Some of the objects strike me dead in the face. I gasp, desperately swat them away, then blink with surprise as I realize what she's throwing —
Chips!
THE CELLAR
DERVISH and Meera are still laughing in the morning. “Your face!” Dervish chortles at breakfast. “Like every demon in hell was coming for you!”
As I've noted before, my uncle has a twisted sense of humor.
I say nothing while Dervish and Meera enjoy their little joke, only keep my head down and focus on my food. Dervish doesn't understand why I was so scared. He doesn't know that I saw him with the deer, that I suspect he's a werewolf, that I'm wondering if I can buy silver bullets on eBay. I doubt he'd be laughing if he did.
The house to myself. Dervish's early morning runs usually last forty-five minutes to an hour. Enough time for a quick scouting mission.
I hurry down the stairs to the wine cellar. Pause with my hand on the door. In horror movies, monsters always lurk in the basement. But this isn't a movie. I mustn't succumb to fictional fears — not when I have very real fears to contend with.
Creeping down the steps. Leave the door open. Checking my watch — seven minutes since Dervish left. I'll allow myself half an hour, not a second more.
Pause at the bottom of the steps. Dark and cool. I shuffle forward and an overhead light winks on. Studying the rows of wine racks. I turn full circle. My heart beats erratically. My legs feel like they belong to an elephant — heavyyyyy. The axe in my left hand looks tiny and ineffective in the glaring light of the cellar.
I stalk the nearest aisle, studying the floor — stone slabs, different shapes, tightly cemented together. I pause occasionally, crouch, and rap a slab with the base of my axe, listening for echoes.
None. Solid.
Left at the end. Exploring a second aisle, then a third, a fourth.
No strange-looking slabs. No echoes anywhere I rap. The joining cement between the slabs unbroken. No trace of a hidden door.
Back where I started. Twenty of the thirty minutes have elapsed. Sweating like a pig who can smell burning charcoal. I'm beginning to think I could be wrong about the cellar. Perhaps the hidden entrance is in one of the ground-floor rooms. But I won't give up yet.
I scout the rim of the room, concentrating on the walls, running my fingers over the rough, dry stone, searching for cracks.
A wine rack — ceiling-high, maybe three meters long — covers one section of the wall. My hopes raise — this could be blocking a secret passage! — but when I lift out a couple of bottles, all I see behind is more stone wall. I remove a few more bottles from various places but nothing out of the ordinary is revealed.
Two minutes left. This is a waste. I'll focus on the rooms above. Perhaps the passageway is hidden behind one of Dervish's many bookcases. I'll start in the main hall and work my way …
The thought dies unfinished. As I'm rising to leave, I spot a dark smudge on the floor. Stooping closer, I move my head out of the way of the light and squint for a better view.
It's a semi-circular stain, pale, easily missed. Unmistakably a footprint.
Although there aren't many footprints in the cellar — Dervish keeps it really clean — this isn't the first I've discovered. What sets this one apart from the others is that it faces away from the wine rack, and the mark of the heel lies hidden beneath the bottles.
Gotcha!
Watching TV. Nervous. Waiting for Dervish to leave.
There was no time to examine the wine rack. Once I'd noted the print, I came straight up and carefully closed the door behind me. Dervish returned a few minutes later, but I was safe in my room by then, and had splashed my face with cold water to take away the bright red flush I'd worked up in the cellar.
Dervish has spent most of the day since then in his study, as he often does, reading, making phone calls, surfing the Net. Time's dragged for me. I have only one burning desire — to get back down the cellar. Not being able to is driving me crazy.
I've been keeping a close watch on the front door — don't want Dervish slipping out unnoticed. I even leave the bathroom door open when I'm in there, so I'll hear him if he comes down the stairs.
So far, no such luck. But I'm patient. He has to leave eventually. He can't stay cooped up here forever.
Night falls. Dervish still hasn't ventured outside.
Over a late dinner, I ask casually if he has any plans for the night.
“Thought I might hit the pub again,” he says, grinning sheepishly.