The Lake of Souls (22 page)

Book 7

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IRQUE
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U
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THE SAGA OF DARREN SHAN

Hunters of the Dusk

As part of an elite force, Darren searches the world for the Vampaneze Lord. But the road ahead is long and dangerous––and lined with the bodies of the damned.

Book 8

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IRQUE
D
U
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REAK

THE SAGA OF DARREN SHAN

Allies of the Night

Darren Shan, Vampire Prince and vampaneze killer, faces his worst nightmare yet—school! But homework is the least of Darren’s problems. Bodies are piling up. Time is running out.

Book 9

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IRQUE
D
U
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REAK

THE SAGA OK BARREN SHAN

Killers of the Dawn

Pursued by the vampaneze, the police, and an angry mob, Darren Shan the Vampire Prince is public enemy number one! With their enemies clamoring for blood, the vampires prepare for a deadly battle. Is this the end for Darren and his allies?

Book 11

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IRQUE
D
U
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REAK

THE SAGA OF DARREN SHAN

Lord of the shadows

Darren Shan is going home—and his world is going to hell. Old enemies await. Scores must be settled. Destiny looks certain to destroy him, and the world is set to fall to the Ruler of the Nigh….

Book 12

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IRQUE
D
U
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REAK

THE SAGA OF DARREN SHAN

Sons of Destiny

The time has finally come for Darren to face his archenemy, Steve Leopard. One of them will die. The other will become the Lord of the Shadows— and destroy the world. Is the future written, or can Darren trick destiny?

Grubbs Grady is about to learn three things: The world is vicious. Magic is possible. Demons are real.

Turn the page for a sneak peek at Darren Shan’s bloodcurdling new novel:

LORD LOSS

Book 1 in the DEMONATA series

Available now.

Purgatory. Confined to my room after school for a month.
A
whole bloody
MONTH
! No TV, no computer, no comics, no books — except schoolbooks. Dad leaves my chess set in the room too — no fear my chess-crazy parents would take
that away
from me! Chess is almost a religion in this house. My sister Gret and I were reared on it. While other toddlers were being taught how to put jigsaws together, we were busy learning the ridiculous rules of chess.

I can come downstairs for meals, and bathroom visits are allowed, but otherwise I’m a prisoner. I can’t even go out on the weekends.

In solitude, I call Gret every name under the moon the first night. Mom and Dad bear the brunt of my curses the next. After that I’m too miserable to blame anyone, so I sulk in moody silence and play chess against myself to pass the time.

They don’t talk to me at meals. The three of them act like I’m not not there. Gret doesn’t even glance at me spitefully and sneer, the way she usually does when I’m getting the doghouse treatment.

But what have I done that’s so bad? OK, it was a crude joke and I knew I’d get into trouble — but their reactions are waaaaaaay over the top. If I’d done something to embarrass Gret in public, fair enough, I’d take what was coming. But this was a private joke, just between us. They shouldn’t be making such a song and dance about it.

Dad’s words echo back to me — “And the timing!” I think about them a lot. And Mom’s, when she was going at me about smoking, just before Dad cut her short — “We don’t need this, certainly not at this time, not when —”

What did they mean? What were they talking about? What does the timing have to do with anything?

Something stinks here — and it’s not just rat guts.

I spend a lot of time writing. Diary entries, stories, poems. I try drawing a comic — “Grubbs Grady, Superhero!” — but I’m no good at art. I get great marks in my other subjects — way better than goat-faced Gret ever gets, as I often remind her — but I’ve got all the artistic talent of a duck.

I play lots of games of chess. Mom and Dad are chess fanatics. There’s a board in every room and they play several games most nights, against each other or friends from their chess clubs. They make Gret and me play too. My earliest memory is of sucking on a white rook while Dad explained how a knight moves.

I can beat just about anyone my age — I’ve won regional competitions — but I’m not in the same class as Mom, Dad, or Gret. Gret’s won at national level and can wipe the floor with me nine times out of ten. I’ve only ever beaten Mom twice in my life. Dad — never.

It’s been the biggest argument starter all my life. Mom and Dad don’t put pressure on me to do well in school or at other games, but they press me all the time at chess. They make me read chess books and watch videotaped tournaments. We have long debates over meals and in Dad’s study about legendary games and grandmasters, and how I can improve. They send me to tutors and keep entering me in competitions. I’ve argued with them about it — I’d rather spend my time watching and playing basketball — but they’ve always stood firm.

White rook takes black pawn, threatens black queen. Black queen moves to safety. I chase her with my bishop. Black queen moves again — still in danger. This is childish stuff — I could have cut off the threat five moves back, when it became apparent — but I don’t care. In a petty way, this is me striking back. “You take my TV and computer away? Stick me up here on my own? OK — I’m gonna learn to play the worst game of chess in the world. See how you like that, Corporal Dad and Commandant Mom!”

Not exactly Luke Skywalker striking back against the evil Empire by blowing up the
Death Star,
I know, but hey, we’ve all gotta start somewhere!

Studying my hair in the mirror. Stiff, tight, ginger. Dad used to be ginger when he was younger, before the grey set in. Says he was fifteen or sixteen when he noticed the change. So, if I follow in his footprints, I’ve only got a handful or so years of unbroken ginger to look forward to.

I like the idea of a few grey hairs, not a whole head of them like Dad, just a few. And spread out — I don’t want a skunk patch. I’m big for my age — taller than most of my friends — and burly. I don’t look old, but if I had a few grey hairs, I might be able to pass for an adult in poor light — bluff my way into R-rated movies!

The door opens. Gret — smiling shyly. I’m nineteen days into my sentence. Full of hate for Gretelda Grotesque. She’s the last person I want to see.

“Get out!”

“I came to make up,” she says.

“Too late,” I snarl nastily. “I’ve only got eleven days to go. I’d rather see them out than kiss your …” I stop. She’s holding out a plastic bag. Something blue inside. “What’s that?” I ask suspiciously.

“A present to make up for getting you grounded,” she says, and lays it on my bed. She glances out of the window. The curtains are open. A three-quarters moon lights up the sill. There are some chess pieces on it, from when I was playing earlier. Gret shivers, then turns away.

“Mom and Dad said you can come out — the punishment’s over. They’ve ended it early.”

She leaves.

Bewildered, I tear open the plastic. Inside — a New York Knicks jersey, shorts and socks. I’m stunned. The Knicks are my team, my basketball champions. Mom used to buy me their latest gear at the start of every season, until I hit puberty and sprouted. She won’t buy me any new gear until I stop growing — I outgrew the last one in just a month.

This must have cost Gret a fortune — it’s brand new, not last season’s. This is the first time she’s ever given me a present, except at Christmas and birthdays. And Mom and Dad have never cut short a grounding before — they’re very strict about making us stick to any punishment they set.

What the hell is going on?

Three days after my early release. To say things are strange is the understatement of the decade. The atmosphere’s just like it was when Grandma died. Mom and Dad wander around like robots, not saying much. Gret mopes in her room or in the kitchen, stuffing herself with sweets and playing chess nonstop. She’s like an addict. It’s bizarre.