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“Grubbs Grady,” Bill-E giggles hoarsely. “Tells it like it is.”
“Come on,” I mutter, offering him a hand up. “The quicker we go, the sooner I can pick him up again.”
Bill-E hesitates, then grabs my sleeve and staggers to his feet. “Sorry about this,” he mumbles, bent over, hiding his face, ashamed.
“Don't be stupid,” I smile, wrapping an arm around him. “I couldn't have tracked him this far without you. Now — let's go.”
Bill-E's house lies almost straight ahead, but Dervish is blocking the direct route. So we skirt around him and stumble farther through the forest, until we find a spot downhill where he hopefully won't be able to see us.
“Walk or run?” I ask.
Bill-E doesn't answer immediately — his breath is ragged and he's trembling. Then he sighs and says, “Walk. More noise … if we run.”
Holding Bill-E tight — I think he'd collapse if I let go — I start ahead, into the moonlit clearing.
Stomach like a coiled spring as we leave the cover of the forest. I face forward, not wanting to trip over anything, but my eyes keep sneaking left, scouring the trees for signs of my uncle.
“Can you see him?” I hiss out of the side of my mouth.
Bill-E only groans in reply and doesn't look round.
Getting close to the houses on the outskirts of Carcery Vale. Dark backyards. Lights in kitchen and bedroom windows. A woman cycles towards us, parallel to the forest. She waves. I start to wave back. Then she turns right and I realize she was only signaling.
Coming up to the houses. There's a road behind them, where most of the residents park. We take the road and close in on the Spleen residence. I start to think about what Ma Spleen is going to say, and what will happen when she phones Dervish to complain about the condition he let her grandson walk home in. Perhaps I should take Bill-E directly to a doctor. It's late, but I'm sure —
Bill-E gasps painfully and collapses. He dry retches and paws at the pavement, whining like a wounded animal.
“What's wrong?” I cry, dropping beside him. I reach to examine his face, but he brushes my hands away and snarls. “Bill-E? What is it? Do you want me to —”
“Grubbs — step away.”
A harsh voice, straight ahead of me. Slowly, trembling, I stand and stare.
Dervish!
My uncle's standing between us and the rear garden gate of Bill-E's home. No way past. He's illuminated by moon-light. A long hypodermic syringe in his right hand. Eyes ablaze with anger. “Meera,” he says, gaze flicking to a spot behind me. I glance back. A moment's pause, then Meera steps out from behind a van. My head spins. I remember an earlier mad thought — What if they're both werewolves?
Dervish starts walking towards me.
“Stop!” I moan, warning him off with my axe.
“Step away, Grubbs,” he says again, not slowing. “You don't know what's happening.” Then, to Meera, “Be careful. Block his escape, but don't get too close.”
“I know what you are,” I sob, tears of fear springing to my eyes. “If you come any closer …”
“Don't interfere,” Dervish snaps. “I don't want to hurt you, but if you don't step aside, I'll —”
He comes within range. I swing at him with my axe. Tears impair my aim — I swing high. Dervish curses and ducks. I take another blind swing. He shimmies closer as I'm swinging, dodges the blade, chops at my axe arm with his free left hand.
My arm goes numb from the elbow down. The axe drops to the ground. I dart after it. Dervish grabs the back of my collar and yanks me aside. I crash into a car. He's upon me before I have time to recover. Wraps his left arm around my throat. Exerts pressure.
“Dervish!” Meera gasps.
“It's OK,” he pants. Then, to me, as I struggle for my life, “Easy! We're on the same side.”
“Let go!” I wheeze. “I know what you are! Let —”
Low growling. Animalistic. Wolfen.
