The Wolfstone Curse

by Justin Richards

  “Oh it doesn’t afflict me yet. Maybe it never will. I don’t know. It comes later in life, after adulthood has taken hold. For girls it’s sooner – which is why the quest for a cure was so urgent. Girls mature faster. Father had to find a cure before Annabelle reached adulthood.

  “She knew what was happening, but she couldn’t control it. That takes years of practice. At the first sign that her time was approaching, Father kept her confined at the manor, though I didn’t know anything about that. Not until Peter told me what was happening up at the circle. But it was all too late by then anyway. Dad had spent the family fortune on research. He was desperate for more money – he was so close, he said. The housing development should have provided the funds he needed. But the market collapsed, and with it, our hope.

  “Until he met Einzel. The Old One. It’s said that he’s lived longer than any of us, and the Forrests – the du Bois family – are very long-lived. It’s a side-effect that’s a blessing and a yet very much part of the curse. Who wouldn’t want a long life? But at such a cost…

  “Einzel was also searching for a cure. He and father pooled their resources. The ancient knowledge and traditions of the du Bois family, and the cutting-edge technology and expertise of Einzel Industries. They used the wolves, taking blood samples, comparing their DNA with father’s and others afflicted with the curse. That’s why father sponsored the Lupine Sanctuary. That’s why Einzel has wolves here, and plans to ship them to Britain…

  “But it was all too slow. All too late for Annabelle.

  “Father got desperate. He went back to the old ways, and used the Wolfstone Circle. The legends and myths are disjointed and incomplete, but he knew the circle was an ancient place of healing. Being on du Bois land, so close to Wolfstone Manor, it had to offer a solution.

  “Einzel was horrified. He thought the circle would just make things worse. Any ceremony was likely to scare Annabelle rather than cure her. And once scared, she would change. Too much emotion, and she might change permanently. It can happen.

  “But father was determined, and he was so sure. The silver in the stones, the way they are positioned, the pit beneath, the legends… To him they all seemed to say that the circle offered a cure.

  “He didn’t know how much time he had, but he was determined to use the circle. He hired your father, Peter, to find out as much about the circle and its history as he could. The more he knew, the better he’d be able to deploy whatever healing powers the circle offered. The greater the hope that Annabelle might – just might – be spared the curse.

  “But the change came too fast. It can be a sudden process. Annabelle didn’t have time. Your dad’s research had barely started. And so father was forced to act before he really understood what he was doing. Einzel came to stop him, to warn him that what he was attempting would just make things worse. But he was too late. Annabelle is gone. It’s too late for her now.

  “And I’ll be next. Who knows how much time I have left?”

  “But that wasn’t a cure, it wasn’t treatment,” Peter said. “It was like a blood transfusion or something. Einzel wasn’t helping – he was turning you into one of his creatures.”

  “Dad and Einzel fell out the other night. After what happened at the circle with Annabelle. Father’s become obsessed, and I don’t think Einzel trusts him any more. I thought I could persuade Einzel to carry on helping, maybe do some research on the Vrolask Circle. Since he set up Einzel Industries here, he must think it’s important.”

  “And instead he wired you up to the wolves,” Carys said. “Nice guy.”

  “It was worth a try. Anything is worth a try. You’ve seen what will happen to me if…” He broke off, breathing heavily. Finally he said, “You still haven’t told me what you guys are doing here.” He paused to take a deep breath, then added, “Not that I’m complaining.” He managed a smile.

  Between them, Peter and Carys gave David a quick summary of what they’d discovered. Carys made no mention of her grandfather’s journal, but they described finding Annabelle’s room and the crypt at Wolfstone Manor. Then they told him how Carys’s grandfather had died.

  “Stapleton,” David said. “Dad left him to keep an eye on the manor – and Annabelle, I suppose. Nasty piece of work.”

  “Not any more,” Peter said. He shuddered at the memory.

  David flopped back against a crate. “God I’m exhausted. Sorry – I think they took blood or something. I’m totally whacked.”

  He wasn’t the only one. Now that they were safe – or as safe as they could be, Peter could hardly keep his eyes open. Carys looked wiped out. She saw him starring at her and smiled back.

  “We should get some sleep too,” he said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  The floor was hard and uncomfortable, but Carys didn’t seem to mind, and was asleep in moments. She lay close to Peter, and he could hear her breathing as it settled into a rhythm. Peter watched her. She looked so calm and carefree. He wondered what she was dreaming about – did she dream about him? Yeah, like that would ever happen.

  He drifted off into a dreamless sleep of his own almost without noticing. He dozed and woke and dozed again. By the time Peter woke properly, pale, warm sunlight was streaming through the doorway. There was still a musty, damp, feral smell, but the cool breeze through the open door had dispelled the worst of it.

  Carys was already awake, standing at the open door and staring out. She turned as Peter stood up, her finger to her lips. She pointed to where David lay asleep. He was curled up like a dog in its basket. His bandaged hand was close to his face, as if he was about to lick his wounds.

  They were passing through fields of parched grass. In the distance, smog shrouded concrete buildings. A factory, perhaps, or a small town. Peter glanced at his watch and saw they’d been travelling for eight hours – how could he have slept for eight hours? He must have been exhausted.

  “Maybe we should wake him?”

  She shook her head. “There’s something I need to tell you. I don’t want David to hear.”

  That sounded ominous. “Oh? Why not?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You don’t trust him?” Peter wasn’t sure he trusted David either. He didn’t know why. But there was something niggling at the back of his mind.

  “I just wonder why everyone else was strapped down in that place,” Carys said.

  “And David wasn’t. But he was out cold.”

  “He woke up quickly enough. Why didn’t he just walk away?”

  They both looked over at where he was sleeping.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Carys said. “Maybe I’m just being paranoid.”

  “That goes for both of us. After what we’ve been through, maybe we should be paranoid.”

  She forced a smile. “I guess it isn’t every day you trash a Russian palace.”

  “I guess not. So – what did you want to tell me?”

  “It’s about the crystal sword.”

  “The one in the journal.”

  She nodded. “Grandad mentioned it again in a later volume, according to Mum.”

  “So?” He couldn’t imagine where this was going. “What happened to it?”

  They sat side by side, their backs against one of the large crates, looking out across the passing fields.

  “They took the sword with them, Acer and Copper,” she said. “Mum said there’s a note in the next volume, where he talks about Lionel du Bois giving him the Red Fleece. He says what they did with the sword.”

  “It was broken. You’d think they’d just chuck it away, or give it to a museum or something.”

  “Pretty close, actually. You remember the expert, the historian on the submarine?”

  Peter did, though he couldn’t recall the man’s codename. “Was it ‘Brains’ or something like that?”

  Carys smiled. “It was Boffin.”

  “They gave him the sword?” It made sense. “Then unless we can find out who Boffin was, we’re not
going to get our hands on it.”

  “I think David’s father knows who Boffin was.”

  “Could be,” Peter agreed. “Lionel du Bois probably knew. You think David knows too, is that it?” He glanced back at the sleeping figure further down the wagon.

  “So you don’t?”

  “Of course I don’t. How would I know?”

  Carys seemed to consider her answer carefully. When she did reply, it was with a question of her own. “What’s your dad an expert in?”

  “He’s a historian, you know that. He’s published books on ancient Egypt and medieval superstition. He lectures on everything from the Bronze Age to the Elizabethan theatre.”

  “But he’s not the greatest expert on stone circles?”

  “Well, no,” Peter admitted. “He’s the head of department, but I guess it’s not really an area he specialises in. Abby’s pretty clued up on Avebury and Stonehenge and all that.”

  “I started trying to tell you before…” Carys began, hesitantly. “Mum thinks there’s another reason why Forrest approached your dad. I mean, specifically your dad.”

  “Because of the journal? Something to do with the crystal sword?”

  “That’s right. Because Boffin’s real name was Doctor Henry Crichton. That mean anything to you?”

  Peter stared at her. It couldn’t be true, could it? But suddenly a lot of things made a lot more sense. “Henry Crichton was Dad’s father,” he said. “He was my grandad.”

  How much did Dad know, if anything? Instinctively, Peter checked his phone, but there was still no signal.

  “So you must know where the Sword of Destiny is.”

  They both turned sharply. There was an edge to the voice that Peter had not heard before. David was sitting up, watching them intently. He got to his feet and padded towards them.

  “You were listening,” Carys said.

  “All the time.”

  The crate behind Peter’s back shifted slightly. Like something inside it had moved. He pushed himself away from it and stood up. “Well, for your information, I don’t know where the sword is,” he said. “I’ve no idea what happened to it.”

  “But your father knows.”

  “Possibly. Does it matter?”

  “Does it matter?” David clutched at the air in front of Peter, the stained bandage wrapped round the palm of his hand.

  “Okay, sorry if it’s important to you,” Peter said. “You think Einzel can use the crystal to find a cure, or something? To stop you ever becoming a wolf?” Unless… A cold chill was spreading down Peter’s back. “What happened to your hand?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s obviously not nothing,” Carys told him.

  “Something Einzel’s people did, then. I don’t know.”

  “Show us,” Peter said. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to see, to admit it – even to himself. He knew what was under the bandage.

  David met his gaze. He raised his hand and slowly teased off the bandage with his other hand. A chunky gold ring on his free hand caught the light as he moved.

  “Looks painful,” Carys said, though her voice was devoid of sympathy.

  “It’s fine,” David said. “It’s healing.”

  The bandage dropped away to reveal a ragged crust of blood in the middle of his palm.

  “Just an accident,” he explained. “I…”

  But Peter interrupted him. “You impaled it on a branch,” he said. His mouth was dry, he was suddenly cold at the realisation… the memory: The wolf leaping at him. The broken branch in his hands. The wolf trying to avoid it. The paw slamming into the sharp wood. Blood showering from the wound.

  “You’ve already turned,” Peter said. “It’s too late to cure you.”

  “You know nothing,” David said. “Of course I can be cured, but you’re as bad as my father. You really think Einzel’s trying to find a way to stop us turning into wolves?”

  “So what is he doing?” Carys demanded.

  In answer, David reached out and grabbed the side of one of the crates. With a sudden snarl of exertion, he ripped the wood open – to reveal the animal lying asleep inside.

  To reveal the wolf.

  “They’re sedated. But they’ll wake soon. This is what Einzel is working on. And I’m helping him. Father wouldn’t help me – he made that very clear at the circle the other night, before Einzel arrived. He’d arrange a whole ceremony in the hope of curing my sister. But for me – nothing. For me it was too late, he said. So I went to Einzel and offered him my help.”

  “Your help?” Peter echoed. “How can you help Einzel?”

  “The curse is hereditary. But for Einzel’s wolves, the infection dies with them.”

  Peter glanced at Carys. She gave him the merest hint of a nod – that was why she had not inherited the werewolf curse from her grandfather. The difference between the naturally occurring werewolves and those that had been manufactured.

  David seemed not to notice. “When you found me,” he went on, “I wasn’t getting infected blood from those creatures. They were getting my blood. So you see, I didn’t need to be strapped down. That’s what I signed up for. That’s what I want. I want to be cured of being human.”

  The crate behind Peter and Carys shifted as something moved inside. The musty animal smell was getting stronger again. A muffled snarling, scraping, scratching came from inside.

  “And you think the crystal sword will somehow help?” Carys asked. She took hold of Peter’s hand, pulling him gently with her as she backed away from David.

  “The tiniest fragment is all you need,” David said. He held up his good hand. The gold ring glinted as it caught the light. With his other hand, he carefully turned what Peter had thought was a coin set into the ring. The gold disc opened, tiny slivers of the metal folding back on themselves like the iris of a camera lens. Inside nestled a shard of broken crystal.

  “My new toy. Just enough,” David said softly, “to store the light of the full moon until you need it. Just enough, but not too much, mind. We mustn’t overdo things.”

  The crystal was glowing gently. The light from it played over David’s features as he brought his hand close to his face.

  David’s voice was a dry, guttural rasp. “They might be sedated, but it’s wearing off now. They come when they are called. And they will wake at the cry of their master.” His words became an unearthly howl of triumph.

  As his mouth stretched open, the skin was ripped apart, another face tearing through: the snarling, savage face of a wolf.

  Carys pulled Peter back as claws raked through the air inches away from him.

  David tilted his head back and let out an almighty roar. The fur round his neck shivered. His shirt split open and he shrugged off his coat. From all around, other voices answered – howls and barks from within the crates as the wolves inside were awakened by the call.

  The crate behind Peter exploded. Splinters whipped past his face as the wolf inside tore its way through the thin wooden panels. Carys screamed. Peter realised he was yelling too. But their voices were lost in the noise of the shattering crates.

  Carys heaved open the door at the back of the wagon. Peter followed her and dragged it closed behind them. There was a bolt at the top, and he shot it home. The door shuddered as something slammed into it on the other side.

  They were outside the train, on a narrow platform at the back of the wagon. Peter could see the coupling to the wagon in front in the gap between this platform and the next. Below that, the ground rushed past in a blur.

  Carys leaped easily across to the next wagon, landing lightly on its platform.

  “Come on!” she shouted, her words whipped away by the noise of the engine, the howl of the wind and the muffled cries of the wolves.

  The gap was only about a metre, but Peter couldn’t bring himself to jump. What if he missed? What if he fell? The ground sped past below him… He pressed back against the door they had just come through. It shook again. The wood began to
splinter.

  He took a deep breath, and jumped. But too far – colliding with the door to the next wagon and staggering back. One foot dropped into space and he felt himself falling.

  Carys grabbed Peter’s arm and wrenched him back. He gasped his thanks, but she was already pulling open the door and dragging him through.

  The next wagon was identical to the one they had left – including the wooden crates. They were stacked along both sides, leaving a narrow corridor that led to the door at the other end.

  “They’re in every wagon!”

  “Let’s hope not,” Carys told him. “Come on!”

  Several crates were shaking, breaking apart. Claws sliced through the wood as Peter and Carys ran between them. Wolves struggled to free themselves, paws scrabbling. Peter felt warm, damp fur touch his neck. Claws scraped at his face.

  The door behind them burst open just as they reached the next one. Peter turned – and saw an enormous wolf bounding down the corridor of shattered wood. Several more wolves poured into the wagon behind and leaped from the broken crates.

  He dived through the door and slammed it shut. Turned, leaped for the next wagon and landed easily beside Carys. “We can’t do this for ever.”

  “I know. We’ll run out of train. We must be nearly at the engine.”

  There were not so many crates in this wagon. Just half a dozen. But already wolves were breaking out of two of them.

  Carys grabbed splinters of wood and used a larger piece of broken plank to hammer them round the edge of the door, wedging it shut.

  “We have to make a stand somewhere,” she shouted above the howling of wolves and splintering of wood.

  “Why here?”

  “What if the next door’s bolted?”

  She turned to face the wagon. The first wolf was still shaking its way out of a crate. Carys raised the broken plank like a club.

  “We can’t fight them off,” Peter pointed out.

  “Then what? You got a better idea?”

  “Yes,” Peter told her. “Help me with this.”

  Together they heaved open one of the loading doors at the side of the wagon. Together they dragged the nearest crate to the doorway. Peter and Carys heaved the crate through the door and watched it tumble away down the sloping embankment. The wood split apart to reveal nothing more than a mass of boxes and cartons.