Darren Shan - The Demonata 1-5

I have to take a chance with the spells. I pull the chair back a bit more, then sit and cautiously lay my hands on top of the table.

Nothing happens.

The light’s poor here. There are matches on the table but I daren’t light a candle — Dervish might smell it when he returns, or notice that it’s burnt down more than when he left.

I study one of the open books but I can’t make sense of the words. If it’s in English, it’s protected by reading spells, like the books in Dervish’s study.

I flick forward a few pages, keeping a finger on the page it was originally opened to. No pictures, though there are a few mathematical or magical diagrams. I turn the pages back and pick up one of the other books.

A wolf’s bared jaws flash at me! I gasp — raise my hands to protect myself — almost topple out of my chair —

Then laugh hysterically as I realise it’s just the cover of a book under the one I picked up. I need to get a grip. Freaking out over a picture — seriously uncool!

Laying the upper book aside, I open the one with the picture of a wolf on it. The words in this are also indecipherable, but there are many pictures and drawings — most of creatures which are half-human, half-wolf.

I study the photos and illustrations in troubled silence. The paintings are wilder — men with perfectly normal upper halves, but the lower body of a wolf; women with ordinary bodies and twisted wolfen heads; babies covered in hair, with ripped lips and jagged fangs. But the photos are more disturbing, even though they’re less grisly than the paintings. Most simply depict malformed humans, with lots of hair, distorted faces, sharp teeth and slit eyes.

The reason they’re so unsettling — they’re real.

The paintings could be the work of an artist’s vivid imagination, but the photos are genuine. Of course I’m aware that it’s a simple matter in this day and age to forge photographs and warp reality, but I don’t think these are the result of some lab developer’s sick sense of humour. This book has the look and feel of an ancient tome — though some of the snaps are in colour, the colours are dull and splotchy, like in very old photos. I don’t think the people who put this together had the technical know-how to produce digitally enhanced images.

The creatures in the book don’t look familiar, though I study their faces at length. If there are Gradys or Garadexes in there, I don’t recognise them.

Closing the book, I pick up another lying to the right. This one’s modern. Glossy photos, mostly of dead human-wolf beasts, showing them cut open, their insides scooped out. I can’t read it, but I know what it is — an autopsy manual. Somebody’s undertaken a study of these wolfen humans and published their findings.

I grin shakily as I imagine what would happen if I went into a library and asked if they had any books on werewolf autopsies!

As I lay the autopsy book aside, my eyes fall on a thin volume. Loose sheets, held together by a wrinkled brown leather folder. Opening it, I find myself staring into the red eyes of the demon master — Lord Loss.

My fingers freeze. My throat pinches shut. It’s not the picture Dervish showed me when he came to visit me in the institute. This one’s more detailed. It shows only the demon’s head. With terrified fascination I study the folds of lumpy red skin, its bald crown, small mouth, sharp grey teeth. Its eyes are especially strange — as I noted before, it seems to have only a dark red iris and pupil.

Trembling, I start to turn the drawing over, to check on the other papers in the folder —

— then stop dead at a terrible whisper.

“Hello… Grubitssssssssssch…”

The demon’s voice! I release the paper and stare at the painted face — which, impossibly, nightmarishly — stares back.

“Release me,” the demon on the page whispers, its thin lips moving ever so slightly, its eyes narrowing fractionally. “I hunger for… your pain.”

The painting grins.

I scream, slam the folder shut, and race sobbing for safety, imagining the demon master breathing down my neck every frantic step of the way.

→ My bed. Curled into a ball on top of it. Weeping. Shaking. Fingers over my eyes. Peeping through them at fitful intervals, waiting for the demon master and his cohorts to come.

→ Hours later. Footsteps on the stairs. My heart almost stops.

Panting. Eyes wide. Remembering the carnage — Mum, Dad, Gret. Praying it’s quick. I don’t want to suffer. Maybe I should take the blade of the axe to my throat before the demons…

Whistling — Dervish!

I moan with relief. The footsteps stop, then start towards my room. I scurry underneath the covers and draw them up around my chin.

Dervish opens the door and sticks his head in. “You OK, Grubbs?” he asks.

“Yes,” I answer weakly. “Just a bad dream.”

“I can sit with you if you want.”

“No. I’m fine. Really.”

“See you in the morning then.”

“’Night.”

He only half-closes the door when he leaves. I want to rush to it and slam it all the way shut, but I don’t dare step off the bed — afraid Vein or Artery might be lying beneath, waiting to snap at my ankles and drag me off into their world.

→ Dawn takes an age to come, but eventually the sun rises and burns my fears away with its cleansing rays.

As the sun clears the horizon and chases the shadows of night westward, I crawl out of bed, over to the window, and throw it open. The morning air is chilly but welcome. I gulp it down like water, my head clearing, my shakes subsiding.

Did the painting really talk to me or did I just imagine it?

I honestly don’t know. I think it was real. But I was extra tense. Overreacting to everything. It could have been an hallucination.

What was definitely real — the werewolf photos. I didn’t imagine them. They’re what I must focus on. The Lord Loss mystery can wait. I went down the cellar to find evidence of a werewolf. And I believe I found it.

Time to call in the expert.

“Paging Bill-E Spleen…”

→ I phone while Dervish sleeps. Ma Spleen answers, even grumpier than usual. “It’s seven twenty-three!” she snaps. “He’s still asleep and so was I!”

“Please,” I say calmly. “This is important. I want to catch him before he goes to school.”

“If you tell me, I can give him a message,” she sniffs.

“No,” I insist. “I have to speak to him in person.”

She grumbles some more, but eventually goes to wake the snoozing master Spleen.

“This had better be life-or-death,” Bill-E yawns down the line a minute later.

“You’ve got to come over,” I tell him directly. “Pretend you’re going to school, then come here.”

“What?” he grunts. “Have you lost your mind? I can’t fart in these parts without Gran knowing. Skipping school is out of–”

“There’s a full moon tonight,” I hiss. “I don’t want to be trapped here alone with Dervish.”

A cautious pause. “What’s happened?” Bill-E asks.

“Come over. Find out.”

I put the phone down before he can ask any further questions, confident that his curiosity will entice him. Start thinking about what I’m going to tell Dervish to explain Bill-E’s being here.

→ He arrives at 09:17, schoolbag slung across his back, left eye squinting suspiciously, black hair slick with sweat — he must have run.

“Couldn’t come any earlier or Gran would have been suspicious,” he says, entering by the huge front doors, which I hold open for him like a butler. He looks around like a detective. “Where’s Dervish?”

“In his study. I told him you were coming to work on a school project with me.”