Wolfsbane: 3 (Rebel Angels)

by Gillian Philip

  Rory leaned away from me, far out of the saddle like a yacht racer, grunting as he hauled my wrist. When desperation at last gave me the strength to drag myself on board and properly astride, Rory righted himself and urged the horse on.

  I didn’t think we merited so many screams of horror, until I looked down and saw that the horse’s side was drenched with the tour guide’s blood, and so was a great deal of Rory. Droplets of it sprayed the nearest people, flying off with the speed of the horse.

  I couldn’t see faces, and didn’t want to. Clutching Rory’s waist I shut my eyes tight as the black galloped across the car park. My stomach lurched as it leaped the wire fence on the boundary; then the clattering hoofbeats became soft thunder and the racket of screams died behind us.

  ALASDAIR KILREVIN

  He breathed hard, glaring down at the aggravating jobsworth who’d lost him his prey. He was too efficient, that was his curse. If only the little tosser was alive again, he could take out some of his frustration.

  Alasdair was an easygoing man. He didn’t usually lose his temper so comprehensively, but the fool just wouldn’t get out of the way. Rolling his eyes, he wiped his blade fastidiously on a corner of the little man’s jacket, then rose to his feet and looked down at him. Well, at both of him, in a sense.

  That was droll. Alasdair chortled and shook his head. It was a gift, being able to see the humour in any situation.

  But this was going to put the cat among the panicked pigeons.

  It already had. He tried to walk casually across the car park, and in fact he wasn’t drawing too many stares, since the tourists and guides were still stunned by the passage of the black horse and its bloodied riders. All the same, a few eyes turned towards him, and there was no hiding the sheathed sword now. There were gasps, and stifled squeaks, and as Alasdair passed by, the surreptitious bleep of mobile phones making follow-up calls to the police. Taking no notice he strode on, and when he reached the wire fence he leaped it easily and began to run again in his easy loping wolf-stride. It was a practised pace that let him run for hours.

  Alasdair knew this country. He knew how to be inconspicuous, so long as people weren’t forcing him to slice them in half, so long as reckless youngsters weren’t spurring kelpies across crowded car parks. He sighed. There was going to be a reconstruction now, all right, and a distressing amount of newspaper coverage.

  He needed a bath, transport, a change of clothing, but what he needed most was a safe house. And Alasdair knew exactly where to find one.

  HANNAH

  ‘I’m glad it’s summer,’ said Rory. The pool had a reddish tint to its clear brown water as he scrubbed at his blood-stiffened hair.

  I sat on the bank and stared at him. I was still too shocked even to look decorously away from the naked boy who stood up to his waist in the water. I did like the wet green place he’d chosen, a cleft in rocks where a burn fell almost perpendicular through lush green foliage, then pooled in a deep and broad hollow. Around us the trees and ferns were almost tropically dense, and a hunter would have to be standing five feet away before he saw us.

  Rory backed against the mossy black rocks to rinse his hair clean under the running burn. Above us, among the ferny rowans, the black horse grazed in a desultory way, turning now and again to stare out towards the sea.

  Rory glanced at me. ‘You ought to take a bath too,’ he said critically. ‘There’s blood all over you. Who’d’ve thought that little prig had it in him?’

  ‘That’s like Macbeth.’ I was barely able to focus. ‘Who’d have thought he had so much blood in him? Or something. Lady Macbeth. I think.’

  ‘Well, that’s not quite what I meant.’ Rory ducked his head underwater, and reappeared gasping. ‘Anyway, thank the gods for the Wee Prig. We’d be dead if he hadn’t got in the way.’

  I felt as if I was going to faint, like there was no blood in my head at all. ‘I suppose he had a name,’ I whispered. ‘He tried to protect us.’

  ‘He’d no idea,’ said Rory shortly. ‘Just as well. He’d have run a mile if he did.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘but he had a bit of an idea, didn’t he? And he was brave enough to try and stop him.’

  ‘He did stop him. So you don’t need to feel so terrible for him, do you? I don’t suppose he ever imagined he’d die a hero.’ Rory gave me a hard look. ‘You’re going to have to get a grip, y’know. Feeling bad about him isn’t going to help us.’

  I stared at him. ‘You’re different.’

  ‘Found out I want to stay alive.’ Rory shrugged, cupped water in his hands and threw it on his face. ‘Hannah. Get washed.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Some healthy sarcasm brought me back to myself a bit, so I stood up and stripped off my t-shirt. Rory turned his back politely as I undressed and put a toe in the water. Fast, I had to do this fast. Gasping, I plunged in till the water was up to my armpits.

  ‘Summer. Huh. You could call it that.’ Teeth chattering, I wrung the blood out of my t-shirt, then flung it clumsily up onto a branch. I scrubbed more blood off my skin. ‘What do we do now?’

  Rory let himself float backwards in the water, toes breaking the surface, pale hair drifting around his head. He looked like some beautiful pre-Raphaelite youth in a painting, I thought with a pang of vague longing. Those were the kind of paintings I’d stick to in future, come to think of it.

  As he floundered upright, I ducked my head underwater and shook it out. This pool was more effective than a cold shower. ‘Where to, then?’

  ‘Oh, ’scuse me.’ Blushing scarlet, Rory turned away as I clambered out of the water. ‘We need to head across country. If my father’s going to come across I’m pretty sure which watergate he’ll use, and it comes out near his old house. All we need to do is get to him before the Wolf gets to us.’

  ‘Oh. No pressure then.’

  ‘We’ll go cross-country. Try and avoid roads.’ Rory hauled on his jeans and pulled his damp t-shirt over his head. ‘Avoid people, too.’

  ‘Yeah. For their good as much as ours.’ I stepped back and slapped the black horse’s neck.

  That was probably a little over-familiar. It snapped its head round to glare at me, turning empty black eyes on mine.

  Hypnotised, I stared back. I felt a dizzying vertigo, as if I was toppling into its alien mind. The wood blurred and I felt a presence rub against my consciousness, a memory inside the horse. And I saw

  someone almost familiar, his features clear: grey eyes lit by a mercury spark, a near-smile on his lips. He crouched, glancing back over his shoulder at me, a naked sword across his knees, a white wolf alert at his side. His face was sharp and beautiful and a little like my own, his dark blond hair short and damp with sweat, sticking out in tousled spikes over his forehead. His clothes were like something from last century, the nineteen-twenties or thirties: brogues, rough brown trousers and braces, and a collarless white shirt. He crouched there as if waiting for an unseen attack, but he was smiling, looking at me with absolute trust. And I stood among the trees, silent and loyal, and waited on his word

  I gave a short scream, and stumbled back. The horse turned away and nibbled nonchalantly at Rory’s wet hair. I was no longer in its head. I was no longer the horse.

  Rory pushed its head away and stared at me, alarmed. ‘Hannah! What?’

  I rubbed my temples. Call me devious, call me over-suspicious, but I had no intention of sharing what just happened.

  ‘Nettles,’ I lied.

  The horse snorted as Rory pulled himself onto its back. I hated the way that always sounded like laughter.

  ‘All right.’ He sounded doubtful. ‘Let’s get going.’

  Gripping Rory’s wrist, I let him haul me up onto the horse behind him. ‘So what if we don’t, ah... find your dad?’ It seemed the most tactful way to put the question.

  His shoulders rose and slumped. ‘We’ll just have to keep running, then, because otherwise we’re going to get killed. Still want to come?’

  I slipped my ar
ms round his waist and squeezed. It was the only excuse I’d had all day.

  ‘Listen, I know how annoying it is,’ I said. ‘When I’m going to run out on you, I’ll let you know.’

  ALASDAIR KILREVIN

  Tornashee, he thought with a sigh. He gazed up at the stone ravens on its flanking gateposts, at the sun-warmed walls and the weather-burnished slates. It was in perfect condition. Reultan and her daughter – that black-haired good-looking whore of Murlainn’s – they must have looked after it well since Leonora’s death, because its lack of deterioration was an amazing thing.

  He always could appreciate talent; he stood for a long time admiring it. So this was where Leonora had hidden herself and her family. It was the finest house in the neighbourhood, but no-one would ever search it. Alasdair could sense the thickness of the Veil around it, a shimmering invisible presence that made his blood itch.

  What would happen if the Veil survived to protect the house, he wondered idly? Murlainn would never return to live here now, and all the others were dead. Here it might sit till the end of time, a beautifully preserved mausoleum. Or in fifty years’ time, when it finally became clear the owners were not just away on holiday, some property developer with a touch of Sithe blood might notice it and convert it into flats. Alasdair chuckled. It’d be hard to interest buyers, that was all.

  Anyway, the Veil wasn’t going to survive. In a few weeks this would be just another house, unprotected, deteriorating, available. He breathed in happiness. They were so close now, him and Kate: so close to winning. Perhaps he’d live here himself: a fitting prize for breaking the stalemate of the years and inspiring her malice anew. He loved that woman: funny, quick-witted and ruthless. They made a good team, he knew. Teamwork was everything.

  He was yet to share her bed, of course, but that only fed his admiration for her manipulative brain. The fact that she’d shared it with the runt Murlainn already: she knew that was a goad to his ambitions.

  And as he always liked to remind himself: he was a patient man.

  The outbuildings were of no interest, except for the one that served as a garage. Pushing open the doors, peering into the dimness, his eyes lit first on the powerful black motorbike. He chuckled. Murlainn’s mid-life crisis: it could be fun.

  Perhaps not, though. He wasn’t used to bikes and he didn’t fancy his great schemes coming to a pile of twisted metal on a bad bend on a B road. His eyes flicked to the other vehicles. The battered Jeep had to be Cù Chaorach’s: practical, but he might need something a little speedier. Cù Chaorach’s Audi Quattro was more the thing: the four wheel drive might come in handy and besides, he liked its look. He reached up to the row of keys and found the Audi’s. The car sprang to life and growled at him, and some adolescent Glaswegian wailed from the CD speakers.

  There was more to this than that old Veil, he thought dryly as he snapped the ignition quickly off. He could almost smell witchcraft on the air, sharp and acrid like electricity before a storm. Leonora had done something more to protect this house. If her son or stepson ever had to come back unexpectedly, she clearly didn’t want them to waste time charging batteries.

  Contented, Alasdair left the garage, and as he climbed the steps to the main house, victory thrilled in his bones. He could almost imagine applauding crowds. When you’d kept as low a profile as he had, for as long as he had, it felt sweet to know that it had taken him mere weeks – days – to rid himself of all that might threaten him. Except Murlainn, of course, but he could be easily dealt with now that he’d been stripped of everyone he loved. In the meantime, Alasdair would help himself to the house and its contents. The rebel fools owed him as much.

  He touched the oak door, turned the brass handle. The door swung inwards without so much as a creak. Not even lockfast! Well, really, by eternal tradition that made it fair game. Carelessness and complacency: that was how rebels got swords in them, got their children taken away, died unnamed and unnoticed. That was how they died with their homes in ruins and – he devoutly hoped – their dun burning around them, its inhabitants’ screams the last thing echoing in their ears. Because they were cocky. It was as if they’d never heard of security. Thick and ancient telepathic spells might prevent full-mortal interference, but they wouldn’t keep out the Wolf of Kilrevin.

  In the rooms there was a thin layer of dust, no more. No cobwebs, not so much as a mouse dropping. Alasdair spent a happy interlude just wandering, rifling through wardrobes, emptying drawers, examining the furnishings. They’d lived pretty well, that old witch and her family. He combed through Leonora’s workshop, examining the unsold and half-finished pieces, choosing the best to keep for souvenirs and quick funds.

  He was such a people person. It was extraordinary what individuals gave away about themselves, just through the things they chose to own. The reflection in the bathroom mirror gave him an approving smile, encouraging him to swing open the narrow cabinet. He sighed happily. Razors, soap, toothbrushes, the lot.

  Then he heard it. He caught his breath and went absolutely still.

  A door opening, closing. Footsteps, controlled but confident. Incautious. Alasdair barely wanted to believe his luck. Very quietly he backed out of the bathroom, that bearded reflection still beaming down on him.

  There was only one person it could be. Oh, it was too good to be untrue. The gods loved Alasdair Kilrevin.

  His fingers stroked the hilt of his bloody sword as he glanced around the landing, then crept across the bare wood floor to the closest room. Perfect. Closing his fingers round the hilt he drew his sword.

  He had to wait what felt like an age, but he did pride himself on his forbearance. Why, he played almost as long a game as Kate. Blocking was easy; the intruder had a block up himself, but clearly he did not expect company. Would the man never learn? Alasdair could have laughed.

  The intruder stepped through the door. Alasdair counted to two, then three, eyeing the back of his neck. It was just as well he was an expert on heads and necks, after a long life spent severing one from the other. Why didn’t the fool get a haircut?

  Alasdair let him walk right into the room, then lifted his sword and brought the pommel down hard. Murlainn didn’t even have time to yell before he crumpled lifeless to the floor.

  RORY

  The timing wasn’t going to get any more perfect. The moon was no more than a scribble of pale light behind scraps of cloud. The darkness was going to be all too brief at this time of year, but Hannah was out of it, snoring lightly on a bed of fir branches and moss under our hastily-erected lean-to. She was tucked snugly in the angle where the cut boughs were closest to the ground, leaving the opening free and easy for me.

  I went barefoot like I’d been taught, my trainers slung round my neck by their laces, my toes finding and avoiding anything that might crackle or snap. A few splinters wouldn’t kill me.

  Other things might.

  I didn’t especially want to be alone, but she was an encumbrance, mostly on my conscience. I didn’t want another corpse weighing that down. Besides, even a kelpie was going to move faster and quieter with only one person on its back.

  More quietly, an exasperated inner voice corrected me. I wished the voice was real and not just a memory. I wondered if he was dead. I wondered if for some reason he was prevented from crossing the Veil, if he was a captive.

  I wondered why else I wouldn’t hear or See him.

  I couldn’t waste any more time wondering, so I ducked down once more to reassure myself that Hannah was asleep. That was all. Not to look at her or say a silent goodbye. She knew where the stream was, and surely she’d have the sense to follow it after she’d drunk from it. I’d left her just half a cooked rabbit; she hadn’t thought much of it anyway. If she was clever and tough enough – and I was pretty sure she was both – she’d find the nearest village before long, and something edible to shoplift. She’d make her way home.

  The horse was an indistinct black mass under the trees, the reins loose on its neck; I was still rel
uctant to take the bridle off. I laid my hand on its wither, wound my fingers into its mane, then led it away from the camp. Its hooves were quiet, its eyes soft and cooperative, and the stars were visible through the treetops. I let the creature guide me. Except for my cracking heart, and the fear that was suddenly more oppressive, it all went so very smoothly.

  I’d been right about the darkness, though. Already, as we came to open moor and I hauled myself onto the horse’s back, there was a smear of pale grey across the eastern horizon. The world was still all shades of grey, but its features were distinctly outlined. I paused, thinking about direction, as the horse swished its tail and flared its nostrils.

  East was not where it should have been.

  I frowned, then twitched the left rein. The horse tossed its head and obeyed, and we followed the edge of the wood as the world around us paled. It was my father’s favourite time. He loved the hour when the world was nothing but monochrome, because the day hadn’t had time to give it any colour. And the wind off the sea, cold and grey as its mother sky. The beginning of morning, and the smell of it, with the breeze singing in off the distant sea, and there isn’t a third dimension.

  I shivered and rubbed my eyes, because it wasn’t him, it was only the memory of his mind again. I wondered if that was going to have to do from now on.

  Stop it. Stop thinking that...

  ‘SonofaBITCH!’

  A tree-shadow had raced out into our path. I yelled again in fright and yanked the reins, clumsy in my shock, but the horse didn’t back off or rear, and it didn’t lunge for the shadow. It fought me, head high, hooves square on the earth, a snarl rumbling in its throat.