by Darren Shan
“Grubbs faced the demons with me,” Dervish interrupts. “He fought by my side. I’m not going to keep secrets from him.”
“Really?” Prae sniffs. “You tell him everything about your business?”
“No. But I don’t hide things from him. When he asks, I answer. And since I’m certain he’s going to be asking about this, he might as well stay and hear it firsthand.”
Prae sighs. “You never make life easy for us. You’ve always treated the Lambs like enemies. We’re on the same side, Dervish. You should give us respect.”
“I do respect you,” Dervish says. “I just don’t trust you.”
I’d forgotten about the Lambs. They loomed large in my thoughts while Dervish was zombified, especially around the time of a full moon. If I’d found myself turning into a werewolf, I was going to phone them and ask them to put me out of my misery. But since Dervish returned, I haven’t had time to brood about my potentially fatal genes, or the family bogeymen.
The Gradys and their kin have been cursed for a long time. We’re talking a lot of generations. Over the centuries, family members have tried to figure out the cause of the curse, find a cure for it, and develop ways of dealing with the infected children quietly and efficiently.
The Lambs are the result. A group of scientists, soldiers, and I don’t know what else, all focused on the problems and logistics of lycanthropy. They spend a lot of time, money, and effort trying to unlock the secrets of the rogue Grady genes. But they also play the part of executioners when necessary.
A lot of parents decide to kill their children if they turn into werewolves. But most can’t perform the dirty deed themselves. So they call in the Lambs, who take the transformed child away and do what must be done.
“How did you find out about Billy?” Dervish asks.
“We keep tabs on all the family children,” Prae says.
“But Billy didn’t leave a trail. There was no evidence that he was turning.”
Prae smiles. “You covered up admirably. Gathered the bodies of the animals he slaughtered, disposed of them quietly. But you couldn’t be expected to find every corpse. And you couldn’t do anything about the operative who saw him sneaking out of his house during a full moon.”
“You had him under direct surveillance?” Dervish snaps.
“Sometimes, yes.”
Dervish’s hand goes rigid on the mouse. “You had no right to do that.”
“We had every right,” Prae disagrees. “If a guardian chooses to deal personally with an infected child, it’s not our business. But you didn’t. You gave him free rein.”
“I was in control,” Dervish growls. “He wasn’t a danger to anyone. I was waiting for the right moment to act.”
“I understand,” Prae says. “But we couldn’t take any chances. We guessed you would handle the matter this way if he turned, so for some years we’d been keeping an eye on the boy. On your brother’s children too.”
Dervish starts to retort. Stops and scowls. “Tell me why you’ve come.”
“A few reasons,” Prae says. “One — to make sure Billy is normal.”
“He is,” Dervish says. “We cured him.”
“But how certain is your ‘cure’?” Prae asks. “We know about the demon you deal with, but there’s much about the process that’s a mystery. You and the others who have faced him keep it a secret. You don’t let the rest of us benefit.”
“We can’t include you,” Dervish says stiffly. “He deals with one case at a time, and only with those who have some experience of magic. That’s how it works. It’s not our choice — it’s his.”
“The demon,” Prae nods. “Lord —”
“Don’t say his name here,” Dervish stops her. “It’s dangerous.”
Prae looks around nervously. I feel the hairs rise on the back of my neck. Then Dervish catches my eye and tilts his head ever so slightly. It’s a gesture I know well — he does that sometimes instead of winking. I realize he’s winding Prae up, giving her a scare. I hide a smile behind my hand and wait for her to settle down.
“It’s not fair,” Prae resumes, less composed than before.
“We’ve never had any contact with the demon. Maybe we could strike our own deal if you put us in touch with him.”
“You couldn’t.”
“But you should let us try. We —”
“We’ve had this conversation before,” Dervish interrupts. “We’re not having it again. The Lambs follow the path of science. Demons are creatures of magic. The two don’t mix. End of story.”
“Very well,” Prae says, showing open anger for a second, her pale face flushing. “You choose to lock us out — there’s nothing we can do about that. But it means we don’t know all that we should about the cure. We have no proof that it works in the long term, or why. So it’s natural for us to be suspicious, to run our own checks, to be safe.”
“Totally natural,” Dervish says sarcastically. “But I don’t think you’d have waited until now to make sure Billy wasn’t killing. If you were checking on him prior to his change, I’m sure you’ve monitored him in the year-plus since. So your first reason for being here is a crock — you know Billy’s fine. Let’s move on to reason two, and try to make it a bit more believable this time.”
Prae glares at Dervish, then glances at me. “Two,” she growls. “We wanted to check on Grubbs. He’s at a dangerous age. Both his brother” — my stomach tightened another notch. She knows about Bill-E!— “and sister turned. We thought it advisable to have a look at him. We kept out of the way while you were... indisposed, but now that you’re back on your feet, we felt it was a good time to have a chat.” She faces me and smiles. “How have you been sleeping lately?
Any bad dreams? Woken up with dirt under your finger-nails or —”
“You know what she’s doing, don’t you, Grubbs?” Dervish asks.
“Trying to freak me out,” I mutter edgily.
“Correct. If they wanted to check up on you, they’d do it secretly. You’d never know they were there. She’s saying this to upset you, because I’ve upset her. So ignore it. And you,” he says to Prae. “Tell me the real reason you’re here, or get the hell out.”
“Very well.” Prae stares at Dervish challengingly. “We want to run some test on Billy under laboratory conditions.”
“You want to turn my nephew into a guinea pig?” Dervish laughs harshly. “You want me to sign him over, so you can prod and poke him and have him urinate into a cup at your command?”
“It’s not like that. We —”
“Get out!” Dervish shouts.
“You’re being unreasonable,” Prae objects. “You haven’t let me finish.”
“Oh, you’re finished,” Dervish laughs. “I’ve heard enough. Now march back out to your car and —”
“Have you seen a child who’s turned?” Prae asks me, raising her voice. “You must have seen your brother, but only in the early stages of his transformation. It takes a few months for the disease to properly set in. They grow hair. Their features distort. Their spines twist. I have some photographs that —”
“No!” I shout. “I don’t want to see any photos. I’ve seen them before.”
“Children your own age,” Prae says quickly as Dervish stands and strides towards her. “Some even younger. We have an eight-year-old girl. Her parents didn’t know about the curse. She killed her mother. Chewed her throat open and —”
“You’re so out of here,” Dervish snarls, reaching to grab Prae’s collar.
“Wait.” I stop him, holding up a hand.
“Grubbs, don’t listen to —”
“Just wait a minute. Please?”
Dervish breathes out heavily, then takes a step back.
“We’re trying to help,” Prae says, speaking to me but looking at Dervish. “Your uncle is a man of old science — he calls it magic, but to us it’s science by a different name. We’re of the new school. Dervish fights one battle at a time. Your mother and fat
her made that choice too. But we’re trying to attack the root of the disease. We want everyone to benefit, not just a few. To do that, we have to examine and explore.
“Your brother is one of the very few victims to beat the curse. If we can study him, unlock the secrets behind his remarkable cure, perhaps we can replicate it and save others — without the need for demons or so-called magic.”
“You can’t,” Dervish says wearily. “I’ve told you before, it’s not science. It’s not of this universe. You can’t understand it and you can’t mimic it. Do you think I’d stand in your way if I thought there was the slightest chance that you could?”
“You can’t be sure,” Prae says.
“I am.”
Prae mutters something beneath her breath, then tries me again. “We wouldn’t hurt Billy. You and your uncle could come and observe. We just want to know more, to understand...to help.”
I feel sorry for Prae Athim. Despite her scary appearance and manner, she only wants to do good. But the thought of her taking Bill-E away, locking him up, experimenting on him...I shake my head.
“You should leave now,” Dervish says quietly. “We can’t help you.”
“You’re condemning others to change, to die,” Prae says angrily.
Dervish shrugs. “We’ve been condemned a long time. We’re used to it.”
He lays a hand on Prae’s shoulder. She jerks away from him and stands. “My daughter changed,” she hisses. “I tried to cure her, but I couldn’t. She’s still alive. Because I hope and believe. By denying us, you deny her, and all the others like her. How will you sleep with that on 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
DERVISH 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 way to exhaustion and embarrassment. I release him, nodding slowly and repeatedly to show that everything’s OK, no damage done.
Dervish looks around at the photos on the floor. Most are ripped, a couple beyond repair. No glass in the frames. We removed all the glass a few months ago, in case something like this happened. Didn’t want him hurting himself — or me.
“I thought they’d come back to life,” Dervish says. “They blamed me. Claimed I was the cause of the curse. They wanted revenge.”
“It was just a dream.”
“I know. But still . . .” He shivers. “I could have done without Prae Athim and the Lambs. I didn’t need them now. Not in this state. Why do bad things always come at the worst time?”
“Forget about her,” I tell him. “She’s gone. You ran her off.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe . . .” He coughs, then stands. “No. That’s the nightmare talking. The Lambs can’t help. They mean well, but in matters like this they’re helpless.”
“Unlike the Disciples?” I ask, broaching the mysterious subject for the first time, not sure if it’s the right moment, but curiosity getting the better of me.
Dervish shakes his head. “I’ll tell you about them later. Not now. OK?”
I sniff like it doesn’t matter.
Dervish grows thoughtful. “Billy doesn’t know about the change, Lord Loss, what we did for him. It’s better this way. No point throwing his world into chaos. The Lambs are part of the human world. They’ve no direct experience of the Demonata or magic. They couldn’t learn anything from Billy.”
“Then don’t worry about it,” I mutter. “Go back to bed, get a good night’s sleep, kick the nightmares out the window.”
Dervish laughs. “If only it was that easy.” He checks his watch. Yawns. “But I’ll try to snooze, to keep nurse Grub-bitsch happy.” He glances at me. “If I drop off, I might go walking around again. You should lock me in.”
“Nah,” I smile. “You’d wreck the room. Don’t worry about it. I’ll sleep with one ear open. I’ll see you don’t come to harm.”
Dervish reaches over, squeezes my hand, then shuffles off for the stairs and bed. I watch until he turns the corner. Stay for a while, thinking about Bill-E, the Lambs, demons, the mysterious Disciples. Then I start clearing up the photos and hanging the less tattered snapshots back on their pegs, knowing I won’t be able to sleep.
Tired. Finding it hard
to stay awake. My friends want to know if there are any David A. Haym updates, but I only grunt at their questions. Studying Bill-E during lunch. Thinking about him in the hands of the Lambs, strapped to a table, hooked up to banks of electrodes. Can’t let that happen. I faced Lord Loss for my brother. If Prae Athim tries anything with Bill-E, she won’t just have to worry about Dervish and the Disciples — she’ll have to deal with me. Yeah, I know, she’s hardly trembling with terror at the thought of having to go up against a teenager. But I’m big. And I can be nasty. If I have to.
A limousine’s parked in the driveway when I get home. A chauffeur sits behind the wheel, dozing. No prizes for guessing who the limo belongs to. I hear her as soon as I push open the front doors. She’s in the TV room. A loud voice, high-pitched, very theatrical. She’s talking about one of her earlier movies — it might be Zombie Zest — telling Dervish about the problems she faced trying to get the look of the monsters right. “. . . but everybody’s using CGI these days! I don’t like it. The audience can tell. They’re not afraid. It’s psychological. You see a guy in a monster costume, or a cleverly designed puppet, and even though you know it’s not real, you can trick yourself into believing it is. But if you see something that’s the work of a computer, your brain can’t accept it. It doesn’t scare you. I think...”
I walk into the room and cough softly. Davida Haym looks up from where she’s sitting on the couch. A surprisingly normal-looking woman. Fiftyish. Black hair streaked with grey. Pudgy. A warm smile. Purple-rimmed glasses. A bright, flowery dress. She looks more like a giggling granny than a horror movie meister.
“Davida, this is my nephew, Grubbs,” Dervish introduces us. He’s sitting beside her on the couch, looking a bit over-whelmed — I have the feeling Davida hasn’t stopped talking since she came in. “Grubbs lives with me.”
“Hello, Grubbs,” Davida says, rising to shake my hand. A short woman. Barely comes up to my chest. “Neat name. Is it short for something?”
“Grubitsch,” I mutter. “I’m a big fan of yours. I thought Night Mayors was the best horror film of the last ten years.”
“Why, thank you!” Davida booms, not releasing my hand. “Although, to be honest, my input wasn’t so great. The director — Liam Fitz — is a real hardhead. Likes to make the creative decisions himself. I set him free, gave him whatever he asked for, but after that . . .” She shrugs, still
