Wolfsbane: 3 (Rebel Angels) Read Online Free PDF Page A

I listened in to the tour guide, who kept shooting me evil glares as if he knew I hadn’t paid but couldn’t quite prove it. He needn’t have thought I
was interested in his turgid lecture; it was just that he was telling his practically-dead bus party about my favourite painting and I never tired of that.
    I’m not geekishly keen on mediaeval art, but the man in that painting enchanted me. Old portraits always have a bland psychopathic look, but the Wolf of Kilrevin looked as if he meant it,
and his black eyes held a spark, as if he was laughing inwardly at some cruel joke. He fascinated me; more than that, he was my ally, my imaginary friend. I felt at home around him. That probably
said more about me than I’d like to hear, but at least it was a bit of cultural self-education.
    I wondered what the Wolf would think of his castle museum. I always thought he’d have preferred it pre-renovation, like in the old photo on the interactive display: a heap of sinister
stones around a courtyard of shadows, the loch beyond it a dark brooding menace. He’d have liked it in ruins, the way he’d left half the towns of the county. An anarchist, I thought. A
rebel. Fun to hang out with.
    ‘If the girl with the red hair could step back from the painting
please?
’
    Riled, I blew a slightly beery circle onto the painting’s glass, then scrubbed off the mist and the nonexistent dirt with a forefinger. ‘Do you mind? It’s strawberry
blonde.’
    Ostentatiously he turned his back on me. ‘While the current owner continues to hold Castle Cantray and its lands for his lifetime, he has placed it in trust for the nation and the
enjoyment of future generations. His desire is—’
    ‘A knighthood,’ I muttered.
    ‘—THAT THE FINE ART COLLECTION be seen by as many people as possible. On the west wall of the library, the massive triptych depicts the expulsion of the rebel angels from Paradise
and the creation of Hell and Purgatory, and has been attributed to Hieronymus Bosch, though most experts agree it is a particularly clever fake. Here we see a mortal man taking too much interest in
matters that do not concern him, so he is being dragged by one of Lucifer’s acolytes into Hell. In two pieces.’ He gave me a thin unpleasant smirk. ‘To the left of the triptych
you see the only surviving portrait of the castle’s original owner, the Wolf of Kilrevin.’
    Finally
. I didn’t care how often I heard this story.
    ‘Younger brother of the depraved Bishop of Kilrevin, the Wolf’s depredations of the area were legendary, but his evil doings came to an abrupt end on an April night in 1594, when he
and his men set out from a night’s drinking in a local tavern to return to this castle. They never reached home.’ His voice hushed. ‘His men, burnt to charcoal, were found next
morning by a local farmer. The body of the Wolf was never found, only the skeletal carcass of his horse. Local legend says the Devil himself dragged him screaming down to Hell.’
    See, that was what I called a spectacular exit. I liked the Wolf more and more each time. Still, the guide was far too fond of the sound of his own voice, so I hung back while the party moved
on. I should go home soon. Back to the house, I mean. I should grit my teeth and face Marty’s wandering eyes and fingers once again.
    I should. But I didn’t want to.
    I fantasised, as I always did, about the painting coming to life. The Wolf striding silently home behind me, sword on his back. Marty opening the door. His eyes and his mouth widening. The sword
hacking down and–
    One day, I thought: one day I’d be big and ugly and evil enough to get my revenge personally, and not in my head. One day. Not that it helped right now. When I was ten I’d been
physically terrified of Marty, but oddly enough, with four more years under my belt, I found him more of a threat. The danger he posed seemed less obvious. Subtler. Nastier.
    Two can play at nasty, of course.
    True, I