The Twilight Circus (15 page)

Then someone coughed behind him and he yelped in surprise.

Spinning around, he was shocked to see Woody
standing there naked and pale blue with cold, disheveled and shivering.

“I don't s'pose you brought any spare cloves, did you?” asked Woody apologetically.

Nat stared at his friend in dismay. “What did you do that for?”

“Dunno,” said Woody glumly. “Took me by surprise.” “Aw nooo,” groaned Nat. “Try changing back again—you'll freeze!”

Woody closed his eyes and tried willing himself back to Wolven shape, but nothing happened. Not so much as a shimmer of a shift was coming through.

“Can I have some of your cloves, please?” asked Woody.

Nat frowned, muttering under his breath. Why was it that in werewolf movies they never showed the impractical side of shape-shifting, especially the nakedness part? He supposed that movie werewolves never had to scurry around looking for clothes, because that would take up the entire movie. But he was annoyed at himself. Since he and Woody had met, Nat had usually taken extra clothes in case of unscheduled shifts like this, but because Woody seemed to be more in control these days, he had forgotten.
True, Nat was dressed in about four layers, but since they had all calmed down he was feeling quite cold and couldn't wait to be back at the
Silver Lady
with a mug of his mum's special hot chocolate laced with whipped cream.

Still muttering, he began stripping off his layers, passing one lot to Woody, who gratefully put them on.

“You'll have to wrap the scarves around your feet,” said Nat. “We've only got one pair of boots between us.”

With the boys both dressed again, Woody got up behind Nat on Rudi, who seemed to have forgotten his panic. Nat winced as his tender behind hit the saddle again, and imagined it had started to glow red like a baboon's. His legs ached, too, and he didn't fancy galloping all the way back again, but if they were to get back to the circus by nightfall before the temperature plummeted again, they would have to get a move on.

“We could always ask for directions in there,” he said to Woody, pointing to the black house.

“
Brrr
,” Woody shivered. “Count me out, it looks creepy.”

Nat had to agree. There were no visible signs of life outside.
Maybe it's closed up for the winter
, he thought. He
was confident they were headed in the right direction, although he had had his eyes closed against the cold wind for most of the ride. Lately, it was as though a GPS had been fitted in his brain, another Wolven trait he could add to his growing list of cool stuff.

Riding Rudi down from the incline was sheltered and they found themselves nearer to the chateau than they had first thought. The wind had sculpted the plain into a kind of natural basin and the horse's iron-shod hooves clattered and echoed satisfyingly. Instead of one horse, it sounded like a whole cavalry rode the pass.

“OOOh oooooooh. Is there anybody here?” called Woody up to the chateau.

Bodyyyyyyyyy-heeeeeeere, -ere, -ere
? bounced back the echo.

“Heeeee-eeeeey,” shouted Nat. “Yoo-hoo!”

Heeeee-eeeeeeeey-hooooooooooooooooooooo
, yelled the echo.

“Poop!” yelled Woody.

Pooop, -oooop, -oooop
, came back the echo.

“Fartz!” yelled Woody.

Fartz, -artz, -artz
.

“No no no!” Nat laughed. “It's much better if you shout
a word with two syllables, like this.” He stood up in his stirrups, cupped his mouth with his hands, and shouted. “Butt-face!”

Bbbutt-face, -utt-face, -utt-face
, came the cheerful echo back.

The boys cracked up, their laughter echoing eerily around the plain.

“Jockstrap!” yelled Woody.

Jjjjjoooocckkkksssssttttttrrrraaappp
, obliged the echo.

The boys tried several more words—some of which were quite bad swearwords—but when the echoes had died away and it was silent again, it didn't seem quite so funny anymore. They stood in the shadow of the Black Chateau, which seemed to glower its disapproval at their juvenile behavior, and even Rudi had a long face.

“C'mon,” said Nat uneasily, suddenly feeling the cold, “let's go home.”

Saffi Besson thought she was still dreaming at first when she heard the shouts and laughter from below her tower prison. She had been dreaming about the dark-haired boy she had seen or
thought
she had seen down at the frozen
lake, just before her capture. Since then she had thought about him often, praying he hadn't been a figment of her imagination, praying he would get help and rescue her from the Black Chateau. But God hadn't been listening to her prayers. Saffi's time was near. Soon the vampire would force her to drink its blood. Then she, Saffi Besson, would become a full vampire.
Wait! There it was again—she wasn't dreaming
. She struggled painfully to her feet, trying to reach the window.
There were people down there—real people
! Her earlier escape and brief spell of freedom had come at a price, and her captor had shackled her in leg irons and heavy chains that chafed her ankles painfully. If she stretched, she could just reach the tiny turret window, but it was splayed inward and angled wrongly for her to be able to see anything properly. She thought or
imagined
she saw a black horse with two figures astride it, but it quickly went out of her line of vision. She was horrified to find that when she opened her mouth to shout, nothing came out except a thin mewling sound, which no one would ever hear. Her throat was red raw, her voice ruined by days of hopeless screaming for help. Silent tears streamed down her face when she finally realized that she
was beaten. There was nothing in the bare room to bang or make a noise with in an attempt to alert whoever was below the chateau. Saffi hung her head in defeat and felt for the gold crucifix her grandmother had given her. She remembered the scorn the vampire had shown when she had defiantly held up the cross to ward it off, like people in horror movies.

“You think you can stop me with that cheap trinket?” the vampire had sneered dismissively. But Saffi knew the little cross had powers; she could
feel
it, and she was sure it had kept the creature away from her. It felt strangely warm as she traced its comforting shape with her cold fingers. She took it off, marveling at the lovely warm glow, which threw a welcome beacon of light in the fading daylight.

“Hold on,” said Woody. “Can you hear that? I thought I heard something.”

“What?” asked Nat. “Like an echo?”

“Nope,” said Woody, cocking his head, “someone calling … there!”

Nat concentrated. He thought he could hear something, but it was so insubstantial, so indistinct, he couldn't
be sure. “It's the wind,” he said. “It makes all different sounds on the plain.”

They listened for a few minutes, but the sound Woody had heard, or thought he'd heard, didn't repeat itself again.

“Can we go home now?” asked Woody. “Or your mum and dad'll think we've disappeared, too.”

“Yea—hey! Wait up,” said Nat urgently, “what was
that
?”

Seconds earlier, Saffi had hauled herself up again to the tiny window and watched in wonder as the glowing crucifix changed from yellow to a searing white light. She held it up and pushed her arm out of the window as far as it would go, willing someone to notice it flashing white in the darkening shadows. If there really
were
people down there, they would see the crucifix arc slowly into the air, as it fell like a dying star to the ground.

“Did you see it?” demanded Nat, blinking furiously to get rid of the spots in front of his eyes. “It was like something was thrown out of the window, like a sparkler!”

Woody screwed up his eyes to where Nat pointed. The Black Chateau still looked as it had when they had first
spotted it, lonely and sinister with no outward signs of life.

“You think it came from that direction?” asked Woody.

“From the window,” said Nat, “from one of the tower windows—see? The small one on the left-hand side … that one.”

“It was probably the sun reflected in the window,” said Woody reasonably.

“No, don't think so, the sun's too low,” pointed out Nat, and scanned all the windows again. “What if … what if it's someone trying to signal us? What if it's one of those kids who've gone missing?”

Woody swallowed. “Please tell me we aren't gonna go and check it out?”

Nat didn't need any special Wolven powers to sense that Woody wasn't exactly jumping with joy at the prospect of meeting whoever lived inside the Black Chateau. In fact, it couldn't have been plainer if the words I DO NOT WANT TO GO NEAR THAT CREEPY HORRIBLE HOUSE had been tattooed across his forehead.

By contrast, Woody could tell from Nat's face it was a foregone conclusion.

He groaned. “We
are
gonna go and check it out, aren't we?”

Nat nodded apologetically.

“Maybe we better go back and get your dad or JC,” suggested Woody, “or better still, both of them.”

Nat thought for a second, then shook his head. “It'll take ages to ride back to camp and then back here again. I'll just knock on the door.”

“Are you
crazy
?” cried Woody. “What you gonna say? Oh, h'lo, we think you're holding someone prisoner in your creepy, horrible old house?”

“Oh,” said Nat, “I see what you mean. We'll sneak around the back. See if we can work out where the light was coming from.”

“But—” began Woody, but Nat had already slithered from Rudi's saddle and was busy leading him away so that he wouldn't be spotted. Woody helped him secure Rudi's reins to a tree and then they tiptoed across to the only cover they could find, a dead-looking bunch of shrub. There had been no further sounds or mysterious sparkle of white light. Nat was beginning to think he had imagined it, like the voice they both thought they had heard.

“Can
you
feel anything weird?” he asked Woody.

Woody shook his head. “Nope, but there's something funny about how quiet it all seems.
Too
quiet, you know?”

“Yeah,” agreed Nat, “like something's blocking us out.”

“Like what?” said Woody with a shiver.

“Someone, or something, that doesn't want us here,” said Nat grimly.

“I don't wanna walk up to the front,” whispered Woody,
as they approached the entrance. “There's a sort of archway over there; I bet that leads around the back.”

The back of the chateau was even less welcoming than the front. Nat wondered what sort of person would have such a totally miserable garden. There were some hideous statues of armless ladies with twisted, ugly faces, and all the trees looked as though someone had set fire to them. Their blackened branches raised up in cruel, spiky fingers, just like they were waiting to pinch or grab you as you walked by. Worst of all, there was a funny, burned smell about the place and both boys wrinkled their noses in disgust. Nat caught a strong whiff of old socks and sulfur.

“
Phwoo
, smells like fartz,” said Woody, catching Nat's thoughts and smothering a hysterical giggle.

“Shhhh,” hissed Nat, “I think we should—uh? What's that noise?”

Out of the silence came a high whining sound, almost like the dentist's drill. The type of annoying noise that burrows inside your ear, making the tiny hairs vibrate and then tunnels clean through your eardrum.

“
Don't like it
,” moaned Woody. “Think we should go now, please, Nat.
Please
?”

Nat felt thoroughly unnerved, and was just about to agree when —

“
OW
!” Woody yelped.

“What … what's the matter?” asked Nat in alarm.

Woody started hopping about on one leg and slapping his neck with his hand. “Ow, Nat …
Wha …? Geddit off me
, get it off …
ugh
!”

“Hold still,” said Nat. “Oh. My.
God
!”

“What?” yelped Woody, spooked even further by Nat's disgusted cry.

“It … it's some sort of insect,” said Nat. “Hang on, don't struggle, I'll grab it.”

Nat had to hop to keep time with Woody. They ended up doing a sort of Irish jig of disgust. Nat really didn't want to touch whatever it was on Woody's neck. It looked like an enormous mosquito. He remembered what his dad had said about them when they had arrived.
Forty different species, ten of which bite. OK, great. This monster must be a biter
.

His face working in disgust, Nat tried to dislodge the insect from Woody's neck. It took a while because his fingers were stiff with cold. It felt horrible,
hot
, almost, and
he could feel it actually swell in his fingers as it gorged on Woody's blood. Nat let go again.

“
Hurry up
,” moaned Woody. “Get it
offff
!”

Nat went in again—his forefinger and thumb poised for a pincer movement. He grasped the thing, which was firmly latched on to the side of Woody's neck, and pulled with all his might. It came off suddenly with a wet popping noise. Nat threw it away in disgust.

“UUUUUUUrghh!” The two boys danced about in horror as the giant insect lay on its back, its loathsome, spindly legs waving in the air, its heavy body bloated with Woody's blood.

“That's
disgusting
.” Nat shuddered.

“What is it?” asked Woody, rubbing his neck. “Is it a fly?”

“I think it's a mosquito,” said Nat, walking over to a rock, where the thing was still trying to right itself.

“Look,” he said, staring at it in a sort of horrified glee, “it's so full of your blood, it can't get off its back, let alone fly!” Then he stamped on it. The creature exploded as it split, and the snow was stained with bright red poppies of Woody's blood.