Banished (12 page)

‘This lady called Olga. I don’t know her very well but she’s friends with my uncles Andrew and Jamie. She comes around on the equinox days and helps.’ My breath hitches.
‘Helped us strengthen the wards on the house. My cousin Kyle says she’s a witch, but a real one, one that can curse you or cure you at will.’

‘Witches are as powerful in Alba as any sorcerer in my father’s academy. I think that the man we saw helping the dragon, uhm, person is a sorcerer.’

‘What’s the difference between sorcerers, witches and wizards?’ I ask him. I have my own suspicions, but hearing it from someone who lives in the Otherwhere, where magic is a
part of everyday life, will be interesting. ‘Like, when that man tried to come out of the mirror, you threw a ball of fire at it. What are you?’

‘Sorcerers and witches use the energies around them, tapping into the songlines, to produce their magics. You call them leylines but the people of Chin call them dragonlines. Wizards and
witches use spells, which in turn require ingredients, to produce magic. Sorcerers have no need to learn spells, not in the way you would perhaps read a recipe. They need to know what needs doing
and then they will it to happen by using the energy from the leylines around them. Failing that, if there are no leylines to tap into, they will instead use captives and drain them of energy to
power their magic.’ He rubs his face and drinks some of the water we bought at our second stop. ‘I have a little magic only, a bit of skill, mostly for cantrips and bits of glamour. My
eldest brother is an adept and even when he was a baby there were rumours of his stunning abilities. I’m definitely a disappointment to my father. The seventh son of the seventh son and all I
can do on a good day is float a book around the library on air and then set it on fire.’

‘But that ball of fire,’ I say, ‘and the mirror. That was pretty impressive.’

‘Thank you, I was only trying to save the fair lady.’ He smiles and pretends to puff out his chest a bit and I laugh.

‘Have you got any idea where your parents would have gone?’ I ask him. ‘We will need to figure out how to get you back to them.’

‘They could have gone anywhere in the world,’ he replies. ‘Either in the Otherwhere or your world. The person I was relying on knowing where they’d be wasn’t at the
Manor.’ When he sees my look, he explains. ‘Your Uncle Andrew.’

‘No, he’s hardly in the UK any more. He works in New York most of the time.’

‘Petur didn’t know that or he would have had me travel there instead.’

Annoyance plucks at me as I stare out of the windscreen, watching the rain falling and the wipers work double time to keep up with the load. ‘I’m sorry that the right people
weren’t ready to save your arse,’ I say, keeping my voice low. ‘That you got me instead, the new Blackhart. The clueless one.’

‘That is not what I meant,’ Thorn says, the regret clear in his voice. ‘Had I gone to New York, it’s most likely your home would still be standing.’

I consider this in silence for a few seconds and decide he has a point. But I’m still not too happy with what he said or implied.

A frosty silence falls for a while and he fiddles with the radio again, finding yet more talk radio. By the time I’ve unwound enough to look at him again, he’s fallen asleep in his
seat.

We stop twice more on our way to London. Traffic is a mess everywhere and it takes us eight hours before we pull up outside Olga’s shop, Emm’s of Mayfair.

My eyes are burning and I’m more tired than I’ve been in a long time. Thorn looks wiped out and we both move like much older versions of ourselves when we unfold ourselves from
Lolita.

The rain is still pelting down with no sign of stopping and it’s cold. Not just a summer evening kind of coolness to the air, but proper cold, like autumn, heading straight for the claws
of winter. I shudder and hitch my bag and sword higher and head up the stairs to the front of the shop. The lights are off and the ‘Closed’ sign in the window would have turned away a
casual passer-by. I use the gnarled dragon’s head knocker with some reluctance and let it drop against the door. The sound echoes through the building and gives the impression of a much
larger space behind the door than indicated by the frontage of the shop.

Thorn seems to cope better with the cold than me, but he looks bedraggled and miserable when he comes to stand next to me on the step. He’s reloaded the pistol and it’s stuck through
a loop in his jeans. His sword gleams dully in the darkness and he has the bow and arrows slung casually over his shoulder. We look like refugees from a historical re-enactment society, only far
more battered and tired.

‘Is she here, do we think?’ he asks, looking up at the sign. The sign itself gives nothing away. It is maybe a bit old-timey and reads only, ‘Emm’s of Mayfair –
Purveyor of unique items to the establishment’ – which in fact means very little – but if you know Emm’s, you’ll know it means exactly what it says on the sign. I know
Olga lives upstairs, above the main shop, so I just nod and huddle under the light and turn slightly away from Thorn to peer upwards again, expecting to see movement or lights coming on upstairs,
but instead I hear footsteps nearing the door. A light from one of the table lamps comes on in the shop and I turn sideways to look through the window. A strained pale face looks back at me, and I
recognize Olga. Her usually smiling face holds reluctance and a wariness I’ve not seen before.

‘Kit? Who do you have with you?’ Her voice sounds muffled and suspicious through the thick door.

I shoot an embarrassed look at Thorn before answering. ‘It’s Prince Thorn. King Aelfric’s youngest son. We need help, Olga.’

I expect the door to swing open immediately but there is a hesitation that worries me. My knife is in my hand before I’m aware of it and I push Thorn out of the way so that I face the door
fully.

‘Olga? Are you okay?’

There’s a muffled noise from behind the door and I can hear voices talking rapidly and urgently, but it eventually opens and Olga stands there. She’s dressed in jeans and a cardigan.
Her hair’s a mess and she looks as if she’s been crying. Behind her the shop stretches into darkness and I can just make out cabinets, tables and chairs and a few random
objets
d’art
that Emm’s sells to ‘normal’, yet very rich, people.

‘Come in, quickly.’ She steps aside and I hurry in, aware of the light magical tingle that touches the nape of my neck as I pass over the threshold. Behind me Thorn passes through
the wards unharmed, showing that he means her no ill will. He’s not wearing his ring and I wonder if he has it on him or if it disappeared with the house. I let out a small puff of breath I
didn’t realize I’d been holding and try and look tough and competent and in charge.

Olga shuts the door behind us and goes about locking it. I feel the air in the shop move against the skin of my face and I whip my remaining pistol out and level it at the shadows to my right. A
young man walks into the light, unfazed by the pistol pointed at him.

As he walks closer, from a patch of shadow into the murky light, I have to blink against the illusion of a wolf’s head on his shoulders. I physically shake my head and the image clears
instantly. By my side Thorn lets out an exclamation and I realize he’s seen the boy’s head shift from that of a wolf’s too.

There is no scent of magic in the air; my own magic tells me no spell has been triggered. So I know what I just saw was real. I’ve heard about werewolves but I’ve never actually seen
one in the flesh. Until now.

Thorn’s presence is solid behind my back and I catch a glimpse of Olga behind him as I edge my body to track the boy’s movement. She’s standing very still by the door, her
expression tense.

I swing my gaze back to the young man and see that his hands are up and an amused grin twists his lips. He’s attractive in a rugged way. Shaggy dark unkempt hair, blue-green eyes with
flecks of gold. Firm jaw, cheekbones all angles and upswept black eyebrows. And tall too, at least six four but he looks no older than eighteen. His build is rangy and I have the impression that
he’s not yet stopped growing into his shoulders or hands. He reminds me of how the promise of size can be seen in the shape and size of a mastiff puppy’s paws and how it takes a while
to fulfil the promise of its breed. But there is nothing puppy-ish about the way he looks us over. His gaze is lazy and lightly challenging as he takes us in, assessing our level of threat.

As big as he is, I don’t doubt for a second that I can stop him in his tracks with a bullet between the eyes. It might not kill him, but it will give me long enough to get both Olga and
Thorn out of the shop before he changes into his more animal form. Nothing I’ve encountered in the past could dodge a bullet to the head.

‘Olga? Who is this guy?’ I shoot a quick glance at Olga as she moves up behind me. I notice her favouring her left leg and she’s not moving as gracefully as I remember. Thorn
is standing easy, watching me for cues, holding his pistol in his right hand and sword in his left. He looks like a modern-day pirate in a scruffy t-shirt and jeans.

‘He’s a friend, Kit. Put your weapons away. You too, your highness. Today has been a bad day for all of us. Let’s not make it worse.’

She brushes past me and walks down the long passage to the back of the shop and up a set of stairs that lead to her living quarters. She doesn’t pause, she doesn’t offer any other
comment and I narrow my eyes at the young man. Just because Olga trusts him doesn’t mean that I have to. I gesture with the pistol at him.

‘Go on, we’ll follow.’

He walks past me, close enough to brush against me.

‘You smell very interesting,’ he says, his voice low enough for only me to hear. ‘Like anger and thunderstorms.’

I stand my ground, not giving a millimetre, knowing that he’s doing it on purpose to try and intimidate me. Thorn takes half a step closer to me and growls softly in his throat. The noise
brings the boy’s head around sharply and his eyes flash a bright blue for a second; I feel my heart stutter and my grip tightens on my gun. My other free hand drops to the knife resting in
the sheath behind my back.

‘Don’t you even dare breathe in the wrong way,’ I tell him. ‘I will fillet you.’

He gives a snort, one so full of derision that I feel like kicking him, but he walks past us and follows Olga upstairs.

As if we’ve planned it, Thorn and I fall in side by side, with me a slight step behind, covering our backs.

Olga leads us into a brightly lit modern kitchen and it’s only when I walk in and I smell Bolognese sauce cooking that I realize how hungry I am. Wolf boy goes to the counter and starts
putting cups out for coffee and tea. The way he moves around the kitchen tells me he’s been here before. But that still doesn’t make me any less nervous. Olga’s strained face and
worried eyes make me feel deeply uncomfortable and I hover at the table, torn between staying and trusting her and the werewolf or turning around, leaving and trying to find somewhere else.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Kit. Relax. Really – just put your stuff down and stop glowering at me like a thug. You Blackharts make everything an issue.’ She picks up a
wooden spoon and jabs at the bubbling sauce. ‘Do you know Aiden Garrett?’ She nods with her chin at the young man who is yet to speak. ‘He’s Jonathan’s son.’

I look at the young man again. I’ve never met any of the Garretts but I know who they are. Why was he here when his dad and the pack were in Scotland helping my cousins sort through the
cattle mutilations?

‘I’m Kit Blackhart,’ I say to him when he turns to look at me. He surveys me frankly and I must meet with his approval because I’m treated to a smile that shows off very
sharp white teeth against his tanned skin. ‘This is Thorn. From Alba.’

‘You guys look like shit,’ he says conversationally as he gives us each a nod before gesturing to the kettle. ‘Can I get you tea?’ His question is directed at Thorn, who
doesn’t look at all out of place in the cosy kitchen. ‘We’ve got almost everything you people like to drink.’

‘Normal tea would be fine, thanks.’ There’s a tightening of Thorn’s mouth at Aiden’s term of ‘you people’ and I wonder what the undercurrent meant.

‘I’ll have coffee,’ I tell him. ‘Thanks.’

Olga sits down at the table and I do too, but I keep my bag by my feet and my knife on the table next to me. Thorn seats himself with an obvious sigh of relief.

‘You need to tell me everything that’s happened,’ she says, leaning forward. ‘I got attacked by a handful of goblins when I was coming home from the grocery shop. I saw
them off but I hurt my leg. And now I’m hearing all kinds of rumours about a coup in Alba, about dragons and other crazy things and now you guys are here looking like death.’ She pauses
and watches Aiden pass us our drinks. ‘And I have no idea what’s going on. I’ve not been able to get hold of Jamie or Andrew, either. Where is everyone?’

I feel the last bit of my hope drain away and stare at her in shock. This is not the reception I expected.

It’s several hours later. The silence is only broken by the sound of the rain outside. Below us the shop lies in darkness and beyond the shop Mayfair and London huddle
miserably beneath a wet cloak. It’s not really late by London standards but there are no cars out, no late-night office workers or partygoers. Sitting in the lit kitchen, it suddenly feels as
if we are the only people in the world.

‘What do we do now?’ I ask Olga. ‘We don’t know anything else that might help us decide on next steps.’

‘Have you got any idea where else your family could have gone, Thorn?’ Olga asks for the umpteenth time. ‘The ruling house of Alba can’t just disappear off the face of
the planet without someone knowing where they are.’