Free Blood Beast by Darren Shan Page A

there are more,” Loch says. “What would be the point? One’s enough. If it was set off, old Sheftree could have simply cleaned up the bodies, then set the trap again.”
    In the end, despite the dangers, they decide to keep going. Since they can’t be swayed and there’s no profit in cutting myself off from them, I reluctantly grab a shovel and all three of us climb down into the hole.
    For an hour we work doggedly and fearfully — me fearful of faces appearing in the rocks, Bill-E and Loch fearful of running afoul of the dead Lord Sheftree.
    We pause every time there’s a rustling in the trees over-head or when a heavy stream of earth trickles down into the hole, me anticipating whispers, Bill-E and Loch thinking it might be the grinding gears of Lord Sheftree’s next weapon of mass destruction. But gradually we adjust to the natural sounds of the forest and stop flinching at every minor disturbance.
    Bill-E and Loch are more convinced than ever that we’ve unearthed the final resting place of Lord Sheftree’s buried treasure. Not me. There’s something magical about this hole. It drew me to it last night, sang out to the moon-affected beast I’d become, and lured it here, turning me into a conspirator, using me to clear the way for. . . what?
    I don’t know. I haven’t the slightest idea what we might be digging our way down to. But I’m pretty certain it’s not a rich miser’s hidden treasure.
    Loch and I work together, chipping away at the hard-packed earth around the large rocks, prying them out slowly, often painfully, rolling and dragging them up the slope.
    Bill-E cleans up after us, removing the smaller rocks, pebbles, and dirt. We’re an effective team, although as Loch tires from the hard work, he starts cursing and teasing Bill-E, taking out his irritation on him. At first I ignore it, but he keeps on and on, Spleenio this, fat boy that, lazy eye the other, and eventually I snap.
    “Why don’t you lay off him?” I snarl after an especially brutal remark about Bill-E’s dead mother.
    “Make me,” Loch retorts.
    I square up to him. “Maybe I will.”
    Loch holds his shovel in both hands and raises it warningly. I grab the handle and we glare at each other. Then Bill-E slips behind me and whispers, “Ice him, Grubbs!” It’s so flat, so vicious, so un-Bill-E, that I turn around, startled, releasing the shovel.
    “What did you say?”
    Bill-E looks confused, but angry too. “I meant. . . I just. . . ”
    “I heard him,” Loch growls. “He told you to bump me off.”
    “What if I did?” Bill-E bristles, and now he tries to get around me, so that
he
can go toe-to-toe with Loch.
    “Stop,” I say firmly. I lay my left palm against the nearest rock wall and concentrate. After a few seconds I feel or sense the vibrations of a very faint throbbing. A nonhuman throbbing. “We all need to chill.”
    “Who made you the leader?” Loch barks.
    “We’re being manipulated.” His forehead creases and I start to tell him there’s magic at work, affecting our tempers. But then I realize how crazy that would sound. “The soil,” I say instead, inventing quickly. “There must be some sort of chemical in it. Put there by Lord Sheftree. It’s making us feel and say things we shouldn’t. If we don’t stop, we’ll be at each other’s throats soon.”
    Loch’s frown deepens, then clears. “I’ll be damned,” he sighs.
    “The sly old buzzard,” Bill-E hoots. “Chemicals to alter our dispositions and turn us against one another. Coolio!”
    “I thought you were my enemy,” Loch says wonderingly, staring at me. “It came so suddenly, without warning. I believed you were out to kill me. The shovel . . .” He looks down at the sharp, grey head, then drops it and clambers out of the pit. Bill-E and I follow. We find Loch sitting by the edge of the hole, shivering.
    “Are you OK?” I ask.
    “I don’t think we should keep going,” Loch whispers. “You were right. We should turn