Darren Shan - Volumes 7 and 8 - Death’s Shadow/Wolf Island

“Yes.”

His scowl disappears and he shrugs. “Fair enough.”

“You understand how time works in that other universe?” Sharmila asks me. “It can pass quicker or slower than it does here. They might find him in a matter of minutes as we experience time or it could be several months.”

“I know. But we don’t have a choice. I’d go myself, except if it’s a trap…”

“…demons might be lying in ambush for you. Very well. Let us not waste any more time. I will stay with Dervish. Shark and Meera will accompany you to the cellar.” She smiles tightly at Shark. “You have been to hell in a bucket before, my old friend. Now it is time to go there without the bucket.”

→In the cellar. I’m working on a spell to create a window to the demon universe. It’s an area Beranabus goes to frequently—his father took his mother there when he abducted her. Because Beranabus has opened a window to that realm many times, it’s a relatively quick and easy procedure, though it still takes me an hour.

As I complete it, a thin lilac window forms in the cellar. I get a shiver down my spine. I never saw a window like this in my own time, but Beranabus has been through thousands of them. He acts like it’s no big thing, but he loathes these demonic passageways. He always expects to die when he steps through, having no real way of knowing what’s lurking on the other side.

“Will you be all right staying here with Sharmila?” Meera asks.

“Yes.”

“We should come with you and enter the demon universe later,” Shark says. “If the Lambs attack you on the way to hospital…”

“I might not be able to open a window there,” I explain. “It’s easier if I’m in an area of magic.”

“Even if Beranabus doesn’t come with us, we’ll return,” Meera says.

“He’ll come,” I smile confidently.

“Because you’re part of the Kah-Gash?”

“Yes. But also because we’re old friends.”

“I didn’t think Beranabus had any friends,” Shark grunts.

“Maybe not now. But he was a boy called Bran once and I was his friend then. He’d do anything for me.”

“You’re sure of that?” Meera asks.

I think about the night I sat with Beranabus and absorbed his memories. He always wears a flower in a buttonhole, in memory of me. “I’m certain.”

“Right,” Shark says, rubbing his hands together. “Keep a light burning—we’ll be back in time for supper.”

Shark steps through the window. Meera smiles wryly, then moves to hug me. I take a step backwards.

“I’d rather not touch. I don’t want to steal any more memories from you.”

“Don’t be silly,” Meera says, wrapping her arms around me. “If things go badly over there, you can remember my life for me.”

We grin shakily at each other, then Meera slips through the window after Shark. I wait a couple of minutes in case they run into trouble and need to make a quick retreat. Then, as the window breaks apart, I douse the lights and climb the steps to help Sharmila escort Dervish to hospital.

After the death of the Minotaur, the years of wandering began. Beranabus had no difficulty finding his way out of the Labyrinth. He had explored every last alley of the maze. It had been home to him and he knew it intimately.

Sunlight disturbed the boy. Having grown up in darkness, the world of light seemed unbearably bright. He tried to brave the glare, but the pain was too great. Weeping, he retreated. Not knowing about the outside world, he assumed it would always be this bright, the way the Labyrinth had always been dark.

When the sun dropped and the sky darkened, Beranabus cautiously crept out again. It was still a lot lighter than he liked, but he was able to adjust to the shades of the night world. He looked back once at the Labyrinth, feeling sad and alone, remembering the good times, riding high on the Minotaur’s shoulders, feeding on the fresh blood and meat of the beast’s kills. Then, reluctantly, he turned his back on his childhood home and set off to explore this new, peculiar world.

Beranabus was a simple child. He couldn’t speak. He could understand some of what other people said, but not everything. Most of the world was a mystery to him, filled with beings who made a huge amount of noise and fought lots of battles for no reason that he could see.

He shouldn’t have lasted long in such a hostile environment. But Beranabus had a remarkable gift, which saved him when he first entered the world—he could tame the wildest of creatures and find friendship in the most unlikely places. Wherever he went, he was accepted. People took him into their homes, gave him passage on carriages and boats, fed and clothed him, treated him with kindness and love.

Many took pity on the boy and sought to keep him and raise him as their own. But Beranabus liked to wander. After the confines of the Labyrinth, the open space of the world intrigued him and he wanted to see more of it. So, without any real design or purpose, he always moved on, slipping away from those who yearned to root him, feeling nothing more for them than he did for the dirt beneath his feet or the air whispering through his hair.

One day, when the boy was on the brink of his teenage years (although he’d been alive for more than two centuries), he witnessed a demon on the rampage. The monster had crossed near a small village and was busy killing as many humans as it could before it had to return through the window of light to its own universe.

The demon reminded Beranabus of the Minotaur. He had come a long way from Crete and seen much of the world and its people, but this was the first demon he’d encountered. The savage beast amused him. It was shaped like an octopus, but with several heads of various animals and birds. He liked the sounds the humans made when the demon killed them, and the patterns their blood created as it arced through the air in streaks and spurts.

He watched the massacre for a few minutes as if enjoying a show. The demon saw him, but didn’t attack, mesmerised by the boy’s strange aura, as all other dangerous creatures had been.

Murder meant nothing to Beranabus. He didn’t understand concepts of right and wrong, good and evil. His mind was a muddled grey zone. Many had tried to teach him, but all had failed. The only difference in his head between a living person and a corpse was that the former was more entertaining.

When the demon retreated, Beranabus was curious to see what the beast would do next, who it would kill, what sort of mischief it would get up to. So he stepped through the window after the demon, out of his mother’s universe, into the much darker and spectacularly violent playpen of the Demonata.

Beranabus had a whale of a time in the universe of his father. The demons were far more bloodthirsty than humans. They could kill each other in ways men had never dreamt of. Death didn’t have to be swift either. A demon master could torment a lesser demon for decades… hundreds of years… millennia if it wished.

Beranabus drifted with delight from one crazy realm to another. He didn’t need to sleep much, or eat and drink. And he aged at an even slower rate than on Earth. He was part of a universe of marvels and it seemed he could go on enjoying it for as long as he liked.

He had to be careful of course. He could tame most demons, but some resisted his charms and tried to capture him. Beranabus was uneducated, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew what pain and suffering were, and while he loved to observe the torment of others, he had no wish to become one of the tortured.