Death's Shadow

Snapshots of Beranabus I

Brigitta was sixteen years old and about to get married. She had been promised to a prince since birth. He was handsome and kind, and she was looking forward to the wedding. She had dreams of bearing many fine warrior sons, becoming queen of a mighty empire and living a long and happy life.

But the prince angered a powerful priestess. For revenge, she summoned a demon on the day of the wedding. The beast killed many of the guests and kidnapped Brigitta. She suffered terribly, but the demon didn’t kill her. Instead, several months later he sent her back to the prince—pregnant.

Brigitta was in shock, but the prince cared only about the shame this would bring upon his family. He called in a favour of King Minos and sent Brigitta to Crete on his fleet’s fastest ship. Her mouth was bound and her face covered, so nobody could identify her.

At the island she was led into the infamous Labyrinth, where her face and mouth were freed under cover of darkness. She was left to roam the twisting pathways of the maze until the Minotaur found and killed her.

Like hundreds of other doomed victims, Brigitta tried to find a way out of the Labyrinth, but her quest was hopeless. She could hear the harsh breathing of the Minotaur echoing through the tunnels, and the scraping of his hooves along the dusty floor. She knew he was following her, watching, waiting, savouring her anguish and fear.

Brigitta was in the final stage of her pregnancy. She hoped the Minotaur would kill her before the baby was born, to spare the child a ghastly death. But she could not delay the birth forever. Eventually she had to lie down and, in the blood-stained dirt of the maze, delivered a squealing boy. There was no light, so she could not check if he was deformed. He felt like a normal baby, but she would never know for sure.

As she cradled her son to her breast, the Minotaur moved in for the kill. He did not mask his footsteps. The beast hoped she would run. He liked it when his prey ran. But Brigitta only sat there, hugging her baby and crying. Just before the monster reached her, she leant over the infant and whispered, “Your name is Beranabus.”

Then the Minotaur was upon her, and the corridors echoed with human screams and bullish howls of vicious delight.

When he had sated his inhuman appetite, the Minotaur turned his attention to the baby. The child had been silent since the beast had separated him from his mother. The monster sat on Brigitta’s severed head and picked up the baby, studying him with a vicious smile.

The Minotaur shook Beranabus wildly, to make him cry. But instead the baby did something entirely unexpected—he giggled. Although he looked like a human child, he was a creature of two universes. He had the mind and curiosity of one much older.

The Minotaur growled and held the boy up by his foot. He clamped his jaws around Beranabus’s head and squeezed softly.

Again the baby laughed, then reached out with a trembling hand. The Minotaur thought the baby meant to slap him away. But Beranabus was only fascinated. He explored the beast’s fangs and nose, patting and stroking them as if playing with a doll.

The Minotaur released the child’s head and hoisted him up for a better look. The baby scratched the beast’s scalp and horns. The Minotaur chuckled throatily, then winced as Beranabus tugged his hair. He reached sharply for the baby’s hands. But although he wrapped his large, hairy fingers around the boy’s pudgy wrist, the Minotaur didn’t rip the fingers off or even bite them. There was something unusual about this baby which the Minotaur had never experienced before.

Beranabus wasn’t afraid.

Everybody else had been terrified of the beast. His mother, the midwife, the people of his village. Even the godly Heracles shook with fright when he came to capture the Minotaur. Nobody saw the great hero’s fear, but the Minotaur smelt it and as always it drove him mad with hunger and lust. During his long years of captivity in the Labyrinth, King Minos had sent many prisoners his way. Some were resigned and went to their deaths with a smile on their lips, praying for redemption. But they’d all trembled when the Minotaur breathed on the back of their neck and ran his claws along the soft skin of their stomach.

But this baby was calm and confident. The Minotaur was a bloodthirsty, savage beast, but even at that young age Beranabus had a special way with animals.

Beranabus gurgled hungrily and tugged the Minotaur’s mane again. Slowly the beast rose and smiled—it was the first tender, unhating smile of his life. He considered the problem of feeding the baby, he clawed through Brigitta’s remains, but she was no use for milk as he had ripped her body apart. There was plenty of water in the Labyrinth, but the baby needed something more nourishing.

With another warm smile, the Minotaur stooped, held the boy in one hand, cupped the other and collected a fistful of blood from one of the pools around his feet. With a gurgle of his own, he held his hand to the baby’s mouth. Beranabus resisted for a moment, but despite his human form, he was of demonic stock. And so, with only the slightest reluctance, he opened his lips and let the Minotaur feed him, growing strong on the cooling blood of his butchered mother.

The next few years were the happiest of the Minotaur’s miserable, slaughter-filled life. The baby was his sole companion, the only person he ever loved or who loved him back. He carried Beranabus high on his shoulders as he stalked the young men and women sent to him by King Minos. Some heard Beranabus laugh or coo as they fled and wondered where the sound came from. But they never wondered for long.

Beranabus didn’t see anything wrong in what they did. He knew nothing but this world of darkness and butchery. The people they killed meant nothing to him. They were creatures to chase, animals to feed on.

When Theseus finally came to the Labyrinth and, through trickery, felled the mighty Minotaur, Beranabus wept. Vain, proud Theseus was severing the Minotaur’s head, to take as a trophy, when he heard the child’s sobs. Startled, he followed the sounds to their source and examined Beranabus by the light of a torch he had smuggled into the maze.

Beranabus didn’t look unnatural. Theseus thought the boy was six or seven years old and assumed he was one of Minos’s unfortunate victims. He tried to lead the child out of the Labyrinth. “Don’t cry,” he muttered awkwardly. “The beast is dead. You’re free now.”

Beranabus glared at Theseus and his eyes blazed with a yellow, fiery light. Theseus quickly backed away. He hadn’t been afraid of the Minotaur, arrogantly sure of his success. But this child unnerved him. The boy was an unexpected find and Theseus wasn’t sure what to make of him.

“Come with me now or I’ll leave you,” he snapped.

Beranabus only snarled in reply and crawled across to the dead Minotaur. Theseus watched with disbelief as the boy spread himself over the monster’s lifeless body and wept into the thick hairs of his bloodied, ruptured chest. He stood uncertainly by the pair for a while and thought about hacking at the Minotaur’s neck again, to claim his prize. But then he caught another glimpse of the boy’s yellow eyes. It was ridiculous, but he had a notion the child might prove more of a threat than the Minotaur.

“Stay here then,” Theseus pouted, turning his back on the boy, deciding to leave the Minotaur’s head intact. If people questioned him afterwards, he would say the beast fought valiantly, so he’d decided to have him whole as a mark of respect.

Following a trail of thread to safety, Theseus wound his way out of the Labyrinth to take his place among the legendary heroes of that time, alongside the likes of Heracles, Jason and Achilles.

He left the orphaned boy alone in the darkness, weeping over the corpse of the slain, demonic beast. He assumed the child would die in the shadows of the maze, unnoticed by the world. Life was cheap and Theseus didn’t think the boy would be any great loss. The slayer of the Minotaur was a shallow, shortsighted man who cared only about his own reputation. He could never have guessed that Beranabus would outlive and outfight every legendary warrior of that golden age, and eventually prove himself to be the greatest hero of them all.

DEAD GIRLS TELL TALES

It’s strange being alive again. This world is huge, complicated, terrifying. So many people and machines. You can travel anywhere and communicate in ways I never even dreamt of when I first lived. How are you supposed to find a place for yourself in a world this convoluted and uncaring?

Life was much simpler sixteen hundred years ago. Most people never travelled more than a few kilometres from the spot where they were born. Men sometimes went off to fight in distant countries, and came back with tales of strangely dressed folk who spoke different languages and believed in frightful gods. But girls and women rarely saw such sights, unless they were kidnapped by rival warriors and carted off.

It was a peaceful time when I was born. No great wars. Food was plentiful. Laws were respected by most clans. We built huts, made our own clothes, farmed the land, herded tame animals, hunted the wild. We married young, bore lots of children, worshipped our gods and died happily if we lived to be forty.

Then demons invaded. They attacked without mercy and dug up the remains of our dead, creating new beasts out of the rotting flesh and bones, turning our own ancestors against us. We fought as best we could, but for each one we killed, five more appeared. They terrorised villages across the land. It was only a matter of time before we would all suffer horrible, painful deaths.

In our darkest hour, an unlikely saviour appeared. A gruff druid led a small band of our warriors on a mission to send the demons back to their foul universe. I went with them, and so did a simple boy known only as Bran.

We drove back the demons, but one of them—Lord Loss, a red-skinned demon master with eight arms and no heart—imprisoned me in a cave beneath the earth. I was shut off from the world of light. In the darkness, he sent his familiars to torture and kill me. The pain was unbearable and death, when it came, was a relief.

At least it should have been. But for some unknown reason, when my body perished, my soul remained trapped in the cave. There was to be no escape for me, even in death.

I was held captive for many long, depressing centuries. Mine was a world of darkness and absolute desolation. Lacking a body, I couldn’t even sleep. I was conscious for every minute of every long day and night.

I couldn’t see or learn anything of the human world, but I was at the focal point of what had once been a tunnel between the Demonata’s universe and ours. By focusing hard, I could trace the shattered strands of the tunnel back to their source, and from there magically peer into the demons’ den.

Not a lot happened in that part of the universe, but demons occasionally drifted by or stopped to test the tunnel in the hope that they might be able to rekindle it. I worried that one of them might succeed, so I kept a close watch.

After sixteen hundred years my worries proved well-founded. For the first time I sensed movement in the human world. A boy of great power had come to live in the area close to the cave. I could feel him being manipulated. He was led to the cave and tricked into trying to reopen the tunnel. I tried to warn the boy, to stop him. But he couldn’t understand me. The tunnel was reactivated and demons flooded through in their thousands.

That should have been the end, but the boy returned when all seemed lost. He came with another teenager and an elderly magician—Bran! My old friend had survived and grown more powerful than any of us could have imagined.

As strong as Bran and the boys were, it wasn’t enough. Hundreds of demons stood between them and the cave. They tried to break through, but failed. It looked like everything was finished.

Then something remarkable happened. A magical force connected me with the boys. It united the three of us and we became the Kah-Gash, an ancient weapon of incredible power. Without knowing what we were doing, we took the universes back through time, to the night when the tunnel was opened. Bran and the boys seized this fresh opportunity and put a stop to the onslaught, denying the demon hordes access to our world.

During the battle an innocent bystander—a boy called Bill-E Spleen—was killed. I felt myself drawn to the dead boy As my spirit seeped into his corpse, I found myself capable of restoring the body’s functions. I set the heart beating and it pumped blood through the veins and arteries. The brain sparked at my urging. Lungs rose and fell. Bill-E drew breath… and so did I. My first free breath after sixteen hundred years of imprisonment. No words can describe the deliciousness of that.

As Bran and the others stared at me, amazed and afraid, I set about altering the body I’d taken over, reshaping it, giving it my face, my build, my sex. Within hours it was a boy’s body no longer, but a girl’s, with breath, a heartbeat, bones, guts, flesh, blood, a face. I was alive!

That’s when my problems really began.

LONELY NEW WORLD

What amazes me most about this modern world is that people aren’t more amazed. I first lived in a time of magic, with priestesses and druids who could perform wondrous feats. But we had nothing like aeroplanes, computers, televisions, cars. We were servants of the natural world, ignorant of the ways of the universe and the origins of our planet. We didn’t even know the Earth was round!

Today’s people have mastered the land and seas, and even made inroads into the heavens—they can fly! There are things they can’t control, like earthquakes and floods, but for the most part they’ve torn down trees, carved the planet up with roads and made it theirs. They’ve hurt the Earth, and they don’t seem as happy as people in my time were, but they’ve achieved the incredible.

I’ve been here more than six months, yet I still find a dozen things each day that make my jaw drop. Like a pencil. How do they put lead inside wood? And paper—nobody thinks twice about it, but in my previous life, if you wanted to record a message, you had to hammer notches out of a chunk of rock.

It’s a terrifying world and I shouldn’t be able to cope with it. I came back to life as a small, scared, lonely girl. If I’d stepped out of the cave knowing nothing of what lay beyond, I’d have fainted with shock and gone on fainting every time I recovered and looked around.

But when I took over Bill-E Spleen’s body, his memories became mine. It took me a few weeks to process everything, but I soon knew all that he did. That helped me make sense of this new world and deal with it. Without access to Bill-E’s memories I wouldn’t have known how to use a knife and fork, knot a pair of laces, open a door or do any of the simple, everyday tasks that everyone else takes for granted.

But as helpful as that’s been, it’s also proved to be one of my biggest problems. Because I live with Bill-E’s uncle, Dervish Grady, and I made the mistake of telling him about Bill-E’s memories. As a result, he sees me as some kind of a medium, offering him unlimited access to his dead nephew’s feelings and thoughts.

“Tell me about Billy’s first day at school.”

We’re in Dervish’s study on the top floor of the house. The mansion is a three-storey monster, full of round, stained-glass windows, wooden floorboards and bare stone walls. (Except in this study, which is lined with leather panels.) All of the people from my village could have lived in comfort here. When I first saw it, I thought it was a communal building.

“His first day at school?” I chew my lower lip, as though I have to think hard to retrieve the memories. Dervish watches me intently, hands crossed on the desk in front of him, eyes hard. I don’t enjoy these sessions. He brings me up here three or four times a day and asks me about Bill-E, the things he experienced, the thoughts he had, the way he saw the world.

“He wasn’t nervous,” I begin. “He thought it was a big adventure. He loved putting on his uniform and packing his books and lunch. He kept checking the kitchen clock, even though he couldn’t tell the time.”

Dervish smiles. He always grins when I tell him an amusing little detail about his dead nephew. But he’s not smiling at me—he’s smiling to himself, as if sharing a joke with the absent Bill-E Spleen.

I tell Dervish more, talking him through the young boy’s impressions of his teacher and classmates. I find this boring as well as uncomfortable. It’s like having to read chapters from the same story, over and over. My attention wanders and my eyes dart round Dervish’s study, the books of magic on the shelves, the weapons on the walls. I want to flick through the pages of those books and test some of the axes and swords. But there’s never time for that.

Maybe Dervish doesn’t see me. Perhaps to him I’m not a real person, just a mouthpiece for Bill-E. I doubt that he can imagine me doing anything other than talk about the boy I replaced. There’s nothing malicious in it. I just don’t think it’s crossed his mind to regard me as an independent human being.

Eventually, two hours later, Dervish dismisses me. He’s had enough for now. He waves me away, not bothering to even say goodnight. I leave him staring at his crossed hands, thoughts distant, a sad wreck of a man, more lost in the past than I ever was when captive in the cave.

I love walking, exploring the countryside between the house and Carcery Vale. I like it in the forest. The land was covered in trees when I first lived. I almost feel like I’m in my original time when I leave the roads and paths of the modern world and stroll through woodland. Sometimes I’ll pluck a leaf and set it on my tongue, to taste nature. I try to trick myself into believing the new world doesn’t exist, that the natural balance has been restored.

Of course that’s fantasy and the sensation never lasts long. These trees have been carefully planted and the undergrowth is nowhere near as dense as it was back then. There are still rabbits and foxes, but they’re scarce.

No wolves or bears. The smell of the modern world is thick in the air, a nasty, acidic stench. But if I use my imagination, I can believe for a second or two that I’m in the forest near my rath.

Sometimes, in the night, I truly forget about the present. In my dreams I’m still Bec MacConn, learning the ways of magic from my teacher, Banba. I wake up in a cold sweat, heart racing, crouched close to the wall, wondering where I am, why there’s a hole in the wall and what the clear, hard material stretched across it is. I feel trapped, as if I’m back in the cave. I swipe my fists at imagined phantoms of this new, scary world.

The confusion always passes swiftly. After a minute or two I remember where and when I am. My fists unclench and my heart settles down. I find it hard to sleep again on such nights, and lie awake in the dark, often curled up on the floor in a corner, remembering those I knew, all long dead and decayed. I feel lost and alone on such nights, and tears often fall and soak my cheeks as I tremble and miserably hug myself.

But it’s day now and I feel more relaxed. I move through the forest, humming a tune the world hasn’t heard in more than a millennium, pretending that I’m back in my own time. I come to a bush of red berries. I’m reaching for a berry to examine it when I spot a car and realise I’m close to a road. I still feel uneasy around cars, even after six months. I haven’t been in one yet, although I’ve been on Dervish’s motorbike a couple of times, when he took me to a nearby town to get clothes.

Cars frighten me. They look vicious. Growling, screeching, fast-moving assassins. I know they’re not living, thinking creatures, but I can’t help myself. Whenever I see a car, I expect it to race after me, chase me through the trees and mow me down.

I wait for the noise of the engine to fade, then edge over to the road. I’ve explored all the area around Dervish’s home and can pinpoint my position within half a minute, no matter where I am. One look at the road, the trees by its side and the bend to my left, and I know I’m a five-minute walk from Carcery Vale, the nearest village.

I haven’t been to the Vale often. The people there make me nervous. I keep quiet and don’t interact with them. I feel out of place, afraid I’ll say something to give myself away. I’m not truly part of this world and I can’t shake the feeling that our neighbours will eventually unearth my secret.

My first week here was mad. We’d just saved the world from a demon invasion, but there was no time to take pride in our achievement. Beranabus—as Bran now calls himself—left the day after our showdown with Lord Loss. We’d glimpsed the demon master’s superior in the cave—a huge, mysterious, shadowy, powerful beast. Lord Loss said our hours were numbered, that we’d only delayed the day of reckoning.

Beranabus was overwhelmed by my reappearance. I was the only person he’d ever cared about, and my return brought happiness back into his life. But the ancient magician is practical above all else. He wanted to stay and spend his last few years by my side. But there were demons to fight and a world to save. There was no time for selfish pleasure.

He took his assistant, Kernel Fleck, and Grubbs Grady—another of Dervish’s nephews—with him. Grubbs is very powerful, but he hates fighting demons. He’d spent his life hiding from his responsibilities, but Bill-E’s death seemed to settle him on his path. As reluctant as he was to leave Dervish, as scared as he was to face the Demonata, he went anyway.

Beranabus should have taken me too. When Grubbs, Kernel and I unite, we become the Kah-Gash. We have the power to destroy a whole universe. Beranabus should have kept us together, to experiment and use us.

He left me behind for two reasons. The first was personal. I’d suffered sixteen hundred years of imprisonment and he didn’t want to thrust me into the demon’s universe to fight immediately. He felt I deserved a few years of peace and wished to spare me the awfulness of my destiny as long as he could.

But he was scared as well, and that was the main reason. Beranabus had been searching for the Kah-Gash most of his life, hoping to destroy the Demonata with it. But he’d never been sure if he was chasing a mythical Holy Grail or an actual weapon. When he saw it in action, doubt crept in.

Was he right to put the pieces together? What if we fell into the hands of the Demonata and they used us to annihilate the human world? Or maybe the Kah-Gash would work against us by itself. We hadn’t intentionally taken the universes back in time. The Kah-Gash did that, having manipulated Grubbs into helping the demons open the tunnel in the first place. It had a mind and unknowable will of its own. Perhaps it had saved us by accident.

Wary of the weapon, Beranabus split us up. He should have left Grubbs behind to comfort Dervish, and he would have if not for his love of me. Dervish went into a rage when he woke to be told Grubbs had slipped away in the middle of the night. Grubbs and Bill-E were his nephews, but they’d been like sons. Now he’d lost them both. He cursed Beranabus, the demons… and me. He blamed me for Bill-E’s death, accused me of conspiring against the boy, tricking him so that I could take over his body.

It was the first day of my new life. Everything was confusion and uncertainty. I was awestruck, afraid, not sure what to say or how to act, delighted to be alive, but terrified. Unsure of myself, I let Dervish curse and scream. I didn’t flinch when he jabbed a finger at me or lifted me off the ground and shook me hard, only prayed to the gods that he wouldn’t kill me.

In the end he stormed off. He ignored me for days, and would have ignored me for longer— maybe forever—if not for Meera Flame, one of his oldest friends. In the middle of his depression, he rang her to tell her about his loss. Meera came to him immediately. After doing what she could to console Dervish, she asked if I needed anything, if I wanted to talk about what I’d been through.

Meera was wary of me. Like Dervish, she wondered if I’d led Bill-E to his death, so that I could take control of his body. Through floods of tears I convinced her of my innocence. When she realised I was just a lonely girl, as scared of this new world as I was of demons, her heart warmed to me and we were able to talk openly. I told her about my life, my centuries in the cave, the force which compelled me to take Bill-E’s body.

“I didn’t want to bring the corpse back to life and change it,” I sobbed. “It just happened. It was lying there, good for nothing else, and I had the power to make it mine. In those first few minutes, I wasn’t thinking about living again. I could see that Lord Loss was going to kill the others. I just wanted to help them.”

Meera believed me and managed to convince Dervish of the truth. She also dealt with the difficulties of Bill-E’s disappearance and my sudden existence. She got Dervish to pretend Bill-E had gone to live with relatives. Through her contacts, Meera faked the necessary paperwork and arranged for officials in high positions to throw their weight behind the lie if anyone (such as Bill-E’s teachers) made enquiries.

Those same contacts forged a birth certificate and passport for me. I became an illegitimate niece of Dervish’s, whose mother had recently passed away. In the absence of any other living relative, I’d been sent to Carcery Vale.

It was too coincidental to pass close scrutiny. A boy’s grandparents are brutally slaughtered… the boy takes off without saying a word to anyone… his best friend also disappears… and a girl nobody has ever heard of moves in with the man who was like a father to both boys. The people of Carcery Vale aren’t stupid. I’m sure they knew something was wrong.

But Meera and her allies covered their tracks artfully. Police were assured by their colleagues in other districts that Bill-E was safe and the girl’s story was on the level. In the face of such carefully contrived evidence, our neighbours could do nothing except watch suspiciously and wait for the next bizarre Grady family twist.

FIRST CONTACT

From the spot on the road in the forest, I make the five minute walk to Carcery Vale, but keep to the edge of the village, circling the houses and shops. I look on enviously at the ordinary people leading their ordinary lives.

Dervish is supposed to be tutoring me at home while I recover from the loss of my mother. Meera has supplied us with school books and equipment. Of course, Dervish hasn’t once sat down to help me with schoolwork, but I’ve been doing it by myself. I complete the necessary exercises so that Meera can show them to the relevant authorities and keep them happy.

I enjoy the homework. I never did anything like this before. I learnt how to do practical things in my rath, like cook, wash and sharpen weapons. I memorised lots of stories and Banba taught me magic. But I never studied books—they didn’t exist then. I knew nothing about global history, geography, science, mathematics.

It’s fascinating. I know a lot already, courtesy of Bill-E’s memories, but I’m discovering much more. Like most people, Bill-E didn’t retain all that he learnt, so I only have access to the bits he remembered. But my own memory is perfect. I have total recall of anything I see, hear or read. By devouring the books Meera gives me, and watching scores of television documentaries and the news, I’ve pieced together many of the facts of this brave new world. Ironically I probably know more about it than most of the children who are natives of this time.

I’d love to go to school and learn from real teachers. I study as best I can at home, do my homework, watch educational programmes and surf the Internet. But that’s no substitute for being taught by another person. There’s so much more I could do with my brain, so many things I could uncover about the world, if I only had someone to instruct me.

But I’m not ready to mix with other people yet. What would I say? How would I mingle and pass as one of their own? I’d have to guard my tongue, always afraid I’d say something that gave away my past. I have nothing in common with these folk. I know much about their ways, from Bill-E and what I’ve read about them and seen on television. But in my time girls married when they were fourteen. Warriors fought naked. Slavery was a fact of life. There was nothing odd about eating the heart of a defeated enemy. We worshipped many gods and believed they directly influenced our day-to-day lives.

As I brood about the gulf between me and these people, someone coughs behind me. I’m instantly on my guard—in my experience, if somebody sneaks up on you, they’re almost certainly an enemy. Whirling, my lips move fast, working on a spell. There’s virtually no magic in the air, so my powers are limited, but I can still work the odd spell or two. I won’t be taken easily.

It’s a girl. A couple of years older than me. We’re dressed in similar clothes, but she wears hers more naturally. I haven’t fully got the hang of shoes and laces, soft shirts and buttons. Her hair looks much neater than mine and she wears make-up.

“Hi,” the girl says.

“Hello,” I reply softly, putting a name to her face and letting the spell die on my lips. She’s Reni Gossel, the sister of a boy Bill-E hated. Grubbs liked this girl. Bill-E did too, although he never said, because he didn’t believe he could compete with his older, bigger, more confident friend.

“I’m Reni,” she says.

“Yes.” I think for a moment. “I’m Rebecca Kinga.” That’s the fake name Meera provided me with. “Bec for short.”

Reni nods and comes closer, studying me. There’s a hostile shade to her eyes which unnerves me. This girl has no reason to dislike me—we don’t know each other—but I think she does anyway.

“You’re Dervish Grady’s niece,” Reni says, circling me the way I was circling the village a few minutes before.

“That’s right,” I mutter, not turning, staring straight ahead, shivering slightly. This girl can’t hurt me, but I’m afraid she might see through me.

“Grubbs never said anything about you.”

“He didn’t know. It was a secret.”

“A Grady with a secret.” She smiles crookedly. “Nothing new in that.”

“What do you mean?” I frown.

“Dervish has always been full of secrets. Grubbs too. We were close but I’m sure there were things he wasn’t telling me, about his parents, his sister, Dervish.” She stops in front of me. “Did you meet Grubbs?”

“Just once,” I answer honestly.

“Strange how he moved out just as you moved in.”

I shrug. “He was upset. When Bill-E’s grandparents were killed, he wanted to get away from here. It reminded him of when his parents were murdered.”

“Maybe,” Reni sniffs. “But who did he go to?”

“His aunt.”

Reni shakes her head. “Grubbs didn’t like his aunt. Or any of his other relatives. He told me about them. Dervish was the only one he loved. Bill-E loved Dervish too. Yet both of them have gone without warning and neither has bothered to pay him a visit in all the months since. Like I said—strange.”

Her eyes are hot with mistrust and anger. For reasons she maybe doesn’t even know, she blames me for the disappearance of Grubbs and Bill-E. And to a certain extent she’s right.

I say nothing, figuring silence is better than a lie. After a minute of quiet, Reni asks softly, “Do you have a number for Grubbs?”

“No, but I could probably ask Der—”

“Don’t bother,” she interrupts. “I asked already, when I couldn’t get through on his mobile. He said Grubbs didn’t want to talk to anyone. He told me to email, and I did, but it wasn’t Grubbs who answered. I’m no fool. I could tell it was Dervish pretending to be his nephew.”

I’m not sure how to respond.

“This has something to do with what happened to Loch,” she whispers, and her expression changes, becoming more haunted. “You know who Loch was?”

“Your brother,” I croak.

She nods. “Some people might say it wasn’t coincidence that the pair who were with him the day he died have gone missing. Or that the grandparents of one were butchered. Or that the uncle of another has spent the last six months looking like a man who’s lost everything—everyone—dear to him.”

“What do you want?” I ask stiffly.

“I want to know what happened,” she snarls and grabs both my arms, squeezing tightly. “Loch’s death was awful, but I believed it was an accident, so I dealt with it. Now I have horrible, terrible doubts. There’s more going on than anyone knows. Dervish is hiding the truth and I think you know what it is.”

“I don’t know anything,” I gasp, as images and memories come flying through my head. I want to make her let go, but I can’t. I’m learning far more about her than I care to know, unwillingly stripping her of her secrets. “I came here after they went away. I know nothing about them.”

“I don’t believe you,” Reni says, glaring at me with outright hatred. “You know. You must. You’re part of it. If you had nothing to hide, why stay locked away or skulk around like a thief when you come out?”

“Please… you’re hurting me… let me go… I don’t want to…”

“What?” Reni snaps, shaking me. “You don’t want to what?”

“Learn anymore!” I cry.

She frowns. I’m weeping, not because I’m afraid or sad, but because she is. I know why she’s doing this, why she feels so awful, why she’s desperate to uncover the truth.

“You can’t change it,” I moan. “You can’t bring him back. He’s dead.”

“Who?” Reni hisses. “Grubbs? Bill-E?”

“Loch,” I wheeze, and her hands loosen. “You mustn’t blame yourself. It had nothing to do with you. He wasn’t distracted or angry. That wasn’t why he—”

“What are you talking about?” Reni shouts, clutching me hard again.

“You had a fight with him the day he died.” She releases me, eyes widening, and the images stop. But I can’t let it end there. I have to push on, to try and help her. “You fought about what you were going to watch on television. It was a silly, stupid argument. I’m sure Loch had forgotten it by the time he left. It had nothing to do with his death, I’m certain it didn’t.”

Reni is trembling. Her lower lip quivers. “How do you know that?” she moans. “I never told anybody that.”

“It was an accident,” I mumble. “It wasn’t your fault, so you shouldn’t—”

“How do you know that?” Reni screams.

I shrug. This hasn’t gone like I wanted it to. I hoped to ease her pain, but instead I’ve terrified her.

Reni starts to say something, then closes her mouth and backs off, crying, staring at me as if I’m something hideous and foul. It’s how people in my time stared at a priestess or druid if they thought that person was an agent of evil. She backs into a tree, jumps with fright, then turns and flees.

I watch until she vanishes behind the houses of Carcery Vale, then slowly return through the forest for another lonely night with the aloof and morbid Dervish.

SPONGE

Beranabus is only half human. His father was a demon who ravaged his mother against her will. In later life, Beranabus tracked the monster down and slaughtered him. He took the beast’s head as a trophy. Held it close to his chest that night and wept for hours, stroking his dead father’s face, hating and mourning him in equal measures.

Meera loved Dervish when they were younger. She wanted to marry him and have children. She dreamt of teaching their kids to be Disciples, the entire family battling evil together and saving the world. But she knew he would never father a baby. He was afraid any child of his might catch the curse of the Gradys and turn into a werewolf. So she never confessed her love or told anybody.

Reni saw her mother steal a purse from a shop. It was the most shocking thing she experienced until Loch died. She spent many restless nights wondering what else her mother might have stolen, worrying about what would happen if she was caught. She wanted to discuss it with someone, but it wasn’t something she could talk about, so she kept it to herself.

I know these things because I’ve touched those people and absorbed their inner thoughts. I’m a human sponge—I soak up memories.

I became aware of my gift not long after I returned to life. I spent hours with Beranabus that night, hugging and holding him. Memories seeped into me thick and fast, but it was a time of great confusion and I wasn’t able to separate his memories from Bill-E’s until later.

It took me a few days to make sense of what happened. I had all these images of the distant past swirling around inside my head—starting with his wretched birth in the Labyrinth—and I wasn’t sure where they’d come from. When I worked it out, I thought it was a temporary side-effect of my miraculous return to life. Or maybe Beranabus had fed his memories to me, to help me cope with the new world.

I didn’t touch anybody else until Meera hugged me, in an attempt to comfort me when she found me crying. As soon as we touched, I began absorbing. When I realised what was happening, I broke contact. I felt like a thief, stealing her innermost secrets. The flow of images stopped as soon as I let go.

I learnt less about Meera than Beranabus, since we were in contact for only a handful of seconds. The flow of information was fast, but not instantaneous. I took many of her big secrets and recent memories, but little of her younger life.

I hadn’t touched anyone since then. I don’t like this power. It’s intrusive and sneaky, and I can’t control it. I don’t seem to do any harm. I think the person retains their memories, but I can’t be certain. Maybe, if I held on for a long time, I’d drain all their thoughts and they’d end up a mindless zombie.

I wish I could experiment and find out more about my unwelcome gift, but I can’t without the risk of damaging those I touch. If I was in the Demonata’s universe, I could test it on demons— although I’m not entirely sure I want to get inside a demon’s head!

Nobody knows about it. I’d tell Beranabus if he was here, but he isn’t. I could search for him—I learnt what he knew about opening windows when we touched, and I’m sure I could open one myself—but I don’t want to disturb him. He’s on an important mission and this would distract him. If I’m lucky, the unwelcome gift will fade with time. If not, what of it? I live in seclusion and almost never touch people. I’m sure Reni Gossel won’t come back for another face-to-face. What harm can a secluded hermit do to anyone?

I’m in Dervish’s study, telling him about Bill-E’s problems at school. Bill-E was a shy boy. He found it hard to make friends or fit in. Dervish wants to get to the root of his nephew’s difficulties. There’s no point—he can’t do anything to fix them now—but he’s persistent.

“Was it his eye?” Dervish asks. “Billy had a lazy left eye. He often asked me to correct it with magic. If I had, would he have been more confident?”

I shrug.

“Come on,” Dervish presses angrily. “You know. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

For a moment I feel like telling him to stop pestering me. I want to scream at him to stop obsessing about a dead boy and let me start living a life of my own. It’s not fair that I’m forced to spend my days and nights playing these sick games.

But Dervish scares me. He’s not big, but he’s strong, I can see that in his pale blue eyes. He might hurt me if I crossed him. I’m not sure how far he’d go to keep learning about his nephew. Bill-E loved him unconditionally, so he saw only good things in this balding, bearded man. But Dervish has a tougher side which Bill-E never saw. I’m afraid he might punish me if I annoy him. So I let my anger pass, bow my head in shame and mutter softly in response to his accusation.

“I don’t know, because Bill-E didn’t know. It was lots of things, all jumbled up. The death of his mum, his eye, just feeling different. There was no simple reason. If there had been, he could have dealt with it.”

Dervish studies me silently, face creased. Finally he nods, accepting my answer. He doesn’t apologise for snapping at me—he doesn’t see any need to.

“Was he happier when Grubbs came?” Dervish asks, leaning back in his chair. We’ve talked about this before. We’ve covered most of Bill-E’s life. The only part we’ve never touched on is the night of his death. Dervish never asks about that.

“Yes,” I say, raising my head and flashing a short smile across the table. I know Dervish likes hearing about Bill-E’s lighter moments, his friendship with Grubbs, hunting for buried treasure, life with his mum before she died. “Grubbs was his best friend ever, even though they didn’t know each other for long.”

“Did he suspect they were brothers?”

“No. He sometimes wished they were, but he never had any idea who his true father was. He thought it was you.

Dervish flinches. I knew, even as I was saying it, that I shouldn’t. He feels guilty about not telling Bill-E the truth. He doesn’t like to imagine he was the cause of any unhappiness in his nephew’s short life.

“That’s enough for now,” Dervish mutters, turning away from me, switching on his computer.

I stand up and edge around the desk. My gaze settles on Dervish’s narrow back. I feel an almost irresistible urge to put a hand between his shoulder blades. Partly I want to touch him just to make contact, to say, “I’m real. I have feelings. See me.” But mostly I want to absorb his memories and secrets, learn what makes him tick. If I knew more about him, maybe I needn’t be so afraid. I might find some way to break through the barriers he’s erected and make him see me as a person, not just a direct line to his dead nephew.

But that would be wrong. I’d be stealing. I already feel bad for unintentionally taking from Beranabus, Meera and Reni. I won’t do it on purpose, not even to make life easier for myself. So I slide out wordlessly, leaving Dervish hunched over the computer, his secrets intact, the coldness between us preserved.

FRIEND INDEED

Meera Flame roars to a halt in our driveway, turning up out of the blue, the way she normally does. I’m watching television when she arrives. I know it’s her by the sound of her motorbike, which is much louder than Dervish’s, but I wait for her to knock before going to let her in. I don’t want to appear overly desperate for company.

“Hey girl, looking good,” Meera laughs, giving me a quick hug before I can duck. She breaks away quickly, spotting Dervish on the stairs. I don’t take much from her, but what I do soak up is new, memories I hadn’t absorbed before. It seems like every time I touch a person, I steal something fresh. That’s useful to know.

“How have you two been?” Meera shouts, taking the stairs three at a time. She grabs Dervish hard, halfway up the giant staircase which forms the backbone of the house, and hugs him as if he was a teddy bear.

“We’ve been fine,” Dervish replies, smiling warmly. He never smiles at me that way, but why should he? I’m an interpreter, not a friend.

“Sorry I haven’t been by more. Busy, busy. It must be spring in Monsterland—demons are bursting out all over. Or trying to.”

“I heard,” Dervish says. “Shark has been in touch. It sounds bad.”

Meera shrugs. “Demons trying to invade are nothing new.”

“But in such numbers…”

She shrugs again, but this time jerks her head in my direction. Dervish frowns. Then it clicks— “Not in front of the girl. You might frighten her.” I see a small, unconscious sneer flicker across his lips. He doesn’t think of me as a girl, certainly not one who can be frightened by anything as mundane as talk of demons. But he respects Meera’s wishes.

“Come on up,” he says. “We can discuss business in my study.”

“To hell with business,” Meera laughs, pushing him away “I’m here to let my hair down. I thought it was time me and Bec had a girls’ night in. I bought some lipstick, mascara, a few other bits and pieces I thought might suit you,” she says to me. “We can test them out later, discover what matches your eyes and gorgeous red hair. Unless you don’t want to?”

“No,” I grin. “That would be coolio.”

Dervish winces—that was one of Bill-E’s favourite words—but I don’t care. For the first time in months I have something to look forward to. I experience a feeling I haven’t known for ages and it takes me a while to realise what it is—happiness.

We eat dinner together, which is a rarity. I normally dine alone. Eating is one of the few pleasures I’ve been able to relish since my return. I love the tastes of the new world. I never imagined anything as delicious as fish and chips, pizza, sweet and sour chicken. The strange flavours baffled and repulsed me to begin with, but now I look forward to my meals as I never did before.

After dinner Meera banishes Dervish to his study and the two of us shut ourselves in my bedroom. Sitting on the edge of my huge four-poster bed, Meera teaches me the basic tricks of applying make-up. It’s harder than I imagined, requiring a subtle wrist and deft flicks of the fingers.

We try different shades of lipstick, blusher, eyeliner and mascara. It all looks strange and out of place to me, but Meera likes the various effects.

“Didn’t people wear make-up in your day?” she asks, working on my eyelashes for the fourth time.

“Nothing like this. The warriors were the most intricately decorated. Many had tattoos, and some used to colour their hair with blood and dung.”

“Charming,” Meera says drily and we laugh. She runs a hand through my hair and tuts. It’s longer and wirier than it’s ever been. “We must do something with this. And pierce your ears.”

“I’d like that,” I smile. “I couldn’t grow my hair long or be pierced before.”

“Why not?” Meera asks.

“I was a priestess’s apprentice,” I explain. “Priestesses couldn’t marry, so we weren’t meant to make ourselves attractive.”

“I bet that was a man’s idea!” Meera snorts.

“Actually it was practical. Our magic worked best if we were unsullied.”

“You mean you lost your powers if you made out with a guy?” Meera asks sceptically.

“Yes.”

“Rubbish,” she snorts. “I’ve made out plenty and it hasn’t done me any harm.”

“It’s true,” I insist. “Things were different. Magic was in the air, all around us. It wasn’t like when a window opens now. We were more powerful than modern mages, but we had to live a certain way to tap into the magic. Love of any kind was a weakening distraction.”

“Hmm,” Meera says dubiously, brushing my hair from left to right. I’m soaking up memories each time she touches me, but contact is brief so I’m not taking too much. I try not to absorb anything at all, to block her memories, but I can’t.

“You sound like Billy sometimes,” Meera says casually. “You said ‘coolio’ earlier, and ‘weakening distraction’ was the sort of thing he’d say too.”

“There’s a lot of him in me,” I admit. “Bill-E spoke much faster than I did, and he used odd words sometimes. I find myself mimicking him. It isn’t intentional.

“I have his handwriting too,” I confess, lowering my voice to a whisper. “I never wrote before. I wouldn’t have been able to without Bill-E’s memories to show me how. When I write, I do it the way he did, exactly the same style.”

“I wonder if you have the same fingerprints?” Meera says.

“No,” I frown, studying the tips of my fingers, recalling the whorls from before. “This is my flesh. I moulded it into my own shape. On the outside there’s nothing of Bill-E left. But in here…” I tap the side of my head.

“That must be weird for Dervish,” Meera chuckles. I go very quiet. She applies new lipstick in silence, then says, “Dervish never talks about you. I haven’t been able to phone often, but whenever I call, I ask how you’re doing. He’s always vague. Says you’re fine, no problems.”

I grunt sarcastically.

“I don’t know about your time,” Meera says slowly, “but in today’s world, girls love to share. Boys don’t so much—they bottle things up inside, hide their pain even from their best friends. But girls know that a problem shared is a problem halved.”

“Bill-E hated that cliché,” I tell her. “He thought if that was true, all you had to do was tell your problem to dozens of people. Each time you told it, the problem would be halved, until eventually it would be of no real importance.”

“That definitely sounds like Billy,” Meera laughs, then looks at me seriously “If I can help, I will, but first I need to know what’s troubling you.”

I chew my newly painted lower lip, wondering how much—if anything—I should tell her. She’s Dervish’s friend, loyal and once in love with him. Maybe she can only see his side of things and will turn against me if I…

No. She’s not like that. Meera’s criticised Dervish before when she thought he was in the wrong. She believes in being honest with everyone. I’ve no guarantee that she’ll side with me, but from what I’ve absorbed, I believe she’ll give me a fair hearing.

“He’s only interested in Bill-E,” I whisper, then fill her in on all that’s happened since I stepped out of the cave, only holding back the information about my gift, since that has no bearing on what’s been going on with Dervish.

She listens silently, her brows slowly creasing into an angry frown. “The idiot,” she growls when I finish. “I guess anyone in his position would want to know what was going on inside Billy’s head, but he’s taken this way too far. Who does he think he is, treating you like dirt?”

She stands up, fire in her eyes, and strides towards the door. My heart leaps with excitement—she’s going to confront Dervish and subject him to a tongue-lashing.

Brilliant! But then she slows, stops, thinks a moment and turns.

“No,” she says quietly. “I can’t say anything to him about this. You have to.”

“Me?” I cry, disappointment almost bringing tears to my eyes.

“I can take you away from here,” Meera says, returning to my side. “Dervish is no kin to you, so you don’t have to stay with him.”

“Actually,” I correct her, “we are distantly related.”

She waves that away. “Like I said, I can take you from him, but I don’t think you’d be any happier. If you run away now, you’ll always be running. You need to talk to Dervish, make him see you’re not Billy’s ghost, but a real child with real needs. I wouldn’t treat a dog the way Dervish has treated you.”

“He doesn’t do it on purpose,” I mutter, surprised to find myself sticking up for him. “He’s sad and lonely.”

“So are you!” Meera exclaims. “If I was in your place, I’d have set him straight long ago. But you’re just a girl. You were afraid to hurt his feelings… maybe afraid of what he might do if he lost his temper?”

I nod softly, amazed that she can read me so easily.

“I’ve known Dervish a long time,” Meera says. “He’s not as shallow as he must seem. You’ve caught him at a bad time, the worst of his life. He’s lost Billy… Grubbs… that horrible Swan cow didn’t help matters.” Dervish had been in love with Lord Loss’s assistant, Juni Swan. He thought she was a wonderful, kind-hearted woman. When he learnt the truth in the cave, he killed her.

“Any other time, Dervish would have welcomed you warmly,” Meera continues. “But he’s mixed up and you’ve become part of all that’s wrong with his life.

“That has to change,” she says sternly. “He can’t carry on like a spoilt child. If he can’t see sense himself, we have to make him. You have to. Because you’re the one who lives with him. I could shake him up, but he’d feel guilty and shameful, and that might makes things worse. You need to sort this out yourself.” She smiles encouragingly and nods at the door.

“What… now?” I stammer.

“No time like the present,” she grins.

“I don’t know what to say,” I protest.

“You’ll think of something,” she assures me.

“But what if you’re wrong? What if he doesn’t want to hear from me? What if he only wants access to Bill-E?”

“He can’t have it,” Meera says softly. “Billy’s dead. Dervish has manipulated you to hide from that, but he can’t anymore. It’s not healthy. Now quit stalling, get up there and put him in his place. And remember,” she grins, “he’s only a man. They’re the inferior half of the species. He’ll be putty in your hands.”

WAKING THE DEAD

I trudge up the stairs to the third floor, nervous and hesitant. I don’t want to do this. I can’t think of anything to say. I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.

Except Meera’s right. This is unacceptable. I’ve been silent too long. The old Bec wouldn’t have tolerated such disrespectful treatment. I remember when I addressed the men of my village and insisted they let me go with Goll and the others on their mission to find out where Bran came from. Conn—our king—was against it, but I stood firm. If I can stare down a king and tell him what I think, I can certainly face Dervish.

The door to his study is open. I enter, rapping on the heavy wood as I go in. The room is protected from strangers by spells. Dervish never taught me the spells, but I found them easy to break. I don’t have the power I experienced when I first came back to life—the cave was filled with energy which I could tap into—but I’m much more advanced than any present day mage.

Dervish is reading a book about werewolves.

Someone in our family bred with demons many generations ago. As a result, lots of our children transform into savage, mindless beasts who must be executed or caged for life. Various family members have searched for a cure over the centuries. Dervish is the latest, but he’s had no more luck than the others.

It’s possible I might turn one day, but I think I’ll be able to fight it. Grubbs got the better of his wolfen genes. He’s part of the Kah-Gash, and the magic of the weapon gave him the power to reject the change. I suspect I have that same power.

Dervish looks up and squints. “Is that what passes for fashion now?”

I touch my face automatically. “Does it look awful?”

“No.” He forces a thin smile. “I was only teasing. You look good.” It’s the first compliment he’s ever paid me. The small act of kindness gives me confidence. I walk around the room, studying the books on the shelves and weapons on the wall. I take down a small sword and swing it experimentally.

“Careful,” Dervish says. “That’s real.”

I whirl the sword over my head and chop down an imaginary opponent. I wasn’t supposed to practise with swords, but I did when nobody was watching. Satisfied that I haven’t lost my touch, I return the sword to its holder.

“Where’s Meera?” Dervish asks.

“Downstairs. She went to get something to eat.”

“I’ll join her. I’m feeling peckish.” He stands up and heads for the door.

“No,” I stop him. “We have to talk.”

“Later,” he scowls, waving me away.

I whip the sword off the wall again, take careful aim, then send it flying across the room. It tears through the leather panel on this side of the door and slams it shut. Dervish leaps away, giving a yelp of astonishment. He looks back at me, shocked.

“We. Have. To. Talk.”

“Since you put it so politely…” He returns to his chair, eyeing me warily. He glances at the sword buried in the door. Its hilt is still quivering. “Were you sure you wouldn’t hit me when you threw that?”

“No,” I admit.

“What if you’d struck me?”

I grin tightly. “I’m a healer. I could probably have patched you up.”

Dervish strokes his beard, eyes narrow. “What do you want to talk about?”

I stroll to the chair where I usually sit and drag it around to the side of the desk, so I’m closer to Dervish. I hunch forward in the chair, maintaining eye contact. The words come by themselves.

“You never ask about Bill-E’s last day or his final thoughts.”

Dervish stiffens. “I don’t think we need to discuss that.”

“Why don’t you want to know?” I press.

“Did Meera put you up to this?” he says angrily. “She has no right. It’s none of her business.”

“No,” I agree. “It’s our business. And it’s time we dealt with it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You want all of Bill-E, his life from start to finish, wrapped up neatly like a birthday present. I can’t give you that unless I tell you about the end, what he felt in the cave, how he reacted to the news that Grubbs was his brother, that you’d lied to him all those years, that you allowed him to be killed.”

“I didn’t allow anything!” Dervish shouts. “Grubbs did what he had to. There was no other way. If there had been, do you think I would have let him… do that… to Billy?” He’s shaking.

“You’re right,” I say softly. “It was necessary. Bill-E knew that too. He didn’t understand everything about the tunnel and the Demonata, but he saw your pain. He knew you still loved him, that you had no choice. He died without bitterness.”

Tears well up in Dervish’s eyes. His hands are trembling as he nervously tugs at his beard. “He must have hated me,” Dervish moans. “I betrayed him. I didn’t tell him when his father died. He believed I was his dad. I should have—”

“He was disappointed,” I interrupt. “He wanted you to be his father because he loved you so much. But that disappointment didn’t change his love for you. In fact, in the middle of the madness, when he thought Lord Loss was going to slaughter you both, that love grew stronger than ever. He even found time to joke about it, but he couldn’t tell you because he was gagged.”

“Joke?” Dervish echoes, tears trickling down his cheeks.

“When Lord Loss told him you were only his uncle, he wanted to say, ‘Damn! I guess this means Grubbs gets half of your money now!’”

Dervish laughs and sobs at the same time.

“He was afraid,” I continue, recalling Bill-E’s memories. “But he didn’t resent you or Grubbs. He knew you lied because you didn’t want to hurt him. He wished you’d been truthful, but he didn’t hold your deception against you.”

“What about at the very end?” Dervish croaks. His fingers are balled up into fists. “Did he know what Grubbs planned? Did he guess we were going to… kill him?” The final two words emerge as a choked whisper.

“Yes,” I say sadly. “Bill-E was no fool. He saw it in your eyes.”

“Did he hate us?” Dervish cries.

“No. He blamed Lord Loss and bad luck, not you and Grubbs. In fact…”

“Go on,” Dervish says when I pause.

“He was pleased you were there. He was glad he was with the two people he loved most. He didn’t want to die a lonely death. He thought there was nothing worse than being alone.”

I’m crying as well now. I want to stop. I don’t want to hurt Dervish anymore. But I have to say it. I have to make him see.

“I don’t want to be alone either,” I weep. “I hate it, Dervish. Loneliness is horrible. I had sixteen hundred years alone in the cave. I thought I’d suffer forever, no escape, no company, not even the release of death to look forward to.

“When I finally walked free, I thought I’d never be alone again. But I have been and it’s awful, maybe even worse than in the cave. At least there I didn’t have any hope. But now that I’m so close to people… yet alone anyway… nobody to talk to or share my feelings with…”

“What do you mean?” Dervish says gruffly. “You have me. We talk together every day.”

“No,” I sniff. “You talk to Bill-E. You look straight through me. I don’t think you even know I’m there most of the time—you just hear Bill-E’s voice. You only care about a dead boy. You might as well be one of the dead yourself for all the interest you pay to the living… to me.

I’m crying hard, wiping tears from my face with both hands. Dervish is doing the same, looking at me and really seeing me—me, not a shadow of his dead nephew—for the first time.

“I didn’t know,” he groans. “I just missed Billy so much. I… I’ve been stupid and hurtful.” He manages a weak, shivering grin. I smile back shakily. He thinks for a moment. Then, looking as awkward as a boy on a first date, he holds out his arms. I don’t want to steal memories from him, but I need to be hugged, more than I ever needed a hug before. So I stretch my own arms out in response, my heart hammering with hope and joy.

Before we can embrace, the door to the study crashes open. A wild-eyed Meera bursts into the room. She slips but grabs the handle and keeps her footing “We’re under attack!” she screams.

Dervish and I stare at her.

“We’re surrounded!” she veils.

Dervish’s face clouds over. “Demons?” he growls, stepping out of his seat, fingers bunching into fists.

“No,” Meera gasps. A howl fills the corridor behind her. “Werewolves!”

FIGHT

There’s a moment of total, frozen disbelief. Then Dervish grabs a sword from the wall and pushes past Meera. I follow close behind. I try to pull the sword I’d thrown earlier out of the door but it’s stuck tight. While Meera hurries to get a weapon of her own, I step into the corridor after Dervish, working on a spell, not sure if it will work—there’s so little magic in the air to draw on.

I hear panting. It comes from the far end of the corridor. Something growls and something else yaps angrily in reply. No sight of them yet.

Meera steps out behind us, swinging a mace. She’s stuck a knife in her belt. No trace of the gentle woman who was applying make-up only minutes ago. She’s all warrior now.

“How many?” Dervish asks without looking back.

“At least three. They entered through the kitchen. I’d been snacking. I was just leaving, so I was able to jam the door and stall them. If they’d burst in when I was at the table…” She shakes her head, angry and scared.

The first of the creatures sticks its head around the corner. It’s recognisably human, but twisted out of normal shape. It has unnatural yellow eyes. Dark hair sprouts from its face and its teeth have lengthened into fangs. They look too large for its mouth—it must have great difficulty eating.

It skulks into the corridor, growling. Long, sharp fingernails. More muscular than any human. Hunched over. Covered in stiff hair. Naked. A male. Another two creatures appear behind the first, a male and female. The second male is larger than the first, but follows his lead. His left eye is a gooey, scarred mess. Maybe that’s why he’s not the dominant one.

As the once-human beasts advance, I step ahead of Dervish and Meera. I try draining magic from the air, but there’s virtually nothing to tap into. In my own time, these creatures would have been simple to deal with. Here, it’s going to be difficult.

The lead werewolf snaps at the female. With a howl, she leaps. I unleash the spell as she jumps. It’s a choking spell. If it doesn’t work, I won’t know much about it—she’ll be on me in a second and I’m defenceless.

The werewolf lands about a metre ahead of me, but instead of pouncing and finishing me off, she rolls aside, whining, the cords of her throat thickening, cutting off her supply of air. Score one for Bec!

The weaker male attacks on all fours. No time for a choking spell. I bark a few quick words and the creature’s fingers grab at each other. He roars with surprise and tries ripping them apart. I mutter the spell again, holding them in place. It’s more of a trick than a real spell. It will immobilise the werewolf for less than a minute, then he’ll break free and I’ll have to think of something else.

But there’s the dominant male to deal with first. He’s more cunning than the others and makes his move while I’m dealing with the one-eyed beast. He barrels across the floor, howling dreadfully.

Before I can react, Dervish and Meera cut ahead of me. Meera lashes out at the werewolf with her mace, swinging the spiked ball expertly, landing a blow to the beast’s right shoulder. Dervish jabs at him with the sword, piercing the creature’s stomach.

Neither blow is fatal but the werewolf screams with pain and surprise, and falls back a few steps. He roars at the others, summoning them. The female’s throat has cleared—she’s back on her feet, and although her cheeks are puffed out, she looks ready for business. Morrigan’s milk! In the old days that spell would have been the end of her. Curse this modern world of weak magic.

“We can’t get past,” Dervish says calmly. “Back up. They were human once. If we’re lucky, the protective spells of the study will halt them.”

“And if they don’t?” Meera asks.

“Fight like a demon,” he chuckles bleakly.

We shuffle back through the open door of the study. As soon as we’re in, I dart to the nearest wall and grab an axe—the swords here are mostly too big for me.

One of the werewolves howls. The female leaps into the study, fangs flashing, ready to tear us to pieces. But as soon as she crosses the threshold she screeches, clasps her hands to the sides of her head, doubles over and vomits. She looks up hatefully and reaches for Meera, then screams and vomits again. She rolls out. The males roar at her but she roars back more forcefully than either of them.

“It worked,” Dervish notes dully.

The stronger male approaches the doorway. He sniffs at the jamb suspiciously and leans through. His nostrils flare and the pupils of his eyes widen. He leaps back before he gets sick. Dervish strides forward and slams the door shut.

“What are they doing here?” Meera pants. “Where did they come from?”

“No time for questions,” Dervish murmurs, stroking his beard with the tip of his sword. “There are probably others with them, demons or mages. They might break the spells and free the way for the werewolves.”

The creatures are scratching at the door, their howls muted by the wood.

“The window,” Dervish says. “There are handholds down the wall. We can get out that way.”

“Handholds?” Meera asks dubiously.

“Call me paranoid,” Dervish says, “but I always like to have an escape route.” He crosses to the window and jerks hard on the strings of the blinds, yanking them all the way up. As he leans forward to unlatch the window, I get a sudden sense of danger.

“Down!” I scream.

Dervish doesn’t pause, which is the only thing that saves him. Because as he throws himself flat in response to my cry, the glass above his head shatters from the gunfire of several rifles.

Meera curses and ducks low. The bullets strike the wall and shelves, ripping up many of Dervish’s rare books, knocking weapons from their holders. A few ricochet into his computer and laptop, which explode in showers of sparks.

I’m lying face down, shivering. This is my first experience of modern warfare. I find the guns more repulsive than demons. I can accept the evil ways of otherworldly beasts who know nothing except chaos and destruction. But to think that humans created such violent, vicious weapons…

“What’s going on?” Meera screams as the gunfire stops. “Who’s out there?”

“They didn’t introduce themselves,” Dervish quips.

He’s sitting with his back to the wall, beneath the shattered glass of the window. He has the look of a man studying a difficult crossword puzzle.

“We’re trapped,” I snap. Meera and Dervish look at me. Meera’s afraid, Dervish curious. “Do we fight the werewolves or the people with guns?”

“The werewolves would appear to be the preferable option,” Dervish says. “We can’t fight the crew outside—we’d be shot to ribbons in no time. But whoever set this up will have thought of that. I doubt we’ll have a clear run if we get past the werewolves—which is a pretty sizeable if.” He gets to his knees and grins. “How about we fight neither of them?”

“What are you talking about?” Meera growls.

“A paranoid person has one escape route, easy to spot if your foe has a keen eye. But a real paranoia freak always has a second, less obvious way out.”

There are two desks in the study, Dervish’s main workstation and a second, smaller table for the spillover. He crawls to that, wincing when he cuts his hands and knees on shards of glass. He reaches it and stands, having checked to make sure no snipers can see him. “Help me with this,” he grunts.

Meera and I aren’t sure what his plan is, but we both shuffle to his side and push as he directs. The desk slides away more smoothly than I would have thought, given the thick carpet which covers the floor. Dervish stoops, grabs a chunk of the carpet and tugs hard. A square patch rips loose. Beneath lies a trapdoor with a round handle. Dervish takes hold and pulls. A crawlway beneath the floor is revealed.

“Where does it lead?” Meera asks.

“There are a couple of exits,” Dervish explains. “It runs to the rear of the house. There’s a window. We can drop to the ground if nobody’s outside. If that way’s blocked, a panel opens on to one of the corridors beneath us, so we can sneak through the house.”

“If we survive, remind me to give you a giant, slobbery kiss,” Meera says.

“It’s a deal,” he grins and slides his legs into the hole.

FLIGHT

I don’t like the crawlway. The cramped space and lack of light remind me of the cave. I feel my insides tighten. But I bite down hard on my fear and scuttle after Dervish, Meera bringing up the rear. As reluctant as I am to enter, I’ll take a dark, tight space over gunfire and werewolves any day.

Dervish reaches the window at the end of the tunnel. It’s semi-circular, with thick stained glass. He can see out, but it would be hard for anybody outside to see in. He observes in silence. Ten seconds pass. Twenty. Thirty. I can still hear the howls of the werewolves and splintering wood. The door can’t hold much longer. They might not be able to enter the protected study, but when they realise we’re not there, they’ll come hunting for us. What’s Dervish waiting for?

Finally he sighs and turns—there’s just enough space. I start to ask a question, but he puts a finger to his lips and shakes his head. I nod bitterly. There must be people with guns outside, or more werewolves. Either way, we can’t go via the window. We’ll have to try sneaking through the house.

We backtrack past the study, then follow the crawlway round to the right. A short distance later, Dervish removes a panel and slips through the hole in the ceiling beneath us. He helps me down, grabbing my legs and easing me to the floor. Some of his memories flow into me—mostly about Bill-E—but the contact is brief.

We’re in a short corridor on the second floor of the house, close to the hall of portraits, which is filled with paintings and photographs of dead family members, most of whom turned into werewolves. Soft growling sounds coming from that direction. Dervish listens for a moment, looks around uneasily, then starts towards the hall. Meera and I dutifully follow.

The hall is a mess of shattered frames, ripped paintings and photos. In the middle of it all squats a werewolf. He’s roughly tearing a large portrait to shreds, stuffing bits of canvas into his mouth, chewing and spitting the pieces out. He’s urinated over some of the paintings, either marking his territory or showing undue disdain for the Grady clan.

The werewolf doesn’t spot us until we’re almost upon him. Then Dervish steps on a piece of frame hidden beneath scraps of paper. It snaps and the werewolf’s head shoots up. His growl deepens and his lips split into a vicious sneer. Using his powerful legs, he leaps at us, howling as he attacks. He slams into Dervish and drives him to the floor.

No time to use my axe. I yelp and grab the werewolf’s jaw, trying to keep his teeth from closing on Dervish’s unprotected throat. Jumbled, fragmented memories shoot from the werewolf’s fevered brain into mine. What I learn disturbs me, but I don’t dwell on it—I have more urgent matters to deal with. The werewolf’s teeth are only a couple of centimetres from Dervish’s jugular vein.

I prepare a spell to force shut the werewolf’s mouth, but Meera’s faster than me. She takes quick aim, then brains the werewolf with her mace. The werewolf’s head snaps to the left. His eyelids flicker. Then he slumps over Dervish and it’s simple enough to slide him off.

Dervish is furious when he rises. “I should have seen that one coming a mile away,” he snarls, wiping blood from his left arm where the werewolf gouged him.

“You’re getting old and slow,” Meera taunts him. “What now?”

“The cellar,” Dervish says.

“We’re going to cage ourselves in and get drunk?” she frowns.

“It connects with the secret cellar,” Dervish says impatiently. “That’s a place of magic. We can seal the doors and keep our assailants out. Unless they—”

He’s interrupted by howls from the floor above. The three werewolves have either broken through the door or heard the howl of the one we knocked out. They’re coming. We leap over the unconscious animal and flee for the staircase.

Racing down the stairs, the werewolves no more than a handful of seconds behind. If there are more on the ground floor, or snipers with a clear view, we’ll be easy targets.

But luck is with us. We hit the ground without encountering any enemies. The howls and screams of the werewolves pollute the air. It sounds like they’re poised to drag us down at any moment, but we can’t risk looking back to check.

Dervish hits the light switches as he passes, turning them off, to hide us from the snipers. He hurries to the cellar door, barges through, waits for Meera and me to streak past, then slams it shut and locks it. A werewolf batters into it less than two seconds later. This door isn’t as sturdy as the one in the study. It won’t delay them long.

We spill down the steps to the cellar, automatic lights flickering on as we hit the bottom. This is where Dervish stores his priceless wine collection. Rack after rack of vintage bottles. Behind one of the racks is a hidden exit and a tunnel leading to a second, secret, cellar.

Dervish cuts through the maze of wine racks, angling for the exit, but we’re not even halfway when the door above gives and the werewolves roar down the stairs. We won’t make it. And even if we get to the rack ahead of them, the panels won’t close in time. They’ll be able to surge into the tunnel after us. Not much room for fighting in there.

“You go,” I pant, laying aside my axe and turning to face the werewolves.

“Are you mad?” Meera shouts.

“Go!” I yell, grabbing two bottles from a rack. “I’ll follow.”

Meera starts to argue but Dervish grabs her and shoves her ahead of him. He nods at me to wish me luck, then flees.

I face the onrushing werewolves. I have a plan. Sort of. Not a very good one, but if it works, it’ll buy us some time. If it doesn’t, the werewolves will soon be tucking into Bec burgers.

The wine racks form narrow corridors. Wide enough for one person, but two’s tight and three’s a squeeze. When the werewolves see me alone, they go wild and rush forward, getting entangled with each other in the inadequate space. When the dominant male bucks off the others, I toss the bottles at him, then turn and run. I make a left at the end of the corridor, leading the werewolves away from Dervish and Meera—and the only way out.

Running through the cellar. I’ve managed to keep ahead of the werewolves. If they were human, with full control of their senses, it would be a simple matter for them to ensnare me. A pair could simply circle around and wait for me at the end of any of the narrow corridors. The third could chase me towards the others in about half a minute. Game over.

But these beasts work by instinct. They can’t think far ahead. When they have the scent of prey, they can only focus on the chase. So they plough along behind me, slipping and sliding in their haste. I grab bottles of wine as I run, lobbing them at the werewolves. They don’t do much damage but every bit helps.

I run into a dead end. I’d been expecting it. Part of the plan. I stop half a metre from the wall, turn and wait. The werewolves gibber with delight when they see I’m trapped. They inch forward, clawed fingers flexing, drool dripping from their fangs.

I’ve been working on the spell since I started running. There’s not much more magic here than upstairs, but hopefully the thin traces will be enough. I wait until the lead werewolf is a metre away, then unleash the spell at the bottles of wine in the racks around me. “Fly!” I scream.

The bottles shake in their holders. The werewolves pause warily. The cork of one bottle pops out. Wine sprays from the neck, showering the female. She cringes, then laughs hoarsely, sucks wine from the hairs on her arms and licks her lips.

A few more corks pop. The werewolves are being showered with first-rate wine. They wipe it from their faces, scowling but unharmed, and nudge forward again. I start to think my plan has failed, then…

Dozens of bottles shoot off the racks and slam into the werewolves. The monsters howl with pain and fall to the floor in protective huddles. Glass shatters over and around them, pounding their shoulders, backs and heads. Cuts open and bones break. One bottle smashes most of the fangs in the lesser male’s mouth.

I make my move, not waiting for the shower of glass to cease. I scurry up the wine rack to my left, using it as a makeshift ladder. I crouch on top, set my hands against the ceiling and strain with my feet, trying to topple the rack. If it was full of bottles, I couldn’t budge it. But it’s mostly empty and it rocks nicely beneath me. I sway it backwards and forwards a couple of times, then send it toppling over the werewolves, further confusing, enraging and delaying them.

I leap to the neighbouring rack as the first goes over, then hop to the next and the next, like a frog. There’s not much space between the tops of the racks and the ceiling. An adult couldn’t manoeuvre up here, but there’s just enough room for a wee Bec of a girl like me.

The screams of the werewolves are almost deafening in the confines of the cellar. But to my ears, hopping ever further away from them, it’s like music. The bottles and rack won’t stall the werewolves for long, but I don’t need much time.

Seconds later I come to the exit. It’s normally hidden behind what looks like an ordinary wine rack. Dervish has opened it and the two halves of the rack gape wide. I can see the secret corridor and Meera lurking within it. Leaping off the rack, I make a neat landing and snap to my feet like a gymnast finishing a complicated routine.

“Cute,” Dervish grunts, then smiles and waves me through. I push past and he hurries after me. The mechanical rack slides shut behind us, cutting out the cries of the werewolves and sheltering us from the bloodthirsty beasts. We share a grin of relief, then hurry down the corridor to the safety of the second cellar.

A minute later we arrive at a large, dark door. It has a gold ring handle. Dervish tugs it open and we slip through. It’s dark inside.

“Give me a moment,” Dervish says, moving ahead of us, leaving the door open for illumination. “There are candles and I have matches. This will be the brightest room in the universe in a matter of—”

The door slams shut. A werewolf howls. Meera and I are knocked apart by something hard and hairy. Dervish cries out in alarm. There’s the sound of a table being knocked over. Scuffling noises. The werewolf’s teeth snap. Meera is yelling Dervish’s name. I hear her scrabbling around, searching for the mace which she must have dropped when we were knocked apart.

I’m calm. There’s magic in the air here. Old-time magic. Not exactly like it was when I first walked the Earth, but similar. I fill with power. The fingers on my left hand flex, then those on my right. Standing, I draw in more energy and ask for—no, demand light.

A ball of bright flame bursts into life overhead. The werewolf screeches and covers its face with a hairy arm. Its eyes are more sensitive than ours—perfect for seeing in the dark. But that strength is now its weakness.

As Dervish huffs and puffs, trying to wriggle out from beneath the werewolf, I wave a contemptuous hand at the beast. It flies clear of him and crashes into the wall. The werewolf whines and tries to rise. I start to unleash a word of magic designed to rip it into a hundred pieces. Then I recall what I learnt in the hall of portraits. Instead of killing it, I send the beast to sleep, drawing the shades of slumber across its eyes as simply as I’d draw curtains across a window. As it falls, I flick a wrist at it and the werewolf slides sideways and out through an open door, the one it must have entered through before we arrived.

Dervish sits up and looks at the door. “We have to shut it,” he groans, staggering to his feet. “Block it off before…”

At a gesture from me, the door closes smoothly. Blue fire runs around the rim, sealing it shut. I do the same with the rim of the door we came through. “Sorted,” I grunt. “Balor himself couldn’t get through those now.”

Dervish and Meera gawp at me and I smile self-consciously. “Well, I was a priestess.”

Dervish starts to chuckle. Meera giggles. Within seconds we’re laughing like clowns. I’ve seen this many times before. Near-death experiences often leave a person crying or laughing hysterically.

“I wish I could have seen you go to work on those werewolves,” Meera crows. “We could hear it, but we couldn’t see.”

“It’s just a pity you couldn’t do it some other way,” Dervish sighs. “Some of my finest bottles were stored back there.”

“You can’t be serious!” Meera shouts.

“A Disciple can always be replaced,” Dervish mutters, “but a few of those bottles were the last of their vintage.”

My smile starts to fade, but then Dervish winks at me. “Only kidding. You were great.” He wipes sweat and blood from his forehead, then coughs. “I’m beat. Meera was right—I’m getting old and slow. I need to sit down. I feel…”

Dervish’s face blanches. His lips go tight and his eyes bulge. He staggers back a step, gasps for air, then collapses. Meera screams his name and rushes to his side.

“What is it?” I cry, whirling around, testing the air for traces of a spell being cast against us.

“Dervish?” Meera asks, holding his arms steady as he thrashes weakly on the floor.

“Who’s doing this?” I bellow. “I can’t sense anybody. I don’t know what sort of a spell they’re using.”

“Quiet,” Meera says. She tugs her cardigan off and slides it under Dervish’s head. His face has turned as grey as his beard. His eyelids are closed. His chest is rising and falling roughly.

“But the spell! I must—”

“There isn’t any spell,” Meera says softly, stroking the tufts of hair at the sides of Dervish’s head. She’s studying him with warm sadness, like a mother nursing a seriously ill baby.

“Then what is it?” I stumble towards her, stopping short of Dervish’s twitching feet. “What’s wrong with him?”

Meera looks up. There’s fear in her eyes, but it isn’t fear of demons, werewolves or magic. “He’s had a heart attack,” she says.

WAITING FOR THE CAVALRY

Heart attacks were rare in my time. People didn’t smoke (tobacco wouldn’t be introduced to our part of the world for nearly another thousand years) or eat unhealthy food. Most of us didn’t live long enough to suffer the modern curse of middle-age. A few of my clan died of weak hearts, but they were exceptions.

Nevertheless, I’m a healer. Once Meera has explained Dervish’s condition to me and we’ve laid him in a comfortable position, I set to work. Without touching him, I feed magic to his heart, softly warming it, keeping the valves open. Some colour seeps into his face and he breathes more easily, but he doesn’t regain consciousness.

“Will he live?” Meera asks quietly.

“I don’t know.” I study his face for signs of improvement but find none.

The werewolves are hammering at the door behind us. People are attacking the other door with axes. I direct magic into the wood and walls to keep out the intruders. I also mute the sounds, so we can focus on Dervish and monitor his breathing.

“Can you look after him by yourself for a while?” Meera asks.

“Yes.”

She moves away, digs out her mobile phone and presses buttons. “Hellfire! I don’t have a signal.”

I consider the problem, then mutter a short spell. “Try now.”

Meera smiles her thanks, then makes several calls. She doesn’t bother with the police. This is a job for beings of magic—the Disciples.

Meera’s on the phone for half an hour. I keep a close watch on Dervish. He looks terrible, much older than he did an hour ago. I’ll be surprised if he makes it through the next few days.

Meera finally puts her phone away and returns to my side. “How is he?”

“Alive. For now.”

“Can you use magic to keep him healthy?”

“I can help. There’s more power here than in the house, but it’s still limited. If he has another attack…” I shake my head.

“Do your best,” Meera says, giving my arm a squeeze. “Disciples are on their way. They’ll be here within twenty-four hours. We can transfer him to a hospital then.”

“In his state, that will be a long time,” I tell her. “You should prepare for the worst.”

She chuckles weakly. “I’m a Disciple, Bec. We always expect the worst.”

We settle back and watch in silence as Dervish quietly duels with death.

After a few hours the sounds of the werewolves and their companions fade. Have they left or are they lurking nearby, trying to tempt us out? No way of telling. Best not to venture forth and chance it. Safer to sit tight and wait for help.

We have to deal with a few practicalities. There’s no water or food. We can go without food for a day, but we need water for Dervish. I try finding a spring in the ground below us. There isn’t one but I sense a pipe running overhead, carrying water to the house. Extending my magic, I pierce a hole in the pipe and draw a jet of water through the ceiling. We fill vases and a few of the larger, ornately designed candlestick holders. Then I plug the hole with dirt and a shield of small pebbles. It should hold for a few days. It’s a plumber’s problem after that.

We can’t improvise a drip, so I use magic to ease water down Dervish’s throat. Meera feeds it to him from a vase and I make sure he doesn’t choke or swallow the wrong way.

“I always hate it when a young person has a heart attack,” Meera says. I don’t think of Dervish as young, but I guess in this world he isn’t old. “It seems so unfair, especially if they’re in good shape and have taken care of themselves. Dervish never had the healthiest diet, but he exercised regularly. This shouldn’t have happened.”

She looks almost as drawn and tired as Dervish. This is hurting her. She still loves him. I know from her memories that nobody ever touched her heart the way Dervish did, even if he was unaware of it.

“Who did you call?” I ask, to distract her.

“Shark and Sharmila,” she says. “I tried a few others but they were the only pair who could come.”

“Will two be enough?”

“They’re two of the best. Do you know them?”

“Sort of. Bill-E met them in a dream once.”

She stares at me oddly, so I explain about the movie set of Slawter and a dream Bill-E, Grubbs and Dervish shared when they thought they were on a mission with Shark and Sharmila. It’s a complicated story. Meera knows bits of it, but not all the details. I fill her in, glad to have something to discuss, not wanting to think about Dervish and what he’s going through.

A thought grows while I’m talking, and when I finish explaining about Slawter, I make a suggestion to Meera. “I can open a window to the Demonata’s universe. We can take Dervish through and find Beranabus. I’ll be stronger there. I can do more to help. Beranabus could help too.”

“From what I know of Beranabus, he’s not the helping kind,” Meera mutters, considering the plan. “Could you find him immediately? Take us straight to him?”

“No. We’d have to go through a couple of realms, maybe more.”

She shakes her head. “We should stay. Dervish can’t fight and we don’t know what we’d find. There could be demons waiting for us there.”

“I doubt it.”

“There might be,” she insists. “We don’t know who was behind this attack. Maybe it was Lord Loss.”

“I don’t think so. I touched one of the werewolves. I… I have a gift. I can learn things about people when I touch them.”

“What sort of things?” Meera frowns.

“I read their minds. Access their secrets. Absorb their memories. I’ve been able to do it since I came back to life.”

“Have you read my mind?” she asks sharply and I nod shamefully. “How much did you learn?”

“A lot. But I’d never reveal what I know. I wouldn’t even have taken it, except I’ve no choice. Every time I touch someone, I steal from them. I can’t stop it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Meera asks, looking more confused than angry.

“I would have eventually, but there was so much else to deal with…” I shrug it off. “Anyway, I touched one of the werewolves and saw into its mind. It was a jumble, shards of memory all mixed up. I couldn’t make sense of most of what I saw. But I learnt his name, who he was before he changed and who he was passed on to.”

“Well, come on,” Meera says when I hesitate.

“His name was Caspar,” I tell her. “He was a Grady. He turned into a werewolf when he was fourteen. His parents did what many of their kin do, and turned him over to the family executioners—the Lambs.” I know about the Lambs from the memories of Bill-E and Beranabus.

“But the Lambs didn’t execute him,” Meera says, her expression fierce.

“No. I’m assuming the other werewolves were family members scheduled for execution too. But all of them wound up here.”

“The guys with the guns…”

“They were probably working for the Lambs.”

We stare at each other, then at Dervish lying unconscious by our feet. And the temperature of the room seems to drop ten degrees.

Meera doesn’t understand why the Lambs would do this. They sometimes keep werewolves alive, to experiment on them in an attempt to unlock their genetic codes and discover a cure. But only with the parents’ permission.

“I can picture them keeping the beasts alive on the quiet,” she says. “Very few parents care to commit their children to a lifetime of laboratory misery, even if they’ve turned into werewolves. It’s no surprise if the Lambs told them their kids had been executed, then kept them alive to study.

“But why bring them here to attack us? And how did they organise them? They were working as a team, as if they’d been trained. I didn’t think you could do that with werewolves. Even if you could, why send them against us?”

That’s the key question. According to Meera, Dervish never had much love for the Lambs. They originally formed to execute children who’d turned, but over the decades they acquired more power and branched out into more experimental areas. Dervish didn’t approve of that, especially since he didn’t think science could find a cure for a magically determined disease.

“The Lambs never liked Dervish either,” Meera says. “They thought if he explained more about demons, it might help them with their studies. But they’d no reason to attack him. At least none that I’m aware of.”

“Maybe it’s me,” I mumble. “Grubbs turned into a werewolf—temporarily—and because of his magical powers, the Lambs couldn’t stop him. Maybe they’re afraid I’ll turn too and become a menace.”

“But they don’t know you’re one of the family,” Meera says. “Dervish told them nothing about you. There’s something we’re missing…”

We spend hours debating the mystery. We get no closer to the truth, but at least it helps to pass the time. During the discussions, I think of another reason why the Lambs might have targeted me. But I say nothing of it to Meera, deciding to wait until the other Disciples arrive, so I don’t have to repeat myself.

Someone knocks on the door leading to the yard.

Meera and I were both half-dozing. We jolt awake at the sound and I strengthen the magical fields around the doors and walls. Then a man shouts, “Little pigs, little pigs, let us come in!”

“Idiot,” Meera grunts, but she’s smiling. “It’s Shark.”

“I know. I remember his voice from Bill-E’s dream.” I remove the spells and the battered door swings open. A tall, burly man in an army uniform enters, followed by an elderly Indian woman who walks with a limp.

“Sorry we’re late,” Shark says, hugging Meera and lifting her off the floor.

“How is he?” Sharmila asks, hobbling directly to Dervish.

“He’s been like that since the attack,” I tell her. “No change.”

She stares at me suspiciously. “You must be Bec. I have heard about you.”

“The dead girl who came back to life,” Shark says. He’s looking at me oddly. “I thought you’d be more like a boy, considering…”

“…I stole Bill-E’s body?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s nothing of Bill-E left,” I tell them. “Except his memories. That’s how I know you and Sharmila.”

Shark frowns. “I never met him.”

“I did,” Sharmila says, “but many years ago, when he was very young.”

“I know. But he met both of you.” I grin weakly at their confusion.

“Bec can tell you about that later,” Meera snaps. “What’s happening outside?”

“Nothing,” Shark says. “All quiet. Your birds have flown the coop.”

“You’re positive? It isn’t a trap, to lure us out of hiding?” Shark shakes his head. “Then let’s get Dervish straight to a hospital. We can talk about the attack on the way. But I’ll tell you this much—they weren’t birds. They were Lambs.”

Shark and Meera carry Dervish up the steps out of the cellar as gently as they can. Shark grumbles about what he’s going to do to the Lambs when he catches up with them. He drove here in a van. There’s a hospital trolley in the rear. We strap Dervish down and Sharmila produces a drip and heart monitor. She hooks Dervish up. I watch with interest—it’s the first time I’ve seen such apparatus.

When Dervish is as secure as we can make him, I ask Shark if he’s absolutely certain we’re not going to be attacked.

“Nothing in life’s an absolute,” he replies, squinting at the trees, the mansion, the sky. “But if this was a trap, the time to attack would have been when we were moving Dervish up from the cellar. That’s when we were most vulnerable. I’m confident we’ve nothing to fear for the time being.”

“Then I’ve a favour to ask.” I feel strange being so forward but this is no time to be shy. “I can open a window to the Demonata’s universe from the cellar. I’d like you to go through and find Beranabus.”

Shark blinks slowly. Sharmila is frowning.

“Have you ever been to that universe?” Sharmila asks.

“No.”

“Then you do not know what you are asking. It is a place of chaos and peril. We have never been there without Beranabus to guide us.”

“I know how dangerous it is,” I mutter, flashing on some of Beranabus’s many memories of the hellish universe, “But I’ll try to open the window to one of the less savage zones. Did Beranabus teach you a spell to find him once you’re there?”

“No,” Shark grunts. “But Dervish did.”

“We have never tested it,” Sharmila notes. “What if the window closes and we cannot find him? We will be stranded.”

“Dervish might be dying,” Meera hisses.

“I have sympathy for Dervish,” Sharmila says coolly. “That is why I came when you summoned me. But can Beranabus heal him? And even if he can, why should we risk our lives for his?”

“It’s not about helping Dervish,” I say quickly before an argument develops. “We don’t know who the Lambs were after. Their target might have been Dervish or Meera, but it was probably me.”

“What if it was?” Shark asks.

“I’m important,” I mutter, feeling embarrassed. “I can’t explain—there isn’t time—but I’m part of a powerful force which might mean the difference between winning and losing the war with the Demonata.”

Sharmila’s eyes narrow. “The Kah-Gash?”

“You know about it?” I sigh with relief.

“We helped Beranabus search for a piece once,” Shark says. “It wasn’t our most successful mission.”

“I am not convinced of that,” Sharmila says. “I always suspected… Kernel?” She raises an eyebrow.

My smile broadens. “Yes. He was a piece. Grubbs is another. So am I.”

“What are you talking about?” Shark frowns.

Sharmila waves his question away. “Does Beranabus know?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you not with him?”

“He didn’t want to keep us together until he found out more about how the weapon works. He thought I’d be safe here. Nobody else knew. At least we didn’t think so. But if the attack was directed at me, maybe my secret’s out. If that’s the case…”

“…Beranabus must be informed.” Sharmila nods. “I understand now.”

“Care to explain it to the rest of us?” Shark asks, bemused.

“Later.” She thinks about it for a few seconds. “I would go but I am old and slow, even when pumped full of magic. Besides, I know a lot about healing, so I might be of more help here. Meera?”

“I’m not as strong as you,” Meera says.

“But you are younger and faster. In this instance that is important.”

“I don’t like that other universe,” Meera mutters.

“Neither do I. Believe me, I would not send you there lightly.”

“You really think this is necessary?”

Sharmila nods slowly. Meera sighs and agrees reluctantly.

“Shark?” Sharmila asks.

“You want me to place my life on the line without knowing the reason why?” he scowls.

“Yes.”

His scowl disappears and he shrugs. “Fair enough.”

“You understand how time works in that other universe?” Sharmila asks me. “It can pass quicker or slower than it does here. They might find him in a matter of minutes as we experience time or it could be several months.”

“I know. But we don’t have a choice. I’d go myself, except if it’s a trap…”

“…demons might be lying in ambush for you. Very well. Let us not waste any more time. I will stay with Dervish. Shark and Meera will accompany you to the cellar.” She smiles tightly at Shark. “You have been to hell in a bucket before, my old friend. Now it is time to go there without the bucket.”

In the cellar. I’m working on a spell to create a window to the demon universe. It’s an area Beranabus goes to frequently—his father took his mother there when he abducted her. Because Beranabus has opened a window to that realm many times, it’s a relatively quick and easy procedure, though it still takes me an hour.

As I complete it, a thin lilac window forms in the cellar. I get a shiver down my spine. I never saw a window like this in my own time, but Beranabus has been through thousands of them. He acts like it’s no big thing, but he loathes these demonic passageways. He always expects to die when he steps through, having no real way of knowing what’s lurking on the other side.

“Will you be all right staying here with Sharmila?” Meera asks.

“Yes.”

“We should come with you and enter the demon universe later,” Shark says. “If the Lambs attack you on the way to the hospital…”

“I might not be able to open a window there,” I explain. “It’s easier if I’m in an area of magic.”

“Even if Beranabus doesn’t come with us, we’ll return,” Meera says.

“He’ll come,” I smile confidently.

“Because you’re part of the Kah-Gash?”

“Yes. But also because we’re old friends.”

“I didn’t think Beranabus had any friends,” Shark grunts.

“Maybe not now. But he was a boy called Bran once and I was his friend then. He’d do anything for me.”

“You’re sure of that?” Meera asks.

I think about the night I sat with Beranabus and absorbed his memories. He always wears a flower in a buttonhole, in memory of me. “I’m certain.”

“Right,” Shark says, rubbing his hands together. “Keep a light burning—we’ll be back in time for supper.”

Shark steps through the window. Meera smiles wryly, then moves to hug me. I take a step backwards.

“I’d rather not touch. I don’t want to steal any more memories from you.”

“Don’t be silly,” Meera says, wrapping her arms around me. “If things go badly over there, you can remember my life for me.”

We grin shakily at each other, then Meera slips through the window after Shark. I wait a couple of minutes in case they run into trouble and need to make a quick retreat. Then, as the window breaks apart, I douse the lights and climb the steps to help Sharmila escort Dervish to the hospital.