music journalists have expressed an interest in seeing you play, and I don’t want you to disappoint them.”

  Beauty and Delicious looked blank.

  Dominil sighed. “I’ve got you a gig in Edinburgh.”

  “Edinburgh? Who wants to play there?”

  “Many people. It’s a vibrant city.”

  Beauty and Delicious were unenthusiastic. Traveling to Edinburgh seemed like a lot of trouble.

  “I hate Scotland. It’s too far away.”

  “It’s less than an hour by air. And how can you hate Scotland? You’re Scottish.”

  “There’s too much heather,” said Beauty, “and kilts.”

  “It’s full of castles and stuff,” said Delicious. “I hate castles.”

  “You’re talking nonsense,” replied Dominil, calmly. “Edinburgh is a modern city, the same as cities everywhere.” She paused. “I admit it does have a large castle right in the middle. Which may be surrounded by men in kilts. And some heather. But apart from that it’s a modern city. I thought you’d be pleased to play at a gig promoted by a fellow MacRinnalch werewolf.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Cameron MacRinnalch. Doctor Angus’s grandson. He’s a student at the medical faculty at Edinburgh University. He puts on gigs in his spare time.” Dominil paused, reflecting that she didn’t really approve of a student putting on gigs in his spare time. It seemed to imply a lack of application to his studies. Nonetheless, it suited her purpose.

  “You’ll be less in danger of giving away your werewolf nature, and it will be an excellent opportunity to hone your onstage skills. Now”—Dominil bent down to pick up a CD from the floor, placing it safely on the cabinet beside her—“I suggest we work out an intensified schedule of rehearsal. We have no time to waste.”

  Beauty and Delicious sighed. Anything that involved Dominil also involved a seemingly endless amount of work, and they suddenly felt less enthusiastic about playing than they had before.

  Dominil left them to their dissatisfaction, retreating upstairs to the room she used as an office. She was hoping there’d be a message from a woman in Singapore she’d first met on a Perl forum some years ago and stayed in touch with since. The woman was particularly skillful in cracking passwords, and she ran a small, private online business providing these passwords to people who were prepared to pay. The message was there. Dominil copied it with satisfaction. The Avenaris Guild kept upgrading their online security, but with help from her acquaintance in Singapore, Dominil remained one step ahead.

  Dominil was interrupted several times by her phone ringing. Each time she looked at the screen it said Pete. Pete was the guitarist in Yum Yum Sugary Snacks. The first few times, she ignored it. Finally she answered in frustration.

  “‘Stop calling me. I’m busy.” Dominil switched off her phone and returned to her work. After another twenty minutes, she allowed herself the tiniest flicker of a smile, satisfied with her accomplishments. Having read more of the private files of the guild, she now had the address of a werewolf hunter she’d like to meet.

  “I’ll be seeing you soon,” muttered Dominil.

  She was interrupted by Beauty and Delicious stomping noisily into the room.

  “Hey, we just heard from Pete!” cried Beauty. “He says he can’t play guitar anymore!”

  “What?”

  “He’s too depressed to play!” yelled Delicious. “Did you ever hear anything like it?”

  “How can he be too depressed to play?” demanded Beauty. “Why is he depressed?”

  They stared at Dominil expectantly.

  “Why would you expect me to know?”

  “You’re our manager. You should know stuff like that. Why is our guitarist too depressed to play?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Dominil, defensively.

  “It’s probably some woman,” said Beauty. “Has he been seeing some woman?”

  “I bet it’s that barmaid at the Red Lion,” declared Delicious. “Dominil, has the barmaid from the Red Lion broken Pete’s heart?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Well, you should find out. You can’t just let our guitarist go around being brokenhearted and depressed. You have to sort it out.”

  “I will,” said Dominil, menacingly.

  Chapter 40

  Thrix was trying to design a cocktail dress. Though the enchantress hated any interruption to her work, she had to admit that inspiration had deserted her. She sat back and drummed her fingers on the desk. Dealing with the mess surrounding Gawain’s death was exceptionally troublesome, and it wasn’t over yet. There was no sorcery that would easily make everything better once the police had taken away the body of a murder victim. The Mistress of the Werewolves wanted Gawain’s body sent back to Scotland for a decent werewolf burial. Thrix could, conceivably, transport herself into the police mortuary and send the body back. But what then? The police were already in the middle of their investigation. What was going to happen if one of the bodies mysteriously disappeared?

  Thrix wondered how their investigation was progressing. Was Kalix involved? If the police had a description of her from the crime scene, then that was another serious problem.

  There was a sudden flash of light in the office accompanied by the faint aroma of jasmine, and there stood the Fire Queen. She wore a white evening dress under a stylish white coat, and her dark features were set off beautifully by a tiny white hat.

  “Thrix, my esteemed friend!” cried Malveria. “You have returned from Scotland just in time!”

  “Just in time for what?”

  “To admire the splendid opera ensemble I am wearing. When you provided me with this beauteous white dress, I was unsure of the correct occasion to wear it, but now the occasion has presented itself admirably. I am off to see The Marriage of Figaro in the company of Lady Flamina, Beau DeMortalis, and his companion Prince Garamlock.”

  “Do they know what they’re in for?”

  “No. But I have inflamed their curiosity with tales of operatic splendor, and I will impress them even more with this magnificent outfit! You are aware that Mr. Felicori is singing once more?”

  Thrix wasn’t. Since Gawain’s death, she hadn’t given any thought to her mother’s project or to Felicori.

  “You do not seem remarkably happy.” The queen perched elegantly on the edge of Thrix’s table, examining herself with satisfaction in the large mirror on the opposite wall. “Fortunately I have some time to spare so you may unburden yourself of your unhappiness. Is it connected to the shooting of Kalix and the death of Gawain?”

  “Partly. Incidentally, thanks for healing her hand.”

  “A minor healing only. Hardly worth mentioning had it not humiliated me in front of the entire Hiyasta nation.”

  According to the queen, since Vex’s intervention in the Garden of Small Blue F
lames, word had spread like wildfire around the Hiyasta nation that the queen was in the habit of healing MacRinnalch werewolves.

  “I shall never recover from the disgrace. It is partially for this reason that I have fled to the opera. That, and to avoid my advisory council.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they want me to marry and reproduce. I have left the very capable Distikka to hold the fort, as it were. So what is happening in the sad affair of Gawain?”

  “I went to the scene of the crime.”

  The queen leaned forward with interest. “Did you discern who did the killing?”

  “No. All I discerned was a lot of stale blood. Gawain must have been dead for days when Kalix found him. With the amount of people who’d been there since, I couldn’t make much out. I don’t know who killed Gawain or how he died. I won’t know unless I examine the body. I’m not keen to do that.”

  The enchantress tried to explain about the potential difficulties involved in infiltrating the police morgue, but the queen found this quite difficult to follow.

  “It all sounds very trying. And of course, it is Gawain. Who, not so long ago, you were very involved with.”

  “I was not very involved with him. We had a brief affair.”

  “Before he went off with Kalix.”

  “Thanks for reminding me. Again.”

  The queen decided it was time to change the subject. “It’s such a shame you cannot come to the opera tonight. I am expecting another sensational performance from Mr. Felicori. Such a wonderful singer! After the performance, I will again urge him to attend your mother’s event in Edinburgh. I’m wearing his resistance down, I am quite certain of it.”

  This made Thrix smile. She could believe it. She thanked the queen quite sincerely for her efforts to recruit Felicori, because Thrix herself didn’t feel up to the task.

  “And perhaps, at the opera,” continued the Fire Queen, “I may meet a suitable man to take your mind off your current problems?” She beamed at her own suggestion, which was met by a cold stare from the enchantress.

  “I don’t need you to set me up with anyone, Malveria.”

  “Of course you do not. A successful woman of your golden beauty needs no assistance. Given enough time, I am quite certain a suitable man will come along who may erase the sad memory of your long string of romantic failures.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But perhaps the process could be hurried along a little. After all, you will have much to celebrate very soon, when the huge department store buys all your clothes. Why does that make you frown, Enchantress?”

  “The deal seems to be off. They’re not returning my calls.”

  Malveria was mystified. “But your clothes are so beautiful, Enchantress. Surely this buyer from the department store must purchase them?”

  “There’s a lot of competition. I’m not the only one trying to get them to stock my designs.”

  “They should bow down before your superior styles.”

  “They won’t.”

  “Could we attack them?” suggested Malveria, brightly. “I can have a warehouseful of enemy clothes in flames in seconds.”

  Thrix smiled. Malveria’s term “enemy clothes” wasn’t far off from the way she’d come to think of her fellow designers’ efforts.

  “I thought the deal was done. Eldridges would have bought my summer line if Susi Surmata had just written her article.”

  “Now I am baffled again. Who is this Susi Surmata?”

  “A fashion journalist. She started off as an anonymous blogger, and now she’s the most influential style-writer in the country. She’s so successful it’s annoying. If she enthuses about something, buyers just line up to stock it. And she did say she’d review my new collection.” Thrix sighed. “I actually told the buyer at Eldridges that Susi Surmata was going to write about me, and she said, ‘Fine, when that happens, I’ll buy your collection.’ Which would have been great if Susi hadn’t then failed to write the article. Now the buyer thinks I was making the whole thing up.”

  Queen Malveria looked stern. “We cannot let this go unpunished. Take me to this wretched Surmata woman, and I will cause burning needles to pierce her flesh.”

  “I was thinking more of buying her lunch.”

  Malveria was disappointed. “I feel she deserves the burning needles.”

  “Well, I’d like to try some persuasion before moving on to medieval torture. If I could just talk to her, I’m sure I could sort it out. Unfortunately Susi Surmata is hard to pin down. No one knows who she really is. She’s managed to remain completely anonymous.”

  It was a puzzling phenomenon.

  “One would have thought she would relish publicity,” said Malveria. “She does work in fashion, after all. What secret is she trying to protect?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Could she have an abnormally large nose? Very bad skin? No, I have it—she is hideously overweight. Laid low by the shame of her enormous extra poundage, she flits silently from one fashion show to another, looks longingly at the models, gazes in wonder at the slender grace of Queen Malveria in the front row, then goes home unhappily to write her bitter articles full of venom and hatred towards the world.”

  Thrix gaped at Malveria’s speech. “I see the opera is improving your creative imagination.”

  “Do not worry, Enchantress. I am sure we can find this Susi Surmata. And then you must assure her that she is not as hideously fat as she imagines herself to be. If that fails, we will move on swiftly to the burning needles. One way or another, she must write about your clothes.”

  The queen broke off, suddenly distracted by her makeup. She examined herself in the mirror. “Is this lipstick perfect?”

  “Yes.”

  Malveria regarded it suspiciously. “It will not remain so. Really, my lipstick problems are quite wearing me out. One yearns for the perfect, long-lasting solution.” The queen applied a little more coloring. “If only the fairies were not so secretive about these things.”

  “The fairies?” Thrix was confused.

  “Queen Dithean has the most perfect lip-coloring, which never wears off. Have you not noticed? She is famous for it. The fairies produce their own exquisite lipstick from the juice of wild cherries—cunningly mixed, no doubt, with other fabulous ingredients. Unfortunately, the fairies do not give up their secrets easily. But do not despair, Enchantress. I am working on the problem and may yet wrest the secret from her.”

  “Well, that’ll be one less thing to worry about,” said Thrix.

  Chapter 41

  Decembrius stood in front of a small electrical goods shop in South London, admiring his reflection. He’d grown his dark red hair longer and had swept it back. It accentuated his cheekbones, which were rather finer than those of the standard MacRinnalch male. He had a second gold stud in his left ear and a new pair of boots, quite expensive, with a thin metal rim on the sole that gave them a gothic look. His long black leather coat had been inflexible when he bought it but had now molded itself to his frame. He let his coat hang open, though it was a cold day. Decembrius didn’t feel the cold. Though lean, he was strong and always had been. He was a handsome young man, which he knew, and a handsome young werewolf.

  After admiring himself for some moments, he frowned. There was no point in looking good if he couldn’t find Kalix. He’d traveled south of the river in the hope that his extra sense of perception might somehow reappear, leading him to her. It hadn’t. Decembrius could stand on this cold pavement for the rest of his life and not find her. There was no chance of simply picking up her scent. Thanks to the sorcerous pendant provided for her by the enchantress and Malveria, Kalix’s scent was hidden.

  Decembrius shook his head. He was feeling worse and worse about the loss of his powers. Until now he’d reassured himself that they were bound to return sometime. Surely a werewolf born with the second sight couldn’t just lose it. Yet there was no sign of his powers reappearing. He was gripped by a sudden feeling o
f loneliness and wished he had someone to discuss it with. That was impossible, of course. He didn’t want to admit his loss to anyone. Besides, who was there to talk to? The only werewolves he knew in London were the Douglas-MacPhees, and he wasn’t about to discuss anything personal with them. Even in Scotland, there was no one he felt close to. When Sarapen died, Decembrius had lost his place in werewolf society and was now effectively an outcast. He sagged a little, and felt depressed, and wished he knew where Kalix was.

  He tried to distract himself by studying the goods in the shop window. TVs, DVD players, kettles, most of them cheap, all of them obscure brands not normally seen in larger stores. Suddenly he became alert. Though his powers of far-seeing had vanished, his normal werewolf senses were still sharp, and there was a scent in the air he was familiar with: the girl who lived in the same flat as Kalix. He’d only encountered her briefly but he remembered her quite distinctly. Decembrius felt excited, but remained where he was, looking in the window. Moonglow went by on the pavement behind him. The werewolf waited till she’d traveled some way before setting off in pursuit. This was fortunate. If he couldn’t find Kalix with his powers then perhaps her flatmate would lead him to her.

  * * *

  Moonglow was returning early from university having had only two classes in the morning. Sumerian history had gone well, but the day had taken a turn for the worse when she’d met Daniel at lunchtime and he’d started acting weirdly again. These days it was rare for the atmosphere between them to be completely normal. Moonglow regretted this. For a time Daniel had been the ideal flatmate. Though perhaps, she reflected, it hadn’t been so ideal for him. He’d always been attracted to her, and she’d always known it. He hadn’t enjoyed hearing tales of her relationships, particularly her brief affair with Markus MacRinnalch, or as Daniel referred to him, “that crazy werewolf.”

  Markus wasn’t really crazy. Daniel just objected to his liking for cross-dressing. Moonglow hadn’t objected at all. He had been quite beautiful no matter what he wore. When he’d discarded her, Moonglow had been totally devastated. Daniel had undoubtedly planned to step in to repair the damage. Moonglow would probably have gone along with it. She had found herself increasingly attracted to him. Unfortunately there was the matter of Malveria’s curse, which couldn’t be ignored. Daniel didn’t know about the curse and probably thought that Moonglow had just been toying with his emotions.