Changeling Dark Moon

by Steve Feasey

  ‘Sew me up, and I’ll get us inside,’ Charles said. Fishing in his pocket for his wallet, he retrieved the sutura needle that he had used on Trey’s injury after his bout with the Shadow Demon back in London.

  Trey reached out and grabbed for the needle, but his great wolf hands simply weren’t dextrous enough to grip the small and delicate instrument. He took a deep breath and, glancing quickly around to check that they were not in danger of any imminent attack, transmogrified back into his human form, taking the needle from his friend.

  ‘I’ll hide us as best I can, Trey, but you need to hurry up – like me, you are extremely vulnerable here in your human form.’

  Standing stark naked in the shadow of the giant tower, Trey didn’t need Charles to tell him how vulnerable he was. He took the needle between his forefinger and thumb and reached forward to pull Charles’s hand away from the deep gashes in his face.

  ‘Oh man!’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t even know where to start.’

  ‘Just sew it up as best you can to stop the bleeding, Trey. I’m not expecting a perfect blanket stitch or anything.’

  ‘Fine. But if I do this too badly, you’re going to end up with one side of your face looking like a chewed-up piece of gum.’ He squeezed together the two sides of the deepest wound, trying not to get too much dirt from his fingers into the bloody mess. Jabbing the needle into the flesh beneath the tear, he pushed it up through the other side, repeating the process again and again and cursing in frustration each time that his hands slipped in the sticky blood. After a while he’d succeeded in getting the bleeding to stop. He stepped back to look at his work, shaking his head at the pinched and puckered mess that was now one side of Charles’s face.

  ‘How’s it look?’ Charles said. It was the first sound he had issued since the work on his face had begun, and Trey marvelled at how stoically he had borne the ministrations. He opened the swollen eye on the mangled side of his face and looked over at Trey.

  Frowning, Trey pushed his bottom lip out and considered the best way to respond. ‘Let’s put it this way,’ he said finally. ‘You’re not going to need to buy a mask to wear next Halloween.’

  ‘Great,’ Charles said, reaching up and tentatively touching the newly repaired flesh. ‘You need to change back as quickly as possi—’

  The werewolf was standing over him, looking down at him with its lips drawn back over its teeth in that snarling smile again. The black-and-grey pelt that covered Trey’s body blended in perfectly with the stone behind him and he turned to look at the door again.

  ‘Come on,’ Charles said, moving towards the entrance. ‘Let’s get inside as quickly as we can.’

  Trey watched as Charles placed the palm of his hand on the icy surface of the door, ignoring the pain that it must have been causing to his bare flash. Satisfied with whatever he had discovered, Charles closed his eyes, moving his lips as he began to utter some silent incantation.

  Trey didn’t hear anything to suggest that Charles had succeeded in opening the door, but suddenly it swung inward effortlessly.

  ‘We’re in.’ Charles said.

  They pushed the door fully open, and entered the Tower of Leroth.

  The sound of the engine had cut and their captain, a young man wearing a brightly coloured Hawaiian-style shirt and a baseball cap, jumped deftly from the front of the boat, a long coil of rope clutched in his hand. He splashed into the low breakers and pulled the boat further up the beach.

  Martin watched from the terrace outside the kitchen as the young man hauled on the rope, the muscles in his arms rippling with the effort. He became aware of his daughter standing behind him, and his body involuntarily tensed. A cool breeze blew in off the sea, carrying the metallic briny smell of the ocean with it. He breathed in a great lungful of the stuff, savouring the smells, as if for the last time.

  ‘Ready?’ she asked.

  ‘I think so,’ he replied, and turned to look at her.

  Philippa had put her hair up into a bun, piling it up on her head and securing it with long, glossy black chopsticks that stuck out from her head at acute angles. She had reverted to the familiar black lipstick and she wore a black dress with black leggings underneath. She looked up at him with an expression that Martin was unable to put his finger on.

  ‘You look very nice,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. She held his eyes for a moment, but Martin could detect no hint of warmth in her cold and calculating look. The daughter that he loved was not at home behind those twin globes. He wasn’t certain what was.

  ‘Come on then, Dad. We don’t want to keep the man waiting any longer than we need to, do we?’ She started to walk out of the house in the direction of the beach.

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ Martin said from behind her.

  She turned and looked at him, a small frown creasing her forehead.

  ‘Our hamper,’ he said, leaning over to pick it up from where she had placed it beside the fridge. ‘We don’t want to forget the food for our late-night turtle watch, do we?’

  ‘How silly of me. Can you bring it, Dad? I’ll be down by the boat.’ She walked off, hoisting the thin shawl that she was wearing back up over her shoulders.

  Martin watched her go, picked up the hamper and pulled the terrace door closed behind him. He had no way of knowing it, but at that very moment Mr Ellington’s team had just opened up the large chest-freezer in his garage back in England to discover the frozen corpse of Ruth Glenister staring back up at them with dead eyes. Neither could he have known that if he had delayed for no more than another ten minutes before climbing aboard the small boat with his daughter his life would have been saved by the arrival of Tiny Beauchamp – son of the missing Mrs Beauchamp – whom the team in England had finally been able to contact, asking him to get over to the villa as quickly as he could. But Martin Tipsbury had never been a lucky man. And in approximately ten minutes’ time he would find out just how truly unlucky he really was.

  It was cold inside the tower. Even Trey, covered with a thick pelt of fur, could feel the intense drop in temperature as they entered, and he looked over in concern at Charles to see how much he was suffering. To his surprise, Charles seemed completely unaware of the cold, and Trey was once again impressed by the sorcerer at his side and his ability to put up with things that Trey knew he himself would not be able to bear if he was in his human form.

  They stood just inside the door that they had closed silently behind them, and Trey peered into the gloom, scanning the darkness that surrounded them for danger. There was very little light down here, but what there was allowed him to see that they were standing in a vast, circular space – perhaps fifty metres in diameter – that disappeared up into a murky blackness overhead. The smell that bombarded them inside the tower was almost as bad as that outside: rot and decay and neglect. In the centre of the space was a low stone building that appeared, from the darkness beyond the windows, to be unoccupied. Behind the building, set a little way back, was what at first appeared to be some kind of flagpole.

  There was something about that pole that bothered Trey, and he strained his eyes and peered up at it disappearing into the darkness. He thought he could just make out the outline of something … something vaguely human-shaped that appeared to be hanging from a wooden beam protruding from the tall pole. He stared at the object, but it was too high overhead in the shadows to make out any more detail. A small shiver suddenly snaked through him.

  ‘Trey.’ Charles nudged him. ‘We need to get moving.’

  The werewolf stole one last glance at the shape overhead before turning to follow his friend. A low moaning sound startled him. He tensed, anticipating some kind of attack. Charles cautiously moved towards the sound, Trey catching up with him until they both stood at the foot of a huge staircase where they stopped, looking about to locate the source of the noise.

  Trey’s eyes were adapting to the almost c
omplete darkness now and he peered around him at their surroundings once more. The huge circular staircase wound around the entire base of the tower, following the contours of the walls, but set in from them by about six feet. There didn’t appear to be anything supporting the flight of stairs from above or below, and Trey marvelled at how the huge stone steps seemed to have nothing but each other to cling on to as they rose up into the gloom. Radiating out from the staircase at intervals were small ramp-like bridges, connected to the outer walls by ropes, and these linked the staircase with what appeared to be a series of small black caves set into the outer wall at regular intervals.

  Another moan drifted down to them and it became clear that whatever creatures were making the pitiful sounds were housed in these small fissures.

  ‘Onward and upward,’ Charles said in low whisper. He nodded at the stairs, and Trey signalled that the sorcerer should take the lead. ‘Fine with me,’ Charles said, stepping up ahead of the werewolf. ‘Just make sure that nothing comes out of these caves to follow us up. I don’t like it in here one little bit.’

  They began to climb, desperately trying to keep their ascent as silent as possible. Trey was happier that he could see quite well now, and he glanced again at the thing suspended up near the rafters, although it was still too indistinct to make out. He had a nagging feeling about it. Like an itch you can’t scratch, it bothered him, increasing the nerves and anxiety that he was already battling to keep under control.

  They carried on like this until they were almost halfway up the staircase – about fifty feet above the ground – when another of those miserable low moaning sounds came from their right, stopping them in their tracks. The groan was very close to them, and Trey leaned out from the step that they were standing on, peering across the gap to see if he could make out what had produced the sound from the small, black hole. Whatever it was sounded as if it was in terrible pain.

  ‘What are you doing, Trey?’ Charles hissed. ‘Let’s just keep moving. We have to get to the top of this place, and even then we have no idea where Gwendolin might be keeping the Globe.’

  ‘Wait there,’ Trey replied. ‘I just want to check something out.’

  The lycanthrope placed his foot on to the bridge that linked the staircase with the outer wall, pushing down hard against it to test its strength. It creaked and swayed slightly against the ropes that were holding it in place, but he thought it would hold.

  ‘Trey, for crying out loud, we don’t have time for you to start exploring. Let’s go.’

  Trey ignored him and stepped out on to the wooden bridge. He moved across the short distance, stooping down as low as he could to peer into the cell. Because by now it was clear to him that that was what it was. Heavy bars made of some black metal were set into the floor and roof of the small opening. There was no obvious means of entry, and Trey had the horrible suspicion that anything that might be unfortunate enough to be confined within the tiny, dark space behind those bars must have been placed there first, with the bars put in place afterwards, sealing them in forever.

  He looked into the gloom. The stench coming from the cell was brutal and Trey retched as the contents of his stomach made another bid for freedom. And then something moved in the darkness. The thing shifted itself round within the tiny confines and crawled towards him, pulling itself along on its belly to approach the tiny opening.

  Trey was not sure what the creature had once been. It was impossible to tell if it had been human, demon or animal when it had been placed in its cell, but he was sure of one thing: it appeared to be close to death.

  ‘Did the angel send you?’ it said in a voice that even Trey’s ears struggled to make out. ‘Did she send you?’

  Trey knelt down and pulled at the metal bars, hoping to wrench them free so that he could help this poor pathetic creature.

  ‘It’s no good,’ the thing said. ‘Only she can free us. Only she can save us.’ The wretch looked up over Trey’s shoulder, high up into the shadows at the top of the cavernous room.

  How long has this poor creature been confined in there? Trey wondered. And what could he do to try and free it from its appalling prison?

  As if reading his thoughts, the creature shuffled an inch or two closer and fixed Trey with its rheumy eyes. ‘Only the angel can save us now,’ it repeated, and cut its eyes up towards the ceiling again.

  Trey immediately knew what the thing behind the bars was looking at. He turned his head and followed the gaze of the creature trapped behind the bars. He should have listened to his gut a bit more. He had somehow known the importance of that man-shaped thing suspended up there in the gloom – that nagging itch that had started inside him as he peered at it should have told him that he couldn’t simply ignore it. And now he thought he knew how to scratch the itch.

  Trey looked through the bars at the imploring face of the wretched creature. He nodded his head in its direction in a gesture he hoped it would understand.

  ‘I’m going to get you help.’

  He stepped back across the small bridge and looked up at Charles, who had continued to climb the staircase ahead of him.

  The young mage was staring back at him, shaking his head in annoyance. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Wait here,’ Trey said. ‘There’s something I have to do.’

  ‘Trey, stop!’

  ‘Wait there.’

  Trey had gone. Charles watched as the werewolf leaped effortlessly and silently down the steps that they had ascended together, disappearing into the darkness.

  Trey crept up to the building that they had seen upon first entering this place. He moved without noise, his powerful limbs propelling him swiftly and silently through the darkness. He tuned in to everything around him, his wolf senses taking in every scent and sight and sound. He felt invigorated again in the same way that he had when he first transformed into his werewolf self out in the Icelandic countryside. Then he had wanted to hunt rabbits; now he was preparing for something that he sensed was much more dangerous. He hugged the shadows of the building’s walls, invisible among them.

  He moved towards one of the windows, listening. As he suspected, there were creatures inside. They were moving around and, from the sound of things, preparing to leave their post, perhaps to reinforce those nethercreatures already outside with Gwendolin. Trey knew that he did not have much time. He looked about him, catching sight of a huge metal structure against the far wall that looked for all the world like a shark cage that he’d once seen on television. He loped over to it and tested its weight. It was extremely heavy, and even with his supernatural strength it was an effort to move the thing without making any noise. He heaved it off the ground and staggered back over to the guard house, placing it as best he could in front of the door to the structure.

  He crept around the back of the building and approached the base of what he had thought was a flagpole but now knew to be a gallows, letting out a small sigh of relief as he saw the chain secured to a cleat that was set into the wood. The remainder of the chain was piled into a heap at the base of the pole. He had had a vague idea that there might be no mechanism to lower the thing to the floor, which would have left him completely impotent – wolves are good at many things, but climbing isn’t one of them.

  He carefully unhitched the coils of chain, bracing himself for the sudden increase in weight as he unsecured the last few turns. As soon as he had the full weight of the thing in his hands he paused, listening carefully for any sign that he had been discovered. Looking up at the series of pulleys that secured the chain he very slowly began to feed a small length of chain upward, wincing at the sounds that the metal links made as they passed through the pulley wheels. He stopped again, listening. He continued like this for the next few minutes and then emboldened by his progress began letting out longer and longer lengths of chain, feeding them slowly through his hands until eventually the thing at the other end began to swing into view.

  The gibbet was grotesque. Unlike those that Trey an
d Charles had seen hanging from the walls in the courtyard, which were little more than circular cages, this one appeared to be custom-made. It was constructed entirely out of lengths of black metal that had been bent and shaped to form a giant, human-shaped enclosure, complete with arms and legs that were angled slightly away from the body so that the whole thing reminded Trey of the stick-figures that he had drawn and suspended beneath the rope during games of Hangman as a small child. As big as the cage was – he thought that it must be at least as tall as he was in his werewolf form – the thing inside was simply too large for it. It was pressed tight up against the cage; the rough metal bars that made up the contraption were deliberately cut with spiteful, jagged edges that were bent backwards towards the prisoner to bite deeply into the flesh.

  The gibbet swung slowly round and turned to face him. Now that it was nearer, Trey could see the face of the thing trapped behind those tortuous metal straps. It was female. A huge Amazonian creature that was easily the same size and build as he was himself. She was gagged – great strips of leather had been bound around her head to cover her mouth, but her eyes looked down on him now and, despite the excruciating pain that she must have been experiencing, the ice-blue globes that sought out his face appeared to be smiling.

  She was no more than twenty feet off the ground when he ran out of chain. He looked down at the little that was left. There was enough to tie it off on to the cleat, but the gibbet was still too high up off the ground for him to reach it. He looked up at the imprisoned creature again, not knowing what to do.

  ‘You’ll have to let her drop,’ Charles said from behind him.

  Trey jumped at the unexpected sound, swinging round to see Charles standing no more than five feet away from him, staring up the gibbet.

  The sorcerer looked back at the werewolf, a strange expression on his face. ‘We have to get her out,’ he said, ‘and we can’t do that if she’s dangling above us like some Mexican piñata. Let her drop, Trey.’