Home. Waiting for Dervish. He should have returned by now. I ring his mobile, to check that everything’s OK, but only get his answering message. Sitting in the TV room, TV switched off, no lights on. In my guts and bones I can feel the moon rising. Concentrating on my breathing, willing myself not to change, trying to stay human.

Without any sound of a motorbike, the doors open about 10 o’clock and Dervish stumbles in. “My head,” he groans, slumping on the couch next to me, a hand thrown over his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, thinking he’s been in a crash. Then I catch the stench of alcohol. “You’re drunk!”

“I forgot how much Meera can drink when she sets her mind to it,” he mumbles. “And unlike normal people, she doesn’t have a hangover the next morning. She was at it again first thing when she woke and she made me join in.” He puts his hands over his ears and moans. “The bells, the bells!”

“Tell me you didn’t drive home in this state,” I snap.

“You think I’m mad?” Dervish huffs. “I cast a sobering spell.”

“You’re full of it!”

“No, really, it works perfectly. Except it’s very short term. It ran out when I was almost to Carcery Vale. I had to stop and walk the rest of the way. And the worst thing is, when it wears off, the hangover kicks in with twice as much venom as before.” Dervish doubles over, head cradled between his hands, whining like a kicked dog.

“Serves you right,” I sniff. “You should have more sense at your age.”

“Please, Grubbs, don’t play mother,” Dervish groans. He staggers to his feet and heads for the kitchen. “I’m going to make an absolutely huge cup of hot chocolate, then retire to my room for the night. I don’t want to be disturbed unless the house is burning.” He pauses. “Strike that. I don’t want to be disturbed even then. Let me burn—I’d be better off.”

I think about calling him back, making him sit down and listen to me. But it wouldn’t be fair. Better to let him get a good night’s sleep, then tell him about it tomorrow. Besides, I don’t feel too rough at the moment, not as bad as I felt last night. I don’t want to jinx myself, but I think I might be over the worst.

Dervish’s snores rock the house to its foundations. I don’t want to sleep. I want to keep a vigil, stay focused on my breathing, alert to any hint of a change. But I’m exhausted. All the energy that went into the party… lack of sleep last night… walking and digging this afternoon. My eyelids refuse to stay open. Even coffee—which I hardly ever drink—doesn’t work.

I undress and slip into a T-shirt and boxers. Slide beneath the covers. Lying there, I think that maybe I should get a rope, tie it round my ankles and the bedposts, maybe tie up one of my hands too. That should hold me in the event that I change during the night. A good plan, but it comes too late. Even as I’m gearing myself up to get out of bed and fetch a rope, my eyelids slam down and I’m out for the count.

Harsh breathing. Thumping sounds. Cold night air.

I come to my senses slowly, the same as last night. I see a pair of hands lifting a large rock out of the ground. They throw it overhead casually as if it was a pebble. They stoop, start clearing more earth away… then stop as I realise they’re my hands. I exert my will and look around.

I’m standing in a hole, dressed only in my T-shirt and boxers. Bare feet. Dirt-encrusted fingers. It takes me a few seconds to realise I’m in the hole where we were digging earlier. The reason I didn’t recognise it instantly—it’s about four times deeper than when we left it.

I look up. I’m a couple of metres below ground level, surrounded by rock. In a sudden panic, afraid the rocks are going to grind together and crush me, I grab a handhold and haul myself up. A couple of quick thrusts later, I’m standing by the edge of the hole, shivering from cold and fear, staring around with wonder.

There are rocks and dirt everywhere. I don’t know how long I was down there but I must have been digging like a madman. The weird thing is, I don’t feel the least bit tired. My muscles aren’t aching. Apart from some scared gasping, my breath comes normally and my heart beats as regularly as if I’d been out for a gentle stroll.

I walk over to one of the larger stones. Study it silently, warily. I bend, grab it by the sides, give an exploratory lift. I can shift it a few centimetres and that’s it, I have to drop it. It weighs a bloody tonne. Under any normal circumstances I doubt I could lift it higher than knee level, not without throwing my back out completely. Yet I must have. And not only picked it up, but lobbed it out of the hole too.

Back to the rim of the mini abyss. Staring down into darkness. What brought me here? I’d like to think I was just sleepwalking, that I came here because I’d been thinking about the hole all evening. But there’s more to it than that. My senses are on high alert, animal-sharp (wolf-sharp), and I don’t think it’s any accident that I wound up here, digging as if my life depended on it.

As much as I don’t want to, I sit, turn and lower myself into the hole. When I’m on the floor, I allow a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, then take a really good look. The hole isn’t any wider than it was earlier—the rocks on the sides run down smoothly, like a mine shaft. The angle which we were following has continued, so although it’s a steep slope, it’s easy to climb up and down.

I bend and touch the next rock in line for removal. It’s jammed firmly in the earth. I tug hard and it barely moves. Yet I’m sure, if I’d tried a few minutes ago, while asleep, I could have ripped it out and…

Whispers.

I frown and cock my head. The sound has been there for a while, maybe since I regained my senses, but I thought it was the wind in the trees. Now that I focus, I realise it’s not coming from the trees. It seems to be coming from the rocks.

A jolt of excitement cuts through my confusion and apprehension. Maybe I’m close to a cave and the noise is the wind whistling between earth and rock. I flash on an image of Lord Sheftree’s treasure and the glory of being the first to discover it. With renewed enthusiasm I grasp the rock again and pull as hard as I can. I might not be able to toss it out of the hole, but if I can budge it slightly, maybe I can…

A flicker on the rock. A slight bulging. A shadow grows out of it, just for a second, then disappears.

I fall backwards, stifling a scream, heart racing.

Eyes fixed to the rock, waiting for it to change again. A minute passes. Two.

I get to my feet, legs very shaky, and climb out of the hole, not looking back. I make for home quickly, head down, striding through the forest, ignoring the twigs, stones and thorns that jab at my bare feet.

Trying hard not to think about what I saw (or thought I saw). But I can’t block it out. It keeps coming back, rattling round the inside of my skull like a rabid rat in a cage.

The flicker… the bulging… the shadow…

It might have been a trick of the light or my skittish mind, but it looked to me like a face was trying to force its way up through the rock from the other side. A human face. A girl’s.