by Di Toft
“Dear one.” The Wolven clan spoke as one. He was home.
Deep inside Crescent’s soul lurked the mind of Lucas Scale, and it hurt her. The viselike grip was back. Crescent’s will was no match for the evil Scale’s; his manipulating presence inside her head was steering her away from reason and sanity. Even when the boar had gored Salim and Woody had licked his wounds clean, she had known she would betray them all. Scale wanted her to spy on Woody, to follow him and find his clan. Only then would he let go of her mind.
Crescent had her chance. The old boar was brought down at last and Otis, Ramone, and Salim had been too busy ripping it to shreds to notice her skulk away. She tracked Woody swiftly and skillfully, staying far enough back for the freezing wind to hide her scent. She followed his trail, stopping at a deserted clearing in the forest. There were two sets of tracks in the snow! Putting her head down, she sniffed. One set was Woody’s, but whose was the other? She stared at the sheet of frozen water sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight. Crescent loped toward it, her slim body squeezing through the narrow opening easily. She closed her eyes against the pain of her brain being gripped by another. When they opened again, they belonged to Lucas Scale.
CHAPTER 27
T.R.A.P.P.E.D.
Agent Alex Fish felt the stirrings of unease. Before she had left NightShift HQ, she had brushed up on all reported cases of vampirism archived in the creepy underground vaults in Middle Temple Lane, and re-examined the first and, up until this afternoon, the only vampire hive she had exterminated. In all the cases she had read about, any victims of vampire attacks recovered fully so long as the head vampire was slain. In the case of the Threadneedle Street Hive, this had been proven when some builders had been attacked. As soon as the hive was really and truly dead (not just undead), the victims made a swift and full recovery. NightShift agent Jack Tully had followed it up and reported the improvement was almost immediate.
But when Del Underhill failed to show up at the celebratory dinner to rejoice in Christmas and the extermination of the hive, the nagging doubt she had felt earlier turned into gut-wrenching feelings of dread. Fish had hoped to give Del the best Christmas present ever, by slaughtering the hive and giving him his life back.
She knocked gently on the door of the satyrs’ trailer. When Paddy answered her knock, she knew by the expression on his face that things had not improved. Following him into the cozy depths, she had to wait for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.
“He can’t stand the light,” explained Paddy. “It hurts his eyes, so I keep it dark.”
Fish went over to the bunk where Del lay. His white face shone unnaturally in the dim light, and his long, black lashes contrasted starkly with his pallid skin. Fish’s heart sank, because if anything, the poor satyr looked as though he was getting worse. His skin was clammy and his breathing shallow and wheezy. Every now and then he would moan in his sleep: a lost, despairing sound. Careful not to awaken him, Fish gently examined the spiteful wound on his neck and was horrified to see it still looked as poisonous as it had at first bite. Then Paddy reported that his brother still couldn’t eat because food made him sick, and he couldn’t tolerate the tiniest chink of light peeping through the curtains. Alex Fish’s fears were real.
Alex Fish knew that being a successful NightShift operative was all about having a backup plan. Looking back, she admitted it had all been too easy. Maybe there was another hive hiding somewhere else. She shuddered at the thought. How many were there? The head vampire wouldn’t be as accessible as the rest of the hive; she should have known that. Closing her books thoughtfully, a brilliant but very risky plan formed in her mind.
When Nat found out that Fish’s cunning plan involved communicating with the dead, he was slightly uncomfortable. But Fish was firm.
“So, like, how many people d’you need for a séance?” asked Nat as they went in search of likely candidates. Fish admitted she didn’t actually know, but thought that four would be an even number. Natalie and Scarlet were her top choices to join them, as they were sensible enough not to mess about and give “negative energy” to the proceedings. It wasn’t much use asking anyone else; the grown-ups would be horrified and the cryptids and shape-shifters would be too scared to take part, as they were frightened of spirits. Fish had the devil of a job persuading Scarlet and Natalie to leave the celebrations until she shared her fears with them. She had given Nat a list of stuff they needed for the séance and she had set up a table in the black circus tent, onto which she placed three candles, a pack of Lexicon cards with the alphabet, and an empty glass.
“Have you done this before?” asked Scarlet, watching Fish’s face glare orange in the momentary light of the match as she lit the candles.
“Loads of times,” said Fish airily. “It’s better than the Internet.”
“But why are we trying to contact the dead?” asked Nat. “How can they help us find the head vampire?”
“We’re going to try to contact the half dead, the revenants,” explained Fish patiently, “beings who were once human and who have served the vampire for one or more centuries. When they are too old to be of any use, they can’t die. They remain in purgatory, neither dead nor alive. Only when the head vampire is killed once and for all can their souls be released.”
“That’s awful,” cried Scarlet.
“Is … is it safe to contact the half dead?” asked Natalie, shivering slightly.
Fish polished her spectacles with the tiny piece of cloth that fastidious people keep in their spectacle cases specially for polishing.
“As long as we are respectful and don’t mess about, it’s safe,” assured Fish, pushing her specs firmly into position. “All we’re doing is connecting with half lives on another frequency, but just to be on the safe side, if anything unsettling happens, Natalie, you turn the lights on and I’ll blow out the candles, signifying the end of the séance.”
“Whoa, hang on,” said Nat nervously, “what d’you mean by ‘unsettling’?”
“You’ll know if it happens,” said Fish grimly.
As they sat down, Fish placed the Lexicon cards around the table and the glass tumbler in the center. Every letter of the alphabet was laid out in a circle with “Yes” and “No” at strategic points.
“Now, place the index finger of your right hand on the top of the glass,” instructed Fish, “and good luck, everyone.”
Nat pressed his lips together firmly. Although he was a bit scared, he still thought séances belonged in stupid old horror movies or to old ladies trying to find out which loose floorboard their dead husband’s money was under. The thought of Fish chatting to dead people seemed more ridiculous than frightening.
Agent Fish closed her eyes and drew a deep breath.
“Dear revenants of the undead, we respectfully ask that you honor us with your presence this Christmas evening,” she intoned, her eyes still closed. “We respectfully ask for your help with an urgent matter of life and death. Is there anybody there?”
Nat had been prepared to go along with it until that point. A loud snort of laughter shot out of his mouth and nose, followed by a fit of explosive giggles from Natalie and Scarlet. Fish snapped her eyes open and gave them her most withering of withering looks, but it was a good two minutes before she had their complete attention again.
“What?” She glowered at them. “What’s so funny?”
Nat was wiping away the tears of hysteria. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled, trying to smother another gale of laughter that threatened to bubble up. “It was just when you said the last bit, it … well … it was really funny.”
Fish gave him another narrow-eyed look of disgust. “What was? The bit where I ask is there anybody there?”
Natalie and Scarlet covered their faces, their bodies trembling convulsively as they tried to stop laughing again.
“Oh, don’t … don’t say it again,” cried Nat weakly. “It … it just sounds so … corny!’”
He knew it wasn’t professional or big
or clever to laugh at such an important moment, but he just couldn’t help it. It was like listening to a really duff line out of a rubbish movie.
“That’s the recommended dialogue in a properly conducted séance,” said Fish grumpily. “We’ll have to start again now.”
They placed their fingers on the glass again, and this time when Fish asked the question, no one laughed. Nat made himself concentrate and banished all other thoughts from his mind.
“Is there anyone there?” repeated Fish. Nothing, rien, nada, zilch. The glass tumbler stayed innocently in the center of the table.
They sat like that for some minutes. Nat wondered if Scarlet and Natalie felt as daft as he did. His head filled up with random thoughts as he tried to brain-jack Scarlet. Her aura was the deep purple color of concentration. Good for her! Then he tensed. He could hear other voices in his head, faint at first, then increasing in volume until the noise became massive, as if the voices were competing with each other, clamoring to be heard. A sickly taste came into his mouth: a familiar, sweet taste of roses.
Then, incredibly, the glass began to move. Trying to focus on it, Nat looked at the others. Fish had a feverish smile of triumph on her lips, while Scarlet and Natalie looked as though they were ready to get up and run away as fast as they could. The glass moved smoothly across the table toward Nat and came to a brief stop at the T. It journeyed back into the middle of the table and set off again toward Nat but dipped slightly to his right to stop at the R. It moved backward and forward, to and fro, five more times until it had spelled the word:
T. R. A. P. P. E. D.
A ringing sound like a glass makes when you rub a wet finger around the rim filled Nat’s brain and Ow, it hurt! He was no longer aware of the other three sitting at the table. All he was aware of was the rich, cloying taste of roses, which was so overpowering it made him want to vomit. Oh no! Not again, thought Nat in panic, knowing what was coming next. The ringing sound had reached an almost unbearable pitch and, paired with the smell of roses, Nat felt as though he was going to pass out. And then there was nothing but freezing darkness and he felt a horrible twisting sensation in his stomach, as though he was being sucked out of the world by an industrial-strength vacuum cleaner.
When Nat opened his eyes, he knew immediately what had happened, but it didn’t stop him from reeling in shock. He was no longer in the black tent; Fish, Scarlet, and Natalie had all disappeared. Above him, the darkening night sky sparkled with frosty vapors of cold air, framing the glittering moon and stars. In the near distance loomed the unwelcoming silhouette of the Black Chateau, where he and Woody had fled the giant mosquitoes.
He had gone over, gone backward in time! It had happened to him twice before. Once, when Iona de Gourney wanted to show him something important, and the other when Lucas Scale had almost killed him. Iona had told him that at times of great stress, worlds sometimes collide and get mixed up. Well yeah, Nat thought to himself, you could call this a stressful moment. I’ve gone from the vampire-infested South of France back in time to who knows when? Without a coat. In the dead of winter. I’m freakin’ freezing!
The Black Chateau looked dead. There were no lights shining in the windows, or any other sign of life. Nat hugged himself for warmth, his teeth chattering, trying to make sense of this latest unwelcome adventure. Iona de Gourney had warned him the potion could repeat itself, and Fish’s séance must have been the trigger. And the fact that he had been catapulted into the Salinas plains near to the Black Chateau could only mean he was about to be shown something interesting. Or terrifying.
Darkness came and a young moon looked down on him, huge in the clear black sky. Nat saw in horror that the dark and light areas on the surface of the moon seemed to shimmer for a moment, rearranging themselves to form the shape of a skull.
I’m not seeing that, Nat told himself firmly. That didn’t happen.
He tried Woody again on the two-way thing; if ever he needed a friend, it was now. Then he was struck by an awful thought. If he’d gone back in time, even a little bit, he wouldn’t be able to contact Woody by the two-way thing. It would be impossible. This was bad. He decided that, whatever happened, he couldn’t stay out on the plain—he would freeze. He set out for the chateau, thinking perhaps he could find an outhouse or somewhere to spend the night. At least it had stopped snowing for now.
Suddenly, a movement caught his keen Wolven eyes. Someone was running down the rock-strewn path leading from the front of the chateau, the same one that he and Woody had fled down, escaping from the swarm of bloodsucking skeeters! Instinctively, Nat glanced around for somewhere to hide himself. From the safety of a tiny copse of trees he watched as a slim girl—he was certain it was a girl—ran down the path. Nat could feel her panic as she ran, her fair hair shining in the light of the young moon. She ran as if the very devil was after her! He searched for her mind in the darkness, and felt she was running for her life. Whatever she ran from would soon be awake. Nat half ran, half fell down into the incline to meet her, but he promptly lost sight of her. He tried to ignore the voices that had returned inside his head, the same voices he had heard when Fish had conducted the séance. He continued running toward the path, hoping he would see her again before it was too late. The voices were calling the same word over and over again. It sounded as though they were calling to someone named “Saffi.” The missing girl! thought Nat excitedly. She must have been here the whole time.
Then Nat spotted her again. At the bottom of the incline surrounding the chateau was a lake, frozen for the winter, and Nat could see the girl was trying to cross it, her face a mask of fear. She could hear the voices, too; Nat could feel her thoughts as she tried to hurry across the lake. Quickly he estimated how far away she was from him and the cover of the forest. Roughly one hundred feet. His heart almost stopped as dark shapes moving under the ice came into focus. They must be the revenants Fish had told them about, the half lives in purgatory, trapped in this world until the head vampire was slain! The girl, Saffi, was getting nearer, and Nat could see the panic in her eyes and the look of sheer exhaustion as she picked her way across the frozen water.
As Saffi lifted her right foot to take her final step off the ice toward Nat, she stumbled, falling with her frozen cheek pressed to the hard surface.
“Saffi! Come on, get up!” shouted Nat.
With fresh hope in her eyes, Saffi reached for Nat’s outstretched hand. She scrabbled to her feet, her hand not quite reaching across. A strange keening sound echoed around the ice from the revenants below.
They’re warning her about something, realized Nat as he tried to grab her hand again.
Way above the ice came a blackness so dark that the light from the moon was blotted. Nat was still yelling her name, but Saffi turned around slowly, as though resigned to her fate. Then Nat heard the dreaded sound of leathery wings, THWACK THWACK and understood. He caught a glimpse of a triumphant red smile and matching eyes as the vampire swooped from the sky to snatch its prize. Nat saw Saffi’s stricken face in high-definition close-up, her lips moving silently as the dark vampire enveloped her in its wings and the revenants under the ice made their wild keening noises, which echoed around the deserted plain. It happened so quickly that by the time the moon shone again, Saffi Besson had vanished. It was as though she had never been there at all.
Nat’s trip back in time had shown him Saffi’s fate. He howled in despair and once more his ears were filled with the ringing sound, like a wet finger on the rim of a wine glass. Then it was dark again.
CHAPTER 28
NAT AND FISH
When he found himself lying flat on his back on the floor of the circus tent, Nat was dimly aware of three astonished faces looking down on him.
“Ooof” was all he managed to say. He tried to sit up, but his world was whirling like a dervish. He could still taste roses.
“Better give him some air,” instructed Fish hastily. “He looks like he’s going to throw up.”
“Eurgh, than
ks,” Nat groaned, and smiled weakly. “I just need to sit quietly for a while.”
But although Fish tried very hard for a nanosecond to be patient, she fired questions at Nat like a machine gun.
“What happened? Where’d you go? How did it happen? What did you —”
“I went back in time. It’s complicated,” said Nat, struggling to his feet. “But I know where the head vampire is.”
Boxing Day at dawn, and Nat Carver had spent a miserable night trying to get to sleep. The morning brought new and worrying developments and a snowstorm of such violence it was difficult to stand up outside. The Howlers had arrived back at camp disheveled and exhausted shortly after midnight. There was no sign of Crescent or Woody, and the Howlers were no help in shedding any light on their whereabouts.
“Woody’s got to come back,” Fish told Nat later. “Do that two-way thing. Tell him we need him.”
But Nat had already tried the two-way thing a dozen times that evening, twice after he found himself transported back to the Black Chateau. Something had happened, something important, Nat was sure. He felt sick again, but this time with worry. Where were they? Were they together?
It was still dark when Fish had knocked softly on the window of the Silver Lady. It had been a huge blow to find there was still no sign of Woody or Crescent. She was shocked at Nat’s appearance; he looked tired and pale, and Fish wondered if he was going to be strong enough to carry out the next stage of her plan. They crept toward the stables, where Nat could see the outline of two horses and two humans, their warm breath joining with the early-morning mist, giving them an unreal, ghostly appearance. Scarlet and Natalie handed the reins over anxiously, worried for their friends and the task that awaited them. Fish felt heartened as Nat vaulted easily onto Rudi, while she struggled a bit with Nikita, Scarlet’s own Russian Don horse, a breed famous for once leading the Russian Cossacks into battle, which in the circumstances, thought Fish wryly, was quite appropriate.
