The Demonata 1-5. Darren Shan
the bars of the cage, shaking them, screaming, his face a dark mask of furious lines, teeth bared, tongue lashing wildly from side to side, his yellow eyes gleaming through the narrow slits of his eyelids.
“Bill-E!” I yell, jumping to my feet, stepping towards the cage.
“Easy,” Dervish says, grabbing my arm. “Remember what I told you — he’ll kill you if you get too close.”
I stare numbly at Bill-E as he screams, pulls at the bars, kicks and head-butts them, his eyes all the time on Dervish and me.
“Does he recognise us?” I ask sickly.
“No,” Dervish replies.
Bill-E quits wrestling with the bars and turns away, disgusted. He stumbles over the deer, which shakes fearfully. Bill-E stops and grins savagely. Circles the defenceless beast, sniffing, growling. Then he falls on its neck. Claws — teeth — ripping — blood.
My cheeks are wet. I’m crying again.
“Let’s go,” Dervish whispers. “We can finish this in my study.”
“I don’t want to leave him alone,” I sob.
“Werewolves don’t get lonely,” Dervish says. “They feel only hunger and hate.”
He picks up Meera and nudges me towards the door leading to the wine cellar. I pause at the exit. One last horrified study of Bill-E Spleen — my brother. Then I follow my uncle to sanity.
THE CHALLENGE
→ Dervish lays Meera on one of the mansion’s many beds. He examines her again, in more detail this time. He tries to wake her by calling her name and gently shaking her. When that fails he goes to the bathroom, comes back with a glass of water, uses his fingers to flick drops at her face. She doesn’t stir.
Dervish steps away grimly. “I could try to bring her round with magic,” he says, “but I’m not sure how serious the damage is. I could make it worse.”
“Why don’t you just leave her?” I ask. “She’ll live, won’t she?”
“I think so.”
“Then let her sleep. That’ll be best for her, right?”
Dervish stares at me, troubled, then walks out of the room without saying anything. I wrap a blanket over Meera, then close the door on her and head up to the study.
→ After the dark of the cellar, the study seems warmer and brighter than ever. I lose myself in a large leather chair, knees drawn up to my chest, head tucked between them, weary and afraid. Dervish is standing by a chess set. This is his favourite set, the pieces based on characters from The Lord of the Rings. Dervish picks up a brightly painted hobbit figurine and toys with it absently while he speaks.
“I don’t think you’ve ever truly appreciated the complexities of chess,” he says. “So few pieces, yet so many possibilities. No two games are ever the same. You can learn the rules in an afternoon, yet spend the rest of your life trying to master them.”
“Stick chess up your ass!” I shout, coming alive with fury. “Bill-E’s chained up in the cellar, twisted and insane. Meera’s unconscious, maybe comatose. And all you can warble on about–”
“Lord Loss plays chess,” Dervish interrupts quietly. “The Demonata are not, by nature, playful creatures, but he’s an exception. I don’t know where or when he acquired his hunger for the game, but by the time Bartholomew Garadex met him, he was a committed player, albeit one of limited experience.”
“Where’s this going?” I grumble, though I have an idea.
“When you walked in on your parents, did you notice any chess boards?”
Breathing thinly. Thinking back. The blood. Web-like walls. The demons. And, on the floor, scattered chess pieces, broken boards. Plus the gouged board in the study.
“Yes,” I sigh.
Dervish talks swiftly. “Bartholomew played many games with Lord Loss while trying to persuade him to help lift the curse. His familiars weren’t allowed to pester Bartholomew at the chess board, so it was the safest way to conduct a conversation with Lord Loss. Over time he noticed that Lord Loss cared almost as much about chess as he did about feeding on humanity’s sorrow.
“On a hunch, old Bart severed connections with the demon master and avoided him for several months. When he finally crossed the divide to the Demonata’s universe again, Lord Loss was surly and irritable, eager to resume play.
“Bartholomew refused.” Dervish chuckles drily. “It’s dangerous, riling a demon. They can be abominable angels of destruction when offended. Lord Loss could have unleashed all of his familiars upon old Bart, which would have been–”
“He has others as well as Artery and Vein?” I snap.
“Oh yes,” Dervish says. “They’re just his current favourites. He has hundreds of familiars. If he’d sicced them on Bartholomew, they’d have torn him limb from limb, and all the magic in the world couldn’t have repelled them.
“But, as old Bart had gambled, Lord Loss didn’t send the demons in. As intense as his anger was, his fascination with chess proved stronger. Instead of crushing Bartholomew, he whined and complained and tried to bargain. So Bartholomew struck for gold. He told Lord Loss he wouldn’t play unless the demon master lifted the curse of the Garadexes.
“No bite. Chess was an obsession, but it wasn’t that precious to him. So old Bart tried another approach. He proposed a series of contests in which he’d play for the lives of individual family members. After lengthy discussions, they agreed to stage a number of matches, best of five games per match. For each match that Bartholomew won, Lord Loss would cure a Garadex. But if Bartholomew ever lost, Lord Loss would take possession of his soul.
“And so the contests commenced, two or three games per week — Lord Loss set the rate. According to Bartholomew’s records, Lord Loss hated losing. Like most of the Demonata, he’s despisingly proud. They consider themselves superior to humans, and to lose to one — at anything — is a great disgrace.
“Yet lose he did.” Dervish chuckles throatily. “Bartholomew gave his time over entirely to chess, playing for hours on end each day and night, with the best opponents he could find, learning and improving. He lost six games in the first three months — then never again. He hit a fifty-nine game winning streak, which showed no sign of ending.
“And then he died.”
Dervish shrugs. “He was old, and his earlier battles with Lord Loss’s familiars had drained him. It was peaceful in the end — he passed away in his sleep.”
“What happened then?” I ask, absorbed in the story.
“For a long time, nothing,” Dervish says. “Nobody in our family knew of Bartholomew’s matches with Lord Loss. He never told them how he was affecting the cures. Several Garadexes were witches and wizards, but they were unable to unlock the secrets of his diaries, which he’d encoded with strong spells.
“Eventually, almost forty years after the great magician’s death, Davey McKay — a distant relative who’d lost four of his five children to the curse — decoded the diary and discovered the demonic secret. He immediately contacted Lord Loss in an attempt to renew the contests and reverse the change in his youngest child, who was just starting to transform.
“The demon master was slow to respond. Bartholomew had humiliated him. He was wary of suffering another string of defeats at the hands of a human. Also, Davey wasn’t a magician — his soul was of only minor interest to Lord Loss. But Davey was resourceful. He sought a twist to spike Lord Loss’s imagination, a challenge which would appeal to his warped sensibilities.”
Dervish lapses into a thoughtful silence. He’s still playing with the hobbit chess piece. With his free hand, he pulls open a drawer and takes out a photo. Slides