Demon Thief

by Darren Shan

  “But what about school?” It’s the first question to pop into my head.

  “The hell with it,” Dad laughs. “You don’t like it that much, do you?”

  “Well . . . no . . . but it’s my school.”

  “We’ll find you another.” He fixes Art in his left arm, then extends his right and pulls me in close. “I know you haven’t been happy here. Mom and I have been thinking about it. We’re going to move to a place we know, a village called Paskinston. The children will be very different there. Nicer than city kids. We think you’ll be happier, maybe make some friends. And you’ll be safe. We all will. How does that sound?”

  “Good. I guess. But . . .” I shrug.

  “It’s for the best, Kernel,” Dad says, and hugs me tight. Art laughs and hugs me too, and that’s when I feel sure that Dad’s right. Everything’s going to be better now.

  My last glimpse of the city is when I get into our car late that night. I don’t know why we don’t wait until morning —Dad hates driving at night — but I haven’t had time to ask. It’s been a rush, packing bags, going through all of my toys, books, comics, clothes, records, choosing what to bring and what to leave behind. Dad says we’ll get the rest of our belongings sent later, but I don’t want to leave anything precious behind, just in case. I bombed all of the planes in my bedroom at nine o’clock. Mom and Dad helped me. We destroyed them completely. It was cool! Even Mom enjoyed it.

  As we’re getting into the car, Dad asks if I want to play a game with Art, to keep him quiet. I say sure. So he makes me sit on the floor behind Mom’s seat, with Art between my legs, and he drapes a blanket over us. “Pretend Art and you are fugitives. You’re a pair of vicious, wanted criminals, and we’re sneaking you out of the city. There are roadblocks, so you have to hide and be quiet. If you’re found, you’ll be sent to prison.”

  “Children don’t get sent to prison!” I snort.

  “They do in this game.” Dad laughs.

  I know it’s just a way for Mom and Dad to keep Art — and me — quiet for some of the journey. But part of me thinks it’s real. The fact that we’re leaving so quickly, at night, in secrecy. . . . I hold Art tight in my arms and whisper for him to be quiet, afraid we’ll be caught by whoever’s after us. I feel like crying, but that’s because we’re leaving home. I’ve never lived anywhere else. It’s scary.

  Mom checks that Art and I are OK before settling in. She lifts the cover of the blanket and peers in at us. We’re parked close to a street light, so I can see her face pretty well. She looks worried — maybe she’s sad to be leaving our old home, like me.

  “Take care of your brother,” she says softly, stroking Art’s left cheek. He gazes at her quietly. “Protect him,” Mom says, her voice cracking. Then she kisses my forehead, replaces the blanket, and we set off, leaving behind everything I’ve ever known.

  THE WITCH

  PASKINSTON’S a sleepy place, with a couple of tiny shops, a crumbling old school, a stumpy, ugly, modern church, and not much else. It’s in the middle of nowhere, miles away from any town or city. Electricity cuts are common. Television and radio reception are poor. Cars are mostly ancient wrecks. The sort of place where you expect to find loads of old people, but in fact most of the villagers are youngish parents and their children.

  We’ve been here almost a year. It’s not a bad place to live. Quiet and clean. Lots of open space around the village. No pollution or crime, and people are very relaxed and friendly. A few commute to cities or towns, but most work locally. Quite a few are craftspeople and artists. We don’t get many tourists in Paskinston, but our artisans (as Dad calls them) supply a lot of tourist shops around the country. Musical instruments are the village’s specialty, traditionally carved, lovingly created and packaged, then expensively priced!

  Dad’s got a job painting instruments. It doesn’t pay very well, but you don’t need much money in Paskinston. He’s happier than he ever was in the city, finally able to call himself a real artist. Mom helps out kids with learning problems, and does some teaching in the school when one of the regular teachers is sick. She’s happy too, the happiest I’ve seen her since Annabella died.

  Mom and Dad never talk about the time Art and I went missing. It’s a forbidden subject. If I ever bring it up, they change the topic immediately. Once, when I pressed, Mom snapped at me, swore, and told me never to mention it again.

  And me? Well, I’m OK. Dad was right. The kids here are nicer than in the city. They chat with me at school, include me in their games, invite me to their houses to read and play, take me on day trips into the local countryside on weekends. Nobody bullies me, says nasty things to me or tries to make me feel like I’m a freak. (Of course, it helps that I don’t mention the secret patches of light!)

  But I still don’t fit in. I feel out of place. It’s hard to talk freely, to join in, to behave naturally. I always feel as though I’m acting. Most of the kids in Paskinston were born here or moved here when they were very young. This is the only world they know, and they believe it’s perfect.

  I don’t agree. While I’m certainly happier now than I was in the city, I miss the movie theaters and museums. Except for not having any friends, I liked being part of a big city, where there was always something new to see or do. The village is nice, but it’s a bit boring. And although the kids are nicer to me, I still haven’t made any real friends.

  But it’s not that important, because I’m not miserable anymore. I’m not sure why, but I don’t feel lonely these days. I’m happy just to be with Mom, Dad and Art. Especially Art. He might only be a baby, but I love dragging him around with me, explaining the world to him, telling him about books, television and life, trying to teach him to speak. He should have started by now, but so far not a word. Dad and Mom don’t mind. They say Einstein was older than Art is before he spoke. But I don’t think Art’s an Einstein — he likes tugging ears, biting people and burping too much to be a genius!

  Art’s all I really need from the world right now. He keeps me company better than any friend ever could. As Dad once said when I was lonely and he was trying to cheer me up, “Who needs friends when you have family?”

  To get to school, I have to pass the witch’s house.

  The “witch” is Mrs. Egin. There are thirty-seven families and six single people in Paskinston, and everyone’s on friendly terms with everybody else. There’s a real sense of community. They all take an interest in and see a lot of each other, chat amongst themselves when they meet in the street or at church, hold big parties every few months that everyone attends.

  Except Mrs. Egin. She lives by herself in a dirty old house and almost never has anything to say to anybody. She comes out for a long walk every day, and to draw water from the well. (There’s running water in Paskinston, but Mrs. Egin and a few others prefer to get theirs from an old well in the center of the village.) But otherwise we rarely see her. She spends most of her time indoors, behind thick curtains, doing whatever it is that witches do.

  I’m sure she’s not really a witch, but all the kids call her the Pricklish Witch of Paskinston. Some of the adults do too!

  There isn’t a real school in Paskinston, just a converted stable that’s being used as a school until the villagers manage to build a proper one. There are three teachers (two are volunteers), crappy old desks, wobbly chairs, a few tired blackboards, and nothing else except the ancient toilets out back. A big change from my school in the city!

  The school’s down the street and around the corner to the left from where we live. To get there, I walk past Mrs. Egin’s house. I could go the opposite way and circle around the backs of the houses if I wanted. But Mrs. Egin has never done anything bad to me. She hasn’t even spoken to me in the year that I’ve lived here. She doesn’t frighten me.

  Today I set off for school as usual. Classes start at nine-thirty, but I normally get there at nine, to play some games with the other kids beforehand. Trying hard to fit in, to be like they are, to have them accept
me. Not that I’m too bothered if they don’t.

  “Off to school?” Mom asks as I’m heading out.

  “Yes.”

  “Want to take Art to the nursery?”

  “Sure.”

  The makeshift nursery school is in another converted stable, right next to the school. I often drop Art off.

  Art’s small and skinny. A large head though. Dad says that’s a sign that he has lots of brains, but I think it’s because he has a thick skull — all the better for head butting!

  I stop Art from trying to bite the hands off a soldier doll and pick him up. He struggles, eager to finish off the soldier. “Stop,” I grunt. Art calms down immediately. He always does what I tell him. He’s more obedient for me than Mom or Dad. Mom says that’s a sign that he really loves me. It makes me proud when she says stuff like that, though I usually scowl — don’t want her thinking I’m soft.

  Art’s pale, like Mom, with dirty dark hair that looks like it’s never been washed. Mom always complains about Art’s hair. She regularly threatens to shave him bald like me. (Not that I need to shave — I’ve been bald since birth.) She says every guy should be bald — makes life much simpler for the women looking after them.

  I throw Art up in the air and catch him. He laughs and gurgles for me to do it again. I compare my skin to his as I toss him up a second time. I’m much darker, a nice creamy brown, more Dad’s color than Mom’s. We don’t look like brothers. Mom says that’s good — people won’t confuse us for one another when we’re older.

  I settle Art down and head for the door, carrying him under one arm like a skateboard. He swings his fists around, looking for something to hit. He almost never hits or bites me, but I’m the only one who’s safe around him. He’s given Mom a black eye a few times, and bit one of Dad’s finger-nails off once. He’ll be a real terror when he’s a couple of years older.

  We set off down the street. There’s nobody else around. A quiet spring day. Birds are twittering in the trees. A cow moos in the distance. I feel warm and happy. Looking forward to summer. Dad said we might go to the beach for a week or two. We haven’t been on a vacation since we left the city. I’m excited about it.

  “You’ve never seen a beach, have you?” I say to Art. “It’s great. More sand than you could imagine. Salt water, not like the ponds here. Seaweed. We can swim and make sand-castles. Eat ice cream and cotton candy. You’ll love it. And if we can’t go, well, we’ll camp around here instead. Find a lake, maybe near a small town, with a movie theater and amusement arcades and —”

  “Thief!” someone screeches.

  We’ve just passed the witch’s house. I look back. The front door’s open. Mrs. Egin is standing on the doorstep. Her eyes are wild and she’s trembling. Her hair’s normally tied in a ponytail, but today it’s hanging loose, strands blowing across her face in the light breeze.

  “Who’s the thief?” she mutters, staggering towards me.

  “Mrs. Egin? Are you all right? Do you want me to get help?” I set Art down to my left and step in front of him, shielding him with my legs, in case she falls on top of him.

  Mrs. Egin stops less than a foot away. She’s mumbling to herself, strange words, no language that I know. Her lips are bleeding — she’s bitten through them in several places. Her fingers are wriggling like ten angry snakes.

  “Mrs. Egin?” I say softly, heart racing.

  “Such a beautiful baby,” the witch says, eyes fixed on Art. He’s staring up at her silently. Mrs. Egin bends and reaches for Art, cooing, smiling crookedly.

  “Leave him alone,” I gasp, shuffling Art back with my left foot, standing firmly in front of him now, blocking her way.

  “Not yours!” she snarls, glaring at me. I’ve never seen an adult look at me that way, with total hate. It scares me. I feel like I have to pee. Clench my legs together so I don’t have an accident.

  But, scared as I am, I don’t move. I stand my ground. I have to protect Art.

  “Are you ill, Mrs. Egin?” I ask, my voice a lot calmer than I feel.

  “Find him!” she shouts in reply. “Find the thief! Beautiful baby.” She smiles at Art again, then mumbles to herself, like a minute ago, but gesturing at Art this time, as though she’s casting a spell on him.

  I look for help but we’re all alone. I can’t just stand here and let this go on. No telling what she’ll do next. So, without taking my eyes off her, I stoop, grab Art and awkwardly hold him up behind my back. Art squeals happily — he thinks I’m giving him a piggyback ride.

  “We have to go now,” I say, edging away. Mrs. Egin’s still looking at the spot where Art was. I notice that lots of the patches of light around us are pulsing. They’re closer than they normally are, as if hedging us in. But I can’t worry about the lights. Not with Mrs. Egin acting like a real, mad witch.

  “Soon!” Mrs. Egin barks, and her eyes snap upwards. “All will be happening soon. They thought I didn’t have it in me. Said I was weak. But they were wrong. I have the power. I can serve.” Her hands go still. Her eyes soften. “You will see me die,” she says quietly.

  Tears of confusion and fear come to my eyes. “Mrs. Egin, I . . . I’ll get help . . . I’ll get someone who can —”

  “Thief!” she yells, silencing me, wild and twisted again. Her hands come up and wave angrily at me. “Find the thief! Soon! You’ll see. The mad old witch going up in a puff of smoke. Boom, Kernel Fleck. Boom!”

  She laughs hysterically. When you hear a witch laugh in a movie, it’s funny. But this isn’t. The laughter hurts my ears, makes them ring from deep inside. I half expect them to start bleeding.

  “I have to go now,” I say quickly, turning away from her, sliding Art around so he’s in front of me, all the time protecting him from her.

  “Kernel,” the witch says in a cold, commanding tone. Reluctantly I stop and look back. “You won’t tell anyone what you’ve seen today.” It’s not a question.

  “Mrs. Egin . . . you need help . . . I think . . .”

  She spits on the ground by her right foot. “You’re a fool. I’m not the one who needs help — you are. But never mind that. You won’t tell anyone. Because if you do, I’ll creep into your room late at night when you’re asleep and slit your throat from your left ear to your right.” She uses a trembling index finger to illustrate.

  That’s too much. I lose control and, to my shame, feel the front of my pants go wet. Fortunately Mrs. Egin doesn’t see. She’s already turned away. Walks back to her house. Pauses at the front door. Looks up. There’s a six-sided patch of pink light pulsing rapidly just above her head. She reaches up and strokes it. The pulse rate slows, as if the light was afraid and she calmed it down.

  “Thought you were the only one who could see them,” she says as I stare at her in shock. “But I can too. Now. For a while. Until they take me.”

  Then she goes inside and shuts the door.

  For a long moment I stand, fighting back tears, ears still ringing, wanting to run away and never return. But I can’t do that, and I can’t turn up at school with wet, stained pants. So I hurry home, clutching Art tight to my chest, steering as far wide of the witch’s house as I can.

  MARBLES

  ILIE to Mom. Tell her Art peed on me. She’s surprised —he’s never been a wetter. She wants to change him. I tell her it’s all right, I’ll take care of it. I hurry to my bedroom and change my pants. I’m almost out the door before I remember that Art should be changed too, so I quickly find clean clothes for him.

  I consider telling Mom about Mrs. Egin’s behavior. Recall her threat — “slit your throat from your left ear to your right.” Don’t say a word.

  The day passes uncomfortably. I can’t forget what Mrs. Egin said, her wicked expression, stroking the pulsing patch of light. “You will see me die.”

  I should tell someone. It doesn’t matter that she threatened me. She won’t be able to sneak into my room if I tell someone and they lock her up like the mad old witch she is.

 
But I wet my pants. If I tell about the rest, I’ll have to tell about that too. And I don’t want people knowing. So I say nothing. I pretend it didn’t happen, that it doesn’t matter. And all day long I feel as if a thousand eels of terror are wriggling around inside me.

  Dad’s talking with Mom about a craft fair when I come home. She’s listening quietly, sitting by the piano. (It was in the house when we moved in — none of us can play). She’s frowning.

  “This is one of the biggest fairs in the country,” Dad says. “It’s held every year, and a few of the Paskinston artists always go, representing the village. They sell a lot of work at it, and rack up loads of orders. It’s a real honor to be asked. It would be rude to refuse.”

  “But can’t one of us go and one stay here?” Mom asks.

  “Yes, but couples normally go together. It’s not just about selling. There are hundreds of artists and interesting people there. It’s a chance to meet, mingle, get to know other people. It’ll be fun.”

  I hand Art to Mom and sit close to her, following the conversation. I learn a bit more about the fair, where it’s held, who’s going, how long they’ll be gone for. Dad’s proud to have been invited and eager to go, but Mom’s worried about Art and me. She doesn’t want to leave us alone. “Can’t we take them along?” she asks.

  “It’s not done,” Dad says patiently. “Nobody else brings their kids.”

  Mom’s frown deepens. We haven’t been apart since we left the city, not for a single night. But if they go to the fair, they’ll be gone for at least a week.

  “They won’t be by themselves,” Dad says. “We’ll leave them with one of the neighbors.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  “Kernel doesn’t mind. Do you, Kernel?” He smiles broadly at me, expecting my support. If this was yesterday, I’d have given it instantly. But Mrs. Egin’s threat is fresh in my thoughts. I don’t want to be left alone. So I just shrug in answer. “You OK, big guy?” Dad asks, surprised.

  “Yeah.”

  “If you don’t want us to go, just say. It’s not that important.”

  “No. I mean, I don’t mind. Not really. It’s just . . .” I can’t explain without telling them the truth. So again I shrug.

  “What about Art?” Mom says, kissing his head, looking up at Dad.

  “Art will be fine too,” Dad says, and he sounds a little impatient now.

  “I’m not sure, Caspian.”

  “Melena . . .” Dad sighs. “Look, if it’s going to be a big deal, we won’t go. But this is our home now. We’re safe here. I don’t think we’ve anything to fear in this place. Do you?”

  “No,” Mom says quietly.

  “So . . . ?”

  Mom makes a face. “I just don’t like being apart from my darling babies!” she exclaims. We all laugh at that, and everything’s fine again.