Darren Shan: Hell's Heroes

“How does he look?” Kernel asks Kirilli. “Ashamed? He should. What he did to me, I wouldn’t have done to a dog. Or a demon. Not even a werewolf.”

“He looks tired,” Kirilli says, offering me a slight smile.

“Poor Grubbs,” Kernel sneers. “Are you overworked? You should take a week off, treat yourself to a vacation.”

“That’s right,” I sigh. “Go on hating me. It’s not like you’ve got anything else to hate, is it?”

“The Demonata?” Kernel shakes his head. “I don’t hate them. They’re doing what they were born to. Nature spat them out as foul, heartless killers. That’s the way they are. You, on the other hand, chose vileness over humanity. We were friends. I trusted you. But then you did this to me and keep me here against my will, even though you know it’s wrong. I despise you more than I ever thought possible.”

I sniff away his insults. “Whatever,” I deadpan, echoing the girl with the yo-yo. “We’re staying here the rest of the night, then moving out at ten in the morning. If you want anything, ask a nurse.”

“I want new eyes,” Kernel snarls. “Can a nurse fetch me those?”

I start for the door.

“Grubbs,” Kernel stops me. I glance back wearily, preparing myself for more insults. “Why are we still here?”

I frown. “I told you, we’re staying overnight, then—”

“I mean on Earth,” he interrupts. “When you blinded me, you said you needed me to find Bec, that we’d wait for our wounds to heal, then rescue her. But it’s been a month and we haven’t gone after her. Why not?”

I’m surprised Kernel hasn’t mentioned this before. I kept waiting for him to ask and had all sorts of responses lined up. But now my tongue freezes. I flash on the dreams I’ve been having, think about sharing them with him, then shake my head.

“We’re not ready. We’ll go for Bec when the time is right. We can do more good here at the moment.”

“We? Kernel replies archly. “All I do is wait around in hospitals for you to return from the killing fields. If you’re not going to use me, set me free.”

“I will use you,” I mutter. “When it’s time, I’ll take you back to the demon universe and let you build new eyes.”

“And then?” Kernel prompts.

“We’ll find Bec.”

“ Find her?” He pounces like a cat. “Not rescue her?”

I gulp, then nod at Kirilli. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Not if I see you first,” Kernel calls after me, then raises his voice as I exit, to make sure I hear his parting shot. “Not that that’s very likely!”

I find an unoccupied room on an upper floor of the hospital and make a bed out of some balled-up surgical gowns. I’d rather not sleep, but rest is vital, even for a creature like me. I have to be at my sharpest to keep on fighting demons.

I think about my conversation with Kernel, and about Dervish, Juni, Lord Loss, Bec. I recall the prophecy again, the way Juni cackled, her delight as she described seeing the world explode, the universe burning beneath my twisted hands.

It’s too much. Guilt, fear, and loneliness overwhelm me. I’m not in close touch with my human emotions these days. I’ve become a detached, brutal excuse for a person. But tonight, for a few brief minutes, my defenses crumble. I become an awkward teenager again. I feel the weight of the expectations that ride upon me… the awful price the world will pay if I fail… those who’ve been lost… the lives I’ve taken, like the confused little girl tonight… the fear of what might be waiting for me when I cross to Lord Loss’s realm… Juni’s prophecy.

As my face contorts and becomes more human, my chest heaves and I weep. Hot, thick, salty tears run down my cheeks as I sob and beg for help from the dead—Dervish and Beranabus, Mum and Dad, Meera and Bill-E. I’ve blinded a friend. Hidden terrible truths from those who’ve placed their trust in me. Killed and lied. And, if Juni’s to be believed, there’s worse to come.

I wail and mumble madly, biting into the gowns to stifle my cries, pounding my chest and face with my fists. I curse the universe, God if he exists, the Old Creatures, the Disciples, Lord Loss, and all the demons. But most of all I curse myself, poor, pitiful, apocalyptic Grubbs Grady.

Then, as the tears dry… as the werewolf regains control and my features harden and transform… as I bury my humanity deep again… as the Kah-Gash whispers and tells me I’m not alone and to stop behaving like a child… I gradually calm down.

I turn and readjust the gowns. Make myself comfortable. Breathe more slowly. Mutter a short spell. And fall into what should be a pure and dreamless sleep—but isn’t.

The spell I use when I want to sleep is supposed to stop me dreaming. It’s designed to provide me with a good night’s sleep, free of nightmares, so I can wake fresh and bright in the morning. But it hasn’t been working since Bec was abducted. I’ve tried different spells, having asked a number of Disciples for advice, but nothing keeps the dream at bay. The same disturbing scenes unfold every time, and they’re the real reason why I haven’t tried to rescue Bec.

As the dream kicks in again, I flow along with it as usual. I’ve tried fighting, struggled to change the sequence or details, but without success. Tonight I accept my lack of control with as much grace as a savage beast like me can muster.

I’m in a room made of cobwebs, staring down at a sleeping girl—Bec. She lies on a bed of thick webs, covered by a blanket of much finer strands. She looks pale and exhausted but bears no wounds and breathes easily, calmly.

Her left hand moves upwards and brushes her cheek, as I knew it would. Her nose twitches and again I’m not surprised. I’ve seen it all a dozen times. When you experience the same dream over and over, you start paying attention to the details, to stop yourself going mad. I try to find something new tonight, a little movement or quiver that I missed before, but everything is exactly the same.

Bec’s eyelids flutter open. A moment of panic—“Where am I?”—then her look of alarm fades and she rises. She’s dressed in a beautiful nightgown, the sort I’ve only seen in old movies. It’s not made of webs. I guess Lord Loss took it from one of his victims—I can’t imagine him going shopping for it.

Bec walks to a small, round window and gazes out over a landscape of cobwebs. This is Lord Loss’s realm, a world of countless sticky strands, a massive network of despair and sorrow. The air is thick with misery and suffering. I can sense that thousands of people have died here, crying out for their loved ones, alone and separated from all they’d ever known.

Bec turns to a table and chair, both carved out of webs. There’s a mirror set in the wall over the table. The girl sits and studies her reflection. She looks tense but not scared. She reaches out to touch the face in the mirror, as if she’s not sure it’s really hers, then pauses and lowers her hand.

Standing, she walks to a wardrobe on the other side of the room. The doors open as she approaches, and a clothes rack slides out. Long, frilly dresses hang from it, the sort a princess or movie star would wear. I don’t think they’d suit a plain girl like Bec. She must think the same thing because she smiles at the dresses and shakes her head.

“You do yourself a disservice, Little One,” says a voice. Bec stiffens, then turns slowly and regards Lord Loss. He’s hovering in the doorway, blood seeping from the many cracks in his pale red skin. His dark red eyes are as kindly as I’ve ever seen them. Even the snakes in the hole where his heart should be look harmless, hissing playfully, seeming to smile at the young girl by the wardrobe.