“Possibly,” Dervish says. “I wouldn’t have thought they had that kind of power, but if it’s true that you’re turning, and if there’s magic involved…” He frowns and trails off into a very troubled silence. I let him brood for five minutes… ten… twelve. Then I can’t stand it any longer.
“What are we going to
“Quiet,” he shushes me. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. There’s a lot going on that’s queer to us. But I can ask around, seek advice, search for answers. You haven’t turned and you haven’t hurt anybody, so don’t work yourself up into a state. That won’t help.”
He takes a sheet of paper off a pile on the desk, balls it up and tosses it from one hand to the other, thinking. “First, I mount a watch of you every night. If you feel the sickness returning—or anything that doesn’t feel right—you tell me instantly. If you feel magic forming, tell me that too.” He hesitates. “Can you do anything now? A small spell?”
I shake my head, scared of even trying.
“If I could see you in action… pinpoint the source you tap into… it might help establish what we’re dealing with.”
I shudder, then nod and focus. I stare at the ball of paper which Dervish is still throwing from hand to hand. I try using magic to knock it off course, so it falls to the floor. But nothing happens.
“I can’t do it,” I say after a minute. “It isn’t there now. It comes and goes.”
“OK,” Dervish smiles. “Don’t knock yourself out. Now, it’s been a long, tiring night. Let’s get you to bed and I’ll keep an eye on you.”
“But the change… the magic… that’s it? We’re just going to leave it?”
“Sure,” Dervish says, then smiles reassuringly. “We’re not going to sort this out tonight. There’s not much I can do until I see evidence of your transformation or magical prowess. When that happens, I should have a clearer idea of what you’re going through and we can take it from there. Right now the best thing you can do is hit the sack and get some sleep. The problems will still be there tomorrow but we’ll be in a better state of mind to deal with them.”
Since that’s all there really is to do, I take Dervish’s advice, get ready for bed, then slip beneath the covers. Dervish sits in a chair by the circular window, keeping watch, protecting me, just as he did when I first moved into this house. Maybe it’s his calming presence, or maybe it’s simple exhaustion, but within minutes, despite everything, my eyes droop and I slip into unconsciousness.
Just before I go under completely, I remember the one thing I didn’t tell Dervish about—the blood disappearing from beneath Loch’s head. I don’t think it’s important, but he should be told just in case I’m wrong. I try to rise but it’s too late, I’m too far gone.
Dreams.
I jolt awake. My eyes snap open and I lurch upright in bed. But it’s not like waking from a nightmare. No racing heart or after-images of a bad dream. It’s more like somebody jabbed me with a blunt knife and stung me out of sleep.
I stare around, confused, not sure why I woke so quickly. Then I see that Dervish is gone. That’s probably what disturbed me—he slipped out for a few minutes, to fetch something, go to the toilet, change clothes or whatever, and I sensed him leave. It alarmed me and I jerked awake. Simple.
I start to lean back, half-smiling, then stop. There’s more to it than that. Something’s wrong. I have the sense of being in danger.
I get out of bed warily and pad to the doorway. There’s a light in the corridor at the top of the staircase. I slip out of my room and make for the light. The house is warm—Dervish hasn’t turned the heating off.
I think of calling Dervish’s name but don’t. If we’re not alone, if we’re under attack, I don’t want to tip off our enemies. I don’t think the situation is that grave—the sense of danger isn’t overbearing—but it pays to be cautious.
I reach the wide, ornate staircase which links the three floors of the mansion. Darkness below. A dim light above, coming from the direction of Dervish’s study. I home in on it.
Moments later I’m standing outside the study door, which is ajar. Dervish normally shuts the door, but tonight he left it open, probably because of the heat. He’s talking on the phone. If the door had been shut, I couldn’t have heard what he was saying. Open like this, I can hear him perfectly.
“Yeah,” he grunts softly, “I know.” A pause. “I don’t think so. I didn’t explore it fully, but…” Another pause. “That’s why I said I don’t
Dervish fidgets on his chair. I think he’s maybe heard a sound and is coming to check. I start to back away but then he speaks again.
“Just let him know what happened.” A pause. “Yes, I know the consequences if… Yes!” Snappish now. “I’m not a fool and I’m not new to this. In my opinion we’re safe. But only one person can confirm that. And he will when he comes. But he can only do that once you get off the phone to me and pass on the message.” A pause. “I know he’s not easy to get in touch with. I know I’ll have to wait. But the sooner you start, the…”
Silence. A long pause this time. I hear Dervish tapping the desk with his fingers. Finally, softly, he says, “He’s like my son.” I stiffen and move forward a few centimetres. “Of course, if the worst comes to… Yes, I know. I
If I lean forward I can see him. There’s a black folder on the desk close to his hand.
“I have the numbers,” he says quietly. He stops tapping and draws the black folder closer to him. Doesn’t open it. “Yes, I can do it. I have the strength. If there’s no other… if it comes to it.”
Another silence, which Dervish breaks curtly with, “Just tell him. You do your job, leave me to worry about mine.”
He slams the phone down and gets up.
I race back to my room. Dive under the covers. Pull them up over my chest. Try to look like I’m sleeping.
Dervish returns. Checks that I’m OK. Sits in the chair again. I lie very still, eyes closed, listening intently. Finally, after several long minutes, there’s the sound of light snoring.
I sneak out of bed. Tiptoe past the dozing Dervish. Head back upstairs in the dark, not turning any lights on. I think I know what was in that black folder and why I woke with the sense of danger. But I want to make sure. I couldn’t see clearly. There’s a slim chance it was something else.
The study. The door’s still open. I slip inside, gently shut the door, find the desk in the dark and turn on one of the smaller lamps. The desktop lights up. The folder’s still there, close to the phone, black as the cave was.
I pick it up and cradle it in my hands, staring at the blank cover, knowing what I’ll find when I open it, praying to whatever gods there are that I’m wrong.
Then, with a snap, I flick the cover back. I find several pages, a handful of names, addresses, phone numbers and e-mail addresses on each. And at the top of the first page, not in large letters, bold print or underlined, but standing out anyway, as if they’d been burnt into the paper and were still aflame, the two words which confirm all that I feared.
MISERY MARK II
I spend the rest of the week off school. Strangely enough, I’d rather go in. It’s dull as hell hanging out at the house all the time, brooding, only Dervish for company. I want something to take my mind off Loch’s death and all the other stuff. I want to be with my friends, talk about the tragedy, put it behind me, get on with life. But it’s expected that I take the week off to recover, so I do.
I try hard not to think about the folder or the Lambs. Like Dervish said, the curse has been in our family a
