But Woody raced off in the opposite direction. When Nat caught up with him, he found him staring intently at the arched doorway to the basement.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” repeated Nat. But Woody wouldn’t budge.

“What now …?” asked Nat wearily. He walked over to the door, squinting to see what had interested Woody so much. What he saw made his heart heavy.

In the soft lime plaster surrounding the arch, almost invisible to the human eye, were some faint scratches and grooves. Stuck in one of the deeper grooves was a tiny fragment of what looked like a torn-off fingernail. Nat pried it out and held it in the palm of his hand.

“I guess you were right,” he told Woody sadly.

The fingernail had belonged to a person who had tried to hang on with all her might, to stop herself from being taken away by a monster. It belonged to a person who painted her nails jade green, to match her eyes. Scale had taken Iona!

CHAPTER 17
TIGER IN THE BAG!

Teddy Davis and Spanner Harris walked in silence toward Temple Cross. Teddy’s mouth felt dry; his heart was hammering. He felt like he was going to be sick. This was a whole lot more serious than thieving the Christmas Club money from the staff at the Slaughtered Sheep. (He hadn’t been able to sit down for a week when his old man discovered it was him who had nicked it.) It was even worse than setting the clawed traps, although luckily he had never been caught for that. Except by Mick Smith. Teddy supposed he should be grateful the old hippie hadn’t told his dad.

How had he let things get so badly out of hand? After the excitement of hunting down Carver and his homicidal mutt, he was slowly beginning to realize what had happened: He had actually shot at something with his BB gun, actually shot that dumb mutt of Carver’s. If his dad found out, he would go absolutely crazy. Teddy would be grounded for the rest of his life, let alone summer vacation, and he’d lose the air rifle for sure. He had been told that under no circumstances was he ever to use it to shoot anything but rats. The mutt had bled everywhere. Carver would be bound to tell.

He’d only been showing off, and yeah, he liked to use his fists now and then, but what had possessed him to actually shoot? A thought struck him then. It had been as though he were possessed. Like something had been gnawing away at him, nagging him to pick up the rifle and take a shot at Carver. Badger had been right: It was like … well, like he had no control.

“Bye then, Tiger,” said Spanner Harris unhappily, sensing correctly there was to be no game of pool. “See yuz tommorer?”