Demon Thief. Darren Shan
only in time to mop up the blood.
The four people who came through after the monster have gathered by the window. The light is pulsing again. The edges are throbbing inwards, turning white. The leader stands in front of the panel.
“Do you think he’s waiting for us on the other side?” the dark-skinned man asks.
The leader shrugs. “Only one way to find out.” He steps forward and disappears like the demon. The blonde woman follows, then the black man. The Indian woman pauses and looks round the field of misery. Her gaze rests on me. She winces. Starts to say something. Changes her mind and steps into the light.
→ I’m dazed. Shaking from shock and the pain in my right arm. Silently staring at the grey light as it pulses quicker and quicker, the edges closing in. It’s about to collapse, break apart, become fragmented patches of light again.
Fresh screams as parents find the remains of their children. A chorus of wails, growing by the second, becoming a wall of anguished sound. Some kids are still running. They don’t know it’s finished, that the monster’s gone, that the last victim was Art.
I stumble towards the flickering window, wanting to believe there’s hope, that the Indian woman will reappear with Art in her arms. Art can’t be gone for ever. I can’t have lost him. He’s my brother.
I spot the marbles on the ground by the window. I pick them up, study their orange centres, then put them in my left trouser pocket. I’m numb. Hardly aware of the throbbing pain in my broken arm.
I think about Mum and Dad, how they’ll react when they return to find Paskinston in mourning, Art abducted. Mum’s last words to me echo inside my skull — “Look after your brother.” Dad calling me the best brother in the world, saying I’d take better care of Art than they could.
But I didn’t. I let a demon take him.
Staring into the heart of the grey light. I tune out the screams. Focus on the window. A voice whispers to me, a voice I haven’t heard for a year. Tells me what I must do. What it suggests is crazy. I should dismiss it immediately. But I can’t.
The window is closing. Any second now, it’ll be gone. But if I step forward before it closes… chase after the demon… perhaps I can find Art, rescue him, bring him back home.
Madness. Art’s probably dead already, slaughtered by the demon as soon as it escaped. Besides, I don’t know what lies on the other side of the window. Most likely more monsters like the one that took Art. I’ll almost certainly be killed. Even if I’m not, there’ll be no way back once the window breaks up. Mum and Dad will lose both their children. Double the sorrow. I should forget about it. Ignore the voice and its suicidal suggestion.
But I can’t. Because they’ll blame me. They won’t want to, but the accusation will be there, in their eyes. A look that says, “You didn’t take care of him. He was your brother. You didn’t protect him. You let him go. It’s your fault.”
The edges of the window bend inward. The grey light sputters. There’s no more time. I have to decide.
I start to look back, wanting the window to close before I can act, to cheat myself of the chance to go after Art. But as my head turns, my feet move forward. Instinct makes me step through the grey light of the window — into the realm of the murderous demon.
WALKING ON WATER
→ The greyness lasts a few seconds. Like a mist around me, except there’s no damp or cool sensation. Then it parts and I find myself surrounded by trees. A forest of crooked, twisted, pitiful trees.
They’re howling.
At first I think something else is making the horrible noise, like a mix of car brakes squealing and somebody sawing through metal. My brain tells me there are workmen nearby, or a weird animal. But then I see the trees moving, swaying weakly. There are holes in their dark, mottled bark. And the howls are coming from the holes. No question about it.
I try applying logic to the situation, like Mr Spock. The howls must be the wind blowing through the holes. Except there isn’t any wind. And I know – I know – that the trees are making the noise themselves. They’re alive. In pain. Howling with anger, hatred — and hunger.
I look for the window but there’s nothing. Either you can’t see it from this side or it broke up into pieces while I was staring at the trees.
I take a hesitant step forward. There’s a soft splashing sound. I look down. See water everywhere underfoot, covering the ground. I look again at the trees. I can’t see any roots. They’re all below the waterline.
I crouch, trying to see how deep the water is. But it’s murky and muddy, and the trees block out most of the light. I stick a finger in. It slides down to the first knuckle, the second, the beginning of my palm. I push my hand in up to my wrist without touching anything solid. Stare at my hand, then my feet. I could be standing on a platform. Except I know – the same way I knew about the trees – that I’m not.
I’m standing on the surface of the water!
I rise quickly, fear setting in again, certain I’m about to drop and drown. But although water splashes when I move my feet, I don’t sink. I explore with my right foot, angling it downwards. It dips into the water. But when I bring it back up, level my foot and plant my sole down, the surface supports me.
I take one step. Two. A third. It’s not the same as walking on land. More like walking across the floor of an inflatable castle. But somehow, impossibly, the water keeps me up.
I smile at the craziness of it, then gasp as pain flares in my right arm. I’d completely forgotten about my broken limb. The sudden surge of pain reminds me that I’m walking wounded. I’ve never broken an arm before. It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, but it’s certainly no picnic.
I carry on walking, trying to keep my arm from jolting. Easier said than done — the watery floor is uneven, hard to balance on. I don’t feel as if I’m going to fall, but I tilt left and right quite often. I have to use my arms to maintain my balance, which sets off the pain again.
I deliberately don’t think about where I am or the impossibility of walking on water. I can’t care about stuff like that. I’m here to find Art. Nothing else matters. I can marvel at the rest of it once we’re both back home, safe with Sally.
Yeah, like that’s gonna happen, an inner voice sniggers.
I ignore it. Try not to let the howls of the trees unsettle me. Stagger on in search of my kidnapped brother.
→ The water has seeped through my shoes and socks, and is climbing up the legs of my trousers. I take no notice. I have bigger things to worry about.
There’s no sign of the four humans, the demon or Art. And no way of tracking them. If we were in a normal forest, perhaps there would be footprints. But apart from ripples as I move across the water, the surface is smooth, unmarked.
I haven’t seen any animals or birds. Only the trees. And there aren’t even leaves on those. I’d think they were dead if not for the howls, which echo relentlessly. The noise is like needles poking away at my eardrums.
What now? the voice inside my head asks.
“Keep walking,” I answer aloud, trying to drown out the howls of the trees. “They have to be here somewhere. I’ll find them.”
Not necessarily. They might have gone through another window. Or maybe they didn’t come out the same place you did.
“I’ll find them,” I insist.
What if you don’t? There’s nothing to eat. Nowhere to aim for — every bit of this forest looks the same. And how will you sleep? The water might not hold you if you lie down. Even if it does, it’ll drench you to the bone.
“I can sleep on the branches of a tree.”
Maybe they eat humans, the voice suggests.