But someone would find out, she thought. And then they’d make a big fuss about it. Why is everyone always bothering me and interfering in my business?
Kalix noticed a loose leaf at the end of her journal. She opened it. It was a poorly executed sketch of her father.
“I forgot that was there.”
Finding the drawing didn’t improve Kalix’s mood. She didn’t like to be reminded of her father. She’d made the drawing a long time ago, at the suggestion of one of her therapists, who’d suggested that drawing her fears might make them easier to deal with. Kalix stared at the drawing.
“What a stupid suggestion. It didn’t help at all. And I’m a hopeless artist.”
She crumpled up the drawing and dropped it in the bin. Now she felt worse. She wished she hadn’t been reminded of her father.
“He’s dead. Good. I wish it didn’t still bother me.”
Kalix felt her anxiety begin to grow. She heard Vex coming up the stairs, recognizing the heavy tread of her boots on the threadbare carpet. Vex yelled out for Daniel.
“Daniel? Are you there? It’s an emergency.”
Kalix heard Daniel’s door open.
“What’s the emergency?”
“I’ve been badly let down by Nagasaki Night Fight Boom Boom Girl.”
“What?”
“I hated it. It just wasn’t a good anime,” said Vex. “Nothing like as good as Tokyo Top Pop Boom Boom Girl.”
“What’s wrong with it?” shouted Daniel from the top of the stairs.
“A stupid plot and really annoying characters!” cried Vex. “Nagasaki Night Fight Boom Boom Girl isn’t too bad, but she has this young sidekick who is just terrible!”
“Ah,” said Daniel. “Bad sidekick. That’s a common problem. It happens all the time.”
“Does it?”
“Producers have a good show and they get greedy and put out a spin-off, and usually it’s not nearly as good as the original.”
Kalix wished that Daniel and Vex would go somewhere else to shout about cartoons. At least they weren’t attempting to involve her.
“I’m going to tell Kalix about it,” announced Vex. Vex knocked on the door. Knowing that not answering the door rarely discouraged Vex, Kalix nimbly slipped into her cupboard and shut the door.
CHAPTER 42
The ancient lift descended very slowly as Mr. Carmichael accompanied Mr. Eggers to the training area in the basement of the Guild’s headquarters.
“I do wish Mr. Emerson would stop sending me memos criticizing our management structure.”
Mr. Eggers managed a faint smile. “I suppose that’s why we employ new blood. Keep us on our toes.”
“I know,” agreed Mr. Carmichael. “But really, is his obsession with modernizing everything really helping? ‘Chairman’ is old-fashioned, according to Mr. Emerson. I should be ‘MD.’ Or even ‘CEO.’” Mr. Carmichael shuddered. He had a great aversion to the term “CEO.” “I don’t think changing our job titles is going to make us better werewolf hunters.”
“I don’t suppose it will,” said Mr. Eggers. “But he might be right about our board of directors. Some of them do belong in the last century. Or the one before.”
There was a divide in the board of directors, which could be roughly described as traditionalists against modernizers. Mr. Carmichael was firmly on the side of the traditionalists. Had he had his way, most of the Guild’s new executives would never have been appointed. His hand had been forced by events. Mr. Carmichael had come under pressure because of the setbacks they’d suffered. They’d lost a great many hunters, including their best operative, Captain Easterly, who’d been killed in Scotland. Also dead was Albermarle, who’d been their best computer specialist. He was sorely missed, although, as Mr. Carmichael grudgingly acknowledged, the new information technology team recruited by Mr. Emerson did seem very competent. Security had improved.
The lift doors opened and they stepped out into the dark corridor that led to the training area.
“I admit Emerson’s hired some good people,” said Mr. Carmichael. “That doesn’t mean he can go around changing people’s job titles. And I still don’t like the way he tightened up on our expenses. When I became chairman there was no need to record every penny you spent at lunch.”
They halted outside a solid metal door, incongruous in the old wood-paneled hallway. Mr. Carmichael inserted his electronic pass and it slid open. They entered the small, glass-fronted room that looked out onto the training area. He greeted his eldest son, who oversaw the Guild’s training department.
“Hello, John. How are they doing?”
“Very well,” said John Carmichael. “No one has ever gone through the advanced course as quickly as Group Sixteen.” John was tall and much stockier than his father.
Group Sixteen was made up of four of their new hunters. They all had military experience, and they’d completed their basic werewolf-hunting training in record time. On their first mission they’d killed Minerva MacRinnalch. It was an auspicious start.
Mr. Carmichael turned to Mr. Eggers. “I’m still in charge of hiring field operatives. Which is the main thing, of course. You need experience for that, no matter what Mr. Emerson and his modern business practices might think.”
“Send them through again, John. I want to see how they perform. We have another target for Group Sixteen and I’d like to get them back into action as soon as possible.”
CHAPTER 43
“Empress,” said Distikka, approaching the throne, “I have a plan.”
Empress Kabachetka regarded her adviser coldly. “Distikka. Have I not instructed you to approach my throne in a more deferential manner?”
Distikka drew herself up and eyed the Empress in return. “If Your Majesty prefers, I can come back later with my plan for you to eclipse Queen Malveria in the field of fashion.”
“Stop this endless prevarication,” said the Empress, “and get to the point.”
The Empress had been in a bad mood all day. She’d taken delivery of a beautiful pair of high heels from Milan, but so far she had failed to master them. They were simply too high to walk in. The Empress had counted on her new heels giving her an advantage over Malveria when they encountered each other, as they would in only a few days at the designers’ reception in London.
“You’re going to a reception in London this week?”
“I am aware of that,” said the young Empress. “The event is already causing me some stress.”
“Queen Malveria will be there, I understand. And journalists from that magazine you value so highly . . .” Distikka paused, as if searching her memory.
“It is called Vogue, as you are perfectly well aware,” snapped Kabachetka. “What of it?”
“I have discovered a way in which you might impress these journalists.”
The Empress leaned forward. She was interested enough to forget her customary irritation at Distikka’s chain mail. Distikka produced a sheet of paper, the cheapness of which caused the Empress to wrinkle her nose.
“What is that?”
“A newspaper from London.”
Distikka opened the paper and pointed to a block of text. The Empress was displeased.
“I do not read that language.”
“It’s a story about St. Amelia’s Ball,” said Distikka. “Are you familiar with this? No? St. Amelia’s Ball is an annual event, targeted toward debutantes.”
“Debutantes? Like the wealthy young women who are presented at my court at the Spring Volcano Festival?”
“Much the same,” replied Distikka.
The Empress looked suspiciously at her adviser. “As I understood matters, the aristocracy in England has fallen from power.”
“They have, Empress. But they remain influential in sections of society. St. Amelia’s Ball is an important event in their social season.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Their sponsor’s just gone bankrupt,” said Distikka, pointing at the p
age. “Allied West Securities. It was wiped out in the recession.”
The Empress was bewildered by this.
“Allied West was a financial institution,” explained Distikka patiently. “They provided money for the ball as a means of garnering publicity and goodwill among the families of the debutantes, who are rich and worth cultivating for their business.”
Empress Kabachetka frowned. “For a plan, Distikka, this seems to require a great deal of explanation. Please proceed more briskly to the heart of the matter.”
“The heart of the matter is that St. Amelia’s Ball now urgently needs a new sponsor, but it’s not so easy to find a new sponsor in the space of a few weeks. All of the financial institutions in London are still struggling. I suggest you step in.”
Kabachetka was doing her best to follow Distikka’s words, knowing her adviser was quite likely to have something clever in mind. “I have heard this word ‘sponsor’ before,” she said. “Connected to the Mistress of the Werewolves, I believe.”
“Exactly,” said Distikka. “She sponsors events in the arts. She gives them money and gets prestige and influence in return.”
“But what influence will I gain from sponsoring this ball? I have no desire to impress these debutantes.”
Distikka read from the report in the paper. “St. Amelia’s Ball traditionally begins in the afternoon with a charity fashion show, featuring appearances from the debutantes as models. This year’s show will be presided over by Emily St. Claire, newly promoted editor of British Vogue.”
The Empress’s eyes opened wide. Her languor vanished. “I can sponsor an event at which Emily St. Claire will be adjudicating? The editor of Vogue?”
“Quite possibly. I suggest that at the reception next week, you seek her out and offer to sponsor the ball. She will no doubt be both grateful and impressed. She’ll put you in touch with whomever you need to speak to.”
The Empress was beginning to like Distikka’s plan, and congratulated herself for hanging on through the difficult explanation. “If I am the sponsor, will I be important?”
“Very important,” said Distikka. “Though the fashion show isn’t a major date in the calendar, it is a well-known charity event, and generally features several well-regarded young British designers.” Distikka paused, and looked thoughtful. “Perhaps you could even choose your favorite designer and sponsor them too.”
“Yes!” cried the Empress. “Then I could be dressed by the designer who was most successful in the show!”
The Empress levitated several inches in the air. It was a breach of court protocol, and the guards at the door were rather shocked, but the Empress was too carried away to notice.
“Distikka, this is the most marvelous idea! But what if some cunning wretch steps in before me?”
“There is little danger of that,” said the Empress’s adviser. “The financial markets are still struggling. Even those people who have money don’t want to be seen to be flaunting it.”
“More fool them!” cried the Empress. “I have money, and I will flaunt it. Distikka, I simply cannot wait till the fashion designers’ reception. It can be hard, you know, to approach the editor of Vogue. She is always surrounded by dreadful toadying creatures. But armed with your sponsorship idea, I will march straight up to her and announce my intention.”
The torches on the walls of the throne room burned brighter, energized by the Empress’s enthusiasm. They dimmed slightly as she noticed a possible flaw in Distikka’s plan.
“As I understand it, a ball and fashion show in London would not normally be sponsored by beings from another dimension. Might it not cause some comment?”
Distikka smiled. “I have already taken care of the matter, Empress. While last on Earth I took the opportunity of setting up a business in your name. You will adopt the persona of Señorita Kabachetka, heir to a vast gold-mining fortune in South America.”
“A gold-mining fortune?” The Empress nodded. “I like that. Is Señorita Kabachetka a famous beauty?”
“Eh . . .”
“You must spread it around that I am a famous beauty. And have broken many hearts. Now I come to London to sponsor debutantes, break more hearts and be photographed in a series of exquisite clothes.” The Empress glowed with excitement. “You say the ball goes on all night? Think of the fabulous outfits I will need! And only three weeks to prepare! I must get busy, Distikka, there is much work to do. And I am still having terrible difficulties with my new heels! Have you a plan for that?”
“I would suggest wearing more practical shoes.”
“Do not be ridiculous. Even as we speak, the dreadful Queen Malveria is no doubt tottering around in her own extra-high heels, attempting to make her spindly ankles accommodate them. I will not be defeated in this matter. The pride of the Hainusta nation depends on it.”
CHAPTER 44
Kalix waited till she heard Vex and Daniel go upstairs, still shouting about anime, before slipping out from the safety of her cupboard. She took her coat, picked up the old canvas satchel she used as a bag and quietly left the flat without being noticed. Kalix’s anxiety was growing and she hoped that some activity might prevent it from turning into a full-blown panic attack. Her palms felt moist as she hurried along the narrow streets of Kennington, and her chest felt tight.
Why does this always happen?
In her short life the young werewolf had been through therapy, psychiatry and medication. Some of it had been helpful, in a general sort of way, but none of it had enabled her to overcome the panic that a bad attack of anxiety could bring on.
Kalix found herself near the railway arches. She’d once fought some hunters here. She wished that would happen again. It would calm her down. Kalix felt her heart beating rapidly. She halted on a corner.
“Look at the panic rationally,” she muttered. “It will start to fade.”
The panic didn’t fade. It felt worse. Kalix cursed all therapists with their useless advice. She felt nauseous, and the muscles around her neck and jaw were clamped so tightly her face hurt. She dragged her sunglasses out of her bag and put them on, not wanting to catch anyone’s eye. Then she scrabbled around in her bag and took out an old-fashioned brown bottle. Her bottle of laudanum was almost empty. Kalix turned it upside down. A tiny drop appeared on the rim. She licked it.
I need more, she thought.
She’d have to make the long journey over to Merchant MacDoig’s shop in East London. At least it would give her something to do. She set off north toward the river. When she reached the Thames she walked northeast along the Albert Embankment, mostly on the paved walkway but occasionally vaulting a fence into one of the small parks that had been landscaped into the area around the South Bank Center. Ahead of her she could see the London Eye, the huge Ferris wheel for tourists that revolved slowly, day and night. It was now close to midnight, and though the concrete walkways around the South Bank Center had emptied of theatergoers, there were still a few people around. Kalix ignored them.
Heading east, Kalix came to an area between the Olivier Theatre and the river. She was paying little attention to her surroundings and was surprised when she suddenly found herself confronted by three youths, all male, blocking her path. Kalix stopped. In the background, she noticed two young women.
“What you doing?” demanded one of the young men.
Kalix frowned. She wished she’d been paying attention to where she was going. If she had, she’d have skirted the group and gone along the other side of the theater. It had happened to her occasionally in the past that she’d found herself in trouble with groups of young men, who sometimes seemed unable to resist focusing on such a small skinny girl out on her own.
Kalix took a step to the side and walked on. One youth, only sixteen or so, grabbed her long coat as she passed. Kalix noticed the two young women striding closer. Her mind cleared, as it always did when trouble arose.
“Don’t pick on me,” said Kalix. “Or you’ll regret it.”
That p
roduced a howl of laughter from all five members of the group. The largest, a tall youth wearing a baseball cap under a hooded sweatshirt, moved swiftly to stand directly in front of her. He leaned toward Kalix so that the brim of his baseball cap pressed against her forehead.
Had Kalix felt threatened, she could have transformed into her werewolf shape and savaged her tormentors, but she knew she wouldn’t need to do that. She was far stronger and fiercer than all of them, even as a human. She felt the first stirrings of her battle madness, but made an effort to keep it at bay. If a full-scale fight developed, she was liable to kill her attackers.
“Really, you should leave me alone,” she said.
Unexpectedly, one of the girls leaned forward and slapped Kalix’s face. Kalix was very shocked. It seemed like a strange and unnecessary act of violence. Kalix found it difficult to comprehend how this group of youths could simply pick on a random stranger. She stared at the girl.
“You think it’s OK to just slap me?”
The girl raised her hand again. Kalix was unable to keep herself in check any longer. She punched the girl full in the face, smashing her nose and producing an explosion of blood that splattered over all of them. The tall youth barely had time to cry in surprise before Kalix kicked him in the groin and he collapsed, writhing in pain. Kalix leaped toward the next member of the gang and used her forehead to butt him in the face. There was a sickening noise of crunching bone as the bridge of his nose collapsed inward.
Faced with Kalix’s unexpected strength and brutality, the two remaining youths lost their nerve and fled. Unfortunately for them, Kalix was no longer completely in control of her actions. She pursued them, catching the girl first. Kalix flung her to the ground and stamped hard on her ribs, breaking them. Her last attacker was a fast runner, but not as fast as Kalix. Kalix descended on him, grabbing his collar and hauling him back. As he turned to face her, she savagely kicked his legs from under him. She kicked him again as he fell and felt her boots snapping a bone in his chest. He cried out in pain and sprawled on the ground. Kalix raised her boot to stamp on his neck. He screamed in fear. Abruptly, and unusually in the circumstances, Kalix’s senses began to return. She had the dim idea that perhaps she shouldn’t kill him. She hesitated for a few seconds, her boot poised over her defenseless foe’s neck. With some effort, she diverted her boot and stamped on his shoulder instead, breaking his collarbone. She nodded and looked around in satisfaction. All five of her attackers were lying on the ground, moaning in pain. Kalix had dealt them heavy injuries.
The Anxiety of Kalix the Werewolf Page 17