The Anxiety of Kalix the Werewolf

by Martin Millar

  “I will attend to it,” said her chief adviser.

  “And send in Distikka.”

  Chief Adviser Bakmer bowed, gathered his dark-red court robe about his tall figure and walked swiftly from the throne room. Moments later, Distikka appeared. The liveried guard saluted as she entered. Empress Kabachetka eyed her critically as she approached.

  “Do you really have to wear that ancient piece of chain mail at my court?” demanded Empress Kabachetka. “It is quite unbecoming.”

  “I like it,” said Distikka. “I grew up wearing it.”

  “And it shows. One does not expect you to be fashionable, Distikka, but there is no need to wander around like a refugee from the Western Desert.”

  “I am a refugee from the Western Desert.”

  Distikka was below average height, and her dark hair was cut very short by the standards of the women at court.

  “I am considering executing my hairdressers,” said the Empress.

  “That’s foolish,” said Distikka.

  “How dare you call me foolish!” cried Kabachetka, flaring up immediately. “Show some respect for the Empress!”

  Distikka shrugged, something which no one else at court would have dared to do.

  “It is foolish,” she repeated. “No one deserves to be executed over some trifling hairdressing error. And the citizens wouldn’t like it. Do you want them to regard you as a tyrant?”

  “No, but—”

  “So just discharge your stylists and find some new ones. Then you won’t have a problem. Is that the only reason you called me here?”

  Empress Kabachetka tapped her fingers on the armrest of her ruby throne, which twinkled from the reflection of the burning torches on the walls.

  “Distikka, you really must show me more respect. Had I not given you refuge after the failure of your coup against Malveria, you would now be a homeless refugee. Or dead, more probably.”

  “You asked me to come to your court. You asked me to be your adviser. So I’m giving you advice. But I’m not going around bowing and scraping like your other advisers and ministers do. And I’m not giving you only the advice you want to hear either.”

  The Empress glared at Distikka, then laughed. As a princess, Kabachetka had not successfully negotiated the hazards of life at court by being unable to adapt. In the few months that she’d been Empress, she’d come to appreciate Distikka’s qualities.

  “Would it really be a bad idea to execute my hairdressers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I won’t do it then,” said the Empress. “Though I’m sure they deserve it. Ash blonde is not that difficult to achieve, I’m certain.”

  The Empress leaned forward. “That, however, is not the reason I called you here. Now that the realm is more or less in order, it’s time I made progress with a few other matters. You are aware, of course, of my hatred for the Scottish werewolves on Earth, in particular Thrix MacRinnalch and her miserable sister Kalix?”

  Distikka nodded. The Scottish werewolves were one of Empress Kabachetka’s favorite topics.

  “It’s time for revenge. I’m going to destroy them with a plan of quite unparalleled cunning, a plan so intricate, devious and powerful that it will eradicate forever the dreadful werewolf sisters, and hopefully their annoying clan as well.”

  The Empress sat back in her throne and smiled happily at the prospect.

  “What is this plan?” asked Distikka.

  “I’ve no idea,” admitted the Empress. “I want you to come up with it.”

  “Ah.”

  “My best attempts to defeat these werewolves have gone wrong,” said Kabachetka frankly. “I admit I may not be the best planner. But you are good at it, Distikka. Cunning plans are your forte.”

  Distikka frowned. “My greatest plan was a failure.”

  The Empress waved this away. “You almost succeeded. It was a glorious scheme to overthrow Malveria, and you got very close. Much closer than I was expecting. Had Thrix MacRinnalch not interfered yet again, you might well have killed Malveria and taken the throne for yourself.”

  The Empress’s eyes flashed with angry golden fire at the thought of Thrix’s interference. She composed herself quickly. It was not the done thing to exhibit flames at court.

  “I have confidence in you, Distikka. I want you to think up some plan for revenge. I now control the Eternal Volcano, and my power is much greater than it was. In London, I have access to the guild of werewolf hunters. That ought to be enough to deal a deadly blow against the poorly dressed Thrix and the scrawny Kalix.” The Empress paused. “Scrawny is perhaps a little unfair. I rather admire Kalix’s slender physique. Remind me I have to step up my exercise program. I want Kalix punished. Can you do this?”

  “I’m sure I can,” said Distikka.

  “Excellent. Now leave me, Distikka. I have a nail appointment, and I have little confidence in my nail attendants. I foresee another very unsatisfactory session.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The Fire Queen was noticeably maudlin when she arrived at her friend Thrix’s apartment. Never one to hide her emotions, she sighed loudly as she settled down on the couch.

  “Are you all right?” asked Thrix.

  “I am perfectly fine, my dearest friend. I have arrived here to watch the Japanese fashion show in excellent spirits.”

  Malveria sipped from a glass of red wine and sighed loudly again. The Enchantress smiled.

  “Tell me what’s wrong, Malveria.”

  “Really, nothing is wrong. Apart from the most trifling matter. But not a matter the Queen of the Hiyasta would trouble herself over.”

  Thrix gave a little shrug and settled down to watch the program. The first model was no more than halfway down the runway when the Fire Queen uttered another sigh.

  The Enchantress raised an eyebrow. “Malveria, stop sighing like a love-struck teenager and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “Well, really, Thrix, I would not dream of mentioning it had you not dragged it out of me in such a brutal manner, but the truth is I’m feeling old.”

  “Old?” Thrix was very surprised. Though Malveria was many hundreds of years old—the Enchantress wasn’t quite sure how many—she was still far from elderly in terms of the Hiyasta, the most vigorous of whom could carry on brightly for thousands of years. Fire Elementals took a very long time to grow dim. “What brought this on?”

  “My appalling niece. Kalix has an eighteenth birthday party approaching. The foul Agrivex has plunged headlong into the affair, declaring herself to be eighteen too, which is accurate, more or less. She will now share the party.”

  The Fire Queen looked downcast. “Hearing them planning their eighteenth birthday made me feel very old. No doubt the party will involve much foolish behavior, and Agrivex will drink too much and make herself ill. But really, I cannot help feeling jealous.”

  “Jealous? Why?”

  “On my eighteenth birthday, I was hiding in a cave with a price on my head. Only good fortune and the assistance of Xakthan allowed me to escape.”

  “But you like these memories,” said Thrix. “You were facing hopeless odds and you defeated them. You became Queen.”

  “Eventually, yes,” agreed Malveria. “But it was a long, weary process and it took up my youth. I never had an eighteenth birthday party, or any sort of party. I was always running, hiding or fighting. And now, observing Agrivex, I suddenly wished that I had had some parties when I was a young girl.”

  The Fire Queen sighed again. “And now I feel old.”

  Malveria sank further into her armchair. “Look at that young model in her beautiful dress. I could not wear that. It is too young a style.”

  “You could wear it perfectly, Malveria,” said Thrix sincerely.

  “And now the model is pouting!” cried Malveria. “It is annoying!”

  “What’s wrong with pouting?”

  “Only young people can do it gracefully. Agrivex pouts furiously. Many days she does little else. But on me
it would be unbecoming.”

  Thrix was quite certain she’d seen Malveria pouting many times, quite becomingly, and didn’t understand her friend’s gloom. Though the Fire Queen was prone to excesses of emotion, it was unusual for her to exhibit depression. She lapsed into silence in front of the television. Thrix caused the wine bottle on the table next to her to levitate, filling both their glasses, and they sat mostly in silence, only occasionally commenting on the fashions on display. From the kitchen came the faint hum of the air conditioning. Though it had been an indifferent summer in London, the clouds had cleared in the past week, ushering in an unexpected wave of heat that now hung over the capital.

  “There is much talk in the elemental lands of the new young Empress of the Hainusta,” said Malveria, suddenly.

  “Ah . . .” said Thrix and nodded. “Kabachetka.”

  “Everyone is talking about her!” exclaimed the Fire Queen. “The young Empress with her blonde hair and beautiful outfits. Ha! It is the same vile Kabachetka. Just because she has ascended to the throne—no doubt after poisoning the old Empress—does not mean that people should be making a fuss over her. I cannot tell you how it irritates me!”

  The Fire Queen, Thrix realized, had been considerably younger than the previous Empress. Now the younger Kabachetka had taken power and it had obviously upset her.

  “You know the bards on the borders are singing songs about her youthful beauty? Youthful beauty! The only beauty Kabachetka has came out of a clinic in Los Angeles. Her mother was bad enough with her visits to the cosmetic surgeon, but at her age, one could find some excuse. Kabachetka has been hopping through the dimensions since she was a girl, getting this tucked and that altered. I swear she’ll fall apart one day, hopefully in a most painful manner.”

  The Fire Queen drained her glass and snapped her fingers, tilting the wine bottle over her glass. Nothing emerged.

  “Is there something the matter with this bottle?” said Malveria. “It seems to have emptied far too quickly.”

  “I’ll get another,” said Thrix, and headed for the kitchen. The Fire Queen followed her.

  “So between the new young Empress and my foolish young niece, I am now feeling old. A relic from a past age, like one of these pieces in the museum that Dominil is so keen on visiting. Please tell me that my outfits for new season are ready?”

  “They’re ready,” said Thrix.

  As well as a good friend, Malveria was also a very important client. Her money and patronage had kept Thrix’s business going when times were hard.

  “Good.” The Fire Queen was partly mollified. “Perhaps there may be one last flowering of my fashionable glory before I retire into my dotage.”

  Thrix couldn’t help herself from laughing. “‘Dotage’? When did you learn that word?”

  “It was used in a harsh piece in American Vogue concerning a designer the editor did not like. I greatly admire that editor. She is so cruel.” Malveria suddenly looked troubled. “What if she were cruel to me? I do not think I could bear it.”

  “Malveria, why would that happen? You’re always the best-dressed person in the room.”

  “If that’s the case, why have they never included me in their ‘fashionable party people’ page?”

  It was a long-standing ambition of the Fire Queen to appear as a “fashionable party person” in Vogue. Her failure to achieve this was a source of constant irritation.

  “Though I have appeared at many of the most fashionable events, and practically flung myself in front of the cameras, they have so far resisted me. It is most aggravating. Am I not fashionable?”

  “You’re very fashionable. But there’s a lot of competition. Don’t worry, we’ve got a lot of events coming up.”

  Thrix used a small piece of sorcery to bring up her social calendar, which hung in the air in front of them. The Fire Queen gazed at it approvingly. Since Thrix’s business picked up, she was being invited to more events.

  “Soon we will attend the designer of the year awards. Such a wonderful occasion.”

  The Fire Queen finished another glass of wine. “I feel my gloom lifting. I must be at my most fashionable at this event. Vogue will take my picture, and then the new young Empress will see what it really means to be an icon of style.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The funeral service at the abbey had been a splendid affair, reassuringly traditional and full of ceremonial flourishes. As the burial proceeded at the cemetery in Chelsea, there was general satisfaction among the assembled mourners, many of them fellow members of the aristocracy, that the Countess of Nottingham had received a fitting send-off. The late afternoon sun lent an unexpected warmth to the proceedings, and the mood among the mourners as they made their way from the grave was not overly somber. The Countess had been very elderly, in poor health for a long time, and her death had not come as a surprise.

  “A nice funeral,” said Mr. Carmichael on the slow walk back to the car park. “The Countess would have been pleased.”

  Both of his companions nodded. They had been impressed by the ceremony and the rank of many of the guests. Mr. Carmichael, chairman of the board of the Avenaris Guild, was a well-connected man. He had good reason to be at the Countess of Nottingham’s funeral. She’d had an association with the werewolf hunters’ guild for many years.

  Mr. Carmichael nodded politely to one of the Countess’s sons, himself a wealthy man in the city, who paused nearby as his wife dabbed her eyes with a tiny lace handkerchief.

  “Do we have the money?” asked Mr. Eggers.

  Mr. Carmichael frowned, not quite liking the tone of the question. “Show a little respect, Mr. Eggers. “We’re still at the funeral.”

  “Sorry.”

  They waited patiently outside the car park as the crowd dispersed.

  “But yes, we do have the money,” said Mr. Carmichael softly.

  The legacy from the Countess had been expected, but its size had been a surprise. The Countess of Nottingham had made donations to the Avenaris Guild for many years. She believed that her youngest son had been killed by a werewolf in Scotland, many years ago. Mr. Carmichael had never been certain that this was actually the case, but the Guild accepted the money gratefully. Now the Countess had left them a large sum, which could hardly have come at a better time. The Guild had been hit by a recent severe downturn in the markets and had seen many of its investments shrink alarmingly. There had been talk at headquarters of laying people off, and even suspending operations in some areas of the country, but now the mood had changed. Bolstered by the huge sum left them by the Countess, the Guild had plans to expand.

  As the crowd thinned, Mr. Carmichael and his companions made their way to their vehicles. As a family friend, Mr. Carmichael had been invited to the post-funeral reception at the Countess’s town house in Chelsea. Carmichael was a little impatient at the thought of this. He had a hankering to be getting on with business. It wasn’t only financially that the Guild had suffered recently. The MacRinnalch werewolves, their eternal enemies, had bested them again. The Guild had lost some good hunters. Mr. Carmichael had come under pressure. His position as head of the Guild was again being questioned. Strong action was necessary, and with the arrival of the Countess’s money, action could now be taken.

  “I’ll be back later in the evening,” Mr. Carmichael told Mr. Eggers. “Make sure you have the final list drawn up by then. I want the new hunters in as soon as possible.”

  Mr. Eggers nodded. Although he would have been rather pleased to have been asked to the reception, he was as keen as Mr. Carmichael to press on with their mission. The werewolves may have scored some successes against them in recent months, but that was soon going to change.

  CHAPTER 6

  Kalix wasn’t sure what to think about her upcoming birthday party. Left to herself, she’d have ignored the occasion. She hadn’t celebrated her birthday since leaving the castle, and those celebrations she remembered from her childhood weren’t especially happy. The idea of having a p
arty made her nervous. The flat would be full of people. She wondered if she might have to make a speech, or entertain them somehow, something she knew she was incapable of doing.

  Moonglow assured her that she wouldn’t have to make a speech, or do anything special at all, but Kalix still felt uncomfortable. She didn’t like being the focus of attention. Kalix’s chronic anxiety made her pessimistic. She had a fear of everything going wrong, and of being blamed for it. Kalix felt a brief surge of anger and briefly contemplated moving away from this house full of humans who gave her problems. She controlled the anger, with an effort, allowing it to fade, knowing that after it was gone she’d be able to look at things more rationally.

  “I suppose it’s nice of them to want to do something for me,” she muttered.

  Vex was bursting with excitement about their joint birthday. The young Fire Elemental had used her highlighting pens to mark off all the days on the calendar in the kitchen, putting huge crosses over every day that passed, and smiley faces on the days still to come, despite Moonglow’s protests that Vex’s marks covered up everything else on the calendar. Moonglow didn’t want Vex’s enthusiasm to overshadow Kalix’s part in the proceedings, but Kalix was grateful for it. It took the pressure off her. If Vex wanted to make a lot of noise and be the center of attention, Kalix didn’t mind.

  She took her journal from the locked box in her bedside cabinet. She’d bought the small container for her journal after realizing that nothing was safe from the prying eyes of Vex, who seemed not to understand the concept of privacy. All of Kalix’s deepest thoughts were contained in her journal and she refused to let anyone else read them. She carefully locked her bedroom door before opening the book and looking at her most recent entries. After a year at remedial college, her writing was still poor, but a little more legible.

  Werewolf Improvement Plan. She frowned and wondered if that was a stupid title. The young werewolf glanced at the door, as if fearing that someone might be spying on her.