Martin Millar - Lonely Werewolf Girl (19 page)

He preferred to keep his own company. The companionship of
others quickly irritated him. When patrolling for werewolves with one
or two other hunters, it was not so bad. Then, Mikulanec would be in
command and there would be no unnecessary talking. But all social
situations, where others were free to bore him with the senseless
trivia that made up their daily lives, were an annoyance to Mr
Mikulanec. The Guild had provided him with a small flat in Bayswater.
They'd have provided him with something grander had he wished, as he
was a fellow werewolf hunter of excellent reputation, but Mikulanec had
expressly wished to be housed in a place which was both modest and
unobtrusive. The flat remained exactly as the Guild provided it. He
didn't rearrange the furniture, buy himself a new set of sheets, or
hang a calendar on the wall. Such things were inconsequential to him.
The only thing he cared about was hunting werewolves.

Mr Mikulanec had not been impressed since arriving in Britain.
The great Castle MacRinnalch for instance, remained untouched,
inviolate almost. The Guild considered it too difficult to attack.
Mikulanec wondered what his father would have had to say about that.
His father was not a man to allow a safe haven for any cursed werewolf.
His father and his compatriots had all but driven them out of the
country, ridded the land of the plague.

The Guild, he acknowledged, were well organised, and possessed
some strength. But they had so far proved themselves unequal to the
task of fighting the MacRinnalchs. Mr Carmichael had suggested to
Mikulanec that perhaps he did not fully appreciate the strength of the
MacRinnalchs, a suggestion which Mikulanec brushed aside. There was
nothing about werewolves he did not know. And there were several things
he knew which the Guild did not. He'd wanted to travel to Scotland
while the Thane's funeral was in progress but the Guild had discouraged
this. They had their own men there, they said, and didn't want to risk
a stranger giving away their operations. Mikulanec had been angered and
had considered leaving, though it would have been almost impossible for
him to tear himself away from a country such as this. There were so
many werewolves. Mikulanec could not leave before he had done something
about it.

Now there was the matter of the werewolf princess. The Guild
had been tracking her but had lost contact. Mr Carmichael had invited
Mikulanec to demonstrate his skills by finding her.

'Very well,' thought Mr Mikulanec. 'I will locate the girl and
kill her. Then perhaps the Guild will see that I am not a man to be
excluded from their inner circle.'

55

Castle MacRinnalch and the surrounding estates were now full
of werewolves. Rarely had so many been gathered in one place. It was a
long time since they'd last come together for the funeral of a Thane,
and the MacRinnalch Clan had grown since then.

Verasa strode into the council chamber. Even as a werewolf she
was upright. It was rather difficult to carry oneself totally erect in
werewolf form but Verasa refused to walk like a hulking beast. She was
not expecting any surprises at the meeting. The Thane's brother Kurian
was never going to vote for anyone but Sarapen. Nor was his son Ker-tal
or his daughter Marwanis. They were the most traditional of werewolves
and while Verasa found this frustrating in some respects, she admired
them in a way. Marwanis in particular was an intelligent young woman of
great beauty and distinction. With her dark brown hair, large hazel
eyes and perfect complexion, conservatively yet tastefully dressed, she
was every inch what a female member of the ruling family should be.
Rather different to certain others of the younger generation, reflected
Verasa, ruefully.

Verasa sat next to Rainal. She poured herself whisky from the
crystal decanter in front of her. Fine whisky from the clan estates,
and fine crystal from France. It had been imported more than three
hundred years ago by Hughan MacRinnalch, an uncle of the late Thane.

A large portrait of Hughan MacRinnalch hung in the castle's
banqueting hall. The clan had good reason to remember him fondly. He
was the first werewolf of the modern era to take to business, and it
was his dealings in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries that had
set the clan on the road to its present wealth. While the MacRinnalch
estates were of great intrinsic value, Hughan had added immeasurably to
the MacRinnalch fortune with his forays into foreign trade, banking,
and the nascent stock markets in Edinburgh and London. By the time the
industrial revolution got going in the 1760s Hughan was in a position
to invest heavily, and the clan's wealth was further swelled by
shipping, iron works, and the new manufacturing industries. Though much
of the nation's aristocracy frowned on trade, the MacRinnalchs had
never turned their noses up at the prospect of making money.

There were signs of impatience around the table. With everyone
in werewolf form, and the moon almost full above, tempers could be
expected to wear thin very quickly. Sarapen tramped heavily into the
chamber, not upright, but slightly bent as if ready to spring on anyone
who dared to oppose him. It was obvious that Sarapen had arrived in a
poor temper.

"Greetings, cousin," said Dominil.

Sarapen did not return her salutation. Dominil merely spoke to
annoy him; she was party responsible for his ill temper, as she well
knew. Sarapen had visited her that afternoon. If he had been hoping to
persuade her not to nominate Markus, it had been a hopeless mission
from the first.

"Markus will never be Thane," Sarapen had told her, fiercely.

"Then we must look further afield, for neither will you."

"Why did you nominate him?" demanded Sarapen. "Did my mother
put you up to it?"

"I need no encouragement to oppose you," replied Dominil. As
she said this her eyes blazed. Faced with Sarapen, even Dominil could
not keep her temper completely under control. Sarapen and Dominil had
been lovers for a brief period, some years ago. It had ended very
badly. Whatever had happened was secret between them but the antagonism
between the pair had never lessened.

"We will begin the meeting," said Rainal.

"Where is Baron MacAllister?" demanded Sarapen.

"He has returned to his own keep," replied Rainal.

"Why?"

"A sudden illness."

"What!" Sarapen rose to his feet and pounded his fist on the
table. "Why was I not informed of this?"

"He was afflicted only a short time ago," explained Rainal.
"In fact I've only just received his apologies."

Sarapen glared at Verasa.

"And what do you know of this, Mistress of the Werewolves?"

The flickering light from the log fire was reflected on
Sarapen's great fangs. On the opposite side of the table the two
remaining Barons couldn't help flinching, and were glad that they did
not oppose Sarapen. Baron MacAllister's own keep was some distance from
the castle, and a stronghold that was difficult to attack. He might be
glad of that before this affair was over.

"I'm just as surprised as you," replied Verasa, smoothly.
"Though I believe the good Baron has been in poor health for some time."

Sarapen glowered at his mother. One of his votes was gone and
he strongly suspected that she was behind it. Already Sarapen was
feeling that he had had quite enough of meetings.

"Before we begin," said Rainal. "I feel it is incumbent upon
me, as secretary to the clan, to inform the council that there is
already some dissatisfaction outside these walls. If there is no new
Thane to officiate at the funeral tomorrow, the dissatisfaction will
increase. Of course, I make no effort to influence this meeting. I
merely inform you of the feelings among clan members."

"Thank you Rainal," said Verasa. "As always, we appreciate
your words."

Rainal shuffled some papers in front of him awkwardly with his
werewolf paw.

"Before we take the vote, does anyone wish to speak?"

"I do," said Sarapen. He rose to his feet. "This matter must
be decided tonight. And it must be decided in my favour. I invite those
wolves who were of a different mind last night to reconsider their
opinions."

As he said this, Sarapen slowly turned his head so that his
gaze fell on every person present, and never did a more hostile or
threatening gaze come from a MacRinnalch. Dominil met his eyes, and her
lips pulled back so that her teeth showed.

"Thank you for that speech, Sarapen."

Sarapen snarled. Rainal shifted nervously in his seat. It
would be quite intolerable for fighting to break out at a meeting of
the Great Council. The clan members currently surrounding the castle
were not expecting their visit to the MacRinnalch homelands to be
marred by violence. Yet Sarapen was not the only werewolf here who
showed signs of being on a short fuse. Kertal had let it be known he
was none to pleased at what had happened last night. Kertal was young
and vigorous, his sister Marwanis equally so. It would not take much to
make them support Sarapen in a fight. Already Rainal could sense the
werewolves sliding their seats back an inch or two to make it easier to
leap up if necessary.

"Why don't you be quiet so we can vote," said Markus, leaning
far over the table towards Sarapen. Sarapen rose from his chair and let
out a ferocious growl. Beside him Kertal also rose and next moment
there were six werewolves on their feet, all roaring at each other.
Seeing that matters were quickly getting out of hand, the Mistress of
the Werewolves banged her fist on the table and spoke with all the
authority at her command.

"We will all sit down and proceed with the meeting. Now.
Everyone. Sit down."

Great claws clenched and unclenched as the werewolves
struggled to control their tempers. It was difficult to ignore a direct
command from the Mistress of the Werewolves. They took their seats,
uneasily. Sarapen was the last to sit down. Already he could feel that
he was being outmanoeuvred by his mother and Markus.

Verasa looked towards Rainal. Rainal was nervous and took some
time to get his words out.

"If there are no more… speeches… we will move to the vote. Who
will nominate?"

"I nominate Sarapen MacRinnalch," said Baron MacPhee.

"I nominate Markus MacRinnalch," said Dominil.

"Very well. Those in favour of Sarapen MacRinnalch please
raise their hands."

Six hands were raised. Sarapen, Kurian, Kertal, Marwanis,
Baron MacPhee and Baron MacGregor. The same votes as last night, minus
that of the absent Baron MacAllister.

"Those in favour of Markus MacRinnalch."

Now five hands were raised, those of Markus, Verasa, Dominil,
Tupan and Lucia.

Thrix had been wondering all day what she would do. She'd
rather have stayed out of the trouble that would follow another
undecided vote. But her anger had grown under the moon. She couldn't
forgive Sarapen for dashing her designs from her desk. Nothing could
have been more disrespectful. Besides, there was the fashion show in
New York to which her mother apparently had access. Thrix would like to
be represented at that show. She raised her hand.

"Six votes also," said Rainal. "Are there any abstentions?"

Dulupina raised her hand.

Last night the vote had gone seven to five in Sarapen's
favour. Now it was six votes for each candidate. No one had the
required nine votes. Sarapen rose slowly to his feet. His face was a
mask of utter fury but he did not speak. Instead, he turned on his heel
and marched swiftly from the room.

"The next meeting will be at the time of the next full moon,"
said Rainal. The werewolves rose, and filed out of the room, each lost
in their own thoughts, wondering what the outcome of this might be.

56

It was cold on the moorlands to the east of Castle
MacRinnalch; cold, and very dark. The moon was hidden by clouds and it
was threatening rain. Gawain knew that he shouldn't be here. He was
forbidden to enter the MacRinnalch estates and risked his life in
returning. His sentence of banishment by the Thane was not to be taken
lightly. Gawain already had the feeling that he was being watched.

The approach to the clan estates had bought painful memories,
particularly his journey through Colburn Wood. The wood was special to
the MacRinnalchs: here they buried their heroes. Avreg MacRinnalch lay
here, as did Gerrant Gawain MacRinnalch, Gawain's
great-greatgrandfather. Colburn Wood was an ancient place. It had never
been forested or cultivated and remained exactly the same as it had
been for thousands of years. The large, dark, tangled wood contained
the spirit of the MacRinnalchs, from a time before the castle was
built. It was a place full of primeval magic.

Less magical, but almost as important, it was from the stream
which flowed through the woods that water was drawn to make the
MacRinnalch whisky. Most importantly to Gawain, it was here that he and
Kalix had come to make sport beneath the trees, unobserved and alone.

Oddly, as Gawain had traversed the wood, he'd thought for a
moment that he caught the scent of a Hiyasta. That was impossible. No
fire elemental would dare to trespass on the sacred territory of the
MacRinnalchs. He sniffed again, and decided that he'd been mistaken.

When he broke cover and came within sight of the castle,
memories flooded in again. Unhappy memories, ending with his
humiliation and banishment. What was he doing here, on this cold,
friendless night? Had he come for the funeral? To pay his last respects
to the werewolf who'd banished him? Perhaps. The death of a Thane was
momentous event for the clan. Gawain felt it as keenly as anyone.
Perhaps he was here to gloat over the death of the werewolf who had
caused him so much pain? But Gawain didn't think so. His anger at the
Thane's actions had mostly faded. He thought he understood why the
Thane has acted as he did.