Darren Shan - Lord Loss

Dervish is always there when I wake from my nightmares. Sitting by the bottom of my bed. Passing me a mug of hot chocolate or a towel to wipe the sweat from my face. He never says much, or asks what I was dreaming about. Leaves as soon as I’ve settled down.

We haven’t discussed the demons. I think Dervish wants to, but I’m reluctant to step back into that world of darkness. He leaves books in my room, or open on the tables downstairs, about monsters, demons, magic. I avoid them at first. Later I read certain passages and study pictures, attracted to the mystery of this other realm despite my fear of it.

No pictures of my demons in the books. I glance through some of the many encyclopaedias in the mansion, but there’s no mention of a Lord Loss or his familiars in any of them.

Friday. Listening to CDs I bought in the Vale. A roaring outside, of a motorbike approaching. But it isn’t Dervish—he’s up in his study. I creep to the window and secretly watch the cyclist dismounting. A woman dressed in black leather. Long blonde hair tumbles down over her shoulders when she removes her helmet. She stretches, hands going high above her head. Ay carumba! I’m down the stairs in a flash, but not as fast as Dervish. He’s already opening the front doors. I catch a glimpse of a big smile. Then he’s shouting, “Meera! I wasn’t expecting you for another few days. Why didn’t you phone?”

“You never answer,” the woman says, meeting Dervish in the doorway, hugging him hard. She pushes him away and studies his face. “How’s it going, hon?”

“Not bad,” Dervish chuckles.

“How’s the lodger?” She spots me over Dervish’s shoulder. “Oh, never mind, I’ll ask him myself.” She strides over and offers her hand. I shake it politely. “Meera Flame,” she introduces herself. She smiles—dazzling. “And if I know Dervish, he hasn’t told you a thing about me, right?”

I nod dumbly. I think I’m in love!

“Grubbs Grady—Meera Flame,” Dervish says. “Meera’s a close friend of mine. She comes to stay quite regularly. I meant to tell you she was on her way, but I forgot.”

“He’s useless, isn’t he?” Meera laughs.

“At some things,” I mutter, finding my voice at last.

Meera unzips the front of her leather jacket, revealing a T-shirt with an anti-war slogan. She slides out of the coat, then sits on the stairs and peels off her boots and trousers. She’s wearing shorts underneath.

“Make yourself at home,” Dervish says wryly.

“Don’t I always?” Meera replies. She catches me ogling her, and winks. “Got a girlfriend, Grubbs? If not, watch out! I like younger men!”

I blush like a fire engine. Meera slips through to the kitchen for a drink.

Dervish laughs. “You look like a kettle.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“There’s steam coming out your ears!”

Before I can think of a comeback, Meera calls from the kitchen. “Whoops! I’ve spilt milk all over my T-shirt. Can you come and help me out of it, Grubbsy?”

I think life’s about to get very interesting!

“Ah,” says Bill-E with a cheetah’s smile. “The mysterious Meera Flame. She’s hot, isn’t she?”

“And doesn’t she know it!” I huff. “She hasn’t stopped flirting with me since she arrived. My cheeks feel like they’ve been slapped a dozen times today!”

We’re in the kitchen, guzzling milk shakes. Dervish and Meera have gone out for dinner.

“Don’t worry about that,” Bill-E says. “She does it with me too. She likes making men—and boys!—blush.”

“She’s doing a good job of it,” I mutter, then cough. “Her and Dervish… are they…?”

“Nah,” Bill-E says. “Just friends. She travels around a lot. Always off somewhere exotic. Comes to stay every now and then. They go on biking holidays together sometimes, but Dervish says they aren’t an item, and I don’t think he’d lie. Who could keep quiet if they had a girlfriend like that!”

Saturday. Meera woke me up this morning for breakfast in bed. Walked right in, wearing a dressing gown and (as far as my imagination’s concerned!) nothing underneath. Sat chatting with me while I ate, asking about life with Dervish and what I thought of Carcery Vale—“Boring as hell, isn’t it?”—and just being all-round beautiful. I had a hard time keeping my eyes on my toast and fried eggs.

Bill-E came early to see Meera. She fussed over him like a mother hen. “You’ve grown! You’re filling out! Becoming a man! When are you going to sweep me off my feet and take me away from all this?”

Dervish and Meera made for his study after a while, so Bill-E and I headed out to explore the nearby forest. Searching for Lord Sheftree’s buried treasure.

“If we find it, we don’t tell anyone,” Bill-E says, poking through the roots of an old dead oak. “We wait until we’re older and know more about these things. Then we sell it on the quiet and split the profits fifty-fifty. Agreed?”

“Maybe I’ll bump you off and take it all for myself,” I smirk.

“Won’t work,” he says seriously. “I keep a diary. If I die, Gran and Grandad Spleen will find it, read about us digging for the treasure, and put two and two together.”

“You think of everything, don’t you?” I laugh.

“I try to,” he says immodestly. “I get it from Dervish and our chess games. He’s always nagging me to maximise my potential and use my brain more.”

“What is it with him and chess?” I ask. “My mum and dad were the same, like it was the most important thing in the world.”

“I don’t know about your mum,” Bill-E says, “but it’s a family tradition on your dad’s side. Seven or eight of the clan have been grandmasters. When Dervish talks about his ancestors, he often makes mention of the great chess players. He even judges people by their ability on the board. I asked him about one of his relatives once, a girl who died about thirty years ago—she looked interesting in her photo and I wanted to know what she was like. He just grunted and said she wasn’t very good at chess. That’s all he had to say about her.”

Bill-E decides the treasure isn’t buried under the tree. Picking up our tools—an axe and a spade—we go in search of other likely spots.

“How often do you come searching for this treasure?” I ask.

“It depends on the weather,” he answers. “In summer, when it’s hot and the evenings are long, I maybe come out three or four times a month. Perhaps only once a month in winter.”

“Don’t you have any friends?” I enquire bluntly—I’ve noticed he doesn’t talk much about other kids, unless he’s chatting about school. And he always has plenty of time for visiting Dervish and me. He never says he can’t come or has to dash off early to see another friend.

“Not many,” he says honestly. “I’ve mates in class, but I don’t see much of them outside of school. Gran and Grandad Spleen like to keep me tucked up safe and snug indoors, which is part of the problem. I like hanging out with Dervish, which is another part. I guess mostly I’m just odd, not very good at making friends.”

“You made friends with me pretty easily,” I remind him.

“But you’re like me,” he says. “An outsider. Different. A freak. We’re both weird, which is why we get along.”

I’m not sure I like the sound of that—I’ve never thought of myself as a freak—but it’d be childish to stamp my foot and shout something like, “I’m not weird!” So I let it ride and follow Bill-E deeper into the woods.

In the middle of a thicket. Picking a spot to clear, where we can excavate. I find a patch of soft earth between two stones. I start to dig and earth crumbles away. It looks like there’s a hole here. Probably an animal’s den, but maybe, just maybe…