Darren Shan - Bec

“They’ve seen Fintan,” Fand says when we’re seated, after a few seconds of uneasy silence.

“Good,” Torin grunts. “That saves some time.” He collects his thoughts, glances at me, then tells us their sorry tale— my tale.

Several generations ago their ancestors bred with the Fomorii. They thought the semi-demons were going to conquer this land and threw in their lot with them. When the Fomorii were defeated, the MacGrigor were hunted down and executed as traitors. But some survived and went into hiding.

“Though if they’d known what was to come next, I think they’d have stayed and accepted death,” Torin says bitterly.

Some of the children of the human-Fomorii couplings were born deformed and demonic, and were immediately put to death. But most were human in appearance. These lived and grew, and for many years all was well.

“Then the changes began,” Torin sighs. “When children came of a certain age—usually on the cusp of adulthood—some transformed. It always happened around the time of a full moon. Their bodies twisted. Hair sprouted. Their teeth lengthened into fangs, their nails into claws. The change developed and worsened over three or four moons. By the end, they were wild, inhuman beasts, incapable of speech or recognition. Killers if left to wander free.”

The affected children were slain, while the others grew and had children of their own. They thought they were safe, that they’d survived the curse—but they were wrong. Some of the children of the survivors changed too, and their grandchildren, and those who came after.

“It strikes at random,” Torin says. “Sometimes four of five children of any generation will change, sometimes only two. But always a few. There’s never been a generation where none of the children turned.”

The family sought the help of priestesses and druids in later years, when their treachery had been forgotten and they were free to live among normal folk again. But no magician could lift the curse. So they struggled on, moving from one place to another whenever their dark secret was discovered, living as far away from other clans as possible, sometimes killing their beastly young, other times— as here—allowing them to live, in the hope they might one day change back or be cured by a powerful druid.

“It’s no sort of life,” Torin mutters, eyes distant, “waiting for our children to turn. Having to feed those who’ve fallen foul of the curse and look upon them as they are, remembering them as they were. I’d rather kill the poor beasts, but…” He glances at Fand, who glowers at him.

“And Bec?” Fiachna asks, sensing my impatience, speaking on my behalf. “Her mother was of your clan?”

“If her mother was Aednat, aye,” Torin says. He looks at me and again his face is dark. “Aednat had six children. All turned. When she fell pregnant for the seventh time, years after she and her husband, Struan, had agreed not to try again, Struan was furious. He couldn’t bear the thought of bringing another child into the world and rearing it, only to have to kill it when it fell prey to the ravages of the moon.

“Aednat argued to keep the child. She thought she might be lucky this time, that the gods would never curse her seven times in a row. She was old, at an age when most women can no longer conceive. She thought it was a sign that this child was blessed, that it would be safe. Struan didn’t agree. Neither did the rest of us.”

“Some did!” Aideen interrupts bitterly, but says no more when Torin glares at her warningly.

“We decided to kill the child in the womb,” Torin continues gruffly. “That was Struan’s wish and we believed it was the right thing to do. Struan took Aednat off into the wilds, to do the deed in private. But none of us knew how much Aednat wanted the baby. She fought with Struan when they were alone. Stabbed him. I don’t think she meant to kill him, but—”

“My mother killed my father?” I almost scream.

“Aye,” Torin says, burning me with his stare. “She probably only intended to wound him, but she cut too deeply. He died and she fled. By the time we discovered his body, she was far away. We followed for a time, to avenge Struan’s murder, but lost her trail after a couple of days. We prayed for her death when we returned. I’m pleased to hear our prayers were answered.”

I rear myself back to curse him for saying such a mean thing, but Fiachna grabs my left arm and squeezes hard, warning me to be silent.

“Of course the girl’s not our business now,” Torin says heavily. “She’s of your clan, not ours, so we can’t tell you what to do with her. But she’s a cursed child, from a line of cursed children, and the spawn of a killer. She’s at the age when the moon usually works its wicked charms. If you let her live, the chances are strong that she’ll change into a beast like Fintan. If you want my advice—”

“We don’t,” Goll snaps.

“As you wish,” Torin concedes. “But when the moon is full, be wary of her.”

He falls silent. I’m panting hard, as if I’d been running, thinking of the kind, weary face of my mother, trying to picture her killing my father. Then I recall the boy-beast in the hut and imagine myself in his position. I wish now that the past had remained a secret!

“What about the demons?” Drust asks, maybe to change the subject to stop me brooding, or maybe because he has no interest in my history or Torin’s grim prediction. “Don’t they ever attack?”

“No,” Torin says.

“Even though you’re poorly defended and they could butcher you any time they pleased?”

Torin shrugs. “There were other families living near here. They’d been forced out of their tuatha for various reasons and settled in this wasteland. The demons killed them last year. We’ve seen the monsters pass from time to time and they’ve seen us. But they leave us alone.”

Drust nods. “Then it wasn’t a Fomorii your ancestors bred with. It was a true demon. Some of the Demonata fought alongside the Fomorii. Many demons don’t attack their own, especially if there are pure humans to kill. You’re kin to them, so they spare you—for now at least.”

“We’ve heard talk of the Demonata before,” Torin says. “Other druids—those we went to for help—spoke of them. They told us the curse was demonic and that was why they couldn’t help.” He leans forward. “I don’t suppose you know any way to…?” He leaves the question hanging.

Drust thinks about it a while, then says, “A demon master might be able to lift the curse. But I know of no human—druid, priestess or any other—who has the power to remove such a blood stain.”

“You mean the demons could cure us?” Fand says sharply.

“One of the more powerful masters, perhaps,” Drust says.

“Do you know where we can find one?”

Drust starts to respond, to tell them about Lord Loss. Then he stops and shakes his head. “The demon masters have not broken through to this world yet. When and if they do, they will be easy to locate. But I doubt if you will be able to convince them to help—by nature they are not inclined to be merciful.”

We stay talking a while longer. I ask questions about my mother and father, what they were like, how they spoke and lived. But Torin ignores my queries and speaks sharply whenever Aideen or Fand tries to answer, changing the conversation. I consider using magic on him, to make him tell me what I want to know, but Drust reads my thoughts and growls in my ear, “This is neither the time nor place for magic. Control yourself.”

When the MacGrigor have told us some more of their sad history and how they eke out a living here, Drust speaks of our quest, of the tunnel which has opened between the demon world and this, and his plan to close it. But he says nothing of how he hopes to pinpoint its location or why he’s leading us to the western coast—the end of the world.