“What can I do to stop them?” I ask.

“Stand up to them. Sic my lawyers—your lawyers—on them. Be brave. Prove you’re fit to live independently. Don’t give them any excuse to take you away. Meera will help—if she recovers—but you’ll have to do a lot of it yourself.”

Lord Loss has drifted to the edge of the cellar while we’ve been talking. He’s floating in front of a thick bank of webs, gesturing at them with all eight arms, muttering something inhuman. Artery has crept up beside his master and squats sullenly next to him.

As I watch, the webs shimmer, then twist in a clockwise direction, winding and wrapping together. The centre of the web pulses outwards a couple of times, then stretches backwards at lightning speed, cutting a path through the layers of webs behind it, creating an impossibly long, rotating funnel from the cellar to some indefinite point beyond.

“Take care of Billy,” Dervish says. “He won’t remember any of this. It’s up to you how much you tell him. I won’t advise you one way or the other on that point. If you start to change…” He hesitates, then presses on. “Meera and one of my other friends might challenge Lord Loss on your behalf. If you want to make a fight of it, ask Meera, and she can—”

“No,” I interrupt softly. “I won’t put anybody else through this. It wouldn’t be fair. If the curse hits me, I’ll abandon myself to it, or call in the Lambs. But I won’t ask anyone to face Lord Loss for me.”

Dervish smiles wanly. “You might lose some of those noble ideals when you get a bit older.” His smile softens. “But I hope not.”

“It is time, Dervish Grady,” Lord Loss says. The spiralling funnel he’s created glows redly, the webs revolving rapidly. Artery leaps on to the web at the rim of the funnel. He’s sucked into it instantly. Spins around several times, head over heels, then vanishes down the funnel’s maw, never to be seen in these parts again—I hope.

“Must you go?” I sob, clutching Dervish’s hands.

“Yes,” he answers simply. “If I refused, he could bring his hordes of familiars through and destroy us all.”

“How will I know… if you’re… successful?” I gulp.

“As long as I’m fighting, I’ll be an emotionless shell here,” he says. “If I lose, that won’t change, and you’ll never know—I’ll simply die of old age. But if I win…” He winks. “Don’t worry—you’ll soon find out!”

Dervish faces Lord Loss and the funnel. Takes a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it out nervously. “Remember, Grubbs,” he mutters. “Don’t give up on me. No matter how much time passes—even if it’s decades—there’s always hope.”

“I’ll look after you,” I promise, weeping uncontrollably.

“Your mum and dad would have been proud of you tonight,” Dervish says. “Gret too.”

With that, he turns his back on me and marches to the funnel. Lord Loss bows politely as he approaches, then unfolds all eight of his arms and strikes for Dervish’s throat. Dervish ducks swiftly, avoiding the demon master’s lunge. “Uh-uh!” he laughs. “You won’t make that quick a finish of me!”

Leaping over the demon, he grabs hold of a thick strand of web, spins around, hollering wildly, then disappears down the funnel, becoming a speck, then nothing.

Lord Loss floats towards the opening. Glances back at me, eyes cold and hateful. “In the past, I’ve respected those who bested me,” he snarls. “But you belittled both the game and me. I will be keeping a close watch on you, Grubitsch Grady, and if you ever—”

“My name’s Grubbs,” I grunt, cutting him short. I step forward, wiping tears from my face. “Now sod off back to your own world, you motherless scum, and save your threats for those who care.”

For a moment it looks like he’s going to abandon protocol and rip me to shreds. But then he snarls, whirls away from me and hurls himself into the funnel of webs. There’s a flash. The world turns red, then black. The webs fade. The funnel blinks out of existence. Walls and ceiling slowly return.

It ends.

THE CHANGE

Working numbly. A quick trip to the house to fetch new candles. Then I sweep debris—broken chess boards and pieces—out of the way. Methodical. Chasing every last splinter and shard. Stacking them neatly against the walls. Need to keep active. Not dwelling on the game or the fight—or Dervish.

His body rematerialised as reality returned. But only his body—not his mind. He stands by the wall to my left, vacant, unresponsive, eyes glazed over.

Bill-E regains consciousness—and humanity—as I’m coming towards the end of my big cleanup. “Where am I?” he mutters. “What’s happening?” He stands shakily and stares at the bars of the cage. His voice rises fearfully. “What am I doing here? Where’s Dervish? What’s—”

“It’s OK,” I shush him, fetching the key and unlocking the door. “Dervish is over by that wall. There’s no need to be afraid.”

Bill-E stumbles out of the cage and glances nervously at the eerily motionless man in the candlelit shadows.

“What’s the story?” he asks. “The last thing I remember is following Dervish—then nothing.”

I haven’t thought about what I’m going to tell Bill-E. So I say the first thing that comes into my head.

“We were right—Dervish was a werewolf. He knocked you out and brought you here. I tracked him and fought with him. He recovered. He was grief-stricken when he realised what he’d done—the change had never affected him this way before. He gave me a book with a spell in it and told me to cast it.”

“What sort of a spell?” Bill-E asks, edging closer to Dervish.

“A calming spell,” I improvise. “He’d been saving it for an emergency. It stops him from turning into a werewolf—but it also robs him of his personality. He’s like a zombie now. He can’t speak or respond. I don’t know how long he’ll stay that way—maybe forever. But if he recovers, he’ll be safe. He won’t change again.”

Bill-E waves a hand in front of his uncle’s eyes—Dervish doesn’t blink. He’s crying when he looks at me. “I didn’t want this!” he sobs. “I wanted to stop him harming people, but not this way!”

“There was no other solution, short of killing him,” I answer quietly. “Dervish had controlled the beast all these years, but it had grown stronger and was close to overwhelming him.”

“And you don’t know how long he’ll be like this?” Bill-E asks.

I shake my head. “A week. A year. A decade. There’s no telling.”

Bill-E smiles weakly. “He must have really loved me to do this to himself,” he notes proudly. “Only a father would act this selflessly.”

I start to tell Bill-E the truth—that Dervish is his uncle, my dad was his dad, I’m his brother— then stop. What would it achieve? If I told him, he’d have to come to terms with his real dad’s death and being an orphan. This way, he believes he’s not alone. I think it’s better to have a zombie for a father than no father at all.

“Yeah,” I nod tiredly. “He was your dad. No doubt about it.” Stepping forward, I take hold of one of Dervish’s hands and press the other into Bill-E’s. “Now let’s get the hell out of here—this place gives me the creeps.”

Days.

Meera recovers the following afternoon. No memory loss or serious injury. I tell her the whole story while Bill-E’s at home with Ma and Pa Spleen. She weeps when she sees Dervish. Cradles his face. Calls his name. Scours his eyes for a trace of who he was.

Nothing.

Weeks.

Lawyers. Social workers. Bankers.

Meera goes through Dervish’s drawers with me. Sets the bureaucratic wheels in motion. My world becomes a flurry of legal papers and professional advice. Concerned officials kept at bay by Dervish’s lawyers. Regular inspections. Visits from doctors and welfare workers. Tests. Under observation. Having to prove myself capable of looking after both myself and my uncle.

Dervish isn’t that difficult to care for. I lay out his clothes each night and dress him as soon as he wakes in the morning. He can go to the toilet himself, once I point him the right way. When I lead him down to breakfast, he sits and eats. After that he does whatever I tell him—rests, or exercises, or walks with me to the Vale to stock up on supplies and prove to everybody that he’s healthy and unharmed. He’s empty, distressingly so, and I have to spend a lot of time on him.