The Demonata 1-5. Darren Shan

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СКАЧАТЬ them the Demonata. Some meddle in the ways of humans, most have nothing to do with us, while a few — like Lord Loss — feed upon us.”

      My hands are trembling. I grip them tightly between my knees.

      “Lord Loss is a sentinel of sorrow,” Dervish says. “He feeds on human pain and suffering. A funeral is a three-course meal to him. A lonely, suicidal person’s a tasty snack. He delights in our fear and grief, encourages it when possible, then drains it and grows strong on humanity’s weakness.”

      “How does he do it?” I croak. “How does he feed?”

      “I’d have to get deep into metaphysics to explain that,” Dervish snorts. “Let’s just say he has a psychic straw through which he can suck a person’s pain.

      “Now, old Bart knew about Lord Loss — he’d seen him feeding on grieving members of the family — but he didn’t care. Bartholomew was interested only in lifting the curse, not warding off demons. But later in life, he spent time studying the Demonata. They can live for thousands of years. I believe Bartholomew hoped to learn their secret. He never did, but at some point he found out that Lord Loss had the power to reverse the lycanthropic change.”

      “You mean Lord Loss can cure Bill-E?” I cry.

      “If he chooses to.”

      “Then let’s summon him!” I shout, leaping out of my chair. “What are we waiting for? Let’s call him here now and–”

      “The Demonata are evil and selfish,” Dervish interrupts. “It’s possible to strike deals with some of them, but they’ll do nothing out of the goodness of their hearts — as you know, some don’t even have a heart!”

      “Then how…?”

      Dervish gestures for me to sit. I’m exasperated, but I obey.

      “Bartholomew tried everything to get Lord Loss to help. He begged, he threatened, he even offered his soul.”

      “Souls are real?” I blurt out.

      “Absolutely,” Dervish nods fiercely. “And prized by demons above all other possessions. A soul can be tormented far worse than a body. If I was to lose my soul, my body would continue to function — but on auto-pilot. I’d be like a zombie, an empty shell, feeding, breathing, walking — but not thinking or feeling. Meanwhile, in the universe of the Demonata, my soul would be put through every kind of hell imaginable — and many that aren’t!

      “If Bartholomew had been a younger man, he might have been able to tempt Lord Loss. Trouble is, a soul’s only good to a demon as long as the human lives. Old Bart was close to death. Lord Loss judged it an inadequate trade-off.

      “But Bartholomew was stubborn. He pursued Lord Loss and braved the attacks of his familiars, suffering many wounds which hastened the hour of his death. But eventually old Bart discovered Lord Loss’s great obsession, which he–”

      Guttural roars drown Dervish out. Bill-E’s on his feet, clutching the bars of the cage, shaking them, screaming, his face a dark mask of furious lines, teeth bared, tongue lashing wildly from side to side, his yellow eyes gleaming through the narrow slits of his eyelids.

      “Bill-E!” I yell, jumping to my feet, stepping towards the cage.

      “Easy,” Dervish says, grabbing my arm. “Remember what I told you — he’ll kill you if you get too close.”

      I stare numbly at Bill-E as he screams, pulls at the bars, kicks and head-butts them, his eyes all the time on Dervish and me.

      “Does he recognise us?” I ask sickly.

      “No,” Dervish replies.

      Bill-E quits wrestling with the bars and turns away, disgusted. He stumbles over the deer, which shakes fearfully. Bill-E stops and grins savagely. Circles the defenceless beast, sniffing, growling. Then he falls on its neck. Claws — teeth — ripping — blood.

      My cheeks are wet. I’m crying again.

      “Let’s go,” Dervish whispers. “We can finish this in my study.”

      “I don’t want to leave him alone,” I sob.

      “Werewolves don’t get lonely,” Dervish says. “They feel only hunger and hate.”

      He picks up Meera and nudges me towards the door leading to the wine cellar. I pause at the exit. One last horrified study of Bill-E Spleen — my brother. Then I follow my uncle to sanity.

      THE CHALLENGE

      → Dervish lays Meera on one of the mansion’s many beds. He examines her again, in more detail this time. He tries to wake her by calling her name and gently shaking her. When that fails he goes to the bathroom, comes back with a glass of water, uses his fingers to flick drops at her face. She doesn’t stir.

      Dervish steps away grimly. “I could try to bring her round with magic,” he says, “but I’m not sure how serious the damage is. I could make it worse.”

      “Why don’t you just leave her?” I ask. “She’ll live, won’t she?”

      “I think so.”

      “Then let her sleep. That’ll be best for her, right?”

      Dervish stares at me, troubled, then walks out of the room without saying anything. I wrap a blanket over Meera, then close the door on her and head up to the study.

      → After the dark of the cellar, the study seems warmer and brighter than ever. I lose myself in a large leather chair, knees drawn up to my chest, head tucked between them, weary and afraid. Dervish is standing by a chess set. This is his favourite set, the pieces based on characters from The Lord of the Rings. Dervish picks up a brightly painted hobbit figurine and toys with it absently while he speaks.

      “I don’t think you’ve ever truly appreciated the complexities of chess,” he says. “So few pieces, yet so many possibilities. No two games are ever the same. You can learn the rules in an afternoon, yet spend the rest of your life trying to master them.”

      “Stick chess up your ass!” I shout, coming alive with fury. “Bill-E’s chained up in the cellar, twisted and insane. Meera’s unconscious, maybe comatose. And all you can warble on about–”

      “Lord Loss plays chess,” Dervish interrupts quietly. “The Demonata are not, by nature, playful creatures, but he’s an exception. I don’t know where or when he acquired his hunger for the game, but by the time Bartholomew Garadex met him, he was a committed player, albeit one of limited experience.”

      “Where’s this going?” I grumble, though I have an idea.

      “When you walked in on your parents, did you notice any chess boards?”

      Breathing thinly. Thinking back. The blood. Web-like walls. The demons. And, on the floor, scattered chess pieces, broken boards. Plus the gouged board in the study.

      “Yes,” I sigh.

      Dervish talks swiftly. “Bartholomew played many games СКАЧАТЬ