The Curse of the Wolf Girl Read Free Page A

now.
    Decembrius sat in a small Italian café in Camden, as he often did in the afternoons. He drank coffee, read a newspaper, and felt dissatisfied with life. Really, he should go back to Scotland. Due to the deaths in the recent feud, he’d found himself elevated to the Great Council of the MacRinnalchs. That was an honor that his mother Lucia had trumpeted all around the clan, but Decembrius couldn’t share her enthusiasm. He’d looked up to Sarapen. He’d been sure that the huge, forceful werewolf, eldest son of the late Thane, would emerge victorious in the struggle over the thaneship. His death had left Decembrius shaken and disillusioned. He couldn’t raise any enthusiasm for clan affairs.
    He stared over the top of his newspaper, focusing his eyes on a spot just above the Michelangelo print of
The Last Supper
that adorned the café wall. He let his gaze float over the wall then tried to focus on nothing. After a few moments, he frowned and shook his head. From a young age, Decembrius had had the ability to glimpse the future and observe things that were hidden to others. Though he’d never been able to control the power well, in the past year he’d been making some progress. Since the battle in which Sarapen had fallen, his powers of prescience had disappeared. Whatever was in his future, Decembrius couldn’t see it.
    His mother, Verasa’s sister Lucia, couldn’t wait to see him in the council chamber. But the thought of sitting round a table with Thrix and Dominil horrified Decembrius. Both had fought against Sarapen. Thrix had protected Kalix, and Dominil had killed Andris, Sarapen’s bodyguard, another werewolf whom Decembrius had held in high regard.
    His anger subsided back into depression. Decembrius had always had a tendency towards depression and he was worried that he might be heading for a serious episode. While he’d been busy working for Sarapen, he hadn’t noticed it. Now that Sarapen was dead it had come back, and the loss of his powers made it worse. It was another reason not to return to Scotland. The MacRinnalch werewolf clan tended to lack sympathy for depressed werewolves.
    Decembrius tried to distract himself from his gloomy thoughts by looking round the café and by staring openly at two girls who’d just sat down at one of the small tables. Decembrius was young and good-looking in an angular sort of way. As a werewolf of the MacRinnalch clan, his vigor shone through. Here in London, he wasn’t short of female company. Decembrius preferred to keep these affairs hidden from prying eyes at Castle MacRinnalch, particularly his mother’s. Like many of the traditional werewolves in Scotland, Lucia didn’t really approve of the philandering of the younger generation.
    Decembrius brushed his fingers through his thick, dark red hair—he’d grown it longer in recent months—and swept it back. He had another gold stud in his left ear. Since encountering Beauty and Delicious, the notorious cousins of whom the family did not used to speak, Decembrius had made an effort to make himself more stylish. The twins’ wild appearance and lifestyle had made him feel older than his twenty-six years.
    The twins had fought against Sarapen too, of course, albeit not very effectively. Beauty and Delicious weren’t fierce, by werewolf standards. Not like Kalix. There was a werewolf you wouldn’t want to encounter in battle. Even Sarapen had been unable to subdue her. Of course, Kalix was mad. She probably didn’t feel pain like a normal werewolf. Her father, the Thane, had died of injuries she’d inflicted, resulting in her being banished and setting off the whole chain of events that led to the vicious feud. His wife Verasa had nominated her second son Markus as Thane instead of Sarapen her eldest. It led to war and to many deaths. Kalix had started it all, and she’d finished it. Kalix delivered the fatal blow. She’d killed Sarapen. There were many in the clan who would never forgive