The Demonata 1-5. Darren Shan
turns and exhales his largest yet — a full-sized wolf.
Bill-E gibbers wildly at the sight. Hisses at it, then ducks to the rear of his cage and crouches low, whimpering, as the spirit wolf floats towards him, evaporating before it touches the bars.
At any other time I’d feel pity for the poor beast Bill-E has become, but right now there’s only room in my heart for terror.
→ Dervish steps away from the walls at last, eyes closed, face contorted. Walks directly to the folder containing the Lord Loss drawings. Picks it up and clutches it to his chest.
“This is where things get weird,” he mutters, as steam pours from the walls and transparent worms drift in and out of his mouth.
“I can’t wait,” I half-laugh, almost hysterical.
“Whatever happens, don’t scream,” Dervish says. “We’re at our most vulnerable while I’m searching the various portals for the one which connects with Lord Loss’s realm. A scream could attract the interest of other demons — and that might be the end of us.”
“We’ll probably end on a grisly note anyway,” I say gloomily.
“Perhaps,” Dervish agrees. “But there are worse demons than Lord Loss.”
My thoughts threaten to spin out of control as I try to imagine anything worse than Lord Loss. Then Dervish spreads his arms and barks a loud command, and the world dissolves around me.
→ Walls and ceiling fading. Infinite space… a scattering of stars… meteors streak across the sky. But this space isn’t black — it’s red. An unending sky of redness, encircling the cellar like the drapes of hell.
The temperature escalates off the scale. Some of Dervish’s books burst into flame and incinerate instantly. The bars of Bill-E’s cage glow from the heat. All the candles in the cellar melt to the wick.
I check my clothes and hair, expecting flames, but although I can feel the terrible heat, it isn’t burning me. Dervish and Bill-E aren’t harmed either. Nor are the chess sets.
“Why aren’t we toast?” I cry. The words come out as a croak — my mouth and throat are unbelievably dry.
“Protected,” Dervish wheezes in reply, then lays a finger to his lips and shakes his head — no more speaking. He points to a meteor screaming across the sky overhead. As I gaze up, I realise it isn’t a meteor — it’s some enormous, incomprehensible, reality-defying monster!
Dervish squats and places both palms on the floor, which ripples beneath his touch, as if made of water. Muttering some spell — or prayer — he turns in a circle. His eyes are yellow when I next catch sight of his face, his teeth sharp and grey.
I open my mouth to scream — remember his warning — shut my lips quickly.
Dervish continues turning, and when he faces me again he looks normal. Standing, he picks up one of the unburnt books, flicks it open and starts singing. Long, complicated words. His voice unnaturally clear and beautiful.
The red sky shimmers, then darkens, as Dervish sings. I lose sight of the stars and meteor-monsters. The room slips into a hot, fearful blackness — no candles to shed any light. The last thing I see — Dervish, eyes closed, singing as though his life depended on it.
→ I feel alone in the darkness, though I know by Dervish’s singing and Bill-E’s grunts and whines that I’m not. Whistling sounds around me. Something long and silky brushes against my cheeks. I swipe at it, terrified — nothing there.
Dervish stops singing. The sudden silence is as disorienting as the lack of light.
“Dervish?” I whisper, not wishing to distract him, but needing to know he’s still there.
“It’s OK, Grubbs,” comes his voice. “Don’t move.”
“It’s dark,” I note redundantly.
“We’ll have all the light we care for soon enough,” he promises.
An object brushes my left ear. I flinch. “There’s something in the room with us!” I hiss.
“Yes,” Dervish says. “Take no notice. Stand your ground.”
It isn’t easy, but I obey my uncle’s order. The whistling sounds increase in volume, and I’m struck in various places by what feels like thick strands of rope. I wince and rub at my flesh, but otherwise don’t react.
Gradually I notice a dull grey glow all around me, which grows in strength, illuminating the distorted cellar. The walls have been replaced by thick strands of cobwebs, which stretch away, layer after layer, apparently endless. Many of the strands are stained with blood. Some are as thick as a tree trunk, while others are as thin as a line of thread.
From one of the strands hang the severed heads of Mum, Dad and Gret.
I can’t hold back the scream, but Dervish anticipates this. He slides behind me and clamps both hands over my mouth. I howl into the flesh of his palms, wild, sobbing, reaching for the heads, while at the same time trying to back away from them.
“They aren’t real, Grubbs,” Dervish grunts, struggling to contain me. “They’re illusions. Let your fear go and they’ll vanish.”
I thrash more wildly in response. Can’t think straight. The heads seem to be growing. Eyes huge, filled with sadness and pain. Mum’s lips move silently. Gret sticks her tongue out at me — it’s alive with maggots.
“They’re testing you!” Dervish growls, fingers tightening over my lips. My neck’s strained almost to snapping point. “If they can drive you insane, I’ll have nobody to protect me from Artery and Vein!”
The names of the demons penetrate. Fighting the terror, I stare at the faces of my parents and sister, and spot minor mistakes — Dad’s nose bends to the wrong side, Gret’s hair shouldn’t be that long, Mum’s eyebrows are too thick.
I stop shaking. Lower my hands. Dervish releases me, but stays close, ready to gag me if I start screaming again.
“How do I make them go away?” I moan.
“Show you’re not afraid,” Dervish says. “Look at them without flinching.”
“It’s hard.”
“I know. For me too. But you can do it, Grubbs. You have to.”
Deep breaths. Exerting control. I lift my eyes and train them on the three heads dangling in front of me. Their features twist. Mum and Gret hiss at me hatefully. I don’t look away.
Under the strength of my gaze, the heads disintegrate, melting like the candles. The web vibrates. The air bubbles. The molten, waxy flesh of the heads rises, twisting, forming itself into three new shapes. A crocodile-headed dog. A murderous baby. And their master — Lord Loss.
“It begins,” Dervish sighs, and steps forward to confront the demons.
THE BATTLE
→ Dervish stops at the place where the floor gives way to webs, spreads his arms and shouts something unintelligible. Blue flames crackle from the tips of his fingers. He brings his hands together, then touches a thick strand of web. Blue fire runs up the thread to where it connects with another. Like lightning it streaks from strand to strand, arcing ever closer to Lord Loss and his familiars. Lord Loss shows no sign of fear. When the blue flame reaches him, it sizzles and hisses around him, but he only smiles, waves a hand, and the flame sputters out.
Lord Loss stretches his arms above his head. As he does, six other arms unfold from around his body, three on either side. No fingers, just mangled lumps of flesh at the ends. The demon master grips two strands, one with either set of hands, and climbs towards us like a grotesque spider. Vein and Artery follow close behind their master, Vein yapping, Artery snapping his teeth.
Studying the demons with terror. So many details