Later. Slowly coming awake. Sluggishly realising I must have fallen asleep on top of the bed. Then I click to the fact I’m not on the bed anymore. I’m standing by the round stained-glass window in my bedroom, listening to howls outside. No, not outside—in here!

My head whips round in panic. Fully awake now. I can’t see anything in the room but I can hear the howls of a werewolf! Where is it? It must be close. It’s so loud. Where…?

With a jolt, I realise he’s in the glass in front of me. At least, his reflection is.

My face is darker than earlier. A wicked glint to my eyes. Lips pulled back over my teeth. Raising a hand, I see that my fingers are curling inwards, claw-like. I start to howl again, stepping into the coloured rays of the moon.

I stop. Focusing on my reflection, I feel the same warmth that I felt when I was kissing Reni, just before the bottle started to rise. I study my face, the sharp lines, the wild eyes. Directing the warmth towards it, I wish the mask away, wanting my normal face back, telling this vision of a man-wolf to go.

And it does. Even though it shouldn’t, my skin resumes its ordinary shape and colour. My lips droop back down over my teeth. My fingers unclench. The howl dies in my throat and becomes a dry cough.

Moments later I’m me again, standing by the window, bathed by the tinted light of a moon which for some reason is no longer affecting me. The warmth is still there. I hold on to it like a security blanket, take it to bed with me and sustain it, keeping it alive through the rest of the long, weary night, too terrified to close my eyes, afraid of what I might turn into if I drop my guard and give myself over to unprotected sleep.

I sneak a few hours of shut-eye post-dawn, when the sun’s chased the moon off and I’m safe. But it’s an uneasy sleep, filled with nightmares of werewolves and a body in revolt. I imagine myself doing awful things, causing chaos. Only it’s not entirely me. It’s a beast with my shape and form, but with a twisted face, fangs instead of teeth, claws instead of nails, blood-soaked hair.

Grubbs Grady—monster extraordinaire.

When I stumble down the stairs a little after noon, most of the cleaning has been taken care of. Loch tells me Reni had them all up at ten and working like demons. (His choice of phrase is unfortunate.) She had to leave at eleven but left him in charge to make sure nobody slacked off.

“That was some trick you pulled,” Leon says, sweeping up petals from the living room floor. “I’d love to know how you did it.”

“It was magic,” Charlie says, shooing a butterfly out through an open window.

“A magic trick,” Leon corrects him.

“No, real magic,” Charlie insists. “It was, wasn’t it, Grubbs? I’ve seen the books lying around, about wizards, witches and wotnots. It was real magic, right?”

“No.” I force a thin smile. “Just a trick. There’s no such thing as real magic.”

“But the books—” Charlie exclaims.

“—are just books,” I finish tiredly, then go see what state the kitchen’s in.

As I’m leaving, I hear Leon mutter, “Magic! You’re a real ass sometimes.”

“I don’t care what he says,” Charlie sulks. “I know what I saw. It was real magic. I’d bet a million jelly beans on it.

When everything’s as clean as we can get it, my friends say goodbye and make their way home to recover before school on Monday. Bill-E and Loch stay on—they’ve arranged to spend the day here. Bill-E waits till Loch’s in the toilet, then asks how I’m feeling.

“Fine,” I lie as my brain throbs with a splitting headache and my stomach gives a sickly rumble.

“I heard howling last night,” Bill-E says. “After we’d gone to bed. It woke me. A few others too. There was some talk of it this morning but not much—most people were still trying to figure out how you pulled off the trick with the bottle.”

I grunt, saying nothing.

“Grubbs,” Bill-E says hesitantly, “I know we’ve never discussed the family curse. You filled me in on the basics in Slawter, but you’ve never offered more information and I haven’t pushed.”

For a long time Bill-E thought Dervish was the one who’d almost changed into a werewolf. I finally told him the truth in Slawter, neglecting only the part about Dervish being his uncle, not his father. I’ve never told Bill-E that we share the same dad. I want to, but he feels a special bond with Dervish, believing him to be his real father. I’ve never had the heart to shatter his illusion.

“Well,” Bill-E continues after an uncomfortable pause, “I know I almost turned into a werewolf and that you and Dervish saved me. You faced Lord Loss and won back my humanity. But is the cure definitely permanent?”

“Yes.”

“I’m safe? For certain?”

“One hundred per cent,” I smile.

“What about…?” He hesitates again. “Your magic… the howling… Are you safe too?”

I don’t answer for a second. Then, quietly, I lie. “Yes.”

“I won’t have to lock you up in the cage in the secret cellar?”

“No,” I laugh edgily. I hate that cellar. I’ve only been there once since we defeated Lord Loss, when Dervish’s nightmares were threatening to destroy his sanity. “I’m fine. That wasn’t me howling. Probably just a big dog that got loose. Now stop worrying—you’re getting on my nerves.”

Loch returns, wiping his hands dry on his trousers, and the questions stop, though I sense Bill-E doesn’t fully believe me. He knows something’s wrong, that I’m not coming clean. But he doesn’t suspect the worst or anything near it. He trusts me. Thinks of me as his closest friend. Doesn’t believe I’d lie point-blank to him about something this serious.

How little he knows.

A long, anticlimactic Sunday. Lounging around the house, all three of us bored, flicking through TV channels in search of something decent to watch, sticking CDs on, turning them off just a few tracks in. Loch makes cutting remarks about Bill-E, winding him up. I worry about lycanthropy and magic.

“This is crap,” Loch mutters, switching the TV and CD player to stand-by. He jumps up and rubs his hands together. “Let’s wrestle.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“C’mon!”he prods, slapping my face lightly, trying to sting me into action.

“No,” I yawn.

Loch scowls, then switches his attention to Bill-E. “How about you, Spleenio?” He grabs the shorter boy by the waist and swings him round.

“Let go!” Bill-E shouts, kicking out.

“We’ve got a live one,” Loch laughs. He throws Bill-E to the ground, then falls on him and starts to tickle.

“No!” Bill-E gasps, face red, slapping at Loch like a girl, half-laughing from the tickling, half-crying.

“Leave him alone,” I mutter angrily—the noise is worsening my headache.

Loch stops and stands. “Sorry, Bill-E,” he says. “Let me help you up.” He lowers his right hand. Bill-E reaches for it and Loch whips the hand away. “You’re the sultan of suckers, Spleen,” he chortles, strolling towards the kitchen, shaking his head with amused disgust.

Bill-E glares daggers at Loch, then at me. “Gossel’s scum,” he hisses. “I don’t care if he is your new best friend. He’s the scum of the earth. Shame on you for hanging out with him.”

“Don’t take it out on me,” I snap. “You want to get Loch off your back? Then face him like a man, not a little girl. He bullies you because you let him.”

“No, he bullies me because he’s a bully,” Bill-E retorts, furious tears in his eyes.

I shrug, too exhausted and sore-headed to argue. “Whatever.”

Loch returns and Bill-E shuts up, but he glowers like an old man whose pipe’s been stolen, then storms off and returns with his coat.

“Going home?” I ask as he buttons it up.

“No,” he snarls. “I’m doing what I originally planned to do.”

“Huh?”

“You remember. My original plan. If there hadn’t been a party.” I stare at him blankly and he nods in the direction of the forest.