Just before the bell rings for class, my last petitioner approaches. Bill-E. He’s smiling awkwardly, even more so than usual. “Hi, Grubbs.”
“Hi.”
“How’s tricks, Spleenio?” Loch says, putting out his hand. I groan as Bill-E falls for the trick again, makes to shake, and is humiliated when Loch whips his hand away. “Sucker!”
I don’t wait for Bill-E or Loch to say anything else. “Have you heard about the party?” I ask quickly.
“Yeah,” Bill-E says. “I know I was supposed to come over this weekend, but —”
“You’re not going to back out, are you?” I cut him short. “C’mon, Bill-E, this is my first party. I need you there for moral support.”
A rosy glow of happiness spreads outwards from the center of the chubby boy’s cheeks. “You want me to come?” he asks quietly, half suspecting a cruel joke.
“Of course,” I say firmly. “In fact, if you don’t, the party’s off.”
“Now hold on a minute . . .” Loch begins, startled.
“I mean it,” I silence him, eyes on Bill-E, trying to put right at least some of the wrong things between us.
“Well. . . I mean. . . I guess. . . OK.” Bill-E grins. “Sure. Why not?”
“Great.” I raise a warning finger. “But don’t tell Ma and Pa Spleen it’s a party or they’ll never let you come.”
“No sheet, Sherlock!” Bill-E laughs and heads off, much happier than I’ve seen him in a long while.
Dervish is getting ready to leave. In his leather pants and jacket, pulling the straps out of his helmet. His motorcycle’s outside the front door, primed to go. “Is the party tonight or tomorrow?” he asks.
“Tomorrow. Too awkward for people to come tonight.
Plus it gives me time to go shopping in the Vale in the morning.”
“You know I’ll be back early Sunday afternoon,” he reminds me.
“I know.”
“If I walk in and find pools of puke and mountains of trash. . . ”
“You won’t,” I assure him. “There aren’t many coming, and a few are sleeping over, to help clean up in the morning. The only thing is, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to do all the laundry before you return.”
“That’s fine,” Dervish says, then raises an eyebrow. “Those staying over are all boys, I presume?”
“Of course.”
“They’d better be. Because if I find out otherwise. . . ”
“You won’t.”
“Good.”
The pair of massive front doors are already open. Dervish walks out, breathing in fresh spring air. “It’s supposed to be cold over the weekend,” he says. “Don’t leave the windows open or the house will be freezing.”
“I have everything under control,” I tell him.
“I doubt it.” He climbs onto his bike.
“Say hi to Meera for me.”
“Sure.”
“Give her a kiss for me too.”
“Funny guy.” Then, without a goodbye, he’s off, tearing down the driveway, already approaching the speed limit — and he’s only warming up. If everyone drove like my maniac of an uncle, the roads would be awash with blood.
This isn’t the first time Dervish has left me alone in the house, but it’s the first time he’s left me in total control. Before, the understanding was always that I was simply holding the fort. No parties. This time he’s as good as said the house is mine for the next forty-odd hours, to do whatever I want with it.
It feels strange. I find myself thinking of everything that could go wrong — broken windows, smashed vases, someone stumbling into Dervish’s study and turning into a frog. I half wish I could cancel. I’ve been to a couple of wild parties with Loch over the past few months and never worried about what we were doing, the mess we were making, what would happen to the kids who lived there when their parents returned. Now that the shoe’s on my foot, I realize what a risky undertaking it is. Maybe I should fake sick and call the whole thing off. The phone rings. Loch. It’s as if he sensed my wavering mood and intervened to sway me back into party mode. “Has Dervish gone?” he asks. “Yes.” “Good. I didn’t want to discuss it at school — too many ears — but what about booze? Yea or nay?” “That might be a bit much,” I mutter. “Things will probably be wild enough if everyone’s sober.” “Yeah, it’ll be wilder if everyone’s drunk,” Loch laughs, “but a lot more fun! I was thinking about all those bottles of wine in the cellar. . . ” “No way,” I snap. “Most are expensive.
Very
expensive.
Nobody goes near the wine. That’s a golden rule. If anyone breaks it, I’ll kick you all out.”
“Spoilsport,” Loch grumbles. “Well, what about beer? I could ask one of my older cousins to get us a crate or two.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“You’re not wimping out, are you?” he asks suspiciously.
“Well . . .” I start.
“Good,” Loch says quickly. “Let’s forget about the booze then. If anybody brings some, great. If not, we’ll manage sober. Fair enough?”
“Yeah,” I say unhappily. “I guess.”
“Great. See you in the morning. Oh, and I’ll be bringing Reni, to help carry the bags. Is that OK?”
“Sure,” I say, spirits lifting, instantly forgetting about my reservations. “That’ll be. . . fine. Yeah. Whatever.”
A short laugh, then Loch hangs up, leaving me to get on with planning the party.
Loch, Reni, and I make three runs to the village. Frank and Leon join us on the last run, when we realize we need more hands. It’s brilliant spending so much time with Reni, walking beside her in and out of Carcery Vale, discussing the party, bands, politics. . . whatever she feels like talking about.
Loch offers to chip in some money for the drinks and food, but I tell him it’s OK. Dervish is rich — there’s a family fortune knocking around, which will one day be mine and Bill-E’s — and he never begrudges me anything. He left a wad of cash for me in his study and told me to use it well.
Reni does a lot of the organizing. I spent a couple of hours last night drawing up a list of everything we might need, and was more than a little pleased with myself. She took one look at the list this morning, laughed, and tore it up. “Is Jesus coming?” she asked.
“Uh. . . no,” I replied, astonished.
“Then forget about the loaves and fishes miracle. What you had on that list wouldn’t last until nine o’clock. Now, grab me a fresh pad and pen — this needs a woman’s touch.”
Much as I hate to admit it, she was right. Carrying the supplies back from Carcery Vale, it feels like we’ve bought way too much — we could feed the starving millions with all this. But by the time we’ve divided it out into plates and bowls and distributed them around the three main party rooms — two big living rooms and the kitchen — it doesn’t look like a whole lot.
“Maybe we need to make another run,” Frank muses, opening a bag of chips.
“Maybe you need to stop snacking before anyone arrives,” Reni retorts, grabbing the bag from him. “No,” she says, casting a professional eye around. “This will do. Any more would be a waste.” She checks her watch. “I’m going home to get ready. And you boys . . .” She wrinkles her nose and pulls a face. “Ever heard of showers?”
She leaves. I look around at Loch, Frank, and Leon. They stare back. Then we all raise an arm and sniff.
T
HE party’s not set to start until seven, but the first guests begin arriving right after six. I’m nervous and twitchy, worrying about where their coats should go, if there’s enough food and drink, if anyone’s smuggled in anything they shouldn’t have. But as more arrive and the laughter and buzz of voices increase, I begin to relax as I realize people are having fun.
Not everyone who comes was on the invitation list, but there’s nothing I can do about that. If I turned them away, I’d ruin the atmosphere. A few gate-crashers have to be expected at any party.
Loch and Frank help (Leon can’t make it until nine), opening the front doors and greeting newcomers while I’m showing others around the mansion. It’s cool to be a guide to so many fascinated guests. I love leading them through the halls, pointing out weapons on the walls, explaining the house’s bloody history, showing them the hall of portraits and the faces of the dead.
“How come there are so many young people?” Mary asks, studying the paintings and photos.
“We’re an adventurous bunch,” I lie. “We don’t sit around quietly, waiting to grow old. We embrace life and danger, and so a lot of us die young.”
“They leave good-looking corpses though,” Reni says, and giggles sweetly when I blush.
Bill-E arrives at a quarter to eight. I’m coming down the stairs when he enters, admitted by Loch.
“Hey, Bill-E, great to see you, glad you could come,” Loch enthuses, offering his hand, which Bill-E predictably — and, I must admit, amusingly — tries to shake. “Sucker!”
But even Loch’s teasing can’t spoil the mood. Bill-E breezes past him, feathers only mildly ruffled, and makes for the nearest pile of food. Ten minutes of solid scarfing later, he’s by my side, marching after me as I lead the latest group on a tour. Halfway through, he’s taken over — he knows much more about the house and its legends than I do and is better at telling the stories. I don’t mind. It’s nice to see him come out of his shell. I wish he was like this all the time.
As the night ticks on I start to feel strange. Nauseous, dizzy, the rooms and people around me appearing weirdly out of focus. My breath is heavy in my ears and my stomach and chest ache if I move quickly. It’s not alcohol — nobody brought booze — but maybe somebody spiked the soft drinks with a spoon of a nasty powder or a pill.
“Are you OK?” Reni asks, spotting me staggering towards the kitchen.
“A bit. . . weird . . .” I gasp, having to sit on the floor a couple of yards shy of the kitchen door.
Reni squats beside me. “You don’t look good,” she says, and feels my forehead. “You haven’t been drinking, have you?” I shake my head. “Drugs?” Her voice is hard.
“Not. . . that I know. . . about,” I wheeze. “I was going. . . to the kitchen. . . to check. Think somebody. . . might have spiked. . . the drinks.”
“They’d better not,” Reni growls, surging to her feet. “I’ll have them arrested if they did! You wait here.” She storms off to investigate. Five or ten minutes later — hard to keep track of time, my head’s throbbing so much — she returns, calmer. “Everyone else is fine. I don’t think the drinks have been spiked.”
“Maybe I’m just sick,” I mutter.
“That’s what it looks like,” she says, then grabs my arms and hauls me to my feet. “Let’s get you outside. Fresh air will do you a world of good.”
She steers me through the kitchen and out the back door, then props me against the wall and stands watch beside me as I take deep breaths and try to focus. After a few minutes my head clears a little and my stomach settles.
“Better?” Reni asks, tilting my chin up, examining my eyes.
“Good as new,” I smile.
Reni leans towards me, a serious look in her eyes. I tense. Will this be our first kiss? I hope I don’t mess up. How do they do it in the movies — tongue or just lips? But at the last moment her expression crinkles and she kisses me quickly on the nose instead of the mouth.
“Come on, Romeo,” she laughs, taking my hands. “It’s too cold out here for monkey business.”
“What about inside?” I murmur, smiling at myself for getting the line out without stammering.
“Maybe later.” Reni grins and heads back in. I follow in high spirits, feeling much better than I did a few minutes ago. It’s only when we reach the kitchen door that I stop and feel a stab of real panic.
The light’s off in the kitchen. I can see the reflection of the sky in the dark glass of the door. Letting go of Reni’s hand, turning slowly, I look up at the cloudless heavens and fix my sight on the moon — which is round and fat, dangerously near to full.
Locked inside Dervish’s study. Breath coming quickly, raggedly. Trembling wildly. Remembering the night Bill-E changed, the beast he became. Dervish had to cage him up to protect people from him. He would have killed otherwise.
Am I turning into a werewolf?
I don’t know. The sickness and dizziness are still there, but they might be more a product of fear than anything else. Maybe it’s just worry that’s turned me white as a ghost and left me ready to throw up, shaking like a human maraca.
I focus on my hands, willing them steady. After a while they obey me. Then I force myself to breathe normally, evenly. When I feel like I’m in control, I study my reflection in a small hand mirror, looking for telltale signs around the eyes and lips — that’s where the marks show first.
Nothing. The same lines and creases. Eyes a bit wilder than normal — which is understandable — but mine. Not clouded over or animalistic.
I wish Dervish was here. I consider calling his cell. He isn’t that far away. At the speed he drives, he could be here in a couple of hours. I dig my phone out of my pocket, scroll down to his number, start to bring my thumb down over the dial button. . . then stop.
“I’m not turning,” I grunt, angry at myself for being so scared. “It’s after ten.” I check my watch. “Hell, nearly eleven. The moon’s at the height of its powers. If I was going to change, it would have happened by now.”
But maybe it’s the start,
a voice within me whispers, a voice I last heard in
Slawter
many months earlier — the voice of magic.
Nobody changes overnight. It’s a gradual process, spread out over a few months. This could be the beginning of the end.
“Maybe,” I agree, refusing to panic. “But I’m not going to turn savage tonight. Nobody has anything to fear from me. So there’s no point dragging Dervish back.”
But if it’s the change. . . If your time as a human is limited. . .
“All the more reason to party hard while I can.” I laugh viciously, then make myself go downstairs, smile, and act like everybody else — normal.
Midnight comes and goes. So do most of the guests, walking or biking home, a few collected by their parents. By half past, only those who are sleeping over remain — Loch, Frank, Leon, Charlie, Robbie, Bill-E, Reni, Mary, and a few others who’ve begged to spend the night. (OK, I lied to Dervish about only boys staying, but what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, right?)
“Do you want me to show you where you’ll be sleeping?” I ask, eager to wind the party down, still feeling sick.