Wolf in Shadow-eARC (16 page)

“Is that the best you can do, sister?” it asked, voice like a creaking door.

It raised a withered hand and ran a finger like a claw down the blue light, splitting it in two. The halves fell away, dissolving into the swamp. The water flickered and fizzed with blue froth.

“Bugger,” Frankie said. “It wants me, not you, Rhian, so save yourself and run. Tell The Commission, tell Jameson.”

Frankie kept her eyes on the corpse.

The Rhian part of the wolf wondered where the hell she would run to and what The Commission was. Frankie had clearly enunciated capital letters. She was reluctant to leave her friend and the wolf agreed. You did not leave a pack mate to a predator; even, especially, a weedy pack mate like Frankie. The wolf defended what was hers. To flee was foreign to her nature.

The wolf covered the distance to the corpse in a single bound. The monster reacted with astonishing speed for a dead, mummified thing. It slapped the wolf around the head, rolling her over. The corpse promptly ignored the wolf, reorienting on Frankie. Such monomania was not only rude but bloody stupid. The wolf bounced to its feet and charged, knocking the corpse head first into a pond. The wolf seized its shoulder. It was like biting into a tire except that the flesh tasted leathery.

The corpse twisted and lashed out with its free arm, hitting the wolf in the shoulder with a punch like a pile driver. Something cracked and the wolf snarled. Her left front leg hurt when she put her weight on it. The corpse cackled in delight, regained its feet, and reached out.

The wolf feinted a leap but slid under the grasping arms so that the corpse was left hugging itself like a disappointed child. Rhian had an urge to giggle, but it came out as a snarl.

While the corpse looked stupidly at its empty embrace, the wolf pivoted on her hind legs. Rearing up to place her good front paw in the small of the monster’s back, she pushed with her whole body weight. She forced the corpse back down into the mud. Then she jumped on it.

The wolf bit deep into the hole in the corpse’s shoulder until her teeth scraped bone. She clamped her jaws shut and shook her head. Her powerful neck muscles ripped out the corpse’s shoulder joint. The monster hissed and swung its good arm. This time the wolf anticipated the blow, jumping clear.

The corpse’s left arm dangled uselessly on strips of dried muscle. The wolf sprang and took the corpse by the throat as it tried to get up. They tumbled over together and the wolf mauled and tore until the corpse’s head came off.

The monster lay in three pieces. The clawed fist on the torn-off arm opened and shut convulsively. The detached head glowered helplessly at the wolf. The body pushed itself up to its knees, using its remaining arm. Steam hissed from its wounds. It thickened to grey vapor that rolled off the corpse in clouds like the smoke from a bonfire of wet leaves. It covered the wolf until this caused sensory deprivation. Rhian’s personality dissolved in the swirling vapor like sugar in hot tea.

Cold rain lashed Rhian’s face, falling from a dark and overcast sky. She was human again, but she was dressed. Her clothes were wet but otherwise unharmed. There was no pain, no real pain, that is. Her left arm hurt but that was nothing compared to the usual agony of transformation.

Rhian looked around in bewilderment. Lightning lit up her surroundings, and she saw she was back on the building site. Thunder crashed immediately after the flash, and she smelt ozone. The storm must be right overhead. The air was alive with static charge, causing fine hairs on her arms to ripple.

“Come on,” Frankie said.

Rhian jumped. The woman was right behind her, clutching the cardboard box, which was already bedraggled and starting to collapse.

“Come on.”

Frankie grabbed Rhian’s arm, the wrong one. Rhian gave a little cry.

“So the wolf was actually you and not an avatar,” Frankie. “We need to talk, but not here.”

They raced back to the car, Frankie tossing her box into the back. She was intercepted by one of the workers as she slid behind the old-fashioned oversized steering wheel.

“Wise-lady, it’s fixed? The
duch
is gone?”

“It will be,” Frankie replied. “Tomorrow, the ghost will be gone tomorrow.”

The Pole nodded, crossing himself in the Catholic tradition.

Frankie’s ancient car mercifully started first time. They drove in silence for some time until Rhian spoke.

“Where were we exactly and how did we get there?”

“That was the Otherworld. As to how we got there, I suspect it was my fault. I accidentally triggered a gate, but I don’t understand why it took that form. If I’m right about the source, then the Otherworld should have looked like some version of nineteenth-century London. Do you have an explanation?” Frankie asked.

She darted a quick look at Rhian.

“I’ve seen it before,” Rhian admitted, “in my dreams of Roman and Celtic warriors.”

“I see. I suppose that was the Otherworld shadow of the Thames Estuary in Roman Britain. Celtic warriors suggest the time of the conquest in the first century ad,” Frankie said. “And are you a wolf in your dreams, Rhian?”

“Sometimes,” Rhian said. “And sometimes a Celtic Queen who turns into a wolf.”

“How do you know she’s Celtic?” Frankie asked.

“Because she speaks Welsh,” Rhian said, simply.

“Of course,” Frankie said, softly to herself. “The Queen is Celtic and speaks Welsh, just like you, Rhian.”

“English is my first language,” Rhian said, defensively. “We spoke Welsh at school.”

“And have you turned into a wolf before?” Frankie asked.

Rhian had been expecting, and dreading, the question. She decided to tell the truth, or so much of it that was relevant. She was so tired of running and hiding, and surely Frankie would understand. The woman was a bloody witch, after all.

“Yes,” Rhian said, tightly.

“In the real world?”

“Yes.”

There was a long silence.

“Why did the monster call you sister?” Rhian asked, more to fill the gap in the conversation than because she cared about the answer.

“Witches often call each other sister,” Frankie replied. “The monster was a poltergeist, but a rather special one. Did you know some poltergeists can take over human beings?”

“Really?” Rhian replied.

“Really!” Frankie said. “There is a rather nasty type called a
litesch.
A witch can extend her life way beyond the normal span by stealing bodies. The magic suppresses the victim’s spirit and overlays it with the witch’s. It’s like reprograming the chip on a credit card with a new identity, so I’m told.”

“That’s . . .” Rhian said

“Bloody wicked, yes, but all professions have their black sheep.”

The Morris car jerked. Frankie let the revs fall too low while climbing a ramp onto a flyover. She changed down into third far too late and lost more speed until that gear was also too high. She finally got it into second with a grinding screech of protest from the gearbox. A crash of metal from behind added to the cacophony. Rhian twisted her head to see. A white van was welded to the back of a hatchback that must have braked sharply on the wet road to avoid hitting the Morris. Frankie drove on, oblivious of the carnage.

“Of course the new body also dies, and the witch has to take over another. Each time, it gets a little more difficult as the witch’s spirit weakens with each transfer. It’s a bit like making photocopies of photocopies with the quality decaying every time.

“So spirits are analog, not digital,” Rhian said.

“What?” Frankie asked, turning around to look at Rhian. Mildred drifted towards the crash barrier.

“Nothing,” Rhian replied, gripping her seat belt.

Frankie turned back in time to correct the drift before they hit.

“Eventually the transfer fails and the witch is trapped in a decaying corpse.”

“There was nothing weak about that lightswitch,” Rhian said, struggling over the unfamiliar word.

“
Litesch
,” Frankie said. “But you’re right. Something is very wrong in East London. Magic is getting stronger and the Otherworld is intruding.”

The women sat in silence.

“How long have you been able to turn into a wolf?” Frankie asked.

“Not long,” Rhian replied.

“Could you do it before you came to East London?”

“Yes,” Rhian replied.

“That scotches one theory. Your—issues—can’t be connected to current events,” Frankie said, carefully choosing her words. “Come on, honey, open up. I don’t know what questions to ask. You are not a witch and you would have set off all sorts of alarms at my flat if you were a werewolf. Why don’t you just tell me your story?”

Rhian’s head was awhirl. Where to start? The brooch was the start.

She pulled out her pendant.

“You see this?”

Frankie took one hand off the thin spoked steering wheel of the Morris and leaned over to look. The car drifted towards the right hand side of the road until a blare of horn from an oncoming car alerted Frankie and she swerved back into the correct lane.

“That looks like a Celtic brooch. Is it real?” Frankie asked.

“Yes.”

“You got it in Wales?”

Rhian shook her head.

“West London. I found it on an archaeological site near the Thames. Something made me conceal it. I suppose you could say that I stole it. James put it on a chain for me to wear as a pendant.”

“James is the boyfriend who left you.”

“Yes,” Rhian said.

There was a long pause.

“Sorry, honey, I started asking questions again, and you don’t like questions. Why don’t you just tell me in your own words?”

“James left me because he’s dead and I was responsible for his death.” Tears welled up.

“There’s a box of tissues in the glove compartment,” Frankie said, gently.

Rhian dried her eyes and blew her nose.

“A speculator wanted to build on the location. He bribed the archaeologist in charge of the preconstruction check to downplay evidence of ancient artifacts. James and I were part of a protest group occupying the site. We did the night shift on our own, and the speculator sent in a gang of thugs to burn us out. James would have run if I hadn’t been there, but I was, and he tried to protect me. After they killed him, they hit me. My blood splashed on the brooch. I remember it glittering in the moonlight.”

Rhian stopped.

“I begin to see,” Frankie said. “Is the brooch dedicated to Morgana?”

Rhian nodded.

“The Celtic goddess of the Moon and of shapeshifters,” Frankie said, mostly to herself. “Your blood, your Welsh Celtic blood, and moonlight together on the brooch. And you were in a state of high emotion. You transformed into a wolf, right?”

Rhian nodded again.

“And the wolf attacked the thugs?” Frankie asked.

“Ripped them to pieces. The police thought they had been attacked by a pack of feral dogs,” Rhian said, unemotionally. “I had the power to protect James but all I did was stand there and watch him die.”

“Not your fault, Rhian. How were you to know? And it would have created complications for you if you had deliberately used the wolf—magic—as a weapon to kill. But it was all an accident, and intent is everything in magic.”

There was a pause.

“What aren’t you telling me, honey?” Frankie finally asked.

“The property speculator,” Rhian replied. “He, um, died.”

“I see,” Frankie said, quietly. “You used the wolf.”

Rhian remembered. She stood naked in the car park in the moonlight. The speculator called her a mad bitch. She cut herself and let the blood drip on Morgana’s brooch. He ran for his car, but who can outrun a wolf? She pushed down the thought.

“So my soul is stained, I suppose,” Rhian said.

“Something like that,” Frankie said, vaguely.

“Eight words the Wiccan Rede fulfil, an ye harm none do what ye will,” Rhian said.

“I see you’ve been reading my books,” Frankie said. “Doreen Valiente, I suppose?”

“Yes,” Rhian said.

“Don’t worry about it, Rhian. The Wiccan Rede is less a rule than a set of guidelines.”

“And you’ve been watching Johnny Depp,” Rhian accused.

“He is rather cute,” Frankie cooed.

Rhian opened her mouth but Frankie talked over her.

“It does make it more difficult to cure your problem,” Frankie said. “You bonded with the wolf spirit with that killing. I would guess that you do not need blood or moonlight, or even the pendant to transform now.”

“No, I wear the pendant to remember James, but the wolf is always with me.”

“I am amazed that you weren’t ripped apart, or stuck as a wolf. Body transformation in the real world is tricky, especially if you’ve no control over the magic.”

“It hurts like hell,” Rhian admitted.

“Does that Celtic warrior queen you dream about have a name?” Frankie asked.

“Her warriors call her
Buddug
,” Rhian replied.

It was dark by the time they reached Tower Hamlets Cemetery because they had to go via Frankie’s lockup to pick up some things. She was being mysterious and refused to answer Rhian’s questions. She parked Mildred illegally on a double yellow line.

“You’ll get clamped,” Rhian said.

“No, I won’t,” Frankie said.

She pulled a card out of the door pocket on the driver’s side and put it on the dashboard.

“Some sort of magic device?” Rhian asked.

“Of the most powerful type,” Frankie replied. “It’s a Disabled Driver Parking Permit, letting me park anywhere. I sort of forgot to return it when I left The Commission.”

“Your employer forged disabled parking permits?” Rhian asked, feeling a little shocked.

“That was the least of their sins,” Frankie replied with a snort.

Frankie walked swiftly into the cemetery. She flicked an electric torch from tree to tree until she found one that suited. Taking a knife shaped like a small dagger, she cut down the end of a branch.

“Yew, the witching tree,” Frankie said, answering Rhian’s unspoken question.

She brushed aside all further questions from Rhian, saying nothing until she stopped at a gravestone. Rhian noticed it was aligned at right angles to the other graves. Frankie indicated that Rhian should keep back.