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→“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 (#ulink_b1f6e66a-4b2d-53f1-bfcb-4e3bfee11ae4)
→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.”
