The Anxiety of Kalix the Werewolf - Martin Millar

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the Fire Queen. “The young Empress with her blonde hair and beautiful outfits. Ha! It is the same vile Kabachetka. Just because she has ascended to the throne—no doubt after poisoning the old Empress—does not mean that people should be making a fuss over her. I cannot tell you how it irritates me!”

      The Fire Queen, Thrix realized, had been considerably younger than the previous Empress. Now the younger Kabachetka had taken power and it had obviously upset her.

      “You know the bards on the borders are singing songs about her youthful beauty? Youthful beauty! The only beauty Kabachetka has came out of a clinic in Los Angeles. Her mother was bad enough with her visits to the cosmetic surgeon, but at her age, one could find some excuse. Kabachetka has been hopping through the dimensions since she was a girl, getting this tucked and that altered. I swear she’ll fall apart one day, hopefully in a most painful manner.”

      The Fire Queen drained her glass and snapped her fingers, tilting the wine bottle over her glass. Nothing emerged.

      “Is there something the matter with this bottle?” said Malveria. “It seems to have emptied far too quickly.”

      “I’ll get another,” said Thrix, and headed for the kitchen. The Fire Queen followed her.

      “So between the new young Empress and my foolish young niece, I am now feeling old. A relic from a past age, like one of these pieces in the museum that Dominil is so keen on visiting. Please tell me that my outfits for new season are ready?”

      “They’re ready,” said Thrix.

      As well as a good friend, Malveria was also a very important client. Her money and patronage had kept Thrix’s business going when times were hard.

      “Good.” The Fire Queen was partly mollified. “Perhaps there may be one last flowering of my fashionable glory before I retire into my dotage.”

      Thrix couldn’t help herself from laughing. “‘Dotage’? When did you learn that word?”

      “It was used in a harsh piece in American Vogue concerning a designer the editor did not like. I greatly admire that editor. She is so cruel.” Malveria suddenly looked troubled. “What if she were cruel to me? I do not think I could bear it.”

      “Malveria, why would that happen? You’re always the best-dressed person in the room.”

      “If that’s the case, why have they never included me in their ‘fashionable party people’ page?”

      It was a long-standing ambition of the Fire Queen to appear as a “fashionable party person” in Vogue. Her failure to achieve this was a source of constant irritation.

      “Though I have appeared at many of the most fashionable events, and practically flung myself in front of the cameras, they have so far resisted me. It is most aggravating. Am I not fashionable?”

      “You’re very fashionable. But there’s a lot of competition. Don’t worry, we’ve got a lot of events coming up.”

      Thrix used a small piece of sorcery to bring up her social calendar, which hung in the air in front of them. The Fire Queen gazed at it approvingly. Since Thrix’s business picked up, she was being invited to more events.

      “Soon we will attend the designer of the year awards. Such a wonderful occasion.”

      The Fire Queen finished another glass of wine. “I feel my gloom lifting. I must be at my most fashionable at this event. Vogue will take my picture, and then the new young Empress will see what it really means to be an icon of style.”

      The funeral service at the abbey had been a splendid affair, reassuringly traditional and full of ceremonial flourishes. As the burial proceeded at the cemetery in Chelsea, there was general satisfaction among the assembled mourners, many of them fellow members of the aristocracy, that the Countess of Nottingham had received a fitting send-off. The late afternoon sun lent an unexpected warmth to the proceedings, and the mood among the mourners as they made their way from the grave was not overly somber. The Countess had been very elderly, in poor health for a long time, and her death had not come as a surprise.

      “A nice funeral,” said Mr. Carmichael on the slow walk back to the car park. “The Countess would have been pleased.”

      Both of his companions nodded. They had been impressed by the ceremony and the rank of many of the guests. Mr. Carmichael, chairman of the board of the Avenaris Guild, was a well-connected man. He had good reason to be at the Countess of Nottingham’s funeral. She’d had an association with the werewolf hunters’ guild for many years.

      Mr. Carmichael nodded politely to one of the Countess’s sons, himself a wealthy man in the city, who paused nearby as his wife dabbed her eyes with a tiny lace handkerchief.

      “Do we have the money?” asked Mr. Eggers.

      Mr. Carmichael frowned, not quite liking the tone of the question. “Show a little respect, Mr. Eggers. “We’re still at the funeral.”

      “Sorry.”

      They waited patiently outside the car park as the crowd dispersed.

      “But yes, we do have the money,” said Mr. Carmichael softly.

      The legacy from the Countess had been expected, but its size had been a surprise. The Countess of Nottingham had made donations to the Avenaris Guild for many years. She believed that her youngest son had been killed by a werewolf in Scotland, many years ago. Mr. Carmichael had never been certain that this was actually the case, but the Guild accepted the money gratefully. Now the Countess had left them a large sum, which could hardly have come at a better time. The Guild had been hit by a recent severe downturn in the markets and had seen many of its investments shrink alarmingly. There had been talk at headquarters of laying people off, and even suspending operations in some areas of the country, but now the mood had changed. Bolstered by the huge sum left them by the Countess, the Guild had plans to expand.

      As the crowd thinned, Mr. Carmichael and his companions made their way to their vehicles. As a family friend, Mr. Carmichael had been invited to the post-funeral reception at the Countess’s town house in Chelsea. Carmichael was a little impatient at the thought of this. He had a hankering to be getting on with business. It wasn’t only financially that the Guild had suffered recently. The MacRinnalch werewolves, their eternal enemies, had bested them again. The Guild had lost some good hunters. Mr. Carmichael had come under pressure. His position as head of the Guild was again being questioned. Strong action was necessary, and with the arrival of the Countess’s money, action could now be taken.

      “I’ll be back later in the evening,” Mr. Carmichael told Mr. Eggers. “Make sure you have the final list drawn up by then. I want the new hunters in as soon as possible.”

      Mr. Eggers nodded. Although he would have been rather pleased to have been asked to the reception, he was as keen as Mr. Carmichael to press on with their mission. The werewolves may have scored some successes against them in recent months, but that was soon going to change.

      Kalix wasn’t sure what to think about her upcoming birthday party. Left to herself, she’d have ignored the occasion. She hadn’t celebrated her birthday since leaving the castle, and those celebrations she remembered from her childhood weren’t especially happy. The idea of having a party made her nervous. The flat would be full of people. She wondered if she might have to make a speech, or entertain them somehow, something she knew she was incapable of doing.

      Moonglow assured her that she wouldn’t have to make a speech, or do anything special at all, but Kalix still felt uncomfortable. She didn’t like being the focus of attention. Kalix’s chronic anxiety made her pessimistic. She had a fear of everything going wrong, and of being blamed for it. Kalix felt a brief surge of anger and briefly contemplated moving

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