The Twilight Circus (12 page)

Hours later, Nat was fed up with traveling, and fed
up with the weather and the effect it had on the vehicles. The engines couldn't keep up with the ice and snow, and breakdowns were frequent. Everything was white: fields, rivers, roads. There wasn't anything or anyone to see, and everyone got a bit grumpy and short-tempered, except Woody.

Woody's travel sickness and distrust of cars, boats, trains, and planes—in fact anything with an engine—had always been a big problem. But on this journey, he discovered by accident that shifting from Wolven form to human form had the same sort of effect on him as motion sickness pills. His innards still churned and made funny noises and he had to poke his head out of the window now and then, usually with his tongue flapping out like a Labrador's, but he hardly ever puked now, which was a huge relief for his fellow passengers. He was enjoying the journey so much that he was beginning to get on everyone's nerves.

When they at last reached the final leg of the three-day journey, it was still snowing heavily. Nat had been watching the snowflakes as they hit the windshield, and they were having a sort of hypnotic effect on him;
he kept drifting off into a troubled sleep. Every now and again the vehicle would slide heavily to the other side of the road and he would hear his dad mutter under his breath.

As for Fish, who had the honor of riding in the posh Daimler with JC (much to Crescent's disgust), she thought Quentin Crone would have been proud of her. As she listened to the comforting purr of the engine, she thought about her conversation with Nat and Woody. Her revelations had gone down rather well and she had been pleased to find that Nat Carver and the Wolven dude were
way
more professional and less hysterical than adults. She was used to wasting a lot of valuable time trying to convince adults that things that go bump in the night were
actually real
, but she guessed she should have known that a circus full of freaks would just shrug and take her at her word. For her part, she was excited and proud to be working with Nat and Woody, and despite their fear that Scale might be onto them, she was impressed that in the cold light of day they were acting as though nothing was wrong. Still, in the daylight things looked a whole lot better, as they almost always do.

Nat stretched and yawned and looked out at the desolate landscape. Everyone was cheering up now that the end of the journey was in sight. The sky was a uniform gray instead of the blue they had been hoping for farther south, but at least the wind had dropped. Nat's eyelids went all heavy again, but the road was straight and smooth and for the first time since his Wolven blood transfusion, his brain felt uncluttered by the thoughts of other people. He could unconsciously “tune in,” or “tune out” by playing his earworm, and he felt surprisingly good and healthy. Since talking with Alex Fish, both Nat and Woody had a sort of plan.

If Agent Fish and the NightShift people
were
right and they found real and actual evidence of vampire activity, they would share their suspicions about Lucas Scale with Nat's family. It would mean that Nat would have to come clean to his parents about his new Wolven gifts, something he dreaded having to do. The other thing Nat had turned over in his mind concerned Woody. He hadn't spoken it out loud at the time, but he was certain Alex Fish was thinking the same thing.
If they found Woody's clan, would the Wolven help them fight
?

On and on went the road, flat and bleak and rather like Nat imagined the surface of the moon to be. It started to get a bit more interesting the nearer they got to the town they were destined for, but Nat had a bad moment when he saw what appeared to be rows of shrunken heads on sticks by the side of the road. Then with relief he realized that they were some sort of plant, lining the shallow water outlets like grotesque guards. On top of the long stem of the reedy plant, hard balls of dried-out material naturally formed into tiny, wizened human expressions with frizzy ribbons of grass stuff that looked like hair.
Wimp
, Nat admonished himself and closed his eyes again.

He could hear his dad telling Woody about the traditional Christmas festivals and celebrations he had enjoyed in Salinas in previous years and how he was looking forward to them this time.

“The festival of the bulls is the best,” explained Evan. “It's a chance to show off the skill of the
gardians
.”

“What are they?” asked Woody curiously.

“The
gardians
are the herders who ride horseback, controlling the cattle,” said Evan. “More like cowboys,
really. Their name harkens back to their Romanian roots as watchmen. Legend has it they first journeyed to the South of France to battle a vampire outbreak during the Crusades.”

“D'they have guns?” asked Woody, impressed.

Evan shook his head. “Nope, but because of the remoteness of the area, they rule the range. They're the ones to go to if you're in trouble!”

“What d'they do with the bulls at the festival?” asked Woody.

“They race 'em.” Evan grinned. “Imagine that.”

“You could race Titus,” said Woody eagerly, “I bet he'd be up for that after being hidden for so long.”

“Titus will have a nice long rest, to make sure he's completely better,” said Evan. “Then in the spring, he'll be let loose to enjoy the rest of his life.”

Woody considered this and felt pleased for poor old Titus. But he had another question, one he had been dying to ask Evan, but kept avoiding because he never felt the time was right. It was such a biggie, he could barely contain himself. It was about the clan. He looked across at Nat and Jude, who both seemed to be asleep.

“When will we start?” he asked in a quiet voice. “I mean, when can we start looking for … for my clan?”

Evan Carver turned around to smile at the strange wild boy sitting in the backseat. “As soon as we're settled. How does that sound?”

Woody nodded gratefully. That sounded just right.

“Welcome to Salinas!” Evan Carver announced from the driver's seat. “Only a few miles to go till our town, Marais. It means ‘marsh,' as it sits on ancient marshland.”

“But,” said Woody, “it's wrong.”

“Huh?” said Evan, puzzled. “What d'you mean?”

“It doesn't say what I want it to say,” said Woody, looking despondently at the sign.

“Oh,” said Evan, realizing what Woody meant. “Marais
is the town we're staying near, but the place of the White Wolf Falls isn't signposted. It never has been, as far as the professor knows.”

“Then how're we gonna find it?” asked Woody dolefully.

“I have a cunning plan”—Evan replied with a twinkle in his eye—”and a great big map.”

Woody was satisfied, and the talk turned to food. Nat and Jude were waking up.

“You'll love the food here,” said Evan, glancing at his wife and son, “the sheep's feet, the garlic and crab soup, the stuffed squid with snail porridge, paella, the cowboy stew….”

“Hang on. Does the cowboy stew have beans in it?” asked Nat weakly.

“Yup,” said Evan, “at least four different kinds. Why?”

“Because our trailer has very small windows,” said Nat, thinking about Woody's tendency to blow off like a machine gun, especially after eating beans. “I'll be gassed!”

So much for warmer weather. The nearer they got to the small town, the thicker the snow fell, and it was difficult to tell where the salt plains morphed into the wetlands made up of the shallow lagoons and marshes. Most were frozen
now, but if the trucks and trailers veered off course, the ice wouldn't support their weight and it would be a catastrophe. But for all that, the icy scenes were Christmas-card gorgeous, and while Evan concentrated on driving through the beautiful but treacherous country, they all gazed out of the windows, watching the different species of birds dot the marshes looking for food. There were thousands of them: buzzards, terns, herons, gulls of all shapes and sizes, wailing dolefully like the souls of drowned sailors. Then Woody exclaimed out loud. Standing on one spindly leg (each, not between them) were hundreds of pink flamingos, dusted with blue-white snow. Away in the distance, a herd of something oil-slick black wound its way across the white plain, and Jude got excited.

“Look! Black palominos,” she cried.

“Not unless they've got horns,” said Nat, amused. “They're cows, Mum.”

“Are you sure?” asked Jude, craning her neck for a better look.

“He's right,” said Woody. “
Cows
.”

“You two have superb eyesight,” marveled Jude,
“especially you, Nat. I haven't seen you wearing your glasses for ages.”

“Will we see any palominos?” said Nat, changing the subject quickly.

“I doubt it,” said Evan. “They're notorious for being shy and they're quite rare in the wild, although your grandpa tells me the mayor has one on his ranch; remind me to show you when we visit.”

From time to time they passed curious-looking thatched buildings with no windows. Each one had a long pole outside and a pair of ferocious pointy bulls' horns nailed to the front door.

“That's so the
gardians
can climb up the poles to check that their animals are safe on the plain,” explained Evan.

“What about the horns?” asked Woody. “Why've they got them?”

“To ward off evil spirits,” said Evan.

“Why don't they have windows?” wondered Nat.

“To keep out the evil spirits. And the mosquitoes.” His dad grinned. “Do you know there's over forty species of the little buggers? The good news is that only
ten of those species will bite you, and the really good news is that there's none in the winter months, so we'll be grand.”

Nat and Woody looked at each other. They were more worried about the possibility of evil spirits.

“Don't seem to be any people around,” remarked Woody. “Maybe 'cause it's so cold.”

“It
is
odd,” agreed Evan, sounding worried. “It's usually busy at this time of year. At Christmas the streets are decorated with hundreds of lights and there's a big tree in the square. Where on earth is everyone?”

It was the roadblocks that made Nat wake up again. The roadblocks and the group of unsmiling men with cowboy hats coming toward them: the ones with the guns!

“Now what?” muttered Evan, as one of the men broke from the pack and strode forward, his head lowered to avoid the bitter wind, the brim of his large hat flattened by the gusts.

“Dad, he's got a
gun
,” warned Nat in alarm. “I thought you said they didn't have them.”

“It's OK,” said Evan with a sigh of relief. “Look, seems your grandpa knows him.”

Everyone peered out their windows into the snow. John Carver had left his Daimler and was shaking hands with the man with the big hat. Both looked grave.

“Wait here, boys,” said Evan, and opened the door of the Land Rover.

The man with the big hat and holstered gun was named Teebo Bon, and he made the law in Salinas. He was the mayor of the whole region and responsible for policing the area, along with four deputies. But he told John Carver his job had been made harder this winter by some mysterious and very worrying occurrences. First it had been the dead animals. Animals that had been mutilated horribly and completely drained of blood. There was a hefty cash reward for anyone who could catch whoever—whatever—was responsible. The mystery darkened when the snow came.
Whatever had done this thing had left no tracks! And
now, people had started to go missing. Fourteen-year-old Saffi Besson had apparently disappeared off the face of the earth. Teebo Bon had had a horrible feeling that she wouldn't be the last, and he had been right. Yesterday, two more kids had gone: brothers. They had been in the hospital, both suffering from a mystery disease that had left them weaker each day, certainly too weak to walk out of the hospital in this weather. Now other people were sick, seemingly affected by the same thing. The doctors were baffled as they watched normally healthy people reduced to pale shadows of their former selves in a matter
of days. Things had got severely out of hand after the two young boys disappeared from the hospital, and Teebo felt powerless to stop the rumors flying around Marais.

Rumors that Teebo Bon knew to be true.

A farmer across town reported seeing a ghastly black creature with red eyes scrabbling at his daughter's window, while a
gardian
reported seeing the same creature crawling across the roof of his house, red eyed and fanged.

Teebo Bon knew better than to dismiss their fears as a load of superstitious codswallop. He had seen the puncture wounds on the flesh of the victims for himself. The doctors had tried to blame all sorts of diseases and ailments. But seeing those telltale bite marks had convinced Teebo Bon beyond all reasonable doubt. With a small band of believers, he had watched every night, but still the vampire eluded them. As his great-great-great-grandfather had done over a hundred years ago, he wanted to deal with the thing himself once and forever, and cleanse the town in his own way.
And now this
! He hadn't been able to contact John Carver to warn him off, so the long train of wagons was added to his responsibility.

Nat and Woody watched apprehensively as Evan and
JC appeared to argue with the man, waving their hands around, as though there was a BIG problem.