Werewolf Parallel (2 page)

“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 cluttered.” 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.”

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.

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…

He took a deep breath and steadied his voice. “I don’t think it was her. I don’t understand how it could be.”

“How did you scare it off?” Eve said.

“I ripped the curtain. I tore it with…” Cameron’s fist unclenched, with a sensation like muscles unknotting. Slowly he pulled it out his pocket and risked a look.

It was a normal human hand.

He swallowed. “I tore it with a pair of scissors. The Weaver hadn’t fully formed. It wasn’t expecting to be noticed, and I reckoned: get rid of the medium – get rid of the monster.”

“Good thinking, mate.” Morgan padded over, prodded the strips of curtain on the ground with his foot. Without the influence of the Weaver Daemon animating them, they were spidery legs no longer – just curls of material. “That’s got to hurt… Nice one!”

Eve looked at Cameron. She’d spotted the way he’d stared at his hand. Her eyes ran over the desk, glancing at the scatter of coins, guitar plectrums, odds and ends. She picked up a small pair of scissors. “With these? They don’t look sharp enough.”

Cameron shrugged. “What can I say? I never liked those curtains.”

There was a pause, then Eve nodded. “Hmm. Thank you for getting rid of it, anyway.” She put the scissors
down. “I wonder what it wanted?”

“Opportunity,” said Morgan. “Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had a run in with the Weavers… Maybe it fancied a look round to see what it could grab.”

“Makes sense.” Cameron thought back to when he’d first met Eve and Morgan. His gran had been involved in a bargain with the Weaver Daemon known as ‘Mrs Ferguson’, who at that time had been Eve’s captor. Nothing involving Gran had ever been simple – all her plans had devious twists – and both she and Mrs Ferguson delighted in double-crossing each other. Now both of them were gone, it was all too possible other Weavers might come hunting for the magical apparatus Isobel Ives had sneakily acquired from her rival…

“Why now?” said Eve. “That’s the thing that’s bothering me. Why did it appear tonight?”

“I told you,” said Cameron. “I was asleep. It didn’t expect to be seen.”

“No, no, no. You’re asleep every night – well, maybe not wolf nights – so what made this night special?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Listen – all the time I’ve been here, living with you pair, I’ve felt safe. For the first time I can remember, I haven’t had to check the shadows, or keep a lookout for eyes watching in the dark.” Eve shuddered, and drew her robe tight around her shoulders. “What’s changed?”

Morgan stuck his hand up the side of his rumpled Nirvana t-shirt and scratched idly. “I expect the wards have gone.” Cameron and Eve stared at him. “What? You don’t think I hang out here just for your sweet tempers and good looks? Cam’s grandma was a serious player on the Parallel with her wheeling and dealing. Old lady
would’ve set up
protection
.”

“I’m extremely lovable and good natured, as you know,” said Eve in a syrupy voice. She lifted Cameron’s guitar from its stand. “Assuming you don’t want me to break this over your head, would you please tell us –
what’s going on?
”

“Ok, ok! No need to be scary! You seriously never thought about this? And I reckoned you two were smart.” Morgan held his hands wide and grinned. “Old Nan Ives, for all she was mad-crazy, she wouldn’t have left herself vulnerable. She would’ve had something to watch over her home, keep intruders away. That’s what ‘wards’ are – a protective charm. Nice bit of boundary magic, if you can afford ’em.”

“And now she’s gone they’re breaking down.” Cameron sat down heavily on the bed.

“So we might get all sorts of daemons trying to sneak in…” said Eve.

“That little curtain-mugger was probably just the first.” Morgan shrugged. “Nothing lasts forever, does it?”

“I sort of hoped it would.” Cameron put his head in his hands. “But it’s all falling apart: Dr Black and Mr Grey at the shop, asking questions, demanding we show them Gran even when they know we can’t… And now we’re in danger here too. I thought we were doing all right! I thought I had fixed things.”

“Oh, cheer up, mate! Might never happen.”

“At least you’re still a big strong werewolf,” added Eve with a little smile.

“Yeah,
brilliant
.” Cameron remembered his wolf claw tearing at the curtains. That was something else he couldn’t explain, another thing that seemed to be
slipping out of control… He pushed the thought away. “Morgan, where would the wards be? Let’s see if we can do something about that for a start.”

“Well, I’m no expert, but I’d try…” The wolf-boy pointed to the ceiling. “Up?”

The trap door inched open and Cameron stuck his head into the loft. He sneezed. “Remind me again… Why do I have to go first?”

“The ladder is clearly only fit for one person,” Eve called from the landing. “It’s got nothing at all to do with the attic being vile and filled with mice and spiders.”

“That’s what I thought.” Holding his torch between his teeth, he flipped the hatch all the way back, propped his hands either side of the opening, and hauled himself into the murky space.

Cameron had never been into the loft before – he’d just lifted the trap, slid stuff in and hoped for the best. He shone his torch into the gloom. The space was just as packed with tea-chests, boxes and old suitcases as he expected. Gran had been a hoarder. His dad had been too… He shook his head. He’d have to watch himself.
Must run in the family.

“What about you, Morgan? What’s your excuse?”

“Hatchway’s too narrow for my shoulders. You’re the obvious choice for Operation Attic.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Cameron swung the torch. The arc-light reflected off a sharp-toothed leer and a raised set of claws, and he let out a startled YAAARK!

“What’s wrong?” The ladder rattled as Eve raced up. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s ok! I’ve found an old roommate. Can you believe
it? I shoved him up here the first chance I got.”

Eve regarded the glassy-eyed stuffed mongoose with disgust. “Your gran had strange notions about decorating.”

“She had strange notions about everything. That wasn’t the half of it,” said Cameron. “Be glad she’s not here any more.”

Eve pushed her dark hair back from her face and gave him an odd look. “About that – I might have an idea how to tackle the Court of the Parallel.”

“Oh really? What?”

“Just something that occurred to me about your gran. Tell you properly later. I’ll need to find –”

“Hey, hey. What’s going on? Everyone ok?” With an eruption of dust, Morgan forced his way through the hatch.

“Looks like ‘the shoulders’ made it after all,” Eve whispered.

Cameron grinned. “Doing fine, mate. Why don’t you help us look for the wards now you’re up? What’s it doing here anyway?”

“Got to be above all the doors and windows that need protected. Above the chimney too, if you’ve got an open fireplace.” Morgan brushed himself down. “Could be worse, eh? We could be clambering over the roof.”

Cameron aimed his torch above his head and ran the light along the underside of the rafters. Hanging on a length of yellowed string was a stone disc about the size of a large coin. A design had been carved into the front showing a two-faced man. From under a mass of stylized curls, one proud nose pointed left, the other jutted right. A jagged crack ran straight across the middle.

“That’s it. And it looks broken to me.” Morgan stepped nimbly across the beams, reached up and snagged the disc. The string snapped and it dropped into his hands. He turned the disc over and examined it. “There’s something written on the back…”

“Let me see.” Eve studied the engraving. “It’s Latin. It’s quite simple. It says:

THIS TOKEN GUARDS ALL PORTALS OF THE DWELLING PLACE OF ISOBEL IVES, FROM DAY OF ISSUE UNTIL ONE YEAR AFTER SHE DEPARTS THE HUMANIAN REALMS.”

“Eve, you
are
amazing,” said Cameron. “How did you know that?”

“You don’t work for a daemon for years without picking up the occasional dead language.” She gave him a haughty look, but he could tell she was secretly pleased. “It’s signed: