by Darren Shan
didn’t feel out of place. I had a purpose, a function. I was the equal of Sharmila, Dervish, Raz, Shark, Nadia. No good at fighting, but I had other talents. They respected me. Even Beranabus was impressed.
I remember what he said. “Home isn’t always where you expect it to be. You know where to find me.”
Crazy. As if I’d ever want to go back there, face demons again, live like Nadia, a slave of the magician. Adrift in a universe of horrors, where you can’t even depend on time. Nothing in this world could be as bad as that. Mom and Dad will accept me eventually. I’ll make friends. Grow up normally. We’ll laugh about this one day.
I’m sitting on the floor in the small living room of the apartment that we’re renting. I rise and walk to the bathroom. Take the marbles out of my pocket, the orange marbles that I’ve carried ever since Art was stolen. I look down at them, then hold them up, standing before the mirror. Place them in front of my eyes. Watch them twinkle. I try directing magic into them. Take my fingers away, telling them to hover in the air.
They fall. Roll away. I hurry after them before they disappear down one of the holes in the old floorboards.
Back to the living room, remembering how magical I was in that other place, the things I could do, the power I had. Sitting on the couch, I study the marbles again, and recall what Sharmila said to me in the field before we parted. I think I know now what she was hinting, the secret she suspected. It’s an impossible, wild and crazy theory. I’m sure it can’t be right. But if it is...
Trying not to worry too much about what that might mean, I put the marbles away. As I stand, I notice some of the lights around me pulsing slowly. I stare at them numbly. It’s like they’re calling me, trying to suck me back into that realm of madness.
I turn my back on them and stride around the tiny apartment, looking for something to distract me. End up in Mom and Dad’s bedroom. Not much bigger than mine. A bed they can only just fit into. I let my eyes drift. It’s untidy, clothes thrown around the place, dirty socks and underwear. The rooms were never like this in our previous homes. Mom was house proud. Dad too. Always cleaning and tidying up. But not anymore.
The mess upsets me. I turn to leave but spot the corner of something sticking out from under a pillow on the bed. I edge over and slide it all the way out. It’s a photograph of me and Art. I haven’t seen it before. Mom must have taken it when we weren’t looking. In the photo we’re near a tire hanging on a rope from a tree. I’m holding Art over my head. He’s laughing. I think I’m laughing too. But it’s difficult to tell. Because Mom has scrawled all over my face with a pen. Line after line of black ink, obliterating my features, scratching me out of existence.
I put the photo back in its place. Cover it entirely. Return to the living room, my stomach hard and cold. The lights are pulsing around me, lots of them, faster than before, like they used to in the Demonata’s universe. I think about Beranabus, what Sharmila said, the bitter looks I sometimes get from Mom and Dad, the photo.
As a single tear trickles down my cheek, I reach out like a robot and start slotting the patches of pulsing lights together.
KAH-GASH
BERANABUS is waiting in a surprisingly scenic spot, lying on a pile of deep green grass next to a waterfall, beneath the shelter of a leafy tree. The only hint that this is another universe — blood, not water, flows from the waterfall.
“I thought you might come looking for me,” he says, sounding more sad than smug. “I decided to rest here a while.” He looks around. “I come here often. My mother liked this place. I feel close to her here.”
“Was your mother a magician?” I ask.
“Not as such.” He stares at the waterfall, stroking the petals of a fresh flower that he’s pinned to his jacket. “She died not long after I was born. I used magic to find out about her later — that’s how I learned about this spot — but I never knew her when I was a child. As for my father...”
He snorts, then says with unusual softness, “I know what it’s like to be lonely. To have no family. To feel out of place in the world. I hate myself for what I did to Nadia, and for what I’m asking of you. I know how wretched her life was, and what you’re suffering now, because I’ve felt that way myself. I’d have spared you both if I could. But the universe demands sacrifice and pain of its champions. When there’s no other way... when the fate of billions hangs in the balance... what choice do we have?”
I stare at the ancient magician, not sure how to answer. Before I can think of something to say, he barks a laugh, pushes himself to his feet and smiles, more like his old, cynical self. “Come to be my assistant, have you? Couldn’t fit in with the folks at home? Normal life not for you anymore?”
“You knew I’d return, didn’t you?” I accuse him.
“I’ve lived and seen enough to know how difficult it is to settle for a small life when you’re destined for greatness. The universe created you for a reason, Kernel Fleck, and it wasn’t to waste your time in an ordinary job, among everyday people. Destiny is a determined opponent. Not many get the better of it.”
“So what now?” I ask. “Do we go after Cadaver?”
“I don’t think so.” Beranabus frowns. “I’m angling more towards the idea of retracing the route he followed when he was on his way to Lord Loss’s. Maybe we’ll find something on one of the worlds he visited, or on a world we bypassed when you opened the window directly to him.”
“Or maybe.. .” I stop, not wanting to say it. The window behind me has faded, but I could easily build another if I wanted. Find my parents. Try again. It’s not too late to change my mind. But if I tell Beranabus of my suspicions, I can never return. I’ll be his — the universe’s — for life.
Beranabus studies me with one eyebrow raised, smiling as if nothing I say can take him by surprise, like he’s waiting for me to make a suggestion so that he can say he already thought of it.
I chew my lower lip, trying to make up my mind. I think about the photo again. Shiver, then straighten up and put my theory to the test.
“I’m picturing Cadaver inside my head now,” I tell Beranabus, then look around. “Dozens of lights are flashing. I could open a window to him if I wanted.”
I clear the demon from my thoughts and think about Beranabus. “Now I’ve got you in my head.” My stomach sinks when I check the lights and my worst fears are realized. “Nothing’s happening. No lights are pulsing.”
“Of course not,” he snorts. “I’m here with you. There no need to open a window to find me.”
“Right. Now I’ll think about a waterfall on Earth — Niagara Falls.” I concentrate. “Lots of pulsing lights again. But when I think about that waterfall of blood... nothing.”
Bernabus is frowning. “What are you —”
“Picturing Sharmila,” I interrupt. “Dervish. Shark. Lights pulse for all three of them.” And for Nadia too, though I don’t tell Beranabus that. “Now I’m thinking of myself — no flashing lights. And now... now I’m thinking about the Kah-Gash.” I give it a full minute. Two. Five. Eyes shut, focusing hard, saying the word over and over. When I finally open my eyes, none of the lights are pulsing, and Beranabus is staring at me, trembling slightly.
“Nobody knows what the Kah-Gash was,” the magician says softly, “or what sort of parts it was broken down into. I’ve always assumed the pieces would be power-charged stones, or other objects of energy, but I guess they could be hidden in anything. Even in...”
“. . . people,” I finish for him.
Beranabus shudders, then steels himself. “Am I the one?” he asks.
“No,” I say sadly. “I’m pretty certain it’s me.”
And with those few words I put my human life behind me forever and surrender myself to whatever demonic horrors destiny holds in store.
The horrifying adventures continue in
SLAWTER
Book 3 in THE DEMONATA series
from Little, Brown and Company.
MY EYES! They stabbed out m
y eyes!”
I shoot awake. Start to struggle up from my bed. An arm hits the side of my head. Knocks me down. A man screams, “My eyes! Who took my eyes?”
“Dervish!” I roar, rolling off the bed, landing beside the feet of my frantic uncle. “It’s only a dream! Wake up!”
“My eyes!” Dervish yells again. I can see his face now, illuminated by a three-quarters-full moon. Eyes wide open, but seeing nothing. Fear scribbled into every line of his features. He lifts his right foot. Brings it down towards my head — hard. I make like a turtle and only just avoid having my nose smashed.
“You took them!” he hisses, sensing my presence, fear turning to hate. He bends and grabs my throat. His fingers tighten. Dervish is thin, doesn’t look like much, but his appearance is deceptive. He could crush my throat, easy.
I lash out at his hand, yanking my neck away at the same time. Tear free. Scrabble backwards. Halted by the bed. Dervish lunges after me. I kick at his head, both feet. No time to worry about hurting him. Connect firmly. Drive him back. He grunts, shakes his head, loses focus.
“Dervish!” I shout. “It’s me, Grubbs! Wake up! It’s only a nightmare! You have to stop, before you —”
“The master,” Dervish cuts in, fear filling his face again. He’s staring at the ceiling — rather, that’s where his eyes are pointing. “Lord Loss.” He starts to cry. “Don’t ... please ... not again. My eyes. Leave them alone. Please ...”
“Dervish,” I say, softly this time, rising, rubbing the side of my head where he hit me, approaching him cautiously. “Dervish. Derv the perv — where’s your nerve?” Knowing from past nights that rhymes draw his attention. “Derv on the floor — where’s the door? Derv without eyes — what’s the surprise?”
He blinks. His head lowers a fraction. Sight begins to return. His pupils were black holes. Now they look quasi-normal.
“It’s OK,” I tell him, moving closer, wary in case the night-mare suddenly fires up again. “You’re home. With me. Lord Loss can’t get you here. Your eyes are fine. It was just a nightmare.”
“Grubbs?” Dervish wheezes.
“Yes, boss.”
“That’s really you? You’re not an illusion? He hasn’t created an image of you, to torment me?”
“Don’t be stupid. Not even Michelangelo could create a face this perfect.”
Dervish smiles. The last of the nightmare passes. He sits on the floor and looks at me through watery globes. “How you doing, big guy?”
“Coolio.”
“Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly.
“You couldn’t if you tried,” I smirk, not telling him about the hit to the head, the hand on my throat, the foot at my face.
I sit beside him. Drape an arm around his shoulders. He hugs me tight. Murmurs, “It was so real. I thought I was back there. I ...”
And then he weeps, sobbing like a child. And I hold him, talking softly as the moon descends, telling him it’s OK, he’s home, he’s safe — he’s no longer in the universe of demons.
Never trust fairy tales. Any story that ends with “They all lived happily ever after” is a crock. There are no happy endings. No endings — full stop. Life sweeps you forward, swings you round, bruises and batters you, drops some new drama or tragedy in your lap, never lets go until you get to the one true end — death. As long as you’re breathing, your story’s still going.
If the rules of fairy tales did work, my story would have ended on a high four months ago. That’s when Dervish regained his senses and everything seemed set to return to normal. But that was a false ending. A misleading happy pause.
I had to write a short biography for an English assignment recently. A snappy, zappy summing-up of my life. I had to discard my first effort — it was too close to the bone, and would have only led to trouble if I’d handed it in. I wrote an edited, watered-down version and submitted that instead. (I got a B-minus.) But I kept the original. It’s hidden under a pile of clothes in my wardrobe. I drag it out now to read, to pass some time. I’ve read through it a lot of times these past few weeks, usually early in the morning, after an interrupted night, when I can’t sleep.
I was born Grubitsch Grady. One sister, Gretelda. Grubbs and Gret for short. Normal, boring lives for a long time. Then Gret turned into a werewolf.
“What are you reading?”
It’s Dervish, standing in the doorway of my room, mug of coffee in his left hand, eyes still wide and freaky from his nightmare.
“My biography,” I tell him.
He frowns. “What?” “
I’m going to publish my memoirs. I’m thinking of ‘Life with Demons’ as a title. Or maybe ‘Hairy Boys and Girls of the Grady Clan.’ What do you think?”
Dervish stares at me uneasily. “You’re weird,” he mutters, then trudges away.
“Wonder where I got that from?” I retort, then shake my head and return to the biography.
I have a younger half-brother, Bill-E Spleen. He doesn’t know we’re brothers. Thinks Dervish is his father. I met him when I came to live with Dervish, after my parents died trying to save Gret.
“Are you coming down for breakfast?” Dervish yells from the bottom of the giant staircase that links the floors of the mansion where we live.
“In a minute,” I yell back. “I’ve just come to the bit when you zombied out on me.”
“Stop messing about!” he roars. “I’m scrambling eggs, and if you’re not down in sixty seconds, too bad!”
Damn! He knows all my weaknesses!
“Coming!” I shout, getting up and reaching for my clothes, tossing the bio aside for later.
Dervish does a mean scrambled egg. Best I’ve ever tasted. I finish off a plateful without stopping for breath, then eagerly go for seconds. I’m built on the big size — a mammoth compared to most of my schoolmates — with an appetite to match.
Dervish is wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt. No shoes or socks. His grey hair is frizzled, except on top, where he's bald as a billiard ball. Hasn’t shaved (he used to have a beard, but got rid of it recently). Doesn’t smell good — sweaty and stale. He’s this way most days. Has been ever since he came back.
“You eating that or not?” I ask. He looks over blankly from where he’s standing, close to the hob. He’s been staring out the window at the grey autumn sky, not touching his food.
“Huh?” he says.
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
He looks down at his plate. Smiles weakly. Sticks his fork into the eggs, stirs them, then gazes out of the window again. “I remember the nightmare,” he says. “They cut my eyes out. They were circling me, tormenting me, using my empty sockets as —”
“Hey,” I stop him, “I’m a kid. I shouldn’t be hearing this. You’ll scar me for life with stories like that.”
Dervish grins, warmth in it this time. “Take more than a scary story to scar you,” he grunts, then starts to eat. I help myself to thirds, then return to the biography, not needing the sheet of paper to finish, able to recall it perfectly.
To save Bill-E, we faced Lord Loss and his familiars, Artery and Vein, a vicious, bloodthirsty pair. We won. And Dervish won himself a ticket to Demonata hell, to go toe-to-toe with the big double L on his home turf.
Then, without warning, Dervish returned. I woke up one morning and he was his old self, talking, laughing, brain intact. We celebrated for days, us, Bill-E and Meera. And we all lived happily after. The end.
Except, of course, it wasn’t. Life isn’t a fairy tale, and stories don’t end. Before she left, Meera took me aside and warned me to be careful. She said there was no way to predict Dervish’s state of mind. Sometimes it took a person a long time to recover from an encounter with Lord Loss. Sometimes they never properly recovered.
“We don’t know what’s going on in there,” she whispered. “He looks fine, but that could change. Watch him, Grubbs. Be prepared for mood swings. Try and help. Do what you can. But don’t be afraid to c
all me for help.”
I did call when the nightmares started, when Dervish first attacked me in his sleep, mistook me for a demon and tried to cut my heart out. (Luckily, in his delirium, he picked up a spoon in stead of a knife.) But there was nothing Meera could do, short of cast a few calming spells, and recommend he visit a psychiatrist. Dervish rejected that idea, but she threatened to take me away from him if he didn’t. So he went to see one, a guy who knew about demons, whom Dervish could be honest with. I don’t know what happened, but after the second session, the psychiatrist rang Meera and said he never wanted to see Dervish again — he found their sessions too upsetting.
Meera discussed the possibility of having Dervish committed, or hiring a bodyguard to look after him, but I rejected both suggestions. So, against Meera’s wishes, we carried on living by ourselves in this spooky old mansion. It hasn’t been too bad. Dervish rarely gets the nightmares more than two or three nights a week. I’ve grown used to it. Waking up in the middle of the night to screams is no worse than waking up to a baby’s cries. Really, it isn’t.
And he’s not that much of a threat. We keep the knives locked away, and have bolted the other weapons in the mansion in place. (The walls are dotted with axes, maces, spears, swords ... all sorts of cool stuff.) I usually keep my door locked too, to be safe. The only reason it was open last night was that Dervish had thrown a fit both nights before, and it’s rare for him to fall prey to the nightmares three nights in a row. I thought I was safe. That’s why I didn’t bother with the lock. It was my fault, not Dervish’s.
“I will kill him for you, master,” Dervish says softly.
I lower my fork. “What?”
He turns, blank-faced, looking like he did when his soul was fighting Lord Loss. My heart rate quickens. Then he grins.
The Demonata exist in a multi-world universe of their own. Evil, murderous creatures, who revel in torment and slaughter. They try to
cross over into our world all the time.
