Slawter (4 page)
“Children your own age,” Prae says quickly as Dervish stands and strides towards her. “Some even younger. We have an eight-year-old girl. Her parents didn’t know about the curse. She killed her mother. Chewed her throat open and —”
“You’re so out of here,” Dervish snarls, reaching to grab Prae’s collar.
“Wait.” I stop him, holding up a hand.
“Grubbs, don’t listen to —”
“Just wait a minute. Please?”
Dervish breathes out heavily, then takes a step back.
“We’re trying to help,” Prae says, speaking to me but looking at Dervish. “Your uncle is a man of old science — he calls it magic, but to us it’s science by a different name. We’re of the new school. Dervish fights one battle at a time. Your mother and father made that choice too. But we’re trying to attack the root of the disease. We want everyone to benefit, not just a few. To do that, we have to examine and explore.
“Your brother is one of the very few victims to beat the curse. If we can study him, unlock the secrets behind his remarkable cure, perhaps we can replicate it and save others — without the need for demons or so-called magic.”
“You can’t,” Dervish says wearily. “I’ve told you before, it’s
not
science. It’s not of this universe. You can’t understand it and you can’t mimic it. Do you think I’d stand in your way if I thought there was the slightest chance that you could?”
“You can’t be sure,” Prae says.
“I am.”
Prae mutters something beneath her breath, then tries me again. “We wouldn’t hurt Billy. You and your uncle could come and observe. We just want to know more, to understand...to help.”
I feel sorry for Prae Athim. Despite her scary appearance and manner, she only wants to do good. But the thought of her taking Bill-E away, locking him up, experimenting on him...I shake my head.
“You should leave now,” Dervish says quietly. “We can’t help you.”
“You’re condemning others to change, to die,” Prae says angrily.
Dervish shrugs. “We’ve been condemned a long time. We’re used to it.”
He lays a hand on Prae’s shoulder. She jerks away from him and stands. “My daughter changed,” she hisses. “I tried to cure her, but I couldn’t. She’s still alive. Because I hope and believe. By denying us, you deny her, and all the others like her. How will you sleep with that on your conscience?”
“Lousily,” Dervish says. “But Billy will sleep sweetly. And to me, that’s what matters most, just as your daughter matters most to you.” He leans towards her. “If the positions were reversed, would you allow
your
loved one to be taken?”
“Yes,” Prae answers immediately. “Without question.”
“Well, that’s where we differ. Because I always question.”
“There are other ways,” Prae says, a dangerous tremble to her tone. “We didn’t have to ask. We could just take him.”
Dervish’s expression goes dead. “Try it,” he whispers. “See what happens.”
“You couldn’t stop us,” Prae insists, a red flush of anger rising up her throat. “You’re powerful, but so are the Lambs. We could —”
“Mess with me and you mess with us all,” Dervish interrupts. “Do you really want to do that? Do the Lambs now think themselves the equals of the Disciples?”
“We aren’t afraid of your kind,” Prae says, but her words ring hollow.
Dervish smiles lazily. “If you lay a hand on Billy or Grubbs, I’ll teach you to be afraid. That’s a promise.”
“You don’t want us as enemies,” Prae warns him. “Nobody stands alone in this world, not even the Disciples. You may need us one day.”
“Yes,” Dervish agrees. “But not today.” He points at the door.
Prae opens her mouth to try again. Realizes she’d be wasting her breath. Shakes her head with disgust. Shoots a look at me. “Pray you never turn. Because if you do, thanks to people like your uncle, we won’t be able to help. All we’ll be able to do is kill.”
She strides to the door, throws it opens, and marches out. The front doors slam several seconds later. Then the faint sound of her engine starting, rising, fading.
Dervish stares at me. I stare back. Neither of us says anything. I don’t know what my uncle’s thinking, but there’s only one glaring thought in my head — who the hell are
the Disciples
?
D
ERVISH has another nightmare. Four nights in a row — he must be going for a record. Luckily I’d been expecting this one. Dervish shut himself off from me after Prae Athim left. Kept to his study, pacing around, muttering, brooding. I guessed nightmares would follow. Stayed awake after he went to bed, alert, prepared for a long, active night.
I catch Dervish in the hall of portraits. He snuck past my room without me hearing, even though I’d been listening closely. But a minute ago the screaming started, and it was easy to track him down.
The walls of this hall are lined with photographs and paintings of dead family members, mostly teenagers who became werewolves. It’s on the first floor, close to my bed-room. When I arrive, Dervish has knocked several photos to the floor and is wrestling with a large portrait, trying to tear it free of its peg.
“Leave me alone!” he screams. “It’s not my fault!”
“Dervish,” I call, hurrying over to him, grabbing his right hand, trying to pry his fingers loose. “Derveeshio! Derv on a curve — don’t lose your verve. Don’t roar and bawl — not in this hall.”
He ignores the rhymes and jerks free. “You’re eating my brain!” He collapses to his knees, grips his head hard with both hands, moans with pain and terror.
“Dervish, easy, it’s OK, it’s coolio, you have to chill. You on the ground — everything’s sound.”
His eyes fix on a nearby photograph. His breath catches. “I didn’t do it!” he gasps. “I didn’t kill you! Leave me alone!”
I sweep the photos away, then grab Dervish’s hands, pull them down from his head, and lock gazes with him. “Wake up, you crazy bald coot! It’s only a dream — no need to scream. None of it’s real — fantasy’s the deal. You have to snap back. Come on, I know you’re in there, I know...”
His expression clears. He looks like a lost child for a few seconds, pitiful, silently begging me for help. Then the real Dervish surfaces and terror gives way to exhaustion and embarrassment. I release him, nodding slowly and repeatedly to show that everything’s OK, no damage done.
Dervish looks around at the photos on the floor. Most are ripped, a couple beyond repair. No glass in the frames. We removed all the glass a few months ago, in case something like this happened. Didn’t want him hurting himself — or me.
“I thought they’d come back to life,” Dervish says. “They blamed me. Claimed I was the cause of the curse. They wanted revenge.”
“It was just a dream.”
“I know. But still . . .” He shivers. “I could have done without Prae Athim and the Lambs. I didn’t need them now. Not in this state. Why do bad things always come at the worst time?”
“Forget about her,” I tell him. “She’s gone. You ran her off.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe . . .” He coughs, then stands. “No. That’s the nightmare talking. The Lambs can’t help. They mean well, but in matters like this they’re helpless.”
“Unlike the Disciples?” I ask, broaching the mysterious subject for the first time, not sure if it’s the right moment, but curiosity getting the better of me.
Dervish shakes his head. “I’ll tell you about them later. Not now. OK?”
I sniff like it doesn’t matter.
Dervish grows thoughtful. “Billy doesn’t know about the change, Lord Loss, what we did for him. It’s better this way. No point throwing his world into chaos. The Lambs are part of the human world. They’ve no direct experience of the Demonata or magic. They couldn’t learn anything from Billy.”
“Then don’t worry about it,” I mutter. “Go back to bed, get a good night’s sleep, kick the nightmares out the window.”
Dervish laughs. “If only it was that easy.” He checks his watch. Yawns. “But I’ll try to snooze, to keep nurse Grub-bitsch happy.” He glances at me. “If I drop off, I might go walking around again. You should lock me in.”
“Nah,” I smile. “You’d wreck the room. Don’t worry about it. I’ll sleep with one ear open. I’ll see you don’t come to harm.”
Dervish reaches over, squeezes my hand, then shuffles off for the stairs and bed. I watch until he turns the corner. Stay for a while, thinking about Bill-E, the Lambs, demons, the mysterious Disciples. Then I start clearing up the photos and hanging the less tattered snapshots back on their pegs, knowing I won’t be able to sleep.
Tired. Finding it hard to stay awake. My friends want to know if there are any David A. Haym updates, but I only grunt at their questions. Studying Bill-E during lunch. Thinking about him in the hands of the Lambs, strapped to a table, hooked up to banks of electrodes. Can’t let that happen. I faced Lord Loss for my brother. If Prae Athim tries anything with Bill-E, she won’t just have to worry about Dervish and the Disciples — she’ll have to deal with me. Yeah, I know, she’s hardly trembling with terror at the thought of having to go up against a teenager. But I’m big. And I can be nasty. If I have to.
A limousine’s parked in the driveway when I get home. A chauffeur sits behind the wheel, dozing. No prizes for guessing who the limo belongs to. I hear her as soon as I push open the front doors. She’s in the TV room. A loud voice, high-pitched, very theatrical. She’s talking about one of her earlier movies — it might be
Zombie Zest
— telling Dervish about the problems she faced trying to get the look of the monsters right. “. . . but
every
body’s using CGI these days! I don’t like it. The audience can tell. They’re not afraid. It’s psychological. You see a guy in a monster costume, or a cleverly designed puppet, and even though you
know
it’s not real, you can trick yourself into believing it is. But if you see something that’s the work of a computer, your brain can’t accept it. It doesn’t scare you. I think...”
I walk into the room and cough softly. Davida Haym looks up from where she’s sitting on the couch. A surprisingly normal-looking woman. Fiftyish. Black hair streaked with grey. Pudgy. A warm smile. Purple-rimmed glasses. A bright, flowery dress. She looks more like a giggling granny than a horror movie meister.
“Davida, this is my nephew, Grubbs,” Dervish introduces us. He’s sitting beside her on the couch, looking a bit over-whelmed — I have the feeling Davida hasn’t stopped talking since she came in. “Grubbs lives with me.”
“Hello, Grubbs,” Davida says, rising to shake my hand. A short woman. Barely comes up to my chest. “Neat name. Is it short for something?”
“Grubitsch,” I mutter. “I’m a big fan of yours. I thought
Night Mayors
was the best horror film of the last ten years.”
“Why, thank you!” Davida booms, not releasing my hand. “Although, to be honest, my input wasn’t so great. The director — Liam Fitz — is a real hardhead. Likes to make the creative decisions himself. I set him free, gave him whatever he asked for, but after that . . .” She shrugs, still holding my hand.
“And this is June,” Dervish says, drawing my attention to a third person in the room, sitting in a chair to my left.
“Juni,” she corrects him, getting up. “Juni Swan.” Davida Haym finally releases my fingers and I shake hands with the other woman. She’s small too, but slightly taller than Davida. Thin. Pretty. White hair, very pale skin, pinkish eyes. An albino. Her hair’s tied back in a ponytail. Hard to tell her age, because her skin’s so white and smooth.
“Juni is Miss Haym’s assistant,” Dervish says.
“Davida,” the producer corrects him. She tuts loudly. “I don’t stand on ceremony.”
“And I’m not her assistant,” Juni says, almost apologetically. She speaks very softly. “Although I am here to assist.”
“Let’s sit down,” Davida says, as if this was her house. She leads us back to the chairs and pats the space on the couch beside her, forcing me to sit with her and Dervish. “I’ve been telling your uncle about my problems on my other movies. As I’m sure you know — I can tell you’re a horror buff — I
love
monsters.
LOVE
them! Fangs, tentacles, bulging eyes, slime... all great stuff, right? Right! But getting them to look real... believable... scare people to the max... that’s hard as hell. But I’m telling you nothing new. You’ve seen loads of terrible monster flicks, I’m sure. Where the creatures are about as scary as a baby in a stroller?”
“Right,” I grin. “Most horror films are crap. That’s why they’re fun.”
“I agree!” Davida shouts. She thumps Dervish’s knee so hard that he gasps. “I like this kid! He knows his thorns from his roses!” She turns back to me. “We all love schlocky horror, where the effects are lame and the monsters tame. I grew up on old Universal and Hammer pictures! And that’s fine. Sometimes you just want to sit down to a corny bit of hokum and have a laugh.”
She raises a finger and lowers her voice. “But there are times when you don’t want to laugh, right? When you want to be scared, when you want your world turned upside down, when you want to sit there in the dark and really feel fear
bite.
Right?”
“Hell, yeah!” There was a period, after my battles with Lord Loss and his familiars, when I didn’t enjoy horror. Life was fearful enough. But as the months passed, and the memories of the real horror faded, I rediscovered my love of fictional terror.
“That’s where I want to go with my next movie,” Davida says, loud again. “I’ve been off the scene for a while — almost four years since my last film. That’s because I’ve been researching and planning. I want to do something
big
with my next one, not rehash an older story. I want screams, not laughs. I want to go for the jugular and shake audiences up, send them home shivering.”
“Coolio!” I exclaim.
“Which is where your uncle comes in.” Davida smoothes down her skirt and turns her smile on Dervish. “Will we talk business now or do you want to wait?”
“Now’s good for me,” Dervish says.
“OK.” Davida glances around, to be sure nobody’s eaves-dropping. “I’m about to shoot my new film. Everything’s set. I’m not only producing — I’ve written the script and I’m directing too. Can you imagine?
Me
— a director!” She throws her head back and laughs. Dervish and I laugh too, even though we’ve no idea what the joke is.
