by Di Toft
“More like he’s searching for the black palominos,” said Crescent, with a little sarcastic laugh. “You sure he’s looking for the kids?”
Natalie ignored her. “And Uncle Sergei asks: Would Nat and Woody like to come?”
Nat was thrilled. “I’d like that,” he said. “Woody?”
Woody nodded. He was thinking it might be an opportunity to hunt for his clan at the same time. “Gonna run, though, not ride.”
“What about me?” asked Crescent hotly. “I want to ride a horse.”
“You want to ride?” asked Natalie, looking doubtful. “I don’t —”
“You don’t what?” asked Crescent.
“You … well … you’re … a—” Natalie broke off, embarrassed.
“A werewolf?” asked Crescent, a dangerous glint in her eye.
“I think what Natalie’s trying to say,” said Nat diplomatically, “is that horses are scared of werewolves.”
“Woody doesn’t scare them,” protested Crescent.
“Woody isn’t a werewolf,” pointed out Nat. “He’s Wolven.”
“Whatever,” said Crescent rudely. “I’ll tell Sergei I’m coming.” She turned and looked directly at Natalie. “I love horses,” she said sweetly. “I just couldn’t manage a whole one.”
CHAPTER 18
FRIGHTENING THE HORSES
But Uncle Sergei had agreed with his nieces, and Crescent was still smarting at being left out of the search party the next morning. She had seethed all night at Del’s remarks, and was still in a black mood as she sat by the tiny stove in the Silver Lady. Nat was bundling himself in layers in preparation for the ride out in the freezing snow, while Woody played outside, making snow angels with his tail.
“It’s not fair,” said Crescent for the umpteenth time. “Stupid, stupid horses. It’s not like I’m gonna eat them.”
“They just hate werewolves,” Nat reminded her, smiling. He was secretly pleased that Crescent wasn’t coming. At best she was hard work, at her worst she was a bloody liability. “It’s not their fault,” he added, “they don’t like the smell.”
Nat winced as Crescent’s eyes blazed. He felt a bit guilty; it hadn’t been a very nice thing to say. And when Nat had cause to think about it afterward, much later on, after Crescent had done what she did, he felt that maybe it had been his fault.
Crescent had watched resentfully from the doorway of the Silver Lady as Nat, with Woody bounding along at his side, made his way across the fresh snow to join the others at the stables. She reached back to pull the door closed when a sound from inside the trailer made her hesitate. A thud—as though something heavy had fallen onto the floor. It was dark inside the little trailer, but Crescent’s werewolf eyes had no trouble picking out what had made the noise. She bent down and picked up the snow globe, which had apparently fallen from the cupboard above the sink. She shook it in delight, forgetting her bad mood. The snow inside the dome glittered and swirled, the tiny wintry scene disappearing momentarily, obliterated by the make-believe blizzard. Then her smile froze on her lips as the globe began to glow with a malevolent orange light. She tried to let go of it as it started to feel unpleasantly hot in her hand. To her horror and dismay, something was floating in the scummy liquid. Crescent started to whimper as the swirling shape formed itself into an eyeball; a living, blinking, staring bloodshot orb, which held her horrified orange gaze with its own.
Nat Carver was as nervous as a long-tailed wolf in a room full of rocking chairs. He took a deep breath and tried not to act as worried as he felt in front of Natalie and Scarlet. Like, how was he going to get on the horse, for a start? The one and only time he had ever ridden a horse was eight hundred years ago during the Third Crusade, but he thought it probably wasn’t a good idea to mention this to Scarlet or Natalie on the grounds that:
a. they wouldn’t believe him, or
b. they would think he was mental.
He wondered if it would all come back to him, like riding a bike, but then remembered he had been in the body of a Knight Templar at the time. So he, Nat Carver, actually had zero riding skills. As he waited to be dragged or pulled aboard one of the horses, a glossy black stallion with rippling muscles (but dark, kind-looking eyes), he hoped like mad that he wouldn’t make a fool of himself by falling off. Getting onto the horse would be one thing. Staying on it would be another. He envied Woody, who could manage on his own four legs, wishing he could run alongside, too, and not have to ride.
“Don’t worry.” Sergei winked as he gave Nat a leg up. “This is Rudi. He’s bombproof. He’ll look after you.”
Nat still felt dead out of place, like a pimple on top of a mountain, but Rudi stood as still as a rock, patiently waiting for Sergei to tighten his girth and adjust Nat’s stirrups. Scarlet and Natalie sat astride their own horses, chatting to each other, while Woody, keen to be off, was trotting up and down, yipping and chuffing, trying to hurry everyone up.
Nat sat down in the saddle and tried squeezing his legs. To his amazement it worked, and Rudi walked sedately forward. Nat gently pulled the reins and Rudi stopped immediately. Ha, I’ve still got it! Nat thought to himself, pleased.
Then without warning, Rudi started to tremble beneath him, his ears flattened back to his head, which he was tossing wildly. Confused, Nat tried to rein him in, then he heard familiar laughter. It was Crescent. She looked wild.
“Ride ’im, cowboy!” she shrieked raucously. “C’mon, Nat, you’ll have to do better than that!”
Rudi reacted to Crescent’s werewolf voice by giving a single, screaming whinny, kicking up his heels, and promptly jumping the nearest fence with Nat clinging terrified around his neck. Old, “dependable” Rudi had gone berserk—he may have been bombproof, but he sure wasn’t werewolf-proof. As the horse shot away, Nat was dimly aware of the openmouthed stares of his mum and dad, and Crescent screaming with maniacal laughter. The other three horses belted helter-skelter in three different directions, with Uncle Sergei in vain pursuit on foot. Nat tried tugging on Rudi’s reins, but the horse was too strong. Nat crouched low in the saddle and wove his frozen fingers into Rudi’s long black mane. He was almost blinded, the cold air making his eyes stream as they whizzed along. Opening one eye, he was relieved to see a streak of white alongside at stirrup height as Woody caught up with Rudi, trying to nudge him back to camp. But it was no good. The horse wasn’t having any of it. Rudi’s reaction to Crescent was terror, and his instincts were fight or flight. Apparently Rudi had chosen flight.
On and on he galloped, showing no sign of stopping. Nat clung on for dear life for what seemed like hours, frozen in an uncomfortable jockey position, not daring to move in case he fell, but comforted a bit to feel Woody was nearby.
Nat guessed they had traveled for at least three miles before Rudi showed any signs of stopping. At last, his flanks heaving, white lather on his chest, and plumes of condensed air streaming from his flaring nostrils, he came to a shuddering halt. Nat gratefully disentangled his raw fingers from the horse’s mane and shakily slid to the ground, his legs hardly holding him up.
Woody had been slightly ahead and was now trotting back through the snow.
“Crescent did that on purpose!” raged Nat when he’d got his breath back.
Woody chuffed and sat down.
“I can’t believe she did that,” said Nat, calming down a bit. “I could’ve been killed!”
Woody chuffed again, blinked, and made his supersonic jet noise as he yawned.
“Glad you agree,” said Nat, and forced a smile. Not wanting to spoil the day, he pushed all thoughts of Crescent to the back of his mind and wondered why it was taking him longer to get his breath back than Rudi and Woody, who had actually been running while he had just been riding. He supposed it was because he was still the most human. Nat stamped around a bit to warm himself up; it was getting colder. The watery sun had lost any of the warmth that it had at midday, and the plains were deserted. With the aid of his enhanced eyesight, Nat could
see as far as the sea, stretching beyond the salt plains and the marshes, the sea lavender softening the edges with a purple barrier. Rudi had come to rest at the top of a slight incline. Nearer, down toward the forest, Nat saw a rough path winding upward to a sort of plateau or steppe. And beyond, surrounded by an enormous frozen expanse of water, was an imposing building rather like a castle. Nat knew that French people called large castle-like houses chateaux, and this one looked as though it was made out of shiny black granite. It loomed darkly in sharp contrast to the glistening white of the ice, the outside showing no signs of life.
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 r
id 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?”
CHAPTER 19
THE BLACK CHATEAU
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.
