Volumes 1 and 2 - Lord Loss/Demon Thief

A game of chess afterwards. Dervish appears distracted (or am I imagining it?). Plays loosely, less aggressive than usual. He beats me, but I take a couple of his major pieces and make him work hard for his victory.

Dervish stretches. Groans. Checks his watch. “I’m exhausted. Going to tuck in early. You staying up late tonight?”

I keep my head down. “No. I’m pretty tired too. I’ll follow you up soon.”

Slyly watching him trot up the stairs—not the pace of a sleepy man heading for bed.

Lining up the chess pieces on the board. Idly playing against myself. Quiet, the house creaking around me, a wind blowing lightly outside.

I abandon the game halfway through. Go up to my room. Pause at the door. This is stupid. If I leave it like this, I’ll be imagining danger everywhere I look. I’ve got to share this house – my life – with Dervish. I can’t let something this ridiculous come between us.

Retreating, I carry on up the staircase to the top floor. Dervish’s room. I stand outside a moment, getting my story straight, deciding to tell him everything Bill-E said. I grin as I picture his incredulous response. Then I rap twice with my knuckles and enter.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got to…”

I grind to a halt.

The room is empty.

→I’ve explored the entire house. His study. The bathrooms and toilets. The other bedrooms. Downstairs. Even the cellar, in case he’s scouring the racks, admiring his wine collection.

He isn’t here.

→Sitting up in bed. Listening to the wind. Thinking about dead animals and old werewolf films. Afraid to sleep.

→My eyes snap open. Early morning. Must have dozed off despite my fear. I roll out of bed. Grey day, sky obscured by clouds.

I pad downstairs to the kitchen. Scent of fried bacon and sausages. I push the door open slowly. Dervish inside, at the frying pan, humming. It takes him a moment to spot me. He smiles. “You’re up early.”

“I didn’t sleep very well.”

“Hungry?” Dervish asks. “Want some bacon? Eggs?”

“I’ll just do toast for myself.” I stick two slices of bread in. Pause over the toaster, my back to him. “I called up to see you last night,” I say innocently. “Couldn’t find you. Were you out?”

The shortest of pauses. Then, “Yeah. I went to a pub in the Vale. Met Meera there. She went on somewhere else afterwards. Sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“That’s OK.” I reach for the butter. “Did you take the bike?” If he says he did, I’ll know he’s lying—I would have heard it.

“No,” he says. “I walked. I don’t hold with drinking and driving.”

I turn from the toaster, smiling. Dervish is concentrating on his bacon. I can’t believe I spent so much time worrying last night. I open my mouth to tell him about yesterday’s scene with Bill-E.

Then close it.

Dervish is reaching for an egg with his right hand. My eyes are attracted to his nails. Not long—but jagged. Dirty. Red stains under the tips.

It could be paint or rust or something he ate in the pub the night before.

Or it could be blood.

Staring. Staring. Staring.

The toaster pops behind me.

I almost scream.

→Dragging clothes out of the washing machine. If Dervish walks in on me, I’ll say I left money in one of my pockets.

Underpants. Socks. Shirts. Trousers. Finally—a blue denim shirt with a small eagle insignia on the left breast pocket. The shirt Dervish was wearing last night.

I run my nose over it. Unpleasant and sweaty, but not smoky. Not beery. Not like it would smell if he’d spent a few hours in a pub.

→Sitting by the phone. I want to call Bill-E, tell him about Dervish disappearing, the blood, the scentless shirt. Except—

→He might have gone to the pub like he said.

→Maybe he changed shirts before he went out, after I last saw him.

→The stains under his nails could have been anything.

If Bill-E hadn’t filled my head with rubbish, I’d have thought nothing of Dervish slipping out without telling me. It’s not the first time he’s done it. He gives me plenty of space and freedom, and expects the same in return. Nothing suspicious about that.

But what does he do when he’s out by himself? Where does he go? Did he really meet Meera in the Vale? If so, why didn’t she come back here with him? And if he changed shirts before he went out, why isn’t the one he wore to the pub in the machine with the rest of his dirty laundry?

→Carcery Vale. Outside the Lion & Lamb. There are several pubs in the Vale. I want to go in to them all to check if Dervish was in town last night.

My story—Dervish lost his watch, and sent me to ask if it had been found. He can’t remember which pub he’d been in, so I’m doing the rounds of them all.

Holding me back—somebody might mention my queries to Dervish.

In the end I turn away from the Lion & Lamb and make for home. Not reckless or scared enough to check on Dervish’s alibi. Not yet.

→Night. Alone in the house. Meera called in this afternoon. I wanted to ask if she’d enjoyed the pub last night, but Dervish was there and I didn’t want to be so obvious. They left a few hours ago. Dervish told me they were going into the Vale and not to wait up for them. Asked if I’d like them to bring back anything. I said some crisps would be nice.

A truly crazy thought—what if Dervish and Meera are both werewolves? I cast that from my thoughts even before it’s fully formed.

In one of the spare bedrooms, close to the lower end of the house, where the brick extension is. A clear view of the road from here. The room across the hall has an equally good view of the rear yard and sheds. I’ve left the window open, so if there are any noises, I should hear them.

Glued to the front window. Hoping to see Dervish and Meera staggering back from the village, singing drunkenly. Planning cutting comments for Bill-E. Wondering if this is all a big gag designed to scare me. I’ll be mad as hell if it is—but relieved at the same time.

→ After midnight. Eyelids drooping. A clanging noise out back jolts me out of my half-daze.

I bolt through to the back room. Edge up to the open window. Peer out. The clouds aren’t as thick as they were earlier. An almost full moon lights most of the yard, though drifting clouds create random stretched shadows.

Dervish and Meera are by the sheet of corrugated iron where the tree stumps are. They’re sliding it over to one side. Behind them, on the ground, half-hidden by shadows, something large wriggles. I train my sights on it. Moments later, the clouds drift on and moonlight falls directly on the creature.

A deer, its four hooves bound together with rope, its snout muzzled.