Darren Shan: Lord Loss

I take him to the barber’s once a month, to have his hair and beard cut. Buy new clothes for him every so often. Experiment with various brands of deodorant. Keep him respectable and in shape, so if he ever does return, he won’t have cause for complaint.

Meera drops by every few weeks or so. Keeps an eye on us. Drives me outside the Vale to hit the bigger stores. I tell her what Dervish said, about not leaving Carcery Vale, but she says it’s OK as long as she’s with me. But we’re careful not to linger, always back a couple of hours before the sun sets—demons are more powerful in this world at night. She usually sleeps over when she comes. Bill-E jokes about it and says we’re having an affair. I wish!

I often dream of Lord Loss and his familiars. I worry about his threat and what he’ll do to me if he ever gets the chance. I block the entrances to the secret cellar with thick planks and dozens of nails. Avoid Dervish’s study as much as possible, for fear I’d find a book about Lord Loss, which might somehow allow him to latch onto me and break through Dervish’s magic defences.

But even more than the demon master, I worry about changing. Every time a full moon comes I sleep nervously—if at all—tossing and turning, imagining the worst, checking under my nails first thing in the morning, examining my teeth and eyes in the mirror.

I’ve memorised the names and numbers of the Lambs—the Grady executioners. If I have to call them one day, I pray that I have the strength to do it.

The morning after a full moon. Fourteen months since my battle with Lord Loss. A crisp, sun-crowned morning. Stretching. Yawning. Thinking about school. Also about a girl—Reni Gossel. I like Reni. Very cute. And she’s been giving me the sort of looks which make me think she maybe thinks I’m cute too. Wondering if it’s time to hold that party Bill-E’s been pressing for.

My cheeks feel sticky. Curious, I rub a few fingers over them. They come away wet—and red!

My head flares. Heart pounds. Stomach clenches. Thoughts of school and Reni forgotten. I fall out of bed. Desperately check under my nails—dirty with earth and blood. Hairs stuck to my hands and around my mouth.

Moaning. Slapping off the hairs.

I reel out of the room and down the stairs, almost falling and breaking my neck. Head spinning. Lights exploding within my brain. Vomit rising in my throat. Telephone numbers flash across my eyes. And the wolf shall lie down with the lamb.

Into the kitchen. Dervish is sitting at the table, slowly spooning cornflakes into his mouth. I turn in circles, wringing my hands, tearing at my hair. My eyes fix on the telephone hanging from the wall. I stop panicking. Calm falls on me like a sudden cold rainfall. I know what I must do. Best to do it now, as soon as possible, before I lose my nerve. Call the executioners. Give myself over to the Lambs. Arrange for others to take care of Dervish. Bid this world farewell.

I start towards the phone, resigned to my fate.

A solemn voice behind me—“Grubbs.”

I turn slowly, reluctantly, for some reason expecting to see Lord Loss. But there’s only Dervish. He’s holding up a tin of red paint, a small pot of earth, and a tatty woollen scarf which has been ripped into hairy fragments.

“The look on your face!” my uncle says.

And grins.