Page 25 of A Skirl of Sorcery
‘No,’ I told her. ‘You stay here.’ She was a young cat, little more than a kitten really. She was high in feline confidence but low in experience, and she’d be a liability. Besides, Thane would kill me if anything happened to her.
I ignored her narrow-eyed response and jerked open one of my cupboards, rummaging around for everything I would need. Taking weapons wouldn’t be a good idea; dryads were more capable than they were given credit for, especially when it came to the sanctity of their groves. Although it was unlikely they’d catch me, if they did I’d be hard pressed to explain carrying lethal weapons. Neither did I want to harm any dryads.
It would be far safer to take some minor sleeping potions. I was aiming for stealth, not violence, despite the desire for vengeance that was tugging at my soul. Even the sleeping powders were only to be used as a last resort.
I extracted three sachets and taped them to the right and left sides of my ribcage. Only that which touched my bare skin could endure the transformation process from human to cat and back again. My hand hovered over my favourite curved dagger but I resisted the urge to strap it to my thigh. Its presence would cause problems, not solve them.
In my bedroom I abandoned my fuzzy cat-lady attire for tight black clothing that would allow me to sneak around in theshadows undetected. The only faint glint of colour came from my watch face, but I couldn’t leave it behind because I had to harvest the alder bark at the stroke of midnight or all this would be for nothing. I double-checked that its timing was accurate, though I needn’t have worried; it was an expensive piece of kit from my EEL days when every second on the job had counted. It kept perfect time.
She Who Loves Sunbeams swished her tail from side to side. ‘Don’t worry,’ I told her. ‘Everything will be fine. I’ll be back by two am.’ I patted her head, then turned to each of the other cats in turn. Once all their needs had been satisfied, I nodded to He Who Roams Wide. ‘Come on then,’ I told him. ‘We’ve got quite a distance to cover and it’s already getting late. ’
His eyes glinted with adventurous anticipation. Half a minute later, both of us were out of the door and away.
Chapter
Eleven
Iavoided the tram. Word on the street was the tram witches and the dryads had grown particularly close in recent months and in the unlikely event that my theft was noticed, I didn’t want anyone to be able to track my movements. It was rare for anyone who wasn’t a dryad or a dignitary from another of the main Preternatural groups to travel to the groves, especially at this time of night. Going there on foot was by far the most sensible option, even if I wasn’t as fit or as fast as I used to be.
I offered He Who Roams Wide the option of perching on my shoulder like Tiddles had done but he refused with a derisive sniff. ‘Very well,’ I told him. ‘But we have to move fast. We can’t spare any time sniffing interesting patches of darkness or investigating random sounds.’ He blinked once: that was the most I would get from him.
I set off at a steady jog. Fortunately my sleek black cat heeded my words and didn’t dally, even when a plump rat with far more bravado than sense crossed the street a few metres in front of us.
We moved fast, and little more than an hour later the dark perimeter of the first grove came into sight. There were still thirty-nine minutes until midnight. Go me.
‘I’ve still got it,’ I whispered to the cat. ‘I’m still good at this.’
If he heard me, he didn’t react. I’d have to save any further boasting for She Who Loves Sunbeams; she’d be far more appreciative of my accomplishment.
I wasn’t foolish enough to stroll through the main gates of the grove; the dryads would be wary of any unknown creatures, human or cat, passing that way. I could already see a large group of them at the entrance keeping an eye out for roaming werewolves. Although that entrance would be lined with wolfsbane, there wasn’t enough of it in the country to ring such a vast grove on a monthly basis. The dryads, like most other big estate owners, relied on manned security during the full moon. They’d be alert and ready for anything and I knew I had to avoid them.
I beckoned to the cat and we skirted the high wooden fence until we reached a quieter corner where a towering oak tree was standing helpfully outside the perimeter. He Who Roams Wide emitted a questioning chirrup and I nodded; it was perfect, especially with those high, overhanging branches.
‘Twenty minutes,’ I said quietly. ‘I don’t want to spend any more time than necessary in the grove. We’ll wait out here until the right moment.’
I pressed my spine against the trunk of the old oak where the shadows were deepest; it would take very keen eyes to spot me. I shivered slightly, though not from the cold, while the cat at my feet pawed at a section of the ground with vague disinterest.
He stopped and drew closer to my feet when the night air was suddenly filled with the sound of approaching howls. He Who Roams Wide was both brave and adventurous but he was cautious when large groups of marauding werewolves were involved. One wolf on its own wasn’t too dangerous, but they tended to move in packs when the moon was full and pack mentality was never a good thing even at the best of times.
The first werewolf to appear was a brash young mutt, little more than a teenager, but he slunk out from the buildings on the other side of the grove with the puffed-up arrogance that only the full moon could provide. I didn’t know which pack this kid was from, or why he’d separated from other elder and more experienced members of his extended family. I didn’t particularly care as long as he kept out of my way.
His coat was silver and it was shining brightly despite the darkness, making him more visible than he realised. When his buddies appeared, I saw why he was so confident: six werewolves were trailing him with lolling tongues and bright eyes, knocking into each other, giddy from their transformation. They stopped behind the youngster and simultaneously raised their heads and howled to the glowing round moon that was barely visible behind the clouds.
Shit: seven werewolves spoiling for a fight was the last thing I needed. They weren’t trying to hide and they were less than fifty metres from my oak tree; there was no chance that the dryads on guard at the main gate wouldn’t be drawn towards them.
If I left the relative safety of the oak tree, somebody would see me. I silently cursed the pack alpha who had allowed these idiots to roam unchecked; at least three of them looked old enough to know far better.
It was a small number of dickish wolves that forced the majority of Coldstream’s residents to hunker down indoors during the official full moon nights. Werewolves could generally control their baser urges regardless of the time of the month, but the inclination of less-disciplined wolves to whoop, holler and occasionally riot their way through the city’s streets could be off-putting. Usually they grew out of such behaviour; more mature werewolves simply enjoyed a night of furry transformation and the freedom to run. But there were exceptions to every rule.
It didn’t take long for the dryads to appear, seven suited-and-booted figures striding down the street towards the howling wolves, one dryad for each werewolf. Grove security knew what they were doing: any more would be seen by the wolves as an act of aggression, any less and the dryads might be viewed as weak. I didn’t have to check their expressions or read their minds to know that the dryads would want to move the wolves on without any bloodshed.
I double-checked the time, hoping this matter would be dealt with swiftly because I couldn’t afford a delay. That alder bark had to be stripped at midnight exactly if it was to be of any help to Keres. My plan was to enter the grove in cat form, but both groups would notice me swallowing a clump of fur from He Who Roams Wide and effecting my painful transformation so I needed them to leave as soon as possible.
The tallest dryad pulled slightly ahead and stopped. One by one, the werewolves ceased their howling and glanced in his direction. I noted with a sinking heart that the youngest wolf, who’d been leading the way, was baring his teeth. He was hoping for a fight.
The lead dryad didn’t smile, but when he spoke his tone was pleasant. ‘Good evening.’
A small female werewolf lunged towards him and snapped at the air. It was little more than a warning shot and the dryad didn’t flinch. He was far more experienced with this sort of confrontation than most of the werewolves who were now growling at him.
