Darren Shan - The Demonata 1-5

“No,” I mutter, gripping the edge of the table. “I want to be here for him.”

Dervish nods understandingly, then returns to his story.

“Our scientists haven’t been able to crack the wolfen gene and find a cure. But science isn’t the only way to fight a disease. Magic works too.”

Dervish reaches across the desk, roots through the books stacked to his left and finds a thick tome. Opening it, he passes it to me, and I find myself gazing into the eyes of the family magician, Bartholomew Garadex.

“Old Bart devoted a large chunk of his life to trying to rid the family of its curse,” Dervish says. “He believed it had its origins in magic. For decades he cast spells, experimented and sought a cure in arcane volumes. But nothing worked. He could change a normal human’s shape but could do nothing with a transformed werewolf. He was powerless, like everybody else.

“And then he met a creature who wasn’t.”

Dervish’s face darkens. Taking the book from me, he closes it, then reaches for the folder where I found the drawing of Lord Loss.

“Stop!” I gasp. He looks at me questioningly. “I found that when I was here before,” I tell him, eyeing the folder fearfully. “The drawing of Lord Loss spoke to me. Its lips and eyes moved.”

“If I’d known you were so close to the truth,” Dervish murmurs, “I would have warned you about that.” He cocks a thumb at the door leading to the wine cellar. “As I told you, the house is safe. The land around is safe too. But I leave this cellar unprotected. There are times when I have to deal with entities not of this realm, and I need a base from which I can make contact.”

Dervish runs a couple of fingers over the leather cover, contemplating it with an expression of equal parts respect, sadness and fear. “Lord Loss can’t cross the divide between his realm and ours uninvited,” he says. “An ordinary person could look at that picture for decades without seeing anything untoward.

“But you aren’t ordinary. You’ve faced demons and tapped into your magic potential — when you escaped through the dog flap. He was able to use your power to speak to you. He couldn’t have harmed you through the book, but he might have been able to trick you into summoning him.”

“But who — what! – is he?” I cry.

“Lord Loss is a demon master,” Dervish says. “One of many supernatural beings who exist on the edges of our reality, in magical realms of their own. We call them the Demonata. Some meddle in the ways of humans, most have nothing to do with us, while a few — like Lord Loss — feed upon us.”

My hands are trembling. I grip them tightly between my knees.

“Lord Loss is a sentinel of sorrow,” Dervish says. “He feeds on human pain and suffering. A funeral is a three-course meal to him. A lonely, suicidal person’s a tasty snack. He delights in our fear and grief, encourages it when possible, then drains it and grows strong on humanity’s weakness.”

“How does he do it?” I croak. “How does he feed?”

“I’d have to get deep into metaphysics to explain that,” Dervish snorts. “Let’s just say he has a psychic straw through which he can suck a person’s pain.

“Now, old Bart knew about Lord Loss — he’d seen him feeding on grieving members of the family — but he didn’t care. Bartholomew was interested only in lifting the curse, not warding off demons. But later in life, he spent time studying the Demonata. They can live for thousands of years. I believe Bartholomew hoped to learn their secret. He never did, but at some point he found out that Lord Loss had the power to reverse the lycanthropic change.”

“You mean Lord Loss can cure Bill-E?” I cry.

“If he chooses to.”

“Then let’s summon him!” I shout, leaping out of my chair. “What are we waiting for? Let’s call him here now and–”

“The Demonata are evil and selfish,” Dervish interrupts. “It’s possible to strike deals with some of them, but they’ll do nothing out of the goodness of their hearts — as you know, some don’t even have a heart!”

“Then how…?”

Dervish gestures for me to sit. I’m exasperated, but I obey.

“Bartholomew tried everything to get Lord Loss to help. He begged, he threatened, he even offered his soul.”

“Souls are real?” I blurt out.

“Absolutely,” Dervish nods fiercely. “And prized by demons above all other possessions. A soul can be tormented far worse than a body. If I was to lose my soul, my body would continue to function — but on auto-pilot. I’d be like a zombie, an empty shell, feeding, breathing, walking — but not thinking or feeling. Meanwhile, in the universe of the Demonata, my soul would be put through every kind of hell imaginable — and many that aren’t!

“If Bartholomew had been a younger man, he might have been able to tempt Lord Loss. Trouble is, a soul’s only good to a demon as long as the human lives. Old Bart was close to death. Lord Loss judged it an inadequate trade-off.

“But Bartholomew was stubborn. He pursued Lord Loss and braved the attacks of his familiars, suffering many wounds which hastened the hour of his death. But eventually old Bart discovered Lord Loss’s great obsession, which he–”

Guttural roars drown Dervish out. Bill-E’s on his feet, clutching the bars of the cage, shaking them, screaming, his face a dark mask of furious lines, teeth bared, tongue lashing wildly from side to side, his yellow eyes gleaming through the narrow slits of his eyelids.

“Bill-E!” I yell, jumping to my feet, stepping towards the cage.

“Easy,” Dervish says, grabbing my arm. “Remember what I told you — he’ll kill you if you get too close.”

I stare numbly at Bill-E as he screams, pulls at the bars, kicks and head-butts them, his eyes all the time on Dervish and me.

“Does he recognise us?” I ask sickly.

“No,” Dervish replies.

Bill-E quits wrestling with the bars and turns away, disgusted. He stumbles over the deer, which shakes fearfully. Bill-E stops and grins savagely. Circles the defenceless beast, sniffing, growling. Then he falls on its neck. Claws — teeth — ripping — blood.

My cheeks are wet. I’m crying again.

“Let’s go,” Dervish whispers. “We can finish this in my study.”

“I don’t want to leave him alone,” I sob.

“Werewolves don’t get lonely,” Dervish says. “They feel only hunger and hate.”

He picks up Meera and nudges me towards the door leading to the wine cellar. I pause at the exit. One last horrified study of Bill-E Spleen — my brother. Then I follow my uncle to sanity.

→ Dervish lays Meera on one of the mansion’s many beds. He examines her again, in more detail this time. He tries to wake her by calling her name and gently shaking her. When that fails he goes to the bathroom, comes back with a glass of water, uses his fingers to flick drops at her face. She doesn’t stir.

Dervish steps away grimly. “I could try to bring her round with magic,” he says, “but I’m not sure how serious the damage is. I could make it worse.”

“Why don’t you just leave her?” I ask. “She’ll live, won’t she?”

“I think so.”

“Then let her sleep. That’ll be best for her, right?”

Dervish stares at me, troubled, then walks out of the room without saying anything. I wrap a blanket over Meera, then close the door on her and head up to the study.

→ After the dark of the cellar, the study seems warmer and brighter than ever. I lose myself in a large leather chair, knees drawn up to my chest, head tucked between them, weary and afraid. Dervish is standing by a chess set. This is his favourite set, the pieces based on characters from The Lord of the Rings. Dervish picks up a brightly painted hobbit figurine and toys with it absently while he speaks.