Martin Millar - Lonely Werewolf Girl

LONELY WEREWOLF GIRL
by MARTIN MILLAR

Published in Great Britain by Meadow & Black in 2007

This is a work of fiction, names, characters, places, and
incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously. 
Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

1

Kalix was lost. Tired, nervous, unable to focus, and lost. And
now it was raining. She had padded her way down street after cold
street, looking for the empty warehouse that was her temporary home but
the streets all looked the same and she was beginning to despair.

The cold rain quickly soaked through her hair which trailed,
thick, long and dank, round her bony hips. Kalix was skinny, thin like
a reed, not an ounce of fat to show for her seventeen years of
existence: a werewolf without an appetite. How her family had hated
that. Her mother used to plead with her, beg her to eat. Until last
year when Kalix attacked her father, lord of the werewolves. Now her
mother had more to worry about than her daughter's poor appetite, or
her violent temper, or her addictions, or her madness.

Kalix's hair, never cut, hung down to her hips. As the rain
flattened it around her head her ears showed through. Her ears were
never entirely normal even when, as now, she was in human form. There
was something wolf-like about them, naturally.

Kalix stopped, and sniffed. Were the hunters close? She
couldn't tell. Her senses were dulled. She hurried on. If the hunters
caught up with her now, when she was weak, they might kill her. Kalix
wondered what it would be like to be dead. Good, she thought. Better
than living in an abandoned warehouse, begging for money to feed her
addiction. But she wished she'd managed to kill her father. Then, she
thought, she might have died satisfied.

Were she to die, she would die alone. Kalix MacRinnalch had
always been alone. She'd never had a friend. She had two brothers, a
sister, and many cousins; all werewolves, but none of them friends. She
hated her brothers. She hated them almost as much as she hated her
father. As for her sister, the Werewolf Enchantress, Kalix didn't hate
her. She almost looked up to her. Had the Enchantress ever given her
encouragement, Kalix might even have liked her. But the Enchantress had
long ago distanced herself from the family and had no time for a sister
born so many years after her, a sister who was famed from a young age
as a source of trouble.

In fairness to the Enchantress, she had given Kalix the
pendant which protected her. While wearing the pendant Kalix remained
undetectable. She was free to scavenge on the streets of London,
untroubled by the members of her family who wanted to drag her home to
Scotland to face the vengeance that the attack on her father demanded.
Free from the attentions of the hunters who wanted to kill her with
silver bullets. Free from all harassment. It had been good while it
lasted but Kalix, inevitably, had sold the pendant to raise money. Now
her enemies were closing in.

Kalix pulled her ragged coat tightly round her thin frame. She
shivered. When Kalix was five years old she could run naked in the snow
and not feel the cold. Now she had lost her resistance. She longed to
be back in the warehouse. It was empty, with nothing to make it
comfortable, but it was some sort of shelter. When she reached it she
could fill herself with laudanum and sink into dreams. Not many people
remembered laudanum these days. It was almost gone from the world. For
a few werewolves, sunk in degeneracy like Kalix, it was still
obtainable. It was a further disgrace that Kalix brought on her family.

Footsteps sounded from round the corner. Kalix tensed though
she knew it was not the hunters. Just two young men walking home at
midnight. As soon as they caught sight of her they headed her way,
intent on not letting her pass. Kalix attempted to step round them but
they moved quickly to intercept her.

"Hey skinny girl," said one of the men, and they both laughed.

Kalix regarded them with loathing. It infuriated her the way
drunken human males would always try and talk to her.

"Going home on your own?"

Kalix had no time to waste. She needed to find her warehouse
before she collapsed from exhaustion. She growled. Even in human form,
Kalix's growl was a terrifying sound, a lupine howl so chilling it
seemed impossible it could come from her slender frame. The young men,
startled by its ferocity, leapt to one side and regarded her
uncomfortably as she hurried past.

"Freak," they muttered, but quietly, and went on their way.

2

After sixty years in England, mainly in the fashion industry,
Thrix, the Werewolf Enchantress, had mostly discarded her Scottish
accent. It was only really noticeable when her voice was raised in
anger. Thrix was unconcerned at the loss. It further distanced her from
her family and this was to her liking. The thought of her father the
Thane, roaming the grounds of his castle in the remote wilds of
Scotland, still made her purse her lips with distaste.

Whilst not displeased to be a werewolf, and a member of the
MacRinnalch ruling family at that, Thrix did not like to associate with
others of her kind. Others of her kind always meant problems. The
malevolence of her uncles, the plotting of her mother, the machinations
of her brothers, all these Thrix avoided. The MacRinnalch Werewolf Clan
could tear itself to pieces so long as they all left her alone.

Thrix was unique among the Scottish werewolves. She was
blonde, beautiful, the owner of a fashion house, and a powerful user of
sorcery. No other werewolf could claim as much. The dazzling blonde
hair alone had always been enough to set her apart from the rest of her
clan. She was vain about this, which she knew.

A huge mirror covered the wall by Thrix's desk. She studied
her reflection while talking on the phone.

"Cassandra, what are you doing in Portugal? You know I need
you here for the shoot."

Thrix listened while the model related some tortuous story of
missed planes and unreliable photographers.

"Fine, Cassandra," she interrupted. "It all sounds terrible.
Now get back to London. Your ticket will be waiting for you at the
airport."

Thrix put down the phone. Models. Not the most organised group
of people, she found, though generally she liked them. Not as much as
she liked the clothes, of course. The Werewolf Enchantress truly loved
clothes in a way that had always mystified her family.

Thrix looked at the message on her desk. Her mother had
called. Why? Surely Verasa was not expecting her to visit? Thrix had
been at Castle MacRinnalch only six months ago and her mother knew that
she would never visit more than once a year.

The Werewolf Enchantress studied herself in the mirror. She
looked around thirty, perhaps a year or two younger. She was in fact
almost eighty years old. Her youthful appearance was not the result of
sorcery. The MacRinnalchs were very long lived, and eighty was still
young for a werewolf. Thrix was enjoying her life. Her fashion house's
reputation was growing steadily. If everything went to plan she would
one day be one of the major players on the European fashion scene.

What did her mother want? Thrix sighed. No matter how she
tried to distance herself from the clan, Verasa, the Mistress of the
Werewolves, would never admit that she was gone. A troubling thought
floated across her mind. Could her mother be calling about Kalix? There
was a time when Verasa had never been off the phone about Kalix. Even
before her savage attack on the Thane, life hadn't been easy for the
youngest member of the family. Thrix affected not to care - she had
left Castle MacRinnalch long before Kalix was born - and why the Thane
and the Mistress of the Werewolves had chosen to have another child
almost one hundred and fifty years after the birth of their first was a
mystery - but she had some sympathy for Kalix. Life in the Scottish
castle hadn't been easy. Not for a young girl anyway. No wonder it
drove Kalix mad.

Kalix shouldn't be in trouble with the family. Not when Thrix
had discreetly provided her with the pendant which hid her from the
world. Even when she transformed into her werewolf shape, and her scent
was most distinctive, she would remain hidden. She was safe to do
whatever she wished which, as far as Thrix could see, was destroy
herself at the earliest opportunity.

Her assistant buzzed through to let her know that the call she
had been waiting for was here. A very fashionable photographer who
Thrix was keen to enlist for an upcoming shoot. She clicked on the
speaker phone and prepared to be at her persuasive best. Before she
could launch into her speech, the door burst open. This was unexpected.
Ann, her personal assistant, was much too efficient to let her be
disturbed unannounced.

"Prepare to die, cursed Enchantress."

It was the Fire Queen. Flames were flickering around her eyes.

"You have angered the Fire Queen once too often, you
perfidious werewolf! I am going to roast you over a fire then send you
off to the deepest pits of hell where you will suffer a millennium of
torment!"

Thrix sighed.

"I'll call you back," she said, and hung up the phone.

3

Kalix was trembling. It was a long time since she had tasted
laudanum and Kalix's shameful addiction was very strong. Dizziness
overwhelmed her and she halted to catch her breath. The rain
intensified.

She shook her head to clear it and hurried on. Finally she
recognised the street she was in. Not far now to the warehouse. As she
turned the last corner she halted. Someone was close. Hunters. Seconds
after registering their presence Kalix found herself confronted by two
large figures dressed in black. Without the strength to flee, Kalix
could only stand motionless as they advanced towards her. The light
from the street lamp glinted on the ring that pierced her nose, a gold
ring through her left nostril that was rather prominent, a size larger
than would commonly be worn.

The hunters towered over her and their immense bulk cut off
most of the light.

"If your father is Thane of the werewolves and you're just a
little werewolf girl - "

" - a puny little junky werewolf girl - "

" - it doesn't pay to aggravate him, and get yourself
banished."

The larger of the two men drew a gun from the depths of his
coat.

"It's stupid of you to walk around here."

"I am stupid," muttered Kalix.

"Really, wolf whelp, you deserve to die."

"I know," said Kalix.

"And when you're dead, no one will miss you."

"It's true," said Kalix, quietly. And it was. It was all true.
She deserved to die and no one would miss her.

The hunters gazed with dislike at the skinny, ragged,
trembling figure, seventeen years in the world, without a friend to her
name, not a single soul who would be sad to learn that she was gone.
Kalix gazed down at her feet, at the cracked and broken boots she wore,
now letting in water as the rain poured down from the black sky.