The Twilight Circus

by Di Toft

  “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.

  Nat glanced at Woody’s shocked expression and started to grin. Then they both started to laugh weakly, Woody with the huge relief of not having the giant bug attached to his neck, and Nat because he had been the one to have to touch its horrible, bloated body. When they were done, Woody let Nat examine his neck. The mosquito had bitten him twice, but the tiny puncture wounds were almost gone as Woody’s Wolven skin started to repair itself.

  Then Woody put his hand on Nat’s arm, his head cocked to one side as though he was listening to something.

  “It’s not over,” said Woody, his eyes flashing topaz, “I think that was just a scout. Listen.”

  But Nat could hear it already. This was a thousand times stronger than the dentist-drill whine of the single giant mosquito. It was the kind of noise a swarm of giant mosquitoes might make.

  “C’mon,” shouted Woody, pushing Nat in front of him, “quick!”

  As Nat ran, Woody puuushed with all his might, combining his will to shift with the sudden overload of powerful adrenaline shooting like liquid fire through his veins. Within seconds, he was shaking off his ruined clothes as they ripped and split from his powerful Wolven body and he shot past Nat, overtaking him on four legs. The boy and the Wolven raced over to Rudi, who was spooked by the noise and trying to pull his bridle off in an effort to get away from the cloud of angry insects. Nat pulled desperately with frozen fingers at the knot, trying to calm the horse, who in his terror was rearing away from him and pulling the knot tighter, while all the time the sound was getting louder. Then, through the angry droning he heard a distinct voice growl in his brain: GET ON!

  Woody! Nat didn’t need to be told twice. He vaulted onto Rudi’s back like he had been doing it all his life and saw Woody’s sharp white teeth flash as they sheared through the leather reins. Nat nearly fell off backward with the momentum as the horse suddenly became free from its tether, then Rudi followed Woody at a breakneck gallop back down the incline. Roughly thirty seconds later the air behind them appeared thick and black with the six-legged, winged bloodsuckers. Pushing Rudi faster, Nat was galloping neck and neck with Woody as they fled from the cloud, which had formed itself into the uncanny shape of a huge shadowy bat.

  From the tiny window in her tower cell, Saffi had heard the peculiar whining drone and guessed her last chance of being saved had been cruelly snatched away. The voices she had heard—or thought she had heard—had faded away and the loss was almost too great for Saffi to bear. She watched the shadows as the sun disappeared and dusk settled in the tower room. A strange calm settled on her as she waited for the vampire to appear, realizing that without her cross she was doomed.

  With every day and every hour that passed, Scale’s eye, now released from its hateful cupboard, could see out into the wide blue yonder —farther than the plastic snow globe, through the flimsy walls of the Silver Lady and out onto the wonderful things he had conjured. He felt like the conductor of an enormous orchestra, where the instruments were finely tuned and played pitch perfect. In fact, Scale was so beside himself with delight that he could almost see himself sitting next to himself. Oh, things were turning out just dandy. He capered around his cave like a demented dervish, singing in a tuneless growl. He had freed the eye from its prison by using telekinesis—another splendid party trick he had learned from the demon (whose name sounded like a scream), and now, to add to the vampire and her hive, he had the female wolf in his thrall. And, best of all, Carver and the Wolven were clueless about his clever manipulations. He had been right to play with them. How had he ever been worried about two ickle bitty babies?

  CHAPTER 20

  BITTEN

  If Nat hadn’t been concentrating on not falling off and breaking every bone in his body by clinging on to Rudi’s mane, he would have been awed by Woody’s speed and cunning. He had streaked through the snow ahead of Rudi like white lightning and if he sensed at any time that the horse was tiring, he would circle back and snap at his heels. With the freezing wind searing the insides of his nose and lungs like cold fire as they careered along the plain, Nat’s brain was invaded by a string of jumbled thoughts from Woody, mixing with his own to form a string of scrambled words inside his head.

  Rrrruuuuuuuuuuun! Rrrruuuuuuuuun! Rrrr
uuuuuuun! Ouuuttaheeeere!

  It helped to keep thinking it, Woody running in front, Nat riding behind, each urging the other on with the shared rhythm of the words. There was no way they could lead a deadly cloud of mosquitoes with a serious case of the munchies back to camp and endanger everyone else. With the bitten reins trailing out of his reach, Nat relied on his legs to steer the horse after Woody into the forest, his eyes screwed shut, as Rudi weaved and zigzagged, dodging the spiky branches of the trees. As they galloped away from the angry swarm, Nat prayed Rudi wouldn’t run out of steam and, though he wore three scarves around his neck, his flesh prickled and crawled at the thought that any second one of the bloodsuckers would latch on to his bare skin and spike him with that horrible proboscis thing….

  But suddenly, the noise stopped. It didn’t trail off, it just ended. Nat risked a look behind. There was nothing there, just trees and shadows. And blessed silence.

  It was dusk when an exhausted, sore, and dispirited Nat led Rudi through the forbidden town of Marais, with Woody loping easily along beside him. They had found their way back from the forest, but if they were to be back at camp before dark, it was quicker to go through the town. Nat felt invisible as people hurried passed him, wrapped up against the cold, rushing to be home before full dark. The darkening streets were depressing, and as people bustled by, Nat felt the charged atmosphere clinging to him like a heavy coat. It was catching, this somber mood. A smartly dressed woman carrying a few Christmas packages on the other side of the road paused to stare at him.

  “Boy,” she called out in English, perhaps recognizing him as one of the Twilighters, “go home quickly.” Then she hurried off into the gloomy alley.

  They passed rows of shops and houses that would normally be buzzing with Christmas activity and decked out with Christmas lights. Instead, the townspeople had nervously locked their doors and shuttered their windows against the onslaught of night. Nat noticed that some of the locals had made a bit of an effort to decorate their doors and windows. Pale wreaths of cream flowers were hung on the doors and garlands of the same creamy color were draped at each window and fastened across the shutters like washed-out imitations of the Christmas decorations Nat’s parents had back home in England. Nat felt glad when they had left the town and now headed for the gardian settlement and the camp. It was only when they got close to the strange-shaped gardian houses with the bulls’ horns on the doors that he realized that the same pale garlands and wreaths hanging on the doors, and even from the bulls horns, were made of hundreds of garlic bulbs.

  “Couldn’t have been mosquitoes,” said Fish later, after Nat had told her about their adventure that afternoon. “They’re out of season.”

  “Try telling that to the one that sucked half a bucket of blood out of Woody’s neck,” said Nat, shuddering. “It was weird, though, Fish. The way they suddenly disappeared when we were safely out of the way. It’s as though something conjured them up just to scare us.”

  “I’ve heard of stranger things,” said Fish softly. “More likely they were conjured up to stop you investigating the voice you thought you heard.”

  “Who could do that?” asked Nat, puzzled.

  “Think about it,” said Fish, running her fingers through her hair, “who would have the powers to block Wolven telepathy?”

  “Well …,” said Nat hesitantly, “a vampire might?” “Or,” said Fish, “a certain wolf with demonic energy?” “Scale,” said Nat in a flat voice. “But that’s impossible. Even if he is still alive somehow, how could he know where we are, or what we’re doing?”

  Woody was growling, his fur bristling. He appeared enormous in the small confines of Fish’s trailer, and for the first time Fish saw the true power of a Wolven. Woody’s eyes glowed orange with anger, his lip lifting in a snarl.

  “There was something else,” remembered Nat. “There was a light, or something shiny and bright, that flashed from one of the towers.”

  “What was it?” asked Fish. “It could be important.”

  “We don’t know,” admitted Nat, “we didn’t get to find out. The mosquitoes came, and we got out quick.”

  “Still, you thought you’d investigate.” Fish grinned. “We’ll make NightShift operatives of you yet.”

  Woody growled and chuffed as he lay down by Fish’s feet.

  “Though I don’t think Woody’s too into that suggestion,” Fish remarked fondly. Having experienced Woody in both his forms, Fish, like everyone else (especially girls, Nat noticed), couldn’t stop herself from wanting to pet him. As they talked, Nat watched Alex Fish unconsciously fiddling with the long fur on Woody’s neck; it was as though he was giving her strength by the reassuring solidness of him, like a big furry touchstone. All Fish knew was that Woody had an aura about him, something that made her feel safe and kind of glad … glad in her heart, even when they were facing unspeakable danger.

  “According to Teebo Bon’s investigation, all the properties within a ten-mile radius have been thoroughly searched more than once,” said Fish, consulting her notes. “This, er … Black Chateau is actually derelict—no one has lived there for years. I’ve done a bit of rooting around in the town’s archives and Marais seems to have had more than its fair share of people going missing. Although people had different ideas about what had happened to them, most suspected vampire activity. It was hushed up as much as possible because the main suspect was a very important person.”

  “And you think it’s the same one come back from the undead?” Nat shuddered.

  Fish nodded eagerly. “I reckon Maccabee’s right. If the vampire has been reanimated somehow, it’s taking young people because it needs their blood to stay young.”

  “And it keeps them alive,” said Nat excitedly. “It wouldn’t be much point making them into vampires or draining them dry because it would need them alive.”

  “Whatever drove you away from the Black Castle—or whatever it’s called—is responsible,” said Fish urgently. “We need to get the sheriff dude to search again. If the vampire hasn’t forced the kids to drink its blood, they’ll still be pure.”

  “You think there’s still hope?” asked Nat.

  “I think it’s time to let the sheriff know,” replied Fish.

  “Teebo Bon is the mayor, not the sheriff,” pointed out Nat.

  “Makes no odds.” She grinned. “He’s got a gun and a great big hat—seems all the same to me.”

  Agent Fish’s plan would have worked a treat, but for two major developments. First, the weather worsened. The air temperature overnight had dropped to freezing again, and the wind chill was too dangerous to leave camp. The second devastating occurrence was to affect the mayor: the affable but dedicated Teebo Bon. He had received a visitor: a scaly batlike apparition that had sucked his blood for the third night in a row, and whom he, Teebo, had been bewitched to invite inside without any idea of what was happening.

  He sat on the end of his bed and rubbed the stubble on his chin absentmindedly. He hadn’t slept properly for weeks, and when he did manage to get a few hours, he was plagued by nightmares so terrible he would wake up shouting and waving his arms around as though to fight off an attack from something with hungry red eyes and bad breath. He had gone off his food, and even his wife, a formidable nag and the bane of his life, was worried about him. She told him he was fading before her very eyes. Teebo hauled himself from the bed and wobbled into the bathroom. He surveyed his face in the mirror and inspected his appearance. His face, normally weathered and cheerful, looked haggard, pale, and unkempt. He stared for a while and imagined his wife had been right. He really did look as though he was fading away. For a few seconds, his reflection wavered in the mirror and he could have sworn he could see straight through it, as though his face had faded almost to the point of disappearing. Teebo groaned and reached automatically for his shaving kit. He halfheartedly lathered his chin and dragged the razor across his face, making that lopsided shaving face that all men (and some ladies) do.

 
; Ouch! He leaned closer into the mirror and inspected the site where it had hurt. He turned his head slightly to the left to get a better look and what he saw there made his heart pump twice as fast. He could hear the blood pounding its way through his body, his ears, his temples. There were two puncture wounds on his neck. He touched them in horrified wonder, wincing at the tender red area around the marks. The holes looked nasty, as though they were infected with something toxic. He had been so careful. Teebo Bon suddenly felt very old, and very tired. The light was hurting his eyes, and as he climbed into his bed he made sure he covered his face.

  Later that night, Madame Besson, mother of the missing Saffi, put out the stockings for Papa Noël to leave presents. She knew the best present would be for Saffi to come home safe and well. With a heavy heart, she went up the stairs to bed again. She dreaded the day, preferring to sleep through it, feeling strangely alert at night. She lay on her bed, wondering if she would have the same dream she had had for three nights running, that her daughter Saffi was outside, waiting for her to open the door and invite her in out of the cold. But Madame Besson had been frightened of her dream daughter, for she had a new smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and when she opened her mouth Madame Besson could see her teeth were long and pointed.

  Still more children were visited by pretty shiny lights as they lay in their warm beds. It wasn’t until they unlocked their windows and invited the pretty lights inside their bedrooms that they realized they had invited a black nightmare into their room, a nightmare that carried them away from their safe beds, away on the freezing night air to meet with a hungry monster.