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your conscience?”
    “Lousily,” Dervish says. “But Billy will sleep sweetly. And to me, that’s what matters most, just as your daughter matters most to you.” He leans towards her. “If the positions were reversed, would you allow
your
loved one to be taken?”
    “Yes,” Prae answers immediately. “Without question.”
    “Well, that’s where we differ. Because I always question.”
    “There are other ways,” Prae says, a dangerous tremble to her tone. “We didn’t have to ask. We could just take him.”
    Dervish’s expression goes dead. “Try it,” he whispers. “See what happens.”
    “You couldn’t stop us,” Prae insists, a red flush of anger rising up her throat. “You’re powerful, but so are the Lambs. We could —”
    “Mess with me and you mess with us all,” Dervish interrupts. “Do you really want to do that? Do the Lambs now think themselves the equals of the Disciples?”
    “We aren’t afraid of your kind,” Prae says, but her words ring hollow.
    Dervish smiles lazily. “If you lay a hand on Billy or Grubbs, I’ll teach you to be afraid. That’s a promise.”
    “You don’t want us as enemies,” Prae warns him. “Nobody stands alone in this world, not even the Disciples. You may need us one day.”
    “Yes,” Dervish agrees. “But not today.” He points at the door.
    Prae opens her mouth to try again. Realizes she’d be wasting her breath. Shakes her head with disgust. Shoots a look at me. “Pray you never turn. Because if you do, thanks to people like your uncle, we won’t be able to help. All we’ll be able to do is kill.”
    She strides to the door, throws it opens, and marches out. The front doors slam several seconds later. Then the faint sound of her engine starting, rising, fading.
    Dervish stares at me. I stare back. Neither of us says anything. I don’t know what my uncle’s thinking, but there’s only one glaring thought in my head — who the hell are
the Disciples
?

Monsters Galore
    D ERVISH has another nightmare. Four nights in a row — he must be going for a record. Luckily I’d been expecting this one. Dervish shut himself off from me after Prae Athim left. Kept to his study, pacing around, muttering, brooding. I guessed nightmares would follow. Stayed awake after he went to bed, alert, prepared for a long, active night.
    I catch Dervish in the hall of portraits. He snuck past my room without me hearing, even though I’d been listening closely. But a minute ago the screaming started, and it was easy to track him down.
    The walls of this hall are lined with photographs and paintings of dead family members, mostly teenagers who became werewolves. It’s on the first floor, close to my bed-room. When I arrive, Dervish has knocked several photos to the floor and is wrestling with a large portrait, trying to tear it free of its peg.
    “Leave me alone!” he screams. “It’s not my fault!”
    “Dervish,” I call, hurrying over to him, grabbing his right hand, trying to pry his fingers loose. “Derveeshio! Derv on a curve — don’t lose your verve. Don’t roar and bawl — not in this hall.”
    He ignores the rhymes and jerks free. “You’re eating my brain!” He collapses to his knees, grips his head hard with both hands, moans with pain and terror.
    “Dervish, easy, it’s OK, it’s coolio, you have to chill. You on the ground — everything’s sound.”
    His eyes fix on a nearby photograph. His breath catches. “I didn’t do it!” he gasps. “I didn’t kill you! Leave me alone!”
    I sweep the photos away, then grab Dervish’s hands, pull them down from his head, and lock gazes with him. “Wake up, you crazy bald coot! It’s only a dream — no need to scream. None of it’s real — fantasy’s the deal. You have to snap back. Come on, I know you’re in there, I know...”
    His expression clears. He looks like a lost child for a few seconds, pitiful, silently begging me for help. Then the real Dervish surfaces and terror gives