Lord Loss. Darren Shan

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      Lord it up with Darren Shan in the shadows of the web at

       www.darrenshan.com

      For:

       Bas — my demon lover

      OBEs (Order of the Bloody Entrails) to:

       Caroline “pie chart” Paul

       D.O.M.I.N.I.C. Kingston

       Nicola “schumacher” Blacoe

      Editorial Evilness:

       Stellasaurus Paskins

      Agents of Chaos:

       the Christopher Little crew

      LORD LOSS

      Lord Loss sows all the sorrows of the world

      Lord Loss seeds the grief-starched trees

      In the centre of the web, lowly Lord Loss bows his head

      Mangled hands, naked eyes

      Fanged snakes his soul line

      Curled inside like textured sin

      Bloody, curdled sheets for skin

      In the centre of the web, vile Lord Loss torments the dead

      Over strands of red, Lord Loss crawls

      Dispensing pain, despising all

      Shuns friends, nurtures foes

      Ravages hope, breeds woe

      Drinks moons, devours suns

      Twirls his thumbs till the reaper comes

      In the centre of the web, lush Lord Loss is all that’s left

      Contents

      Rat Guts

      Demons

      Dervish

      The Grand Tour

      Portraits

      Spleen

      Carnage in the Forest

      A Theory

      The Cellar

      The Longest Day

      Arooooo!

      Family Ties

      The Curse

      The Challenge

      The Choice

      The Summoning

      The Battle

      A Change of Plan

      Spiral to the Heart of Nowhere

      The Change

      Other Books by Darren Shan

      Credits

      Copyright

       About the Publisher

      RAT GUTS

      → Double history on a Wednesday afternoon — total nightmare! A few minutes ago, I would have said I couldn’t imagine anything worse. But when there’s a knock at the door, and it opens, and I spot my mum outside, I realise — life can always get worse.

      When a parent turns up at school, unexpected, it means one of two things. Either somebody close to you has been seriously injured or died, or you’re in trouble.

      My immediate reaction — please don’t let anybody be dead! I think of Dad, Gret, uncles, aunts, cousins. It could be any of them. Alive and kicking this morning. Now stiff and cold, tongue sticking out, a slab of dead meat just waiting to be buried. I remember Gran’s funeral. The open coffin. Her shining flesh, having to kiss her forehead, the pain, the tears. Please don’t let anyone be dead! Please! Please! Please! Ple–

      Then I see Mum’s face, white with rage, and I know she’s here to punish, not comfort.

      I groan, roll my eyes and mutter under my breath, “Bring on the corpses!”

      → The head’s office. Me, Mum and Mr Donnellan. Mum’s ranting and raving about cigarettes. I’ve been seen smoking behind the bike shed (the oldest cliché in the book!). She wants to know if the head’s aware of this, of what the pupils in his school are getting up to.

      I feel a bit sorry for Mr Donnellan. He has to sit there, looking like a schoolboy himself, shuffling his feet and saying he didn’t know this was going on and he’ll launch an investigation and put a quick end to it. Liar! Of course he knew. Every school has a smoking area. That’s life. Teachers don’t approve, but they turn a blind eye most of the time. Certain kids smoke — fact. Safer to have them smoking at school than sneaking off the grounds during breaks and at lunch.

      Mum knows that too. She must! She was young once, like she’s always reminding me. Kids were no different in Mum’s time. If she stopped for a minute and thought back, she’d see what a bloody embarrassment she’s being. I wouldn’t mind her having a go at me at home, but you don’t march into school and start laying down the law in the headmaster’s office. She’s out of order — big time.

      But it’s not like I can tell her, is it? I can’t pipe up with, “Oi! Mother! You’re disgracing us both, so shut yer trap!”

      I smirk at the thought, and of course that’s when Mum pauses for the briefest of moments and catches me. “What are you grinning at?” she roars, and then she’s off again — I’m smoking myself into an early grave, the school’s responsible, what sort of a freak show is Mr Donnellan running, la-di-la-di-la-di-bloody-la!

      BAWring!

      → Her rant at school’s nothing compared to the one I get at home. Screaming at the top of her lungs, blue bloody murder. She’s going to send me off to boarding school — no, military school! See how I like that, having to get up at dawn each morning and do a hundred press-ups before breakfast. How does that sound?

      “Is breakfast a fry-up or some cereally, yoghurty crap?” is my response, and I know the second it’s out of my mouth that it’s the wrong thing to say. This isn’t the time for the famed Grubbs Grady brand of cutting-edge humour.

      Cue the enraged СКАЧАТЬ