The Beast of Callaire Page 2

  “I’m—”

  “Because last night I found a lion … thing. A winged lion. I get that it sounds insane but—it was bleeding and I brought it here to help. Because I obviously have no sense of personal safety.” She’s rambling. I’m not surprised. I’d be pretty intimidated if I woke up to find a naked stranger in my kitchen, too. And maybe a little furious. Mostly Fray appears to be terrified—though I think there might be an edge of reckless curiosity in her eyes as they watch me.

  “And now you’re here,” she goes on, “and very naked. And I’m not sure what I’m supposed to think. Did you think it was a fun prank to play? Did you set the whole thing up? Was the uni-lion even real? What did you do with it?”

  “The what?” I meant to say something else, something to cover up this mess, but that crazy word gives me pause.

  “Uni-lion,” she says matter-of-factly. “Like unicorn, but with a lion. No wait.” She holds up a hand, frowns. “That would mean the lion had a horn and it didn’t. It had wings. But what kind of animal has wings?”

  She’s talking to herself but I still answer her. “Maybe you’re thinking of Pegasus. The winged horse.”

  “Yes!” Her eyes are so frantic, so wide. “You’re right. So Pega-lion—or Lion-asus. No, that sounds awkward. I’ll just call it a were-lion.”

  “Right.” A growing part of me wants to back towards the door and run for it. “I’m sorry,” I say. I glance at the ceiling, wondering how I must look to this girl. Possibly like a madwoman. Probably with hair as wild as a hay bale and curlier than Kate Bush’s. Definitely with too much brown skin showing.

  “Why?” Fray takes a step towards me, expression darkening with suspicion. “Why are you sorry? What did you do?”

  When she moves into the full force of the light I have to do a double take. She looks like a Numen, a God. I look three times just to be sure, but she’s completely Pure, completely human.

  Distracted by my growing admiration of her, I almost say “Because the winged lion was me.” But I can’t. That would be betraying the Legend Mirror. It would be breaking the most important rule of my kin: don’t tell the Pure about Legendaries.

  Instead I say, “I’m sorry for being in your kitchen. I’m going to leave now.”

  She laughs, more scared than amused. “Here’s the problem: I still have no idea who you are or why you’re in my house. I’m starting to think you’re a serial killer. And if you are a serial killer, I can’t just let you go away. You might try to kill another unsuspecting girl.” She nods at herself. “I should call the police.”

  “No.” I pull on my hair. It’s matted together with clumps of mud. Or at least I hope it’s mud. “Please,” I beg. “I haven’t tried to hurt you, have I?”

  Her eyes are dangerous slits. “Not yet.”

  “I just want to leave, alright? I don’t remember what happened or why I’m here. All of yesterday is a blur.” It’s not a complete lie. I don’t remember most of it. But I do remember her standing over me, vibrant and beautiful in the Manticore’s heightened vision.

  “Because that’s not crazy at all,” she breathes.

  I blow out a breath, more self-conscious by the second. “Right. Whatever. Can I just borrow some clothes and leave, then? Because I don’t know where I am and I just—I really want to leave.” I’d take off without the clothes but I don’t know how far away from home I am. And walking around in public wearing nothing but a towel tends to look suspicious. Or like I escaped a mental ward. No, I definitely need something to wear. I could be miles away from Callaire. I could be anywhere.

  It’s only just started to sink in that I have no idea where I am.

  Fray spins on her heel and leaves the room, light brown hair swaying with the movement. I don’t know what she just saw cross my face, what meaning she read from my anxiety. I stare at the door until she returns with clothes—and a shotgun.

  I suck in a sharp breath.

  “Get dressed,” she says through gritted teeth. “And go.”

  I might be descended from a creature of myth and in possession of two kinds of Majick, but I’m not arguing with a shotgun. As I’m getting dressed she asks, “The creature, the lion—did you let it out my kitchen?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That’s what happened.” I pull a shirt over my head, relieved to be fully dressed even if it is short and tight on me, and then I’m pulling the sliding doors aside and running away on bare feet.

  “Wait!” she yells. I make my way across the patio of her back garden, ignoring The Girl In The Woods. “Stop.” Fray comes after me. She’s brought the shotgun for Numina’s sake. “You can’t go in there.”

  Her words draw my thoughts short, but I keep aiming for the trees at the bottom of her garden. I recognise the scent, and my relief is instant.

  Fray’s words sound distantly in my head. Almery, she means. I can’t go in Almery Wood because there are hunters in there. Pieces of yesterday are coming back to me—seen by different eyes, heard by different ears. There was a man with a gun dressed in brown and green, dark goggles around his neck. A hunter.

  I stop and face her. For the first time I notice my shoulder has been bandaged. The binding is too loose—done, I’m assuming, for the much bigger shoulder of the Manticore. For some senseless reason Fray saw a monster and chose to give it care. It makes my voice gentler when I ask, “And why can’t I?”

  “There are hunters in there.” She’s breathing heavily, her light olive skin flushed and blotchy. The beast rumbles to life, as interested in Fray as I am.

  “Hunters who will shoot an animal, not a girl,” I point out.

  “It’s still dangerous.”

  “What does that matter to you?”

  “Sorry.” She walks away and I feel like the most ungrateful person in all of Britain.

  “Thanks,” I shout.

  “Yeah.” She throws up a hand in acknowledgement without turning. She’s lost the nervous energy she had before. In that one movement I see listlessness. I let her walk away. The Manticore doesn’t fight to go after her, to claim a new victim. I’m grateful. I don’t want to kill Fray.

  I have no idea what to make of her. She’s nervous, she’s feisty. She’s suspicious, she’s caring. Nothing about her adds up to a complete picture of a person. All I can be sure of is that she’s pretty. Very pretty.

  FOUR

  THE NUMEN’S PREMONITION

  Everything is moss and glitter around me. It’s beautiful—as it always is—in Almery Wood. My Crea hearing associates sounds with each colour—the inaudible rhythm of insect feet on amber-lit branches, the soothing whisper of wind stirring leaves on the cocoa-coated ground.

  My skin pricks, hairs rising as I hear something that does not belong. Feet pad delicately, cautiously, towards me. A creative part of me wonders if my nails are still tipped with venom, but no—the beast is absent. I don’t have teeth that kill and a ruthless, predatory mind. I have a frail body with no muscle to speak of and a cowardly disposition.

  Against a predator, I would lose. I would die. But maybe I am lucky enough for the beast to still burn within me, for it to break out and fight my threat.

  Just as the Manticore writhes in my stomach, the noise turns out to be my asshole brother. I scent him as he steps closer to the trail, and a growl rushes from my throat.

  “What do you want, Guy?”

  He steps onto the path and crosses muscular arms over his chest. I mirror his stance and scowl at him. I don’t want to deal with this right now. I’m too tired.

  “Vince is dead,” he says. “I thought you were too.”

  Breath rushes out of me. I fumble for stability against the trunk of a tree. “I’m not dead.”

  “You weren’t in your flat.”

  “I …” I’m never going to tell anyone what happened. “No.”

  “Well.” He coughs. “I thought you were dead, so I was looking for your body.” His mouth is set in a severe line. If it wasn’t Guy, I might think he was worri
ed about me.

  “No need,” I say. “I’m sorry to disappoint but I’m still alive.”

  His dark eyes glare at me, though I can’t fathom why. “Right. Well. Bye.”

  Guy disappears and, without a moment’s warning, his words crush me. I stumble, my back hitting the tree. “Vince is dead?” We’ve never lost anyone in the Red before, not like this, not to death. I’m not going to cry. Not here. I’m motionless in the green and gold as the world shifts around me.

  Guy re-emerges with an unreadable expression. He lays a hand on my shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to hug me, just leaves his hand on me. And that’s alright—until I cry out at the pressure on my wound.

  At first he must assume grief is hurting me but then he reads something in my face. He peels the borrowed shirt from my shoulder, gentler than I would have expected. His jaw is a tense, square edge as he unwinds the bandage and examines my injury.

  “Is it bad?” I manage to ask.

  “Could be worse. At least it’s not infected. You treated this in time.” He levels his gaze on me, black eyes making my stomach turn over. He doesn’t make eye contact with me. “Where did you get the bandage?”

  I look at my feet. I definitely didn’t get it from a girl with a weird name and an empty house. “I stole it from someone’s kitchen.” Not technically a lie.

  “And wrapped and pinned it perfectly with your left hand. Funny—last I remember you were right-handed.”

  I don’t move, don’t speak. I might not even breathe.

  “You’re lucky I don’t give a shit,” he sighs, passing a hand over my wound. The sunlight makes his copper skin golden. Wind stirs around his fingers, barely there but noticeable to my Crea senses. I feel my skin tingle and knit back together.

  He nods. “Don’t get shot again.”

  “I’ll try not to.” I attempt a smile. Guy doesn’t. He gives me an unreadable look and then he’s turning away.

  “Minnie had a premonition,” he says, over his shoulder. “From Apollo himself. Three coffins. Three moons. The hunters will kill three of us before the Quarter is over.”

  “Vince,” I say, dropping my eyes to the ground.

  “Two more. Don’t be one of them.”

  When I look up he’s gone. For good this time.

  FIVE

  THE THREE ROBES

  The first day after the Change I feel hung-over. For the first few hours I’m so dizzy I can’t move, which usually means I sleep in the woods and come out with a violent cold. Last night, however weird it was, it wasn’t cold and I’m grateful for that. But now I’ve skipped dizzy and freezing, and I’m suffering with a headache and hunger.

  I weigh up the pros and cons of staying inside and not eating versus going out and getting cake. Cake wins. Cake always wins.

  I stumble through a shower, dressing at random afterwards, and leave my wet hair down and frizzy. Painkillers to kill the throbbing in my temple are more difficult than showering, when I fumble so much with the child proof lid that I cut my finger.

  When I eventually make it out of the front door—wrapped in so many layers it’s hard to move, and with a plaster on my finger—I decide it’s probably for the best that I trust public transport to get me into Callaire instead of myself.

  The bus is deafening.

  I regret it instantly.

  *

  It’s snowing aggressively by the time I get into the centre of Callaire. It reminds me of Gateway Majick, and the weird half-space when someone travels from one place to another. During transition a person’s molecules rearrange themselves like dust motes in the air. This is the same kind of swirling—snowflakes pushed this way and that way in the wind, about to come together and form a person any minute now. I watch the blizzard but it just whirls away, carried in the air to discover new cities.

  The Muffin Emporium is at the top of town, on a slanting hill with a mismatch of traditional bricked shops and modern glass fronts. The cake shop is one of the older buildings, made of brick and frosted glass as thick as my arm. Baskets of pastries and oozing sponges are on display behind the window, enticing passers-by to stop in their single-minded march to the car park or the bus station. When I squeeze myself around the door and find a spot in which to stand, I can tell that most of these people are on their way home from school or work or college.

  Molly—known as Muffin to anyone and everyone who has been here more than once—spies me as a lanky man weaves his way through the crowd to the exit.

  “Yasmin!” she shouts, beckoning me over. Other customers give me dirty looks as I battle my way to the counter. “Get on that, will you?” Muffin jerks her head to the second till at the other side of the counter.

  I heave a sigh that’s more for dramatic purposes than anything and duck under the frame of wood that acts as a barrier. I shrug my layers off, replacing them with an apron, and wrestle my hair under a hairnet.

  Muffin pats my arm in thanks as I pass her. At the sight of the emerald hairnet, a swarm of hungry customers jostles in my direction. It takes a full half hour to deal with the snarling pack of customers. “I’m taking a full cake as payment for this,” I tell Muffin. She waves a hand to say okay, shuffling around the cash register.

  “Reckon that’s it for the day,” she says, casting a look around the empty shop. “Still no sign of that sorry daughter of mine.”

  As if on cue, Megan Maddox saunters through the door chewing her lip. “Sorry I’m late,” she tells her mother. “College ran later than usual.”

  Muffin crosses her arms over her wide chest, fixing her daughter with a piercing look. “The smell of cooked potatoes and oil on you tells a different story.”

  Megan has the decency to look guilty, if only for a second. “But everyone else was—”

  “I’m not interested. I was just lucky Yasmin here came to my rescue.”

  Megan stands straighter, sticks her chin out. “Well why don’t you just give her my job?”

  “I just might.” That wipes the defiance off her daughter’s face. Megan stares in disbelief.

  “But what about—but I need the money!”

  “You should have thought twice, then.” Muffin makes a shoo-ing gesture. “Get home.”

  When Megan’s gone, with a face like thunder under her wispy hair, I turn to Muffin. “Did you mean it—about giving me a job?”

  She busies herself with wiping the countertops. “It’s here if you want it.”

  I smile at the prospect of having money—my own money, not the long number in my trust fund. “When do I start?”

  There’s amusement in the deep creases of her skin. “You already have.”

  I thank her and rush into the back room to get my coat. If I’m quick, I’ll be able to catch the last bus and won’t have to walk home in the snow-turned-slush.

  My hand stops in its path to the coat peg. I’m not alone in the back room.

  In front of me are three robed figures. I can’t see their faces but one of them has an extraordinarily long chin and another has curling white hair. I remain as quiet as possible.

  They stand in a crude triangle, their heads bent in conversation.

  Long Chin mutters, “What are we to do about the girl. Yasmin?”

  I start, a low whine in my throat. I expect them to look at me—but nothing. They’re either ignoring me or they can’t see or hear me. I wonder if they’re real or if I’m hallucinating. It’s a new symptom of the Change but it doesn’t surprise me. What does surprise me is my imagination. I didn’t think I was creative enough to come up with something this elaborate and frightening.

  “Her judgement will come,” the white-haired robe replies. Something about their voice suggests they’re female. “But we are not the ones to decide it. Her punishment will come from higher than us.”

  The third robe just murmurs, “Gods be good.”

  I’m rooted to the floor. Judgement? Punishment? What have I ever done?

  “Her involvement is surely
a precarious one,” the first robe says without inflection. “We cannot judge her for her fallings, but she can certainly be judged for her failings. The Legend Mirror will not thank her for her actions. We should not be lenient.”

  “And the Halfling?” This from the woman. “Are we to intervene or allow her to fulfil her fate?”

  The third scoffs, scorn in his voice. “A fate that will counteract our own aim? I think not.”

  The two men wait for the white-haired robe to speak. It takes a full minute for her to say a word. “She will have punishment enough without our interference. You forget we exist to maintain balance and order in all worlds. This concerns only one corner of existence.”

  “But surely—”

  “The Halfling will do as she does. The girl will do as she does. Nothing you, I, or any Numen does will alter something so set in stone as this. That is my judgement.”

  The third robe holds a palm in the air. I’m not sure what it’s meant to mean but judging from his tone, he’s not happy. “You cannot allow this!”

  “Her judgement will come.” The woman insists. She won’t back down, not if the flint in her voice is anything to go by.

  I close my eyes, sure this is just a hallucination I can force away if I concentrate enough.

  “Your judgement will come,” she whispers, right by my ear.

  When I open my eyes I’m alone. My shaking hands find the wall to stop me falling over.

  “What’re you doing in there, girl?” Muffin yells from inside the shop. “You’ll have to hurry if you’re to catch that five-fifteen.”

  I fight to get my breathing normal as I put my coat on, using a calming technique Mavers taught me to control the beast. I slip out of the room and close the door behind me with finality. “Sorry,” I say to Muffin. “I just felt dizzy for a minute.”

  She frowns. “You do look pale. But you’ll look even paler if you don’t get going. It’s a snowstorm out there.”

  I collect myself into something resembling composure and say goodbye to Muffin. As soon as I’m on the path outside, I start running.

  I can’t decide if I’m running for the bus or running from the memory of the robes.

  SIX

  THE ACADEMY OF THE RED