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“I don't live here,” Bill-E says, turning to depart. “Come the next full moon, I'll be tucked up in bed, in the Vale, safe with Gran and Grandad. You'll be out here by yourself … alone in the house … with Dervish.”
Hours later. Trying to laugh it off. Craziness. Utter lunacy. I shouldn't even be considering it.
And yet …
In a world beset by demons, why shouldn't werewolves exist too? And I can't think why Dervish should be searching the forest for dead animals and burning them secretly. And some of the faces in the book definitely match those in the hall of portraits.
Then again, I only have Bill-E's word that the book is about werewolves. Dervish has a weird sense of humor. He might have been kidding Bill-E about the book. Maybe he even stuck in the photos and drawings himself. That makes more sense than Bill-E's werewolf theories. Much more logical.
And yet …
Dervish arrives back just before sunset. I greet him as he enters. “Go anywhere special?”
“Just for a drive,” he replies, slicking down his grey hair at the sides of his head.
“Where's Meera?” I ask.
“Off touring the countryside. She's basing herself here for the next week or so, but she'll be coming in and out a lot. Where's Billy?”
“He went home.”
“Oh?” Dervish pauses on his way to the bathroom. “I thought he was going to watch TV.”
“He had other things to do,” I lie.
Dervish continues on to the bathroom. My eyes follow him automatically, studying his face, the set of his jaw, the crown of his head, searching for abnormalities.
Night. Heavy clouds. Only brief glimpses of the three-quarters full moon.
Watching TV with Dervish — a documentary about some Indian woman that he knows. All about using people's natural body energies to cure diseases. Y-A-W-N!
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 o
n 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, by I've got to …”
I grind to a halt.
The room is empty.
I've explored the entire house. His study. The bathrooms. The other bedrooms. Downstairs. Even the cellar, in case he's scouring the racks,
admiring his wine collection.
He isn't here.
