Hell’s Heroes
Darren Shan
The final dramatic conclusion to Darren Shan’s international phenomenon, The Demonata. Expect the unexpected…Beranabus and Dervish are gone. Bec has formed an unholy alliance with Lord Loss. Kernel is blind, held on Earth against his will. Grubbs is mad with grief and spinning out of control.The demons are crossing.The Disciples are falling.The Shadow is waiting.Welcome to the end.
Copyright
First published in hardback in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2009
First published in paperback in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2010
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
77-85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London, W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
HELL’S HEROES. Copyright © Darren Shan 2009. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Darren Shan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.
EBook Edition © FEBRUARY 2011 ISBN: 9780007435371
Version: 2014-10-29
Find all these hellish heroes and more at
www.darrenshan.com
For:
Liam, Biddy and Bas — the Father, the Mother
and the Holy Bust!!!
OBEs (Order of the Bloody Entrails) to:
Geir, Wiedar, Jon and all the other nocturnal
Norwegian Shan crew
Road Managers:
Geraldine Stroud — the ripper skipper!
Mary Byrne — the tipsy first mate!
Editor-in-chief:
Stella Paskins — 10 rounds, not out!!
Apocalyptic agents:
the Christopher Little chorus line
And an extra special thank you to all of my demonically
delightful Shansters, especially those of you who have kept
me company on the web through the run of the series.
But take heed — if you desert me at this point,
heads will roll!!!
“What happens when you lose everything?
You just start again.
You start all over again.”
‘Apply Some Pressure’ by Maxïmo Park
Contents
Copyright
Epigraph
The Last Laugh
Clocking Off
Mr Grumpy-Puss
In Dreams I Walk With You
Executive Board
Home Sweet Home
Rock On
Shark Attack
Who’s That Girl?
Unstill Waters
Knights in Slimy Armour
Soulful
An Unholy Quartet
Lights Out
Tunnelling Through
Bigger, Better, Badder
À La Moses
The Missing Link
The Wink
With a Bang
Ah Yes, I Remember It Well
Devilment
Once More, with Feeling
Start Me Up
Other Books by Darren Shan
Credits
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
THE LAST LAUGH
→ “I miss Cal,” Dervish says. “We fought a lot when we were young, like all brothers, but we were always there for one another.”
We’re lying in the mouth of a cave, admiring the desolate desert view, sheltered from the fierce afternoon sun.
“It’s strange,” Dervish chuckles. “I thought I’d be the first to go. The life I chose, the risks I took… I was sure I’d die young and nastily. I pictured Cal living to be eighty or ninety. Funny how things work out, isn’t it?”
I stare at the hole in the left side of Dervish’s chest. Blood is seeping from it and I can see bone inside. “Yeah,” I grunt. “Hilarious.”
Dervish shifts and grimaces. He’s in a lot of pain, but he won’t have to suffer much longer. My uncle was in bad shape before we took on an army of demons. Now, having come through hell, he doesn’t have a prayer. He’s finished. We both know it. That’s why we came up here from the underground cave, so he could die in the open, breathing fresh air.
“I remember one time,” Dervish continues, “not long after Cal married your mum. We had a huge row. He wanted me to quit being a Disciple, marry and have kids, lead a normal life. He thought I was crazy to do what I did.”
“He wasn’t wrong,” I snort.
“You love it really,” Dervish grins. Blood trickles down his chin.
“Save your breath,” I tell him, trying not to shudder.
“What for? I won’t need it where I’m going.” He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t think I can survive, do you?”
“Of course not. I’m just sick of listening to you whine.”
Dervish laughs softly. The laugh turns into a blood-drenched cough. I hold him as he shakes and moans, spewing up blood and phlegm. When the fit passes, he asks me to move him out of the cave. “I don’t think I need worry about sunburn,” he murmurs.
I pick up my dying uncle and carry him outside. He doesn’t weigh much. Thin and drawn, overstretched by the world. He rests his head on my chest, like a baby cuddling up to its mother. I prop him against a large rock, then settle beside him. His eyes stay closed. He’s dozed off. I study him sadly, memorising every line of his creased face, brushing the wilting spikes of hair back from his forehead, remembering all the nights he comforted me when I’d had a nightmare.
With a jolt he wakes and looks around, alarmed. When he sees me, and the hole in his chest, he relaxes. “Oh, it was only a dream. I thought we were in trouble.”
“Nothing can trouble us here.”
Dervish smiles at me lopsidedly. “I loved having you live with me. You were like my son. Billy was too, but I never got to spend the sort of time with him that I did with you.”
“If you were my real dad, I’d have asked to be fostered.”
Dervish’s smile widens. “That’s what I like to hear. You’re a true Grady. We don’t do sympathetic.”
His eyes wander and he sighs. “I hope I see Cal again. Billy and Meera. Even Beranabus. So many who’ve gone before me. Do you think there’s an afterlife, Grubbs? Will I be reborn? Or is there just… nothing?”
“There has to be something,” I mutter. “Why would the universe give us souls if not? It’d be pointless.”
Dervish nods slowly, then frowns at something behind me. “What’s that?” he wheezes.
My head shoots round and I scan the surrounding area for danger. But I can’t see anything except dry earth and rocks. “There’s nothing–” I begin, then stop. Dervish’s eyes have glazed over. He’s not breathing. His face is calm.
I tremble and reach out to close his eyelids, blinking back tears. My fingers are just a few centimetres from his eyes when… snap! Dervish’s teeth clamp together and he bites the tip of my index finger.
“Hellfire!” I roar, toppling backwards, heart racing.
“Your face,” Dervish snickers — always the bloody joker!
“Try it again,” I snarl. “Next time I’ll dig a hole and bury you alive.”
“Don’t be so sensitive,” Dervish coos, still giggling. He runs an eye over my unnatural muscles, the tufts of ginger hair sprouting from my skin, my wolfish features, yellow eyes, jagged claws and blood-spattered fangs. “You’re a real mess.”
“With a role model like you, I never had a hope,” I sniff.
“Poor Grubbs.” Dervish makes goo-goo eyes at me. “All you ever wanted was for someone to show you some love.”
“Get stuffed.”
We both laugh.
“I’m going to miss you,” Dervish sighs.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I’ll… y’know… you too.”
“Part of me wishes I could hang on and see how it all turns out. But then I think about the odds…” He shakes his head.
“Don’t worry,” I say grandly. “I’ll take care of the Demonata. The Shadow too. I’ve seen enough movies to know how these things end. We’ll all be high-fiving each other and celebrating a famous victory by this time next month. But you won’t see any of it. Because you’ll be dead.”
Dervish scowls. “You really know how to comfort a dying man.”
We’re silent a while. The flow of blood has slowed, but I don’t kid myself — it’s only because he doesn’t have much left. There’s no getting better, not this time. Dervish has cheated death for the last few months, but he played his last card when we faced the demon hordes.
“What’s going to become of you, Grubbs?” he asks. “This new look… the way you kill so freely…”
“I’ll be fine.” I poke the ground with my bare, hairy toes.
“No,” he says. “You’ve changed, and not just on the outside.” He lays a weak, bloodstained hand on mine. “Don’t become a monster. Remember who you are, the people who love you, why you fight. Beranabus acted inhumanly, but he was never fully human to begin with. You were. You are. Don’t lose track of that.”
“Is this really how you want to go?” I squint. “Lecturing me like some second-rate TV psychiatrist?”
“I’m serious,” he growls.
“Don’t be stupid,” I smile. “It’s far too late for that.”
Dervish rolls his eyes, then shrugs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I won’t.”
Dervish shivers and glares at the sun. “It’s so cold. Why’s there no warmth in that thing?”
“Eclipse.” It’s the first thing that pops into my head. Dervish cocks an eyebrow, but otherwise ignores the inanity.
“I wish we could have had more leisure time,” he says. “Apart from the trip to Slawter, I never took you on any holidays.”
“If Slawter was your idea of a holiday, that was probably a good thing.”
“Orlando,” Dervish nods. “That’s where we should have gone. Roller coasters. You, Billy and me. We’d have had so much fun.”
“We were never meant for a life like that,” I mumble. “I used to think I could choose it, just turn my back on magic and demons. But I’ve been locked into this course since birth, just like you. Bec, Beranabus – all of us – we never really had a choice. I hate the unfairness of fate, but…”
I pause. Dervish’s head has slumped. I tilt his head back, keeping my fingers clear of his mouth, expecting him to bite again. But this time it isn’t a joke. His eyes are closed. The last breath has slipped from his semi-parted lips. His heart has stopped beating.
“Guess the last laugh’s on you, old-timer,” I croak, letting his head rest on my shoulder and patting him clumsily.
Rising, I gently lay him back against the rock, then pad away and choose a spot in the shade. As I bend, I get the feeling that Dervish is sneaking up on me. I turn quickly, lips lifting into a smile, but he hasn’t moved. He never will again.
Sighing emptily, I clench my fingers tightly, then drive them into the dry, hard-packed soil, scooping out the first fistful of my dead uncle’s grave.
CLOCKING OFF
→ Creeping through a factory, in pursuit of a snake demon seven or eight metres long. I wouldn’t have thought a beast that size could hide easily, but I’ve been searching for several minutes without success. I should be out on the streets, battling the masses, but this demon killed a Disciple. She was an elderly, frail lady, but she could swing a spike-headed mace more effectively than anyone I’ve ever met. I never asked her name, but I liked her. I’m going to make her killer pay.
I slide around a corner, checking the pipes overhead. I feel edgy, which is odd. I haven’t felt anything but cold, detached hatred recently. I guess the tension of the moment has got to me. I’m sure the demon won’t prove to be a serious threat – I’m more than a match for any of the familiars who cross through windows – but it’s fun to pretend I’m in danger. I’d almost forgotten what fear was like.
A scraping noise behind me. I whirl, a ball of magical energy crackling at my fingertips. But it’s only Moe. He followed me into the building, even though I told him to stay outside. Moe’s one of three werewolves who’ve been with me since Wolf Island. Werewolves don’t need names, but after a few weeks with the trio, I felt like I should call them something. So I christened them Curly, Larry and Moe, after the Three Stooges. I never had much time for the Stooges, but Dervish loved them, so I named the werewolves in his memory.
I growl at Moe to let him know I’m displeased. He makes a soft whining noise, but he can tell I’m not that bothered. Moe takes his bodyguard duties seriously. He never likes to be too far from me. I think he feels a bit lost when I’m not there for him to protect.
Letting Moe fall into place behind me, I push further into the factory, past a long conveyor belt. Workers were sitting in the chairs alongside it just an hour ago. It’s been nearly a month since Dervish died in the desert. There have been dozens of crossings since then. Hundreds of thousands of humans have been killed. People are terrified and desperate, but life goes on. A few of us know the cause is hopeless, but we haven’t shared the bad news. As far as the general population is concerned, we can beat these demonic invaders.
So, as the body count mounts, folk carry on normally, manning their posts even in the face of an impending crossing, slipping away to safety at the last moment, returning as soon as the window closes.
Moe growls and darts to a nearby locker. I start to follow, assuming it’s the demon, but when he rips the locker door off and tears open a lunchbox, I realise he’s found a sandwich.
“Idiot,” I grunt, turning back to the conveyor belt.
Fangs sink into my thigh. Yelling, I fall and the snake drags me into the gloom beneath the belt, where it’s been lying in wait. I strike at its eyes, but it doesn’t have any. Gripping me tightly, it drives its fangs further into my flesh, crushing the bones in my leg.
I once read a survival pamphlet that said if a giant snake ever got hold of you, you should lie still, so it thinks you are dead. Then, as it swallows your legs, you free your knife (too bad if you don’t have one) and hold it by your side. As the snake devours your thighs and sets to work on your stomach, you drive the tip of the knife up through the roof of its mouth and deep into its brain. That always grossed out girls when I told them!
I’m sure it’s sound advice, but I don’t have time to test it. Unlike most large snakes, this demon’s poisonous and I can feel its venom coursing through my veins. I don’t have the luxury of playing possum. Besides, that’s not my style.
Grunting against the pain, I grab the demon’s fangs and snap them off. The beast chokes and releases me, spewing poisonous pink blood. I drive one of the broken fangs into the side of its head. It squeals like a baby and thrashes across the floor. I hang on, riding it bronco-style, stabbing at it again and again. More blood froths from the wounds, soaking my face and chest.
As the snake slams against the conveyor belt, knocking it over, I thrust my head in its mouth and roar down its throat. A ball of magic bursts from my lips and rips through the demon’s body. It explodes into tattered, slimy shreds. I pick some of the foul scraps from between my teeth, then focus magic into my leg and repair the damage. Getting to my feet, I look for Moe. He’s still munching the sandwich.
“Great help you were,” I snarl, using more magic to clear my veins of poison.
Moe looks at me guiltily, then holds out the last piece of sandwich. I turn my nose up at it and hobble for the doorway, eager to squeeze in more killing before the window between universes shuts and robs me of my demonic punchbags.
→ The streets are awash with demons, the usual assortment of vile concoctions, many cobbled together from bodies resembling those of animals, fish and birds. Demons are an unimaginative lot. Most can use magic to mould their forms, but rather than give themselves original, amazing bodies, they copy ours.
Dozens of werewolves are fighting the demons. I had them imported from Wolf Island, to replace those of my original pack. Most of the new specimens aren’t as sturdy, fast or smart as those I first chose, but they get the job done. Curly’s in the middle of them, acting as pack leader in my absence. She’s a fierce creature, taller than me, though not as broad. Sharp too. She can always spot if one of the werewolves disobeys orders and attacks a human instead of a demon. She pounces on the offending party in an instant and slits the beast’s throat without blinking. No second chances with Curly.
Soldiers and freshly blooded mages support the werewolves. The soldiers don’t do much damage – you can only kill a demon with magic – but the mages are doing a pretty good job. They’re learning quickly. Not up to the level of the Disciples, but getting there fast.
I move among the apprentices, taking the place of the mace-wielding old lady. There aren’t many Disciples left, so they’re spread thinly across the world, one or two per group of mages. I see the men and women around me flinch as I pass. They know who I am. They’ve seen me kill more demons than anybody else. They know they’re safe when I’m around. But I’m a fearsome sight and most find it hard to suppress a shudder when they find themselves beside me.
I could change back if I wished, resume my human form. But I prefer it this way. It’s easier to lead people to their death if you’re not truly one of them.
A girl, no more than twelve or thirteen, is playing with a wooden yo-yo. As a demon comes within range, she snaps the yo-yo at it. The wood splinters and the shards puncture the demon’s eyes. She replaces it with another yo-yo, this time a plastic one.
“Nice work,” I grunt.
She looks up at me and fakes a yawn. “Whatever.”
Magic isn’t a natural part of our universe. But some humans – mages – are born with the ability to tap into it. When a demon opens a window from its universe to ours, magical energy spills through. If you’re a mage, you’re in business.
In the past, very few mages got to unleash their power. Windows weren’t opened often. It was hard for the Disciples to find new recruits. Now that demons have gone into overdrive, and two or three windows open every day, it’s simple. When a window is forming, we arrange for crowds of people to wait close by, then test them for magical prowess. Those who show promise are thrown into the fray after a quick burst of training, to perish or triumph.
I see a window in the near distance. A child, even younger than the girl with the yo-yo, stands to one side. A man and woman are behind her. I guess they’re using the girl. She probably had no choice in this. But, innocent or not, the Demonata are working through her, so she has to die.
As I push through the battling demons, werewolves and humans, I marvel at the greed of mankind. I should be accustomed to it, but I’m still astonished every time it happens. Most mages use their powers for good, especially now that people can clearly see the full, destructive evil of the Demonata.
But there are others who side with the demons. They seek power, wealth, a longer life. They scent an opportunity to get ahead and sell off their souls to the highest bidder without a second thought. It never seems to occur to them that there will be no place in a demon-run world for any humans, even the most evil. Demons don’t do coalitions.
The woman behind the girl spots me. She taps the girl’s shoulder and mutters in her ear. The three of them edge closer to the window. Uh-uh! Can’t have them slipping away early. That wouldn’t be fair. I bark a phrase of magic and erect an invisible barrier between the trio and the window. Panic shoots across the faces of the adults. The girl simply looks confused.
The man hurls himself at the barrier, trying to smash it with his shoulder. The woman curses and draws a gun. As she trains it on me, I turn it into a posy of flowers. She stares at the petals, sadness filling her eyes as she realises this will serve as her death wreath. Then Moe barrels on to the scene and knocks her to the ground. Her screams excite the wolf in me and I fall on the man, snarling. He just has time to beg for mercy. Then my teeth are around his throat and the sweet taste of human flesh fills my mouth.
I gulp the man’s blood, then toss his carcass aside and loom over the girl. She gazes up at me, that confused look still crinkling her features. She’s even younger than I thought, maybe seven or eight. She’s clutching a small teddy bear in one hand.
“Are you the bogey man?” she whispers, eyes round.
“Yes,” I croak, then take hold of her head with my huge, scarred, blood-soaked hands and crush.
Thoughts of Juni Swan flicker through my mind as the girl shakes and drops the teddy bear. Juni was Lord Loss’s assistant. She could catch glimpses of the future. We fought on Wolf Island. She had me beaten, but then let me go. Because, in a vision, she saw me destroying the world.
I’ve tried to dismiss Juni’s prophecy, but I’m sure it’s true. I often think that I should throw myself off a cliff or let the demons kill me. The world would be a safer place without me. But I can’t do it. Life’s too sweet. So I lie to myself and cling to false hope that she was wrong, even though I know it’s selfish madness.
As the girl goes still, I set her down and wonder if I’ll crush the world as easily as her head.
The window flashes out of existence, stranding the demons. With screams of despair, they battle furiously, eager to kill as many humans as they can before this universe rids itself of their ugly stain. But they’re already weakening, robbed of the magic they need to survive.
I feel my strength fading too. I’m a magician, so I can operate in the absence of a window. But I’m nowhere near as powerful as I am when the air’s thick with the delirious energy of the Demonata.
It doesn’t matter. I’m not essential in this final stage. Nor are the mages. This is where the werewolves and soldiers come into their own. They rip apart the weakened demons with fangs, claws, bullets and machetes. The demons don’t die, but they no longer have the power to put themselves back together, so they can only lie there in pieces and wait to dissolve as magic drains from the air.
Moe cocks a deformed eyebrow at me and grunts questioningly.
“Go on,” I sigh, wincing at the pain in my leg. That’s the downside of using magic to heal a wound. It’s fine while there’s magical energy in the air, but once that passes, pain kicks in with a vengeance.
As Moe joins the bloodletting, a pale, thin, icy-looking woman approaches me. It’s Prae Athim, head of the Lambs, a group which once acted as executioners of Grady children who’d turned into werewolves. Now they supply me with fresh recruits from Wolf Island.
“That looks nasty,” Prae says, nodding at my leg. It’s purple, and pus seeps from the cuts which have reopened.
“I’ll be fine,” I mutter. “I got rid of all the poison before the window closed.”
“Does it hurt?” she asks.
“Yes. But it won’t kill me.”
“Still, you should have it looked at.”
I grin. Prae loves to mother her wolfen wards, even a semi-werewolf like me. She’s cold with humans, but has a soft spot for those who’ve turned into savage, mindless killing machines.
“Will you look after the others?” I ask.
“Of course,” she snaps. “Don’t I always?”
Prae can’t directly control the werewolves – only I can do that – but she’s had years of experience and commands a team of specialists. When I’m tired or don’t have the time to round up the pack and settle them down, she moves in with her troops. They use electric prods, nets and shackles where necessary, though having feasted on so many demons, most of the werewolves are happy to do as ordered.
“Will I see you later?” I ask. Prae often spends the night after a battle with me, looking ahead to the next assault, discussing tactics.
“No,” she says. “We’re accepting a new shipment from the island. I want to make sure the transfer goes smoothly and get them quartered close to the others.”
“Do you want my help?”
She shakes her head. “I’ll make them comfortable first. You can give them your pep talk in the morning. I’m sure they’ll be impressed.”
Prae leaves and I chuckle softly. I’ve grown fond of her in recent weeks. She reminds me of Dervish. He could be a distant customer too, when he needed to be.
Thinking of my dead uncle wipes the smile from my lips. I spend a few minutes remembering some of his finer moments — when he came to see me in the asylum after my family was killed, fighting Vein and Artery in the cellar at Carcery Vale, battling Lord Loss in the town of Slawter, dying with dignity in the desert.
Then I recall his love for Juni, when we thought she was on our side, and that reminds me of her dire prophecy. Sighing miserably, I shuffle off to hospital, wishing I could avoid quiet, human moments like these. Life’s a lot easier when chaos is erupting all around and the beastly wolf within me rises to the fore.
MR GRUMPY-PUSS
→ I’m not going to the hospital to have myself tended to. Prae’s concern was touching, but unwarranted. I’ll be in a lot of pain until the next attack, but as soon as a window opens and magic floods the air, I’ll revive spectacularly. No, I’m going to look in on a patient. A guy not much older than me, whose eyes I clawed out a month ago.
As I enter the ward where I left Kernel before the battle started, I fill with guilt, as I do every time I face him. My stomach still gives a turn when I recall the callous way I blinded my friend, ripping his eyes from their sockets the way a bully might swipe a bag of sweets from a child.
The doctors and nurses are rushed off their feet trying to deal with a flood of casualties. Abandoning the more seriously wounded to chance, they focus on those most likely to respond to treatment.
Nobody pays much attention to me as I pad through the corridors. I’ve made myself a bit smaller, but I still cut a sinister sight. I’m taller and broader than any human, naked except for a pair of torn, tattered trousers, hairy, bloody and foul-smelling. I’d inspire terror if these were normal times. But we’ve passed way beyond the bounds of normality. These days, in the cities and towns where the war takes me, I draw nothing more than curious glances.
I stop at the door of Kernel’s room and study the bald, brown-skinned teenager through the glass. He’s sitting on a chair in the corner. I left him lying on a bed, but he’s given that up to one of the recently wounded. Kirilli Kovacs is by his side, chatting animatedly, making sweeping gestures with his hands. I smile at the ridiculous Kirilli. He still wears a stage magician’s costume, though he replaced his ruined original suit with a new one a few weeks back. It didn’t have gold and silver stars down the sides, but he found some and has been stitching them on in quieter moments.
Two fingers on Kirilli’s left hand are missing, he’s scarred and bruised all over and his right foot was bitten off at the ankle — he wears a prosthetic. Kirilli is proud of his injuries. He whined to begin with, but when he saw the impression they made on people – especially pretty nurses – he adopted a stoic stance. He loves telling exaggerated tales about how he lost his various body parts.
Kirilli’s a natural coward, but he came good when we last fought the demons in their own universe. He was a hero that day, surprising even himself. He hasn’t been called into action too often since, but has handled himself capably when required. I think he’s over the worst of his cowardice, though he’ll never be an out-and-out warrior.
I push the door open. Kernel is smiling at whatever tall tale Kirilli’s spinning. The pair have become good friends. Kirilli helps Kernel forget about his missing eyes. I should really set the Disciple more demanding tasks – he’s too important to waste on babysitting duties – but guilt over what I did to Kernel stays my hand.
There’s a growl to my left. It’s Larry, crouched in the corner. I leave one of my most-trusted werewolves with Kernel whenever I’m not around. Officially they’re here to protect him. But the truth – as Kernel knows – is that I don’t trust my blind companion. I’m afraid he’ll create a pair of eyes when a window is open and slip away. Larry’s instructions – hammered into him with difficulty – are to watch over Kernel and disable him if the teenager ever starts fiddling with his sockets.
Kernel and Kirilli glance up when Larry growls. Kernel’s expression instantly changes, even though he can’t see me. I guess the smell gives me away.
“Here comes our triumphant general,” Kernel sneers. “Kill many demons today, Grubbs? Blind any of them?”
“How is he?” I ask Kirilli, ignoring the taunts.
“Blind!” Kernel snaps before the Disciple can answer. “In agony. A doctor had a look at me earlier, before the window opened. Infection has set in. I used magic to clean it – carefully, so as not to arouse my guard’s suspicions – but the rot will return. I’ll probably drop dead of some disease of the brain any day now. Give me back my eyes, you son of a wolfen hound!”
“Does he ever change the track?” I sigh.
“He only gets like this when you’re around,” Kirilli murmurs. “And, as I’m sure you acknowledge, he has genuine cause for complaint.”
I grunt sourly and step aside as a patient is bundled past by a couple of nurses. “We’ve had this conversation too many times. I won’t restore your eyes until we rescue Bec. If you promised not to take off, I’d let you fix them now.”
“I promise to kick your ass every day for all eternity in hell,” Kernel snarls. “How about that?”
I scowl at the blind magician, hating myself more than him. Kernel’s part of a demonic weapon known as the Kah-Gash. I am too. It can be used to settle this war, handing ultimate victory to us or the Demonata. The third part is in a girl called Bec, currently a prisoner of the demon master, Lord Loss.
The original plan was for the three of us to unite, unleash the power of the Kah-Gash, destroy the Demonata and ride off into the sunset, champions of the universe, the greatest heroes ever. Easy.
Then Death came along and complicated matters. Death used to be a force, the same as gravity or light, without thought or form. Now it has a mind and it created a body from the souls of the dead that it reaped. We christened it the Shadow before we found out its true identity.
Death doesn’t like us. Life’s too abundant in this universe. It wants to go back to the way things were, when only demons and the Old Creatures were around. It’s thrown its support behind the Demonata. Under Death’s guidance, the demons have banded together and launched an assault on Earth. Their reward if they triumph will be the obliteration of mankind, control of our universe and immortality. Not a bad little package!
One of the ancient Old Creatures took Kernel on a trip to the centre of the universe, explaining the origins of life along the way. Apparently there was one universe to begin with, divided into sixty-four zones, half white and half black, like a chess board. The Kah-Gash held it all together, keeping the demons and Old Creatures apart. Then law and order broke down, the Big Bang shattered everything and life as we know it began.
The Old Creatures protected us from the Demonata as long as they could, but they’ve been fighting a losing battle. Unlike the demons, they can’t reproduce, so when the last one dies, we’ll be left to the devices of the inhuman armies. That spells curtains for this world and all the others in our universe.
To deny the demons their triumph, the Old Creatures created an ark. Like Noah’s, only this is an entire world, staffed by a variety of the universe’s more magical creatures. They want Kernel to captain the ark. As the eyes of the Kah-Gash, he can find shortcuts between any two points in the universes. By keeping him alive forever, the Old Creatures hope that he can steer the ark one step ahead of the pursuing Demonata, ensuring that a small section of our universe survives until the end of time.
It would have been easy for Kernel to accept their offer. But he came back and pitched in with us for one last assault. The Old Creatures said we couldn’t beat Death, that it’s invulnerable, but Kernel refused to write off our chances. He joined with Bec and me, and we confronted the Shadow.
We managed to destroy Death’s body, but it’s only a matter of time before it returns, bigger and badder than before, to lead its followers to victory. Seeing this, Kernel chose to return to the ark. I asked him to stay and fight. Bec had been captured by Lord Loss and I wanted us to free her, then unleash the full force of the Kah-Gash on Death when it returned.
Kernel refused. He thought Bec had switched allegiances and sided with Lord Loss. Even if she hadn’t, he couldn’t see any way of defeating Death. He got ready to open a window and take off for pastures unimaginably distant.
That’s when I lost my cool and tore out his eyes. I needed Kernel to find Bec for us to stand any sort of chance against Death. If I had to blind and imprison him to force his hand, so be it. The human Grubbs Grady could never have acted so viciously, but the new, wolfen me… Well, I don’t sleep with an easy conscience, but I can live with it.
“How does he look?” Kernel asks Kirilli. “Ashamed? He should. What he did to me, I wouldn’t have done to a dog. Or a demon. Not even a werewolf.”
“He looks tired,” Kirilli says, offering me a slight smile.
“Poor Grubbs,” Kernel sneers. “Are you overworked? You should take a week off, treat yourself to a holiday.”
“That’s right,” I sigh. “Go on hating me. It’s not like you’ve got anything else to hate, is it?”
“The Demonata?” Kernel shakes his head. “I don’t hate them. They’re doing what they were born to. Nature spat them out as foul, heartless killers. That’s the way they are. You, on the other hand, chose vileness over humanity. We were friends. I trusted you. But then you did this to me and keep me here against my will, even though you know it’s wrong. I despise you more than I ever thought possible.”
I sniff away his insults. “Whatever,” I deadpan, echoing the girl with the yo-yo. “We’re staying here the rest of the night, then moving out at ten in the morning. If you want anything, ask a nurse.”
“I want new eyes,” Kernel snarls. “Can a nurse fetch me those?”
I start for the door.
“Grubbs,” Kernel stops me. I glance back wearily, preparing myself for more insults. “Why are we still here?”
I frown. “I told you, we’re staying overnight, then–”
“I mean on Earth,” he interrupts. “When you blinded me, you said you needed me to find Bec, that we’d wait for our wounds to heal, then rescue her. But it’s been a month and we haven’t gone after her. Why not?”
I’m surprised Kernel hasn’t mentioned this before. I kept waiting for him to ask and had all sorts of responses lined up. But now my tongue freezes. I flash on the dreams I’ve been having, think about sharing them with him, then shake my head.
“We’re not ready. We’ll go for Bec when the time is right. We can do more good here at the moment.”
“We?” Kernel replies archly. “All I do is wait around in hospitals for you to return from the killing fields. If you’re not going to use me, set me free.”
“I will use you,” I mutter. “When it’s time, I’ll take you back to the demon universe and let you build new eyes.”
“And then?” Kernel prompts.
“We’ll find Bec.”
“Find her?” He pounces like a cat. “Not rescue her?”
I gulp, then nod at Kirilli. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Not if I see you first,” Kernel calls after me, then raises his voice as I exit, to make sure I hear his parting shot. “Not that that’s very likely!”
→ I find an unoccupied room on an upper floor of the hospital and make a bed out of some balled-up surgical gowns. I’d rather not sleep, but rest is vital, even for a creature like me. I have to be at my sharpest to keep on fighting demons.
I think about my conversation with Kernel, and about Dervish, Juni, Lord Loss, Bec. I recall the prophecy again, the way Juni cackled, her delight as she described seeing the world explode, the universe burning beneath my twisted hands.
It’s too much. Guilt, fear and loneliness overwhelm me. I’m not in close touch with my human emotions these days. I’ve become a detached, brutal excuse for a person. But tonight, for a few brief minutes, my defences crumble. I become an awkward teenager again. I feel the weight of the expectations that ride upon me… the awful price the world will pay if I fail… those who’ve been lost… the lives I’ve taken, like the confused little girl tonight… the fear of what might be waiting for me when I cross to Lord Loss’s realm… Juni’s prophecy.
As my face contorts and becomes more human, my chest heaves and I weep. Hot, thick, salty tears run down my cheeks as I sob and beg for help from the dead — Dervish and Beranabus, Mum and Dad, Meera and Bill-E. I’ve blinded a friend. Hidden terrible truths from those who’ve placed their trust in me. Killed and lied. And, if Juni’s to be believed, there’s worse to come.
I wail and mumble madly, biting into the gowns to stifle my cries, pounding my chest and face with my fists. I curse the universe, God if he exists, the Old Creatures, the Disciples, Lord Loss and all the demons. But most of all I curse myself, poor, pitiful, apocalyptic Grubbs Grady.
Then, as the tears dry… as the werewolf regains control and my features harden and transform… as I bury my humanity deep again… as the Kah-Gash whispers and tells me I’m not alone and to stop behaving like a child… I gradually calm down.
I turn and readjust the gowns. Make myself comfortable. Breathe more slowly. Mutter a short spell. And fall into what should be a pure and dreamless sleep — but isn’t.
IN DREAMS I WALK WITH YOU
→ The spell I use when I want to sleep is meant to stop me dreaming. It’s designed to provide me with a good night’s sleep, free of nightmares, so I can wake fresh and bright in the morning. But it hasn’t been working since Bec was abducted. I’ve tried different spells, having asked a number of Disciples for advice, but nothing keeps the dream at bay. The same disturbing scenes unfold every time and they’re the real reason why I haven’t tried to rescue Bec.
As the dream kicks in again, I flow along with it as usual. I’ve tried fighting, struggled to change the sequence or details, but without success. Tonight I accept my lack of control with as much grace as a savage beast like me can muster.
I’m in a room made of cobwebs, staring down at a sleeping girl — Bec. She lies on a bed of thick webs, covered by a blanket of much finer strands. She looks pale and exhausted, but bears no wounds and breathes easily, calmly.
Her left hand moves upward and brushes her cheek, as I knew it would. Her nose twitches and again I’m not surprised. I’ve seen it all a dozen times. When you experience the same dream over and over, you start paying attention to the details, to stop yourself going mad. I try to find something new tonight, a little movement or quiver that I missed before, but everything is exactly the same as before.
Bec’s eyelids flutter open. A moment of panic – “Where am I?” – then her look of alarm fades and she rises. She’s dressed in a beautiful nightgown, the sort I’ve only seen in old movies. It’s not made of webs. I guess Lord Loss took it from one of his victims — I can’t imagine him going shopping for it.
Bec walks to a small, round window and gazes out over a landscape of cobwebs. This is Lord Loss’s realm, a world of countless sticky strands, a massive network of despair and sorrow. The air is thick with misery and suffering. I can sense that thousands of people have died here, crying out for their loved ones, alone and separated from all they’d ever known.
Bec turns to a table and chair, both carved out of webs. There’s a mirror set in the wall over the table. The girl sits and studies her reflection. She looks tense, but not scared. She reaches out to touch the face in the mirror, as if she’s not sure it’s really hers, then pauses and lowers her hand.
Standing, she walks to a wardrobe on the other side of the room. The doors open as she approaches and a clothes rack slides out. Long, frilly dresses hang from it, the sort a princess or movie star would wear. I don’t think they’d suit a plain girl like Bec. She must think the same thing because she smiles at the dresses and shakes her head.
“You do yourself a disservice, Little One,” says a voice. Bec stiffens, then turns slowly and regards Lord Loss. He’s hovering in the doorway, blood seeping from the many cracks in his pale red skin. His dark red eyes are as kindly as I’ve ever seen them. Even the snakes in the hole where his heart should be look harmless, hissing playfully, seeming to smile at the young girl by the wardrobe.
“Of course you deserve such finery,” Lord Loss continues, floating into the room and running a couple of his eight arms over the dresses. “You are a priestess of high standing. You should expect only the best from your world and its people. They exist to serve your pleasure and revere your beauty.”
“You flatter me,” Bec says shyly.
“No,” Lord Loss says. “Power is beauty, and as you are the most powerful of all humans, you must be the most beautiful. Wear these dresses and think of them as rags. We shall find finer robes for you later.”
He picks out a green dress and smiles. “This matches your eyes. Will you try it on, to please me?”
“Very well.” Bec sighs and slips out of her nightdress, not embarrassed to be naked in front of the demon master. Bec’s nudity made me uncomfortable at first, but I’m used to it now. What I find more unsettling is the fact that she seems to want to please Lord Loss. Why should she care about his wishes, or dress to impress him? This is our enemy, a vile, twisted monster. Yet she’s letting him treat her like a doll.
When Bec has dressed, Lord Loss leads her to the table and applies make-up as she sits patiently. It’s obscene, watching his mangled hands brushing across her face. I want to knock him away and slap Bec back to her senses. It wouldn’t be so bad if he was controlling her thoughts, brainwashing her to do his bidding. But I don’t get any hint of that. Bec looks nervous, but her mind appears to be her own.
When Lord Loss is finished, he drifts back a few metres and studies her. He nods with satisfaction, as he does every time, and murmurs, “What a vision.”
Bec blushes, unable to hide a timid smile. I’ve grown to loathe that smile. It’s wrong. This should be a place of tears and heartache, not shy smirks.
“Come,” Lord Loss says, offering Bec an arm. “Let me show you more of my palace.”
Bec gulps, then takes his arm and lets the demon master lead her out of the bedroom. They descend a staircase of webs. Some of Lord Loss’s familiars scurry past as the pair walk gracefully down the steps. The lesser demons scowl at Bec, but steer clear of her, afraid of angering their master. Bec knows they hate her, but she doesn’t care. She’s safe as long as she stays by her protector.
They stroll through the castle, Lord Loss polite as a prince, the perfect host, pointing out features of special interest. Bec admires the chandeliers and statues, and coos when Lord Loss modestly admits to designing them himself.
“You’re so creative,” she says.
“That is kind of you, but untrue,” he replies. “They’re modelled after objects I have seen on Earth. I have a certain workmanlike skill, but no real artistic streak. Unoriginality is the curse of my kind.”
They descend further, to a cellar deep beneath the ground. In my sleep I tense. I know what’s coming and I hate it. This is one of the worst parts of the dream. If I could skip it, I would, but it draws me on as it always does, an unwilling viewer, unable to pull back or look aside.
We enter a chamber of torture. Savage implements of torment are strapped to the webby walls. Brands glow red in burning fires. The air is pierced by the screams of the dying. Bec flinches and her fingers tighten on Lord Loss’s arm. He pats her small hand, comforting her. She gulps, then takes a trembling step forward. Lord Loss nods approvingly and leads her on.
I’ve never been able to count all the people in the cellar, since many are hidden behind walls or cabinets. There are at least thirty, probably a lot more to judge by the volume of shrieks and moans.
“Do you feel sorry for them?” Lord Loss asks as Bec shudders.
“Yes,” she whimpers.
“Good,” he says. “Pity is a virtue. I feel sorry for them too. It’s true,” he insists as she shoots him a dubious glance. “I take pleasure from their torment, but I feel pity too. That is how I differ from my fellow demons. I don’t hate humanity. I crave their torment and sorrow, but I also adore them. I torture with love, Little One. Can you understand that?”
“No,” she frowns.
He sighs. “At least you are honest. I’m glad you can reveal your true feelings to me. I don’t want there to be any deception between us. Always tell me the truth, even if you think I won’t like it. Lies belittle us all.”
Bec observes silently as Lord Loss sets to work on a few of the humans hanging from the walls or lying across hard tables. He acts like a nurse as he tortures them, every movement deceptively gentle and loving. He purrs softly, telling them how sorry he is, how he wishes he could free them, how it won’t be much longer now.
Bec doesn’t look as if she shares the demon master’s enjoyment, but she doesn’t object either. I’ve tried to read her mind every time we get to this point, but I can’t. I’d give anything to know what’s in her thoughts. I hope she’s putting on a detached face to fool Lord Loss, to stay on his good side and trick him into thinking she doesn’t hate him. I hope this is a masterful act, that she’s plotting to betray him, waiting and praying for Kernel and me to burst in and rescue her.
But her eyes are calm and emotionless, and when she licks her lips, it looks as if she’s fighting a desire to try what Lord Loss is doing.
As the demon master continues to extract fresh pain from his victims, Bec casts her gaze around and my virtual head swivels too. This is the part I hate the most. I try to look away or shut my eyes, but I’m locked in. I have to see what she sees, even though it sends a chill through my bones that will still be there when I wake.
The people chained to the walls and torture devices are a varied mix. Men and women, boys and girls, of different races. No babies — Lord Loss likes to be able to hold discussions with his victims. With a single exception, I don’t recognise any of them, though I know by his magical aura that one – a thin, blond-haired man – is a Disciple.
Bec studies the Disciple – he’s in the worse shape of anyone, kept alive only by magic – then moves on, her gaze sweeping over a girl my age. I didn’t notice her the first few times. To Bec she’s of no more interest than any of the others. It’s a blink-and-you-miss-it moment. It was only after the fourth or fifth time, when I was concentrating on details to keep boredom at bay, that I focused on the girl’s face and got a shock that echoes even now, twenty or so viewings later.
The girl is pretty, but her face is covered with blood and scrunched up with terror. Her clothes hang from her in filthy rags, but I’m sure they originally came from the finest designer boutiques. And although her hair is a tangled mess and her nails are long and cracked, once they were as carefully tended as a model’s.
Apart from the blood, the girl doesn’t seem to have been tortured, but many of Lord Loss’s victims look unmarked. He patches them up and lets them recover a little when he’s done, to make it all the more painful next time. Inside, I’m sure she’s been twisted and torn in more ways than most humans could imagine.
As Bec’s eyes dart about, I snatch the same quick glimpse of the girl that I’ve been horrified by ever since I realised who she was. Back on Earth, in a quiet hospital room, my lips move as I mutter in my sleep. “Bo Kooniart…”
EXECUTIVE BOARD
→ Bec and Lord Loss move on eventually, up another set of stairs, to a different part of the demon master’s palace. Blood drips from his doughy flesh as he floats along, but it’s not his own. Bec is silent, head bowed, brooding.
I’m thinking about Bo Kooniart. It seems like a lifetime since I last saw her, racing back into a demon-infested town in search of her horrible father and pain of a brother. Bo was one of the actresses in Slawter, a movie about demons made by a crazed director who decided to use real-life monsters in the name of art.
I despised Bo. Her father, Tump Kooniart, was a powerful agent, which was the only reason she and her brother were cast in the film. He was working in league with the director and Lord Loss. He thought the Demonata would spare him and his children. He thought wrong.
Bo was a spoilt, snobbish, sneering little brat. But when the demons ran riot and our lives hung in the balance, she acted selflessly, heroically. We might not have escaped without her help. Then, rather than follow us to freedom, she went back to try and rescue her father and brother.
I assumed Bo had been killed along with the hundreds of others who died, but Lord Loss must have spared her and taken her to his own universe, where he could torture her at his leisure.
When I realised Bo was still alive, trapped in that chamber of nightmares, I felt that I was directly to blame. Lord Loss authorised the attack on the film set in order to wreak revenge on Dervish and me. All those people died because of us. Bo is in torment because of me. I feel compelled to cross and break her out. But I don’t dare, not until I’ve decided what to do about Bec. I might get away with one sneak attack on Lord Loss’s kingdom, but never two.
The tour continues. Bec is quiet for the most part and looks gloomy, but I’m sure I’d look a lot worse in her position. How can she walk alongside that beast so calmly? Unless she’s considering joining him…
I wish they’d have a conversation about it. In movies, the villain always gives his plan away by talking too much and revealing his secrets. But Lord Loss never discusses Bec’s state of mind. There’s no mention of the war between the Demonata and mankind, or what role he wants Bec to play in it.
The pair enter a room filled with chess boards and the demon master’s face lights up. After our showdown in Slawter, he said I’d spoilt chess for him, but that’s not true. He’s still a fanatic, as evidenced by the care he takes of the boards and the way he describes them to Bec, telling her where he got them, the games he’s played, the opponents he’s faced.
“Did you carve any of these yourself?” Bec asks.
“No,” he says morosely. “I started to, several times, but chess is like a religion for me. Whenever I sat down to make a set of my own, it felt like sacrilege.”
Bec looks around at the array. She seems to be searching for one in particular. “What about the original Board?” she asks eventually.
“Why do you seek that?” Lord Loss’s eyes narrow.
“I don’t seek it,” Bec smiles. “I’d just like to see it again. I know you took it from the cave after Drust died.”
“You mean after you killed him,” Lord Loss murmurs.
Bec stiffens, then tilts her head. “Aye.”
Lord Loss clicks several fingers. A demon with five legs and a neck like a giraffe scurries away and returns with a crystal board, the first that was ever made on this world. According to Kernel, it was a tool of the Old Creatures. They used it to help mankind evolve.
Lord Loss holds the Board reverentially, then passes it to Bec. She treats it the same careful way he did, examining it closely. “It’s amazing,” she whispers. “I can feel the power, so different to ours.”
“The magic of the Old Creatures,” Lord Loss sniffs. “It’s nothing special.”
Bec hides a smirk behind the Board. I don’t see what all the fuss is about. It’s just another chess board as far as I’m concerned. I know it has magical properties, but I’ve seen a hundred more fascinating objects in my travels.
Bec hands the Board back to Lord Loss. The dream’s almost over. I’m anticipating the end. But before the conclusion, there will be one last conversation.
“I’d like to enter it,” Bec says.
“Why?” Lord Loss snaps suspiciously.
“I know of its splendours. Kernel went there once, many years ago. I want to experience them for myself.”
Lord Loss is frowning. “You cannot escape me in there,” he growls. “If you think you can tap into the magic of the Old Creatures and use it against me, you are gravely mistaken.”
“That’s not my intention,” Bec says calmly. “You said earlier that you didn’t want me to lie. So I’ll tell you truthfully, I do have a secret reason for wanting to enter the Board. But it has nothing to do with escape.”
Bec’s eyes flicker. It’s the furtive look of someone who suspects they’re being watched, who wants to go somewhere private to discuss dark deeds. I think, as I’ve thought every time I see her eyes move, Does she know I’m here?
This is no normal dream. I’m certain these events are real, that they happened, are happening or will happen in the future. I suspect my ability to follow Bec through the castle is the work of the Kah-Gash. If I’m correct, maybe it’s working through her too and she can sense me watching.
Maybe Lord Loss senses Bec’s nervousness too, because after a brief pause, he accepts her request. “Very well. I will grant your wish, as I grant the wishes of all who are honest with me.”
The pair go rigid and their eyes frost over. Their souls have entered the Board. If I knew for sure that this was happening in the present, I’d cross immediately and strike while the demon master’s soul was absent. I’d kill him where he stood, and that would be the end of lowly Lord Loss.
But time works differently in the demon universe. This might be something that took place in the past, or that hasn’t happened yet. I’d be a fool if I rushed in without knowing for certain that the demon master was distracted and defenceless.
I wait for the scene to fade and the dream to pass. It always does at this point. I’ll slip into unconsciousness and won’t stir until morning. A few more seconds and…
Nothing happens. For several minutes I watch the motionless pair, Lord Loss cradling the Board, Bec leaning close to him, both with their eyes half closed. I wonder if the scene has frozen, like when a DVD sticks, but then a demon slinks by and I realise time is passing.
For the first time ever, the dream is different. I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad sign. I try looking away from the Board, but my gaze is fixed. I start to fidget, wondering if this is a trap, if my mind will remain stuck here while my body shrivels up and dies. Have I been lured in and ensnared? If so, I can’t see any way out. I’m helpless in this dream zone.
Time drags on. Hard to tell how long. I wish I had a watch. I become more certain that I’ve walked into a trap, that I’m going to perish slowly and stupidly. Then, as I’m cursing myself for being so gullible…
Bec blinks and Lord Loss clutches the Board to his chest. The pair breathe out and smile shakily at each other. “Interesting,” Lord Loss mutters.
“Isn’t it?” Bec grins.
“I will need time to ponder and reflect.”
“Of course.”
“If you’re wrong… if it doesn’t go the way you think…” His face darkens.
“It’s a risk no matter which way you play it.” Bec shrugs, then turns. “I can find my own way back.”
She walks out of the room and I automatically trail her, thinking to myself, What the hell? Lord Loss stays where he is, fondling the Board, staring after Bec with an unreadable expression.
→ I stay with Bec as she weaves through rooms and corridors of webs, eventually ending up back in the bedroom where she started. She looks exhausted. I think more time passed for them inside the Board than it did for me as an onlooker. But what did they do in there? What did they talk about? It sounded like Bec made some sort of an offer to Lord Loss. But what?
She undresses and wipes the make-up from her face. Steps into her nightgown, then returns to the seat by the table and stares into the mirror. She looks doubtful, like she’s gambled everything and doesn’t know which way the dice will roll. For a moment I believe she’s tried to persuade Lord Loss to throw in his lot with us. Perhaps she’s been playing him all along, waiting until the time was right to sign him up for our side. I have crazy thoughts of the demon master doing a Darth Vader and joining our side to stop the evil Emperor of Death.
But this isn’t Star Wars, and almost as soon as the childish hope forms, reality knocks a thousand holes in it.
“I reached my conclusion sooner than I anticipated.”
Bec turns. Lord Loss has entered the bedroom. He’s smiling. She stands and walks over to him, trembling. “You’ve decided?”
“Yes.” He leans down and kisses her. For a second I think he means to draw the life from her lips, but this is a kiss of passion, not destruction.
“I admire your daring and cunning,” he murmurs. “We will proceed as you suggested. If you can find the lodestones, I’ll help open the tunnels.”
Bec throws her arms around Lord Loss and hugs him. As she does, I’m torn from my dream. Snapping awake, I hurl myself from my makeshift bed in the hospital, smash a fist into the wall, then howl at the ceiling like a madman.
HOME SWEET HOME
→ I cancel my plans to travel to the city where the next crossing is due. Instead I send the werewolves, under the guidance of Prae Athim and her Lambs. They’ll have to handle this one without me.
I catch a separate plane, with Kernel, Kirilli, Moe and Curly. I leave Larry with the other werewolves to keep them in line. I’m twitching with nerves, unable to forget the dream for an instant, wondering about the pact Bec made with Lord Loss, recalling the way she embraced him. The memory chews me up inside. I wish I’d gone after her as soon as she was kidnapped and killed that damn priestess from the past.
On the plane, I tell Kernel and Kirilli about the dream. It’s essential they know about the threat, in case anything happens to me.
Kernel hits the roof. “Why didn’t you tell us before?” he roars. I claim innocence – until last night, there was no hint that Bec might betray us – but he doesn’t buy that. “You should have told us anyway. You know better than to hide something this important.”
There’s nothing I can say to defend myself, because he’s right.
Moe and Curly hate planes. They cower in their seats, as far from the windows as they can squirm, whining at the noise of the engines and every bump caused by turbulence. All of the werewolves hate flying. They only suffer it because they know there will be rich pickings at the other end.
At least we don’t have to bother with connecting flights. The governments and armies of the world work hand-in-hand with the Disciples now. A jet is put at my disposal as soon as I ask for one. It makes getting around a hell of a lot easier.
Kernel is still griping as we hit the runway, saying he warned me about Bec, that this wouldn’t be happening if I’d listened and that I should return him to the demon universe and set him free. He insists we’re wasting our time trying to thwart the plans of Bec and Lord Loss. Although many of the world’s lodestones – reservoirs of ancient, magical power – were destroyed or drained long ago, an unknown number still exist.
“The locations of most are a mystery to us,” Kernel says, “but Beranabus knew about a few stones that he either wasn’t able to destroy or wanted to keep intact. He never told us where they were, but Bec absorbs the memories of everyone she touches, and she spent a lot of time with Beranabus. She’ll lead Lord Loss to the lodestones and we can’t stop her. We’re done for.”
Again, I can’t argue. The more potent lodestones can be used to open a tunnel between the demon universe and ours. The Demonata can cross without limits through such tunnels and stay here as long as they remain open, which could be years or even longer — some can stay open until the end of time itself. If Bec and Lord Loss get hold of those stones, this war is finished.
But we have to try to stop them. I despise Kernel’s defeatist attitude. And we’re not entirely helpless — if Kernel’s eyes are restored, he can target Bec and we can maybe kill her before they get going. But I don’t say that to him because it would set him off on another rant.
A helicopter is waiting for us when we disembark. Again, a perk of the job. I’ve never ridden in a helicopter for fun. I’m always zipping off to one fight or another. I’d like to take a scenic flight one day, but the way things are stacking up against us, I doubt that will ever happen.
Once we’re all strapped in, we take off. Curly and Moe howl happily and stick their heads out of the windows. As much as they hate planes, they love helicopters. Werewolves — go figure!
It’s a short flight, and although Kernel carries on with his tirade, I tune him out, thinking about the past, my history, all that I’ve lost and left behind. I haven’t been back here since the night Bill-E died — the night I killed him. Scores of dark memories bob to the surface, mixed in with happier recollections.
We hit the outskirts of Carcery Vale and skim over the houses, shops and schools. They look unfamiliar from up high. It’s evening and the streets are quiet, with only a few people strolling or driving around. We might be facing the end of the world, but life carries on as normal for the most part.
The plan was to head straight to the cave, but on an impulse I lean forward, tap the pilot’s shoulder and point him in a different direction.
“What are you doing?” Kernel asks, feeling the helicopter bank around.
“I want to visit the mansion first.”
“What’s the point? If we’re going to do this, let’s crack on and do it. We don’t have time for trips down memory lane.”
I ignore him and watch intently as we home in on the massive house a few kilometres outside the town. This is where I lived with Dervish after my parents were slaughtered. It’s the last place I was able to call home. Probably the last place I’ll ever be able to call home.
We touch down in the large courtyard and the pilot kills the engines. Curly and Moe are first out, sniffing the ground, marking their territory, making sure it’s safe for their leader. I slide out next, leaving Kirilli to help Kernel down. The pilot stays with the helicopter.
I stare up at the gigantic house, recalling a variety of memories, a mix of good and bad. The glass in the windows has been shattered by gunfire, but otherwise the building looks much the way it did when I cast my final look back on that sad night.
The spare key isn’t under the pot to the left of the front doors and I prepare to break in. But when I try the doors, they’re not locked. Entering, I call “Hello?” but nobody answers. There are no noises apart from the creakings of the house.
As the others follow me in, I spot scores of bullet holes in the walls and ornate old staircase that is the spine of the house, and much of the furniture has been torn to pieces. On Dervish and Bec’s last night here, they were attacked by soldiers in the employ of Antoine Horwitzer, a rogue Lamb.
“It smells stale,” Kirilli says, limping along behind me.
“It’s been deserted for ages,” I tell him.
“Not that long,” Kernel mutters.
“Perhaps it’s mourning the death of its owner,” Kirilli says. “Houses have feelings too. They don’t live and feel like we do, but they absorb part of the spirit of those who inhabit them.”
“Weirdo,” Kernel grunts and I laugh with him. Kirilli shrugs and shuffles off to explore.
“Do you want to come with me?” I ask Kernel, feeling faint traces of the bond that once existed between us.
“No,” he sighs, moving to a window and standing by it as if he can see out. “I’ll stay here and admire the moonlight. You go cheer up the house. Grubbs?” he adds softly as I turn to pad up the stairs. “I know how much this place means to you. Take your time.”
“Thanks,” I smile.
I head for Dervish’s office first. This is the room he spent most of his time in, where he worked, plotted and relaxed. It’s been shot up badly, but it still reeks of my uncle. His books lie scattered across the floor. His computers have been blown to smithereens, but I can picture him hunched over the screens, frowning as he read about some old spell or other. And maybe it’s just my imagination, but I’m sure I can smell the musty stench of his feet — he loved to kick his shoes off in here, but he wasn’t great at changing his socks regularly.
I want to say something to mark the occasion and pay homage to the memory of my dead uncle. But everything I think of seems trite and clichéd. I was never the best with words. They’ve failed me often in the past, and they fail me again now. In the end I just pat the back of the chair where Dervish used to sit.
I visit the hall of portraits and run my gaze over the faces of the dead, all our family members who have perished over the centuries, most as a result of lycanthropy. I’d like to add photos of Dervish and Bill-E to the rows of frames, but I don’t have any on me. I could fetch a couple from the study, but I don’t want to go back there.
I settle for writing their names in the dusty glass of a couple of the larger pictures, along with their dates of birth and death. Pausing, I smile and add a line under Dervish’s name. “Died fighting the good fight.” A longer pause, then, with no smile, I write under Bill-E’s name, “Killed by his half-brother.”
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