racks and the ceiling. An adult couldn’t maneuver 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, as I hop ever farther 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 Dervish 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 learned 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. “All set,” 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
The screams of the werewolves are almost deafening in the confines of the cellar. But to my ears, as I hop ever farther 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 Dervish 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 learned 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. “All set,” 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
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