Slawter

“Absolutely!”

“Then meet we shall,” Dervish says, getting to his feet and heading up to his office. “Anything to please Master Grady.”

I tramp up the stairs after him, pulling off my clothes, thinking about how cool it would be if I could meet David A Haym… and also how weird it is that one of the world’s premier horror producers is a woman.

→ “David A Haym’s a woman? No bloody way!” Loch howls.

“You’re having us on!” Robbie challenges me.

“How stupid do you think we are?” Charlie huffs.

“Of course she’s a woman,” Mary says. We gawp at her. “You didn’t know?”

“No,” Loch says. “You did?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

Mary shrugs. “I dunno. Years.”

“And you never told us?” Robbie barks.

“It never came up,” Mary laughs. “I’ve no interest in horror movies. I always tune out when you guys start on that rubbish.”

“Then how did you know she’s a woman?” I ask.

“There was a feature on her in a magazine my mum reads,” Mary explains. “I think the headline was, ‘The horror producer chick who beats the boys at their own game’.”

They’re nearly as excited as I am. Most of my friends don’t know what to make of Dervish. In a way he’s cool, the adult who rides a motorbike, dresses in denim, lets me do pretty much what I like. On the other hand he sometimes comes across as a complete nutter. Plus they know he was a veg for more than a year.

But now that he’s in talks with the slickest, sickest producer of recent horror movies, his cred rises like a helium balloon. They want to know how she knows about him, when she’s coming, what the new movie’s about. I act mysterious and secretive, giving nothing away, but dropping hints that I’m fully clued-in. In truth, I know no more than they do. Dervish wasn’t able to get through to her last night. He left a message and was waiting for her to phone back when I left this morning.

→ “Did she call?”

“Who?”

I groan, wishing Dervish wasn’t a complete airhead. “David A Haym, of course! Did she–”

“Oh, yeah, she rang.”

“And?” I practically shriek, as Dervish focuses on getting dinner ready.

“She’ll drop by within the next week.”

“Here?” I gasp. “Carcery Vale?”

“No,” he smirks. “Here — this house. I told her she could stay the night if she wanted, though I don’t know if–”

“David A Haym’s going to stay in our house?” I shout.

“Davida,” Dervish corrects me.

“Dervish… the terrible things I’ve said about you… the awful names I’ve called you… I take them all back!”

“Thanks,” Dervish laughs. Stops and frowns. “What awful names?”

→ Everyone wants David A Haym’s autograph. They want to meet her, have dinner with us, maybe snag a part in her next movie. Loch auditions for me several times a day, moaning and screaming, pretending bits of his body have been chopped off, quoting lines from Zombie Zest and Night Mayors — “We elected a devil!” “That’s not my hand on your knee!” “Mustard or mayo with your brains?” Draws curious stares from teachers and kids who haven’t heard the big news.

Bill-E talks up script ideas. Reckons he can pitch to her and become the brains behind her next five movies. “Writers are getting younger all the time,” he insists. “Producers want fresh talent, original ideas, guys who can think outside the box.”

“You’re about as far outside the box as they come,” Loch laughs.

“I wouldn’t have to write the whole script myself,” Bill-E says, ignoring the jibe. “I could collaborate. I’m a team player.”

“Yeah,” Loch snorts. “Trouble is, you’re a substitute!”

I let them scheme and dream. Smile smugly, as if they’re just crazy, dreamy kids. Of course, I’m as full of wild notions as they are — I just prefer to play it cool.

→ Days pass — no sign of Davida Haym. The weekend comes and goes. I bug Dervish constantly, asking if there’s been any further contact. Sometimes he pretends he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, just to wind me up.

By Tuesday I’m starting to wonder if it’s a gag, if Dervish never spoke to David A Haym at all. It would be a weird, unfunny joke — but Dervish is into weird and unfunny. I’ll look a right dope in school if she never shows. I’ll have to invent a story, pretend she was called away on an emergency.

Thinking about excuses I could use as I’m walking home. Nothing too simple, like a sick relative or having to pick up an award. Needs to be more dramatic. Her house burnt to the ground? She caught bubonic plague and had to go into isolation?

Warming to the plague theory – can people still get it these days?–when a car pulls up beside me. A window rolls down. A thin, black-haired woman leans across. “Excuse me,” she says. “Do you know where Dervish Grady lives?”

“Yeah.” I bend down, excitement building. “I’m his nephew, Grubitsch. I mean, Grubbs. Grubbs Grady. That’s me.” Can’t remember the last time I called myself Grubitsch. What a dork!

“Grubbs,” the woman says, nodding shortly. “Yes. I know about you.”

“You do?” Unable to hide my delight. “Dervish told you about me? Wow, that’s great! Uh, I mean, yeah, cool. I know about you too, of course.”

“Really?” She sounds surprised.

“Sure. I’ve been waiting all week for you.”

“You knew I was coming?” Sharp this time.

“Yeah. Dervish told me.”

She taps the steering wheel with her fingernails. They’re cut short, down to the flesh. “Well, may I give you a lift home, Grubbs? That way you can direct me as we go.”

“Sure!” I open the door and slide in. Put my seat belt on. Smile wide at David A — I mean, Davida Haym. She smiles back thinly. A narrow, pale face. Moody, if not downright gloomy. Exactly the way I expected a horror producer to look. “Just go straight,” I tell her. “The road runs by our house. You can’t miss it — only mansion in the neighbourhood.”

Silence. Davida is focused on the road. I’m trying to think of something to say that’s casual and witty. But my mind’s a blank. So I check her out. Thin all over, a long neck, bony hands, straight black hair, dark eyes. Dull white shirt and skirt. Flat, plain shoes. No jewellery, except one ring on her left hand with a large gold ‘L’ in the middle of a circle of flat silver.

“How have you been, Grubbs?” she asks suddenly.

“Fine.”

“I know something of your past. What happened last year with Billy Spleen.”

“What do you know about me and Bill-E?” I ask suspiciously, guard rising.

“I know about the lycanthropy. How you fought it.”

“Dervish told you that?” I cry, astonished.

“How has Billy been? Any recurrences of his old patterns?”

“Of course not! We cured him! He’s normal now!”

“And you?” she says quietly, and her eyes flick across, cold and calculating.

“Who the hell are you?” I ask, a tremble in my voice.

“Who do you think I am?” she replies.

“I thought you were David A Haym. But you’re not… are you?”

In answer she raises a finger and points. “That must be the mansion.”

She pulls into our drive. I have a bad feeling in my gut, not sure who this woman is or how she knows about Bill-E. She kills the engine and looks at me calmly. Her eyes are really dark. A robot-like expression. No make-up. Thin lips, almost invisible. A small nose with a wartish mole on the right nostril.

“Shall we go in together, or do you want to go on ahead and tell your uncle I’m here?” she asks.

“That depends. What’s your name?” She only smiles in reply. She looks more normal when she smiles, like a teacher — stern, but human. I relax slightly. “You can come with me,” I decide, not wanting to leave her here in case she’s an old friend of Dervish’s and I appear rude.

“Thank you,” she says and gets out of the car. She’s smoothing her skirt down and studying the mansion when I step out. “Nice place,” she comments, then raises a thin eyebrow, the signal for me to lead the way. I start ahead of her, whistling, not letting her see that I’m unnerved, acting like she’s an ordinary visitor. In through the oversized front doors. The juicy smell of sizzling steak drifts from the kitchen.

“Goodness,” the woman says, looking at the high ceilings, the size of the rooms, the weapons on the walls, the staircase.

“This way,” I tell her, heading for the kitchen. “You’re just in time for dinner.”

She follows slowly, absorbing the surroundings. Obviously hasn’t been here before. I keep trying to put a name to her face, thinking of all the people Dervish has mentioned in the past.

I reach the kitchen. Dervish is hard at work on the steak. “No!” he shouts before I say anything. “She hasn’t rung and there’s been no sign of her. Now stop pestering me or I might–”

“We have company,” I interrupt.

Dervish turns questioningly. The woman enters the kitchen. I step aside so he can see her. Instant recognition. His face goes white, then red. He steps away from the hob, abandoning the steak. Eyes tight. Lips quivering. With anger.

“You!” He spits the word out.

“It’s been a long time, Dervish,” the woman says softly, not moving forward to shake his hand. “You look better than I expected.”

“I thought she was David A Haym,” I tell him.

“She’s not,” he barks. “She’s Prae Athim.”

“Pray at him?” I echo.

“Pray Ah-teem,” the woman says, stressing the syllables.

“She’s one of the Lambs,” Dervish says with a sneer.

And the fear which was tickling away at me in the car kicks in solid, like a nail being hammered into my gut.

LAMBIKINS

→ In Dervish’s study. Like most of the rooms, it’s huge. But whereas the others have bare walls, with stone or wood floorboards, the study is carpeted and the walls are covered with leather panels. There are two large desks, bookcases galore, a PC, laptop, typewriter, paper and pens. There used to be five chess sets, but not any more. The swords and axes which hung from the walls are gone too.

Prae Athim doesn’t want me here. That’s obvious from her disapproving look. Dervish doesn’t care. He’s seated behind the computer on his largest desk, one hand on the mouse, moving it around in small circles, waiting for his unwelcome guest to speak. Prae Athim is seated opposite. I’m standing close to the door, ready to leave if Dervish tells me to.

Prae finally speaks. “Billy Spleen still lives with his grandparents?” Dervish nods slowly. “I thought you might have moved him in with you. To observe.”

“You’re the master observer, not me,” Dervish says quietly.

“Isn’t it dangerous, leaving him there?” she presses.

“Billy’s time of turning has passed. There’s nothing to fear from him now.”

“That’s debatable,” Prae smiles.

“No. It isn’t.”

Prae looks at her hands crossed over her lap. Thinks a moment. Then nods at me. “I’d rather not speak in front of the boy.”

“Is this about him?” Dervish responds.

“Partially.”

“Then you’ll have to.”

“I really don’t think–” she begins.

“Grubbs faced the demons with me,” Dervish interrupts. “He fought by my side. I’m not going to keep secrets from him.”

“Really?” Prae sniffs. “You tell him everything about your business?”

“No. But I don’t hide things from him. When he asks, I answer. And since I’m certain he’s going to be asking about this, he might as well stay and hear it first-hand.”

Prae sighs. “You never make life easy for us. You’ve always treated the Lambs like enemies. We’re on the same side, Dervish. You should afford us respect.”

“I do respect you,” Dervish says. “I just don’t trust you.”

I’d forgotten about the Lambs. They loomed large in my thoughts while Dervish was zombified, especially around the time of a full moon. If I’d found myself turning into a werewolf, I was going to phone them and ask them to put me out of my misery. But since Dervish returned, I haven’t had time to brood about my potentially fatal genes or the family bogey men.

The Gradys and their kin have been cursed for a long time. We’re talking a lot of generations. Over the centuries, family members have tried to figure out the cause of the curse, find a cure for it, and develop ways of dealing with the infected children quietly and efficiently.

The Lambs are the result. A group of scientists, soldiers and I don’t know what else, all focused on the problems and logistics of lycanthropy. They spend a lot of time, money and effort trying to unlock the secrets of the rogue Grady-genes. But they also play the part of executioners when necessary.

A lot of parents decide to kill their children if they turn into werewolves. But most can’t perform the dirty deed themselves. So they call in the Lambs, who take the transformed child away and do what must be done.

“How did you find out about Billy?” Dervish asks.

“We keep tabs on all the family children,” Prae says.

“But Billy didn’t leave a trail. There was no evidence that he was turning.”

Prae smiles. “You covered up admirably. Gathered the bodies of the animals he slaughtered, disposed of them quietly. But you couldn’t be expected to find every corpse. And you couldn’t do anything about the operative who saw him sneaking out of his house during a full moon.”

“You had him under direct surveillance?” Dervish snaps.

“Sometimes, yes.”

Dervish’s hand goes rigid on the mouse. “You had no right to do that.”

“We had every right,” Prae disagrees. “If a guardian chooses to deal personally with an infected child, it’s not our business. But you didn’t. You gave him free reign.”

“I was in control,” Dervish growls. “He wasn’t a danger to anyone. I was waiting for the right moment to act.”

“I understand,” Prae says. “But we couldn’t take any chances. We guessed you would handle the matter this way if he turned, so for some years we’d been keeping an eye on the boy. On your brother’s children too.”

Dervish starts to retort. Stops and scowls. “Tell me why you’ve come.”

“A few reasons,” Prae says. “One — to make sure Billy is normal.”

“He is,” Dervish says. “We cured him.”

“But how certain is your cure?” Prae asks. “We know about the demon you deal with, but there’s much about the process that’s a mystery. You and the others who have faced him keep it a secret. You don’t let the rest of us benefit.”

“We can’t include you,” Dervish says stiffly. “He deals with one case at a time, and only with those who have some experience of magic. That’s how it works. It’s not our choice — it’s his.”

“The demon,” Prae nods. “Lord–”

“Don’t say his name here,” Dervish stops her. “It’s dangerous.”

Prae looks around nervously. I feel the hairs rise on the back of my neck. Then Dervish catches my eye and tilts his head ever so slightly. It’s a gesture I know well — he does that sometimes instead of winking. I realise he’s winding Prae up, giving her a scare. I hide a smile behind my hand and wait for her to settle down.

“It’s not fair,” Prae resumes, less composed than before. “We’ve never had any contact with the demon. Maybe we could strike our own deal if you put us in touch with him.”

“You couldn’t.”

“But you should let us try. We–”

“We’ve had this conversation before,” Dervish interrupts. “We’re not having it again. The Lambs follow the path of science. Demons are creatures of magic. The two don’t mix. End of story.”

“Very well,” Prae says, showing open anger for a second, her pale face flushing. “You choose to lock us out — there’s nothing we can do about that. But it means we don’t know all that we should about the cure. We have no proof that it works in the long term, or why. So it’s natural for us to be suspicious, to run our own checks, to be safe.”

“Totally natural,” Dervish says sarcastically. “But I don’t think you’d have waited until now to make sure Billy wasn’t killing. If you were checking on him prior to his change, I’m sure you’ve monitored him in the year-plus since. So your first reason for being here is a crock — you know Billy’s fine. Let’s move on to reason two and try to make it a bit more believable this time.”

Prae glares at Dervish, then glances at me. “Two,” she growls. “We wanted to check on Grubbs. He’s at a dangerous age. Both his brother–” My stomach tightens another notch. She knows the truth about Bill-E! “–and sister turned. We thought it advisable to have a look at him. We kept out of the way while you were… indisposed, but now that you’re back on your feet, we felt it was a good time to have a chat.” She faces me and smiles. “How have you been sleeping lately? Any bad dreams? Woken up with dirt under your fingernails or–”

“You know what she’s doing, don’t you, Grubbs?” Dervish asks.

“Trying to freak me out,” I mutter edgily.

“Correct. If they wanted to check up on you, they’d do it secretly. You’d never know they were there. She’s saying this to upset you, because I’ve upset her. So ignore it. And you,” he says to Prae, “tell me the real reason you’re here or get the hell out.”

“Very well.” Prae stares at Dervish challengingly. “We want to run some tests on Billy under laboratory conditions.”

“You want to turn my nephew into a guinea pig?” Dervish laughs harshly. “You want me to sign him over, so you can prod and poke him and have him urinate into a bottle at your command?”

“It’s not like that. We–”

“Get out!” Dervish shouts.

“You’re being unreasonable,” Prae objects. “Let me finish.”

“Oh, you’re finished,” Dervish laughs. “I’ve heard enough. Now march back out to your car and–”

“Have you seen a child who’s turned?” Prae asks me, raising her voice. “You must have seen your brother, but only in the early stages of his transformation. It takes a few months for the disease to properly set in. They grow hair. Their features distort. Their spines twist. I have some photographs which–”

“No!” I shout. “I don’t want to see any photos. I’ve seen them before.”

“Children your own age,” Prae says quickly as Dervish stands and strides towards her. “Some even younger. We have an eight-year-old girl. Her parents didn’t know about the curse. She killed her mother. Chewed her throat open and–”

“You’re so out of here,” Dervish snarls, reaching to grab Prae’s collar.

“Wait,” I stop him, holding up a hand.

“Grubbs, don’t listen to–”

“Just wait a minute. Please?”

Dervish breathes out heavily, then takes a step back.

“We’re trying to help,” Prae says, speaking to me but looking at Dervish. “Your uncle is a man of old science — he calls it magic, but to us it’s science by a different name. We’re of the new school. Dervish fights one battle at a time. Your mother and father made that choice too. But we’re trying to attack the root of the disease. We want everyone to benefit, not just a few. To do that, we have to examine and explore.

“Your brother is one of the very few victims to beat the curse. If we can study him, unlock the secrets behind his remarkable cure, perhaps we can replicate it and save others — without the need for demons or so-called magic.”

“You can’t,” Dervish says wearily. “I’ve told you before, it’s not science. It’s not of this universe. You can’t understand it and you can’t mimic it. Do you think I’d stand in your way if I thought there was the slightest chance that you could?”

“You can’t be sure,” Prae says.

“I am.”

Prae mutters something beneath her breath, then tries me again. “We wouldn’t hurt Billy. You and your uncle could come and observe. We just want to know more, to understand… to help.”

I feel sorry for Prae Athim. Despite her scary appearance and manner, she only wants to do good. But the thought of her taking Bill-E away, locking him up, experimenting on him… I shake my head.

“You should leave now,” Dervish says quietly. “We can’t help you.”

“You’re condemning others to change, to die,” Prae says angrily.

Dervish shrugs. “We’ve been condemned a long time. We’re used to it.”

He lays a hand on Prae’s shoulder. She jerks away from him and stands. “My daughter changed,” she hisses. “I tried to cure her, but I couldn’t. She’s still alive. Because I hope and believe. By denying us, you deny her and all the others like her. How will you sleep with that on your conscience?”

“Lousily,” Dervish says. “But Billy will sleep sweetly. And to me, that’s what matters most, just as your daughter matters most to you.” He leans towards her. “If the positions were reversed, would you allow your loved one to be taken?”

“Yes,” Prae answers immediately. “Without question.”

“Well, that’s where we differ. Because I always question.”

“There are other ways,” Prae says, a dangerous tremble to her tone. “We didn’t have to ask. We could just take him.”

Dervish’s expression goes dead. “Try it,” he whispers. “See what happens.”

“You couldn’t stop us,” Prae insists, a red flush of anger rising up her throat. “You’re powerful, but so are the Lambs. We could–”

“Mess with me and you mess with us all,” Dervish interrupts. “Do you really want to do that? Do the Lambs now think themselves the equals of the Disciples?”

“We aren’t afraid of your kind,” Prae says, but her words ring hollow.

Dervish smiles lazily. “If you lay a hand on Billy or Grubbs, I’ll teach you to be afraid. That’s a promise.”

“You don’t want us as enemies,” Prae warns him. “Nobody stands alone in this world, not even the Disciples. You may need us one day.”

“Yes,” Dervish agrees. “But not today.” He points at the door.

Prae opens her mouth to try again. Realises she’d be wasting her breath. Shakes her head with disgust. Shoots a look at me. “Pray you never turn. Because if you do, thanks to people like your uncle, we won’t be able to help. All we’ll be able to do is kill.”

She strides to the door, throws it opens and marches out. The front doors slam several seconds later. Then the faint sound of her engine starting, rising, fading.

Dervish stares at me. I stare back. Neither of us says anything. I don’t know what my uncle’s thinking, but there’s only one glaring thought in my head — who the hell are the Disciples?

MONSTERS GALORE

→ Dervish has another nightmare. Four nights in a row — he must be going for the record. Luckily I’d been expecting this one. Dervish shut himself off from me after Prae Athim left. Kept to his study, pacing around, muttering, brooding. I guessed nightmares would follow. Stayed awake after he went to bed, alert, prepared for a long, active night.

I catch Dervish in the hall of portraits. He snuck past my room without me hearing, even though I’d been listening closely. But a minute ago the screaming started and it was easy to track him down.

The walls of this hall are lined with photographs and paintings of dead family members, mostly teenagers who became werewolves. It’s on the first floor, close to my bedroom. When I arrive, Dervish has knocked several photos to the floor and is wrestling with a large portrait, trying to tear it free of its peg.

“Leave me alone!” he screams. “It’s not my fault!”

“Dervish,” I call, hurrying over to him, grabbing his right hand, trying to prise his fingers loose. “Derveeshio! Derv on a curve — don’t lose your verve. Don’t roar and bawl — not in this hall.”

He ignores the rhymes and jerks free. “Get out of my skull! You’re eating my brain!” He collapses to his knees, grips his head hard with both hands, moans with pain and terror.

“Dervish, easy, it’s OK, it’s coolio, you have to chill. You on the ground — everything’s sound.”

His eyes fix on a nearby photograph. His breath catches. “I didn’t do it!” he gasps. “I didn’t kill you! Leave me alone!”

I sweep the photos away, then grab Dervish’s hands, pull them down from his head and lock gazes with him. “Wake up, you crazy, bald coot! It’s only a dream — no need to scream. None of it’s real — fantasy’s the deal. You have to snap back. Come on, I know you’re in there, I know…”