Bill-E turns to the first page and runs a finger over the title at the top. “Lycanthropy through the ages,” he intones.
“How do you know that if you can’t break the spell?” I challenge him.
“Dervish read it out to me once.” He looks at me archly. “Do you know what ‘lycanthropy’ means?”
“Of course!” I huff. “I’ve seen werewolf movies!”
Bill-E nods. “Dervish read bits of it to me. They were all to do with werewolf legends and rules. He’s fascinated by werewolves—lots of his books focus on shape-changers.”
Bill-E flicks to near the end of the book, scans the pages, flicks over a few more. Finds what he’s searching for and lays a finger on a photograph. “I discovered this a year or so ago,” he says softly. “Didn’t think anything of it then. But when I saw Dervish removing the bodies of the animals a few months ago, and found others ripped to pieces… always close to a full moon…”
“I don’t believe where you’re going with this,” I grumble.
“Remember the demons,” he says, and turns the book around so that I can see the face in the photo.
A young man, maybe sixteen or seventeen. Troubled-looking. Thin. His face is distorted—lots of hair, a blunt jaw, sharp teeth, yellow eyes. There’s something familiar about the face, but it takes me a few seconds to place it. Then it clicks—it reminds me of one of the faces from the hall of portraits. One that hangs close to Dad and Gret’s photos.
“Steven Groarke,” Bill-E says. “A cousin. Died seven or eight years ago.”
“I met him once,” I whisper. “But I was very young. I don’t remember much about him. Except he didn’t have hair or teeth like that.”
Bill-E flicks the pages backwards. Comes to rest on a page with another photo from the hall of portraits, this time a young girl. “Kim Reynolds. Ten years old when she died—supposedly in a fire.”
He flicks back further, almost to the start of the book. Stops at a rough hand-drawing of a naked, excessively hairy man, hunched over on all fours like a dog—or a wolf. Razor-sharp teeth. Claws. An elongated head. Yellow, savage eyes.
“That’s not a human,” I mumble, my mouth dry.
“I think it is—or was,” Bill-E contradicts me. “I can’t be sure, but I’ve compared it to a drawing of Abraham Garadex – one of old Bartholomew’s sons – and I’d swear they’re one and the same.”
I reach out with trembling fingers and gently close the book. “Say it,” I croak. “Say what you brought me here to tell me.”
“I’m not saying this to shock you,” Bill-E begins. “I wouldn’t say it to anyone else. But you were honest enough to tell me about the demons, so I think–”
“Just say it!” I snap.
“OK.” Bill-E takes a deep, relaxing breath. “I think those people in the book were shape-changers. I think lycanthropy runs in our family, and has done for hundreds, maybe thousands, of years. I think your uncle – my father – has it.
“I think Dervish is a werewolf.”
→“You’re crazy.”
Storming down the stairs to the main hall. Bill-E hurrying to catch up.
“It makes sense,” he insists, darting ahead of me, blocking my path. “The bite marks. The way the animals were ripped up the middle. Why he collects the carcasses and incinerates them—getting rid of evidence.”
“Crazy!” I snort again, and shove past him. “A while ago you told me Dervish was your father—now you reckon he’s a werewolf!”
“What’s one got to do with the other?” Bill-E says. “Werewolves are normal people except around the time of a full moon.”
“You’re barking mad!” I shout, throwing open the front doors, stepping out into welcome sunlight. “This is the twenty-first century. The police have cameras everywhere. DNA testing. All the rest. A werewolf wouldn’t last a week in today’s world.”
“It would if it had human cunning,” Bill-E disagrees. “Hear me out, will you? I’ve been working this through in my head for the last few months. I’ve got most of it figured.”
I stop reluctantly. A large part of me wants to keep on walking and not listen to another word of Bill-E’s madness. But a small part is fascinated and wants to hear more.
“Go on,” I grunt. “But if you start on about silver bullets or–”
“You think I want to kill him?” Bill-E snaps. “He’s my father!”
Bill-E strolls as he outlines his theory. I wander along beside him.
“In movies you become a werewolf if another werewolf bites you. But I don’t think dozens of people from one family would get bitten, one after another, over so many centuries. It must be passed on by genes, from parents to children. The unlucky ones are born to become werewolves. So I imagine they start to change pretty early, when they’re kids or teenagers. Dervish is in his forties. If he is a werewolf, I think he’s been living with this for decades.
“Werewolves can’t be wild killers,” he continues. “If they were, Dervish would have killed loads of people here. I’ve checked old newspapers in the library—nobody nearby has been killed by a savage beast any time recently.”
“Maybe he roams further afield to do his killing,” I insert wryly.
“I thought of that,” Bill-E says earnestly. “But I’ve kept a close eye on him these past few months, and I haven’t seen him spending nights away around full moon time. Besides, we’ve seen some of his local kills—the butchered animals. If he hunts and kills animals this close to home, there’s no reason he shouldn’t hunt and kill humans here too. But Dervish isn’t a killer. If I thought there was even a slim chance that he was, I wouldn’t be talking to you—I’d be telling the police.”
“You’d turn in your own father?” I sneer.
“I’d have to if he was killing,” Bill-E says softly. “Murderers can’t be allowed to roam freely.”
We’re getting near to the sheds. A large sheet of corrugated iron lies on the ground between the sheds and the mansion. We head for it simply because there’s nowhere better to go. This used to be a small orchard. There are several smooth tree stumps close by. Bill-E sits on one and I sit on another. I tap the corrugated iron with my foot, considering the ‘evidence’.
“So you think Dervish is a werewolf with a conscience. He kills animals but not people.”
“Is that so hard to believe?” Bill-E asks. “You accept demons are real—why not werewolves?”
“I accept demons because I’ve seen them,” I answer stiffly. “And I’m sure they’re demons twenty-four hours a day, corrupt and evil all the time. If you asked me to believe that people can turn into savage beasts – physically transform into wolf-like creatures – maybe I could. But I don’t believe an ordinary human can change into a hairy, yellow-eyed, fanged werewolf overnight, then resume his ordinary shape the next day.”
“I never said he transformed,” Bill-E notes swiftly. “I think it’s more a mental condition than a physical one.”
“What about those creatures in the book?”
“Maybe it works different ways in different