Demon Thief (24 page)

Instead I’ve returned to lies and disguise, a nightmare every bit as awful as the one I hoped to escape forever when I left the universe of the Demonata.

The loneliness is worse than ever. Trapped indoors most of the time, nobody to play with or speak to. It was bad enough when I felt like an outsider, but at least I could mingle with other children, go to school, act like I fit in. Now I’m totally alone. I can’t even talk to Mom or Dad. They’re always uneasy around me. They love me because I’m their son, but I’m sure they wonder sometimes and ask themselves, “Is that really Kernel? Can it truly be the boy we thought we’d lost? Or is it some monster pretending to be him?”

They have nightmares. I’ve heard them moaning in their sleep. Sometimes one will wake screaming, and sob for hours, held by the other, comforted.

But they never hold or comfort me.

Out of boredom, I start experimenting with the patches of light. Curious to see if I can manipulate them. Trying to get them to pulse. I don’t want to open a window. I just want to see if I have the power here.

For a long time I make no progress. But eventually I find a way. I have to think about a specific spot in the Demonata’s universe, somewhere I’ve been. That gets the lights pulsing, though it takes hours of concentration. Once they’re going, if I think of another place or person, other patches pulse, but slowly, in small numbers. I’m sure I could get more of them to pulse if I pushed myself, and gradually build a window. If I wanted to. Which I don’t. Why would I ever return to that universe of vicious, magical insanity?

A dark, wet day. Mom and Dad are out at work. They were awake most of last night, crying and talking. I hate seeing them unhappy. I’ve tried everything I can to cheer them up and make it easier. Told jokes, avoided mention of demons, worked hard at my studies, kept up a smile whenever they’re around.

But nothing works. They were delighted when I first returned, but that quickly gave way to a confused sadness, and they’re getting sadder every day. They don’t know how to deal with me or this new life they’ve found themselves part of. It’s too complicated.

They’re starting to resent me. I can see it in their eyes, just a flash, every so often, when they think I won’t notice. A look that says they wish I’d never come back. That look strikes at my heart every time I catch it. Makes me want to break into tears and throw myself at them for a hug. But I hold my smile. Pretend not to notice. Act like everything’s fine. And only cry when they’re not around.

The clouds part shortly after midday, for a few minutes. Then they roll back together and rain comes down more heavily than before.

Thinking about the universe of the Demonata. I hated it there, but I didn’t feel out of place. I had a purpose, a function. I was the equal of Sharmila, Dervish, Raz, Shark, Nadia. No good at fighting, but I had other talents. They respected me. Even Beranabus was impressed.

I remember what he said. “Home isn’t always where you expect it to be. You know where to find me.”

Crazy. As if I’d ever want to go back there, face demons again, live like Nadia, a slave of the magician. Adrift in a universe of horrors, where you can’t even depend on time. Nothing in this world could be as bad as that. Mom and Dad will accept me eventually. I’ll make friends. Grow up normally. We’ll laugh about this one day.

I’m sitting on the floor in the small living room of the apartment that we’re renting. I rise and walk to the bathroom. Take the marbles out of my pocket, the orange marbles that I’ve carried ever since Art was stolen. I look down at them, then hold them up, standing before the mirror. Place them in front of my eyes. Watch them twinkle. I try directing magic into them. Take my fingers away, telling them to hover in the air.

They fall. Roll away. I hurry after them before they disappear down one of the holes in the old floorboards.

Back to the living room, remembering how magical I was in that other place, the things I could do, the power I had. Sitting on the couch, I study the marbles again, and recall what Sharmila said to me in the field before we parted. I think I know now what she was hinting, the secret she suspected. It’s an impossible, wild and crazy theory. I’m sure it can’t be right. But if it is...

Trying not to worry too much about what that might mean, I put the marbles away. As I stand, I notice some of the lights around me pulsing slowly. I stare at them numbly. It’s like they’re calling me, trying to suck me back into that realm of madness.

I turn my back on them and stride around the tiny apartment, looking for something to distract me. End up in Mom and Dad’s bedroom. Not much bigger than mine. A bed they can only just fit into. I let my eyes drift. It’s untidy, clothes thrown around the place, dirty socks and underwear. The rooms were never like this in our previous homes. Mom was house proud. Dad too. Always cleaning and tidying up. But not anymore.

The mess upsets me. I turn to leave but spot the corner of something sticking out from under a pillow on the bed. I edge over and slide it all the way out. It’s a photograph of me and Art. I haven’t seen it before. Mom must have taken it when we weren’t looking. In the photo we’re near a tire hanging on a rope from a tree. I’m holding Art over my head. He’s laughing. I think I’m laughing too. But it’s difficult to tell. Because Mom has scrawled all over my face with a pen. Line after line of black ink, obliterating my features, scratching me out of existence.

I put the photo back in its place. Cover it entirely. Return to the living room, my stomach hard and cold. The lights are pulsing around me, lots of them, faster than before, like they used to in the Demonata’s universe. I think about Beranabus, what Sharmila said, the bitter looks I sometimes get from Mom and Dad, the photo.

As a single tear trickles down my cheek, I reach out like a robot and start slotting the patches of pulsing lights together.

KAH-GASH

B
ERANABUS
is waiting in a surprisingly scenic spot, lying on a pile of deep green grass next to a waterfall, beneath the shelter of a leafy tree. The only hint that this is another universe — blood, not water, flows from the waterfall.

“I thought you might come looking for me,” he says, sounding more sad than smug. “I decided to rest here a while.” He looks around. “I come here often. My mother liked this place. I feel close to her here.”

“Was your mother a magician?” I ask.

“Not as such.” He stares at the waterfall, stroking the petals of a fresh flower that he’s pinned to his jacket. “She died not long after I was born. I used magic to find out about her later — that’s how I learned about this spot — but I never knew her when I was a child. As for my father...”

He snorts, then says with unusual softness, “I know what it’s like to be lonely. To have no family. To feel out of place in the world. I hate myself for what I did to Nadia, and for what I’m asking of you. I know how wretched her life was, and what you’re suffering now, because I’ve felt that way myself. I’d have spared you both if I could. But the universe demands sacrifice and pain of its champions. When there’s no other way... when the fate of billions hangs in the balance... what choice do we have?”

I stare at the ancient magician, not sure how to answer. Before I can think of something to say, he barks a laugh, pushes himself to his feet and smiles, more like his old, cynical self. “Come to be my assistant, have you? Couldn’t fit in with the folks at home? Normal life not for you anymore?”

“You knew I’d return, didn’t you?” I accuse him.

“I’ve lived and seen enough to know how difficult it is to settle for a small life when you’re destined for greatness. The universe created you for a reason, Kernel Fleck, and it wasn’t to waste your time in an ordinary job, among everyday people. Destiny is a determined opponent. Not many get the better of it.”

“So what now?” I ask. “Do we go after Cadaver?”

“I don’t think so.” Beranabus frowns. “I’m angling more towards the idea of retracing the route he followed when he was on his way to Lord Loss’s. Maybe we’ll find something on one of the worlds he visited, or on a world we bypassed when you opened the window directly to him.”

“Or maybe.. .” I stop, not wanting to say it. The window behind me has faded, but I could easily build another if I wanted. Find my parents. Try again. It’s not too late to change my mind. But if I tell Beranabus of my suspicions, I can never return. I’ll be his — the universe’s — for life.

Beranabus studies me with one eyebrow raised, smiling as if nothing I say can take him by surprise, like he’s waiting for me to make a suggestion so that he can say he already thought of it.

I chew my lower lip, trying to make up my mind. I think about the photo again. Shiver, then straighten up and put my theory to the test.

“I’m picturing Cadaver inside my head now,” I tell Beranabus, then look around. “Dozens of lights are flashing. I could open a window to him if I wanted.”

I clear the demon from my thoughts and think about Beranabus. “Now I’ve got
you
in my head.” My stomach sinks when I check the lights and my worst fears are realized. “Nothing’s happening. No lights are pulsing.”

“Of course not,” he snorts. “I’m here with you. There no need to open a window to find me.”

“Right. Now I’ll think about a waterfall on Earth — Niagara Falls.” I concentrate. “Lots of pulsing lights again. But when I think about that waterfall of blood... nothing.”

Bernabus is frowning. “What are you —”

“Picturing Sharmila,” I interrupt. “Dervish. Shark. Lights pulse for all three of them.” And for Nadia too, though I don’t tell Beranabus that. “Now I’m thinking of myself — no flashing lights. And now... now I’m thinking about the Kah-Gash.” I give it a full minute. Two. Five. Eyes shut, focusing hard, saying the word over and over. When I finally open my eyes, none of the lights are pulsing, and Beranabus is staring at me, trembling slightly.

“Nobody knows what the Kah-Gash was,” the magician says softly, “or what sort of parts it was broken down into. I’ve always assumed the pieces would be power-charged stones, or other objects of energy, but I guess they could be hidden in anything. Even in...”

“. . . people,” I finish for him.

Beranabus shudders, then steels himself. “Am I the one?” he asks.

“No,” I say sadly. “I’m pretty certain it’s
me
.”

And with those few words I put my human life behind me forever and surrender myself to whatever demonic horrors destiny holds in store.

The horrifying adventures continue in

SLAWTER

Book 3 in
THE DEMONATA
series

from Little, Brown and Company.

M
Y EYES!
They stabbed out my eyes!”

I shoot awake. Start to struggle up from my bed. An arm hits the side of my head. Knocks me down. A man screams, “My eyes! Who took my eyes?”

“Dervish!” I roar, rolling off the bed, landing beside the feet of my frantic uncle. “It’s only a dream! Wake up!”

“My eyes!” Dervish yells again. I can see his face now, illuminated by a three-quarters-full moon. Eyes wide open, but seeing nothing. Fear scribbled into every line of his features. He lifts his right foot. Brings it down towards my head — hard. I make like a turtle and only just avoid having my nose smashed.

“
You
took them!” he hisses, sensing my presence, fear turning to hate. He bends and grabs my throat. His fingers tighten. Dervish is thin, doesn’t look like much, but his appearance is deceptive. He could crush my throat, easy.

I lash out at his hand, yanking my neck away at the same time. Tear free. Scrabble backwards. Halted by the bed. Dervish lunges after me. I kick at his head, both feet. No time to worry about hurting him. Connect firmly. Drive him back. He grunts, shakes his head, loses focus.

“Dervish!” I shout. “It’s me, Grubbs! Wake up! It’s only a nightmare! You have to stop, before you —”

“The master,” Dervish cuts in, fear filling his face again. He’s staring at the ceiling — rather, that’s where his eyes are pointing. “Lord Loss.” He starts to cry. “Don’t ... please ... not again. My eyes. Leave them alone. Please ...”

“Dervish,” I say, softly this time, rising, rubbing the side of my head where he hit me, approaching him cautiously. “Dervish. Derv the perv — where’s your nerve?” Knowing from past nights that rhymes draw his attention. “Derv on the floor — where’s the door? Derv without eyes — what’s the surprise?”

He blinks. His head lowers a fraction. Sight begins to return. His pupils were black holes. Now they look quasi-normal.

“It’s OK,” I tell him, moving closer, wary in case the night-mare suddenly fires up again. “You’re home. With me. Lord Loss can’t get you here. Your eyes are fine. It was just a nightmare.”

“Grubbs?” Dervish wheezes.

“Yes, boss.”

“That’s really you? You’re not an illusion?
He
hasn’t created an image of you, to torment me?”

“Don’t be stupid. Not even Michelangelo could create a face this perfect.”

Dervish smiles. The last of the nightmare passes. He sits on the floor and looks at me through watery globes. “How you doing, big guy?”

“Coolio.”

“Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly.

“You couldn’t if you tried,” I smirk, not telling him about the hit to the head, the hand on my throat, the foot at my face.

I sit beside him. Drape an arm around his shoulders. He hugs me tight. Murmurs, “It was so real. I thought I was back there. I ...”

And then he weeps, sobbing like a child. And I hold him, talking softly as the moon descends, telling him it’s OK, he’s home, he’s safe — he’s no longer in the universe of demons.

Never trust fairy tales. Any story that ends with “They all lived happily ever after” is a crock. There are no happy endings. No endings — full stop. Life sweeps you forward, swings you round, bruises and batters you, drops some new drama or tragedy in your lap, never lets go until you get to the one true end — death. As long as you’re breathing, your story’s still going.

If the rules of fairy tales
did
work, my story would have ended on a high four months ago. That’s when Dervish regained his senses and everything seemed set to return to normal. But that was a false ending. A misleading happy pause.