He should have slaughtered the boy then and there, put an end to any vengeful notions in that young romantic head. But there had been a hell of a mess to clear up after the battle, and men to control in victory.
He had to be honest with himself about his motives. One did not grow old by feeling pity or showing mercy. But somewhere in his soul he’d liked leaving the child alive: a witness, a teller of the tale, a terrified survivor. He hadn’t wanted to snuff out that delicious terror; not yet. And he’d made that most elementary mistake: not underestimating a twelve-year-old, exactly, but forgetting for a vital moment that twelve-year-olds grew up, if you let them.
After all, look what had happened to Nils Laszlo. Alasdair grinned. Laszlo’s mistake had been even worse than his. It was a sixteen-year-old he’d let off the hook, and what had happened? The sixteen-year-old had grown into a thirty-year-old who hunted him down and gralloched him just as he’d gutted Cù Chaorach. Kate had giggled helplessly about that. The young full-mortal had been kinder than Laszlo deserved, putting the blade through his heart instead of leaving him for the birds the way Laszlo had left Cù Chaorach; but he hadn’t shown Laszlo any mercy that mattered.
There was a lesson for everyone. Alasdair hoped Kate would bear it in mind, given that she wanted Murlainn’s brat alive. When she had what she wanted from the boy, he really must remind her that you didn’t leave little cauldrons of revenge simmering away over the years. They always boiled over eventually and burned your house down.
Which brought him back to his present dilemma.
There were two ramblers on the other side of the deer fence, hastening away from him, trying not to look panicky. Clearly his sudden appearance wasn’t all that had spooked them. From a standing start he took a run at the deer fence and leaped, scrambling over and dropping lightly down. He overtook the ramblers easily, bringing them to a wary halt as he stood in their path and smiled.
‘A boy and a girl,’ he said without preamble. ‘On a horse.’
‘What?’ Puzzlement, as if they could barely remember what they were hurrying away from.
‘Focus,’ he said brusquely. ‘Focus and you’ll remember. A. Boy. And. A. Girl.’
A light of memory dawned in the woman’s eyes, and with it suspicion. ‘Now, wait just a minute.’
Middle-aged, handsome, grey hair tinted to pale and unconvincing blonde. She was probably a mother and a grandmother, probably felt an instinctive protectiveness even towards two children she didn’t know, and a moment ago had barely remembered. Alasdair knew he did not look reassuringly normal. Full-mortals judged so much by surface detail. She wasn’t likely to believe he had the little dears’ best interests at heart, not with his shabby leather coat (not that she’d recognise bloodstains) and his tangled black beard, and the two braids of unwashed hair at his temples. Not to mention the sword on his back, the bloody-hilted sword that even these two might notice.
He’d been over-occupied lately. There was vanity in him, but he was a busy man.
The woman wore tough walking boots and a backpack, well-used and expensive like her windproof jacket. An experienced walker, then. She’d be fit. Not fit enough, but fit. She’d give him sport if she felt she had to run. Alasdair beamed at her, toying with the idea, and saw a tremor run through her.
‘Now look here.’ The man was probably her husband. Examining him, Alasdair sighed. He didn’t look much of a challenge, and after all he’d already made one widower today.
‘We’re on a role-playing holiday,’ Alasdair said softly. ‘The activity centre down the glen.’
‘Oh, I see.’ The man looked relieved, though the woman still looked uncertain.
‘That nephew of mine. Any chance to run off with the girls!’ Nephew, he decided, had more of a ring of truth than son. He couldn’t have kept a straight face for that.
‘Well, they rode off that way. Along the deer fence. I expect they went into the wood. We didn’t see them go, they just disappeared.’
Just disappeared. He didn’t realise what he was saying, thought Alasdair dryly. Still, the man was convinced of his innocent intentions. He wanted to be convinced. His wife still looked unsure, but the husband would talk her round, and the brats would slip out of her memory. If they featured on some reconstruction her memory might be jogged, she might turn to her husband, mouth open, and say We saw them on the moor and we saw that man…
But there wasn’t going to be a reconstruction. There wouldn’t even be bodies, not on this side of the Veil. There wouldn’t be so much as a paragraph in the local paper, so they’d have nothing to feel guilty about.
‘I see. Thank you!’ Alasdair gave them a broad smile. The woman shuddered as they turned away, gave him a nervous glance. He felt a pang of regret. A hunt would have been fun…
But he was a busy man with a job to do.
He glanced at the deer fence. So they’d gone back through, had they? The boy was as cunning as his father. No way would Alasdair find the second tear in the Veil before nightfall. Even if he went after the ramblers, asked them in his own direct efficient way exactly where the brats had vanished, they wouldn’t remember. They’d panic under pressure, if they’d even taken enough notice to begin with. Full-mortals saw only the surface. They were unobservant, and so forgetful.
Chewing his thumb, he stared thoughtfully at the moorland. Kate had planned well. Murlainn’s lover and his best soldier were dead; his lieutenant Sionnach was incapacitated by grief, if he knew anything about those twins. The boy would know that his chances of reaching the dun were minuscule, and that anyway Kate was bent on the dun’s destruction. He’d bank on his father coming after him. The tricksy little bastard might have hidden temporarily back on his own side, but he’d come back sooner rather than later to the full-mortal world, to what he naïvely thought was safety. All Alasdair had to do was wait for him.
The boy would head for a familiar place, preferably with crowds. Some playground of old where he’d feel safe, where he wouldn’t know he’d ever been watched.
Well, Alasdair had playgrounds too. He’d always had his favourites. He turned to the east and began to run, in a steady economical lope like a wolf.
HANNAH
The black horse’s hooves sounded horribly loud on the cobbles as Rory led it into the darkness. The old stables were closed, roped off for yet more renovations, but there was still a good chance we’d be seen. We’d be a lot less conspicuous without the kelpie, but Rory was reluctant to take off its bridle. Finn’s horse was the only escape we’d have in a crisis.
‘With luck we’ll have screwed up Kate’s plan.’ Leading the black into the furthest stall, he crouched against the wall, and I slumped down beside him, eyeing the beast’s legs with trepidation. ‘She’ll have waited for a time warp before she risked acting. She knew how the time was balanced when we came through, but then we went back, and came through a second time. So that’s maybe ruined it for her. I hope, anyway.’ He shrugged. ‘Cause they should have caught up with us ages ago.’
I shivered, and hugged myself. ‘Won’t she have thought of us doing that?’
‘You didn’t see her face when we disappeared. She chose her spot and she’d no idea I could break the Veil there. She underestimated me.’ Rory sounded a little too pleased with himself.
I gave him a thoughtful look. ‘She won’t do that again.’
‘No.’ He chewed the knuckle of his thumb. ‘Listen, Hannah, you should go home. They’re not after you. With me you’re in danger. On your own you won’t interest them.’ He looked at me kindly. ‘Just leave me. I won’t mind, honest.’
‘Of course I won’t leave you! This is my fault.’
He didn’t instantly contradict me to make me feel better or anything. I waited a few seconds, then blew out a breath. Inside I was wincing.
‘Why did you tell me, Hannah? Why’d you tell me about Eili and my father, if you were in league with Eili?’
‘I didn’t trust her,’ I muttered. ‘I didn’t trust her or
Taghan any more than I trusted Finn. I was hedging my bets. I wanted you to know. I thought you should know. Just in case.’
He licked his lips, flicked his gaze away. ‘Did she really want Kate to get hold of me?’
‘No. No! God knows how those men knew we’d be there, but they did. Eili was as shocked as we were. And Taghan – Taghan was–’
‘Dead. Like Finn. I guess they’re quits.’
‘I didn’t want Finn to die.’ I shut my eyes. ‘I thought I maybe did but I didn’t. Shit.’
‘Well.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s the way we live. You weren’t to know. Besides, this would have happened somehow, somewhen. Kate’s clever.’
I twisted my fingers tightly together. ‘Listen, about Eili? There’s a reason I – there’s something else. I’m…’
‘Uncle Conal’s daughter, yeah.’
Stupefied, I stared. ‘How’d you know?’ I narrowed my eyes. ‘Did you look?’
‘Didn’t have to; I worked it out. Besides, your blocking is fantastic now. You learn fast.’
I ignored the compliment. Eili had taught me for a reason, after all. ‘How’d you work it out?’
‘Dad was upset about something, wasn’t he? And it explains Eili. In a lot of ways.’ Rory’s face grew sour. ‘I’m sorry Finn’s dead, but I’m not sorry about Eili.’
I decided I’d better say nothing to that. ‘We’re cousins, you know.’
‘Uh-huh. Funny, isn’t it?’
‘Bloody hilarious,’ I said dismally. ‘I think that counts as consanguinity.’
‘Consangwhat?’
‘Never mind. Though I do. Hang on, sh!’ I froze, then crawled forward on my hands and knees to the door of the stall and peered round. ‘Uh-oh.’
I reversed quickly into the stall, baring warning teeth at Rory. Shrinking against the partition we both looked up at the massive horse. There really was no hiding that thing. The black stilled, tail flicking, ears pricked forward. I did not like the look in its eye.
The footfalls drew closer, hesitant, and fast shallow breathing echoed in the stable. We didn’t have to read the intruder’s fear: we could hear it.
Rory dropped his block; I heard him, fiercely insistent. ~ You don’t want to be here. We don’t want you here. So go away. Turn round.
The steps halted. Rory shut his eyes tight, cajoling the man, who obediently glanced back towards the square of bright sunlight at the door.
~ You don’t want to be in the dark. Go to the daylight, go on. It’s dark in here.
It was working. I blew out a silent breath. The intruder was hesitating, turning on his heel.
~ Go back to the light.
And then the black horse moved its hoof.
Rory seized its fetlock, uselessly. The sneaky brute.
The man had gone absolutely still; he was holding his breath. Slowly, reluctantly, he turned once more. He walked trembling towards our hiding place.
I’d never seen anyone physically jump with fright, but the little tour guide did. In an instant his fear turned to rage, but when the horse lightly shook its neck, he took an involuntary step backwards. The horse nickered softly, top lip curling back from grinning teeth.
The guide stared at it. His hand was shaking uncontrollably but he was reaching out to the horse’s muzzle, fingers splayed and straining to touch it. Trance-like he took a step forward, and the black arched its neck and reached for his hand.
‘No. Eachuisge, don’t.’ Rory stood up, easing between tour guide and horse. The black’s teeth shut with a disappointed snap, an inch from the little man’s hand, and it blew through flared red nostrils. As its hot breath touched his skin, the man snatched back his hand, eyes wide.
‘I do not believe it,’ he hissed, recovering. ‘You again! Why do I never remember to report you?’
‘Hello,’ said Rory. Awkwardly he kicked at the cobbles, glancing up at the guide from beneath long dark lashes. Strands of blonde hair fell endearingly forward into his huge grey eyes, and I chomped hard on my cheeks to stop myself laughing.
The guide looked more confused than convinced. ‘I can’t believe you’ve got the brass neck. I’m calling your parents. Tell me their name and address right now, or I’ll call the police. This time I really will.’
‘My mum’s dead,’ whispered Rory, his voice catching. ‘My dad’s dead too.’
I was awestruck, but uneasy. He was good, but it shocked me that he could even say that.
‘Well, I’m – look, I’m sorry. I’m very sorry for your loss, but you can’t loiter around this castle. This is private property and the stables are under renovation.’ Glowering, he tugged at his collar. ‘I cannot allow you to play in these stables, horse or no horse. They are a dangerous place to be.’
‘That’s an understatement,’ said a new voice.
Rory froze. His block was back up in an instant; I felt it slam down and I followed suit. Meeting his eyes, I edged up the wall to a standing position. Rory nodded at me, his hand slipping into the mane of the horse.
The guide turned, exasperated. ‘Now, look here, there are clearly marked barriers. These stables are out of bounds and the general public are not permitted–’
‘I’m not the general public,’ said the newcomer, smiling. ‘I’m the owner.’
‘Mr Stewart?’ The guide squinted into the dimness, neck reddening. He gaped at the long scruffy leather coat, at the untidy black beard and woven braids. Glancing over the burly shoulder, he frowned. It was too dark for the sword hilt to be clearly visible, but something was worrying him. ‘I don’t…’
‘That’s me. Alasdair Farquhar-Stewart.’ The bearded man gave him a thin-lipped smile, and his employee returned it uncertainly. ‘You’ve met me before, remember? Oh, come to think of it: probably not.’
‘I...’
Alasdair Farquhar-Stewart rolled his eyes wryly at me and Rory. ‘Bloody Veil. Doesn’t it drive you mad?’ He turned back to the guide. ‘These… children… are trespassing on my property. There is no need to involve the police, understand? I will deal with this myself.’
The guide glanced back at us in the shadows. For the first time a flicker of self-doubt crossed his angry features. ‘Look, that’s all very well, but…’
‘I don’t think you heard me. I said I’ll deal with it.’
‘Mr Stewart – Mr Farquhar-Stewart, I know it’s your property, but there are procedures. I’m sure…’
‘Yes. It’s my property. It’s mine twice over.’ Pushing his hair out of his face, the man stepped into a better light and smiled at the guide. ‘Do you see what I mean?’
‘I…’ The little man stopped, swallowing. At least, he tried to swallow. There was a dry clicking sound in his throat where he couldn’t quite manage. As he stared up at the grinning bearded face, I knew a shock of horrible recognition.
My mouth dried. I knew what the tour guide was feeling: the disbelief, the realisation, the crawling horror. Oh, I knew exactly what was in his head. It was in mine too.
The eyes of our minds were seeing the same thing, after all. The guide was seeing that portrait in the library, my own favourite and most special attraction: the Wolf of Kilrevin. And he was thinking how awfully like Alasdair Farquhar-Stewart it looked.
‘I… well, my goodness, I didn’t know you were a direct descendant. Because I mean, I quite see it now, and I must say the family resemblance is startling…’
The Wolf’s hand went to the hilt on his back. ‘I’m not a descendant.’
‘You’re not.’ The tour guide licked his lips. ‘No. You’re not. Oh, my God.’ His beady eyes widened as the bright blade slid out of its scabbard.
‘Please stand aside, now. There won’t be a problem.’
‘But…’
The Wolf rolled his eyes. ‘Please be assured. There will not be a problem. These brats do not exist, do you understand? They don’t exist, any more than I do. There will be no ramifications, and no-one will blame you for anything, and you will forget this ever happened. R
eally. It’ll be like a bad dream.’ The casual voice took on a new edge as the guide went on staring at him in disbelief. ‘Now kindly get your scrawny arse out of the way.’
Terror flowed cold in my veins. The guide was going to stand back and let this psycho get on with it. It wasn’t as if he even liked us. And I’d gone right off the Wolf of Kilrevin.
‘Listen.’ The guide glanced back at me. His eyes were dilated, and there was a sheen of sweat on his skin. ‘Mr Farquhar… Mr, uh, Wolf… I don’t know what you’re thinking of, but…’
‘You do know.’ The Wolf’s voice had gone entirely cold. ‘So stand aside.’
I felt Rory’s fingers close on my wrist, and I realised he was already on the horse’s back, leaning low over its neck as he reached for me. Frantically I scrambled, my feet kicking the horse’s foreleg as I tried to climb up, and Rory grunted with the effort of dragging me. My foot flailed its black flank.
The tour guide’s voice was high-pitched, a vein throbbing in his temple. ‘They’re children. They’re just children. You can’t–’
I wasn’t properly astride the black as it sprang forward, so all I could do was cling to its side like a desperate spider. One of Rory’s hands locked tight around my wrist as he bent low on the horse’s neck, gripping its mane.
The Wolf of Kilrevin gave a shriek of anger and frustration, and his blade sighed as it cut the air. I didn’t hear another word from the tour guide: only a small surprised gasp, abruptly cut off.
From the wrong side of the horse I saw almost nothing. I saw Rory turn his face and lock horror-struck eyes with me. I saw dim light catch a swinging blade. I saw a fountaining fan of blood. And that was all. I did not see the guide hit the ground, but I heard two separate thumps and knew with a lurch of nausea that he’d hit it in two halves.
Then the blade was swinging again, missing only because the black horse shouldered the Wolf aside and he stumbled against the wooden partition. By the time he’d righted himself the black was flying through the stable entrance and across the tarmac of the car park, its hoofbeats deafening. Screaming tourists flung themselves out of our path.
Wolfsbane: 3 (Rebel Angels) Page 26