Demon Thief. Darren Shan

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СКАЧАТЬ think about Mrs Egin. I haven’t seen her since that morning when she witched out on me. I’ve taken the long way to school and back every day since. I’ve tried to laugh it off, make like it was no big deal. Told myself I imagined the curses and her stroking the patch of light.

      But I know what I saw. I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. And although I’m not as scared as I was that first night, I’m still shaken, afraid to close my eyes in case she’s there when I open them, standing over me, cackling, a knife to my throat.

      I turn from my left side to my right, then back again. I try lying flat on my back, then on my stomach. Nothing works.

      Annoyed, I stop trying to sleep, hoping I’ll drift off by accident. I look round the small, cosy room, then focus on the patches of light. They look the same as ever, various shapes and shades. I count triangles, quadrangles, pentagons, sextants… No, that’s an instrument. Sextuplet? I’m not sure. I think that’s right, but I’m not… maybe it’s a…

      → I wake suddenly. Hexagon! Of course. Can’t believe I had trouble remembering that. The brain can play funny tricks when you’re tired. I turn, yawning, looking for Art.

      He isn’t there.

      At first, I think he’s just slipped further down beneath the covers, but when I lift them there’s no sign of him.

      I sit up swiftly, sensing danger, recalling Mum’s last words to me — “Look after your brother.” Flash on an image of Mrs Egin sneaking in, stealing Art, putting him in a big black pot and boiling him alive.

      My world is never truly dark. The patches of light mean I can see pretty well even on the blackest night. Mum and Dad used to try to convince me that the lights weren’t real, but if they’re imaginary, why do I have such fantastic night vision?

      I get out of bed and hurry to the door, so certain Art isn’t in the room that my gaze glides right over him and I almost crash into him. Then my senses click in and I stop. Blink a couple of times to properly clear my eyes.

      Art’s in the middle of the room. There’s a large patch of orange light pulsing just over his head. He’s playing with marbles which Sally gave to me earlier. He’s holding two of them up over his eyes. They’re orange-coloured, like the light.

      Art sees me and smiles, looking at me through the orange marbles. For a brief second I’m positive that somebody or something is in the room with us. I think I hear a soft growling noise. My head snaps left, then right — nothing. I look back at Art. In the strange orange light, with the marbles covering his eyes, he doesn’t look like my brother. I start to think that it’s not Art, that he’s been replaced by some evil spirit, that the witch has been here. I feel afraid. I back up to the bed.

      “Art?” I say, very softly. “Is that you? Are you OK?”

      A giggle breaks the spell. Art lowers the marbles. And I see that of course it’s him.

      “Idiot!” I laugh weakly at myself. I go pick Art up and take the marbles away. Sally said not to let him have them in case he swallowed one. Art grumbles and tries to grab them back, but I tell him they’re dangerous. He understands that and snuggles into me, nuzzling my shoulder with his teeth, but gently, not like when he bites somebody.

      I stand there with Art, feeling cold but happy, smiling at how silly I was. Art falls asleep in my arms. I carry him back to bed, tuck him in, then climb in beside him. Lying on my side, I stare at the orange light, still pulsing. It seems to have grown bigger, but that’s not unusual — the patches often change size.

      I don’t like this orange light. There’s something creepy about it. It reminds me of the pink light which Mrs Egin stroked. I turn my back on it and shut my eyes tight, trying to fall asleep again. But I can still sense it there, hanging in the cold night air, lighting up the room with its ominous orange glow. Pulsing.

      DING DONG

      → Two days later. The orange light is still pulsing and changing size. Although I can call it closer like the other patches, I can’t send it away more than twenty or twenty-five feet. It’s started to bug me, like an insect which keeps buzzing in front of my face. An uneasiness chews away at me every time I catch sight of it. I know it’s crazy, worrying about a light, but I can’t help myself. I have a bad feeling about this.

      → It’s a lovely sunny day. Our teacher, Logan Rile, decided not to waste the weather, so we’re having lessons outside, in one of the fields around Paskinston. There are thirty-four of us, a variety of classes and ages, sitting in a semi-circle around Logan. He’s telling us about tectonic plates. Logan’s not the best teacher. He sometimes forgets he’s talking to children and gets too technical. Very few of us understand everything he says. But he’s interesting, and the bits that make sense are fascinating. It’s also fun when you do understand him — it makes you feel clever.

      Some of the younger children from the crèche have come with us. Their normal minder has gone to the fair and her replacement’s finding it hard to cope with so many little ones. She was delighted when Logan offered to take a few off her hands for the day.

      Art’s playing with the orange marbles beside me. I shouldn’t let him have them, but he really likes them. Anyway, he hasn’t put them in his mouth yet. I keep a close eye on him, checking every couple of minutes to make sure both marbles are in sight — not in his stomach.

      “So these plates are moving all the time?” Bryan Colbert asks. Bryan’s one of the eldest children, nearly seventeen.

      “Yes,” Logan says.

      “Then why don’t countries move?”

      “They do,” Logan says. “The continents are drifting all the time. It’s very slow, but it’s happening. One day Australia will collide with America or Africa – I can never remember which – and the effects will be catastrophic. New mountains will be thrust upwards. There’ll be tidal waves. Dust will clog the air. Billions of people and animals will die. It might be the end of all life on this planet.”

      “All life?” Dave English – a kid a year younger than me – asks.

      “Yes.”

      “But I didn’t think that could happen. Everybody… everything…can’t just die. Won’t God keep some of us alive?”

      “No god can prevent the end of life on this planet,” Logan says in his usual serious way. “Or the end of life in this universe. Everything has an end. That’s the way life is. But maybe there’ll be a new beginning when our world ends. New life, new creatures, new means of existence.”

      “That’s scary,” Dave mutters. “I don’t want everything to die.”

      “Nor me,” Logan smiles. “But our wants are irrelevant. This is the way things are. We can accept the truth and deal with it, or live in ignorance. Death is nothing to be afraid of. Once you think it through and get it into perspective, it’s not so bad. In fact, many people–”

      “Now!” a woman screams, cutting Logan off. All our heads turn at once, as if our necks were connected. I see Mrs Egin lumbering up behind us, fingers twitching, frothing at the mouth. “Now it happens! Up the throat, past the gums, look out world, here it comes!”

      The pink light which I saw her stroking a few days ago has grown much bigger and СКАЧАТЬ