Changeling Dark Moon

by Steve Feasey

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Thank you both very much. It’s very … kind of you.’

  ‘There’s one more thing,’ Alexa said. ‘Obviously he isn’t able to give it to you himself, but I know that my father would have wanted you to have this.’

  She handed Trey another present. He looked down at it and then back up at her, a quizzical look on his face.

  Alexa smiled at him sadly. ‘It’s OK. You can open that one quite safely.’

  Inside was a silver photo frame. His mother and father were standing in front of a large lake with a dense and lush forest in the background. They were laughing straight into the lens of the camera, as if the photographer had just cracked some great joke that they’d enjoyed. There was another man in the picture, standing beside his father. Trey had never seen him before.

  He kept his eyes on the photograph, breathing deeply to get his emotions under control. It must have been warm by the lake on the day that the photo was taken; his father’s shirt buttons were undone at the top, and Trey could just about make out the chain around his neck. His fingers snaked towards his own chest, and he fiddled with the silver amulet through his T-shirt. The amulet had been his father’s, and Lucien had given it to Trey when they had first met at the care home. Eventually he looked up, nodding his thanks to Alexa.

  ‘Who’s the other guy in the photo?’ he asked with a gesture of his head in the direction of the photo frame that was still in his lap.

  ‘I don’t know. My dad will, he’ll …’ Alexa’s voice trailed away.

  ‘Come on, Trey,’ Tom said loudly, breaking the uncomfortable silence that followed. ‘Mrs Magilton has cooked you up some of those blueberry pancakes that you like so much, and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. And after that, we’ll grab that peashooter of yours and I’ll take you down to the shooting range for a lesson.’

  ‘Mr Allen is coming today. I’ll have to be in for him,’ Trey said quickly, looking for any excuse not to have to go to shoot the gun.

  Mr Allen was Trey’s tutor. He was a strange little man with a beard that he let grow into an unruly mess beneath his chin. It hung down almost to his waist and gave him an odd, dwarfish appearance. He had been hired when it was decided that it was safer for Alexa and Trey to be home-tutored rather than attend school – something that Alexa had vehemently fought against, but she’d had to acquiesce when Tom reminded her of the dangers that they had already faced following her abduction.

  ‘Ah now, there’ll be no lessons today,’ Tom said with a wink. ‘I’ve sorted the whole thing out. You’ve got a day off for your birthday. So wipe that miserable look off yer face and follow me. Blueberry pancakes and rifle shooting – perfect.’

  The shooting range was not far from Docklands, where they lived, and Trey, trying to think of anything he could to delay the trip as much as possible, suggested that they go on foot.

  ‘I don’t really like the idea of walking around London carrying a rifle,’ Tom had said, and arranged for one of his men to take them by car instead. ‘Besides, the quicker we get there, the more shooting you’ll be able to do.’

  Trey looked over at Alexa, who had sat smirking at him from the sofa throughout this exchange. ‘I suppose you think this is hilarious,’ he hissed at her when Tom had left the room for a moment.

  ‘Look, just go along with him and see how you get on. Who knows? You might love it.’

  Trey shook his head and looked across at the rifle case that Tom had placed by the elevator. ‘I don’t believe this,’ he muttered, and stomped off to find his jacket.

  In the back of the car on the way over, Trey had tried to think up as many different ways as possible to let Tom know that he had no intention of firing the gun. He was scared witless of the things. As they pulled up outside the gun club Trey was about to say something, when he noticed the Irishman’s face – excitement was etched into every feature at the prospect of what lay ahead, and Trey resigned himself to going along with his friend for one afternoon at least. He smiled back, hoping that his face portrayed the right amount of enthusiasm and none of the deep-seated anxiety that he really felt.

  They entered through a small door, descending the steps into a foyer where Tom swiped a card into a slot by the door and entered a code on a keypad. A buzzing sound, like an angry wasp trapped in a tin can, signalled that the door was open, and they entered a short, poorly lit corridor. At the end of the passage, next to a giant cork board that held various notices and league tables for the club, they were met by a smiling middle-aged man, who introduced himself as David Rampton, the club secretary.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Trey,’ Mr Rampton said, shaking him by the hand. ‘I’ll show you around our facilities here and then we’ll go through the safety talk. After that, I’ll leave you in the more than capable hands of Tom here, and you can have a go with your wonderful new present. I’m sure that you will enjoy it here at the Marylebone, and congratulations on your birthday.’

  After an extremely long, painstaking safety lecture, Tom and Trey went down to the range, picking up some ammunition on the way. The range was empty, and Tom explained that this was his favourite time to come to shoot, when the bays were not full of people and you could take your time to get things right. They entered one of the central bays, placing their coats and bags under the small table towards the rear. The walls on either side were high enough to block out any views, and Trey glanced down the range spread out in front of them. Tom unzipped the bag containing the rifle and placed it on the table between them. He explained the workings of the rifle again, going through the checks with Trey, making him perform the same procedures over and over until his hands began to ache. After an hour of this, Tom clapped him on the back and reached over for the ammunition box.

  ‘Right, young Trey,’ he said, placing the box on the shelf, ‘do you think you’re ready to have a go?’

  Trey sighed. He was uncomfortable handling the gun when it was unloaded, but the thought of having live ammunition in the clip and firing it simply terrified him. ‘I don’t know, Tom – it’s all a bit scary.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Tom replied. ‘It is scary, and it should be. These things are made for one reason and one reason alone. To kill. They really serve no other purpose. Yet more people are killed with knives every week than with guns. Guns don’t kill people – people do.’ He looked over at Trey with a warm smile. ‘I know you’re not one of those eejits that treat these things like a toy. But if you give it a go, and you listen to what I tell you to do, I’m certain that you’ll enjoy the experience.’

  ‘OK.’ Trey nodded.

  Tom loaded ten cartridges into a small hole near the stock of the gun, inserting the tube and locking it in place with a turn of his thumb. He handed the gun to Trey. ‘Pull back on the lever like we practised and you’re ready to go.’

  Trey looked over at Tom, who nodded in encouragement. He held the gun up to his shoulder, the barrel pointing down the range. Tom reached up and flicked the switch that sent the target away from them on the mechanized pulley system that was fitted to each bay and stopped it at the ten-metre mark.

  ‘Right, nice and close to start with. We’ll send it right back later, once you’ve got the hang of things.’ He moved over to Trey and placed the ear protectors and safety glasses on his head. He gently took the boy’s shoulders and manoeuvred him into a firing position, nudging his feet into place with his own.

  ‘Rack it up like we practised, Trey. Take the safety off, aim down the sights and gently squeeze the trigger,’ he said, before pulling the ear protectors right down over Trey’s ears and giving him a big, cheesy thumbs-up.

  Trey was sweating profusely as he aimed the rifle at the target; a little rivulet of perspiration ran down his cheek, detouring around his mouth before picking up speed again and sliding down his chin. He thumbed the safety switch and tried to take aim along the rear and front sights, his hands shaking so horribly that the end of the gun bounced around, making it difficult to fix on the large bla
ck-and-white target ahead. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and gently squeezed the trigger.

  The explosion was loud – even with the ear protectors – and the gun snapped back into his shoulder. He had expected it to recoil more than it did and was even more surprised at the complete lack of smoke. He shivered, the adrenalin that was coursing through his veins making his heart thump against his ribs as the thrill of the power that he had just controlled truly dawned on him. He sensed Tom step in behind him and he remembered what they had practised beforehand. He thumbed the safety back, checked the chamber to ensure that there was no ammunition, and placed the gun – barrel still pointing down the range – back on to the table.

  Tom placed a hand on his shoulder, and Trey removed the ear protectors and turned round.

  ‘How was that?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Fantastic!’ Trey said, grinning back at him.

  ‘I’m very impressed by the way you made that gun safe again at the end there. It’s easy to forget those things when you’re all hyped up.’ He put his hand on Trey’s shoulder and grinned one of his lopsided smiles at him. ‘Ready for some more?’ he asked.

  ‘Definitely,’ Trey replied, reaching out for the weapon again.

  Trey had increased the target distance to the full twenty-five metres of the range and was now intent on increasing his accuracy as he fired round after round at the paper target mounted on the board in the distance. Every six shots he would press the button on the control panel to initiate the pulley system, peering intently at the large paper-and-board target as it slid back towards him on the overhead wires. He checked his shots, noting how many had found the black central area and how many had slipped into the white concentric rings on the outside – or missed entirely. When he had done this, and compared the scores to his previous best, he would replace the target with a fresh one and send it back down the range.

  The shooting gallery was still empty. Tom stayed behind Trey, helping him to load the rifle and encouraging him when he had shot particularly well. It wasn’t long before Trey had used up the entire box of cartridges. His arms ached and his right shoulder felt bruised from the recoil of the rifle. He placed the gun down on the table to rub the muscles in his forearms that felt tight and were starting to cramp.

  ‘Had enough for one day?’ Tom asked.

  Trey grinned back at him. ‘That was fantastic, Tom. Thanks so much. I honestly didn’t think that I was going to enjoy it at all, but it really is very addictive, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m glad that it was fun. You’re actually quite a good shot, you know. I’m impressed with how well you picked it up. If you keep coming, we’ll get you entered into a competition for your age group. Now, I’ll take this,’ he said, picking up the gun and checking that it was not loaded, ‘and put it in the gun store with mine. Next time we come, we’ll get you your own space in there.’ He turned to leave, adding, ‘Will you be OK here on your own for a couple of minutes? There is something that I want to talk to David about, and then I’ll be right back.’

  ‘Sure, Tom,’ Trey said. ‘I need to check that last target anyway, so I’ll have a look at it while you’re gone.’

  Tom nodded and left by a door at the back of the range, taking Trey’s gun with him.

  The teenager turned and opened a bottle of water, relishing the feel of the cool liquid on his parched throat. Sniffing at his hands, he noted how strongly they smelt of an acrid residue from the gun, and he grinned again at the feeling that he had experienced immediately following that first shot – the rifle kicking backwards as it sent the deadly projectile hurtling towards its destination at impossible speed.

  He glanced up at the target at the far end of the range and was about to start the machinery that would pull it towards him when he stopped, his finger hovering over the small green button. He frowned, squinting from behind the yellow lenses of the safety glasses at the concentric circles of black and white. He was about to dismiss the notion as a simple trick of the light when it flexed again, the shapes that made up the target twisting on the paper, the black centre bulging and squirming as if trying to pull itself free of the white surface. It had grown. The target appeared to have almost doubled in size, and it continued to grow as the printed outlines writhed and distorted upon it.

  Trey’s heart knocked into his ribs, and he was vaguely aware that he had let the plastic bottle that he had been holding slip from his fingers, spilling water all over his feet and on to the dusty concrete floor. He wanted to shout out, make somebody aware of the unnatural happenings, but all he could manage was a small croaking sound that got wedged in his throat.

  The target had grown again. Now at least a metre in length and still distending in every direction, it had begun to take on a distinct shape. The contours of a humanoid figure were clearly visible now, the head and shoulders stretching the surface outward as if trying to push through from the other side, and Trey thought that he could almost make out the vague outline of a face peering at him. A hand suddenly shot forward, its fingers splayed as it groped for a handhold on the now rubber-like membrane of the paper – except Trey had stopped thinking of it as such; he now believed it to be some kind of skin between this world and that from which the creature was trying to break free. Trey saw the target pucker as the creature succeeded in getting a good grip and briefly wondered how on earth the thing, which had doubled in size once more, was still being held by the small retaining clips at the top of the apparatus.

  Trey glanced behind him at the door, praying that Tom would appear. His heart was thumping in his chest, and his mind raced through a thousand different thoughts, stopping at none as he fought to figure out what he should do. He wanted to turn and run away, but his legs stubbornly refused to move, his feet anchored to the floor. He stood and gawped as the creature’s other hand shot out towards him, stretching the membrane almost the length of the arm so that it wrapped around the limb, revealing it in perfect detail. This hand was not the one that had originally been attached to that arm. It was a grotesque prosthetic substitute – the fingers replaced by long, hinged talons that appeared to flex by means of a series of metal rods that ran back into the flesh of the wrist behind them. There was a sudden tearing sound, and a talon ripped through the membrane. It slashed at the air in Trey’s direction before pulling back in an attempt to rip a bigger hole in the skin between the two worlds and allow the whole of the creature through.

  Trey knew that he was looking at a portal between this realm and the Netherworld, and there was no doubt as to what or who was trying to break through from the other side.

  Caliban had found him.

  Caliban, the vampire responsible for the destruction of everything that Trey had ever held dear. Caliban, the reason that Lucien was lying in a coma, fighting for his life. Caliban, who would stop at nothing in his quest to subjugate the human race and turn them into little more than cattle to be fed upon at will.

  There was a harsh screech, the motor on the retrieval system suddenly sparked into life and the entire thing started to advance down the long alley towards the teenager.

  Trey stabbed at the stop button on the control panel, but the thing continued to rumble inexorably towards him, swinging slowly from the wires that carried it overhead. He began to turn his head to look for Tom, knowing he would not be there, when the vampire’s face suddenly reared out at him, forcing itself against the membrane and stretching it out in his direction until Trey thought that it must rupture and free the hideous death face behind it.

  Trey could clearly make out the fangs protruding from the upper jaw, and he imagined those exquisitely sharp and deadly barbs tearing and rending at his flesh as soon as Caliban managed to break free of the portal. With the target no more than ten feet away Trey did the only thing that he could: he morphed into a werewolf and attacked.

  The change was almost bearable now. The excruciating agony that had accompanied his early changes was now a brief explosion of white-hot pain as his cellular makeup muta
ted – his bones thickened and elongated, and the muscles attached to them hypertrophied, the myofibrils within them multiplying ten-fold as he transformed into the huge, hulking man-wolf. Thick coarse hair erupted from unseen pores, and huge black claws and fangs burst forth from his fingers and mouth. His clothes and shoes tore at the seams and fell like rags to the floor around him.

  Trey leaped at the grotesque figure in front of him, springing forward on huge, muscular legs. A great bellowing roar escaped his jaws as he ripped and tore at the bulging figure of the vampire. He had little doubt that something was wrong with the portal and that his best chance was to attack the vampire now and stop him from breaking through the viscous shield. Trey’s huge jaws opened wide and he clamped his teeth around the crown of the vampire’s bulbous head. With one wolf-hand, Trey grabbed the metal claw, pushing it back away from him. His other hand grabbed the top of the target and he shifted his immense weight downward, trying to wrestle the entire thing to the ground where he could attack more freely. The insubstantial wire and metal tubing that made up the overhead apparatus finally gave way and it crashed to the floor, creating a huge noise as the devastated machinery collapsed into the firing range. As he fell backwards, Trey’s jaws suddenly closed around nothing, snapping together in the empty air, and at the same instant the grip that he had had on the vampire was also lost.

  Trey leaped to his feet and looked about him frantically, expecting the vampire to mist back at any second and attack him with taloned hands and fanged mouth. But the attack never came. There was no sign of Caliban. The air still rang with the metallic clamour of the broken equipment. But the vampire was not there. It was as if he had never been there. Trey had managed to drive him back to where he had come from. He looked at the ground, which was littered with the wood, metal and wires of what had once been the target retrieval machinery. In the centre of the mess were the ripped and broken pieces of the small wooden board and black-and-white target.