Darren Shan - Volumes 7 and 8 - Death’s Shadow/Wolf Island

The wine racks form narrow corridors. Wide enough for one person, but two’s tight and three’s a squeeze. When the werewolves see me alone, they go wild and rush forward, getting entangled with each other in the inadequate space. When the dominant male bucks off the others, I toss the bottles at him, then turn and run. I make a left at the end of the corridor, leading the werewolves away from Dervish and Meera—and the only way out.

→Running through the cellar. I’ve managed to keep ahead of the werewolves. If they were human, with full control of their senses, it would be a simple matter for them to ensnare me. A pair could simply circle around and wait for me at the end of any of the narrow corridors. The third could chase me towards the others in about half a minute. Game over.

But these beasts work by instinct. They can’t think far ahead. When they have the scent of prey, they can only focus on the chase. So they plough along behind me, slipping and sliding in their haste. I grab bottles of wine as I run, lobbing them at the werewolves. They don’t do much damage but every bit helps.

I run into a dead end. I’d been expecting it. Part of the plan. I stop half a metre from the wall, turn and wait. The werewolves gibber with delight when they see I’m trapped. They inch forward, clawed fingers flexing, drool dripping from their fangs.

I’ve been working on the spell since I started running. There’s not much more magic here than upstairs, but hopefully the thin traces will be enough. I wait until the lead werewolf is a metre away, then unleash the spell at the bottles of wine in the racks around me. “ Fly! ” I scream.

The bottles shake in their holders. The werewolves pause warily. The cork of one bottle pops out. Wine sprays from the neck, showering the female. She cringes, then laughs hoarsely, sucks wine from the hairs on her arms and licks her lips.

A few more corks pop. The werewolves are being showered with first-rate wine. They wipe it from their faces, scowling but unharmed, and nudge forward again. I start to think my plan has failed, then…

Dozens of bottles shoot off the racks and slam into the werewolves. The monsters howl with pain and fall to the floor in protective huddles. Glass shatters over and around them, pounding their shoulders, backs and heads. Cuts open and bones break. One bottle smashes most of the fangs in the lesser male’s mouth.

I make my move, not waiting for the shower of glass to cease. I scurry up the wine rack to my left, using it as a makeshift ladder. I crouch on top, set my hands against the ceiling and strain with my feet, trying to topple the rack. If it was full of bottles, I couldn’t budge it. But it’s mostly empty and it rocks nicely beneath me. I sway it backwards and forwards a couple of times, then send it toppling over the werewolves, further confusing, enraging and delaying them.

I leap to the neighbouring rack as the first goes over, then hop to the next and the next, like a frog. There’s not much space between the tops of the racks and the ceiling. An adult couldn’t manoeuvre up here, but there’s just enough room for a wee bec of a girl like me.

The screams of the werewolves are almost deafening in the confines of the cellar. But to my ears, hopping ever further away from them, it’s like music. The bottles and rack won’t stall the werewolves for long, but I don’t need much time.

Seconds later I come to the exit. It’s normally hidden behind what looks like an ordinary wine rack. Dervish has opened it and the two halves of the rack gape wide. I can see the secret corridor and Meera lurking within it. Leaping off the rack, I make a neat landing and snap to my feet like a gymnast finishing a complicated routine.

“Cute,” Dervish grunts, then smiles and waves me through. I push past and he hurries after me. The mechanical rack slides shut behind us, cutting out the cries of the werewolves and sheltering us from the bloodthirsty beasts. We share a grin of relief, then hurry down the corridor to the safety of the second cellar.

A minute later we arrive at a large, dark door. It has a gold ring handle. Dervish tugs it open and we slip through. It’s dark inside.

“Give me a moment,” Dervish says, moving ahead of us, leaving the door open for illumination. “There are candles and I have matches. This will be the brightest room in the universe in a matter of –”

The door slams shut. A werewolf howls. Meera and I are knocked apart by something hard and hairy. Dervish cries out in alarm. There’s the sound of a table being knocked over. Scuffling noises. The werewolf’s teeth snap. Meera is yelling Dervish’s name. I hear her scrabbling around, searching for the mace which she must have dropped when we were knocked apart.

I’m calm. There’s magic in the air here. Old-time magic. Not exactly like it was when I first walked the Earth, but similar. I fill with power. The fingers on my left hand flex, then those on my right. Standing, I draw in more energy and ask for—no, demand light.

A ball of bright flame bursts into life overhead. The werewolf screeches and covers its face with a hairy arm. Its eyes are more sensitive than ours—perfect for seeing in the dark. But that strength is now its weakness.

As Dervish huffs and puffs, trying to wriggle out from beneath the werewolf, I wave a contemptuous hand at the beast. It flies clear of him and crashes into the wall. The werewolf whines and tries to rise. I start to unleash a word of magic designed to rip it into a hundred pieces. Then I recall what I learnt in the hall of portraits. Instead of killing it, I send the beast to sleep, drawing the shades of slumber across its eyes as simply as I’d draw curtains across a window. As it falls, I flick a wrist at it and the werewolf slides sideways and out through an open door, the one it must have entered through before we arrived.

Dervish sits up and looks at the door. “We have to shut it,” he groans, staggering to his feet. “Block it off before…”

At a gesture from me, the door closes smoothly. Blue fire runs around the rim, sealing it shut. I do the same with the rim of the door we came through. “Sorted,” I grunt. “Balor himself couldn’t get through those now.”

Dervish and Meera gawp at me and I smile self-consciously. “Well, I was a priestess.”

Dervish starts to chuckle. Meera giggles. Within seconds we’re laughing like clowns. I’ve seen this many times before. Near-death experiences often leave a person crying or laughing hysterically.

“I wish I could have seen you go to work on those werewolves,” Meera crows. “We could hear it, but we couldn’t see.”

“It’s just a pity you couldn’t do it some other way,” Dervish sighs. “Some of my finest bottles were stored back there.”

“You can’t be serious!” Meera shouts.

“A Disciple can always be replaced,” Dervish mutters, “but a few of those bottles were the last of their vintage.”

My smile starts to fade, but then Dervish winks at me. “Only kidding. You were great.” He wipes sweat and blood from his forehead, then coughs. “I’m beat. Meera was right—I’m getting old and slow. I need to sit down. I feel…”

Dervish’s face blanches. His lips go tight and his eyes bulge. He staggers back a step, gasps for air, then collapses. Meera screams his name and rushes to his side.

“What is it?” I cry, whirling around, testing the air for traces of a spell being cast against us.

“Dervish?” Meera asks, holding his arms steady as he thrashes weakly on the floor.

“Who’s doing this?” I bellow. “I can’t sense anybody. I don’t know what sort of a spell they’re using.”

“Quiet,” Meera says. She tugs her cardigan off and slides it under Dervish’s head. His face has turned as grey as his beard. His eyelids are closed. His chest is rising and falling roughly.