Volumes 3 and 4 - Slawter/Bec. Darren Shan

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СКАЧАТЬ Or maybe Hairy Boys and Girls of the Grady Clan. What do you think?”

      Dervish stares at me uneasily. “You’re weird,” he mutters, then trudges away.

      “Wonder where I get that from?” I retort, then shake my head and return to the autobiography.

      Luckily for us, Lord Loss is a chess addict. Chess is the one thing he enjoys almost as much as a weeping human. But he doesn’t get to play very often. None of his demonic buddies know the rules, and humans aren’t inclined to test their skills against him.

      One of my more cunning ancestors was Bartholomew Garadex, a magician. (Not a guy who pulls rabbits out of a hat—a full-on, Merlin- and Gandalf-class master of magic.) He figured out a way to cash in on Lord Loss’s love of chess. He challenged the demon master to a series of games. For every match Bartholomew won, Lord Loss would cure a member of the family. If old Bart lost, Lord Loss would get to torture and kill him.

      Bartholomew won all their matches, but future members of the family – those with a flair for magic who made contact with Lord Loss – weren’t so fortunate. Some triumphed, but most lost. The rules altered over the years. Now, if a parent wants to challenge Lord Loss, they need a partner. The pair face not only the master, but two of his familiars as well. One plays chess with the big guy, while the other battles his servants. If either loses, both are slaughtered, along with the affected teen. If they win, one travels to Lord Loss’s realm and fights him there. The other returns home with the cured kid.

      Time works differently in the universe of the Demonata. A year of our time can be a day there, a decade or a century. When the partner goes off with Lord Loss to do battle, their body remains in our world—only their soul crosses over. They become a mindless zombie. And they stay that way unless their soul triumphs. If that happens, their mind returns and they resume their normal life. If they don’t fare so well, they stay a zombie until the day they die.

      “Are you coming down for breakfast?” Dervish yells from the bottom of the giant staircase which links the floors of the mansion where we live.

      “In a minute!” I yell back. “I’ve just come to the bit when you zombied out on me.”

      “Stop messing about!” he roars. “I’m scrambling eggs and if you’re not down in sixty seconds, too bad!”

      Damn. He knows all my weaknesses.

      “Coming!” I shout, getting up and reaching for my clothes, tossing the bio aside for later.

      →Dervish does a mean scrambled egg. Best I’ve ever tasted. I finish off a plateful without stopping for breath, then eagerly go for seconds. I’m built on the big side – a mammoth compared to most of my schoolmates – with an appetite to match.

      Dervish is wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt. No shoes or socks. His grey hair is frizzled, except on top, where he’s bald as a snooker ball. Hasn’t shaved (he used to have a beard, but got rid of it recently). Doesn’t smell good—sweaty and stale. He’s this way most days. Has been ever since he came back.

      “You eating that or not?” I ask. He looks over blankly from where he’s standing, close to the hob. He’s been staring out the window at the grey autumn sky, not touching his food.

      “Huh?” he says.

      “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

      He looks down at his plate. Smiles weakly. Sticks his fork into the eggs, stirs them, then gazes out of the window again. “I remember the nightmare,” he says. “They cut my eyes out. They were circling me, tormenting me, using my empty sockets as –”

      “Hey,” I stop him, “I’m a kid. I shouldn’t be hearing this. You’ll scar me for life with stories like that.”

      Dervish grins, warmth in it this time. “Take more than a scary story to scar you,” he grunts, then starts to eat. I help myself to thirds, then return to the autobiography, not needing the sheet of paper to finish, able to recall it perfectly.

       I have a younger half-brother, Bill-E Spleen. He doesn’t know we’re brothers. Thinks Dervish is his father. I met him when I came to live with Dervish, after my parents died trying to save Gret. (I spent a while in a loony asylum first.)

      Bill-E and I became friends. I thought he was an oddball, but harmless. Then he changed into a werewolf. Dervish explained the situation to me, told me Bill-E was my brother, laid out the family history and our link to Lord Loss.

      I wasn’t keen to get involved, but Dervish thought I had what it takes to kick demon ass. I told him he was mad as a moose, but… hell, I don’t want to come across all heroic… but Bill-E was my brother. Mum and Dad put their lives on the line for Gret. I figured I owed Bill-E the same sort of commitment.

      So we faced Lord Loss and his familiars, Artery and Vein, a vicious, bloodthirsty pair. I got the better of Lord Loss at chess, more by luck than plan. The demon master was furious, but rules are rules. So I got to return to reality along with the cured Bill-E. And Dervish won himself a ticket to Demonata hell, to go toe to toe with the big double L on his home turf.

      I’m not sure what happened there, how they fought, what sort of a mess Dervish went through, how time passed for him, the manner of his victory over Lord Loss. For more than a year I guarded his body, helped by a team of lawyers (my uncle—he mucho reeeech) and Meera Flame, one of Dervish’s best friends. I went back to school, rebuilt my life and babysat Dervish.

      Then, without warning, he returned. I woke up one morning and the zombie was gone. He was his old self, talking, laughing, brain intact. We celebrated for days, us, Bill-E and Meera. And we all lived happily after. The end.

      Except, of course, it wasn’t. Life isn’t a fairy tale. Stories don’t end. Before she left, Meera took me aside and warned me to be careful. She said there was no way to predict Dervish’s state of mind. According to the recorded accounts of the few who’d gone through the same ordeal as him, it often took a person a long time to settle after a one-on-one encounter with Lord Loss. Sometimes they never properly recovered.

      “We don’t know what’s going on inside his head,” she whispered. “He looks fine, but that could change. Watch him, Grubbs. Be prepared for mood-swings. Try and help. Do what you can. But don’t be afraid to call me for help.”

      I did call when the nightmares started, when Dervish first attacked me in his sleep, mistook me for a demon and tried to cut my heart out. (Luckily, in his delirium, he picked up a spoon instead of a knife.) But there was nothing Meera could do, short of cast a few calming spells and recommend he visit a psychiatrist. Dervish rejected that idea, but she threatened to take me away from him if he didn’t. So he went to see one, a guy who knew about demons, who Dervish could be honest with. After the second session, the psychiatrist rang Meera and said he never wanted to see Dervish again—he found their sessions too upsetting.

      Meera discussed the possibility of having Dervish committed, or hiring bodyguards to look after him, but I rejected both suggestions. So, against her wishes, we carried on living by ourselves in this spooky old mansion. It hasn’t been too bad. Dervish rarely gets the nightmares more than two or three times a week. I’ve grown used to them. Waking up in the middle of the night to screams is no worse than being disturbed by a baby’s cries. Really it isn’t.

      And he’s not that much of a threat. We keep the knives locked away and СКАЧАТЬ