Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
C lose to 700,000 souls lived in Coldstream, so there were plenty of places to shop. The open-air market by the River Tweed was by far my favourite, even when it was blowing a hoolie and there was sideways hail. The ground there managed to be both sludgy and slippery, the aroma was often less than appetising, and you had to keep one eye on the murky depths of the river because there were numerous sharp-teethed creatures living in the water who’d take any opportunity to steal your shopping right out of your hands. Or grab a small child.
However, the market was also one of the few places in Coldstream that boasted a wide-open view. The river stretched in both directions, and the swathes of farmland, trees and small isolated buildings across the water and the border with England provided a treat for eyes used to crowded streets and higgledy-piggledy stone buildings.
It was true that not all the stallholders were friendly – in fact, some made a point of being as rude as possible – but they were honest to a fault. I’ve never heard of any of them trying to rip off a punter. For me, there was also considerable comfort in familiarity; I knew who these people were and I’d never come across any of them during my previous line of work, which counted for a lot.
I dropped off my bag of rose cuttings and spent a minute or two perusing the hedge-witch’s wares before buying a small bottle of enchanted repellent that would keep the cats out of Dave’s garden. It would also discourage birds, mice and insects but Dave wasn’t interested in maintaining a healthy ecosystem so I figured that didn’t matter.
Next I loped over to the baker and managed to snag his last seeded loaf together with several tasty-looking pastries that I suspected Nick would appreciate. By the time I was at the butcher’s stall and considering the merits of a venison haunch, the two werewolves had caught up to me – and they were no longer interested in keeping their distance.
‘I suppose you think you’re clever,’ the female hissed in my left ear before taking my arm.
The male appeared on my right and took hold of my other arm; they were clearly planning to frogmarch me out of the market. It was rare for anyone to be so brash and open with their violent intentions in such a public place.
The butcher, a muscular troll called Natasha with a penchant for swirling enchanted tattoos, sensed she was on the verge of losing a customer and took umbrage at the werewolves’ presence. ‘Oi!’ she bellowed. ‘Leave that poor woman alone!’
I almost grinned. Poor woman. That was me.
‘This doesn’t concern you,’ the male wolf growled. His voice was so deep and croaky that he sounded as if he’d swallowed a frog. I decided that Ribbit would be a good name for him.
I glanced at his lankier female companion. She had pursed her lips in an extraordinary duck-like fashion so I christened her Quack .
Natasha was not going to be intimidated by a pair of werewolves. She placed her hands on her hips and glared at them. ‘You’re not regulars! You can’t storm in here and harass people! You’ve got no right.’
I wondered whether that meant she’d have looked on their tactics more benevolently if they attended the market more frequently; anything was possible where Natasha was concerned.
I widened my eyes and affected a tremor. ‘I’ve not done anything wrong,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m only doing my weekly shopping.’
Several of the other stallholders were eyeing us with interest. I spotted two young witches carefully lower their shopping bags to the ground and roll up their sleeves. This could end badly for the werewolves but fortunately, Ribbit and Quack had come to the same conclusion. They exchanged glances over my head and dropped their hands.
‘We meant no disrespect,’ Ribbit croaked.
Quack nodded. ‘We only want to talk to her.’ She paused then let her black coat fall open to reveal the silver insignia emblazoned on her chest.
I stiffened. I didn’t need to examine the design to know what it meant: only one werewolf pack dared to use silver to advertise its family name. It wasn’t that the colour was dangerous but by using it, even in embroidery, they were declaring they weren’t afraid of anything. Nothing would stop them from getting what they wanted.
Shocked whispers rippled through the crowd. ‘MacTire. They’re MacTire wolves.’
Arse . Nick could have mentioned which pack his uncle hailed from – then again, I could have asked. It hadn’t occurred to me it would be the MacTires and that changed things considerably .
I cleared my throat. ‘Let me finish my shopping,’ I said. ‘I have to get some meat, then grab some veggies at the grocer’s. Oh, and I’ll pick up some fish for my cats at the fishmonger. I’ll meet you for coffee at Black’s.’ I was going to have to talk to the werewolves sooner or later so it might as well be in a comfortable chair whilst I drank the best brew in Coldstream.
Suspicion clouded Ribbit’s face. ‘Twenty minutes,’ I told him and looked at Quack. ‘I give you my word.’
There was another sharp intake of breath from the onlookers. Metaphorically, I’d dropped to the ground and displayed my belly; then again, I was only a middle-aged woman with no weapons who was wearing old clothes covered in cat hair. My submission couldn’t be that surprising.
‘Fine,’ Quack said. ‘Twenty minutes.’ She bared her teeth. ‘Or you belong to us.’
Unsurprisingly, I was ushered to the front of the queue at the other stalls; nobody wanted to be the reason why I didn’t show up at Black’s on time. If I hadn’t had other concerns, I’d have been touched.
I presented myself at the homely coffee shop with several minutes to spare. As soon as I walked through the doors, I was pointed towards the back where Quack and Ribbit were waiting. From their relaxed body language, they’d decided that the hard part was over and they’d won. The smart thing to do would be to give them their victory but unfortunately I wasn’t always smart. Besides, something about Nick and his pain had tugged at my heart strings.
I sat opposite them and leaned forward. ‘I did as you asked. I’m here. What do you want? ’
They gave matching smirks. ‘There’s no need to sound so antagonistic, Ms McCafferty,’ Quack said.
Ribbit nodded. ‘Yes. Ms Kit McCafferty. We know who you are.’
I managed to avoid rolling my eyes; they knew my name but they had no idea who I was.
‘Why don’t you order a drink and then we’ll discuss the matter properly?’ Ribbit went on. ‘Some chamomile tea, perhaps, to calm your nerves?’
I decided to play to type even though I really wanted a coffee. ‘Sure.’
Within seconds an anxious waitress had placed the tea in front of me. I took a sip, scalded my lips and returned the cup to the table. ‘So?’ I asked. ‘What do you want to talk to me about?’
Ribbit spoke first in a soothing, patronising tone. ‘We know you’re a nice lady and you don’t mean any harm. You collect cats and you help strays. That’s good of you.’
Quack took up the thread. ‘But there’s one stray that you’re going to have to let go.’
I widened my eyes. ‘Not She Who Loves Sunbeams? Please – she’s been with me for years. She’s an old cat, she doesn’t deserve to be out on the streets.’
It took her a full moment to appreciate I was being disingenuous. MacTire werewolves were supposed to be intelligent but I was starting to revise that opinion.
‘We’re talking about the boy,’ she said icily. ‘He can’t stay with you. You need to go home and tell him you’ve changed your mind. Tell him he has to leave.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Tell him you need the space for more cats,’ Ribbit said.
‘Or that you’re allergic to werewolves,’ Quack suggested. ‘We don’t really care. Just make sure he’s out of that flat by nightfall.’
My bottom lip jutted out. ‘There are a lot of scary creatures on the streets at night. He might get hurt.’
‘He won’t,’ Ribbit assured me. ‘We’re looking after him. Nobody will go near him.’
‘He’s not your concern, Ms McCafferty,’ Quack added. ‘You don’t have to worry about him.’ On cue, they both grinned at me; it wasn’t particularly reassuring.
I picked up my cup and took another tentative sip. ‘I’m afraid that I still can’t do as you ask. I told him he could stay. He can leave any time of his own free will but I won’t kick him out.’
Ribbit reached into his coat and took out a bulging wallet. ‘Five grand,’ he said. ‘In cash.’
It felt like he was low-balling me. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘But no.’
Quack nudged him. ‘She deserves more than that for her trouble,’ she chided, before upping the ante. ‘Ten grand.’
My expression didn’t alter. ‘That’s very generous of you.’ Ribbit smiled again and started to take out the money. I shook my head. ‘I’m not agreeing. I don’t want your money.’
‘Spend it on some cat food. It must be expensive keeping all those kitties happy. It’ll go a long way towards looking after them.’
‘They’re already happy.’ I eyed the cup of tea and decided to abandon my efforts to drink it. I took a small white handkerchief from my pocket and dabbed my mouth. ‘I’m not taking your money. And the boy can stay as long as he wants.’
They weren’t smiling now. ‘How much?’ Quack asked with a hint of a snarl. ‘How much will it take? Because you don’t want to make enemies of us, Ms McCafferty.’
I stood up. ‘No,’ I said simply. ‘I don’t want to do that.’ I nodded. ‘Have a good day.’ And with that, I strolled out of the coffee shop.
Naturally they followed, nipping at my heels so closely that I could feel their hot breath on the back of my neck. I headed away from both the market and my home; there were a few quiet streets within walking distance where we could bring this nasty business to a head.
‘Don’t do anything stupid, Ms McCafferty,’ Quack said.
Ribbit agreed. ‘Help yourself by helping us. The boy means nothing to you.’
I turned into a narrow alley and walked past a series of brightly coloured posters advertising events for the upcoming winter solstice when all Coldstream residents were granted a public holiday. ‘And you mean nothing to him,’ I said pleasantly. ‘You ought to accept that.’
The words were barely out of my mouth when one of the werewolves slammed a fist hard into the spot between my shoulder blades. My money was on Ribbit rather than Quack – he seemed the type of guy to hit someone when their back was turned.
I was sent flying and landed face first onto the dirty cobbles, and it was certainly Ribbit’s hand that grabbed a hank of my hair and yanked my head upwards to spit words in my ear. ‘You should have taken the money.’
Probably.
I jerked my leg up and kicked his knee hard enough to make him release his grip on my hair and howl. I sprang upwards and spun in mid-air to face him. My ribs were bruised from my fall and I was already panting. When had I gotten so out of shape and unused to pain?
I grimaced, then threw up a hand to block a blow from Quack. She snarled and threw another punch. I ducked and narrowly missed it. My reflexes definitely weren’t what they used to be, and that was galling.
‘I think you dislocated my knee, you bitch!’ Ribbit shrieked.
I raised an eyebrow: it wasn’t dislocated, it was probably barely bruised. I raised my leg and kicked his other knee and this time there was a sickening pop. That one was dislocated.
He collapsed, a writhing, howling pile of whine. One down. One to go.
Quack was staring at me as if I were a psychopath. I had plenty of empathy for my fellow man – or woman – but if you came at me from behind you had to take the consequences. It was rude. With that thought in mind, I eyed her height. This would hurt, but it would be worth it.
Most people think a headbutt involves smashing your forehead into your opponent’s forehead, but an effective headbutt requires you use the strongest part of your skull and slam it into the weakest part of your opponent’s face. Depending on your species, that’s usually your crown and their nose. The move wouldn’t have served me well if it had been a full moon and Quack had been in wolf form, but at that moment it was all I needed. And I was shorter than her, which gave me a useful advantage.
I launched my head forward with all the force I could muster and broke her nose. All in a day’s work. Maybe I wasn’t so rusty after all.
Bright-red blood streamed down her face, but Quack was stronger than her friend; despite the pain and obvious humiliation, she wasn’t ready to quit. Her eyes were full of venom – and she’d located a knife from somewhere in the folds of her jacket.
She meant business. She jabbed it forward, slicing the blade through the air with unerring speed. I was caught off-guard and the tip caught my cheek, piercing my flesh. It hurt more than it should have done and I wondered briefly if the metal was coated in poison. It was the sort of daft thing I’d expect from inexperienced fighters like these two, although I reckoned I deserved to die horribly after allowing myself to be cut with such ease .
I sighed, snapped forward and curled my hand around her wrist, squeezing it tight. Quack cried out and dropped the knife. There: that was better.
I bent to pick it up so I could examine the blade for signs of a poisonous coating. As I did, I caught sight of two slitted eyes watching me from behind a pile of damp cardboard boxes. It was She Who Hisses. She must have been hanging around the market searching for easy pickings around the fishmonger’s stall.
I kneed Quack in the stomach so that she collapsed beside Ribbit, then I pocketed the knife and moved away from the moaning werewolves. It was time to coax a kitty. Perhaps this day wouldn’t turn out to be so pathetically shite after all.