Wolfsbane: 3 (Rebel Angels) (36 page)

I gave a short scream, and stumbled back. The horse turned away and nibbled nonchalantly at Rory’s wet hair. I was no longer in its head. I was no longer the
horse
.

Rory pushed its head away and stared at me, alarmed. ‘Hannah! What?’

I rubbed my temples. Call me devious, call me over-suspicious, but I had no intention of sharing what just happened.

‘Nettles,’ I lied.

The horse snorted as Rory pulled himself onto its back. I hated the way that always sounded like laughter.

‘All right.’ He sounded doubtful. ‘Let’s get going.’

Gripping Rory’s wrist, I let him haul me up onto the horse behind him. ‘So what if we don’t, ah... find your dad?’ It seemed the most tactful way to put the question.

His shoulders rose and slumped. ‘We’ll just have to keep running, then, because otherwise we’re going to get killed. Still want to come?’

I slipped my arms round his waist and squeezed. It was the only excuse I’d had all day.

‘Listen, I know how annoying it is,’ I said. ‘When I’m going to run out on you, I’ll let you know.’

Tornashee, he thought with a sigh. He gazed up at the stone ravens on its flanking gateposts, at the sun-warmed walls and the weather-burnished slates. It was in perfect
condition. Reultan and her daughter – that black-haired good-looking whore of Murlainn’s – they must have looked after it well since Leonora’s death, because its lack of
deterioration was an amazing thing.

He always could appreciate talent; he stood for a long time admiring it. So this was where Leonora had hidden herself and her family. It was the finest house in the neighbourhood, but no-one
would ever search it. Alasdair could sense the thickness of the Veil around it, a shimmering invisible presence that made his blood itch.

What would happen if the Veil survived to protect the house, he wondered idly? Murlainn would never return to live here now, and all the others were dead. Here it might sit till the end of time,
a beautifully preserved mausoleum. Or in fifty years’ time, when it finally became clear the owners were not just away on holiday, some property developer with a touch of Sithe blood might
notice it and convert it into flats. Alasdair chuckled. It’d be hard to interest buyers, that was all.

Anyway, the Veil wasn’t going to survive. In a few weeks this would be just another house, unprotected, deteriorating,
available
. He breathed in happiness. They were so close now,
him and Kate: so close to winning. Perhaps he’d live here himself: a fitting prize for breaking the stalemate of the years and inspiring her malice anew. He loved that woman: funny,
quick-witted and ruthless. They made a good team, he knew. Teamwork was everything.

He was yet to share her bed, of course, but that only fed his admiration for her manipulative brain. The fact that she’d shared it with the runt Murlainn already: she knew that was a goad
to his ambitions.

And as he always liked to remind himself: he was a patient man.

The outbuildings were of no interest, except for the one that served as a garage. Pushing open the doors, peering into the dimness, his eyes lit first on the powerful black motorbike. He
chuckled. Murlainn’s mid-life crisis: it could be fun.

Perhaps not, though. He wasn’t used to bikes and he didn’t fancy his great schemes coming to a pile of twisted metal on a bad bend on a B road. His eyes flicked to the other
vehicles. The battered Jeep had to be Cù Chaorach’s: practical, but he might need something a little speedier. Cù Chaorach’s Audi Quattro was more the thing: the four
wheel drive might come in handy and besides, he liked its look. He reached up to the row of keys and found the Audi’s. The car sprang to life and growled at him, and some adolescent
Glaswegian wailed from the CD speakers.

There was more to this than that old Veil, he thought dryly as he snapped the ignition quickly off. He could almost smell witchcraft on the air, sharp and acrid like electricity before a storm.
Leonora had done something more to protect this house. If her son or stepson ever had to come back unexpectedly, she clearly didn’t want them to waste time charging batteries.

Contented, Alasdair left the garage, and as he climbed the steps to the main house, victory thrilled in his bones. He could almost imagine applauding crowds. When you’d kept as low a
profile as he had, for as long as he had, it felt sweet to know that it had taken him mere weeks – days – to rid himself of all that might threaten him. Except Murlainn, of course, but
he could be easily dealt with now that he’d been stripped of everyone he loved. In the meantime, Alasdair would help himself to the house and its contents. The rebel fools owed him as
much.

He touched the oak door, turned the brass handle. The door swung inwards without so much as a creak. Not even lockfast! Well, really, by eternal tradition that made it fair game. Carelessness
and complacency: that was how rebels got swords in them, got their children taken away, died unnamed and unnoticed. That was how they died with their homes in ruins and – he devoutly hoped
– their dun burning around them, its inhabitants’ screams the last thing echoing in their ears. Because they were cocky. It was as if they’d never heard of security. Thick and
ancient telepathic spells might prevent full-mortal interference, but they wouldn’t keep out the Wolf of Kilrevin.

In the rooms there was a thin layer of dust, no more. No cobwebs, not so much as a mouse dropping. Alasdair spent a happy interlude just wandering, rifling through wardrobes, emptying drawers,
examining the furnishings. They’d lived pretty well, that old witch and her family. He combed through Leonora’s workshop, examining the unsold and half-finished pieces, choosing the
best to keep for souvenirs and quick funds.

He was
such
a people person. It was extraordinary what individuals gave away about themselves, just through the things they chose to own. The reflection in the bathroom mirror gave him
an approving smile, encouraging him to swing open the narrow cabinet. He sighed happily. Razors, soap, toothbrushes, the lot.

Then he heard it. He caught his breath and went absolutely still.

A door opening, closing. Footsteps, controlled but confident. Incautious. Alasdair barely wanted to believe his luck. Very quietly he backed out of the bathroom, that bearded reflection still
beaming down on him.

There was only one person it could be. Oh, it was too good to be untrue. The gods loved Alasdair Kilrevin.

His fingers stroked the hilt of his bloody sword as he glanced around the landing, then crept across the bare wood floor to the closest room. Perfect. Closing his fingers round the hilt he drew
his sword.

He had to wait what felt like an age, but he did pride himself on his forbearance. Why, he played almost as long a game as Kate. Blocking was easy; the intruder had a block up himself, but
clearly he did not expect company. Would the man never learn? Alasdair could have laughed.

The intruder stepped through the door. Alasdair counted to two, then three, eyeing the back of his neck. It was just as well he was an expert on heads and necks, after a long life spent severing
one from the other. Why didn’t the fool get a haircut?

Alasdair let him walk right into the room, then lifted his sword and brought the pommel down hard. Murlainn didn’t even have time to yell before he crumpled lifeless to the floor.

The timing wasn’t going to get any more perfect. The moon was no more than a scribble of pale light behind scraps of cloud. The darkness was going to be all too brief at
this time of year, but Hannah was out of it, snoring lightly on a bed of fir branches and moss under our hastily-erected lean-to. She was tucked snugly in the angle where the cut boughs were
closest to the ground, leaving the opening free and easy for me.

I went barefoot like I’d been taught, my trainers slung round my neck by their laces, my toes finding and avoiding anything that might crackle or snap. A few splinters wouldn’t kill
me.

Other things might.

I didn’t especially want to be alone, but she was an encumbrance, mostly on my conscience. I didn’t want another corpse weighing that down. Besides, even a kelpie was going to move
faster and quieter with only one person on its back.

More quietly,
an exasperated inner voice corrected me. I wished the voice was real and not just a memory. I wondered if he was dead. I wondered if for some reason he was prevented from
crossing the Veil, if he was a captive.

I wondered why else I wouldn’t hear or See him.

I couldn’t waste any more time wondering, so I ducked down once more to reassure myself that Hannah was asleep. That was all. Not to look at her or say a silent goodbye. She knew where the
stream was, and surely she’d have the sense to follow it after she’d drunk from it. I’d left her just half a cooked rabbit; she hadn’t thought much of it anyway. If she was
clever and tough enough – and I was pretty sure she was both – she’d find the nearest village before long, and something edible to shoplift. She’d make her way home.

The horse was an indistinct black mass under the trees, the reins loose on its neck; I was still reluctant to take the bridle off. I laid my hand on its wither, wound my fingers into its mane,
then led it away from the camp. Its hooves were quiet, its eyes soft and cooperative, and the stars were visible through the treetops. I let the creature guide me. Except for my cracking heart, and
the fear that was suddenly more oppressive, it all went so very smoothly.

I’d been right about the darkness, though. Already, as we came to open moor and I hauled myself onto the horse’s back, there was a smear of pale grey across the eastern horizon. The
world was still all shades of grey, but its features were distinctly outlined. I paused, thinking about direction, as the horse swished its tail and flared its nostrils.

East was not where it should have been.

I frowned, then twitched the left rein. The horse tossed its head and obeyed, and we followed the edge of the wood as the world around us paled. It was my father’s favourite time. He loved
the hour when the world was nothing but monochrome, because the day hadn’t had time to give it any colour.
And the wind off the sea, cold and grey as its mother sky. The beginning of
morning, and the smell of it, with the breeze singing in off the distant sea, and there isn’t a third dimension.

I shivered and rubbed my eyes, because it wasn’t him, it was only the memory of his mind again. I wondered if that was going to have to do from now on.

Stop it. Stop thinking that...

‘SonofaBITCH!’

A tree-shadow had raced out into our path. I yelled again in fright and yanked the reins, clumsy in my shock, but the horse didn’t back off or rear, and it didn’t lunge for the
shadow. It fought me, head high, hooves square on the earth, a snarl rumbling in its throat.

‘Me?
You’re
the sonofabitch
,
you little bastard!’ Right in front of us the shadow grabbed the bridle’s cheekpiece, fists clenched, teeth bared, eyes
flashing cold and silver. Gods, her eyelight was developing fast.

‘Hannah, let go!’ Fear for her made me wrench the horse’s mouth, and it squealed in fury.

‘I don’t have to! He’s more mine than he is yours!’

Even as she said it the horse’s rage subsided to quiet snorts, and it nudged her, almost making her stumble. But she recovered, put her arms round its great head and glared up at me.

‘You go without me, you go without my father’s horse.’

‘You – that’s no choice!’

‘No indeed.’ She brandished something in her fist. ‘And I
hate
bloody rabbit.’

Silence. There was an air of smugness to her as she flourished the scrap of rabbit under the horse’s nose; it took it delicately in its jaws, then lifted its head, snapped and
swallowed.

Hannah stroked its glossy neck. ‘You’re a good horse. You’re a very good horse.’

I was angry and resentful and relieved all at once. ‘Did this bastard horse
call you
?’

Her teeth flashed in the lightening dawn.

So did the horse’s.

The headache started in the back of his neck and went all the way to the top of his skull, but there were two separate points of pain behind his eyes. It was a beauty. Seth
didn’t think he’d ever had a headache like it, and that was saying something.

As awareness crept through his body, he began to feel all the other places where it hurt. There were a lot of them, some pretty sensitive. That wasn’t just one whack on his head. The
bastard had taken the opportunity to give him a good kicking while he lay there, and Seth knew it. He knew it intimately and painfully.

He was face down and prostrate on the floor – not the most dignified position – but at least it was his own floor. At least he felt at home. He’d always liked that polished oak
planking. He didn’t much want to think about anything but that, but of course he had to. Shifting slightly, he tried to sit up.

Complete failure. When he tried to move his hands, they wouldn’t budge from behind his back, even when he tugged hard at his wrists. The slightest movement sent lances of pain through his
head from one side to the other and back again, so he stopped trying. Instead he lowered his head gently back to the floor and turned it very, very slowly to face the other way. And there was the
Wolf of Kilrevin, whistling soundlessly at the bathroom mirror as he trimmed his ragged facial hair to a chic little goatee.

‘Okay, I’m alive,’ Seth said, blinking. He smiled brightly at the Wolf, which hurt a lot in all sorts of ways. ‘Am I alive for a reason?’

Catching his eye in the mirror, the Wolf returned his smile. ‘Yup.’

Seth closed an eye. ‘Am I going to stay alive?’

‘No.’

‘Uh-huh.’ He bit his lip thoughtfully. ‘Tell me about it, then.’

‘As if.’ The Wolf took a pair of nail scissors and sliced carefully through each of his braids, close to his scalp, dropping the discarded hair in the basin. ‘I’ve seen
all the movies too, you know. Explaining your evil schemes to the hero is never a good idea.’