Werewolf Parallel (11 page)

“And?” a gull-daemon cawed. “And? And? And?”

“You want
more
?”

“Something that allows flight… escape… with stem and jagged edge.” Eve’s eyes lit up. “They’re talking about
keys
as well!”

The screeching frenzy of the bird-men slowed, but they continued to jab and jostle. “And? And? And?”

“We’re not there yet,” Cameron jumped up, trying to see Morgan and Eve over the scrum. “What can be a feather
and
a key? Gah! I hate cryptic crosswords. And
you can just shove off.” He pushed at a long-legged heron-daemon. “Come on! When is a feather a key – or a key like a feather?”

“When it’s a mighty morphing super-key!” Morgan roared, tearing the Omniclavis out from round his neck. “Come on, you pecking horrors, see what you make of this!”

He held the Omniclavis aloft. It grew long and thin, its jagged metal tines becoming down-soft. For a moment, the outline of a feather was superimposed on top, then it blew up and into the air, leaving Morgan clutching just the ordinary key-shaped Omniclavis again.

The crowd of bird daemons froze.

“Strike two,” Cameron observed. “One left!”

“Still no sparkles.” Eve pulled herself out from under the wing of a greasy pigeon-daemon.

They watched as the feather blew over the monument. A
skraarking
cry echoed and three tall spaces in between the columns abruptly grew dark, the hillside beyond vanishing from view.

“Access to the Augury!” Cameron punched the air. “We did it!”

“Personally I’m impressed by my deductive brilliance,” said Morgan.

“
Our
deductive brilliance –” Cameron began, then he let loose an involuntary cry as a set of nail-sharp talons gripped him from behind, and pointed feet kicked his shins. He was being frogmarched towards the space between two pillars. To either side of him, crow-daemons were propelling a struggling Eve and Morgan forward as well.

“This’ll be the test!” he yelled. “Quick! We’ve got
to decide what we’re asking. We can’t all say the same thing. Each choose a question, and
stick to it
, whatever happens.”

“The Greys. I wanna know how to get ’em. I’ll ask how to stop the Greys.” Morgan twisted sharply in the bird-man’s grip, tearing free. “Leave off, crow-breath! If I’m going in, it’s under my own power. See you on the other side!” With a raucous whoop, he ran towards the opening and vanished.

“Eve! What about you?”

“Dr Black,” Eve gasped. “I’ll find out how to stop Dr Black. He’s the smart one.” Her face contorted as she neared the portal between the pillars. “Cameron, I really am scared…”

“Don’t be. You’ll be great!”

“But it’s my greatest fear, Cam.
I know what that is!
I can’t –”

Her voice cut off abruptly.

“Guess it’s up to me to ask how to save the Parallel…” A claw shoved in Cameron’s back and he toppled headfirst through the opening. There was the sound of a thousand bird wings flapping, and everything went dark.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRK!

Cameron reached out and slammed down his palm, muffling the awful cry. A moment passed as he came properly to his senses, then he drew the hand holding his phone back under the covers and cancelled the hated alarm.

6.55 AM

Did he really have to get up? Already?

Yes. Yes, he did – if he was to stand any chance of making it down the road, onto the bus and across town in time for his shift at Odyssey.

As he soaped his hair in the shower – choosing to set the grubby dial to Too Hot (not Ice Cold) – an ooky sensation churned in his stomach. It was like there was something stressing him, something important he’d forgotten to do…

…some trial or ordeal he had to face up to…

Rent was due next week, and there was his share of the bills as well, but he’d have just enough to cover that, if he was careful… His horrible boss would tear a strip off him if he was late – he was always looking for an excuse to change Cameron, to squash him down and reshape him into someone more punctual and efficient – but that wasn’t any different to
usual either… It was just another ordinary, boring day.

Like any other.

In the kitchen, Eve sat at the formica table, reading the
Cauldlockheart Courier.
She was staring at a ‘Whatever happened to…?’ article about people who’d been on talent shows on the telly.

“You remember Rhys Wright?” she said, not looking up.

“Vaguely.” Cameron hastily buttered some toast. “He was the one that looked like a duck, right?”

“I thought he was cute.” Eve pouted. “Anyway, he’s been chucked off that soap opera, Prophecies. The producers think no one’s interested in him any more. He’s back living with his mum, and stacking shelves in a supermarket. It’s terrible.”

“Eve,” he said. “You stack shelves. I stack shelves. It’s what people do.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like we’ve ever done anything different, is it?” She put her coffee mug down on Rhys Wright’s beaming duck-face. “Imagine having all that, and then going back to being normal.”

“Shocking.” Cameron brushed some crumbs off his work baseball cap. “At least he got a chance to try something else.”

How had he ended up flat-sharing with Eve again?

He remembered she’d been staying in some grim spider-infested place in a posh street in Edinburgh, but it all seemed a bit vague…

“See you later, eh?”

“Mmmm.” Eve flipped the page, the story forgotten. She lifted her hand and made an approximation of a tipping motion. “Maybe at Black’s, yeah?”

“I guess. Not like there’s anywhere else, is there?”

Outside it was a nothing-sort-of day, the sky flat and white like someone had forgotten to add the colour. Seemed ages since he’d seen any different… The queasy sensation plucked at him again as he neared Odyssey. He pulled his greasy baseball cap straight on his head. He had to be wearing it in sight of the store, or Mr Grey would have a fit.

His boss was a stickler like that.

The front of the shop was bright and gleaming – all fresh carpets, scented plastic and glowing computer screens. The customers would come in, browse for their choice among thousands of goods, and order it up. A few minutes later, their shiny new microwave or hamster cage or set of earrings or whatever would come trundling down a conveyer belt – as if by magic – to be handed over by the smiling counter staff.

“There’s no magic of course. Just sweat and hard graft,” Mr Grey had said to Cameron on his first day, as he led him to the cavernous warehouse behind the scenes. “You backroom elves simply keep an eye on the display, and when a code number pops up, you go bounding off and find the product.” Grey massaged his chin and eyed Cameron doubtfully. “The first letter and number combination gives you the row, the second the aisle, and finally the appropriate bay. Do you think you can manage that?”

“Of course. I’m not stupid.”

“I hope not. Your CV was hardly sparkling. No qualifications at all, tut, tut. How do you account for that?”

Cameron gave his new boss his blankest look. He’d long since grown tired of explaining his circumstances. “My dad died. I ended up living with my gran, working for her. She didn’t care if I went back to school at all, so I never
did. She went a bit mad in the end.”

“And now you’re on your own, trying to make it in the big bad world.” Grey placed a clammy hand on Cameron’s shoulder. His breath was awful, somehow sugary and mushroomy all at once, and Cameron fought the urge to choke.

“Something like that.”

“Commendable to see you facing up to your responsibilities. Stick with me, young sir, and good things will happen. Work hard! Don’t ask questions. In no time at all, you shall have a promotion. The Odyssey won’t be a single store forever.” Grey’s face contorted into a ghastly leer. “I have such plans for expansion…”

That had been three years ago.

Three years that had passed in a blur of squeaking conveyer belts, and the hefting and carrying of endless boxes and parcels.

Same old, same old,
thought Cameron.

But part of him thought it wasn’t ‘same old’ at all.

He felt sometimes there was some other place he should be, something else he should be doing, but what?

These feelings weren’t exactly new. He’d had them almost as long as he could remember. He’d never entirely fitted in… not back at school, not in his second home with his cold grandma, and certainly not in the Odyssey warehouse.

And what happened to people who didn’t fit in?

“You can’t change the world, so you must change yourself,” Mr Grey said whenever he caught Cameron daydreaming. “Learn to conform – or go under.”

“Yes, Mr Grey,” Cameron would say automatically. He
didn’t see any alternative.

Today, as he clocked-on, he saw Grey was giving his usual dreary welcoming speech to a new recruit: a stocky older boy with messy fair hair. The boy had a look of utter boredom on his face. He caught Cameron’s eye and yawned massively, exposing surprisingly sharp teeth.

Cameron looked away, fearing trouble, but Grey didn’t seem to notice. He gestured at the recruit’s scruffy biker boots, “Those are non-regulation, and as for the hair…” His chins shook with disapproval. “Keep it contained, or better still, get it cut. Otherwise there will be no hope for you.”

As Grey retreated to his office, the boy plucked off his cap and stuck his fingers up in a rude gesture behind Grey’s back.

“You don’t want to do that,” Cameron murmured. “Grey’s got cameras hidden everywhere. He’s always scanning the recordings.”

The boy shrugged. “Like I care. I’m not going to be here long. I got plans.”

“I had those once. When I was younger.”

The boy arched an eyebrow. “You’re not exactly ancient.” He thrust out a hand. “I’m –”

An image of a white wolf, running through the night, and a name. Mo –

“–Morgan, by the way. How long have you been in hell?”

“Cameron. And about three years.”

Morgan adopted an incredulous expression. “How do you stand it?”

Cameron shrugged. “Don’t have much choice.” He gestured to the single big LCD screen that hung over them
like a watchful eye. “Come on, store’s open. That’s the first order coming up. I’ll better show you how this works.”

They moved down the dingy aisles. Morgan lifted his nose and sniffed. “It’s kind of damp in here. Mouldy.”

“That’s why the stuff’s all wrapped up in plastic. But everything Grey sells stinks a bit.”

“So old Grey sells shonky goods. You amaze me.”

“Every Odyssey needs a monster. At least he’s not a flesh-eating cyclops.”

“Huh?”

“The
Odyssey
. The store’s named after an ancient story by Homer. It’s an epic quest with giants and sirens and killer whirlpools and all sorts.”

The boy threw him a calculating look. “You’re smart. Why are you here, exactly?”

“Didn’t get the grades. Long story. What’s your excuse?”

“Need some money. But it’s just work. I’m more about the sounds.” Morgan gave a lop-sided grin. “I’m in a band.”

“Oh yeah?” Cameron tried to keep the flicker of jealousy out his voice. There’d been a time, not so very long ago really, when he’d get ideas for songs running through his head. He’d wanted to be in a band more than anything else in the world. It had been all he dreamed about and –

music could open up another world to him, but –

he didn’t have much time for that now.

“What’s your band called?

“The Pack. Or Full Moon.” Morgan looked sheepish. “We keep changing. Lately it’s Wolf Month… Or Werewolf Parallel.”

“I like Wolf Month. Short and punchy.”

“Yeah, me too. But the guys think it’s too subtle. People won’t get it.” Morgan pulled a face. He thumbed a photocopied sign tacked to the end of a row of stacking cabinets. “Down here, right?”

“Yup,” said Cameron absently, thinking of Morgan’s band. “So you’re into the whole werewolf thing, then? Do you go on stage all big sideburns, quiffs and pointy teeth?”

“Well obviously. Because that wouldn’t be at all lame.” Morgan slanted a glance at him. “The name’s more about what the music does to you when you’re playing, and really feeling it, you know?”

Cameron remembered what that had been like. Just losing yourself in sound…

“Not really,” he lied.

“Oh man, it’s the best. Sets free the real you – the one you usually have to hide inside…” Morgan stopped dead in his tracks. “J7 P10 X12.”

“What?”

“This is the aisle, dafty.” He peered up the teetering stacks into the darkness. “Looks like it’s all the way up.”

“It’s ok. I’ll get a ladder.” That queasy feeling was rising in Cameron’s guts again – the nagging sense there was something hugely important he was forgetting or missing out on. He pushed the thought away, found the nearest set of metal steps and rolled them along to the required bay.

“I used to play guitar a bit,” he ventured. “Just acoustic. I never got an amp,”

Morgan started to climb. “What happened?”

“Gave it up. Too much effort. Takes practice and time.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t any good really.”

“Oh… Bet you are.”

Cameron laughed. “Oh yeah? How do you know? You’ve
never heard me play a note.”

“Just a feeling. I saw that look in your eye when I was talking. Like you wanted to be in The Pack –”

“Or Werewolf Parallels or whatever you’re calling yourselves today –”

“Why not? If that’s what you want.”

Cameron blushed and said nothing.

“You’d need to be free at night. We’re just starting to get gigs, maybe one a month. We’re playing this evening at The Alhambra. It’s a converted cinema, but of a dump, but –” Morgan paused and whooped. “Oh no way. I know what J7 P10 X12 is.” He clattered back down the steel steps holding a guitar-shaped bundle. “It’s an acoustic! Like you used to play. What say we cut it open, and you show me what you can do?”

“You mean – an audition?”

“Sure!”

Cameron’s heart was pounding. There was something about the guitar in its plastic cocoon that made him feel as if he was standing on the edge of a cliff and daring himself to leap off. “Nah, we’d get in trouble with Grey. He’d kill us.”

Morgan made a dismissive noise. He ferreted in his pocket and produced a brass key. “Here. I’ll get it open –”

An impossible two-faced man held out a key. “Now pay attention, wolf-boys; three times only the Omniclavis will work –”

“There should be sparkles,” Cameron said.

“You what?”

“Something a friend of mine says. Here, don’t mess up your door key.” He dug in his trouser pocket and drew out
a penknife he used for cutting packaging. A strange thrill ran through him as he held the knife, poised to slice the wrapping open. “I’m not sure we should be doing this.”

“Live a little.” The boy grinned wolfishly. “It’ll be worth it to have that music running through your veins again, going wild –”

“Mr Morgan, you are dismissed.” Grey’s voice thundered out of the warehouse’s PA system and Cameron’s knife clattered to the floor. “Security has been called and are on their way.”

There was the rhythmic stomp of heavy boots on concrete floors. Guards were approaching from either end of the long aisle. To Cameron’s mind, they resembled squatter, uglier clones of Grey.
There was something freakish about that – the way his heavies looked just like him…

“You will be escorted from the building,” Grey’s amplified voice announced.

“Not flaming likely.” Morgan started to hurl boxes from the lower racks, creating an escape tunnel to the next aisle through the back of the open shelving. “Come on, what are you waiting for?”

“I can’t.” Cameron held back, watching. “This is it. This is my job. I can’t just go running away with some mad grunger.”

“Your call, mate. I’m not hanging around to be thrown out. Wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.” Morgan flung himself into the gap, and began to wriggle through dextrously. “Remember, we’re playing The Alhambra tonight, if you change your mind.”

He dropped to the ground on the other side with a thump. The grim-faced guards spun on their respective heels, and began remorselessly to retrace their steps.