by Darren Shan
I stroll to the chair where I usually sit and drag it around to the side of the desk, so I’m closer to Dervish. I hunch forward in the chair, maintaining eye contact. The words come by themselves.
“You never ask about Bill-E’s last day or his final thoughts.”
Dervish stiffens. “I don’t think we need to discuss that.”
“Why don’t you want to know?” I press.
“Did Meera put you up to this?” he says angrily. “She has no right. It’s none of her business.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s our business. And it’s time we dealt with it.”
“What do you mean?”
“You want all of Bill-E, his life from start to finish, wrapped up neatly like a birthday present. I can’t give you that unless I tell you about the end, what he felt in the cave, how he reacted to the news that Grubbs was his brother, that you’d lied to him all those years, that you allowed him to be killed.”
“I didn’t allow anything!” Dervish shouts. “Grubbs did what he had to. There was no other way. If there had been, do you think I would have let him . . . do that . . . to Billy?” He’s shaking.
“You’re right,” I say softly. “It was necessary. Bill-E knew that too. He didn’t understand everything about the tunnel and the Demonata, but he saw your pain. He knew you still loved him, that you had no choice. He died without bitterness.”
Tears well up in Dervish’s eyes. His hands are trembling as he nervously tugs at his beard. “He must have hated me,” Dervish moans. “I betrayed him. I didn’t tell him when his father died. He believed I was his dad. I should have —”
“He was disappointed,” I interrupt. “He wanted you to be his father because he loved you so much. But that disappointment didn’t change his love for you. In fact, in the middle of the madness, when he thought Lord Loss was going to slaughter you both, that love grew stronger than ever. He even found time to joke about it, but he couldn’t tell you because he was gagged.”
“Joke?” Dervish echoes, tears trickling down his cheeks.
“When Lord Loss told him you were only his uncle, Bill-E wanted to say, ‘Damn! I guess this means Grubbs gets half of your money now!’”
Dervish laughs and sobs at the same time.
“He was afraid,” I continue, recalling Bill-E’s memories. “But he didn’t resent you or Grubbs. He knew you lied because you didn’t want to hurt him. He wished you’d been truthful, but he didn’t hold your deception against you.”
“What about at the very end?” Dervish croaks. His fingers are balled up into fists. “Did he know what Grubbs planned? Did he guess we were going to . . . kill him?” The final two words emerge as a choked whisper.
“Yes,” I say sadly. “Bill-E was no fool. He saw it in your eyes.”
“Did he hate us?” Dervish cries.
“No. He blamed Lord Loss and bad luck, not you and Grubbs. In fact . . .”
“Go on,” Dervish says when I pause.
“He was pleased you were there. He was glad he was with the two people he loved most. He didn’t want to die a lonely death. He thought there was nothing worse than being alone.”
I’m crying as well now. I want to stop. I don’t want to hurt Dervish anymore. But I have to say it. I have to make him see.
“I don’t want to be alone either,” I weep. “I hate it, Dervish. Loneliness is horrible. I had sixteen hundred years alone in the cave. I thought I’d suffer forever, no escape, no company, not even the release of death to look forward to.
“When I finally walked free, I thought I’d never be alone again. But I have been, and it’s awful, maybe even worse than in the cave. At least there I didn’t have any hope. But now that I’m so close to people . . . yet alone anyway . . . nobody to talk to or share my feelings with . . .”
“What do you mean?” Dervish says gruffly. “You have me. We talk together every day.”
“No,” I sniff. “You talk to Bill-E. You look straight through me. I don’t think you even know I’m there most of the time — you just hear Bill-E’s voice. You only care about a dead boy. You might as well be one of the dead yourself for all the interest you pay to the living . . . to me.”
I’m crying hard, wiping tears from my face with both hands. Dervish is doing the same, looking at me and really seeing me — me, not a shadow of his dead nephew — for the first time.
“I didn’t know,” he groans. “I just missed Billy so much. I . . . I’ve been stupid and hurtful.” He manages a weak, shivering grin. I smile back shakily. He thinks for a moment. Then, looking as awkward as a boy on a first date, he holds out his arms. I don’t want to steal memories from him, but I need to be hugged, more than I ever needed a hug before. So I stretch my own arms out in response, my heart hammering with hope and joy.
Before we can embrace, the door to the study crashes open. A wild-eyed Meera bursts into the room. She slips but grabs the handle and keeps her footing. “We’re under attack!” she screams.
Dervish and I stare at her.
“We’re surrounded!” she yells.
Dervish’s face clouds over. “Demons?” he growls, stepping out of his seat, fingers bunching into fists.
“No,” Meera gasps. A howl fills the corridor behind her. “Werewolves!”
FIGHT
THERE’S a moment of total, frozen disbelief. Then Dervish grabs a sword from the wall and pushes past Meera. I follow close behind. I try to pull the sword I’d thrown earlier out of the door, but it’s stuck tight. While Meera hurries to get a weapon of her own, I step into the corridor after Dervish, working on a spell, not sure if it will work — there’s so little magic in the air to draw on.
I hear panting. It comes from the far end of the corridor. Something growls and something else yaps angrily in reply. No sight of them yet.
Meera steps out behind us, swinging a mace. She’s stuck a knife in her belt. No trace of the gentle woman who was applying makeup only minutes ago. She’s all warrior now.
“How many?” Dervish asks without looking back.
“At least three. They entered through the kitchen. I’d been snacking. I was just leaving, so I was able to jam the door and stall them. If they’d burst in when I was at the table . . .” She shakes her head, angry and scared.
The first of the creatures sticks its head around the corner. It’s recognizably human, but twisted out of normal shape. It has unnatural yellow eyes. Dark hair sprouts from its face, and its teeth have lengthened into fangs. They look too large for its mouth — it must have great difficulty eating.
It skulks into the corridor, growling. Long, sharp fingernails. More muscular than any human. Hunched over. Covered in stiff hair. Naked. A male. Another two creatures appear behind the first, a male and female. The second male is larger than the first, but follows his lead. His left eye is a gooey, scarred mess. Maybe that’s why he’s not the dominant one.
As the once-human beasts advance, I step ahead of Dervish and Meera. I try draining magic from the air, but there’s virtually nothing to tap into. In my own time, these creatures would have been simple to deal with. Here, it’s going to be difficult.
The lead werewolf snaps at the female. With a howl, she leaps. I unleash the spell as she jumps. It’s a choking spell. If it doesn’t work, I won’t know much about it — she’ll be on me in a second and I’m defenseless.
The werewolf lands about a yard ahead of me, but instead of pouncing and finishing me off, she rolls aside, whining, the cords of her throat thickening, cutting off her supply of air. Score one for Bec!
The weaker male attacks on all fours. No time for a choking spell. I bark a few quick words and the creature’s fingers grab at each other. He roars with surprise and tries ripping them apart. I mutter the spell again, holding them in place. It’s more of a trick than a real spell. It will immobilize the werewolf for less than a minute; then he’ll break free and I’ll have to think of something else.
But there’s the dominant male to deal with firs
t. He’s more cunning than the others and makes his move while I’m dealing with the one-eyed beast. He barrels across the floor, howling dreadfully.
Before I can react, Dervish and Meera cut ahead of me. Meera lashes out at the werewolf with her mace, swinging the spiked ball expertly, landing a blow to the beast’s right shoulder. Dervish jabs at him with the sword, piercing the creature’s stomach.
Neither blow is fatal, but the werewolf screams with pain and surprise and falls back a few steps. He roars at the others, summoning them. The female’s throat has cleared — she’s back on her feet, and although her cheeks are puffed out, she looks ready for business. Morrigan’s milk! In the old days that spell would have been the end of her. Curse this modern world of weak magic.
“We can’t get past,” Dervish says calmly. “Back up. They were human once. If we’re lucky, the protective spells of the study will halt them.”
“And if they don’t?” Meera asks.
“Fight like a demon,” he chuckles bleakly.
We shuffle back through the open door of the study. As soon as we’re in, I dart to the nearest wall and grab an axe — the swords here are mostly too big for me.
One of the werewolves howls. The female leaps into the study, fangs flashing, ready to tear us to pieces. But as soon as she crosses the threshold she screeches, clasps her hands to the sides of her head, doubles over, and vomits. She looks up hatefully and reaches for Meera, then screams and vomits again. She rolls out. The males roar at her, but she roars back more forcefully than either of them.
“It worked,” Dervish notes dully.
The stronger male approaches the doorway. He sniffs at the jamb suspiciously and leans through. His nostrils flare and the pupils of his eyes widen. He leaps back before he gets sick. Dervish strides forward and slams the door shut.
“What are they doing here?” Meera pants. “Where did they come from?”
“No time for questions,” Dervish murmurs, stroking his beard with the tip of his sword. “There are probably others with them, demons or mages. They might break the spells and free the way for the werewolves.”
The creatures are scratching at the door, their howls muted by the wood.
“The window,” Dervish says. “There are handholds down the wall. We can get out that way.”
“Handholds?” Meera asks dubiously.
“Call me paranoid,” Dervish says, “but I always like to have an escape route.” He crosses to the window and jerks hard on the strings of the blinds, yanking them all the way up. As he leans forward to unlatch the window, I get a sudden sense of danger.
“Down!” I scream.
Dervish doesn’t pause, which is the only thing that saves him. Because as he throws himself flat in response to my cry, the glass above his head shatters from the gunfire of several rifles.
Meera curses and ducks low. The bullets strike the wall and shelves, ripping up many of Dervish’s rare books, knocking weapons from their holders. A few ricochet into his computer and laptop, which explode in showers of sparks.
I’m lying facedown, shivering. This is my first experience of modern warfare. I find the guns more repulsive than demons. I can accept the evil ways of otherworldly beasts who know nothing except chaos and destruction. But to think that humans created such violent, vicious weapons . . .
“What’s going on?” Meera screams as the gunfire stops. “Who’s out there?”
“They didn’t introduce themselves,” Dervish quips. He’s sitting with his back to the wall, beneath the shattered glass of the window. He has the look of a man studying a difficult crossword puzzle.
“We’re trapped,” I snap. Meera and Dervish look at me. Meera’s afraid, Dervish curious. “Do we fight the werewolves or the people with guns?”
“The werewolves would appear to be the preferable option,” Dervish says. “We can’t fight the crew outside — we’d be shot to ribbons in no time. But whoever set this up will have thought of that. I doubt we’ll have a clear run if we get past the werewolves — which is a pretty sizeable if.” He gets to his knees and grins. “How about we fight neither of them?”
“What are you talking about?” Meera growls.
“A paranoid person has one escape route, easy to spot if your foe has a keen eye. But a real paranoid freak always has a second, less obvious way out.”
There are two desks in the study — Dervish’s main workstation and a second, smaller table for the spillover. He crawls to that, wincing when he cuts his hands and knees on shards of glass. He reaches it and stands, having checked to make sure no snipers can see him. “Help me with this,” he grunts.
Meera and I aren’t sure what his plan is, but we both shuffle to his side and push as he directs. The desk slides away more smoothly than I would have thought, given the thick carpet that covers the floor. Dervish stoops, grabs a chunk of the carpet, and tugs hard. A square patch rips loose. Beneath lies a trapdoor with a round handle. Dervish takes hold and pulls. A crawlspace beneath the floor is revealed.
“Where does it lead?” Meera asks.
“There are a couple of exits,” Dervish explains. “It runs to the rear of the house. There’s a window. We can drop to the ground if nobody’s outside. If that way’s blocked, a panel opens to one of the corridors beneath us, so we can sneak through the house.”
“If we survive, remind me to give you a giant, slobbery kiss,” Meera says.
“It’s a deal.” He grins and slides his legs into the hole.
FLIGHT
I don’t like the crawlspace. The cramped space and lack of light remind me of the cave. I feel my insides tighten. But I bite down hard on my fear and scuttle after Dervish, Meera bringing up the rear. As reluctant as I am to enter, I’ll take a dark, tight space over gunfire and werewolves any day.
Dervish reaches the window at the end of the tunnel. It’s semicircular, with thick stained glass. He can see out, but it would be hard for anybody outside to see in. He observes in silence. Ten seconds pass. Twenty. Thirty. I can still hear the howls of the werewolves and splintering wood. The door can’t hold much longer. They might not be able to enter the protected study, but when they realize we’re not there, they’ll come hunting for us. What’s Dervish waiting for?
Finally he sighs and turns — there’s just enough space. I start to ask a question, but he puts a finger to his lips and shakes his head. I nod bitterly. There must be people with guns outside, or more werewolves. Either way, we can’t go via the window. We’ll have to try sneaking through the house.
We backtrack past the study, then follow the crawlspace round to the right. A short distance later, Dervish removes a panel and slips through the hole in the ceiling beneath us. He helps me down, grabbing my legs and easing me to the floor. Some of his memories flow into me — mostly about Bill-E — but the contact is brief.
We’re in a short corridor on the second floor of the house, close to the hall of portraits, which is filled with paintings and photographs of dead family members, most of whom turned into werewolves. Soft growling sounds come from that direction. Dervish listens for a moment, looks around uneasily, then starts towards the hall. Meera and I dutifully follow.
The hall is a mess of shattered frames, ripped paintings, and photos. In the middle of it all squats a werewolf. He’s roughly tearing a large portrait to shreds, stuffing bits of canvas into his mouth, chewing and spitting the pieces out. He’s urinated over some of the paintings, either marking his territory or showing undue disdain for the Grady clan.
The werewolf doesn’t spot us until we’re almost upon him. Then Dervish steps on a piece of frame hidden beneath scraps of paper. It snaps and the werewolf’s head shoots up. His growl deepens and his lips split into a vicious sneer. Using his powerful legs, he leaps at us, howling as he attacks. He slams into Dervish and drives him to the floor.
No time to use my axe. I yelp and grab the werewolf’s jaw, trying to keep his teeth from closing on Dervish’s unprotected throat. Jumbled, fragmented
memories shoot from the werewolf’s fevered brain into mine. What I learn disturbs me, but I don’t dwell on it — I have more urgent matters to deal with. The werewolf’s teeth are only a couple of inches from Dervish’s jugular vein.
I prepare a spell to force shut the werewolf’s mouth, but Meera’s faster than me. She takes quick aim, then brains the werewolf with her mace. The werewolf’s head snaps to the left. His eyelids flicker. Then he slumps over Dervish and it’s simple enough to slide him off.
Dervish is furious when he rises. “I should have seen that one coming a mile away,” he snarls, wiping blood from his left arm where the werewolf gouged him.
“You’re getting old and slow,” Meera taunts him. “What now?”
“The cellar,” Dervish says.
“We’re going to cage ourselves in and get drunk?” she frowns.
“It connects with the secret cellar,” Dervish says impatiently. “That’s a place of magic. We can seal the doors and keep our assailants out. Unless they —”
He’s interrupted by howls from the floor above. The three werewolves have either broken through the door or heard the howl of the one we knocked out. They’re coming. We leap over the unconscious animal and flee for the staircase.
Racing down the stairs, the werewolves no more than a handful of seconds behind. If there are more on the ground floor, or snipers with a clear view, we’ll be easy targets.
But luck is with us. We hit the ground without encountering any enemies. The howls and screams of the werewolves pollute the air. It sounds like they’re poised to drag us down at any moment, but we can’t risk looking back to check.
Dervish hits the light switches as he passes, turning them off, to hide us from the snipers. He hurries to the cellar door, barges through, waits for Meera and me to streak past, then slams it shut and locks it. A werewolf batters into it less than two seconds later. This door isn’t as sturdy as the one in the study. It won’t delay them long.
We spill down the steps to the cellar, automatic lights flickering on as we hit the bottom. This is where Dervish stores his priceless wine
