Death's Shadow

spells of the study will halt them.”

“And if they don’t?” Meera asks.

“Fight like a demon,” he chuckles bleakly.

We shuffle back through the open door of the study. As soon as we’re in, I dart to the nearest wall and grab an axe—the swords here are mostly too big for me.

One of the werewolves howls. The female leaps into the study, fangs flashing, ready to tear us to pieces. But as soon as she crosses the threshold she screeches, clasps her hands to the sides of her head, doubles over and vomits. She looks up hatefully and reaches for Meera, then screams and vomits again. She rolls out. The males roar at her but she roars back more forcefully than either of them.

“It worked,” Dervish notes dully.

The stronger male approaches the doorway. He sniffs at the jamb suspiciously and leans through. His nostrils flare and the pupils of his eyes widen. He leaps back before he gets sick. Dervish strides forward and slams the door shut.

“What are they doing here?” Meera pants. “Where did they come from?”

“No time for questions,” Dervish murmurs, stroking his beard with the tip of his sword. “There are probably others with them, demons or mages. They might break the spells and free the way for the werewolves.”

The creatures are scratching at the door, their howls muted by the wood.

“The window,” Dervish says. “There are handholds down the wall. We can get out that way.”

“Handholds?” Meera asks dubiously.

“Call me paranoid,” Dervish says, “but I always like to have an escape route.” He crosses to the window and jerks hard on the strings of the blinds, yanking them all the way up. As he leans forward to unlatch the window, I get a sudden sense of danger.

“Down!” I scream.

Dervish doesn’t pause, which is the only thing that saves him. Because as he throws himself flat in response to my cry, the glass above his head shatters from the gunfire of several rifles.

Meera curses and ducks low. The bullets strike the wall and shelves, ripping up many of Dervish’s rare books, knocking weapons from their holders. A few ricochet into his computer and laptop, which explode in showers of sparks.

I’m lying face down, shivering. This is my first experience of modern warfare. I find the guns more repulsive than demons. I can accept the evil ways of otherworldly beasts who know nothing except chaos and destruction. But to think that humans created such violent, vicious weapons…

“What’s going on?” Meera screams as the gunfire stops. “Who’s out there?”

“They didn’t introduce themselves,” Dervish quips.

He’s sitting with his back to the wall, beneath the shattered glass of the window. He has the look of a man studying a difficult crossword puzzle.

“We’re trapped,” I snap. Meera and Dervish look at me. Meera’s afraid, Dervish curious. “Do we fight the werewolves or the people with guns?”

“The werewolves would appear to be the preferable option,” Dervish says. “We can’t fight the crew outside—we’d be shot to ribbons in no time. But whoever set this up will have thought of that. I doubt we’ll have a clear run if we get past the werewolves—which is a pretty sizeable if.” He gets to his knees and grins. “How about we fight neither of them?”

“What are you talking about?” Meera growls.

“A paranoid person has one escape route, easy to spot if your foe has a keen eye. But a real paranoia freak always has a second, less obvious way out.”

There are two desks in the study, Dervish’s main workstation and a second, smaller table for the spillover. He crawls to that, wincing when he cuts his hands and knees on shards of glass. He reaches it and stands, having checked to make sure no snipers can see him. “Help me with this,” he grunts.

Meera and I aren’t sure what his plan is, but we both shuffle to his side and push as he directs. The desk slides away more smoothly than I would have thought, given the thick carpet which covers the floor. Dervish stoops, grabs a chunk of the carpet and tugs hard. A square patch rips loose. Beneath lies a trapdoor with a round handle. Dervish takes hold and pulls. A crawlway beneath the floor is revealed.

“Where does it lead?” Meera asks.

“There are a couple of exits,” Dervish explains. “It runs to the rear of the house. There’s a window. We can drop to the ground if nobody’s outside. If that way’s blocked, a panel opens on to one of the corridors beneath us, so we can sneak through the house.”

“If we survive, remind me to give you a giant, slobbery kiss,” Meera says.

“It’s a deal,” he grins and slides his legs into the hole.

FLIGHT

I don’t like the crawlway. The cramped space and lack of light remind me of the cave. I feel my insides tighten. But I bite down hard on my fear and scuttle after Dervish, Meera bringing up the rear. As reluctant as I am to enter, I’ll take a dark, tight space over gunfire and werewolves any day.

Dervish reaches the window at the end of the tunnel. It’s semi-circular, with thick stained glass. He can see out, but it would be hard for anybody outside to see in. He observes in silence. Ten seconds pass. Twenty. Thirty. I can still hear the howls of the werewolves and splintering wood. The door can’t hold much longer. They might not be able to enter the protected study, but when they realise we’re not there, they’ll come hunting for us. What’s Dervish waiting for?

Finally he sighs and turns—there’s just enough space. I start to ask a question, but he puts a finger to his lips and shakes his head. I nod bitterly. There must be people with guns outside, or more werewolves. Either way, we can’t go via the window. We’ll have to try sneaking through the house.

We backtrack past the study, then follow the crawlway round to the right. A short distance later, Dervish removes a panel and slips through the hole in the ceiling beneath us. He helps me down, grabbing my legs and easing me to the floor. Some of his memories flow into me—mostly about Bill-E—but the contact is brief.

We’re in a short corridor on the second floor of the house, close to the hall of portraits, which is filled with paintings and photographs of dead family members, most of whom turned into werewolves. Soft growling sounds coming from that direction. Dervish listens for a moment, looks around uneasily, then starts towards the hall. Meera and I dutifully follow.

The hall is a mess of shattered frames, ripped paintings and photos. In the middle of it all squats a werewolf. He’s roughly tearing a large portrait to shreds, stuffing bits of canvas into his mouth, chewing and spitting the pieces out. He’s urinated over some of the paintings, either marking his territory or showing undue disdain for the Grady clan.

The werewolf doesn’t spot us until we’re almost upon him. Then Dervish steps on a piece of frame hidden beneath scraps of paper. It snaps and the werewolf’s head shoots up. His growl deepens and his lips split into a vicious sneer. Using his powerful legs, he leaps at us, howling as he attacks. He slams into Dervish and drives him to the floor.

No time to use my axe. I yelp and grab the werewolf’s jaw, trying to keep his teeth from closing on Dervish’s unprotected throat. Jumbled, fragmented memories shoot from the werewolf’s fevered brain into mine. What I learn disturbs me, but I don’t dwell on it—I have more urgent matters to deal with. The werewolf’s teeth are only a couple of centimetres from Dervish’s jugular vein.

I prepare a spell to force shut the werewolf’s mouth, but Meera’s faster than me. She takes quick aim, then brains the werewolf with her mace. The werewolf’s head snaps to the left. His eyelids flicker. Then he slumps over Dervish and it’s simple enough to slide him off.

Dervish is furious when he rises. “I should have seen that one coming a mile away,” he snarls, wiping blood from his left arm where the werewolf gouged him.

“You’re getting old and slow,” Meera taunts him. “What now?”

“The cellar,” Dervish says.