Death's Shadow

 

I don't like the crawlway. The cramped space and lack of light remind me of the cave. I feel my insides tighten. But I bite down hard on my fear and scuttle after Dervish, Meera bringing up the rear. As reluctant as I am to enter, I'll take a dark, tight space over gunfire and werewolves any day.

Dervish reaches the window at the end of the tunnel. It's semi-circular, with thick stained glass. He can see out, but it would be hard for anybody outside to see in. He observes in silence. Ten seconds pass. Twenty. Thirty. I can still hear the howls of the werewolves and splintering wood. The door can't hold much longer. They might not be able to enter the protected study, but when they realise we're not there, they'll come hunting for us. What's Dervish waiting for?

Finally he sighs and turns-there's just enough space. I start to ask a question, but he puts a finger to his lips and shakes his head. I nod bitterly. There must be people with guns outside, or more werewolves. Either way, we can't go via the window. We'll have to try sneaking through the house.

We backtrack past the study, then follow the crawlway round to the right. A short distance later, Dervish removes a panel and slips through the hole in the ceiling beneath us. He helps me down, grabbing my legs and easing me to the floor. Some of his memories flow into me-mostly about Bill-E-but the contact is brief.

We're in a short corridor on the second floor of the house, close to the hall of portraits, which is filled with paintings and photographs of dead family members, most of whom turned into werewolves. Soft growling sounds coming from that direction. Dervish listens for a moment, looks around uneasily, then starts towards the hall. Meera and I dutifully follow.

The hall is a mess of shattered frames, ripped paintings and photos. In the middle of it all squats a werewolf. He's roughly tearing a large portrait to shreds, stuffing bits of canvas into his mouth, chewing and spitting the pieces out. He's urinated over some of the paintings, either marking his territory or showing undue disdain for the Grady clan.

The werewolf doesn't spot us until we're almost upon him. Then Dervish steps on a piece of frame hidden beneath scraps of paper. It snaps and the werewolf's head shoots up. His growl deepens and his lips split into a vicious sneer. Using his powerful legs, he leaps at us, howling as he attacks. He slams into Dervish and drives him to the floor.

No time to use my axe. I yelp and grab the werewolf's jaw, trying to keep his teeth from closing on Dervish's unprotected throat. Jumbled, fragmented memories shoot from the werewolf's fevered brain into mine. What I learn disturbs me, but I don't dwell on it-I have more urgent matters to deal with. The werewolf's teeth are only a couple of centimetres from Dervish's jugular vein.

I prepare a spell to force shut the werewolf's mouth, but Meera's faster than me. She takes quick aim, then brains the werewolf with her mace. The werewolf's head snaps to the left. His eyelids flicker. Then he slumps over Dervish and it's simple enough to slide him off.

Dervish is furious when he rises. "I should have seen that one coming a mile away," he snarls, wiping blood from his left arm where the werewolf gouged him.

"You're getting old and slow," Meera taunts him. "What now?"

"The cellar," Dervish says.

"We're going to cage ourselves in and get drunk?" she frowns.

"It connects with the secret cellar," Dervish says impatiently. "That's a place of magic. We can seal the doors and keep our assailants out. Unless they-"

He's interrupted by howls from the floor above. The three werewolves have either broken through the door or heard the howl of the one we knocked out. They're coming. We leap over the unconscious animal and flee for the staircase.

Racing down the stairs, the werewolves no more than a handful of seconds behind. If there are more on the ground floor, or snipers with a clear view, we'll be easy targets.

But luck is with us. We hit the ground without encountering any enemies. The howls and screams of the werewolves pollute the air. It sounds like they're poised to drag us down at any moment, but we can't risk looking back to check.

Dervish hits the light switches as he passes, turning them off, to hide us from the snipers. He hurries to the cellar door, barges through, waits for Meera and me to streak past, then slams it shut and locks it. A werewolf batters into it less than two seconds later. This door isn't as sturdy as the one in the study. It won't delay them long.

We spill down the steps to the cellar, automatic lights flickering on as we hit the bottom. This is where Dervish stores his priceless wine collection. Rack after rack of vintage bottles. Behind one of the racks is a hidden exit and a tunnel leading to a second, secret, cellar.

Dervish cuts through the maze of wine racks, angling for the exit, but we're not even halfway when the door above gives and the werewolves roar down the stairs. We won't make it. And even if we get to the rack ahead of them, the panels won't close in time. They'll be able to surge into the tunnel after us. Not much room for fighting in there.

"You go," I pant, laying aside my axe and turning to face the werewolves.

"Are you mad?" Meera shouts.

"Go!" I yell, grabbing two bottles from a rack. "I'll follow."

Meera starts to argue but Dervish grabs her and shoves her ahead of him. He nods at me to wish me luck, then flees.

I face the onrushing werewolves. I have a plan. Sort of. Not a very good one, but if it works, it'll buy us some time. If it doesn't, the werewolves will soon be tucking into Bec burgers.

The wine racks form narrow corridors. Wide enough for one person, but two's tight and three's a squeeze. When the werewolves see me alone, they go wild and rush forward, getting entangled with each other in the inadequate space. When the dominant male bucks off the others, I toss the bottles at him, then turn and run. I make a left at the end of the corridor, leading the werewolves away from Dervish and Meera-and the only way out.

Running through the cellar. I've managed to keep ahead of the werewolves. If they were human, with full control of their senses, it would be a simple matter for them to ensnare me. A pair could simply circle around and wait for me at the end of any of the narrow corridors. The third could chase me towards the others in about half a minute. Game over.

But these beasts work by instinct. They can't think far ahead. When they have the scent of prey, they can only focus on the chase. So they plough along behind me, slipping and sliding in their haste. I grab bottles of wine as I run, lobbing them at the werewolves. They don't do much damage but every bit helps.

I run into a dead end. I'd been expecting it. Part of the plan. I stop half a metre from the wall, turn and wait. The werewolves gibber with delight when they see I'm trapped. They inch forward, clawed fingers flexing, drool dripping from their fangs.

I've been working on the spell since I started running. There's not much more magic here than upstairs, but hopefully the thin traces will be enough. I wait until the lead werewolf is a metre away, then unleash the spell at the bottles of wine in the racks around me. "Fly!" I scream.

The bottles shake in their holders. The werewolves pause warily. The cork of one bottle pops out. Wine sprays from the neck, showering the female. She cringes, then laughs hoarsely, sucks wine from the hairs on her arms and licks her lips.

A few more corks pop. The werewolves are being showered with first-rate wine. They wipe it from their faces, scowling but unharmed, and nudge forward again. I start to think my plan has failed, then...

Dozens of bottles shoot off the racks and slam into the werewolves. The monsters howl with pain and fall to the floor in protective huddles. Glass shatters over and around them, pounding their shoulders, backs and heads. Cuts open and bones break. One bottle smashes most of the fangs in the lesser male's mouth.

I make my move, not waiting for the shower of glass to cease. I scurry up the wine rack to my left, using it as a makeshift ladder. I crouch on top, set my hands against the ceiling and strain with my feet, trying to topple the rack. If it was full of bottles, I couldn't budge it. But it's mostly empty and it rocks nicely beneath me. I sway it backwards and forwards a couple of times, then send it toppling over the werewolves, further confusing, enraging and delaying them.

I leap to the neighbouring rack as the first goes over, then hop to the next and the next, like a frog. There's not much space between the tops of the racks and the ceiling. An adult couldn't manoeuvre up here, but there's just enough room for a wee Bec of a girl like me.

The screams of the werewolves are almost deafening in the confines of the cellar. But to my ears, hopping ever further away from them, it's like music. The bottles and rack won't stall the werewolves for long, but I don't need much time.

Seconds later I come to the exit. It's normally hidden behind what looks like an ordinary wine rack. Dervish has opened it and the two halves of the rack gape wide. I can see the secret corridor and Meera lurking within it. Leaping off the rack, I make a neat landing and snap to my feet like a gymnast finishing a complicated routine.

"Cute," Dervish grunts, then smiles and waves me through. I push past and he hurries after me. The mechanical rack slides shut behind us, cutting out the cries of the werewolves and sheltering us from the bloodthirsty beasts. We share a grin of relief, then hurry down the corridor to the safety of the second cellar.

A minute later we arrive at a large, dark door. It has a gold ring handle. Dervish tugs it open and we slip through. It's dark inside.

"Give me a moment," Dervish says, moving ahead of us, leaving the door open for illumination. "There are candles and I have matches. This will be the brightest room in the universe in a matter of-"

The door slams shut. A werewolf howls. Meera and I are knocked apart by something hard and hairy. Dervish cries out in alarm. There's the sound of a table being knocked over. Scuffling noises. The werewolf's teeth snap. Meera is yelling Dervish's name. I hear her scrabbling around, searching for the mace which she must have dropped when we were knocked apart.

I'm calm. There's magic in the air here. Old-time magic. Not exactly like it was when I first walked the Earth, but similar. I fill with power. The fingers on my left hand flex, then those on my right. Standing, I draw in more energy and ask for-no, demand light.

A ball of bright flame bursts into life overhead. The werewolf screeches and covers its face with a hairy arm. Its eyes are more sensitive than ours-perfect for seeing in the dark. But that strength is now its weakness.

As Dervish huffs and puffs, trying to wriggle out from beneath the werewolf, I wave a contemptuous hand at the beast. It flies clear of him and crashes into the wall. The werewolf whines and tries to rise. I start to unleash a word of magic designed to rip it into a hundred pieces. Then I recall what I learnt in the hall of portraits. Instead of killing it, I send the beast to sleep, drawing the shades of slumber across its eyes as simply as I'd draw curtains across a window. As it falls, I flick a wrist at it and the werewolf slides sideways and out through an open door, the one it must have entered through before we arrived.

Dervish sits up and looks at the door. "We have to shut it," he groans, staggering to his feet. "Block it off before..."

At a gesture from me, the door closes smoothly. Blue fire runs around the rim, sealing it shut. I do the same with the rim of the door we came through. "Sorted," I grunt. "Balor himself couldn't get through those now."

Dervish and Meera gawp at me and I smile self-consciously. "Well, I was a priestess."

Dervish starts to chuckle. Meera giggles. Within seconds we're laughing like clowns. I've seen this many times before. Near-death experiences often leave a person crying or laughing hysterically.

"I wish I could have seen you go to work on those werewolves," Meera crows. "We could hear it, but we couldn't see."

"It's just a pity you couldn't do it some other way," Dervish sighs. "Some of my finest bottles were stored back there."

"You can't be serious!" Meera shouts.

"A Disciple can always be replaced," Dervish mutters, "but a few of those bottles were the last of their vintage."

My smile starts to fade, but then Dervish winks at me. "Only kidding. You were great." He wipes sweat and blood from his forehead, then coughs. "I'm beat. Meera was right-I'm getting old and slow. I need to sit down. I feel..."

Dervish's face blanches. His lips go tight and his eyes bulge. He staggers back a step, gasps for air, then collapses. Meera screams his name and rushes to his side.

"What is it?" I cry, whirling around, testing the air for traces of a spell being cast against us.

"Dervish?" Meera asks, holding his arms steady as he thrashes weakly on the floor.

"Who's doing this?" I bellow. "I can't sense anybody. I don't know what sort of a spell they're using."

"Quiet," Meera says. She tugs her cardigan off and slides it under Dervish's head. His face has turned as grey as his beard. His eyelids are closed. His chest is rising and falling roughly.

"But the spell! I must-"

"There isn't any spell," Meera says softly, stroking the tufts of hair at the sides of Dervish's head. She's studying him with warm sadness, like a mother nursing a seriously ill baby.

"Then what is it?" I stumble towards her, stopping short of Dervish's twitching feet. "What's wrong with him?"

Meera looks up. There's fear in her eyes, but it isn't fear of demons, werewolves or magic. "He's had a heart attack," she says.