Darren Shan - The Demonata 6-10

“No. But let’s say I did. What about that one?” I point to the blue demon, which is edging back into the crack, becoming one with the landscape again.

“Not worth killing,” Beranabus says dismissively. “There are untold billions of demons. They’re all evil, but most can’t hurt us or cross to our world. That cretin doesn’t even dare leave this valley. It waits, hiding and surviving, doing precious little else.”

“What does it feed on?” I ask.

“Who knows,” Beranabus sniffs. “Maybe nothing. Most demons don’t need to eat and drink. Many do, but out of choice, not necessity.”

“Then why did we come here, if not to kill it?” I frown.

“Information,” Kernel says, looking around. “We’re like detectives with a team of snitches. We know where to find soft demons. We often come to places like this, rough up the locals, find out if anything foul is afoot — something usually is. Demons like that one might not do much, but they know things. Secrets are hard to keep in this universe. Word spreads quickly.”

“What’s the word now?” I ask, caught off guard. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t something like this.

“There’s a demon trying to possess a woman on Earth,” Beranabus says. “That happens all the time. It’s not a problem for us, though it’s bad for those involved. Some demons who can’t cross universes can establish a hold on the minds of humans. They manipulate them, send them mad, use them to create as much chaos as possible. We normally wouldn’t bother with small-scale melodramatics like this, but I want to break you in gently.”

Kernel grunts. “On my first mission we fought a pair of demons who had almost broken through to the centre of Moscow. They were two of the toughest I’ve ever faced. It was bloody and tight. That’s when I lost the tips of my fingers.” He stares at his left hand, the fingers flinching inwards as he relives the memory.

“Why couldn’t you replace them?” I ask. “You can do that with magic, right?”

“Normally. But the loss made little difference. I decided to leave them as they were. They remind me of the dangers we face, the fact that success isn’t a guarantee, that we can and will perish in this hell-hole eventually.”

“Here we go,” Beranabus says briskly. A purplish window has formed in front of Kernel. Beranabus walks up to it and steps through, not bothering to breathe on this one. Kernel curls his fingers into a fist, then relaxes his fingers and follows.

I look back in the direction of the blue demon, but I can’t see it now, even though I know the exact spot where it’s hiding. Shaking my head, I think, “This isn’t so bad. I can handle this.” But I know it’s a false start, that worse – much worse – is to come.

There’s a sound far overhead, from the meteor-sized demons in the sky. Fearful of being attacked while I’m alone, I rush to the window and push through after the others.

→ Fire! It’s all around me, fierce, intense, out of control. I feel the hair on my arms singe and know I have only seconds before I burst into flames. Total panic. I want to look for Beranabus and Kernel or scream for help, but my eyes and mouth shut automatically against the heat.

“Oh, for the love of…” Kernel tuts, taking hold of my arm and shaking it roughly. “This is ridiculous. He’s not fit for this. Send him back.”

“He’ll learn,” Beranabus says and then his lips are by my left ear. “Use magic to guide yourself.”

“It’s hell!” I moan, speaking out of the side of my mouth, keeping my eyes shut.

“One of many thousands of hells,” Beranabus grunts. “For every imaginative demon who constructs a terrifyingly original realm, there are scores who draw upon tired old human myths. Stop acting like a fool. You can already feel your magic responding to this, protecting you from the flames. You’d be burning to a crisp right now if not.”

I open one eye, then the other. Nothing to see but flames. Beranabus and Kernel are hard to spot among the flickering licks of yellow and red. Still hot, hotter than I should be able to bear. But magic’s humming away in the background, cooling me down, guarding my freckled flesh. Beranabus is right — it kicked in as soon as I set foot here, even as the hairs on my arms began to shrivel. I knew that – I could feel it – but fear made me panic.

“Where’s the demon?” I ask, trying to peer through the walls of fire. I look down and realise we’re truly in the middle of the flames — no floor. Nothing below, above or to the sides except fire.

“The flames are the demon,” Kernel says. “It’s a universal demon.”

“Am I supposed to know what that means?” I growl.

“Universal demons don’t just inhabit a galaxy of their own — they become it,” Beranabus explains. “This demon has a fascination with fire, so it became flames. Its whole zone – the demon itself – is made of fire.”

“But where does it start?” I ask. “Where does it end?”

“Nowhere,” Beranabus says. “This demon is its own self-contained and at the same time limitless realm. It’s like our universe — infinite.”

While I’m trying to make sense of that – I’ve always had problems thinking of a universe being infinite, never mind one single creature – the flames thicken around us. There’s a horrible shrieking sound, piercing and destructive. My eardrums and eyeballs should burst, but magic protects me instinctively. (Which is just as well, since I wouldn’t know where to start to control it!)

A shape forms amid the flames, gigantic and bulging, like the wizard’s fake head in The Wizard of Oz, only a hundred times bigger and more frightening, full of leaping shadows, sparks and flames.

The demon shrieks again. A huge, rough, fiery fist forms and smashes down on Beranabus. He waves an arm at the fist and slices through the flames. The edges of his beard singe, but he’s otherwise unharmed.

Another fist forms and tries to swat Kernel aside. He leaps high, somersaults over it, opens his mouth mid-leap and sucks in sharply. He inhales flames, face turning a pure, angry, painful white. The demon screams. Kernel lands, coughs, spins and leaps over another quickly formed fist.

Beranabus grabs handfuls of flames and rams them into his stomach. And I mean into — his hands pierce his own flesh. He’s stuffing his guts full of fire. The hands come out, the wall of his stomach unharmed. He grabs more flames and jams them in. Out — in. Out — in.

And what does the heroic Grubbs Grady do? I hang beside them, helpless and shivering, about as much use as a plastic toasting fork. I want to help, but I don’t know how. My magic isn’t strong enough. I don’t want to be here. This isn’t my fight.

Then, in the middle of the battle, the demon focuses on me. Two huge fists form on either side and slam towards me, to hammer me lifeless.

I throw myself to the floor. Except there isn’t a floor. Just flames. I don’t know how I’ve been hovering, but I’m not any more. I’m falling, like when Beranabus ripped me out of the plane, dropping like a sack of stones, quickly losing sight of the magician and his assistant.

“Help!” I scream.

“Help yourself,” Beranabus roars, then curses brutally.

I come to a stop. Relief evaporates moments later when I realise I haven’t been helped by Beranabus or Kernel — I’m being held in the middle of a giant hand of fire. The fingers close upon me. The heat’s unbearable. I feel my magic struggling, protesting, pleading with me to direct it, use it, fight back. But what can I do? How can I defeat a creature made of flames? It’s impossible. At least Lord Loss and his familiars were real targets. I could hit them. This is lunacy. We’re all going to perish, burnt to death by a demon the size of a universe.