Blood Beast (13 page)

I think of calling Dervish’s name but don’t. If we’re not alone, if we’re under attack, I don’t want to tip off our enemies. I don’t think the situation is that grave — the feeling of danger isn’t overwhelming — but it pays to be cautious.

I reach the wide, ornate staircase that links the three floors of the mansion. Darkness below. A dim light above, coming from the direction of Dervish’s study. I home in on it.

Moments later I’m standing outside the study door, which is ajar. Dervish normally shuts the door, but tonight he left it open, probably because of the heat. He’s talking on the phone. If the door had been shut, I couldn’t have heard what he was saying. Open like this, I can hear him perfectly.

“Yeah,” he grunts softly, “I know.” A pause. “I don’t think so. I didn’t explore it fully, but . . .” Another pause. “That’s why I said I don’t
think
so. I’ll go back tomorrow, check it thoroughly, and. . . Yes. No. No. They said there was definitely no one else there.” A pause. “Of course I can’t be certain. I wasn’t there. But I trust them. We’re safe. I’m as sure as I can be, without being one hundred percent.”

Dervish fidgets on his chair. I think he’s maybe heard a sound and is coming to check. I start to back away but then he speaks again.

“Just let him know what happened.” A pause. “Yes, I know the consequences if. . . Yes!” Snappish now. “I’m not a fool and I’m not new to this. In my opinion we’re safe. But only one person can confirm that. And he will, when he comes. But he can only do that once you get off the phone with me and pass on the message.” A pause. “I know he’s not easy to get in touch with. I know I’ll have to wait. But the sooner you start, the. . . ”

Silence. A long pause this time. I hear Dervish tapping the desk with his fingers. Finally, softly, he says, “He’s like my son.” I stiffen and move forward a few inches. “Of course, if the worst comes to. . . Yes, I know. I
know.
But I’m hoping . . .” Dervish sighs. Another long silence.

If I lean forward I can see him. There’s a black folder on the desk close to his hand.

“I have the numbers,” he says quietly. He stops tapping and draws the black folder closer to him. Doesn’t open it. “Yes, I can do it. I have the strength. If there’s no other. . . if it comes to it.”

Another silence, which Dervish breaks curtly with, “Just tell him. You do your job, let me worry about mine.”

He slams the phone down and gets up.

I race back to my room. Dive under the covers. Pull them up over my chest. Try to look like I’m sleeping.

Dervish returns. Checks that I’m OK. Sits in the chair again. I lie very still, eyes closed, listening intently. Finally, after several long minutes, there’s the sound of light snoring.

I sneak out of bed. Tiptoe past the dozing Dervish. Head back upstairs in the dark, not turning any lights on. I think I know what is in that black folder and why I woke with the sense of danger. But I want to make sure. I couldn’t see clearly. There’s a slim chance it’s something else.

The study. The door’s still open. I slip inside, gently shut the door, find the desk in the dark, and turn on one of the smaller lamps. The desktop lights up. The folder’s still there, close to the phone, black as the cave was.

I pick it up and cradle it in my hands, staring at the blank cover, knowing what I’ll find when I open it, praying to whatever gods there are that I’m wrong.

Then, with a snap, I flick the cover back. I find several pages, a handful of names, addresses, phone numbers, and e-mail addresses on each. And at the top of the first page, not in large letters, bold print, or underlined, but standing out anyway, as if they’d been burned into the paper and were still aflame, the two words that confirm all that I feared.

The Lambs.

Misery Mark II

I
spend the rest of the week off from school. Strangely enough, I’d rather go. It’s boring as hell hanging out at the house all the time, brooding, only Dervish for company. I want something to take my mind off Loch’s death and all the other stuff. I want to be with my friends, talk about the tragedy, put it behind me, get on with life. But it’s expected that I take the week off to recover, so I do.

I try hard not to think about the folder or the Lambs. Like Dervish said, the curse has been in our family a
long
time. Some parents kill their own children if they turn, but many can’t bring themselves to be executioners. Generations ago, the Lambs were formed to deal with that problem. The wealthier members of our clan founded and continue to fund them. It’s their job to kill teenagers who’ve turned into werewolves. They also experiment on some of the beasts, in the hope of unlocking the genetic secrets of the family curse and curing it.

Dervish doesn’t have much to do with the Lambs. He doesn’t trust them. He always planned to kill Bill-E or me himself if the worst came to pass — there’s nothing like the personal touch. But my uncle’s been through a lot these past few years. He looks as strong as ever, but looks can be deceiving. Maybe he doesn’t feel he has the strength to deal with me if I turn.

I don’t like the Lambs either. I’ve only met one of them, but she was a cold, creepy woman, and the whole idea of letting strangers put me down like a wild dog fills me with distaste. Dervish has made it clear in the past that he would put me out of my misery if such a drastic step was ever called for. I can understand why he might want to retract that promise now, but understanding doesn’t make it any easier to accept. As childish as it might seem, I feel like he’s betrayed me.

Bill-E manages to come over on Thursday, after Dervish argued hard on the phone for a couple of days to persuade Ma and Pa Spleen to let him out of the house. He looks shell-shocked. Pale and sickly. His lazy left eyelid flutters so much, it looks like worms are wriggling beneath the flesh. He doesn’t say much, which is unusual for Bill-E. Listens numbly while Dervish explains about the cave and why we had to move the body. Doesn’t seem too bothered by the threat of a demon invasion.

“I called Loch’s house,” Bill-E says when we’re alone in the TV room. I stare at him, not sure how to respond. I wanted to phone Reni all week but didn’t dare. “His father answered,” Bill-E continues. “I could tell he’d been crying. I wanted to say sorry, ask how they were, if there was anything I could do. But I couldn’t speak. My mouth dried up. In the end he put the phone down. He didn’t get angry. He just sounded sad.”

Bill-E’s staring off into space. The way this has hit him, you’d think it was his best friend who’d died, not a bully he didn’t like. But maybe that’s why it’s harder for him than me. Guilt’s mixed up with grief. I think he’s sorry for all the bad thoughts he had about Loch, the foul names he no doubt called him behind his back, the times he probably wished his tormentor was dead.

“I’m going back to school on Monday,” I tell Bill-E. “What about you?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“You should. It might help.”

“Gran and Grandad don’t want me to. They said I can stay at home as long as I want. Said they’d hire a private tutor.”

The meddlesome, selfish old buzzards! I probably shouldn’t be too hard on them. They’re old and lonely. Bill-E’s all they have. I can understand why they want him to themselves, locked up safe where they can fuss over him twenty-four/seven. But they should know better. He needs to be out in the real world, getting back to normal as soon as possible.

“I remember you telling me about when your mom died,” I say softly. Bill-E looks at me, eyes coming into focus. “Your gran and grandad kept you indoors for a year. You didn’t speak to anybody else. You fought with other kids who tried to talk to you.”

“Then I got whacked in the jaw by a boy in a store,” Bill-E laughs jerkily.

“And that set you straight.” I sit beside him. I think for a moment of putting an arm around him but decide against it — no need to go overboard. “Don’t cut yourself off from your friends, Bill-E.”

“Do I have any?” he asks sadly.

“You know you do,” I snap. “Maybe not as many as you wish, but there are plenty of people who like you and feel sorry for you, who’ll help you through this. But they can’t if you shut yourself off, if you let your grandparents smother you. Come back to school. Move on. You know it makes sense.”

“Loch can’t move on.” Bill-E sighs.

“No,” I agree stiffly. “He can’t. But
we
didn’t die in that cave. We’re alive. Loch isn’t, and that’s a wretched shame. But life goes on. Loch goes to a grave, we go back to school. That’s how it has to be.”

Bill-E nods slowly. “Are you going to the funeral?”

“I don’t want to, but I think I need to.”

“I can’t,” Bill-E whispers. “I can go back to school, but not. . . ”

“That’s OK,” I smile. “School will be torture enough.”

Bill-E returns the smile briefly, then stares off into space. “I can still hear his scream,” he mutters. “And I can see his face. His eyes. . . He didn’t know he was going to die. There wasn’t terror in his expression, just worry. And a bit of anger. He should have looked more terrified. If he’d known. . . ”

We sit there for hours after that, TV off, sniffling occasionally, but otherwise as silent as Loch must be.

Friday. The funeral. It’s horrible. And that’s all I’m saying about it.

Monday. School. Everyone staring and whispering. Kids scurry out of my way. It’s like the Grim Reaper’s walking next to me.

I spot the gang in one of our usual hangouts behind the cafeteria, taking shelter from the rain. Talk dries up as I approach. When I stop, they stare at me, I stare at them, and for a few long seconds nothing is said. Then Charlie breaks the silence with, “Loch must have been mad as hell, looking down on his funeral — he hated flowers. And having to wear a suit too!”

Everybody laughs.

“You’re an ass, Charlie,” Frank giggles.

“Don’t say anything like that in front of Reni,” Shannon warns him.

“Please,” he huffs. “I’m not a
total
jerk.”

The laughter fades. Frank clears his throat. “Was it really bad?”

“Crapville,” I say tightly.

“Did he say anything before he. . . you know?” Mary asks. I nod soberly. “His last words. . . I had to strain to hear them. . . he. . . ” I cough and everyone leans in close to listen. “He said. . . his voice a painful croak. . . fighting for breath. . . eyes locked on mine. . . ‘Mary Hayes has a face like a cow’s dirty rear.’”

Mary roars with fury and clubs me with her bag. The others laugh. Then the bell rings and we march into class. Back to normal — or as much as it can be.

A rumor at lunchtime. Misery Mauch has gone on sick leave. A mental breakdown. Some say he was overcome with grief when he heard about Loch, but that’s rubbish — Loch never went to see Misery. Apparently he’s been replaced by a woman. They say she’s quite young, though nobody’s had a good look at her yet — she’s been in Misery’s office most of the day.

I don’t see Bill-E during lunch. He’s with the new counselor. I hope she has more of a clue than old Misery. Bill-E needs professional help, not some overeager do-gooder. I’ll have to check her out, make sure she’s not going to mess him up even further. Grubbs Grady — rooter-out of frauds!

Halfway through geography, a freshman kid delivers a note to my teacher. The new counselor wants to see me. Guess I’ll get to give her the once-over sooner than I thought.

I’m kept waiting outside the office for a few minutes before I’m called in. The counselor is standing by the side of Misery’s desk when I enter, her back to me. When she turns round, I almost drop through the floor.

A slender woman of medium height, in her late thirties or early forties. Well dressed, more like a businesswoman than a teacher. Pretty but not gorgeous. Very little makeup. Pure white hair tied back in a ponytail. Extremely pale skin. Pinkish eyes. She’s an albino. But that’s not what knocks the wind out of my sails. It’s the fact that I know her and last saw her a year ago in Slawter frying the brains of a demon collaborator named Chuda Sool.

“Juni Swan!”
I cry.

“That’s Miss Swan to you, young man,” she says with a little smile. Then steps forward and wraps her arms around me, hugging me tight while I stand frozen, stunned, staring down at the top of her pale white orb of a head.

Juni was one of film producer Davida Haym’s assistants. A psychologist, it was her job to make sure the children on-set were being well treated. Dervish fell for her, and I think she had a thing for him too. I doubt the pair got beyond lovesick looks and holding hands, but I bet they would have if life hadn’t gone crazy on us all.

When hell hit the fan and the demons ran wild, Juni helped us break a hole through the barrier that Lord Loss had erected around the town. Without that gap, everyone would have perished. She was knocked out during the fighting and only recovered when the barrier had closed again, trapping hundreds of members of the cast and crew inside. Like the rest of us, she was helpless and had to stand by, watching and listening as the demons tortured and killed them.

She lost herself to fury and found that like me she could tap into the magical energy in the air. In a fit of rage she used this power to kill Chuda Sool, a demon collaborator who’d slipped through the gap. She regretted it afterwards. Snuck away in the night, leaving a note for Dervish saying she was confused and filled with sorrow. Said she might contact him someday if she straightened her head out, but not to expect to hear from her again.

Now here she is, filling in for Misery Mauch, looking a bit more strained than when I last saw her, but otherwise no different.

“Why are you here?” I gasp once I’ve recovered from my initial shock.
“How?”

“That’s what Billy asked.” She chuckles. We’re sitting in front of the desk, chairs close together. Juni’s holding my hands. “Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

“Of course. But it’s been so long. I never thought. . . And how did you wind up here, in our school? You’re not a guidance counselor. Are you?”

“Not exactly.” She sighs and lets go of my hands. “It’s not a long story or particularly complicated. My head was in a mess after our experiences on the film set.” She pauses. Her eyes make flickering contact with mine and I get the message — don’t mention the demons or the slaughter.
Please.
“It took me months to recover,” she continues, “but not as long as I thought. I realized early on that work would help, that I needed to be busy, that by helping others with their problems, I could help myself too.