Lord Loss

THE CELLAR

Dervish and Meera are still laughing in the morning. “Your face!” Dervish chortles at breakfast. “Like every demon in hell was coming for you!”

As I’ve noted before, my uncle has a twisted sense of humour.

I say nothing while Dervish and Meera enjoy their little joke, only keep my head down and focus on my food. Dervish doesn’t understand why I was so scared. He doesn’t know that I saw him with the deer, that I suspect he’s a werewolf, that I’m wondering if I can buy silver bullets on eBay. I doubt he’d be laughing if he did.

The house to myself. Dervish’s early morning runs usually last forty-five minutes to an hour. Enough time for a quick scouting mission.

I hurry down the stairs to the wine cellar. Pause with my hand on the door. In horror movies, monsters always lurk in the basement. But this isn’t a movie. I mustn’t succumb to fictional fears— not when I have very real fears to contend with.

Creeping down the steps. Leave the door open. Checking my watch—seven minutes since Dervish left. I’ll allow myself half an hour, not a second more.

Pause at the bottom of the steps. Dark and cool. I shuffle forward and an overhead light winks on. Studying the rows of wine racks. I turn full circle. My heart beats erratically. My legs feel like they belong to an elephant—heavyyyyy. The axe in my left hand looks tiny and ineffective in the glaring light of the cellar.

I stalk the nearest aisle, studying the floor—stone slabs, different shapes, tightly cemented together. I pause occasionally, crouch and rap a slab with the base of my axe, listening for echoes.

None. Solid.

Left at the end. Exploring a second aisle, then a third, a fourth.

No strange-looking slabs. No echoes anywhere I rap. The joining cement between the slabs unbroken. No trace of a hidden door.

Back where I started. Twenty of the thirty minutes have elapsed. Sweating like a pig who can smell burning charcoal. I’m beginning to think I could be wrong about the cellar. Perhaps the hidden entrance is in one of the ground floor rooms. But I won’t give up yet.

I scout the rim of the room, concentrating on the walls, running my fingers over the rough, dry stone, searching for cracks.

A wine rack—ceiling-high, maybe three metres long—covers one section of the wall. My hopes rise—this could be blocking a secret passage! — but when I lift out a couple of bottles, all I see behind is more stone wall. I remove a few more bottles from various places but nothing out of the ordinary is revealed.

Two minutes left. This is a waste. I’ll focus on the rooms above. Perhaps the passageway is hidden behind one of Dervish’s many bookcases. I’ll start in the main hall and work my way…

The thought dies unfinished. As I’m rising to leave, I spot a dark smudge on the floor. Stooping closer, I move my head out of the way of the light and squint for a better view.

It’s a semi-circular stain, pale, easily missed. Unmistakably a footprint.

Although there aren’t many footprints in the cellar—Dervish keeps it really clean—this isn’t the first I’ve discovered. What sets this one apart from the others is that it faces away from the wine rack, and the mark of the heel is hidden beneath the bottles.

Gotcha!

Watching TV. Nervous. Waiting for Dervish to leave.

There was no time to examine the wine rack. Once I’d noted the print, I came straight up and carefully closed the door behind me. Dervish returned a few minutes later, but I was safe in my room by then, and had splashed my face with cold water to take away the bright red flush I’d worked up in the cellar.

Dervish has spent most of the day since then in his study, as he often does, reading, making phone calls, surfing the Net. Time’s dragged for me. I have only one burning desire—to get back down the cellar. Not being able to is driving me crazy.

I’ve been keeping a close watch on the front door—don’t want Dervish slipping out unnoticed. I even leave the toilet door open when I’m in there, so I’ll hear him if he comes down the stairs.

So far, no joy. But I’m patient. He has to leave eventually. He can’t stay cooped up here forever.

Night falls. Dervish still hasn’t ventured outside.

Over a late dinner, I ask casually if he has any plans for the night.

“Thought I might hit the pub again,” he says, grinning sheepishly.

“Are you meeting Meera?”

“Maybe, maybe not. With the unfathomable Meera Flame, who knows?”

“What’s the sudden great attraction about drinking in the Vale?” I ask.

“A pretty new barmaid,” he laughs.

“What’s her name?”

A pause. Then, quickly, “Lucy.”

“Getting anywhere with her?”

“She’s slowly warming to my charms,” he chuckles. “I’ll give it another few nights. If she hasn’t bitten by then, I’ll cut my losses, maybe take you and Bill-E out to see a film.”

He makes it sound very casual, but I know what he’s really doing—giving himself an excuse to stay out after dark for the next few nights, until the full moon has come and passed.

Dervish leaves at 21:48 precisely. He sticks his head in my room as he’s going and laughingly tells me not to wait up. I smile weakly in reply and say nothing about the fact that he hasn’t changed his clothes, slipped on a nice pair of shoes, combed his hair or sprayed under his arms with deodorant—all the things he would have done if he’d truly been going out on the pull.

My uncle has a lot to learn about the art of espionage!

At the cellar door. Hesitant. I’d rather do this by daylight. Going down this late at night, not knowing how long Dervish will be away or when to expect him back, is far from ideal. I consider waiting until morning, when he goes for his daily jog and I have a guaranteed three-quarters of an hour to play with.

But I’ve had almost no sleep these last two nights. I’m exhausted. I might snore through my alarm in the morning and wake late, the opportunity missed. I don’t dare wait.

Deep breath. Tight grip on my axe. Descent.

The wall on either side of the rack is solid, but when I remove one of the bottles, reach in and rap on the ‘bricks’ behind, there’s a dull echo. Grunting, I grab hold of the edge of the rack and pull.

It doesn’t budge.

I exert more pressure—same result. Try the other side—no go.

Stepping back. Analysing the problem. Look closer at the wooden rack. There’s a thin divide down the middle. I grab sections of the rack on either side of the divide and try prying them apart. They give slightly—a few millimetres—then hold firm.

Brute force isn’t the answer. I’m convinced the divide is the key. I just have to figure out how to use it.

Studying the rack. My fingers creep to the top of one of the bottles. Idly twirl it left and right while my brain’s ticking over.

I’m taking a step to the left, to check the sides of the rack again, when I stop and gaze down at my fingers. I half-pull the bottle out, then push it back in. Smiling, I grab, twist and pull the bottle above, then the one beside it. All are loose, but I’m sure, if I go through every bottle on the rack, I’ll find one that isn’t.

Methodical. Start from the bottom left, even though I suspect the device will be situated higher, towards the middle. Checking each bottle in turn, twisting it, tugging it out, placing it back in its original position. I’m leaving fingerprints all over the place—should have worn gloves—but I’ll worry about that later.

All the way across to the right. Up a row. Then all the way across to the left. Up and across. Up and across. Up and…

Getting higher. Minutes ticking away. I quicken my pace, anxious to make progress. Pull too hard on one bottle. It comes flying out and drops to the floor. I collapse after it and catch it just before it hits and smashes into a hundred pieces. Place it back on the rack with shaking fingers. Work at a steady, cautious pace after that.

Past the midway mark. Four rows from the top, on the right. My hopes fading. Trying to think of some other way to part the racks. Half-tempted to take my axe to the wood and chop through. I know that’s crazy, but I’m so wound up, I might just—

Seventh bottle from the right. I twist but it doesn’t move. Everything stops. My breath catches. Step up close to the bottle and examine it. No different to any of the others, except it’s jammed tight into place. I give it a harder shake, to make sure it isn’t simply stuck. No movement at all.

I try pulling the bottle out—it doesn’t give.

Studying it again, frowning. My eyes focus on the cork. I grin. Put the tip of my right index finger to the face of the cork. Push gently.

The cork sinks into the bottle. A loud click. The two halves of the wine rack slide apart, revealing a dark corridor angling gently downwards. I do a quick mental geographical check—it leads in the direction of the sheds.

I act before fear has a chance to deter me. Step forward. Cross the threshold. Advance.

I’ve taken no more than eight or nine steps when the wine rack closes behind me with a soft slishing sound. I’m plunged into total darkness. My heart leaps. My hands strike out to touch the walls on either side, just so I have the feel of something real. Split-seconds away from complete panic when…

…lights flicker on overhead. Weak, dull lights, but enough to illuminate the tight, cramped corridor.

My heart settles. My eyes devour the light. I smile feebly to myself. Turn and retrace my steps. Examining the back of the wine rack, thinking about how I’m going to get out later. A button in the wall to my left. I press it. The lights flick off and the rack slides open.

I step through to the wine cellar, wait for the rack to close, then open it again and return to the corridor. This time I keep on walking when the rack closes and I’m plunged into temporary darkness. Moments later, when the lights flicker on, I glance up at them wryly and spare them a carefree half-wave.

Grubbs Grady—Mr. Cool!

The corridor runs straight and evens out after twenty metres or so. Narrow but high. Moss grows along the walls and ceiling. The floor’s lined with a thin layer of gravel. By the moss, I reckon this tunnel must be decades old, if not centuries.

The tunnel ends at a thick, dark wooden door, with a large gold ring for a handle. I press my ear to the door but can hear nothing through it. If Dervish is in the room beyond, it’ll be impossible to surprise him. I’ll just have to cross my fingers and hope for the best.

I take hold of the huge gold ring. Tug firmly. The door creaks open. I enter.

A large room, at least the size of the wine cellar. Sturdy wooden beams support the ceiling. Burning torches set in the walls—no electrical lights. A foul stench.

I leave the door open as I step into the room and study my surroundings. A steel cage dominates the room, set close to the wall on my right. Almost the height of the ceiling, thin bars set close together, bolted to the floor in all four corners.

Inside the cage—the deer. Still bound and struggling weakly. Lying in a pool of its own waste. Which explains the smell.

Advancing, giving the cage a wide berth. There are three small tables in this subterranean room. Legs carved to resemble human forms. Surfaces overflowing with books. A chess set half hangs off of one of them. Pens. Writing pads. Candles waiting to be lit.

Ropes and chains in one corner. No weapons. I thought there’d be axes and swords, like inside the house, but there isn’t even a stick.

A chest—treasure! I snap it open in a rush, treasure-lust momentarily getting the better of my other senses. Is this Lord Sheftree’s legendary hoard?

Bitter disappointment—the chest’s filled with old books and rolled-up parchment. I scrape the paper aside and explore the bottom of the chest, in search of even a single gold nugget or coin, but come up empty-handed.

Circling the room. Get close to the cage this time. Note a bowl set in the floor—for water, I assume. A door with two locks, neither currently bolted. No hatch for pushing food through.

I consider dragging out the deer and setting it free, but that would reveal my having been here. I don’t want Dervish knowing I’m wise to this set-up. Not sure what he’d do to me if he found out.

Examining the tables. On two of them the books are layered with dust, the candles have never been used, and the chairs are shoved in tight. On the other there are less books, a few are open, the two large candles on the table are both half burnt down, and the chair’s been pulled out.

I focus on the third table. Walk around it twice without touching it. Wary of magic spells and what might happen if I disturb anything.

I wish Bill-E was here. I should have phoned him and cooked up some story to get him to stay the night. But I didn’t want to drag him into this until I was sure—which I’m still not. So far I’ve seen nothing to suggest that Dervish is a werewolf, or that he uses this cell for anything more sinister than holding captured deer.

I have to take a chance with the spells. I pull the chair back a bit more, then sit and cautiously lay my hands on top of the table.

Nothing happens.

The light’s poor here. There are matches on the table but I daren’t light a candle—Dervish might smell it when he returns, or notice that it’s burnt down more than when he left.

I study one of the open books but I can’t make sense of the words. If it’s in English, it’s protected by reading spells, like the books in Dervish’s study.

I flick forward a few pages, keeping a finger on the page it was originally opened to. No pictures, though there are a few mathematical or magical diagrams. I turn the pages back and pick up one of the other books.

A wolf’s bared jaws flash at me! I gasp—raise my hands to protect myself—almost topple out of my chair—

Then laugh hysterically as I realise it’s just the cover of a book under the one I picked up. I need to get a grip. Freaking out over a picture—seriously uncool!

Laying the upper book aside, I open the one with the picture of a wolf on it. The words in this are also indecipherable, but there are many pictures and drawings—most of creatures which are half-human, half-wolf.

I study the photos and illustrations in troubled silence. The paintings are wilder—men with perfectly normal upper halves, but the lower body of a wolf; women with ordinary bodies and twisted wolfen heads; babies covered in hair, with ripped lips and jagged fangs.

But the photos are more disturbing, even though they’re less grisly than the paintings. Most simply depict malformed humans, with lots of hair, distorted faces, sharp teeth and slit eyes.

The reason they’re so unsettling—they’re real.

The paintings could be the work of an artist’s vivid imagination, but the photos are genuine. Of course I’m aware that it’s a simple matter in this day and age to forge photographs and warp reality, but I don’t think these are the result of some lab developer’s sick sense of humour. This book has the look and feel of an ancient tome—though some of the snaps are in colour, the colours are dull and splotchy, like in very old photos. I don’t think the people who put this together had the technical know-how to produce digitally enhanced images.

The creatures in the book don’t look familiar, though I study their faces at length. If there are Gradys or Garadexes in there, I don’t recognise them.

Closing the book, I pick up another lying to the right. This one’s modern. Glossy photos, mostly of dead human-wolf beasts, showing them cut open, their insides scooped out. I can’t read it, but I know what it is—an autopsy manual. Somebody’s undertaken a study of these wolfen humans and published their findings.

I grin shakily as I imagine what would happen if I went into a library and asked if they had any books on werewolf autopsies!

As I lay the autopsy book aside, my eyes fall on a thin volume. Loose sheets, held together by a wrinkled brown leather folder. Opening it, I find myself staring into the red eyes of the demon master—Lord Loss.

My fingers freeze. My throat pinches shut. It’s not the picture Dervish showed me when he came to visit me in the institute. This one’s more detailed. It shows only the demon’s head. With terrified fascination I study the folds of lumpy red skin, its bald crown, small mouth, sharp grey teeth. Its eyes are especially strange—as I noted before, it seems to have only a dark red iris and pupil.

Trembling, I start to turn the drawing over, to check on the other papers in the folder—

— then stop dead at a terrible whisper.

“Hello… Grubitssssssssssch…”

The demon’s voice! I release the paper and stare at the painted face—which, impossibly, nightmarishly—stares back.

“Release me,” the demon on the page whispers, its thin lips moving ever so slightly, its eyes narrowing fractionally. “I hunger for… your pain.”

The painting grins.

I scream, slam the folder shut, and race sobbing for safety, imagining the demon master breathing down my neck every frantic step of the way.