The Demonata 1-5. Darren Shan
sorry for me, be tempted to put me out of my misery.”
“I wouldn’t do that!” I shout. “I’m not a killer! I couldn’t–”
“You could,” Dervish cuts me short. “Most people are capable of extreme actions when pushed.” He licks his lips nervously. “You mustn’t. Time is different in the Demonata’s universe. There’s no telling how long our fight could last. The few who’ve fought him and returned have been absent for months… years… on one occasion, decades.
“No matter how much time passes, there’s always hope,” he says. “Don’t give up on me, Grubbs. Look after my body. I might have need of it again some day.”
He finds the number in the book, picks up the phone and starts dialling.
“Wait,” I stop him. He looks up expectantly. I lick my lips nervously. “What happens if you don’t win and I turn into a werewolf later?”
Dervish’s features soften. “And the wolf shall lie down with the lamb.”
“Come again?” I frown.
“It’s a biblical quote. Isaiah. It’s where the Lambs got their name from.” He jerks his head at the desk. “There’s a black folder in the second drawer down on the left. Names and numbers for the Lambs. Contact them if the need arises. But only do it if you’re sure that you’re changing. The Lambs don’t mess around. Once you set them in motion, they won’t stop, even if you change your mind and try to call them off.”
“How will I know?” I ask. “Bill-E didn’t know he was changing.”
Dervish chews on his lower lip in thoughtful silence, then says, “Nobody turns without warning. If the lycanthropy strikes, there’ll be at least two or three full moons during which you won’t physically alter, but run wild like Bill-E did. You won’t be able to recall such episodes, but if you find blood under your fingernails, animal hairs between your teeth…” Dervish stiffens and speaks roughly “…that’s when you need to think about calling in the Lambs.”
As I stare at him miserably, Dervish returns his attention to the phone and hits the buttons. The phone at the other end is picked up almost instantly. I hear a man say, “Yes?”
Dervish starts to reply.
“Tell him it’s OK,” I interrupt softly. “Tell him you rang his number by accident.”
“Grubbs, you don’t have to–”
“I won’t live with the threat of the change hanging over me. Or with the guilt of not fighting for Bill-E.” Deep breath. Thinking — crazy for doing this. But also — it’s what Dad would have wanted.
“I’ll do it,” I wheeze. “I’ll fight Vein and Artery.” The thinnest, most fleeting of smiles. Mock bravado. Grubbs Grady — demon killer! “I’m your man.”
THE SUMMONING
→ The cellar. Bill-E beating at the bars of his cage with a bloody leg he’s torn from the deer, howling madly. Dervish checking the chess boards and weapons, ignoring Bill-E. I want him to talk me out of it, tell me it’s madness, reject my offer.
But he says nothing. In the study, he didn’t even ask if I was sure, just nodded once and told Pablo he’d call him some other time. Then it was straight back here. No “Thank you,” or “Well done, Grubbs,” or “I’m proud of you.”
I examine the chess boards with forced interest, desperate to keep my mind off the weapons. Five boards laid in a line across the three tables. The Lord of the Rings set in the centre, flanked by a board of crystal pieces on one side and Incan-fashioned pieces on the other. The sets at either end are ordinary.
“Did you lay the boards out that way for a reason?” I ask Dervish.
“No,” he replies, testing a sword’s handle, wiping it clean. “The sets don’t matter, as long as there are five.”
“Explain how the contest works,” I urge him.
“The games are played simultaneously,” Dervish says without looking over. “When it’s my turn, I can move any piece I like, on any board. Lord Loss can then reply to the piece I’ve moved, or move a piece on a different board.”
“That must be confusing.”
“Yes. But it’s confusing for him too.” Dervish holds an axe up to the light of a thick candle and squints, judging the sharpness of its blade. “Lord Loss is an accomplished player, and he’s had centuries to work on his game, but he has no supernatural advantage. If I keep my head, focus on the moves and don’t lose my nerve, I’ll stand a fair chance.”
“What sort of chance do I stand against Artery and Vein?” I ask.
Dervish looks at me coldly — then whips his arm forward and sends the axe flying straight at me!
Instant reaction — I spin — my left hand flies out — my fingers close around the axe handle mid-air — I arc it down, taking the speed out of it — then raise it high to defend myself, heart racing, confused and afraid.
Then I see my uncle’s grin.
Breathing hard, I stare at Dervish, then at the axe in my hand.
“That sort,” he says.
→ “I still don’t know how I caught it,” I grumble, as Dervish searches among his books for a particular volume.
“You don’t have to know,” Dervish says. “It’s magic.” He pauses and looks up at me. “Your instincts have been sharpened by your previous encounter with the demons. Obey those instincts. Let Vein and Artery set the tone and pace of the battle. React. Don’t think. Suspend the laws of reality completely.”
Dervish returns his attention to the books, finds the one he’s after, flicks it open and stands. “Make your inexperience work for you,” he says. “You can’t out-plan or out-think the demons. So don’t try. Just go with the flow.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“It certainly won’t be easy! But if you switch your brain off, you’ll be amazed by what your body can do.”
Dervish lays the book on the floor, bends over it and reads a passage, running a finger over the words, muttering softly.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Several spells must be cast to open a window between Lord Loss’s world and ours,” Dervish says. “I have to make sure it’s a small gateway — we don’t want other demons following him through.”
“That can happen?”
“Sure. The Demonata are always eager to cross the divide and wreak havoc. They’ll seize any opening which presents itself.”
“But don’t you know the spells already?” I frown. “I thought you summoned him before.”
“I did,” Dervish nods. “Several times. But some spells are best not memorised.”
He finishes the paragraph and closes the book. Walks to the wall to his left and lays both hands on it. “I’m starting now,” he says, “but it’ll be twenty minutes, maybe half an hour before the window opens. Stay close to the tables. Relax. Don’t distract me.”
While I lean against a table, nervously tapping and scratching at the wood, Dervish mutters arcane words at the wall, drawing signs upon it with his fingers. After a few minutes, steam seeps from the rough stone. Dervish leans into the steam, inhales, turns and breathes out.
A shadowy bat flies from his mouth and flits across the cellar. I duck instinctively, even though it’s nowhere near me. When I look again, the bat has vanished and Dervish has moved on to another patch of wall.
→ Fifteen minutes into the summoning. All the walls are steaming.