Authors: Darren Shan

Demon Thief (25 page)

BOOK: Demon Thief

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I had to write a short biography for an English assignment recently. A snappy, zappy summing-up of my life. I had to discard my first effort — it was too close to the bone, and would have only led to trouble if I’d handed it in. I wrote an edited, watered-down version and submitted that instead. (I got a B-minus.) But I kept the original. It’s hidden under a pile of clothes in my wardrobe. I drag it out now to read, to pass some time. I’ve read through it a lot of times these past few weeks, usually early in the morning, after an interrupted night, when I can’t sleep.

I was born Grubitsch Grady. One sister, Gretelda. Grubbs and Gret for short. Normal, boring lives for a long time. Then Gret turned into a werewolf.

“What are you reading?”

It’s Dervish, standing in the doorway of my room, mug of coffee in his left hand, eyes still wide and freaky from his nightmare.

“My biography,” I tell him.

He frowns. “What?” “

I’m going to publish my memoirs. I’m thinking of ‘Life with Demons’ as a title. Or maybe ‘Hairy Boys and Girls of the Grady Clan.’ What do you think?”

Dervish stares at me uneasily. “You’re weird,” he mutters, then trudges away.

“Wonder where I got that from?” I retort, then shake my head and return to the biography.

I have a younger half-brother, Bill-E Spleen. He doesn’t know we’re brothers. Thinks Dervish is his father. I met him when I came to live with Dervish, after my parents died trying to save Gret.

“Are you coming down for breakfast?” Dervish yells from the bottom of the giant staircase that links the floors of the mansion where we live.

“In a minute,” I yell back. “I’ve just come to the bit when you zombied out on me.”

“Stop messing about!” he roars. “I’m scrambling eggs, and if you’re not down in sixty seconds, too bad!”

Damn! He knows all my weaknesses!

“Coming!” I shout, getting up and reaching for my clothes, tossing the bio aside for later.

Dervish does a mean scrambled egg. Best I’ve ever tasted. I finish off a plateful without stopping for breath, then eagerly go for seconds. I’m built on the big size — a mammoth compared to most of my schoolmates — with an appetite to match.

Dervish is wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt. No shoes or socks. His grey hair is frizzled, except on top, where he's bald as a billiard ball. Hasn’t shaved (he used to have a beard, but got rid of it recently). Doesn’t smell good — sweaty and stale. He’s this way most days. Has been ever since he came back.

“You eating that or not?” I ask. He looks over blankly from where he’s standing, close to the hob. He’s been staring out the window at the grey autumn sky, not touching his food.

“Huh?” he says.

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

He looks down at his plate. Smiles weakly. Sticks his fork into the eggs, stirs them, then gazes out of the window again. “I remember the nightmare,” he says. “They cut my eyes out. They were circling me, tormenting me, using my empty sockets as —”

“Hey,” I stop him, “I’m a kid. I shouldn’t be hearing this. You’ll scar me for life with stories like that.”

Dervish grins, warmth in it this time. “Take more than a scary story to scar you,” he grunts, then starts to eat. I help myself to thirds, then return to the biography, not needing the sheet of paper to finish, able to recall it perfectly.

To save Bill-E, we faced Lord Loss and his familiars, Artery and Vein, a vicious, bloodthirsty pair. We won. And Dervish won himself a ticket to Demonata hell, to go toe-to-toe with the big double L on his home turf.

Then, without warning, Dervish returned. I woke up one morning and he was his old self, talking, laughing, brain intact. We celebrated for days, us, Bill-E and Meera. And we all lived happily after. The end.

Except, of course, it wasn’t. Life isn’t a fairy tale, and stories don’t end. Before she left, Meera took me aside and warned me to be careful. She said there was no way to predict Dervish’s state of mind. Sometimes it took a person a long time to recover from an encounter with Lord Loss. Sometimes they never properly recovered.

“We don’t know what’s going on in there,” she whispered. “He looks fine, but that could change. Watch him, Grubbs. Be prepared for mood swings. Try and help. Do what you can. But don’t be afraid to call me for help.”

I did call when the nightmares started, when Dervish first attacked me in his sleep, mistook me for a demon and tried to cut my heart out. (Luckily, in his delirium, he picked up a spoon in stead of a knife.) But there was nothing Meera could do, short of cast a few calming spells, and recommend he visit a psychiatrist. Dervish rejected that idea, but she threatened to take me away from him if he didn’t. So he went to see one, a guy who knew about demons, whom Dervish could be honest with. I don’t know what happened, but after the second session, the psychiatrist rang Meera and said he never wanted to see Dervish again — he found their sessions too upsetting.

Meera discussed the possibility of having Dervish committed, or hiring a bodyguard to look after him, but I rejected both suggestions. So, against Meera’s wishes, we carried on living by ourselves in this spooky old mansion. It hasn’t been too bad. Dervish rarely gets the nightmares more than two or three nights a week. I’ve grown used to it. Waking up in the middle of the night to screams is no worse than waking up to a baby’s cries. Really, it isn’t.

And he’s not that much of a threat. We keep the knives locked away, and have bolted the other weapons in the mansion in place. (The walls are dotted with axes, maces, spears, swords ... all sorts of cool stuff.) I usually keep my door locked too, to be safe. The only reason it was open last night was that Dervish had thrown a fit both nights before, and it’s rare for him to fall prey to the nightmares three nights in a row. I thought I was safe. That’s why I didn’t bother with the lock. It was my fault, not Dervish’s.

“I will kill him for you, master,” Dervish says softly.

I lower my fork. “What?”

He turns, blank-faced, looking like he did when his soul was fighting Lord Loss. My heart rate quickens. Then he grins.

The Demonata exist in a multi-world universe of their own. Evil, murderous creatures, who revel in torment and slaughter. They try to cross over into our world all the time.