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He sniffs the air, nose crinkling. “It smells of sick in here.”
“Yeah.” I laugh sheepishly. “I threw up earlier. Think it was something I ate.”
“You should have told me.” He walks over and lays the back of his hand against my forehead. If he bends forward just an inch more, he'll spot the prone Bill-E Spleen …
“No fever,” Dervish says, stepping back.
“Of course not. Like I said — something I ate.”
“I hope that's all it is.” He looks troubled. Checks his watch, then glances out the window. “If you get sick again later, I won't be here to drive you to the doctor. Maybe I should take you into the Vale for the night.”
“That's OK,” I say quickly. “I'm fine.”
“You're sure?”
I cross my heart and smile blithely. “Never felt better.”
“Hmm …” He doesn't look happy, but takes me at my word. “Want me to bring you up anything from the kitchen?”
“No, thanks — I'll wander down later and grab something light.”
“See you tomorrow then.”
“Tomorrow.” I smile, and hold the smile in place until he exits.
“Phew!” I gasp when the coast is clear. “You can get up now.”
Bill-E rises from behind the bed like a ghost, grinning sickly. Then his face blanches, and he clutches his stomach and rushes for the toilet.
I raise my eyes to the heavens and sigh. Of all the nights he could have picked to be sick, why this one!
Night. The moon rising. A roar from the corridor — “I'm off!”
“'Bye!” I shout in reply. A quick shared glance with Bill-E, then we both rush to the room behind this one — with a view of the rear yard — and press up against the circle of stained glass, watching to see what Dervish does.
“Bet he heads straight down the cellar,” Bill-E says confidently.
“I hope so,” I sigh.
Moments later Dervish emerges and walks to the sheet of corrugated iron close to the sheds. He carefully removes it, unlocks the chains, and casts them aside. Bill-E's smiling knowingly — but the smile fades when Dervish drags the sheet of corrugated iron back over the doors, turns, and heads off in the direction of the forest.
“What do we do now?” I ask quietly.
“He might just be going to …” Bill-E starts, but hasn't the heart to finish.
“Two choices,” I growl. “We let him go — or we follow.”
“You want to go into the forest after him?” Bill-E asks uncertainly. “If he transforms out there and the beast spots us …”
“At least we know what to expect, and we're prepared,” I grunt, hefting my axe. “Nobody else knows what he is. If we let him go and he kills …”
Bill-E rolls his eyes, but says sullenly, “We'll follow.”
Hurrying from the room. In the hall downstairs, Bill-E stops to grab a sword, longer and sharper than the one I gave him earlier. While he's at it, he plucks a couple of knives, sticks one in his belt, hands the other to me. “Double security,” he says.
“I like your thinking.” I grin shakily.
Then we're gone — frightened, courageous, crazy — tracking a werewolf.
