by Darren Shan
Even so, if I turn into a werewolf here, that’s more than enough for any pair of humans to worry about. Trapped underground with a supernaturally strong wolfen beast, Bill-E and Loch wouldn’t last five minutes.
“Look,” I snap, “we have to go. We’ll come back tomorrow and explore fully. But it’s dark up top—it’s night. We said we’d go when the moon rose.” I stop, gather my thoughts and try a different approach. “We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves. If we come home late, caked in mud and dirt, what will everyone think? If they start asking questions…”
“He’s got a point,” Bill-E concedes. “Gran and Grandad put Sherlock Holmes and Watson to shame. We should play it safe, act normally, especially if we’re going to be coming here a lot.”
“OK,” Loch sighs. “But one more search before we leave.” He points to the top of the waterfall, where it comes gushing out of the sheer rock wall fifteen metres above the cave floor. “Up there, those large holes. We can climb up pretty easily. I want to have a peek at them. Then we can go.”
“I dunno,” Bill-E says. “They’re fairly high and that wall’s steeper than the one we climbed down.”
“What’s a wall to three hardy explorers like us?” Loch laughs. “It won’t take long. And if the treasure’s there, we can go home on a total, triumphant high.”
“Grubbs?” Bill-E asks.
I shake my head violently. I think I’m going to throw up. I’m trembling helplessly. Climbing’s the last thing on my mind.
“Are you all right?” Bill-E asks, training his twin lights on me.
“Some kind of bug,” I gasp. “I’ve had it for the last few days.”
“Maybe we should get him home,” Bill-E says.
“Sure,” Loch grunts. “Right after we’ve explored above the waterfall.” He slaps Bill-E hard on the back. “Come on, Spleenario—last one up’s an asswipe!”
The ploy works. Bill-E forgets about me. They race to the wall and climb. Loch’s laughing, teasing Bill-E, roughly urging him on. I turn my back on the pair, leaving my torch pointing in their direction, to provide some extra light for them. I stumble away and sink to my knees. Lean my head against one of the smaller stalagmites and groan softly. I feel like a corpse that’s been stuck in a microwave to defrost—half frozen, half on fire. I try to control my breathing, to think calm thoughts, but my head’s full of wild, animalistic images—running, chasing, ripping, fangs, blood.
I stare at my fingers—they’re curling inwards. I can’t straighten them, no matter how hard I try. I search within for magical warmth, the energy I’ve drawn upon over the last forty-eight hours, but it doesn’t seem to be there for me now. Maybe the cave’s got something to do with that. Or maybe I’m just out of fighting spirit. Out of resistance. Plumb out of luck.
“Not… going… to… turn,” I snarl. Thinking of Loch and Bill-E, what I could do to them. Cursing myself for being so slack, not going to Dervish when I had the chance, allowing this to happen. I see now that it was fear, plain and simple. It didn’t matter what state Dervish was in—I should have told him the minute he got back. I kept the news to myself because I was scared of what he’d do. I was hoping the charms of the moon would pass, that I was just ill, imagining the inner struggle. The same fear which kept me from learning the ways of magic stopped me telling my secret to Dervish. Grubbs Grady—coward of the county. And now Bill-E and Loch are set to pay the price for my cowardice.
I try yelling a warning, telling them to stay up high where I can’t reach them. But my throat won’t work. The vocal cords are constricting, thickening, cutting off my air supply. I guess since wolves can’t talk they don’t need all the throat muscles that humans do.
I pull my head back from the stalagmite, meaning to run, get to the surface if I can, before I change. Put space between myself and my friends. Lots of space.
But then I see the face again. It’s in front of me. Bulging out of the stalagmite, as though carved out of rock. A girl’s face. Similar to Gret’s, as I noticed before, but not hers. Different. Younger. Darker hair. Smaller. Eyes and lips closed. Like a death mask.
The whispering, stronger than last night, more insistent. Certain words break through, but they’re not words I know. A foreign language. Harsh and fast.
I’m staring at the face, listening to the whispers, held firm to the spot, feeling myself change, when suddenly—
A scream. Behind me. At the waterfall.
As I turn towards it, there’s another scream. Then a very loud thud.
Then nothing.
I race across the cave, grabbing the torch on the way, lycanthropic fears momentarily forgotten, blocking out thoughts of the face and sounds of the whispers. There’s a figure on the ground and it’s not moving. That’s where all my concerns focus now.
I reach the figure and gently turn it over. It’s Loch. Face ashen. Eyelids flickering. Mouth opening and closing softly.
“Loch?” I murmur, holding his head up, trying to see how bad the damage is. I feel something wet and sticky smeared around the back of his head. I don’t have to check to know that it’s blood.
Scrabbling sounds. Bill-E hits the ground hard, feet first, having jumped from a spot two or three metres above. “Is he OK?” he shouts, panting hard.
“I don’t know. What happened?”
Bill-E gulps, kneels, stares at Loch’s head and my bloody hands. “He fell,” Bill-E croaks. I almost can’t hear him—the whispering’s louder than ever, the words coming fast and furious. “We were climbing. He slipped. I… I reached for him. He wasn’t far away. I grabbed. But he fell. I couldn’t catch him. I tried but I couldn’t…”
“Just as well you didn’t,” I comfort him. “He’d have dragged you down with him. Take off your coat.” Bill-E gawps at me. “For under his head.”
Bill-E shrugs off his jacket and balls it up. While I hold Loch’s head, he lays it underneath, then I softly lower Loch down. His eyes haven’t opened. He’s breathing raggedly. This isn’t good.
“I told him not to go up there,” Bill-E says hollowly. He’s crying. “I warned him. But he wouldn’t listen. He thought he knew it all.”
“Hush.” I’m calmer than my brother. I’ve seen worse things than this. Blood doesn’t alarm me. “One of us has to go for help. The other needs to stay here, sit with Loch, look after him.”
“I’ll go,” Bill-E says quickly. “Please, Grubbs, I don’t want to stay. Not in this cave. It’s too dark. Please don’t make me—”
“OK,” I shush him. “You can go. Find Dervish. Tell him what happened. He’ll know what to do. But run, Bill-E. Run!”
Bill-E nods, stumbles to his feet, stares at Loch’s face, opens his mouth to say something, then races for the exit. I hear him scrambling upwards—but only barely, over the sound of the whispers—then turn my attention on Loch and the dark pool spreading out from beneath his head and Bill-E’s blood-soaked jacket.
Talking to Loch. All sorts of nonsense—school, the treasure, holidays, girls, wrestling. I’ve put my coat and jumper over him. Have to keep him warm.
His breathing comes jaggedly. His eyelids have stopped twitching. His heartbeat’s irregular. I keep on talking, rubbing his arms and chest, but I don’t know if I’m doing much good.
The sickness is still in me. My head feels ripe to burst. Sometimes my words come out as growls, and my fingers clench while I’m rubbing Loch, digging into his cold, clammy flesh.
I fight it. Search within for warmth, energy, magic—anything. I can’t change, not until Dervish comes, not until Loch’s in an ambulance on his way to hospital, safe.
“Won’t turn,” I snarl, slapping my cheeks one after the other. “I’m not a wolf. I can control myself. Won’t let the moon…”
Loch shudders. His breath stops. I thump his chest hard—then remember first aid classes at school. Opening his mouth, I press firmly down on his chest, then release him and count. One, two, three, four. Press and count again. A third time. I place my l
ips over Loch’s. Breathe out, so that his cheeks puff up. Withdraw. Press—two, three, four. Press—two, three, four. Press—two, three, four. Mouth-to-mouth.
Trying to remember if I’m doing it right. Was it three presses on the chest, or four, or five? Should I blow air firmly down Loch’s throat or—
Loch coughs and breathes again.
I sink back, whining with relief and fear. That was too close. This can’t be happening. We were looking for treasure. Messing about. Loch was teasing Bill-E. Everything was normal. You can’t suddenly go from that to a life-or-death situation like this.
Except I know from past experience that you most certainly can.
Besides, things weren’t normal—the face, the whispers, the throbbing, the sense that we were in danger. I should have been more forceful. Made them leave. Insisted they go home.
The sickness within me grows.
The noise of the whispers increases.
Loch’s blood continues to flow.
Still talking. Telling Loch he’s got to stay alive for Reni’s sake. “She’ll be a mess for years if you die,” I sob. “Trust me, I know what losing a sister does to your head. You can’t leave her, Loch. She needs you.
It feels like hours since Bill-E left. Loch stopped breathing again a few minutes ago. I resuscitated him, but it took longer than the first time. I was in floods of tears by the end of it—sure I’d lost him.
What’s keeping them? Damn it, they should be here by now. Don’t they know how perilous this is, how much danger Loch’s in? I can’t keep him alive forever, not by myself. If they don’t—
Loch’s breath stops again. Cursing, I start with the chest pressing and mouth-to-mouth. The beast within me wants to suck in air, not breathe it out. It wants to draw the life from Loch, feed on all that blood around his head and shoulders, sip from that terrible pool, dark in the dim light of the torch. If I dropped my guard, just for a few seconds, there’s no telling what it—I—would do.
The whispers increase. It’s like I’m being shouted at now. I want to roar back at them but I need all my breath for Loch.
Press—two, three, four. Press—two, three, four. Mouth-to-mouth.
Nothing’s happening. I don’t panic. It was like this last time. I just have to keep going, stay calm, stick with it. He’ll revive eventually.
Press—two, three, four. Press—two, three, four. Press…
It doesn’t work. No matter how much I press and breathe, Loch doesn’t respond. His face has shut down. His lungs don’t move. His heart is still.
Third time unlucky.
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t accept this. He can’t be… “No!”
I bring my hands up, meaning to press again, harder than before, wildly. But something about Loch’s expression stops me. It’s peaceful, calmer than it ever was in life. Staring at him, I know with total, awful certainty—he’s lost. I could press and breathe from here till doomsday and it wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference.
Loch Gossel is dead.
Stumbling around the cave. The whispers deafening. Tears streaming down my cheeks. The wolf within me howling to be set free. Loch dead. Muttering, “This can’t be so. This can’t be so. This…”
My right foot hits either a large stone or small stalagmite. I fall flat. As I’m picking myself up, the face of the girl forms in the floor in front of me. Her expression is the same as Loch’s. I gaze at her in horror. This is what Loch will be like for all eternity, or at least until his body rots. Blank, lifeless, ever still, ever serene, ever—
The girl’s eyes snap open. Her lips part. She shouts at me, words I can’t understand.
I scream and propel myself backwards. Scream again. Halfway through, it turns into a howl. With an effort, I force the howl down, then fix my eyes on the face in the floor. “No,” I snarl, pressing my hands hard against the sides of my head. “NO!” I roar.
Something shoots out of me. A force I haven’t felt in all its power since I fought Lord Loss and his familiars in Slawter. I shut my eyes, feeling energy zap out of me. The scream rises and rises. I feel as if I’m floating above the ground. I think if I opened my eyes I’d find that I am floating. I hold the scream, the cords in my throat feeling like they’re going to burst, until…
A sound like cannon fire. Then sudden silence. The scream dies away. My head flops. I collapse. My hands come away from my head, to protect my face from the fall.
When I sit up, I’m breathing hard and crying. But the whispering has stopped. I glance at the spot in the floor. The girl’s face has disappeared. And I don’t feel sick anymore—only small, lonely and scared.
Standing, I shine the torch around, trying to pin down the source of the cannon fire. It only takes a few seconds to spot it—a large crack in one of the walls, close to the waterfall, which wasn’t there before. Did I divide the rock with my magical scream, or is the crack coincidence, the result of air flowing into the cave or a change of temperature? I don’t know. At this particular moment, I don’t really care.
I stagger over to Loch and slump beside his lifeless form. Impossible to believe he’ll never move again, or laugh, or wrestle. You think your friends are never going to die, that all the people you know and care for will be with you forever. Then the world makes a fool of you, so quickly, so simply, that you wonder whether any of your family or friends will see out another day intact.
I want to bring him back. I want to shake him, kick him, pump magic into him, make him breathe, make him live. It should be easy, like starting a stalled car or a crashed PC. There should be rules, instructions, things you can do. But there aren’t. When it comes to humans, death’s death, that’s that, and you’re a fool if you think any different.
Crying, I lean over Loch to hug his empty shell and tell him how unfair this is, how good a friend he was, how he shouldn’t be dead, how much I want him to live, how scared I am. And it’s only when I grab his shoulders and haul him up, pulling his head in towards my chest, that I realise—his head, the coat and the area around his shoulders… they’re all dry.
At first, I’m so distraught I don’t understand why that should be so strange, why it strikes me as being out of place. I’m about to dismiss it, to banish it from my thoughts, when the significance hits and I do a confused, incredulous double-take. Then, because I still can’t make sense of it, I cry the question out loud, in case giving it a voice will help me find an answer.
“Where the hell has all the blood gone?”
PART TWO — JUNI
THE PROMISE
Dervish regards the cave with something close to religious awe when he enters. For a long minute he doesn’t even glance at where I’m hunched over Loch. His attention is fixed on the walls, the roof, the formations, the waterfall. Then Bill-E nudges him softly and mumbles, “Over there.”
Dervish snaps to his senses and advances. “Billy told me what happened,” he says, still several metres away. “How is he?”
“Fine—” I say and Dervish smiles “—for a dead man.” The smile vanishes. He slows. Behind him, Bill-E covers his mouth with his hands, stifling a sob or a scream.
“You’re sure?” Dervish asks softly.
“Check for yourself,” I say hollowly. “Prove me wrong.” My face crinkles. “Please.”
Dervish kneels and gently pushes me away. He examines Loch. Rolls his eyelids up. Puts his ear to the dead wrestler’s chest. Goes through all the same resuscitation tricks that I tried. I don’t bother telling him that he’s wasting his time. Let him find out for himself.
Eventually he draws back, saddened—but worried too. He looks at me. Then at Bill-E. “Tell me again what happened.”
“He slipped,” Bill-E moans. “I tried to grab him but I couldn’t reach.”
“There was nobody else in the cave?” Dervish presses sharply. He looks at me and licks his lips. “Nothing else?”
“No,” Bill-E cries.
“No,” I whisper.
“You’re sure?”
Dervish asks, voice low, directing the question just to me this time. “It’s important. You were alone? The three of you? You’re sure?”
I nod slowly, confused.
“I tried to save him,” Bill-E sobs. “But he was too big. Even if I’d caught him, he’d have dragged me down with him, isn’t that right, Grubbs? It wasn’t my fault. Please, Dervish, don’t say it was my fault.”
“Of course it wasn’t,” Dervish sighs. “It was an accident.” He rubs his chin, troubled. He stands, looks around, glances at the waterfall and the spot Loch fell from. Doesn’t mention the crack—he hadn’t seen the wall before I howled and split the rock so he assumes it’s a natural feature.
“Is there anything you can do?” I ask. “Any spells…?”
“No,” Dervish says plainly. “He’s beyond help.”
I fight back tears. “Will the ambulance be here soon? Maybe they—”
“Nobody can do anything!” Dervish snaps. “He’s dead. You’ve seen death before. Don’t ask the impossible. You’re not a child.”
I stare at my uncle, stunned by his harsh tone. It sounds like he’s criticising me for caring about my friend, as though that’s wrong.
Dervish catches my look and his expression softens. “This is bad. And not just because Loch is dead.” He looks around again, nervously. “I didn’t call for an ambulance.”
“What?” I explode. “But—”
“He’s dead,” Dervish says as if that explains everything. “An ambulance wouldn’t have helped.”
“But you didn’t know that when you came,” I shout. “When Bill-E fetched you, Loch was alive. Why didn’t you phone for help? Maybe they could have got here before you. Maybe Loch would be alive if—”
“Billy, come here,” Dervish interrupts me. Bill-E approaches slowly, fearfully, trying not to look at Loch. Dervish keeps me silent with a fierce frown. I want to scream bloody murder, but I bite my tongue, waiting to hear my uncle out. When Bill-E’s a metre or so away from us—the closest he’s going to come—Dervish speaks.
