by Roy Gill
“Tells you exactly where you are, using a satellite signal. Pretty amazing, now I think about it… Works great up here, dunno how it’d go on the Parallel, but if there’s a connection to a Human World location…”
Eve studied the pair of them, rapt in discussion. This was how they worked… Cameron knew the Humanian world well – he’d spent thirteen years in it, before he’d ever heard of the Parallel. And Morgan understood most things Daemonic; how to sniff them out, track them, and hunt them down. Together, they found whatever the magic-users of each world wanted, and sneakily purveyed it to them via the Parallel, making sure to keep back a little something for themselves…
It was a good system, and they enjoyed what they did, but occasionally Eve found herself wondering where she fitted in.
“I sometimes think you two have too much fun.”
“Can you have too much fun?” Cameron adopted a puzzled expression, and spread his palms. “How is that even possible?”
She shot him a look. “You’re totally in love with your wolf-side for a start.”
“Why wouldn’t I be? It’s the best thing that’s happened to me… well, ever.” Cameron’s brow furrowed, and his whole face darkened. “After all that bad stuff I went through – first losing Dad, then finding out what Gran was really like – don’t I deserve something good? Can’t I have that?”
Morgan paused, mid-way through munching a sausage roll. “He is pretty awesome at it, you know.”
“Hey. Thanks, man.”
Eve rolled her eyes, fearing another outbreak of high-fives.
“You’d never know he wasn’t born to the pack,” Morgan continued, oblivious. “He picks wolf skills up freakish fast –”
“But it’s not real life!” Eve hissed, causing Morgan to take a step back. “All that running about, chasing and howling like a mad thing. What about the things that need sorted here?” She threw her arms wide, taking in the paint peeling off the wood-panelled walls, the boxes and piles of clutter, and the doorway that led down to the equally packed damp-smelling cellar.
“I can do both, can’t I?” Cameron stood up and returned his guitar to its stand. “I can help. It’s not like I have to choose –”
“And what about me? Do I get a say?” She slammed the ledger shut, her voice rising. “Every day I have to come to your stupid old gran’s stupid old shop… I’m stuck here, while you two go out, roaming round the Parallel, trading things–”
“But we agreed,” said Cameron, his eyes wide. “The Parallel is proper dangerous. You don’t know it like we do. You’re too young –”
“I’m too young? I’m three years younger than you, Cameron Duffy, but you only think of that when it suits you.” Eve marched right up to him – his head just about reached her shoulders – and poked a finger at his forehead, nudging him backward. “Just because Mrs Ferguson’s horrible magic left me older on the outside than the inside, I’m stuck here in this musty vault, day after day – because you need someone who looks grown-up, in case some human busybody comes in – and it’s not fair, it’s not!”
There was a silence, interrupted only by the sound of Cameron’s trainers scuffing slowly on the floor. Eve rubbed the corners of her eyes, and gave her head a quick shake. Morgan, she noticed, had moved stealthily to the other end of the shop, and seemed to have developed a sudden interest in a pile of records.
“Oh, Eve,” said Cameron eventually. “You should’ve said something. I’m sorry.”
“You could’ve asked. Sometimes I think it’s not much better being here than when I was trapped at Mrs Ferguson’s. I’m still not my own person.”
“You don’t mean that, do you?”
“Guys,” Morgan’s voice rang out. “You might wanna to save it. We’ve got company.”
Clambering down the stairs from the street was the largest man Eve had ever seen. A white formal coat strained to cover his body, and his face was grey and lumpy, with a massive wattle-like chin. His fine colourless hair bristled upwards in thin strands, reminding her of the mould she’d once found on a loaf of bread, forgotten in the kitchen. As the door opened, she shot a warning glance to the boys. They nodded back – all hint of disagreement forgotten.
All three knew instantly: this was a daemon.
“Don’t mind me. I wouldn’t wish to be any trouble,” the newcomer wheezed, as he inched his way in. “Although that doorway of yours… Tut. Tut. Tut.” He shook his vast head, sending his fatty chin swinging. “Most unsuitable! Very poor accessibility for the larger gentle-daemon. I shall make a note! I shall write you up! I will make a report to the appropriate authorities.”
Morgan lifted his head slightly as the daemon lumbered past, then recoiled, as if scenting something rank. He moved swiftly away, over to the wall where the musical instruments hung.
“Can we help?” said Cameron, adopting his brightest voice. “Were you looking for something in particular?”
“Oh, not me. Most kind of you, young sir, most kind!” A pair of milky eyes blinked. “You should address your attentions to my colleague. He is the prime agent in this case.”
The daemon moved aside, revealing a second visitor making his way down the stairs: a man in his late thirties with close-cropped thinning hair, dressed in a smart black suit. The man walked briskly up to the counter, and addressed Eve. “I want to speak to the owner, Ms Isobel Ives. Come on, girl. I don’t have all day.”
“I’m afraid she’s away on business.” Eve spoke calmly, using the well-practised words she had devised with her two friends. “But I’m in charge, and her grandson’s here,” she indicated Cameron. “Perhaps we can help?”
“I’d better introduce myself. I’m Dr Alasdair Black, and my colleague is Mr Grey.”
“That figures,” Morgan said sourly, eyeing the puffy-faced daemon.
Dr Black ignored him. “Let’s cut to the chase. I’m not interested in purchasing any of this… this detritus, this clutter.” He dismissed the contents of the shop with a wave of his hand.
There was a loud rude-sounding paaaaarp, and Morgan lowered a trumpet from his lips. “For sure? Some of it is pretty awesome. Makes good sounds?”
“Morgan!” Eve remonstrated. She put a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Be sensible.”
“Most amusing,” said Dr Black, in a tone that suggested he found it anything but. “I don’t think you’ll be laughing soon. You see, I’ve been conducting some research. It’s amazing how many important documents become public over time. Even wills lodged with Daemonic law firms. And you know what? This cosy little establishment, this music-shop-that-isn’t-a-music-shop…”
Eve looked up, meeting Dr Black’s gaze.
“Yes, I know all about your smuggling between the worlds.” The corners of his mouth were raised in the tiny semblance of a smile. “This shop, you see, it was left to Isobel Ives under certain conditions… Mr Grey, if you would?”
“With pleasure.” Grey’s arm snaked into his coat and drew out a yellowed parchment. He unfurled the document, and handed it to his colleague.
“The shop passed to this lad’s grandma,” Dr Black gave Cameron a disapproving look, “let us see… a surprisingly long time ago. Yes, she must’ve been a remarkably young woman at the time – and latterly a very, very old one.”
“What can I say? I’ve got good genes.” Cameron’s face was blank, giving nothing away.
“And it was to remain hers for the duration of her life. Those were the conditions. After that it passes to whoever is Messrs Scott and Forceworthy’s closest surviving relative – in this case, a Miss Dinwiddie of Burntisland.” Dr Black rolled the parchment and handed it back to Mr Grey. “Have we located Miss Dinwiddie?”
“We have, sir.”
“And is she well?”
“She is in rude health for an elderly lady, sir. She keeps company with many small dogs and parrots.”
Dr Black’s left eye twitched. “How unsanitary.”
“I’m pleased to say I left her a little less clu
ttered.” Grey ran a sausage-like finger along his gums, and puffed out. A strange sickly odour, like mushrooms cooked in sugar, hung in the air. “It’s a great skill of mine. To absorb problems. To remove that which gets in our way.” His milky eyes turned to Eve.
Cameron stepped over to join her behind the counter and she shot him a grateful glance. “Lucky old Miss Dinwiddie, eh?”
“Yay Dinwiddie. Go her.” Morgan pumped a mocking fist in the air, and moved to stand on Eve’s other side.
“So she gets the shop when Gran is gone,” said Cameron. “What’s that got to do with us?”
“You mean to tell me Ms Ives is still about? Seriously?” Dr Black spoke with heavy sarcasm. “For such an important personage of the Parallel, is it not strange no one has seen her for… about a year, isn’t it, Mr Grey?”
“Indeed, sir.”
Cameron paled. Eve knew he feared someone might find out his gran had left the Human World under strange circumstances – and what that could mean for the life the three of them had built together…
“We saw her… only yesterday,” he said firmly. “Isn’t that right?”
“That’s what I remember.” Beneath the desk, Eve gave Cameron’s hand a tiny squeeze.
“Large as life and twice as grumpy.” Morgan folded his arms, and gave one of his broadest grins, exposing long white teeth. “So you’d better go, hadn’t you?”
Dr Black’s eye twitched again. He leant forward and began to arrange the pens that were scattered on the desk into lines. “I have a dislike for inexactitude. I have a lack of tolerance for things that don’t add up, wouldn’t you say, Mr Grey?”
“Oh, a positive distaste for it.” The fat man breathed heavily, sending another gust of sugary-mushroom air into the room.
“That doesn’t matter.” Cameron set his jaw. “You can’t prove anything.”
“Not to the human authorities, maybe. But the Court of the Parallel will take a different view.” Dr Black buttoned his suit jacket, and turned on his heel. “Serve them, Mr Grey.”
“With pleasure, sir.” Grey’s fat fist clenched and unclenched, cradling his wobbly chin as if deep in thought. “You are ordered to appear at the Court of the Parallel in three days time: there to produce Isobel Ives, or else forfeit the premises of Scott & Forceworthy, and all business conducted therein.”
With a violent wrench, Grey pulled his hand down to chest level. To Eve’s disgust, his chin stretched too, like a dollop of dough; longer and longer, until finally the section he was holding onto detached from the underside of his face. The grey flesh quickly puckered over, and he dropped the separated chin-lump with a slap onto the counter.
“Ewww – what is that?”
“My calling card!” The now very-slightly-less-fat Mr Grey turned and waddled towards the door. “And if you ignore its summons, you shall hear its call… Oh yes, you shall hear it. Good day, Sirs, Madam. Good day.”
The three friends stared at the lump. Stuck to the countertop, it seemed to be faintly pulsing, almost as if it were breathing.
“His awful breath… That dreadful man. I’ve got to get rid of that thing.” Without pausing to think, Eve scooped up the lump. It squirmed beneath her fingers, and she swallowed hard. As she neared the open door, she drew back her hand to hurl the lump into the street.
“Oh gross! It’s suckered on!”
Frantically, she went through the action of throwing again, but the lump held fast.
“I don’t think you can get rid of it like that.” Morgan touched her shoulder, and indicated the desk. “You’re gonna have to put it back where he left it.”
Eve held out her arm and the grey lump slowly glopped from her fingers back to its place on the counter, where it squatted damply, like a malevolent frog.
“Ok then…” Cameron glanced at his two friends, and gave a tiny, forced smile. “No big deal. All we’ve got to do is figure out how to whistle up my crazy gran from the hellish void she vanished into, save the business – and get rid of that thing.”
CHAPTER 2
Like a Wolf in the Night
Black paws on white snow…
The ground beneath your pads is hard and crisp.
Easy to slip on, so claws spread wide, but it’s firmer than the deeper drifts – more of a kickback from your hind legs – so you can go swift.
Ears twitch, eyes scan: left to right, down to the ground, then back to the horizon. White wolf to your side, almost in camouflage with the snow, but you scent-see him – know him – instantly.
Jaw open, lips taut and drawn-back, but teeth not exposed – a wolf smile.
Morgan.
You blink, and you both understand what that means. You run together. Heart pounding, sweet night air singing through your chest. Your feet dance, and you cover miles, racing through the trees.
This is what it means to be alive.
You draw in scent, and information leaps inside your mind. Every tiny trace is a keynote of the whole it comes from. Like icons on a computer desktop, your human-self thinks: each a link to something bigger. You know that stags have passed this way, other wolves too. A mile distant, a wild boar slumbers in fusty sleep, while above you a bird of prey circles. The forest exists in your mind as a brilliant landscape: not just of what is here now, but what has been, and what is on the way.
A new scent darts in: vibrant and sharp, it demands attention. It combines a sticky mess of cobwebs and the sour stink of death, and it approaches – fast.
A pinching, prickling sensation shoots down your spine. Your hackles rise –
With a noise halfway between a cry of alarm and a wolfish yelp, Cameron came to his senses, and sat up, bed sheets tumbling from his chest.
The bedside clock glowed a blue 06:00 AM. He was in his room, in his gran’s old house on Observatory Row. He frowned and patted the midpoint of his shoulders, touching the place where a clump of hair had started to rise in his dream, convinced he would find something amiss, but felt only ordinary human skin. The last night of the Fat Moon had passed, and there would be no more wolf-shifts for a month – somehow he was already dreaming of it.
Part of him wanted to lie down, roll over, and go back to sleep but the prickling sense of unease had stuck with him, and he couldn’t shake it. Something was wrong. He lifted his head and sniffed.
Death and cobwebs.
Human senses were dull and vague compared to those of his wolf-self, but he could still identify a presence: something unusual and unpleasant lurking in his room.
Fully alert now, he scanned the darkened surroundings: detecting and dismissing the familiar outlines of bookshelves, mounds of clothes, his precious guitar, the boxy shape of its amp, his stereo…
Over by the window, two red dots shone like standby lights on a TV. There was no reason for them to be there, high up on the curtain. He leant forward, eyes narrowed against the half-light.
The red dots grew, and the curtain behind shifted – the material twisting and moving as if manipulated by an unseen force. A central section billowed out then hardened, taking on the shape of a spidery body. All around it, the outlines of eight legs rose up, twitching, and began to pull themselves free.
A Weaver Daemon!
Cameron opened his mouth to shout a warning, but the sound that came out was a full-bodied growl. He leapt from the bed.
The red eyes of the fast-forming daemon flared – its scrabbling legs froze.
“Didn’t think I’d see you, did you?” Cameron snarled. “Didn’t think I’d notice? Well, I’m no naïve kid. Not any more –”
He tore at the upper corner of the curtain, aiming to pull it from the rail, drop it to the ground, stamp on it – anything to prevent the intruder from completing its materialisation – but the material slashed instead. Four parallel lines razored across the surface, following the path of his fingers, and tracking fast towards the daemon. Two half-formed legs fell twitching to the ground, the slash marks stopping just short of the creature’s body.
<
br /> The daemon screeched and flailed, but Cameron paid it no heed. He whipped his hand away and stared. His fingers were thick with black fur, the nails in the shape of claws – his hand was halfway to becoming a wolf paw.
“Cameron… What’s going on? Some of us are trying to –” Eve’s voice was thick with sleep. She groped towards the light switch – then she saw the daemon. She shrank back against the wall. “Mrs Ferguson!”
Cameron shoved his hand into the pocket of his grey joggers, and tried to act nonchalant despite the adrenaline racing through him. “Don’t worry. I dealt with it. I scared it off.”
The creature’s six remaining legs were curling in, rejoining the material they had grown from, its body deflating like a punctured football. Soon the curtain smoothed and hung flat once more. The last thing to vanish were its eyes, which dwindled, grew dim and merged into the flowery pattern of red and black poppies.
“Knew something was up.” Morgan lurched in, his tangled hair half over his face. “I could sense it –”
He collided with Eve, who gave a tiny shriek. She turned, saw who it was, and punched his arm.
“Why don’t you use your super senses to check where you’re going?”
“Hey!” Morgan pushed his hair back, and peered at her blearily. “I’m doing my best. This is all too morning for some of us.”
Eve ignored him, and moved to examine the curtain. Yellow streetlight shone through the slash marks. “Mrs Ferguson… after all this time. I thought she was gone for good.”
“She is. We watched her burn,” Morgan said firmly. “Must’ve been another Weaver. They can all work mojo like that – magic any bit of thread to whistle up a body. What do you reckon, Cam?”
Cameron shook his head. Now the daemon was gone, his concern lay elsewhere. In his pocket, his fingers rubbed together in a tightly balled fist. Were they still furry? Or was that just the fleecy lining of his pocket? And how could he have part-shifted? How was that even possible, outside a Fat Moon? He had felt so angry when he caught that thing creeping in…
