Darren Shan - Demon Thief

Nadia scowls and releases my hands. “Have it your own way, fool! But when you’re dying beneath some hideous demon, watching it reel your guts out like a cat playing with a ball of string, remember what I offered you.”

She turns on her heel and marches away.

“Nadia!” I cry. “Where are you going?”

“There,” she says, waving a hand at the world in general.

“Don’t leave me,” I wail. “I don’t know where we are. You have to help me find Beranabus. You can go after that, but…”

She turns a corner and storms out of sight, leaving me in the alley. Alone.

I’m sitting on the dusty ground. Hands on my knees. Head on my hands. Crying. It’s been maybe an hour since Nadia left. I kept thinking she’d come back, that she’d decide she couldn’t desert me. But there’s been no sign of her. And the more I think about what she said, and her face when she said it, the less chance I think there is of her returning. Nadia hated her life with Beranabus. She went along with him because she had no other choice. But then I gave her a way out and she leapt at it.

Eventually, when the tears stop, I get to my feet and look around. I feel hungry now that I’m back in my own world, but there’s no time to eat. I have to find Beranabus—if he’s still alive.

There are dozens of patches of light hanging in the air around me, but none are pulsing. I wipe my cheeks clean, then focus. “Beranabus,” I mutter, thinking about his face, his shabby suit, the flower in the buttonhole, his clean hands. I repeat his name, over and over, waiting for the lights to pulse.

Nothing happens. The lights maintain their steady glow.

I go cold—maybe that means he’s dead!

“Art,” I say quickly, fixing my brother’s features in my mind. I concentrate on his name and face, but the lights don’t change.

My stomach’s tight with fear. Are they both dead, slaughtered by demons? They must be. Otherwise, why wouldn’t the lights pulse and lead me to them?

I have another thought, just before panic sets in completely. I visualise Cadaver’s horrible features and say the demon’s name, time and time again. Nothing.

The fear drains out of me as I realise the lights work differently here. They don’t pulse when I think of a person or place. The magician and my brother might still be alive.

Relief floods through me—then drains almost immediately. Because if the lights don’t work the same way here, how will I find Beranabus or Art, or open a window to the universe of the Demonata?

I can’t get back.

Wandering the streets of the city. It’s been a long time since I was in a place this crowded and noisy. I missed city life when I was living in Paskinston. I remembered only the good things—cinema, swimming pools, parks, school. I forgot about the traffic, the towering buildings that cut out the sunlight, the isolation.

I was always with Mum or Dad when I lived in the city, or with a teacher or babysitter. But one day, on a school trip to a museum, I got lost. It was an hour before I was found. I remember now what that felt like, how scary it was, how I believed I’d be lost forever. I was sure I’d have to sleep on a park bench or underneath a bridge like a homeless person. It was terrifying.

This is scarier. At least then I knew what city I was in, but this could be anywhere. None of the street names or buildings is familiar. I think about asking an adult where I am, but I don’t want to appear out of place. If I go up to a stranger and they learn that I’m lost, that I don’t even know what city I’m in, they’ll take me to the police. And while part of me would love that—the police would arrange for me to be sent home—I can’t go down that route. If the police take me into custody, I won’t be free to search for Art.

I haven’t given up on my brother. The lights might not work the same way as in that other universe, but I can still see them. There must be a way for me to start the patches pulsing. I just have to figure it out.

While I’m puzzling over the problem, I continue walking. I listen carefully to people talking. Most speak the same language as me, but the accents aren’t familiar. I wish again that I could ask where I am, but it isn’t possible.

I’m growing hungrier with every step. I’ve drunk plenty of water from drinking fountains, but I’ve had nothing to eat. I pass a stall selling hot dogs and pretzels. I root through my pockets, but I don’t have any money. I think about trying to steal a pretzel, but if the owner catches me it could mean big trouble.

Stomach growling, tears tickling the corners of my eyes, I walk on.

My watch is working again. I’ve been here at least two hours, wandering without direction. The sun is starting to set. It will be night soon. Where will I sleep?

Time to sit and think this through. I find a bench in a small park. I’m shivering. Though it’s not especially cold, I’m only wearing a T-shirt, no jumper. There aren’t many people in the park. One woman who passes looks at me closely. I think she’s going to stop and ask if I’m OK. I’m not sure what to say if she does. I was never a good liar. But then she carries on, deciding I’m not her business.

I try to lay all my problems out nice and simply, so I can think them through one at a time. My main priority is getting back to the Demonata’s universe. But that will have to wait. Things I have to settle first—Where am I? Where will I sleep tonight? How will I find food?

Take them one at a time. Location. I can’t find out by asking passers-by but there must be alternatives. A library, perhaps, except I don’t know where to find one. But now that I set my mind to it calmly, I see there are other ways. I can look in a telephone book in a phone box. Or go into a newsagent’s and read the titles of the local papers.

I manage a small chuckle when I realise how simple it is to place myself. That gives me confidence and I turn to the other problems more positively. I can dig through rubbish bins for food. Not very nice, but I’m sure I’ll scavenge enough to keep myself from starving.

Finding somewhere to sleep is harder. Hide in a library or museum? Or maybe in a shop that sells furniture? Keep low while they’re closing, then come out when it’s deserted, sleep on a couch or bed.

Not a bad plan, except all the shops have already closed. I might be able to do it tomorrow, but it won’t work now. Maybe I’ll have to sleep in the open tonight, over a street grille or on a park bench. Collect newspapers to wrap round myself. Hope I’m not discovered by a policeman. Look for somewhere better in the morning.

As I’m thinking that over, I catch sight of a pulsing light out of the corner of my left eye. My head jerks towards it. This isn’t the first time it’s happened. I’ve been reacting to every flashing light in shops or on street corners, hopes rising, thinking for a second that they’re one of the magical pulsing patches.

I scowl at myself, feeling stupid for falling for the same trick for the hundredth time. I start to look away, telling myself to behave more sensibly next time, when it strikes me—

There’s no shop or street corner where the flash came from.

I look left again, but slowly, not letting myself get excited. It’s probably somebody on a bicycle, or a bird with a strip of foil in its beak, or…

But it isn’t. It’s a yellow patch of triangular light, drifting through the park, attached to nothing.

I’m on my feet immediately, thoughts of food and shelter forgotten, hurrying after the light. I catch up to it, reach for it like a baby reaching for its dummy, then stop. There’s no point interfering with it, since there are no other pulsing patches for me to add it to. Better to follow, see where it leads and hope that luck is with me.