Darren Shan - Demon Thief

“This will be our getaway route if we have to run,” the man in the army clothes says, letting the doors half close, cutting out the worst of the noise. “We’ll split up if we’re chased. You go left. I’ll take the right. Meet again at the hotel.”

“Can we outrun it?” the punk asks.

“Depends on what it is. Some are slow, some fast. If we can’t stop it crossing, we’ll try to fight, but if it’s too strong, we’ll have to run like hell.”

“I don’t like running,” the punk says.

“Me neither,” the army guy grunts, “but sometimes it’s the only option. These demons are fierce mothers. We can whup some of them, but others…”

At the mention of demons, a shudder of relief churns through me. In a rush, I scuttle out from behind the rubbish bins. The army guy takes a step back, fists coming up protectively. The punk puts out a hand to calm him. “Relax. It’s only a kid.”

The army guy scowls. “What are you doing here? Trying to sneak in to the concert without paying? It won’t work. Scram, you no-good—”

“Excuse me,” I interrupt, “but are you… this might sound crazy… but I heard you talking about demons and I—”

“You heard nothing!” the army guy shouts. “Now beat it, quick, before I—”

“Wait a minute,” the punk says, squinting at me with pale blue eyes. He nods for me to continue.

“Well… like I said… I heard you talking and… well… are you two guys… by any chance… I mean… are you Disciples?”

The pair stare at me dumbly. Then the army guy looks round, picks up a piece of metal, lets the doors swing almost fully closed, sticks the metal between them to keep them ajar. Strides over, the punk a couple of paces behind him.

“Who are you?” he growls.

“My name’s Kernel Fleck. I was with Beranabus. I want to get back to him. I… Do you know who I mean? Are you…?”

The pair exchange silent glances. I start to think I got it wrong, that I misheard, or maybe the Demons are just another band. But then the army guy shrugs and the punk sticks out a hand. “Yes,” the punk says as we shake hands. “We’re Disciples. This is Shark. And my name’s Dervish. Dervish Grady. But don’t ask me to whirl,” he says warningly. And smiles.

Dervish starts to question me, to find out why I’m here, how I know Beranabus. But Shark cuts in. “The attack could come at any minute. We need to prepare for it.”

He pulls the doors open and gestures me inside. It’s dark and incredibly noisy. The room’s quite large, but packed with punks. Mostly guys, Dervish’s age or a bit older. A band is playing on a small stage to our right. Thrashing away at their guitars and drum kit as though the world is about to end and they’re determined to finish their song before it does. The singer screams into his microphone, mostly swear words, sticking his middle fingers up at the crowd and bellowing at them.

The punks love it. They’re dancing like crazy, leaping up and down or holding on to each other and spinning wildly. Some are fighting, but it’s good natured. They’re drawing blood, but they don’t care—that just adds colour.

There are more studs, piercings and tattoos than I’ve ever seen. That reminds me of Shark’s knuckles and I look down at his hands. His name is tattooed on both sets, a letter per finger, with a black and white shark’s head filling the flesh between both thumbs and index fingers, jaws wide, teeth glistening.

“It sounds like a dentist’s drill,” Shark yells at Dervish, scowling at the noise. “You really like this crap?”

“It’s the new wave,” Dervish grins. “The music of change. An-ar-cheeeeeee!” He punches the air with his fist.

“Grow up,” Shark snorts, then looks down at me. “You like this?”

“I’ve never heard anything like it,” I tell him. “It’s giving me a headache.”

Shark laughs. “The kid’s got more sense than you, Grady.”

The song ends and the band takes a short break so that one of the guitarists can replace the guitar which he’s just broken. Dervish uses the lull to fill me in.

“Somebody’s summoning a demon. We’ve been trying to stop him for the last couple of weeks. We don’t know who the summoner is, but we know the crossing’s going to happen here, tonight. If we can’t stop it, we plan to kill the demon or push it back.”

“We won’t be able to kill it,” Shark says. “We’re not strong enough to destroy a demon. In the Demonata’s universe, maybe—but driving it back is the best we can hope for here.”

“Have you done this a lot?” I ask.

“I have. This is Grady’s first taste of action.” He punches Dervish’s arm. “I’m not sure he’s up to it.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Dervish growls. “I’ll do what I have to.”

“I know you will,” Shark chuckles. “Now, let’s try and find the demon-loving scumbag, though I guess we won’t know who it is until—”

“He’s over there,” I interrupt, pointing at a middle-aged man near the stage. He’s dressed like a punk, but doesn’t really fit the part. Lean and muscular, with a thick Mohican haircut. His lips are moving steadily. He’s the focus for the patches of light. They’re pulsing round him in an almost fully formed window.

“How do you know?” Shark asks suspiciously.

“Never mind. That’s him. He’s almost done. Another few minutes and the window will open.”

Shark curses, then starts towards the man with the Mohican. Dervish pushes after Shark, and I head after Dervish. As we’re nudging through the crowd, the band howls into a new, faster song and the place goes wild. Suddenly, punks are leaping all around me, bashing into one another, falling over, kicking and punching everyone in sight.

I’m knocked to the floor. Someone stamps on my right hand. I yell with pain. Try to get up, but I’m knocked down again. Struggling, panting, afraid I’m going to be crushed to death by a sea of punks.

Then Shark is beside me, lashing out with his fists, pounding the punks away. Dervish picks me up and gives me a fireman’s lift. He’s stronger than he looks. “Hold on tight,” he says, and we push forward again, Shark clearing a path.

I hit out at a few of the punks, taking advantage of my position, trying to smash a few noses in revenge. Then I remember I’ve a more important mission and turn my attention to the stage. I have a better view of the demon summoner from here. I see him start to tremble. He froths at the mouth. The lights in the window pulse at the same time.

“Too late!” I shout. “It’s going to open.”

“No!” Shark roars, shouldering an especially large punk out of his way. “We can make it! I’m not going to—”

An explosion. Part of the stage erupts, showering the people closest to it with splinters and nails. Agonised screams. One of the guitarists falls to his knees, face a pulped, bloody mess. The singer doesn’t stop. He’s so caught up in his song, he doesn’t hear anything except his own voice.

There’s a violet coloured window of light next to the Mohican man. He’s standing by it proudly, unharmed. He smiles at the chaos. Puts a couple of fingers between his lips and whistles shrilly.

A demon bounds through the window. The body of a large chicken. Three pig-like heads. It looks ridiculous, almost laughable, until it opens a mouth and spits at a nearby punk. The spit hits him squarely in the face, then bubbles and burns his flesh away. He falls, trying to scream, but unable to.

Dervish called for anarchy a few minutes ago—now he gets it. The room was wild with dancing, writhing and fighting before this, but when the punks see the demon in action they go completely mental. Panic sweeps the crowd. Shrieking, they surge for the exit doors. The man with the Mohican laughs and steps up next to the demon.