The Werewolves Who Weren't

by T C Shelley

  The orb might be intended as a weapon to restrain the ogres in The Hole, but unless the souls could move through the glass surface, it was useless. They were trapped forever and would do no one any good.

  He put his eye to the glass surface.

  He wanted to see out and found he could. He blinked a few times. The brightness inside made it hard to make out anything other than the barest movement, so he put his renewed hands on either side of his head and looked harder.

  In the light coming from the kitchen above and through the still open door from Faeryland, Sam could see Woermann out there, standing with Titania and Edgar, talking together and staring at the lump of Sam’s body lying prone. Dead. Sam put his ear to the glass.

  ‘I’ll look after it,’ Woermann said to them. The were-cat loomed over them both, having grown bigger in the short time since Sam had seen him.

  ‘Well, at least you have one use. You’re not going to be able to sniff out the ones you lost until after the full moon,’ Edgar replied. ‘We’ll be back then.’

  Woermann purred. ‘You still need my nose though.’

  Titania sighed again as she looked at Sam’s corpse, then she and Edgar turned to the back of the room, to the Faeryland door. Titania walked through, and Edgar followed. The door swallowed them whole.

  Only Woermann remained, leering over the animals. The poor dogs huddled together, the pups pushing their faces under their parents’ furry necks. Woermann kicked Sam’s lifeless body.

  Sam pushed at the glass. The magic had made it solid. He even heard a thunk as his ghost head hit the cold surface.

  He slumped down inside the orb. What was he going to do even if he got out? Even if he did make it, he couldn’t return to a dead body, so he wasn’t much use to the shifters out there in the cellar. Then he thought of the Kavanaghs, of the gargoyles, of Daniel. All but the last would never know what happened to him. He wondered how Woermann would explain his disappearance.

  He didn’t know how long he had sat there before Amira found him again.

  Your unhappiness is going through everything, Amira said.

  I’m dead, Sam replied.

  I’m sorry, Sam. Amira’s bead of light came and bumped against him.

  It’s all right, I thought I was dead once before. You get used to it.

  Time moved like toffee. Sam had no idea how long he sat on the bottom of the sphere. He wondered if the shifters he’d freed had arrived home safely, the rabbits and the badgers. What about the others, the souls of the shifters from the other parts of the country? Where were their physical selves and their second souls?

  We don’t know, the old man responded to his thought. We lost connection after they left the place we were locked in. They’ve moved the orb since then. I don’t know what was worse, hearing them outside sounding miserable – some even said their other half had gone mad – or not knowing where they are at all.

  Sam knew he had to help the shifters reunite their souls, even if he never saw the Kavanaghs again.

  Anything was better than being trapped in a ball.

  Sam stared at the movement through the glass.

  I can feel myself out there, Wilfred said. It’s a relief to be close, but he’s so lonely and sad without me. It’s painful being separated.

  For Bladder, only minutes passed while Sam had been on his adventure. Bladder had just left the paddock and found a solid path leading away from Wheedle and Spigot. He turned to see them struggling forward. Wheedle pushed to dig himself out, and occasionally his face would sink into the boggy field, but it would be up again. Spigot squawked each time his beak appeared above a wave of mud.

  Bladder was torn. He smelt a hint of Sam again on a breeze coming from the south, but his pack was sealed in a squirmy fight with the earth.

  ‘Go!’ spluttered Wheedle. ‘Get to him before she does.’

  That was enough for Bladder. Even if Wheedle and Spigot were stuck in the field the following night, they could easily hide from any ogres or trolls. Now Maggie had talked to her troops, she would be looking for Sam, not a clutch of dirty gargoyles.

  Bladder hit the path, its surface a layer of wetness and slosh, despite that many decades of country walkers had hardened it.

  Bladder raced away, his stone feet hardening the dirt more, his claws sending muddy water spraying.

  He was so dirty and mucky, even the farmer whose tractor Bladder barrelled past said, ‘Odd-looking dog. Awfully dirty.’

  At one point, Sam’s smell took him across a field and he jumped from post to post, ramming them a little deeper into the earth. The owner of that land would be pleased later in the day when he found his fence not only survived the night storm, but had been strengthened by it. Another time, Bladder fell on his back into soft mud and took at least half an hour righting himself, writhing in the dirt as helpless as an upside-down turtle. The animals in the meadow came to investigate, but when he got back on his feet, Bladder poked his tongue at a confused bull, who mooed in deep offence.

  It should have been a short trip, but stodgy fields and limited pathways made it longer than Bladder expected. It was after noon when he clambered over a turnstile and found a path that took him straight into a housed area. He cheered to set down on concrete.

  When he reached the hedges of Woermann Manor, Sam’s smell was so strong and sad it carried through the air and rested on everything. Sam’s sadness at losing the Kavanaghs, his sadness at losing the gargoyles, Daniel, his friends. Such a lot of sadness that if Bladder hadn’t already been such a heavy creature, he’d have been weighed down by it.

  The smell of fairy dust filled the air too.

  Maggie’s already been, Bladder thought, and drops of sewer water filled his stone eyes. He forced his way through the hedges, breaking twigs and squashing leaves. Mustn’t give up hope yet.

  He sniffed through the front gate and followed the smell till where it was strongest, near the kitchen doors.

  Sam was in the garden, standing in the rain-freshened sunlight staring up at the sun like a gargoyle.

  Bladder cheered. He had to get Sam away from this place, right after he hugged him until his ribs hurt. Bladder didn’t know what he felt strongest, panic or pleasure. He looked around to make sure there was no one else in the garden and rushed forward. ‘Sam, Sam, Sam! Hurrah, I found you. Oh, Sam, it’s so good to see you.’

  Sam turned. He moved oddly, loping, then stepped through the kitchen doors, long-armed, long-legged and languid.

  ‘Sam?’ Bladder rushed into the kitchen, getting grubby, muddy paw prints on the floor. Inside, Bladder smelt misery, animal and raw. ‘What’s going on? We’ve got to go! Are you sick? Is she here already?’

  He sniffed the air; there was a hint of fairy dust, but not enough to turn Sam odd. Bladder trotted towards Sam and considered his blank and stupid face. What was wrong with him?

  Woermann appeared behind Sam. ‘Get it!’ he said.

  Bladder laughed. ‘Would you listen to him, Sam! As if you’d do anything he says. Pack looks after pack.’

  Woermann laughed too.

  Bladder didn’t like the sound and peered as the cat man lunged forward. His arms seemed longer. His hair was growing from all sorts of places. Maybe he had done something to Sam, they moved in a similar way.

  Sam grabbed Bladder around the waist.

  ‘OK, I got it, time to leave,’ Bladder wheezed. ‘You got strong, Sam.’

  But Sam didn’t take Bladder back outside; he carried him towards a white door.

  ‘Sam, what are you doing? No, no, no. You mustn’t. Sam, this isn’t you. You’ve been bewitched.’

  Woermann turned the key and the door clicked open. Bladder struggled but Sam held him in sinewy, strong arms.

  ‘Don’t need you. Happy here.’ Sam’s voice came out bland and bored, he didn’t sound like Sam at all. ‘Woermann’s rich. Going to look after me.’

  ‘But your pack? The Kavanaghs?’ Bladder shrieked as he stared into the dark cellar.

/>   ‘I don’t need any of you!’ Sam screeched just as loudly.

  The shock of Sam grabbing him knocked his fight for a second, and he couldn’t, just couldn’t hurt Sam, but he struggled to free himself as Sam carried him through the dark doorway and threw him. The boy was as strong as an ogre.

  Woermann chuckled.

  When the door at the top of the stairs slammed open and outside light poured on to the animals in the cellar, Amira’s mum comforted Dr Kokoni as Wilfred and Amira howled. Sam heard it from inside the orb and woke, and pressed an eye against the globe’s surface to see. From the doorway came a flurry of swear words and insults that filled the room with life and intensity. The dogs seemed invigorated and encouraged by it. Then a shape flew down and yelled in pain as it hit steps. Swear, insult, swear, insult as it rolled to the cellar floor. Woermann waited at the top of the stairs, his silhouette stood hands on hips.

  ‘Best you stay here out of the way,’ Woermann said. ‘Don’t want you running off with the queen’s toys.’

  The door slammed, the light disappeared; and the shifters calmed, their barking fading. When the shape tumbled on to the floorboards it did not cease its noise, its rolling left its mouth free half the time. Swear, muffle, swear, muffle. A few rock-solid cracks resounded and the swearing sounded pained. It came to a stop between the tribe of shifters against the back wall and the orb itself. As soon as it did, the figure righted itself, sat up and looked around.

  The voice groaned, and rushed back up the stairs and screamed at the door, pounding on the wood. ‘You idiot! You idiot! You absolute waste of space! Completely human, that’s what you’ve become! I came all this way because I thought you were worth it. I wanted to help you! But you? You? You get one sniff of money and you give up your friends, your family! And your pack! You low life!’

  Sam cheered the courageous, abusive figure.

  Then the creature roared out a disappointed song.

  Sam could hardly see the bulky shape; it sat too far from the orb to be clear. Its fur stuck out at all angles, but it was a decent size. A Labrador, maybe. It sure was matted.

  ‘It’s no good,’ D.I. Kintamani called. ‘The door’s soundproof. He won’t be able to hear you.’

  ‘Yes, he will,’ the shape said. ‘Stupid, selfish, ungrateful …’ It must have had a terrible cold. It sneezed and its voice sounded husky and full of snot.

  ‘Come down, let’s wrap you in a blanket,’ Dr Kokoni called. ‘You sound sick.’ She patted Mr Kokoni, who lay on the floor, head between his front paws, crying and saying ‘so lost’ every now and then.

  ‘Don’t feel the cold,’ the shape said, then howled at the door. It rammed it a few times, making the animals in the cellar whine in response. When the door didn’t budge, it trotted down the steps. Once at the bottom again, it fell in a heap and sniffled.

  Sam watched with interest through the glass, his hands still cupped around his eyes. Something about the lumpy shape was familiar. Maybe it was a relative of Hazel’s.

  The creature turned its face to the orb, and despite its lumpy body and ratty fur, Sam recognised the face. Sam shrieked with joy! He knew exactly who it was. Maybe, maybe there was hope for them.

  Bladder! he called.

  ‘I came all this way for nothing,’ Bladder said to the animals outside the orb, but few seemed to be listening.

  Many edged back; he was a large stone lion after all.

  ‘Can you believe it? Before he threw me down here, Sam told me he was happy; told them he didn’t want to see his family or his pack any more.’ Bladder wailed. Sam had never heard him make that sound before.

  Sam wished Bladder could hear him. Sam had had conversations with the sword souls, so it was possible. He could hear Bladder, which meant his ears worked.

  He should be able to make Bladder hear him too.

  Hey! he called. Can you hear me?

  Yes, we can hear you, the orb souls called back.

  Not you, I want someone out there to hear me.

  The thoughts weren’t directed at Sam, but he heard them anyway. Poor boy’s gone daffy. Crazy. What is he going on about? We can’t hear them. Why would they hear us?

  Sam could see his legs; he could see the souls around him. He could see and hear out of the orb, so surely he could make a noise.

  Bladder! he called.

  Bladder? Mrs Kokoni’s soul replied. Poor boy’s gone doolally.

  Sam, stop, what are you trying to do? Amira’s soul asked. He could hear Hazel and Wilfred’s worry directed at him too. He flinched, their voices echoed now he could hear inside and out. Wilfred, Hazel and Amira’s outside selves wept intensely; three soul voices in his head, three jumbling in his ears.

  He blocked it all. Getting them out was all that mattered, and Bladder could help.

  ‘Bladder?’ This time he heard himself, in his own ears. A whisper of a voice. A touch of volume.

  Sam put his eye to the glass. Nothing. The dogs and Bladder were still talking.

  ‘Bladder!’ Sam called as loud as he could. The noise in his ears was a library whisper, but louder than before. ‘Bladder! Bladder! Bladder!’

  Bladder tilted his head and closed one eye. ‘What was that?’

  In the cellar, Mrs Kintamani wailed. It sounded half crazed.

  ‘She all right?’ Bladder asked, distracted again.

  ‘She lost a soul,’ D.I. Kintamani said.

  You can help her if you listen to me, you silly gargoyle. Sam smacked his glowing hands on the glass. ‘Bladder, Bladder, Bladder.’ He could hear himself getting louder.

  A pup stopped sobbing, and staggered forward. Hazel. ‘I heard it too. A voice said “Bladder”.’

  ‘That’s me, I’m Bladder.’

  Sam screamed it out.

  Hazel sat up, her ears pointed and alert. ‘That’s Sam’s voice.’

  ‘Sam’s voice?’ Bladder said and peered around the room. ‘You’re hearing things.’

  ‘No, she just put Sam in the orb,’ Hazel said.

  ‘She who? She what? Sam’s out there.’ Bladder gestured to the door.

  ‘Queen Titania sucked us into that thing.’

  Bladder peered at the orb.

  ‘Yes! Yes! Look!’ Sam yelled. ‘I’m in here, Bladder!’

  ‘What are you talking about? Sam just kicked me down the stairs. He couldn’t be in there. It’s not big enough. He’d hurt his back.’

  ‘Not his physical form. His soul.’

  ‘His soul?’ Bladder limped towards the orb. ‘His soul? How’d it get in there?’ The stone lion put his forepaws on to the orb. He slid off and hit the ground. Sam heard the crack and following sizzle as Bladder replaced whatever had broken.

  The gargoyle stretched up so his nose touched the lower curve of the orb. Sam looked down at him.

  Last time Sam had seen him, Bladder had been a beautiful clean grey. The creature in front of him was dirty and muddy and wet.

  ‘Sam?’ He looked back at puppy Hazel. ‘You telling me his soul’s in there?’

  Wilfred, Amira and D.I. Kintamani outside confirmed it was so. Their souls had been taken too. Sam could feel those very souls hovering about him.

  ‘Well, Sam, I have to tell you I just saw your body upstairs and you’re a complete jerk without a soul.’

  ‘He didn’t die,’ Dr Kokoni asked. ‘Single-souled creatures can’t live without a soul, but he got up like a zombie. It’s made my fur stand on end.’

  Sam hit his head against the glass. His body got up? He would have seen that happen if he hadn’t been sitting down feeling sorry for himself.

  Bladder laughed. ‘Sam’s body’s not human, he was made the monster way! We just gotta get his soul back inside it.’ The gargoyle turned to the orb. ‘That’s a relief. I must say, your other half’s a rotter, Sammy. Thank goodness it’s not all you.’ Bladder tried to lick the orb, but it flicked his tongue away. ‘So, how do we get you back inside your body? Cos if we don’t, I am gonna have to kill you. It,’ he
corrected himself.

  ‘How long have I been away?’ Sam yelled.

  ‘Say again? I can’t quite hear you.’ Bladder put his ear on the orb.

  Sam repeated himself, as loud as he could.

  ‘Two days since you left the Kavanaghs’ house. Two of the most difficult days of my life,’ Bladder replied. Sam had to listen hard, the gargoyle’s voice distorted so often.

  ‘Daniel,’ Sam said. ‘You have to get everyone out of here and find him. He’ll know what to do.’

  ‘Like that well-fed duck will be any use. Last time I saw him, he couldn’t even walk into the house without knocking his head. He’s supposed to go through stuff. He’s useless now. And he’s off in Heaven somewhere. Not exactly a place I can get to. Have you got another plan?’

  Woermann returned to the cellar an hour later.

  The visit confirmed Bladder’s statement to Sam. Behind Woermann, a writhing imp of a boy lumbered in. He did not move the way a human might, but with apish limbs and a four-legged gait that made Sam think that if his soul hadn’t been put in at the beginning, boggarts might have claimed him.

  The imp sneered at Bladder.

  ‘I know what you are now. Should have realised my Sam doesn’t have such an idiotic face,’ Bladder said.

  Sam studied the stupid and cruel expression on the imp’s face, so unlike the face he recognised in the mirror. He wondered how Bladder had not seen it wasn’t him in the first place. The imp cowered as Woermann patted it.

  ‘Hai ya!’ Bladder charged at the cat man. Sam knew how much the gargoyle weighed and Woermann flinched too, but the man had grown, become hairier, and his teeth looked more pointed.

  Woermann, though gargoyle-shy, didn’t seem as nervous as when he’d been in The Lanes. His irises were golden slits and he walked with an elegant stoop, his hands needing to touch the floor, to take the weight of his staggering bulk. Even hunched as he was, his widening head scraped the cellar ceiling and his hair coursed down his back in raven glossiness.