The Wolfstone Curse

by Justin Richards

  “We’ll say his mind deteriorated to the point where he finally had to go into a home,” she explained as they carried the bodies into the woods. “It’s not like he’s got friends who”ll want to visit. With wounds like that we can’t just pretend he died in his sleep.”

  Carys and Faye carried Mr Seymour between them. Peter had the slight body of the man with the ragged ear over his shoulders in a fireman’s lift. He tried not to think about it. Carrying a dead body. Stare straight ahead, he told himself. Try not to see the dead man’s bloodied arm swinging with every step. The body became heavier as he walked. A dead weight, in every sense.

  “I know a doctor, not a local, who… understands,” Faye said. “He’ll give us a death certificate in a few weeks.”

  “So we tell everyone he went into a home, and he died there,” Carys said bitterly.

  “What else can we do?”

  Faye already knew a good place deep in the woods. Peter offered to stay with the bodies while Carys and Faye went to get spades to dig the graves. He didn’t really want to, but at least he knew it would give the other two some time alone together.

  As soon as they had gone, he wondered what he’d say if anyone found him, sitting on a fallen tree next to two dead bodies. One with a gaping chest wound, the other with his throat ripped out. The rain was still falling heavily, but its effect was mitigated by the cover of the trees. At least it would have washed away the blood from the terrace by the house.

  Everywhere he looked, Peter saw people watching him. Leaves that looked like a face; an arrangement of branches in the shape of a wolf; a shimmering of light through the moving trees that had to be an approaching police car… It took him a while to realise that he really was being watched.

  She was standing behind one of the trees at the edge of the little clearing where Peter sat. Her face was so stained and muddy that it blended in with the undergrowth. Her long, fair hair was dark with the rain, hanging in matted clumps. One bare arm reached round the trunk of the tree, like she was holding on for comfort.

  Peter stared in surprise, and the girl pulled back.

  “It’s all right, Annabelle,” he called. “It’s me – Peter. You remember? I tried to help you. Did you get away? Are you okay?”

  He moved slowly towards her. One careful step at a time. She watched him warily, but she didn’t pull away again. Her bare shoulders were dripping wet. Rain ran down her face. The grubby nails on the fingers that clutched the bark of the tree were ragged and broken.

  “Peter?” Her voice was trembling as much as her body.

  “You must be cold,” he realised. “What happened to your clothes? Here – have my coat”

  He took it off slowly, trying not to startle her. He was sure she was trembling as much with fear as with the cold and the wet. He held the coat out at arm’s length to her. It was sodden, but it would help her keep warm. Once Carys was back they could take Annabelle to the pub, get her some more clothes, warm her in front of the fire…

  She reached out hesitantly, her eyes never leaving Peter’s.

  He smiled reassuringly. “It’s okay. Everything will be okay. I don’t know what’s happened to you, but I promised I’d help you and I will. I’ll find out what’s going on. All right?”

  She bit her lip, and nodded quickly. She leaned forward, stretching out her hand. He thought she was going to hug him – maybe kiss him again.

  He turned abruptly away at the sound of the car. He could see it approaching through the trees. The coat was snatched from his hand, and he turned back to tell Annabelle that she was safe now, that they’d look after her.

  But she had gone. Peter caught a glimpse of her, struggling into his coat as she loped away into the depths of the wood.

  They didn’t get back to the pub until it was almost dark. A retired couple who lived close to the church were covering the bar. They whispered sympathetically to Faye, assuring her they were coping fine.

  “They often help out when it’s busy,” Carys told Peter. “When we came back for the car, Mum explained about Grandad being taken ill and having to go into a home.”

  They sat in the restaurant. The few people who were eating tonight were happy in the bar, and Carys muttered that the chef was taking it easy.

  Faye Seymour sat with them, holding tight to a glass of brandy and sipping it only occasionally. Peter and Carys had coffee. They were all soaked through from the rain. Peter was shivering with both the cold and the shock.

  “I’m sorry,” Peter said at last, when the silence became unbearable. It seemed an embarrassingly weak and pathetic thing to say, but he meant it.

  “Don’t be.” Mrs Seymour drained her brandy in a gulp. “Really, he’d had a long life. Maybe too long. It might have been better if he’d died years ago.”

  “You can’t mean that.”

  Carys put her hand over Peter’s, warning him not to pursue it.

  “Was he very old?” Peter asked instead.

  “He worked with Lionel du Bois in the war. That was when…” Faye stood up. “I need another drink.”

  It wasn’t really a question, but Carys shook her head, and Peter also declined. The hot mug of coffee was slowly thawing him out from the inside.

  He waited until her mother had gone, then said to Carys, “We need to go to Russia. More than ever, we need to know what Einzel Industries is up to.”

  He tried to sound determined and sure of himself. But having seen Annabelle in the woods he wasn’t at all sure what to do. He was desperate to help her. But how?

  The answers must lie in Vrolask, with Einzel Industries. Everything pointed there – the logo etched onto the dart, the air tickets at the manor, the Einzel Industries headed paper that mentioned the Wolfstone meeting. The fact that there was another elliptical set of stones at Vrolask, identical to the Wolfstone Circle…

  He tried to explain what he was thinking. But he still didn’t mention seeing Annabelle. Somehow, he felt he ought to keep that just between the two of them. He’d felt a bond, if only for a moment. He wasn’t sure Carys would appreciate that, or understand how desperately he wanted to keep his promise to help the girl.

  “We can’t just drop everything and go to Russia,” Carys told him.

  “We have to do something.”

  “Why?”

  He almost laughed at that. But at the same time she had a point. “Well, because…” he blustered. “Because your grandfather is dead, for one thing.”

  “So is the man who killed him.”

  “But he wasn’t the only one involved in… in whatever’s going on. It isn’t over. They’ll come back. They have some meeting set up for next week – that man said so. Don’t you want to know what they’re planning, who they are even? Forrest is involved, but apart from that we don’t know anything.”

  He paused, but Carys said nothing. “Okay, maybe I’m overreacting,” he went on. “But I’ve been shot at with werewolf venom, I’ve been attacked by wolfmen, seen people die…” He shrugged, running out of steam and emotion. “I promised to help Annabelle, and then I couldn’t – I let her down. I just want to do the right thing, you know? To find out what’s going on. I think it’s something bad – really bad. And if it is…”

  “Then we should stop it?”

  “Well, yes.”

  Carys nodded. “I agree.”

  “What with?”

  “All of it. Except for the going to Russia bit. I just don’t see how it will help, okay?”

  “Okay,” he agreed reluctantly.

  “So,” she said, “convince me.”

  “We need to know more about this place, Vrolask. About the stone circle there, and Einzel Industries.”

  “Right, but first we need to change out of these wet clothes before we catch our deaths,” Carys said. “Then meet me back here with your laptop, okay?”

  Carys seemed to take an age. While he was waiting for her, Peter found a website for Einzel Industries, but it didn’t tell him much. It was in Russia
n. He eventually came across an English language version, but that seemed only to be a short summary.

  “You all right?” Peter asked when she did eventually appear.

  Carys looked shaken and worried. Then again, Peter thought, he probably did as well. And with less of a reason.

  “Sorry,” she told him. “Mum had some stuff she wanted me to look at. So what have you found?”

  “Einzel Industries is a large pharmaceutical company created out of a state-owned set of laboratories in the early 1990s,” Peter summarised.

  “With subsidiaries dealing in engineering, electronics, medical equipment…” Carys read off the website Peter was showing her. “Based in Vrolask, which we knew, and run by some guy called Einzel, which isn’t really surprising.” She motioned for Peter to scroll down.

  At the bottom of the page were options to return to the original home page, and several links to other sites. Most of them were Russian government sites, or regulatory bodies. But one link said: “Vrolask Palace – Official Site”.

  “That’s their address,” Peter said. “Vrolask Palace. I thought they were just being posy, but maybe it’s a real palace.” He clicked on the link.

  “Wow,” Carys said. “Looks pretty real to me.”

  It was certainly impressive from the photograph.

  Unlike Einzel Industries, this site seemed keen to cater for international interest. It had been translated into several different languages – including English, French and German. Peter clicked through to the main English page.

  Now the headquarters and main laboratory of Einzel Industries, the Imperial Palace at Vrolask is steeped in history and tradition. It was leased to Einzel Industries in 1999, and the company has restored and preserved much of the original architecture, while modernising selected areas. The stables and various outbuildings have also been redeveloped as laboratories and clean rooms, thus leaving the historic palace itself virtually untouched.

  Originally built as a winter retreat for Peter the Great, the Imperial Palace at Vrolask was extensively renovated by Tsar Nicholas I. Unlike so many of the imperial palaces it survived the 1917 revolution almost intact.

  The reason why the palace was not damaged, or even looted, may lie in the legends that surround it. Being so close to a circle of standing stones – unusual in Europe, though common enough in Britain – the palace has a mystical heritage. The locals fear the building and estates as much as they seem to shun the Vrolask Circle.

  ‘Circle’ is actually a misnomer, as the complete arrangement of stones must have been an ellipse – a shape unique to these standing stones, save for one other obscure example in the English Cotswolds. The ellipse is, however, incomplete, as many of the stones have long since disappeared. Indeed, those closest to the palace are absent even from the third century engraving that now hangs in the Irminski Gallery.

  The renovated palace itself is a fine example of the excesses of nineteenth-century Russian imperial style and extravagance. It is ironic, therefore, that the most extravagant of these excesses was actually an original feature dating back to at least the seventeenth century: The Crystal Room.

  “Crystal Room?” Carys said out loud as she read to the end.

  “Whatever that is,” Peter said. But there was something in the way she had said it that made him look up. “Is it important?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know. But just now, with Mum…” She shook her head. “No, probably nothing,” she decided.

  “Well, the palace looks impressive enough,” Peter admitted. “Further Information,” he read, looking down the links at the side of the page. “Let’s see if that’s more helpful.”

  For more detailed historical information about the Vrolask Palace, contact the Russian Heritage Agency. Or why not include Vrolask on your Eastern European tour? As part of their leasing agreement with the Russian State, Einzel Industries opens the palace to the public on a limited number of days every month. Tours are available in various languages. You are advised to book your tour through an authorised agent, as transport to and from Vrolask is limited.

  There were links to several travel companies. There was also a map.

  “It really is in the middle of nowhere,” Carys said.

  Peter zoomed in on the map. “You can just see the circle, look. And there’s a railway line. It heads to St Petersburg one way, and towards Poland the other.”

  “You planning a holiday?” Faye asked.

  Peter had not heard her coming up behind them.

  “Er, maybe,” he hazarded.

  She peered over his shoulder. “Vrolask. You still think there’s something to be learned there?”

  “I do, actually. I don’t know what, but it must be important.” He went back over the arguments he’d used with Carys, who nodded and occasionally backed him up.

  “And the stone circle there is supposed to be exactly the same as the Wolfstone Circle,” he finally finished.

  “Maybe,” Faye conceded. “But even if it is, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

  “What about the poison dart?” Carys said. “The headed paper that letter about the meeting was on? The plane tickets?”

  Her mother pressed her hands down on the air, quietening them. “Okay, okay. There may be some connection. But we don’t know what. It could just be to do with them sponsoring the Lupine Sanctuary. Maybe they have a meeting coming up about that. Forrest would be invited along. And he’d probably visit them at their posh palace to discuss it all.”

  “But why is a pharmaceutical company paying to reintroduce wolves to Britain?” Peter argued.

  “Lots of companies sponsor all sorts of things that are nothing to do with their main business.”

  “But isn’t it at least worth finding out?” Carys said.

  “I want to know what’s going on,” Faye countered. “Of course I do. But I’ve already lost…” She sighed. “I’m not letting either of you get into danger.”

  “I think we’re already in danger,” Peter said. “Anyway, we’re old enough to decide for ourselves.”

  “You are not!” Carys’s mother snapped. “While you’re under my roof, you’re in my care. And without your father’s permission there is no way I’m letting you go on some jaunt half-way across Europe – any more than I’m letting Carys go.”

  “She’s right,” Carys said, with a sigh of resignation. “Let’s face it, the whole thing’s a crazy idea.”

  Peter didn’t know what to say. He kind of agreed with her. But all the same, it felt like the last hope of discovering the truth had been ripped away from him. He was annoyed and disappointed. Annoyed that he was so helpless and that the only plan he could come up with was, as Carys said, crazy. Disappointed that she didn’t at least put up a token argument on his behalf.

  He felt abandoned and alone. He closed his laptop.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Crazy.”

  * * *

  Rough shaking and an urgent voice in his ear woke Peter. He felt like he’d only just fallen asleep – it couldn’t be morning already. Someone turned the light on.

  “What time is it?” he asked blearily.

  “Nearly one,” Carys hissed. “We need to get going. Hurry up and get dressed. I won’t look.”

  “Going? Where?”

  “I brought a small rucksack. Just pack the essentials. We only want to take carry-on. Have you got your passport with you?”

  He sat up in bed, convinced he must still be dreaming. But Carys looked solid enough. She was wearing jeans and a heavy coat, as if she was on her way out.

  “My passport? It’s at home. You don’t need a passport for the Cotswolds!”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll pick it up on the way. I need to phone the number through. There’s a place I found that can get us a visa in twenty-four hours, though it costs a bit.”

  She pulled the covers back from the bed impatiently, gesturing for Peter to get up.

  “Come on, we haven’t got all night. I told Mum I�
��d need a lie-in after everything that happened yesterday, but even so she’ll miss us by lunchtime. And she’ll miss the car before that.”

  Carys turned away as Peter struggled into his clothes. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Where are we going?”

  She turned back, caught him pulling up his trousers, and looked away again quickly.

  “Are you always this slow? We’re going to Russia, of course. To Vrolask.”

  Carys let Peter sleep in the car, but his head was spinning as he tried to work out what was going on. Eventually he decided it was easier to pretend he was still in bed, dreaming, and he drifted off into a light sleep.

  There was no sign of Dad at home. No sign he’d even been there, except that the post had been picked up and put on the kitchen table, unopened. Dawn was breaking as Peter climbed back into the car and flourished his passport at Carys. She took it from him, opening it with one hand as she dialled a number into her mobile with the other.

  “Who’s this?” she asked when she got to his photo.

  “Good question,” Peter said. He wanted to tell her that it was an old photo. And taken on a bad day. Which was why he looked like a startled adolescent rabbit. But her call connected and she waved him to silence.

  “I’ve booked a flight to Berlin where we can pick up the visas,” Carys explained, once they were on the move again. “From there we go direct to St Petersburg. After that it’s a bit more tricky.”

  “Right. Tricky.” It sounded tricky already to Peter.

  “But I checked the days the Vrolask Palace is open to the public and the next one is the day after tomorrow, so there’s a special train. If we make the connections we should catch it. I got us seats through the travel company the website linked to. So we’re booked on the tour.”

  “Great. What tour?”

  “Of the Vrolask Palace. Remember the website sent you off to a travel company to book a tour? So I booked a tour.”

  “Simples,” Peter said in a mock Russian accent.