…”
“What?”
“It will bring you down by the neck.”
“Your otter is right, of course,” said the wolf, as it came up to me. “I will grant you nothing but the right of terror.”
“I am here to find Kizzy Brouviche, for good or ill.”
The wolf grinned as I spoke, as if I’d said something that amused it. “You will listen to me, Sabbie Dare. You will be shown directions. Follow, and you will discover.”
“Where will I find these directions?”
“There are many that will appear to you.” His tongue lolled from his muzzle and saliva drooled and pooled on the ground. “The place of blame. The place of absolution. The dark place. The place of no escape. You will find little in some, and confusion in others. In some you may be rewarded. Do not expect satisfaction from any answer.”
It was hard to process this. “Are all these to appear to me in journeys?”
“You must search the apparent world. But your spirits are there to guide you.”
“Do I know these places? Or do I have to seek them out? Should I look in the obvious places first?”
“That is shrewd. Now you show me your gums, as we wolves say.”
A single gypsy woman moved from the grey edges of my vision, dancing slow steps. The wolf gave her a disregarding glance and began snuffling in the undergrowth.
The woman raised her voice in song, such a high voice that it sounded like a child’s.
Come to me, Ancient Mother
Hear my singing
Hear my song,
Come to me, Ancient Mother …
When I looked back, the wolf had retrieved a stick and was trotting towards me with it in its mouth. It was panting with that curled grin that dogs have when they’re really enjoying themselves. The wolf dropped the stick at my feet. I picked it up, avoiding the drool that covered the middle. I raised it above my head, meaning to throw it for the wolf, but it leaped the length of its own body, its hind legs leaving the ground, and snapped it out of my hand. It laid the stick, with stony patience, on the ground again.
“Is this your gift, Wolf ?”
It did not reply. It loped to the edge of the clearing and sat with its muzzle pointing to the clouds. It let an eerie howl float into the night. Then its hind legs kicked out and it was gone.
The howl stayed with me for a long time, lifting every hair on my scalp.
_____
Mirela lived not far from the town centre. Her street was lined with rows of tall houses blackened from long-standing grime. I braked and Hermes came to a stop outside the number she’d given me. I chained my bike to the garden railings and climbed the three stone steps to her door. There was no bell, so I banged hard.
A lanky guy opened the door. When he spoke, his accent gave him away as Bulgarian.
“I’m after Mirela Brouviche.”
“Yeah. Upstairs. I show.” He slid his arm through mine, as if we were about to be announced at a ball, and tugged me up the spindle-bannistered stairway. He loomed over me, being one tread in front and taller to begin with.
“Don’t worry.” I shook him off. “I’ll find her.”
“You too pretty to be left alone.” He had a “nothing to lose” grin wrapped round his face. “Look—that door there.” He knocked on it using a sort of coded tattoo.
Some long seconds went by before I heard Mirela’s voice, muffled and monosyllabic.
My escort said something in Bulgarian. Almost instantly, Mirela came into view, but her face dropped when she saw me.
“Hi,” I began. “Sorry to barge in when you’re at home, but—”
“Home?” Her brow knotted. “This not home.” She faded into a room that smelt of musty washing. I followed, slamming the door on lanky lad. Three would definitely be a crowd.
It was only a little room. There was a double bed, a sink near the window, a chest of drawers littered with dirty crocks and a chair hung with discarded underwear.
She stood in front of me, the spark I’d seen in her eyes as she’d spoken at the door completely faded.
“You thought I might
“What?”
“It will bring you down by the neck.”
“Your otter is right, of course,” said the wolf, as it came up to me. “I will grant you nothing but the right of terror.”
“I am here to find Kizzy Brouviche, for good or ill.”
The wolf grinned as I spoke, as if I’d said something that amused it. “You will listen to me, Sabbie Dare. You will be shown directions. Follow, and you will discover.”
“Where will I find these directions?”
“There are many that will appear to you.” His tongue lolled from his muzzle and saliva drooled and pooled on the ground. “The place of blame. The place of absolution. The dark place. The place of no escape. You will find little in some, and confusion in others. In some you may be rewarded. Do not expect satisfaction from any answer.”
It was hard to process this. “Are all these to appear to me in journeys?”
“You must search the apparent world. But your spirits are there to guide you.”
“Do I know these places? Or do I have to seek them out? Should I look in the obvious places first?”
“That is shrewd. Now you show me your gums, as we wolves say.”
A single gypsy woman moved from the grey edges of my vision, dancing slow steps. The wolf gave her a disregarding glance and began snuffling in the undergrowth.
The woman raised her voice in song, such a high voice that it sounded like a child’s.
Come to me, Ancient Mother
Hear my singing
Hear my song,
Come to me, Ancient Mother …
When I looked back, the wolf had retrieved a stick and was trotting towards me with it in its mouth. It was panting with that curled grin that dogs have when they’re really enjoying themselves. The wolf dropped the stick at my feet. I picked it up, avoiding the drool that covered the middle. I raised it above my head, meaning to throw it for the wolf, but it leaped the length of its own body, its hind legs leaving the ground, and snapped it out of my hand. It laid the stick, with stony patience, on the ground again.
“Is this your gift, Wolf ?”
It did not reply. It loped to the edge of the clearing and sat with its muzzle pointing to the clouds. It let an eerie howl float into the night. Then its hind legs kicked out and it was gone.
The howl stayed with me for a long time, lifting every hair on my scalp.
_____
Mirela lived not far from the town centre. Her street was lined with rows of tall houses blackened from long-standing grime. I braked and Hermes came to a stop outside the number she’d given me. I chained my bike to the garden railings and climbed the three stone steps to her door. There was no bell, so I banged hard.
A lanky guy opened the door. When he spoke, his accent gave him away as Bulgarian.
“I’m after Mirela Brouviche.”
“Yeah. Upstairs. I show.” He slid his arm through mine, as if we were about to be announced at a ball, and tugged me up the spindle-bannistered stairway. He loomed over me, being one tread in front and taller to begin with.
“Don’t worry.” I shook him off. “I’ll find her.”
“You too pretty to be left alone.” He had a “nothing to lose” grin wrapped round his face. “Look—that door there.” He knocked on it using a sort of coded tattoo.
Some long seconds went by before I heard Mirela’s voice, muffled and monosyllabic.
My escort said something in Bulgarian. Almost instantly, Mirela came into view, but her face dropped when she saw me.
“Hi,” I began. “Sorry to barge in when you’re at home, but—”
“Home?” Her brow knotted. “This not home.” She faded into a room that smelt of musty washing. I followed, slamming the door on lanky lad. Three would definitely be a crowd.
It was only a little room. There was a double bed, a sink near the window, a chest of drawers littered with dirty crocks and a chair hung with discarded underwear.
She stood in front of me, the spark I’d seen in her eyes as she’d spoken at the door completely faded.
“You thought I might
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