The Twilight Circus (14 page)

Del took another swig.

“It was them!” cried Woody, his eyes flashing slightly.

Del nodded gravely. “Aye, they came through,” he said. “They gathered at the bottom of the sofa and I could feel them … smell them, as they moved toward me. Then … I felt a cold finger touch my forehead.”

“
Eeeeuw
!” yelled Natalie and Scarlet.

“What happened then?” asked Salim, wide-eyed.

Del got out of his box and slowly walked toward him. He whipped off his woolly hat, revealing a livid purple mark in the middle of his forehead.

“
THIS
!” he cried.

Salim scooted back, trying to get out of his way, and promptly toppled over.

“This is the mark of the plague child,” intoned Del, jabbing his finger at the terrified Salim.

“Geddoff!” yelled Salim, his eyes flashing, indicating his change was near. “Go 'way!”

There were peals of mirth from the other Howlers as Salim ran off into the night, moaning. Del, weak with laughter, showed the others the “plague child” mark. It was drawn on with a purple marker.

With the storytelling over, the talk turned to what might have happened to the missing kids.

“Well, they've not been in the forest, that's for sure,” said Crescent, licking the pork grease from her fingers. “There's no fresh smell of humans anywhere.”

“No sign,” agreed Ramone.

“They might have run away,” suggested Natalie.

“What, in their
pajamas
? Would you look at this weather?” said Del, raising an eyebrow. “Nah, the vampires have had 'em, for sure.”

Nat froze at the word
vampires
. “You reckon?”

“Did you not listen to what your man Teebo Bon said?” asked Del in surprise. “He might think he's fooled us by telling us there's a mystery sickness about the place, but I've seen this sort o' thing before. All the evidence points to it.”

“He's right,” agreed Crescent, wiping her mouth daintily. “All those animals mutilated? People sick in their beds, kids missing … ugh, I hate 'em. All except Mac, of course.”

“You don't know any vampires apart from me,” came a disembodied voice from somewhere out of the darkness.

“Hey, Mac,” said Nat. The orange brilliance of the bonfire obscured the night around them, but thanks to Nat's Wolvenish eyes, he could see the thin shape of the vampire as he sauntered elegantly toward the fire.

“What d'you think?” he asked Maccabee Hammer.

“Del's right,” said Mac, his expression grim.

The others watched as the willowy vampire slid his long body in one fluid movement into a sitting position and joined them.

“Really?” asked Woody in a small voice.

Mac nodded, the flames from the fire reflecting in his pale face. “‘Fraid so,” he agreed. “There's an atmosphere about this place, a
bad
atmosphere, you know? A pall of sadness hangs about the air, and sometimes … sometimes when the wind is in a certain direction, I can hear the revenants calling.”

“What are
they
?” asked Crescent.

Mac's red lips stretched into a sad smile.

“In ancient times, vampires operated in a very different way from how they do now,” he explained. “The old vampire way was violent and bloody. They infected humans with their greed for blood and made more vampires from humans, sometimes creating a hive—a small army of vampires with a king or queen giving the orders to workers and soldier vampires —”

“How old are you?” interrupted Crescent.

“A mere baby,” said Mac. “I was three hundred and fourteen last dieday.”

“
Cool
,” breathed Nat, “but how come you're not an ancient? Because … erm … you're, well …
old
.”

“I've never been slain,” said Mac simply. “Looks to me like the old vampire hives slain years ago are being reawakened to avenge their deaths.”

“But who would do that?” asked Salim, his eyes flashing with fright.

Maccabee glanced at Nat and Woody. “Someone out to cause chaos … and revenge.”

He knows
! Nat realized with panic.
He knows about Scale
!

“But what about the
revenants
?” asked Crescent impatiently. “What are they?”

“I was telling you, before you interrupted,” said Mac mildly, “revenants are tragic creatures—discarded servants of the vampire.”

“So they're like
ghosts
?” Woody shivered. “
Eeurgh
.”

“They serve the vampire for about a century,” explained Mac, “and then they begin to age, to break down and crumble, because the vampire never allows them to drink its blood. When they're no longer useful, the vampire abandons them and finds another companion—usually a healthy young person who will provide them with their life's blood.”

“Oh God!” cried Nat. “You mean a
child
?”

“Yes,” agreed Mac, “a child would be perfect. But if the head vampire is slain, the revenants find peace—their souls will be released from purgatory.” The gathering grew quiet as everyone digested Mac's information.

“Well, soon as the weather gets better, we're outta here,” said Crescent, shivering.

“When the going gets tough, the wimps get going,” taunted Del.

“Bite me,” snarled Crescent, her eyes burning orange.

“Don't you want to stay to see if you can help look for the missing?” asked Woody, chewing on a glistening piece of cracknel. “It might not be too late.”

“Not really,” said Crescent in disdain.

“We're riding out again tomorrow, depending on the weather,” said Scarlet. “Uncle Sergei is organizing another search.”

“More like he's searching for the black palominos,” said Crescent, with a little sarcastic laugh. “You sure he's looking for the kids?”

Natalie ignored her. “And Uncle Sergei asks: Would Nat and Woody like to come?”

Nat was thrilled. “I'd like that,” he said. “Woody?”

Woody nodded. He was thinking it might be an opportunity to hunt for his clan at the same time. “Gonna run, though, not ride.”

“What about
me
?” asked Crescent hotly. “I want to ride a horse.”

“You want to ride?” asked Natalie, looking doubtful. “I don't —”

“You don't what?” asked Crescent.

“You … well … you're … a—” Natalie broke off, embarrassed.

“A werewolf?” asked Crescent, a dangerous glint in her eye.

“I think what Natalie's trying to say,” said Nat diplomatically, “is that horses are scared of werewolves.”

“Woody doesn't scare them,” protested Crescent.

“Woody isn't a werewolf,” pointed out Nat. “He's Wolven.”

“Whatever,” said Crescent rudely. “I'll tell Sergei I'm coming.” She turned and looked directly at Natalie. “I
love
horses,” she said sweetly. “I just couldn't manage a whole one.”

But Uncle Sergei had agreed with his nieces, and Crescent was still smarting at being left out of the search party the next morning. She had seethed all night at Del's remarks, and was still in a black mood as she sat by the tiny stove in the
Silver Lady
. Nat was bundling himself in layers in preparation for the ride out in the freezing snow, while Woody played outside, making snow angels with his tail.

“It's not fair,” said Crescent for the umpteenth time. “Stupid, stupid horses. It's not like I'm gonna eat them.”

“They just hate werewolves,” Nat reminded her, smiling. He was secretly pleased that Crescent wasn't coming. At best she was hard work, at her worst she was a bloody liability. “It's not their fault,” he added, “they don't like the smell.”

Nat winced as Crescent's eyes blazed. He felt a bit guilty; it hadn't been a very nice thing to say. And when
Nat had cause to think about it afterward, much later on, after Crescent had done what she did, he felt that maybe it had been his fault.

Crescent had watched resentfully from the doorway of the
Silver Lady
as Nat, with Woody bounding along at his side, made his way across the fresh snow to join the others at the stables. She reached back to pull the door closed when a sound from inside the trailer made her hesitate. A thud—as though something heavy had fallen onto the floor. It was dark inside the little trailer, but Crescent's werewolf eyes had no trouble picking out what had made the noise. She bent down and picked up the snow globe, which had apparently fallen from the cupboard above the sink. She shook it in delight, forgetting her bad mood. The snow inside the dome glittered and swirled, the tiny wintry scene disappearing momentarily, obliterated by the make-believe blizzard. Then her smile froze on her lips as the globe began to glow with a malevolent orange light. She tried to let go of it as it started to feel unpleasantly hot in her hand. To her horror and dismay, something was floating in the scummy liquid. Crescent started to whimper as the swirling shape formed itself into an eyeball;
a living, blinking,
staring
bloodshot orb, which held her horrified orange gaze with its own.

Nat Carver was as nervous as a long-tailed wolf in a room full of rocking chairs. He took a deep breath and tried not to act as worried as he felt in front of Natalie and Scarlet. Like, how was he going to get on the horse, for a start? The one and only time he had ever ridden a horse was eight hundred years ago during the Third Crusade, but he thought it probably wasn't a good idea to mention this to Scarlet or Natalie on the grounds that:

a. they wouldn't believe him, or

b. they would think he was mental.

He wondered if it would all come back to him, like riding a bike, but then remembered he had been in the body of a Knight Templar at the time. So he, Nat Carver, actually had
zero
riding skills. As he waited to be dragged or pulled aboard one of the horses, a glossy black stallion with rippling muscles (but dark, kind-looking eyes), he hoped like mad that he wouldn't make a fool of himself by falling off. Getting onto the horse would be one thing. Staying on it would be another. He envied
Woody, who could manage on his own four legs, wishing he could run alongside, too, and not have to ride.

“Don't worry.” Sergei winked as he gave Nat a leg up. “This is Rudi. He's bombproof. He'll look after you.”

Nat still felt dead out of place, like a pimple on top of a mountain, but Rudi stood as still as a rock, patiently waiting for Sergei to tighten his girth and adjust Nat's stirrups. Scarlet and Natalie sat astride their own horses, chatting to each other, while Woody, keen to be off, was trotting up and down, yipping and chuffing, trying to hurry everyone up.

Nat sat down in the saddle and tried squeezing his legs. To his amazement it worked, and Rudi walked sedately forward. Nat gently pulled the reins and Rudi stopped immediately.
Ha, I've still got it
! Nat thought to himself, pleased.

Then without warning, Rudi started to tremble beneath him, his ears flattened back to his head, which he was tossing wildly. Confused, Nat tried to rein him in, then he heard familiar laughter. It was Crescent. She looked wild.

“Ride 'im, cowboy!” she shrieked raucously. “C'mon, Nat, you'll have to do better than that!”

Rudi reacted to Crescent's werewolf voice by giving a single, screaming whinny, kicking up his heels, and promptly jumping the nearest fence with Nat clinging terrified around his neck. Old, “dependable” Rudi had gone berserk—he may have been bombproof, but he sure wasn't werewolf-proof. As the horse shot away, Nat was dimly aware of the openmouthed stares of his mum and dad, and Crescent screaming with maniacal laughter. The other three horses belted helter-skelter in three different directions, with Uncle Sergei in vain pursuit on foot. Nat tried tugging on Rudi's reins, but the horse was too strong. Nat crouched low in the saddle and wove his frozen fingers into Rudi's long black mane. He was almost blinded, the cold air making his eyes stream as they whizzed along. Opening one eye, he was relieved to see a streak of white alongside at stirrup height as Woody caught up with Rudi, trying to nudge him back to camp. But it was no good. The horse wasn't having any of it. Rudi's reaction to Crescent was terror, and his instincts were fight or flight. Apparently Rudi had chosen flight.

On and on he galloped, showing no sign of stopping. Nat clung on for dear life for what seemed like hours,
frozen in an uncomfortable jockey position, not daring to move in case he fell, but comforted a bit to feel Woody was nearby.

Nat guessed they had traveled for at least three miles before Rudi showed any signs of stopping. At last, his flanks heaving, white lather on his chest, and plumes of condensed air streaming from his flaring nostrils, he came to a shuddering halt. Nat gratefully disentangled his raw fingers from the horse's mane and shakily slid to the ground, his legs hardly holding him up.

Woody had been slightly ahead and was now trotting back through the snow.

“Crescent did that on purpose!” raged Nat when he'd got his breath back.

Woody chuffed and sat down.

“I can't believe she did that,” said Nat, calming down a bit. “I could've been killed!”

Woody chuffed again, blinked, and made his supersonic jet noise as he yawned.

“Glad you agree,” said Nat, and forced a smile. Not wanting to spoil the day, he pushed all thoughts of Crescent to the back of his mind and wondered why it
was taking him longer to get his breath back than Rudi and Woody, who had actually been running while he had just been riding. He supposed it was because he was still the most human. Nat stamped around a bit to warm himself up; it was getting colder. The watery sun had lost any of the warmth that it had at midday, and the plains were deserted. With the aid of his enhanced eyesight, Nat could see as far as the sea, stretching beyond the salt plains and the marshes, the sea lavender softening the edges with a purple barrier. Rudi had come to rest at the top of a slight incline. Nearer, down toward the forest, Nat saw a rough path winding upward to a sort of plateau or steppe. And beyond, surrounded by an enormous frozen expanse of water, was an imposing building rather like a castle. Nat knew that French people called large castle-like houses
chateaux
, and this one looked as though it was made out of shiny black granite. It loomed darkly in sharp contrast to the glistening white of the ice, the outside showing no signs of life.