Lord Loss (18 page)

As I stare at him miserably, Dervish returns his attention to the phone and hits the buttons. The phone at the other end rings and is picked up almost instantly. I hear a man say, “Yes?”

Dervish starts to reply.

“Tell him it's OK,” I interrupt softly. “Tell him you rang his number by accident.”

“Grubbs, you don't have to —”

“I won't live with the threat of the change hanging over me. Or with the guilt of not fighting for Bill-E.” Deep breath. Thinking — crazy for doing this. But also — it's what Dad would have wanted.

“I'll do it,” I wheeze. “I'll fight Vein and Artery.” The thinnest, most fleeting of smiles. Mock bravado. Grubbs Grady — demon killer! “I'm your man.”

THE SUMMONING

T
HE
cellar. Bill-E beating at the bars of his cage with a bloody leg he's torn from the deer, howling madly. Dervish checking the chess boards and weapons, ignoring Bill-E. I want him to talk me out of it, tell me it's madness, reject my offer.

But he says nothing. In the study, he didn't even ask if I was sure, just nodded once and told Pablo he'd call him some other time. Then it was straight back here. No “Thank you,” or “Well done, Grubbs,” or “I'm proud of you.”

I examine the chess boards with forced interest, desperate to keep my mind off the weapons. Five boards, laid in a line across the three tables. The
Lord of the Rings
set in the center, flanked by a board of crystal pieces on one side and Incan-fashioned pieces on the other. The sets at either end are ordinary.

“Did you lay the boards out that way for a reason?” I ask Dervish.

“No,” he replies, testing a sword's handle, wiping it clean. “The sets don't matter, as long as there are five.”

“Explain how the contest works,” I urge him.

“The games are played simultaneously,” Dervish says without looking over. “When it's my turn, I can move any piece I like, on any board. Lord Loss can then reply to the piece I've moved, or move a piece on a different board.”

“That must be confusing.”

“Yes. But it's confusing for him too.” Dervish holds an axe up to the light of a thick candle and squints, judging the sharpness of its blade. “Lord Loss is an accomplished player, and he's had centuries to work on his game, but he has no supernatural advantage. If I keep my head, focus on the moves, and don't lose my nerve, I'll stand a fair chance.”

“What sort of chance do
I
stand against Artery and Vein?” I ask.

Dervish looks at me coldly — then whips his arm forward and sends the axe flying straight at me!

Instant reaction — I spin — my left hand flies out — my fingers close around the axe handle mid-air — I arc it down, taking the speed out of it — then raise it high to defend myself, heart racing, confused and afraid.

Then I see my uncle's grin.

Breathing hard, I stare at Dervish, then at the axe in my hand.

“That
sort,” he says.

“I still don't know how I caught it,” I grumble, as Dervish searches among his books for a particular volume.

“You don't have to know,” Dervish says. “It's magic.” He pauses and looks up at me. “Your instincts have been sharpened by your previous encounter with the demons. Obey those instincts. Let Vein and Artery set the tone and pace of the battle. React. Don't think. Suspend the laws of reality completely.”

Dervish returns his attention to the books, finds the one he's after, flicks it open, and stands. “Make your inexperience work for you,” he says. “You can't out-plan or out-think the demons. So don't try. Just go with the flow.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“It certainly won't be easy! But if you switch your brain off, you'll be amazed by what your body can do.”

Dervish lays the book on the floor, bends over it, and reads a passage, running a finger over the words, muttering softly.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Several spells must be cast to open a window between Lord Loss's world and ours,” Dervish says. “I have to make sure it's a small gateway — we don't want other demons following him through.”

“That can happen?”

“Sure. The Demonata are always eager to cross the divide and wreak havoc. They'll seize any opening that presents itself.”

“But don't you know the spells already?” I frown. “I thought you summoned him before.”

“I did,” Dervish nods. “Several times. But some spells are best not memorized.”

He finishes the paragraph and closes the book. Walks to the wall to his left and lays both hands on it. “I'm starting now,” he says, “but it'll be twenty minutes, maybe half an hour before the window opens. Stay close to the tables. Relax. Don't distract me.”

While I lean against a table, nervously tapping and scratching at the wood, Dervish mutters arcane words at the wall, drawing signs upon it with his fingers. After a few minutes, steam seeps from the rough stone. Dervish leans into the steam, inhales, turns, and breathes out.

A shadowy bat flies from his mouth and flits across the cellar. I duck instinctively, even though it's nowhere near me. When I look again, the bat has vanished and Dervish has moved on to another patch of wall.

Fifteen minutes into the summoning. All the walls are steaming. The air of the cellar is moist and hot, like in a sauna. Bill-E makes deep choking noises and flaps at the air with blood-red hands. Dervish has been breathing out a variety of smoky creatures — bats, snakes, dogs, insects. As I watch, he turns and exhales his largest yet — a full-sized wolf.

Bill-E gibbers wildly at the sight. Hisses at it, then ducks to the rear of his cage and crouches low, whimpering, as the spirit wolf floats towards him, evaporating before it touches the bars.

At any other time I'd feel pity for the poor beast Bill-E has become, but right now there's only room in my heart for terror.

Dervish steps away from the walls at last, eyes closed, face contorted. Walks directly to the folder containing the Lord Loss drawings. Picks it up and clutches it to his chest.

“This is where things get weird,” he mutters, as steam pours from the walls and transparent worms drift in and out of his mouth.

“I can't wait,” I half-laugh, almost hysterical.

“Whatever happens, don't scream,” Dervish says. “We're at our most vulnerable while I'm searching the various portals for the one that connects with Lord Loss's realm. A scream could attract the interest of other demons — and that might be the end of us.”

“We'll probably end on a grisly note anyway,” I say gloomily.

“Perhaps,” Dervish agrees. “But there are worse demons than Lord Loss.”

My thoughts threaten to spin out of control as I try to imagine anything worse than Lord Loss. Then Dervish spreads his arms and barks a loud command, and the world dissolves around me.

Walls and ceiling fading. Infinite space … a scattering of stars … meteors streak across the sky. But this space isn't black — it's red. An unending sky of redness, encircling the cellar like the drapes of hell.

The temperature escalates off the scale. Some of Dervish's books burst into flame and incinerate instantly. The bars of Bill-E's cage glow from the heat. All the candles in the cellar melt to the wick.

I check my clothes and hair, expecting flames, but although I can feel the terrible heat, it isn't burning me. Dervish and Bill-E aren't harmed either. Nor are the chess sets.

“Why aren't we toast?” I cry. The words come out as a croak — my mouth and throat are unbelievably dry.

“Protected,” Dervish wheezes in reply, then lays a finger to his lips and shakes his head — no more speaking. He points
to
a meteor screaming across the sky overhead. As I gaze up, I realize it isn't a meteor — it's some enormous, incomprehensible, reality-defying monster!

Dervish squats and places both palms on the floor, which ripples beneath his touch, as if made of water. Muttering some spell — or prayer — he turns in a circle. His eyes are yellow when I next catch sight of his face, his teeth sharp and grey.

I open my mouth to scream — remember his warning — shut my lips quickly.

Dervish continues turning, and when he faces me again he looks normal. Standing, he picks up one of the unburnt books, flicks it open, and starts singing. Long, complicated words. His voice unnaturally clear and beautiful.

The red sky shimmers, then darkens as Dervish sings. I lose sight of the stars and meteor-monsters. The room slips into a hot, fearful blackness — no candles to shed any light. The last thing I see — Dervish, eyes closed, singing as though his life depended on it.

I feel alone in the darkness, though I know by Dervish's singing and Bill-E's grunts and whines that I'm not. Whistling sounds around me. Something long and silky brushes against my cheeks. I swipe at it, terrified — nothing there.

Dervish stops singing. The sudden silence is as disorienting as the lack of light.

“Dervish?” I whisper, not wishing to distract him, but needing to know he's still there.

“It's OK, Grubbs,” comes his voice. “Don't move.”

“It's dark,” I note redundantly.

“We'll have all the light we care for soon enough,” he promises.

An object brushes my left ear. I flinch. “There's something in the room with us!” I hiss.

“Yes,” Dervish says. “Take no notice. Stand your ground.”

It isn't easy, but I obey my uncle's order. The whistling sounds increase in volume, and I'm struck in various places by what feels like thick strands of rope. I wince and rub at my flesh, but otherwise don't react.

Gradually I notice a dull grey glow all around me, which grows in strength, illuminating the distorted cellar. The walls have been replaced by thick strands of cobwebs, which stretch away, layer after layer, apparently endless. Many of the strands are stained with blood. Some are as thick as a tree trunk, while others are as thin as a line of thread.

From one of the strands hang the severed heads of Mom, Dad, and Gret.

I can't hold back the scream, but Dervish anticipated this. He slides behind me and clamps both hands over my mouth. I howl into the flesh of his palms, wild, sobbing, reaching for the heads, while at the same time trying to back away from them.

“They aren't real, Grubbs,” Dervish grunts, struggling to contain me. “They're illusions. Let your fear go and they'll vanish.”

I thrash more wildly in response. Can't think straight. The heads seem to be growing. Eyes huge, filled with sadness and pain. Mom's lips move silently. Gret sticks here tongue out at me — it's alive with maggots.

“They're testing you!” Dervish growls, fingers tightening over my lips. My neck's strained almost to snapping point. “If they can drive you insane, I'll have nobody to protect me from Artery and Vein!”

The names of the demons penetrate. Fighting the terror, I stare at the faces of my parents and sister, and spot minor mistakes — Dad's nose bends to the wrong side, Gret's hair shouldn't be that long, Mom's eyebrows are too thick.

I stop shaking. Lower my hands. Dervish releases me, but stays close, ready to gag me if I start screaming again.

“How do I make them go away?” I moan.

“Show you're not afraid,” Dervish says. “Look at them without flinching.”

“It's hard.”

“I know. For me too. But you can do it, Grubbs. You have to.”

Deep breaths. Exerting control. I lift my eyes and train them on the three heads dangling in front of me. Their features twist. Mom and Gret hiss at me hatefully. I don't look away.

Under the strength of my gaze, the heads disintegrate, melting like the candles. The web vibrates. The air bubbles. The molten waxy flesh of the heads rises, twisting, forming itself into three new shapes. A crocodile-headed dog. A murderous baby. And their master — Lord Loss.

“It begins,” Dervish sighs, and steps forward to confront the demons.

THE BATTLE

D
ERVISH
stops at the place where the floor gives way to webs, spreads his arms, and shouts something unintelligible. Blue flames crackle from the tips of his fingers. He brings his hands together, then touches a thick strand of web. Blue fire runs up the thread to where it connects with another. Like lightning it streaks from strand to strand, arcing ever closer to Lord Loss and his familiars. Lord Loss shows no sign of fear. When the blue flame reaches him, it sizzles and hisses around him, but he only smiles and waves a hand, and the flame sputters out.

Lord Loss stretches his arms above his head. As he does, six other arms unfold from around his body, three on either side. No fingers, just mangled lumps of flesh at the ends. The demon master grips two strands, one with either set of hands, and climbs towards us like a grotesque spider. Vein and Artery follow close behind their master. Vein yapping, Artery snapping his teeth.

Studying the demons with terror. So many details I'd forgotten. The tiny mouths in Artery's palms, the fact that he doesn't have a tongue in any mouth, the writhing cockroaches on his head, the fierceness of the flames burning in his empty eye sockets. Vein's tiny cruel eyes, her long leathery snout, bits of flesh caught between her teeth, the sleekness of her canine coat, female hands instead of paws. And Lord Loss — red skin stained with blood that oozes from hundreds of thousands of ragged cracks, his strange dark red eyes, and the hole where his heart should be, filled with writhing, hissing snakes.

The demons come to the end of the web and hesitate, swaying on a thin strand like evil vultures on a vine. Dervish stands beneath them, cool as a chunk of ice, hands pressed together.

“Hello, Dervish,” Lord Loss says, his voice even sadder than I remembered. “It is good to see you again, my doomed friend.”

“Good to see you also,” Dervish replies tightly. Vein snaps at him, trying to frighten him, but Dervish only sniffs with disinterest.

“And my younger friend, poor Grubitsch Grady.” Lord Loss sighs, subjecting me to his eerie red gaze. “Your sorrow is still strong. So sweet.” His face wrinkles and blood seeps from cracks on both cheeks. He licks the blood from his flesh with an inhumanly long tongue, then extends a hand. “Come to me, Grubitsch. Let me feed on your pain. Misery should be celebrated, not endured. In my world you will be an emperor of suffering. Be mine, Grubitsch. Turn your back on this insane challenge and accept your true destiny.”