Barking

by Tom Holt

  Her spring was perfect, a miracle of fluid grace. Her pace, as she collected it, was unbearably beautiful. He felt the hook, not in his lip but his heart. He had no choice at all.

  If I survive this, I’m going to be in so much trouble. He wasn’t running; he was reaching out to her with his front legs, each stride a desperate appeal, like a drowning man grabbing for a rope just out of reach. He could feel each bound like a kick in the ribs as his feet thudded on the hard road, sending a jarring shock up his tendons. She seemed to float, her hooves’ contact with the ground so brief that it was nearly impossible to see. She ran the way a hummingbird flies, and with no perceptible sign of effort.

  After three hundred yards she left the road and set off across some open ground, a common or something of the kind: grass underfoot, no trees, a kind of silver desert. He’d studied maps, he should have been able to figure out where this patch of open land was, the direction they were headed in, the tactical considerations - likely obstacles (roads, canals, built-up areas) that could be a hindrance or a possible source of advantage. Or maybe he didn’t know the area at all; maybe what he’d thought was his own knowledge was just a data feed from the pack, without which he might as well be in the Sahara. Scents were no help either, because her smell drowned them all. No; cleverness wasn’t going to help him, it’d all be decided by sheer speed of foot, and he knew just by watching her that she was holding back, running just fast enough to keep a healthy distance and still force him to follow. He thought about Luke’s assertion that she was the reason why Britain’s a wolf-free zone. At the time he’d assumed it was a sort of sideways joke.

  She ran, and as he followed, he wondered: when I die, assuming it’s before dawn, will I stay a wolf after I’m dead, or will I turn back into a human? Intriguing point; pity I won’t be there to find out, because I might be able to take another fifteen seconds of this, but no more than that. Should’ve listened to Luke. Shouldn’t have been such a complete fool. He watched her immaculate stride. Why do fools fall in love?

  The pain in his chest was past ignoring now. Every lungful of air came wrapped in coarse sandpaper, and tore at his throat as he dragged it in. His legs were numb, which was a blessing, and his back crackled with pain each time he heaved it. But the scent was burning inside him like petrol vapour, powering the piston that drove him, and stopping was as impossible as taking another stride. She was still there, exactly the same distance ahead of him, hardly exerting herself. Any minute now, he promised himself, she’ll put on a little burst of speed and leave me behind (leave me for dead, even) and that’ll break the chain. But she didn’t. It was, he reflected bitterly, something like chasing lorries - pointless, because you never catch them. Well.

  She picked up her pace; just a little, just enough to force him to find strength he didn’t have, to keep up. The pressure of his blood against his eardrums was unbearable, and he could taste it in his mouth, sweet as chocolate and rich in nutritious iron and other valuable trace minerals. No more natural wolves in Britain, and pretty soon one less unnatural one. Natural; selection was natural, it filtered out the idiots and the losers, leaving only those sensible enough to chase lorries instead of unicorns as the breeding stock. Which was eminently fair, he could understand that. It was just unfortunate that he’d turned out to be one of the rejects—

  Something hit him very hard, and he went to sleep.

  She was kissing him. No, not quite. He opened his eyes, and saw a golden spike.

  The scent. He growled, but the point of the spike tickled his throat. His muzzle was wet. The unicorn had been licking it.

  ‘You ran into a tree,’ she said, in a voice that left no doubt about how hard she was having to work to keep herself from laughing. ‘In the dark, easily done. Are you all right?’

  Her voice was - well, familiar, yes. Duncan knew it from somewhere. The awkward part was, he was sure it was his own. Except—

  ‘Dizziness? Nausea? Blurred vision?’

  Except he wasn’t a girl, and it was a girl’s voice. Maybe he’d heard it in his dreams; in which case, it was a real bummer that he could never remember them when he woke up.

  ‘Who—?’ he mumbled. It came out, he was pretty sure, as human speech.

  ‘We meet at last, Duncan Hughes.’ Her sweet, comical face - practically Disney - twitched into what a hopeless anthropomorphiser would have declared was a smile, though of course, horses don’t, not even horses with golden horns sticking out of their heads. ‘You’re probably all right,’ she went on. ‘Werewolves don’t tend to get concussion, unless you drop large mountains on top of them. The tree’s a write-off, I’m afraid. It’s been there for over a hundred years, actually. Sweet chestnut, though I don’t suppose you’re interested.’

  He was talking to - no, being talked to by - a unicorn. And under ordinary circumstances, he’d have been fairly relaxed about that, because you get to chat with all sorts of interesting imaginary people when you’ve had a nasty bang on the head, if you’re human, and then they go away and the headache starts and sooner or later you get well again and go back to work. But he wasn’t human and she wasn’t imaginary. He could feel her breath; he could taste it, as rich and smooth as the proper hot chocolate you get in France or Belgium. He could feel the point of the horn, as she carelessly let it rest for a split second against his jugular vein. Just enough to tickle.

  ‘Are you going to kill me?’ he asked.

  She snickered. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Private joke. No, of course not, don’t be silly. Not unless you try and bite me, but you’re not going to do that.’ She backed off a step and lifted her head. ‘I trust you,’she said. ‘After all, if you can’t trust a lawyer—’

  The urge swelled inside him, snatching control of his nerves and muscles away from him, but he fought it. Not just a wolf, after all, a werewolf, which means half-human. You don’t eat people while they’re talking to you. Terrible bad manners.

  ‘You know me,’ he said. Partly a question, partly a statement.

  ‘’Course I do, silly,’ she said. ‘We’ve known each other for ages; and you’ve taken such good care of me, even though I’ve driven you batty ever so many times. I don’t deserve you.’ Her nostrils flared, and her fat pink tongue licked her lips. ‘I had an idea you were the one for me, way back when you first joined Craven Ettins. Don’t ask me why, I just knew. Affinity, I think the word is. I’ve been aware of you for ever so long - ever since Lycus Grove, actually. Maybe it was because you were the last one to join the gang. It made you different, somehow.’

  Just when you think you’re all bewildered out. ‘You’ve been watching me since I was at school?’ He shook his head; not the shrewdest of moves. ‘That’s creepy.’

  She nodded. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘you have no idea how truly creepy it is. If you had, you’d be on your feet and running so fast—But don’t let it worry you,’ she added pleasantly. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Perish the thought.’ She lifted her head, and her ears waggled in different directions. ‘Just a taxi,’ she said, ‘on the bypass. You think your hearing’s amazing, you should try living with mine. Where were we? Oh yes. Craven Ettins; I have a little confession to make there. It was me got you fired, actually.’

  The words were English and more or less grammatically correct, but the sense—‘You got me fired.’

  Nod. ‘’Fraid so. And I fixed it so Luke Ferris came back into your life. Have you ever wondered about his name, by the way? Ferris? Well, Ferris and Loop, come to that.’

  ‘What? No.’

  ‘Really? I’m surprised, a bright young man like you. Loop: as in the French word loup, meaning wolf. Ferris is, of course, derived from Fenris, the great sky-wolf of Norse mythology who eats the gods after the battle at the end of the world. Then there’s Lycus Grove - lycus, Greek for wolf. It’s been raining clues all your life, great big heavy ones with hobnail boots on, but it seems that somehow you’ve managed to avoid getting any of them. If you’d been doing it on purpose, I’d ha
ve said it was really clever of you.’

  Great sky-wolves. Duncan most definitely wasn’t in the mood for great sky-wolves. ‘You got me fired from my job?’

  ‘Only because I knew you were so unhappy there, and your next job would be so much better. Which is true, isn’t it? I mean, there’s no comparison. Not just the money; the people, the hours, the office furniture, not being treated like shit all the time, everything. Yes, I had a word with that cow Jenny Sidmouth. Told her that unless she got rid of you pronto, I’d take all my business elsewhere. Actually, she didn’t need a whole lot of persuading; said she only kept you on out of force of habit, which was a bit mean of her if you ask me. I mean, you weren’t exactly dynamite, but you were competent.’ She lifted her head again, and her front offside hoof lifted and pawed the air. ‘Helicopter,’ she said. ‘I can feel the slipstream from the blades a fraction of a second before I hear the noise, which is odd, don’t you think? Anyway, talking of names—’

  ‘You got me fired,’ Duncan persevered. He knew perfectly well that the point wasn’t in dispute, but he wanted to make it. He wanted—

  She nodded. ‘An apology, of course. Right, I’m sorry. Bit of a cheek, and no, I wouldn’t have liked it myself if I’d been in your shoes. But you’ve got to admit, it’s all been for the best. Not to mention the fact that I got you that job in the first place.’ Pause. ‘Well, when I say me—But that’s another story, and of course, your poor head, you don’t want me jangling your brains with all this difficult stuff at once. I’m being inconsiderate, and I hate that.’ She breathed out through her nose. ‘The others are looking for you,’ she said. ‘They chased a sixteen-wheel Scania practically into Hampton Wick before they noticed you weren’t there. Your friend Luke’s going to be a bit stressed out, but don’t worry. His bark’s worse than his bite. I’ve been dying for a chance of working that in,’ she added. ‘I have a rather sad sense of humour. No, don’t worry about Luke. He feels threatened, that’s all. He’s been the alpha so long, ever since dear Wesley joined us, he can’t bear the thought of being forced into second place. Especially by you. Of course, you never knew Wesley, he was before your time.’

  It had taken a split second to seep through. ‘By me?’

  ‘Well, naturally,’ she said. ‘Just think, senior partner before you’re thirty-five. That’ll wipe the grin off Jenny Sidmouth’s face, won’t it? Just be patient, it’ll come. Oh, and one more thing.’ He hadn’t seen the movement, it was so fast; but the point of her horn was tucked under his chin, to the extent that he realised that breathing wouldn’t be good for him just then. ‘Stay away from that ex-wife of yours, will you? She’s no good for you. Not a very nice person. She’ll tell you they made her join, or they tricked her into it, and then they made her dump you because of what she’d become. Don’t believe a word of it. She’ll only break your heart again.’ The horn-point withdrew, and Duncan gulped air. ‘After all,’ she went on, ‘there’s plenty more fish in the sea. And even if she really did still care about you, there’d be no future in it. They aren’t like your kind. I mean, without getting too gross about it, there’s certain things that your lot and her lot simply can’t do—And think what it’d be like living with one,’ she went on. ‘At night, you get into bed, she hangs upside down from the pelmet. You fancy steak and kidney pie, she won’t touch anything except raw liver and black pudding. Holidays would be a complete disaster, what with her -’ she snickered ‘- unfortunate skin condition. All that cream they’ve got to wear, it’d be like hugging a bacon sandwich, all oily. No, really, you’re better off. One day you’ll meet a nice little bitch, someone who likes running and chasing things, and you’ll be grateful I warned you in time. Not that it’s any of my business, of course, but—’ She tossed her mane; it fluttered for a moment like falling snow. ‘It’s entirely up to you, of course, what you do. But if you’re sensible, you’ll take my advice. After all, I’m on your side. You’d do well to remember that.’

  Up till then he’d been struggling, he’d have been the first to admit. But this time she’d said something that was demonstrably untrue. It made him feel better, in a way. ‘No, you’re not,’ he said.

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘You’re not on my side.’ It sounded odd when he heard himself say it, but it was so obvious. ‘That’s not possible,’ he said. ‘I mean, I’m the hunter and you’re the prey. That’s—’ He searched for the word. ‘That’s nature,’ he said, though it wasn’t quite what he’d been looking for. ‘Red in tooth and claw,’ he added. ‘Our lot chase your lot, your lot run away. I mean, I’m all for greater understanding and world peace and stuff, but I’d have thought that pretty much ruled out friendship.’

  Her deep, dark eyes sparkled. ‘I didn’t say we’re friends,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to be friends to be on the same side. Look at the EU. And while I think of it, Luke was quite right about why there’re no natural wolves in Britain. No great loss,’ she added casually. ‘They were a nuisance. Worried sheep. But I meant what I said. When you come right down to it, there’re only two sides that matter, us and them. You’re us. They’re them. Focus on that and you’ll be all right.’ She yawned, in that uniquely horsy way, lips drawn back from her teeth. ‘It’s getting late,’ she said. ‘So late it’ll be early any moment now, and you’ll want to be back under cover before sunrise, believe me. It’s been such a treat, talking like this. See you around, Duncan Hughes.’

  She turned away and broke into a smart trot. With a snarl he tried to jump up and follow, but the movement made him horribly dizzy and he flopped down in a heap. Mist had come down, quite suddenly, as though someone had turned a tap on; she was turning into a fuzzy white glow on the edge of his vision. ‘Who are you?’ he shouted after her.

  Extra-special hearing. He could just make out the words ‘Three guesses’ before she faded completely away.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘My Uncle Charlie,’ the sad-looking man said, pushing a fat blue folder across the desk. ‘Well, actually my great-uncle, that’s my grandad’s brother. Ninety-six, he had a good innings. It’s all in there.’

  Duncan nodded and opened the folder. You never knew, when you started off the administration of a new estate; not till you actually got your paws on the documents - title deeds, share certificates, building society books, policy documents. Even now, there was just a hint of the small child on Christmas morning when he opened one of these folders. If he’d been nice, there’d be reams of blue-chip holdings and a street of houses in Fulham. If he’d been naughty, coal.

  Apparently he’d been nice. Great-uncle Charlie had been loaded when he went. The crisp crackle of Shell shares; the soothing thick buff of land certificates; a library of blue and red Deposit Account books; bank statements with balances that read like population statistics. Every probate lawyer has the soul of a vulture, and the sheer scale of what Great-uncle Charlie hadn’t taken with him should’ve been enough to give Duncan cramp suppressing a happy grin. Instead, he flicked through, did the mental arithmetic and launched into his customary lecture on What Happens When Rich People Die. The sad man nodded - they always nod; they’re genuinely upset, sometimes, but there’s a subtle magic in a lawyer’s voice when he’s talking about inheritance tax nil-rate bands, capital gains tax exemptions and vesting in specie that makes even the sincerest mourner start to think a bit. Duncan had come to think of it as that Death-Be-Not-Proud moment, the point at which the tears dry up and the drool begins to gather.

  He gave the lecture, but his mind was far away. He was thinking about the night before, and his mind was troubled. Understandably.

  The sky had started to pinken alarmingly at the edges when Luke and the gang had eventually found him. He’d babbled, about scenting a fox, chasing it, getting hit by a car, wandering in a dazed state. It was perfectly obvious they hadn’t believed a word he’d said; perfectly obvious, too, that they weren’t equipped to cope with a pack member telling deliberate lies. Either they’d have to ignore it and pr
etend they believed him, or else there’d have to be an enormous row, probably ending in blood; they’d hesitated for maybe a whole second, but the issue hadn’t been in doubt. What had decided it, he knew, was that it was nearly dawn and they had to get back to base before the sunlight caught them out. No time, therefore, for the truth. They’d asked him if he could run, and he’d murmured, ‘I think so,’ in a brave, wobbly voice. They’d made it back to the office with a maximum of five minutes to spare.

  They could read his mind, of course. So why—?

  ‘All things being equal,’ Duncan heard himself drone, ‘we should be able to obtain probate within two months, on an undertaking to the Revenue to make full disclosure of assets at a later date. Of course, this involves the executors in personal liability—’

  If they could read his mind, why hadn’t they seen the lie? Answer: they’d seen it and chosen to pretend they hadn’t. No, that just wasn’t possible. They must have been able to see her. She was burned into his mind’s eye like a cattle brand, and all the let’s-not-fall-out-over-this goodwill in the world couldn’t overlook something like that. He’d defied Luke, the pack leader, to chase after the white unicorn that couldn’t be caught. He’d survived, and she’d filled his poor brain up with an overload of bizarre shit that leaked potentially disastrous implications like Chernobyl. It occurred to him that she’d quite probably done it on purpose, to break the pack up; at best, force a civil war, and, more likely, sign his death warrant. But they’d heard his lies, his mind had presumably been wide open, and all they’d had to say for themselves was Do you feel up to running? And after that - well, it was a bit hazy. He remembered riding up to their floor in the lift, everybody stony silent; the lift doors opening, sunlight through the still-open roof hatch, the change back (he’d hardly noticed it) everybody dispersing to their own offices without a word. He’d dropped like a stone into his chair and woken up feeling like road kill with the sunlight blasting through the windows and the phone telling him that his eleven-fifteen appointment was waiting for him in reception.