The Twilight Circus (10 page)

Natalie.”

Nat grinned.
Natalie
. He suddenly had an image of Teddy Davis, the boy who had bullied him last summer. Teddy had always called him Natalie, because he knew
it annoyed him. Now Teddy Davis was a werewolf. Nat wondered what had become of him. He gave the girl a friendly smile. She was slightly older than her sister and she held out a grubby hand.

“Asylum seekers,” said Natalie, shaking Nat's hand firmly. “We're headed for Britain after the winter.” Then in a whisper, she confided, “We're hiding from the Russian Mafia.”

Nat felt his blood run cold. He couldn't think of anything to say.

“We saw something we shouldn't have,” said Natalie. “My grandpa told me there were people here like you,” said Nat.

“Like us,” said Scarlet. “It looks like we are all in this together, Nat Carver.”

“Yeah,” agreed Nat. “Like us.” It felt kind of good to admit it. They were all in the same boat.

“Trust you to get out of doing this,” muttered Nat to an unbothered Woody as he shoveled another wheelbarrow of steaming horse dung and wet straw. Woody was sitting in the snow, his fur puffed up against the chill wind,
perfecting the forgotten art of snowflake-catching-on-tongue. Despite moaning, Nat was quite enjoying the exercise and it turned out that shoveling poo was a good way to keep warm. When they had finished, Scarlet asked Nat if he had met Titus yet.

Nat shook his head. “
Titus
?”

“Another one of us,” said Natalie mysteriously. “Come and meet him.”

Woody led the way as the girls escorted Nat to a smaller stable block, apparently enclosed by electric fencing.

“Don't worry,” said Scarlet, “it's not switched on.”

A few dozy-looking horses popped their heads over the stable doors, whickering to them sleepily. Nat wondered if they sensed the Wolven blood—he had worried that they might smell wolf and go mental. In any event, they didn't seem to mind his presence. Nat's own Wolvenish traits were not as advanced as Woody's; he supposed he would seem almost human to them.

At the end of the block there was another loose box.

“In there,” said Scarlet, pointing.

“What is it?” asked Nat nervously. He sniffed the air for danger. All he could smell were good smells like fresh
meadow hay and bedding straw laced with the sweet whiff of horseflesh and dung.

“You have to get a bit closer than that if you want to meet him,” said Natalie. “Go on, don't be a baby.”

Nat had been watching Woody's relaxed body language, and his own senses were telling him there was nothing to be afraid of. He repeated Natalie's words to himself:
Go on, don't be a baby
. All the same, he crept reluctantly toward the loose box, not wanting anything to jump out. A different, stronger smell met his nostrils, beefier than the smell of horses. Goodness only knew what was in there: After all the weird creatures he had seen last night, this Titus character could be anything from a dinosaur to a dodo!

He leaned forward gingerly and looked over the top. If it hadn't been for his enhanced eyesight and night vision, he wouldn't have been able to see a thing because it appeared to be pitch-black inside. A dark shape loomed in front of him, but the thing was so big, it was difficult to see where it ended and the stable began.

It had been lying down and now it struggled to its feet, great plumes of steam coming from it with the effort.
No way
! thought Nat.
It's a real live dragon
! He almost toppled
over in surprise as a wet nose twice the size of his hand was thrust into his face. Nat noticed that the animal had a big gold ring through its nostrils, which glinted in the weak sun, and ginormous, lethal-looking horns.

“Oh, it's a bull!” exclaimed Nat.

“Obviously,” Natalie said with a laugh.

“What's so special about … Oh no, I don't believe it!” yelped Nat.

“Don't believe what?” Scarlet prompted.

“It's not
that
bull … It
is
that bull!” cried Nat. “The one that was supposed to be slaughtered because it had some sort of disease.”

“Tuberculosis,” agreed Natalie, “but he doesn't have it now.”

Nat shook his head in disbelief. “It's been on TV and everything. They've been looking for it for weeks. They want to slaughter it because of the disease.”

Both girls nodded solemnly.

“So let me get this straight,” said Nat weakly. “We're taking a bull, which is probably wanted over the whole of Europe, to the south of France with us?”

Both girls nodded again. Woody chuffed his agreement.

“A
sacred
bull,” said Natalie.

Like that makes all the difference
, thought Nat to himself. Then he looked down in dismay. Sacred or not, Titus had deposited a glistening snail trail of bull snot on his sleeve.

“Oh nice,” he said, “I've probably got tubercuwhatsits now.”

“No,” Scarlet assured him, “there is nothing wrong with Titus now. Smell if you don't believe me.”

Reluctantly Nat sniffed the slimy piece of material on his jacket.

“Doesn't smell of anything.”

“Woody always says that sickness smells
bad
,” explained Natalie. “You have enough Wolven blood in you to be able to smell the difference between bad and good. Titus has been treated by special monks and antibiotics.”

“So what will happen to him when we get to Salinas?” asked Nat.

“He will be quarantined for a bit longer, then set free on the plains,” said Scarlet, smiling as she scratched the ears of the enormous beast.

Nat's grandpa, John Carver, had a legendary temper. Whenever he was mad, the big man had a habit of running his hands through his already big, curly hair, making it wilder to match his mood. The daily paper had been delivered, and the newspaper article he had just read had made his blood boil and his hair frizz out to twice its usual size. He was
livid
. Already massively stressed because of the impending journey south and the responsibility of transporting everyone safely and in one piece, the reason for his rage had been on the front page of the leading Paris newspaper, which had described the “Petting Zoo Massacre” at the zoological park in bloody and graphic detail. Having read the distressing story in the paper, he had no doubt who was responsible, which was how Crescent and the rest of the Howlers found themselves hauled in front of an incandescently infuriated JC later in the day. Crescent gulped as she braced herself for the mother of all telling-offs. In fact, JC looked so angry she feared he might spontaneously combust. In no uncertain terms, he spelled out to them that if this sort of thing happened again, they would be asked to leave.

“I cannot have the lives of the rest of us put in danger by
the idiotic actions of a few selfish werewolves!” he raged. “Do you understand?”

“But —” tried Crescent.

“I said, do you understand?”

“Yes, JC,” murmured the four culprits, all looking down at their feet.

“All this wildness will stop NOW!” shouted JC. “From now until we reach the south there will be a curfew, and you will stay within the campsite like the rest of the children.”

“But … I'm
sixteen
,” protested Crescent hotly. “It's your choice,” said JC, his gray eyes glittering dangerously. “Stay and behave, or go.”

Lucas Scale fought hard not to lose his temper. He had to think, and wigging out was not conducive to the calm approach he needed to solve this annoying setback. Scale had watched helplessly as Nat Carver had rudely shoved his eye—still encased in the plastic snow globe—to the back of the dark, dank cupboard. Darkest demonish magic had enabled Scale to send his eye to spy on them, to listen to their pathetic little plans. In time, as his powers grew, he would send something
nasty to finish what he had started last summer. His plans for the world and his place in it would not be hampered by the Carver boy, but his grudge was like an itch that couldn't be scratched. Until Carver and the Wolven were both wiped from this earth, he couldn't concentrate on the bigger picture
.

Scale had a few ideas up his snot-encrusted sleeve. A little mischief, perhaps, before their grisly end? He had already used his spectacular new skills, sending some little furry vermin to wake a certain lady vampire of ill repute. He would use her to finish them off. But for now, how about a little fun? Turn them against each other? That would be superbadfun to watch. Or separate them? Take them out of their comfort zone
!

Scale admitted he had taken his eye off the game. He should have been able to will the Carver boy to put the snow globe back. Some sense had warned the boy, warned him there was something not quite right about the globe, perhaps? He sneered at the setback. He would put it right, he vowed, get things back on track. He caught sight of his misshapen form reflected in the flickering candlelight. “Good God you're ugly,” he told himself fondly
.

Less than twenty-four hours after her meeting with Professor Paxton and Quentin Crone, Alex Fish found herself traveling in an overcrowded train car on the London-to-Paris Eurostar, feeling about as nervous as a small nun at a penguin shoot. She had left her collection of unfeasible platform shoes behind, filling her suitcase with sensible, fur-lined boots, thermal underwear, and an entire designer ski suit complete with mirrored goggles.

Fish had taken out zombies, vampires, and the odd banshee, but never had she felt so buttock-clenchingly scared as she did now. Going undercover was one thing, but the cold, hard fact that Lucas Scale had cheated a silver bullet and death following a pact with an unknown demon made her quake in her furry new boots. While she froze in the packed train car, her thoughts drifted back to the meeting at the NightShift HQ.

“How do we fight Lucas Scale?” Fish had asked when she had calmed down.

“
We
don't,” Crone had replied. “At least
you
won't be. We've got to find him first. He was a slippery enough character when he was human; God knows how he's evolved if he's in league with a demon.”

“So why am I here?” asked Fish, suddenly dreading the answer.

Then the boss had dropped a big-time bombshell. “Using my excellent persuasion skills and a considerable amount of bribe money, NightShift has arranged for you to replace Nat Carver's holiday tutor,” he said, smiling for the first time. “In fact, you will have a number of pupils, I gather.”

“
Whaaaat
?” shrieked Fish. “I'm not much older than they are!”

Crone nodded. “Don't worry,” he said soothingly, “just make sure you wear your glasses.”

“What difference will that make?” asked Fish.

“You look quite brainy when you wear them.” Crone grinned.

“And when I don't?” demanded Fish, a dangerous glint in her eye.

Professor Paxton coughed politely. “I think Quentin means you look more mature, more plausibly academic, when you wear your spectacles.”

“But
why
do I have to go?” asked Fish, still bewildered. “Is it because I'm a rubbish agent?”

This time Crone shook his head seriously. “On the contrary. After last night's excellent work with the Threadneedle Street Hive, I truly believe you are our
best
agent.”

Fish still managed to look both miserable and confused. “But then …?”

“I think what Quentin is trying to say is that you, and only you, are the best possible person to look out for Nat Carver and Woody,” explained the professor gently. “If Lucas Scale is bent on revenge, he will strike. Maybe not immediately, but when we are least expecting it.”

“You really think that Carver and the Wolven are at risk?” asked Fish, frowning. “Even if they're out of the country?”

“While I was held at Helleborine Halt, I watched Scale turn into a monster,” said the professor, looking slightly sick. “But I truly believe, despite his new powers, that he's frightened of Nat and Woody. They managed to bring down the Proteus project
and
the government, using gifts that Scale wanted for himself. Instead, the summoning of the demon has given him powers of his own, potentially stronger than those he coveted in the first place. He wants revenge—to finish what he started.”

“You mean …?” stammered Alex Fish.

“To kill them both,” said Crone grimly. “Get them out of the way once and for all, and resume his quest for global power.”

“We have to warn them,” said Fish. “We'll have to —” “There is … erm, something else you should know, possibly related to … ah … Scale,” interrupted Crone, looking slightly uncomfortable. “There's
more
?” Fish balked.

“Nat Carver and the Wolven are traveling with the Carver family's circus,” said Crone, staring into the fire, “a very
special
circus with people and certain cargo for whom any close investigation by the authorities could
be catastrophic. They are headed for a small town in the remote region of Salinas, where John Carver is always assured of total privacy. But … in the last few weeks, Salinas has been the focus of unwelcome activity. People have started to disappear.”

“
Brilliant
,” said Fish under her breath. “So, what's the story?”

Crone shrugged. “Some of the people missing are transients—hunters, people who come and go with the seasons. There wasn't really any reason to be too worried at first, but then other things started to kick off.”

“Malignant activity?” asked Fish.

“Possibly,” said Crone. “There've been reports of a disturbing increase in livestock slaughter, too delicately executed to be the work of wolves or werewolves and, chillingly, no tracks or marks in the snow—just dead animals completely drained of blood. Then a young girl disappeared from her family's farm. Just vanished from the face of the earth.”