Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope (48 page)

Naftali broke off for a moment and a heavy silence descended over the group.

“That’s incredible,” spluttered Oksa, always the first to react. “So, if I understand correctly, the Werewalls used the Snufflers’ black mucus to walk through walls… but only Temistocles succeeded in shape-shifting, because of Coxo’s mucus, is that right?”

“Exactly, Oksa!” replied Naftali, looking stricken by the tense mood his story had created. “Temistocles and his descendants.”

“Naftali, some of us have a broad idea of the Werewalls’ history,”
commented
Abakum, looking serious. “But I don’t think this part of your
story can be found in Edefia’s archives, or anywhere else for that matter. So, please don’t be offended, but how do you know all this?”

“I know there have been many rumours about the Werewalls and your reactions when I uttered that name a while ago confirmed that some of you knew more about them than you wanted to say. But it’s true that no one among you can know the details I’ve just given you, because I got them from my mother, who was a reformed Werewall.”

“You mean?…” said Dragomira disbelievingly, not daring to ask the fateful question.

Naftali fixed his green eyes on her and, in a dejected voice, replied:

“Yes, Dragomira. I hate to say it, but my mother was once a Werewall.”

Dragomira gave a cry and everyone looked at Naftali with a mixture of amazement and horror. The Swedish giant’s face darkened with deep sadness.

“My mother was a chemist,” he continued bravely. “One day, she was contacted by the Werewalls and she joined their Secret Society, seduced by the idea of leaving Edefia. She drank the elixir and, in company with the other members, continued the research carried out since Temistocles. But the Master of the Werewalls wanted to produce greater quantities of the elixir in anticipation of what he believed was their imminent success. This unfortunately meant that the Diaphans had to revive their ancestral vice to provide the legendary black mucus. The early part of the twentieth century was a fairly turbulent period: a growing number of Edefians suddenly stopped loving the objects of their affection and the whole nation was concerned. The terrible history of the Diaphan Snufflers had been forgotten a long time ago—remember, it had
happened
eight centuries before. But everyone was looking for explanations. Increasingly pessimistic theories gradually created an atmosphere of doubt and fear throughout Edefia. Some people thought our world was on the decline, others that it had been cursed by the Ageless Ones. My mother couldn’t tolerate the cruelty of the Werewalls and their alliance with the Diaphans. She left the Secret Society under threat of seeing
her whole family massacred if she breathed a single word about them. Unfortunately, all this took place after my birth.”

“Why unfortunately?” asked Tugdual sharply.

“It’s because of the DNA, isn’t it?” broke in Oksa.

“Yes, because of the DNA,” confirmed Naftali sombrely. “Once the elixir is ingested, it’s passed down from generation to generation.”

“Wait a minute,” said Tugdual, interrupting him. “You’re telling us that you’re a Werewall?”

Everyone instantly looked dismayed. Abakum shut his eyes, as if
wanting
to be left alone with his own thoughts, and Dragomira immediately hid her face in her hands.

“The Werewall gene is in my blood,” continued Naftali. “And you can imagine how much I regret that.”

“So I’m a Werewall too then!” said Tugdual, sitting up straight in his armchair, his eyes shining. “That’s brilliant…”

“Yes,” admitted Naftali, looking demoralized. “Like the descendants of every member of the Secret Society, we possess the Werewall gene.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Dragomira. “But don’t worry, my friend, none of us can hold you responsible for mistakes made by your forebears. You’re first and foremost one of the Runaways, no one can dispute it. You’ve adequately proved your loyalty over the years.”

“Thanks, Dragomira,” murmured Naftali, touched by Baba Pollock’s words.

“But you were telling us earlier that you had a revelation to make about Orthon-McGraw,” she continued apprehensively. “What’s his connection with this story?”

“The connection is, Dragomira, that the last Master Werewall was none other than Ocious. So Orthon is a Werewall—and, what’s more, he’s descended from the founder, Temistocles, the man who invented human shape-shifting.”

O
KSA AND
G
US SLIPPED OUT A LITTLE LATER, LEAVING
the adults to chat in the living room. Their heads were buzzing with all they’d seen and heard and they couldn’t stop talking about the day’s revelations.

“I don’t know what’s more amazing,” said Gus, lying stretched out on Oksa’s bed. “What with Memory-Swipe, Thought-Adder, Pearls of Longevity, Diaphan Snufflers and Werewalls—we’re spoilt for choice!”

Oksa, on the other hand, was performing a few kung-fu moves,
pivoting
her body and slowly moving her outstretched hands.

“You’re not kidding,” she murmured, narrowing her eyes.

“May I come in?”

Tugdual had just poked his head around the half-open door and was watching Oksa with an intrigued expression.

“What are you doing, venerable lil’ Gracious?” he asked, smiling.

Her only reply was to throw her leg out abruptly in his direction as if to kick him in the ribs. Tugdual sidestepped her attack and, to her surprise, winked at her. He then joined Gus on the bed.

“So what do you reckon about today?” he said. “Mind-blowing or what?”

Oksa flopped into her big beanbag and looked at the two boys,
twisting
the bottom of her T-shirt around her index finger. Gus, her lifelong friend with so many qualities and hang-ups, her faithful companion…
and, beside him, Tugdual, a strange, gloomy and charismatic boy who made her heart leap every time she saw him.

“That’s just what we were saying before you showed up,” replied Gus in a dull voice, with just an undertone of aggression.

Oksa felt a surge of agitation at Gus’s reaction, as if a small acid bomb had exploded inside her and was eating its way through her heart. Tugdual propped himself up on one elbow and gazed at her with his steely blue eyes.

“I was totally blown away by the Lunatrix,” he said, without taking his eyes off Oksa. “To think he’s always known how to find Edefia! When it comes to discretion, he really takes the biscuit…”

“Your grandfather doesn’t do too badly in that respect either,” said Gus disdainfully, staring at the ceiling. “Waiting more than fifty years before you talk about your origins is a little more than discretion, isn’t it?”

“Well, everyone protects what they have to protect,” replied Tugdual enigmatically.

“What are you getting at?” Gus asked immediately, with an edge to his voice.

“Do you think your parents would’ve told you about their past, if Oksa hadn’t borne the Mark?” replied the sombre young man coldly.

“
Ouch! That will have hurt
,” thought Oksa. Although it was hard to defend Gus when he’d definitely been asking for it. What had got into him? He was usually so friendly… Gus, who was still stretched out on the bed, lost no time in replying.

“Anyway, it’s no worse than having blood tainted by sacrificed Goranovs and hormones taken from loads of people who’ve had their lives ruined,” he muttered belligerently. “When it comes to family secrets, I think we’re just about quits, aren’t we?”

“I guess so,” sighed Tugdual. “I don’t think there’s anybody on this planet who can control their origins… what about you, lil’ Gracious? What do you think about all this?”

“Me?”

Oksa felt a hot wave of embarrassment flood her whole body,
including
her cheeks, which turned scarlet. She felt as stupid as she’d done the day she’d chatted to Tugdual in the cemetery. It was so pathetic! She had to get a grip.

“I think the Lunatrix knows much more than he’s letting on,” she said, sounding confident despite her agitation. “I trust him, though, because I think he’ll know better than anybody else when it’s the right time to divulge his secrets. And that’s borne out by the fact that he won’t tell us anything about Edefia’s location until we’re ready.”

“You’re not entirely wrong,” agreed Tugdual. “But what would happen if he died?”

Oksa couldn’t help giving a small nervous laugh.

“You’re unreal! Why would you want him to die?”

“I don’t want him to die!” retorted Tugdual, sounding amused. “I’m just teasing, that’s all.”

“Odd sense of humour,” grumbled Gus.

“Anyway, the one big advantage of all these revelations is that the Runaways are now taking Orthon-McGraw seriously. I get the impression that everybody had totally underestimated him before.”

“I was the worst offender,” admitted Oksa. “Do you really think he can shape-shift?” she asked the boys.

“That would be horrendous,” was Gus’s reaction.

“I agree,” declared Tugdual. “He’d have a sizeable advantage over us all. I’ve just had a chat about it with my grandfather.”

“And what’s his take on this?” asked Oksa, fiddling nervously with the seam on her beanbag.

“He thinks the shape-shifting process may not work as well as it did in Temistocles’s day. But who knows? With Orthon-McGraw, I told you, we must be prepared for anything. Particularly the worst.”

“Good of you to put our minds at rest,” Gus couldn’t help saying.

“Don’t mention it,” retorted Tugdual with a scathing smile.

The ceasefire between Gus and Tugdual hadn’t lasted long. Now they were getting at each other again, Oksa grumbled to herself. Instinctively she decided to create a diversion by bringing her fizzy drink over from her desk. The glass floated across the room, watched inscrutably by Gus. He seemed too annoyed to appreciate the manoeuvre. Tugdual did nothing to lessen the boy’s resentment when he lit the small candle on the windowsill—with his fingertips and without moving from the bed. Two sets of eyes stared at the Young Gracious: Tugdual’s gaze knowing and mesmerizing, while Gus looked helpless and, more than that, intensely sad.

“So, Tugdual!” she exclaimed to shake off her confusion. “What does it feel like to be a Werewall?”

“I don’t know yet!” he admitted. “My grandfather caught me trying to walk through the kitchen wall just before, and I must admit I didn’t lose any time making a fool of myself.”

“Why?” asked Oksa.

“Because the only thing I managed to do was graze the tip of my nose.”

“Then you’re not a Werewall!” remarked Gus challengingly.

“Yes, I am,” retorted Tugdual. “I just have to practise. Oksa knows that better than I do: having a gift is one thing, but if you don’t do any preparation, it’s like having the ingredients without the recipe. So I’m going to slog away at it and we’ll revisit the subject later.”

“I can’t wait,” said Oksa.

“Nor can I, lil’ Gracious, nor can I.”

Saying that, he gave a long stretch and stood up to leave.

“I’m off. See you later.”

“See you, Tugdual,” said Oksa.

Gus maintained a stubborn silence until Tugdual’s footsteps
disappeared
downstairs.

“
Lil’ Gracious,
” he spluttered, clenching his fists. “I hate it when he says that.”

“I really like it,” murmured Oksa, gazing into space.

“W
HAT’S GOING ON
, L
UNATRIXES
? Y
OU’RE A VERY ODD
colour.”

Oksa had just got in after being escorted home from school by her father, who’d immediately gone out again to the restaurant. Her mother had been dozing in the living room, her wheelchair beside her and a phone within easy reach. Her face had looked drawn and Oksa hadn’t had the heart to wake her. She’d tiptoed across the hall and gone upstairs to her gran’s apartment. There she’d found the Lunatrixes in a state of violent alarm, their skin totally drained of colour—a sign of intense panic. And what she saw did little to reassure her: not only had the Lunatrixes become almost translucent, but their reddened eyes were spinning like tops in their big eye sockets. The Lunatrixa went to speak but, instead, she tottered, muttering incomprehensible words, and fainted, collapsing heavily on the rug. The Getorix, usually so quick to make fun of everyone, rushed over to help her without saying a word, which was worryingly out of character. Oksa knelt down by the poor Lunatrixa and gently lifted her head onto her lap. Scanning Dragomira’s apartment, she noticed that all the creatures had huddled in the corners of the room. As for the Goranov, its foliage was shaking as if blown by a high wind. The ultrasensitive plant battled with its mounting fear for
a few seconds, then all its leaves sagged limply, their weight pulling the stem down towards the floor.

“Has something happened? You must tell me!” Oksa told the pale Lunatrix and the Getorix nearby. “First of all, where’s Baba?”

“The Old Gracious? Oh, oh, oh,” wailed the Lunatrixa, who was barely conscious.

“Has something happened to her? Tell me!” shouted Oksa, her hands on her hips.

With a great deal of groaning and sighing, the Lunatrix finally launched into an explanation:

“Young Gracious, we should keep the secret buried inside our heads and our tongues dumb with loyalty, but seriousness transcends the
discretion
which is our habituation. Great danger keeps watch on the Old Gracious and she is meeting with it! The strength of the Graciouses is great, but the Felon has cunning. Cunning is an implement of immense danger! The Old Gracious has this knowledge, but we have the terrifying fear of inadequacy, the terrifying fear…”

Oksa frowned:

“You mean Baba is in danger? And what’s all this about a Felon?”

“The Felon Orthon-McGraw has given an invitation to the Old Gracious! He made telephonic communication an hour before the arrival of the Young Gracious, and your household staff, we creatures, had our ears pricked up. They received the comprehension of what the Felon said,” explained the Lunatrix, frantically twisting his crumpled ears.

“McGraw phoned Baba? Why?” broke in Oksa, perplexed.

“This is the truth! The Felon Orthon-McGraw wants to give the Old Gracious a secret about her brother.”

“But what has Leomido got to do with it?”

“The Felon Orthon-McGraw neglected the details… he put the weight on the brother of the Old Gracious and on an event full of critique.”

“Full of critique? What does that mean?” asked Oksa, perturbed.

“Critical, not full of critique, you blockhead!” sighed the Getorix in irritation.

“Mockery is filled with uselessness,” retorted the vexed Lunatrix, swinging his small angry fist into the Getorix’s face, knocking out the little creature, which crumpled to the floor.

“Hey!” intervened Oksa, picking up the stunned Getorix in her arms. “This really isn’t the time for fighting. Let me get this straight, Lunatrix: Baba received a phone call from McGraw, who asked her to come and see him because he has something to tell her about Leomido. Is that correct?”

“That is total correctness, Young Gracious,” confirmed the little
creature
. “The Old Gracious has been forgetful that her Lunatrix knows all the Gracious’s secrets. If the request had been made, her Lunatrix would have exposed the fraternal secret! But the Old Gracious has been preferring to hear it in the mouth of the Felon… our anxiety is voluminous, you have our assurance. We have the knowledge of Orthon when he was on the Inside and the very bad memory.”

“I understand… but we have to do something. You stay here and look after each other and there will be no fighting!” ordered Oksa, looking at her watch. “And above all—this is very important—if Baba and I aren’t back before 8 p.m., you will go and alert my mother, Lunatrix, and you’ll tell her everything you’ve just told me. Do you understand?”

The Lunatrix nodded frantically and took a small, tightly folded piece of paper from the pocket of his dungarees, which he then held out to Oksa.

“What’s this?”

“The localization of the Felon Orthon, my Young Gracious. He gave the positioning of his dwelling when he had the telephonic
communication
. Our Old Gracious is there!”

“Thanks, Lunatrix.”

Oksa patted him briefly on the head, turned on her heels and raced downstairs at top speed, mobile in hand.

“Gus! Get over here now. We’ve got a big problem.”

“If our parents discover that we sneaked out, they’ll be furious,” murmured Gus tensely. “We’re going to get it in the neck.”

“Tough!” said Oksa. “We don’t have a choice, anyway. We can’t leave Baba alone with McGraw.”

“Your gran’s insane going to his house without telling anyone, what was she thinking?”

“C’mon, let’s go! We’re wasting time.”

“What are we going to tell your mother?” asked Gus.

Oksa’s only reply was to drag her friend towards the living room, where Marie was now awake.

“Mum! Gus and I have an essay to write, and it’ll take us quite a while.”

“Okay, darling. I won’t disturb you, I understand.”

Then, instead of going up to her room, she grabbed Gus’s arm and opened the front door, screwing up her eyes and holding her breath. The two friends made their escape, heading for the nearest Tube station at a run.

“I hate this,” muttered Gus, shooting a disapproving look at Oksa. “It’s rotten having to lie like that to your mum…”

“It’s for a good cause, Gus,” replied the girl. “Don’t forget that Baba is in danger.”

Twenty minutes later, the two schoolmates, breathless and bathed in sweat, were hiding behind a car on the other side of the street and watching one of the posh houses in this peaceful neighbourhood a few miles from the city centre.

“You’re sure this is it?”

“Yes, look, number 12!”

The house opposite them was an old, three-storey building, identical in style to the others on the terraced street. A strip of sandstone rose
from the ground to the windows of the raised ground floor, which were adorned with heavy purple curtains. A wrought-iron gate opened onto a narrow lawn with a thick bush planted in the centre. Near it was the front door, sheltered by a small colonnaded porch.

“Have you got a plan?” whispered Gus to Oksa.

“Yes—we’ll start with this,” she replied, plunging her hand in her shoulder bag.

“Young Mistress,” said the Tumble-Bawler, nodding gently on the palm of Oksa’s hand. “A request? A mission? I’m at your service!”

“Listen to me, Tumble-Bawler, go over to the front door of the house opposite and see if it’s locked. Then come back to tell us, okay?”

“Okay, message received.”

And, like a large bumblebee, the Tumble-Bawler flew off. A few seconds later, he landed back on Oksa’s palm.

“The Tumble-Bawler of the Young Gracious reporting,” he exclaimed, swaying from right to left. “The door of that house is double-locked from the inside, Yale lock, tempered-steel bolt and security latch.”

Gus whistled softly, impressed by these technical details.

“You say it’s locked from the inside? How do you know?” asked Oksa.

“The key is in the lock, Young Mistress. Do you have another mission for me?”

“No, thank you, Tumble-Bawler.”

“So someone’s in the house. But that doesn’t tell us if we’re in the right place,” remarked Gus, uneasily.

“Wait a second!” retorted Oksa, showing him her Granok-Shooter.

She blew into the small tube and a Reticulata immediately emerged.

“Look!” said Oksa, pointing the jellyfish-magnifying glass at the
letterbox
, dashing Gus’s last hope. “You can make out the name
McGraw
… let’s have a look to see where we can get in.”

After examining the façade of the house through the jellyfish-
magnifying
glass, the two friends came to the dangerous conclusion that Oksa had to go in through the first-floor window, which didn’t look properly
closed, come downstairs and unlock the front door from the inside to let Gus in. The boy was clearly as keen to enter McGraw’s house as he’d been to enter the school crypt…

“Don’t look at me like that! We don’t have any choice—don’t be afraid, my Granok-Shooter is full to bursting,” said Oksa, winking at him. “And you’ve forgotten about this.”

Without taking her eyes off him, she rose about four inches above the ground.

“Vertiflying in the middle of the street? You don’t do things by halves, do you?”

“Hey, desperate times demand desperate measures. Or perhaps I should say desperate McGraws demand desperate means,” she added, with a nervous snort of laughter.

“Be careful all the same… I’ll keep watch while you get up there.”

It was now dusk and Oksa, making the most of the fading light, resolutely crossed the street. The wrought-iron gate gave a soft squeal as she pushed it open, which slightly dented her resolve, but she bravely kept going, even if she felt nowhere near as confident as she looked.
“Go on, Oksa, don’t stop now. You’re a ninja, don’t forget!”
she thought to motivate herself.

Something her father often said during their karate sessions popped into her head: “If you think you can do it, Oksa-san, then you can do it. Otherwise, forget it.” So before rising the height of the stone façade, she looked at the wall opposite her and allowed herself to assume a kung-fu pose, hands pressed together in front and her left leg stretched out behind. “
She is incorrigible… Absolutely incorrigible
,” thought Gus, raising his eyes to the sky with an expression that was as much amused as it was despairing. Two seconds later, Oksa was kneeling on the
first-floor
windowsill. She pushed on the frame and the window, which they’d thought wasn’t properly shut, swung open easily. She dived inside the house, as though swallowed up by the darkness.

“What on earth is she doing? Has she fallen asleep in McGraw’s bedroom or what?”

Gus was hopping up and down with impatience and anxiety. Once Oksa had vanished through the window, he’d quickly crossed the street and had knelt down on the pavement by the low wall. His attention riveted on the front door, he felt as if he’d been waiting for ages when his friend, eyes sparkling, finally opened the door from the inside.

“You took your time,” he muttered, hurrying inside.

“I took the opportunity to look over the house!” replied Oksa
impishly
. “C’mon, let’s go.”