Death's Shadow

Snapshots of Beranabus II

After the death of the Minotaur, the years of wandering began. Beranabus had no difficulty finding his way out of the Labyrinth. He had explored every last alley of the maze. It had been home to him and he knew it intimately.

Sunlight disturbed the boy. Having grown up in darkness, the world of light seemed unbearably bright. He tried to brave the glare, but the pain was too great. Weeping, he retreated. Not knowing about the outside world, he assumed it would always be this bright, the way the Labyrinth had always been dark.

When the sun dropped and the sky darkened, Beranabus cautiously crept out again. It was still a lot lighter than he liked, but he was able to adjust to the shades of the night world. He looked back once at the Labyrinth, feeling sad and alone, remembering the good times, riding high on the Minotaur’s shoulders, feeding on the fresh blood and meat of the beast’s kills. Then, reluctantly, he turned his back on his childhood home and set off to explore this new, peculiar world.

Beranabus was a simple child. He couldn’t speak. He could understand some of what other people said, but not everything. Most of the world was a mystery to him, filled with beings who made a huge amount of noise and fought lots of battles for no reason that he could see.

He shouldn’t have lasted long in such a hostile environment.

But Beranabus had a remarkable gift, which saved him when he first entered the world—he could tame the wildest of creatures and find friendship in the most unlikely places. Wherever he went, he was accepted. People took him into their homes, gave him passage on carriages and boats, fed and clothed him, treated him with kindness and love.

Many took pity on the boy and sought to keep him and raise him as their own. But Beranabus liked to wander. After the confines of the Labyrinth, the open space of the world intrigued him and he wanted to see more of it. So, without any real design or purpose, he always moved on, slipping away from those who yearned to root him, feeling nothing more for them than he did for the dirt beneath his feet or the air whispering through his hair.

One day, when the boy was on the brink of his teenage years (although he’d been alive for more than two centuries), he witnessed a demon on the rampage. The monster had crossed near a small village and was busy killing as many humans as it could before it had to return through the window of light to its own universe.

The demon reminded Beranabus of the Minotaur. He had come a long way from Crete and seen much of the world and its people, but this was the first demon he’d encountered. The savage beast amused him. It was shaped like an octopus, but with several heads of various animals and birds. He liked the sounds the humans made when the demon killed them, and the patterns their blood created as it arced through the air in streaks and spurts.

He watched the massacre for a few minutes as if enjoying a show. The demon saw him, but didn’t attack, mesmerised by the boy’s strange aura, as all other dangerous creatures had been.

Murder meant nothing to Beranabus. He didn’t understand concepts of right and wrong, good and evil. His mind was a muddled grey zone. Many had tried to teach him, but all had failed. The only difference in his head between a living person and a corpse was that the former was more entertaining.

When the demon retreated, Beranabus was curious to see what the beast would do next, who it would kill, what sort of mischief it would get up to. So he stepped through the window after the demon, out of his mother’s universe, into the much darker and spectacularly violent playpen of the Demonata.

Beranabus had a whale of a time in the universe of his father. The demons were far more bloodthirsty than humans. They could kill each other in ways men had never dreamt of. Death didn’t have to be swift either. A demon master could torment a lesser demon for decades… hundreds of years… millennia if it wished.

Beranabus drifted with delight from one crazy realm to another. He didn’t need to sleep much, or eat and drink. And he aged at an even slower rate than on Earth. He was part of a universe of marvels and it seemed he could go on enjoying it for as long as he liked.

He had to be careful of course. He could tame most demons, but some resisted his charms and tried to capture him. Beranabus was uneducated, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew what pain and suffering were, and while he loved to observe the torment of others, he had no wish to become one of the tortured.

That was when he discovered his gift of speed. He could run faster than any demon that chased him. So, on the occasions where he could not tame a demonic beast, he fled, laughing gleefully as he ran, safe in the knowledge that the demon would soon lose interest in him and abandon the chase for easier pickings. In the Demonata’s universe there was always something else to kill.

Windows were plentiful. Although demons could only cross to the human world with the aid of a malevolent magician or mage, many could travel from one zone to another in their own foul realm. Their universe was an endless parade of blood-drenched worlds and galaxies. Some of the stronger demons could even create infinite, self-contained zones of their own, which somehow nestled within the larger, unified demon universe.

Whenever Beranabus tired of a realm, he searched for a window and usually found one quickly. He never worried about what he would encounter on the other side. Uncertainty and potential peril were all part of the delight of his life.

Eventually, inevitably, he stepped through a window to the human world. He knew he’d crossed universes as soon as he sniffed the air—it was less charged with magic. Instinct urged him to retreat, but curiosity tempted him on. A long time had passed—he could tell from the buildings around him—and he wanted to see what the people were like, how they varied from those he’d known, if they died any differently.

In the demon universe, windows could remain open indefinitely. He assumed that was the case here as well, but he was wrong. He spent only a handful of minutes in the town—just enough to realise that demons were far more interesting than humans—but when he returned to the spot where the window had stood, it was gone. He was stranded, a captive of the world where he had first begun.

When Beranabus discovered to his dismay that windows of magic were incredibly rare on this world, he travelled with fiery intent, hitching lifts with armies and traders, riding and sailing to the furthest reaches of civilisation. He was desperate to return to the universe of the fantastical demons.

This was the first time Beranabus’s brain stirred actively. Until then he had wandered neutrally, observing whatever he chanced across. But now he went in search of something specific and moved with a purpose, carefully choosing those he travelled with, deliberately setting out to explore fresh locations full of promise.

As his brain took its first developmental staggers forward, he unconsciously learnt a few words and mimicked the speech of those he hitched rides with, although most of the time he only uttered gibberish. His mind was still a confused, chaotic country, full of storms and whirlpools. But he had taken the first steps towards understanding and intent, and the world—the universes—would never be the same for him again.

Some years later the boy found himself on an island, set at the westernmost limit of the known world. Demons had broken through and established a permanent tunnel. Thousands of monsters had flooded the land. They were terrorising the locals, laying siege to the villages and towns, slaughtering all in their path.

Beranabus eagerly trudged around the country in search of the tunnel, admiring the torments perpetuated by the Demonata. But as he moved from one village to another, a dim sense of unease grew within him. He felt nothing substantial for the dead humans he saw every day, or the terrified living who would soon be butchered by the demons. But something about their plight troubled him. He had changed inside, and although the change was slight, it had altered his view of slaughter.

Human suffering was different to what he’d seen in the demon universe. On this world, those who survived mourned for the dead. Demons laughed at death, but people here cared about their families and friends. Beranabus found it hard to wring pleasure from their pain. It was too… human.

His unease made him more determined than ever to find the tunnel and leave this world. In the Demonata’s universe he could revert to his old ways and simply revel in the merciless mayhem. He didn’t like the way he was changing. The world was more fun if you could enjoy it with complete abandonment, untouched by the misery of others.

As he instinctively learnt and practised new words, Beranabus sometimes tried to mutter his name aloud. He could remember what his mother called him, but he couldn’t pronounce it. The closest he could get was “Bran”. Those who heard him took it to be his name. Having a name was a new experience and Beranabus found it oddly comforting. He started to mutter “Bran” every time he met someone new, so they would know what to call him, but his mind was still a jumbled mess and he occasionally forgot.

After a time, as he was resting in a village on a tiny island at the centre of a lake, Bran came in contact with a druid called Drust. Bran sensed that Drust was also on a mission to find the tunnel. So, instead of moving on, he remained in the village and even let Drust send him to find others to assist him on his quest. Bran didn’t know that the druid planned to close the tunnel, and he wouldn’t have cared if he did. As long as he could race through before it shut, back to the universe of the demons, he would be content.

Finding people to help Drust wasn’t easy. The druid was very precise in his request, demanding not just warriors, but a being of magic. Ideally he needed a fellow druid or priestess, but failing that, he’d settle for someone who had a healthy magical talent, even if it was undeveloped.

Bran didn’t understand all that, but Drust meddled with the boy’s mind, magically implanting his requirements. Bran had the power to counter the druid’s influence, to break the spell Drust had woven around him. But he needed Drust to find the tunnel, so he accepted the druid’s orders.

He tried in his befuddled way to recruit a band for Drust at several villages without success. At most there were no people of sufficient magic, and at two where there were, the people dismissed him as a mad child.

Finally, late one evening, he came to a ringed fort. He could sense a person of magic within—a young woman—but had no great hope of attracting her to his cause. Squatting outside the village wall, he waited for the curious warriors to come and examine him, as they had everywhere else. But when the door opened, the magician accompanied the warriors, and for Bran everything altered.

The woman—little more than a girl—looked no prettier than any other her age. Her power was unremarkable. The land was littered with hundreds like her. In his time Bran had sniffed with disinterest at beautiful princesses and powerful priestesses.

But something about this girl struck him hard. He showed no outward sign of it, and couldn’t even express his feelings clearly to himself. But the moment he saw the girl—Bec—he fell madly and completely in love. It was love he had not known since his early years with the Minotaur, love he would never know again until she returned to him after many centuries of captivity. And although he couldn’t voice his feelings, he knew on some deep level that he would do anything for this girl, kill if needed, give his own life for hers if he must.

So it was that Beranabus at last, without intention or knowledge of what it would mean, put his demonic interests behind him and became a real human.

A MAN’S GOTTA DO

Dervish is hooked up to all manner of machines. He’s wealthy, so he gets his own room and the best possible care and attention. The machines are incredible, so intricately designed, capable of detecting tiny flaws that Banba and I never could have, no matter how strong our magic. When the doctors and nurses aren’t busy, I ask about the various consoles and monitors, memorising their answers. If I was ever granted the freedom to pursue a normal career, I’d work day and night to master these machines and become a modern-day healer.

It’s been four days since Dervish’s heart attack, three since we brought him to the hospital. The doctor who first examined him was furious that we waited so long to admit him. But she was soon replaced by a surgeon who knew of the Disciples and Sharmila was able to explain the reasons for our delay.

Dervish’s room is on the fifth floor, two floors down from the top of the hospital. It’s close to an elevator shaft. There are armed guards stationed outside, but they keep their weapons hidden discreetly. Sharmila arranged for them to be here. The Disciples have many useful contacts.

Most of the guards are cold and distant, focused on their watch. But a couple chat with me during the quieter moments and one—Kealan—is outright friendly. Kealan’s one of two trained medics who alternate shifts. They’re more closely involved with us than the other guards—if we have to move Dervish in an emergency, Kealan or the other medic will handle any medical complications.

Sharmila or I have been with Dervish the whole time, except when his doctors are examining him. A cot has been set up in a corner of the room and we take turns sleeping there.

Dervish has flickered into consciousness a couple of times, but never for long, and he hasn’t said anything or showed signs of recognition. His doctors aren’t sure what state his brain is in. They don’t think he suffered serious mental damage, but they can’t say for certain until he recovers. If he recovers.

Sharmila has discussed the situation with her fellow Disciples. She considered going straight after the Lambs, but we’re still not absolutely certain they were behind the attack. And even if they are directly involved, we don’t know who they’re working with or what we might walk into if we go after them. Better to wait for Beranabus.

I don’t mind waiting. This is the calm before the storm. I’m sure the peace won’t last. We’ll soon have all the action we could wish for, and more. I’m enjoying the lull. In my previous life I was eager to leave the confines of my village and explore the world. If I could do it all again, having seen the terrors of the wide blue yonder, I’d probably stay at home and keep my head down. Not the most heroic of responses, but I never wanted to be a hero. I’d much rather lead an ordinary life. Normal people don’t know how lucky—how blessed—they are.

Sharmila is talking to Dervish, chatting away as if he’s listening to her every word. You’re supposed to do that with people who are comatose. Doctors say it can help, and even if it doesn’t, it can’t do any harm.

I’ve tried speaking to Dervish, but what can I say? I don’t want to tell him about Bill-E—that period of our relationship is over—but we don’t have much else in common. I’ve shared some of my previous life, described the rath where I lived, my people, our customs. But I don’t know how interested Dervish is in ancient history. I worry, if he can hear, that I’m boring him.

Sharmila’s reminding Dervish of their adventures in the demon universe when they were younger. She recalls their encounter with Lord Loss, Kernel surprising them all with his knack of opening windows, the loss of Nadia Moore—who would later resurface as the treacherous Juni Swan. I’ve heard most of it before and I’m feeling restless.

“Do you mind if I stretch my legs?” I interrupt.

“Not at all,” Sharmila says. “I will call if I need you.” She gave me a walkie-talkie a couple of days ago, so we could keep in touch. Mobile phones aren’t allowed inside the hospital.

Kealan is on duty with three other guards outside the room. They don’t ever seem to get bored, even though they just stand and stare at the corridor all the time. Kealan asks how Dervish is, then if I want to play a game of cards.

“Maybe later,” I smile, “if you’re still here.”

“Where else would I be?” he chuckles wryly. Kealan’s the only guard who looks unsuited to his job. I’m not sure why he got into this military business. I think he’d be much happier just being a medic. Maybe the army trained him and he has to serve a number of years with them before moving on.

I stroll through the various levels and wards of the hospital. I know the building well by this stage and many of the doctors and nurses have got to know me. They give me treats and make small talk if they’re not busy. It’s been quiet here since I came and some of the staff consider me a good luck omen. I’m even allowed into areas which would normally be off-limits, like the maternity ward on the second floor. It’s my favourite part of the hospital. I love watching cute, wrinkled babies, gazing into their innocent eyes, most the colour of a clear blue sky.

But I head in a different direction on this foray, winding my way up to the roof. I’ve been stuck inside all day. I need fresh air. I’m also hoping to see a helicopter. It’s exciting when one lands. I’d love to go up in one, but I suspect even good luck omens don’t get to hitch rides in hospital helicopters.

It’s evening. An overcast, patchy sky. I spend a long time watching the sun vanish and reappear from behind drifting clouds. My old teacher, Banba, thought you could read signs of the future in the movements of clouds, but I’ve never been able to predict anything from them. Still, when I’ve nothing else to do, I like to try.

“Where are you, Beranabus?” I whisper, hoping the clouds will answer. “How long will it take you to come?”

I’m not sure what we’ll do if he doesn’t find us soon. We can’t wait forever. Where will we go when Dervish recovers or dies? Back to Carcery Vale? To stay at Sharmila’s home or with other members of the Disciples? Into the universe of the Demonata to search for Beranabus?

I feel guilty when I think about Shark and Meera, and the mission I sent them on. It was necessary to summon Beranabus. If the attack happened because I’m part of the Kah-Gash, he needs to know. But how likely is that? Maybe I secretly sent them to get him because I was missing my old friend.

A breeze blows in from behind me, tickling the hairs on the back of my neck. I shiver with delight and snuggle into the wind as if it was a giant cushion. Then I pause. This is a warm breeze, not like the cold blasts which whipped across the roof the other times I’ve been up here. And it’s coming from a different direction. It feels unnatural.

I focus, senses locking on the currents of air, mentally tracing the breeze back to its origins. I wasn’t good at this in the past, but my talent has blossomed since I died. My mind bounds off the roof like a magical hound and hurtles towards the ground. As it draws level with the first floor, it veers through a broken window, one that’s been shattered from the inside out.

It comes to a halt in the centre of the room and my eyes snap open. There’s a mage, a man of weak magic, but strong, evil intent. And in front of him stands a panel of light—a window into the universe of the Demonata. As I probe it with mental tendrils, I sense figures hurtling through. As much as I wish otherwise, it’s not Beranabus or his Disciples. I’m a long way removed, but even from up here I’m able to tell that the creatures setting foot on our world aren’t human. They’re demons!

I’m on the walkie-talkie before I take my first step. “Sharmila! Answer! It’s an emergency! Over.”

She replies as I’m taking my third step. “What is happening? Over.”

“Demons. On the first floor. Move Dervish.”

“Damn!”

Racing down the stairs, I feel the air fill with magic, flooding up through the building from the open window. That’s good for me—more power to tap into—but it’s also good for the Demonata. I try keeping track of the window, to get an idea of how many demons we’ll have to deal with, but it’s hard when I’m running. I’d have to stop and concentrate, but there’s no time for that.

“Hey,” a nurse shouts as I hit the fifth floor and race towards the elevator shaft, where I spot Sharmila, the four guards and Dervish. “No running!”

I don’t stop. I reach Sharmila a few seconds later. The elevator has arrived. The guards are rolling Dervish in on a hospital trolley. I’m relieved Kealan was able to unhook Dervish from his banks of machines so quickly.

“Where are they?” Sharmila asks.

“I’m not sure. They entered on the first floor, but I don’t know—”

“How many?”

“Give me a moment.” I step into the elevator after the guards and Dervish. I focus as the doors close… my senses seep down through the building, searching for demonic targets…

With a gasp I jam a hand between the doors just before they close. The panels slide apart automatically.

“What are you doing?” Sharmila snaps.

“They’re in the shaft,” I hiss. “Three of them. Climbing the cables.”

“Out!” Sharmila barks at the guards. As they roll Dervish back into the corridor, the nurse who shouted at me hits the scene.

“Where are you going with that patient? You can’t move him without a doctor’s orders. I’m calling the—”

Sharmila waves a hand at her. The nurse’s eyes flicker, then she turns and walks away.

“The stairs?” Sharmila asks.

“More of them there. Eight or nine.”

Her face pales. “Can we fight them?”

“If we have to. They’re not strong. But there are so many of them…”

Balazs—the smallest of the guards—is on his walkie-talkie, talking softly but quickly. He finishes and clips it to his belt. “The roof,” he says calmly. “A helicopter will be with us in five minutes.”

“Bec?” Sharmila asks. “The elevator or stairs?”

I concentrate. The demons in the shaft are making fast progress. Those on the stairs are moving slower, pausing to pick off a few unfortunate nurses who get in their way.

“The stairs,” I decide, hurrying ahead of the guards to open the door.

Gabor and Bence—the other two guards—push the trolley to the foot of the stairs, then each takes an end. They raise the wheels off the floor and start up the steps. Kealan moves alongside them, monitoring Dervish.

“You two go ahead,” Balazs says to Sharmila and me, taking out a pair of pistols. “I’ll hold off the demons.”

“You cannot kill them with bullets,” Sharmila says.

“I know,” Balazs says softly. “But I can slow them down.”

Sharmila starts to object, then nods curtly and flees up the stairs, no longer limping, using magic to move freely and swiftly.

“Do you want me to stay and help?” I ask Balazs.

“No,” he says. “You’ll serve more good if you stay with Dervish.”

“You’ll die,” I note sadly.

“Dying’s my job.” He grins bleakly. “Now get the hell out of here and let me do what I’m trained for.”

I stand on my toes and give him a quick hug. I get flashes of his mother’s face. She was mauled by a demon. It took her several hours to die. A slow, painful death. Balazs is determined not to suffer as she did.

Releasing the doomed guard, I chase after the others, feeling the demons close on us from beneath.

We’ve just passed the seventh floor, heading for the exit to the roof, when the gunfire starts. We pause, even the guards who are used to situations like this. Then we press on. By the time we crash through the doors at the top of the stairs, the hail of bullets has stopped.

Bence and Gabor check their watches. Their frantic eyes reveal how desperate the situation is. Unholstering their weapons, they silently head down the stairs.

“Where is the helicopter coming from?” Sharmila asks as Kealan wheels Dervish towards the landing pad.

“Nearby,” Kealan says. “We’d have kept it here, but there wasn’t space. The hospital helicopters took priority.”

“Nobody said anything to me about that,” Sharmila huffs.

“We make our own plans,” Kealan says. “We don’t discuss them with civilians, even Disciples. No offence meant.”

“None taken.”

Guns blare on the staircase.

“How much longer?” I shout.

Kealan checks his watch. “A minute. Maybe two.”

I dart back towards the stairs. “Bec!” Sharmila screams.

“Don’t worry,” I pant. “I’m not going to fight them.”

I didn’t absorb any of Beranabus’s magic when we touched, but I learnt a lot of his spells. There are many I can’t use—there’s more to magic than knowing the right words—but some I can. Reaching the doors at the top of the stairs, I draw upon the ancient magician’s years of experience and prepare a holding spell.

Bullets are still being fired on the stairs. “Gabor! Bence!” I yell. “Come back!”

There’s no response. A few seconds later the guns stop. There’s the sound of scurrying footsteps—but not human feet. Grimacing, I unleash the spell and block the doorway with a shield of magical energy.

The first demon appears. It has a square, bloodstained head. Dozens of eyes. Three mouths. A tiny body. It leaps at me, wild with bloodlust, but crashes back off the shield. It snaps at the web of energy, trying to tear it apart with its teeth, but the barrier holds.

I back away from the doors, focusing my power. This is the first time I’ve tried this spell and the effort involved is greater than I thought. By tapping into the magic in the air, I can hold the shield in place, but I won’t be able to maintain it for long, especially not with demons snapping and clawing at it. But I don’t need much time, just a minute. It should be enough.

I’m halfway to the landing pad when I hear the whirring sound of helicopter blades and spot the craft humming towards us. I feel a sense of triumph like a hard ball in my gut. In their own universe, some demons are able to fly. But flight is difficult here. Strong demons might manage short bursts, but the beasts who crossed aren’t especially powerful. Once we’re in the air, we’ll be safe.

I don’t let thoughts of escape make me careless. I stay focused on the shield. I’m tiring fast— there’s so little magic in this world. I can hold it for another couple of minutes maybe, but that should be all the time we…

Something powerful slips through the window on the first floor. Not a demon, but not human either. A beast far more dangerous than any of the others. It snaps questions at the mage who’s been holding the window open, then howls at the top of its voice. The cry echoes up the stairs and corridors. The demons struggling with the shield pause to screech in response.

The new, mysterious monster throws itself through the shattered glass window of the room, digs its claws into the wall and scurries upwards, scaling the building like a jet-propelled spider. I start to yell a warning to Sharmila, but before the words have left my lips the creature hauls itself over the edge of the roof and leers at us maliciously.

The beast has the shape of a woman, but her skin is a mass of blisters and sores. Pus oozes from dozens of cracks and holes in her jellyish flesh. Her mouth is a ragged red slit, her eyes two green thimbles in a putrid, yellow mockery of a face. A few scraps of hair jut out of her head. She wears no clothes—the touch of any material would be agony on flesh so pustulent and tender.

The creature points at the helicopter, which has almost completed its descent, and barks a phrase of magic. The blades stutter, then stop. The helicopter shakes wildly, spins around a few times, then plummets several metres shy of the building. It makes a sharp, screaming sound as it drops. Then it hits the ground and there’s an explosion, louder and more brutal than any movie bang ever prepared me for. Glass explodes in all the nearby windows. A giant ball of flame belches up into the sky, turning the evening red. Meera and Kealan are thrown to the floor and the unconscious Dervish slides off his trolley.

Only the woman and I remain standing, using magic to shelter ourselves from the force of the explosion. I sense the shield give way behind me and demons spill on to the roof. But I don’t care about them now. I have a more dangerous foe to contend with.

The most frightening, bewildering thing is, I know her. It’s impossible—I saw her die—but I’m sure I’m right. Her voice when she cast the spell was familiar and, misshapen as she is, if I squint hard, I can make out the lines of her original face. I saw and heard her in the cave the night when I returned to life. Even if I hadn’t, I’d know her from Beranabus’s memories. She was his assistant once—Nadia Moore. But now she serves a different master, our old foe Lord Loss. And she calls herself…

“Juni Swan,” the semi-human monster gurgles, bowing with cynical politeness. Her lips move into a jagged line as she straightens—I think it’s meant to be a smile. “Delighted to kill you.”

She flicks a hand at me and the ground at my feet bellows upwards in a pillar of molten, burning tar.

UP ON THE ROOF

Instead of trying to fight the black, scorching geyser, I ride it upwards, using the force of the blast to propel myself high off the roof and clear of the sizzling liquid. My lower legs are spattered and the tar burns through my flesh, but those are minor wounds. I can heal them easily once I’ve dealt with the more pressing dangers.

I land in a crouch, using magic to soften the blow. I don’t take my eyes off the mutated Juni Swan. She’s watching me with a wicked, twisted smirk. Her eyes blaze with a mad hatred. I don’t know how she returned to life—it shouldn’t be possible—but she hasn’t come back cleanly. She’s been reduced to a staggering, seeping carcass of cancerous cells. Her body looks like it’s been eating away at itself for the past six months. The pain of holding it together and clinging to her frail grasp on life must be unendurable. I’m not surprised she’s lost her grip on sanity.

“Little Bec,” she sneers, her words coming thick and syrupy through the wasted vocal cords of her throat. “My master killed you once, but you cheated death, like me. I wonder if you’ll come back again?”

“Who is she?” Sharmila screams, back on her feet, helping Kealan up.

“Juni Swan!” I shout.

“Juni…? You mean Nadia?” Sharmila gasps, staring with horror at this mockery of a human form.

“Not anymore.” Juni gives a sick chuckle, taking a few tottering steps towards us. Fleshy smears from her feet stick to the rooftop. She winces every time she moves. Her body is fragile, but her power is great. She’s stronger than she was in the cave.

Kealan fires three times at Juni. The bullets stop midair, centimetres from her scarred, glutinous face. “Pretty little butterflies,” she murmurs, turning two of the bullets into silvery, swollen insects—but these butterflies have oversized mouths and sharp teeth. She flicks a finger at them and they fly back to their source. I try to deflect them, but I’m too slow. They latch on to Kealan’s eyes and dig in. He screams and collapses, blind within seconds. The butterflies continue chewing through to his brain.

I want to help Kealan, but I dare not turn my gaze away from Juni, even for an instant. She makes the third bullet rotate a few times, then sends it shooting at the middle of Sharmila’s forehead. The old Indian lady redirects it with a short flick of her wrist and the bullet buries itself in the roof.

The demons from the staircase have split to surround Sharmila and me. There are six around me, five around Sharmila. The twelfth—the square-headed demon—bounds over to Kealan and finishes off the unfortunate guard.

“You should have stayed dead,” Juni says, closing on me. The demons are keen to attack, but they’re holding back, wary of Juni Swan. They must be under orders not to strike before she does.

“How’s my broken-hearted boyfriend?” Juni asks, turning her head to study Dervish. She gasps with pain, a chunk of her neck ripping loose. Grimacing, she pushes the fleshy fillet back into place and uses magic to seal it. Part of me feels sorry for her. This is a terrible way for anyone to exist.

“Leave Dervish alone,” Sharmila growls.

“Or what?” Juni jeers.

Sharmila tenses her legs, then leaps over the demons around her. She lands between Juni and Dervish, grabs the trolley, jerks off a side bar and hurls it at Juni, jagged end first. The tip strikes Juni’s gooey face and drives through the rotting flesh and bone. She shrieks, her head snapping back.

Sharmila rips another bar loose to use against the demons who are scurrying after her. She thinks she killed Juni but she’s wrong. As Sharmila turns, Juni yanks out the bar. Bits of yellowy-pink flesh trickle from the hole it leaves behind.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Juni giggles, launching the bar at Sharmila. It hits her right shoulder, lifts her off her feet and sends her sailing across the roof. She smashes into one of the staircase doors. The bar thrusts through her flesh and deep into the wood, pinning her to the door. She screams in agony, blood pouring from her shoulder and mouth. She tries to wriggle free, but can’t, pinned in place like a captured moth.

I’m truly scared now. It took a lot of power to throw a steel bar that hard. I don’t have anywhere near that kind of strength, not in this world. In a one-on-one battle with Juni Swan, I won’t stand a chance.

Juni fixes her insane, bloodshot eyes on me again. There’s a tiny insect in the corner of one socket, chewing at the rotting flesh of her lower eyelid. “It’s a pity,” she mutters. “I hoped Grubbs would be here. I wanted to kill him at the same time as Dervish.”

“He’ll be here soon,” I lie, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice. “Kernel too. And Beranabus.” Her expression twitches when I mention the name of her old master. “You’d better get out of here before—”

“Billy Spleen was a bad liar,” she cuts me off, “but you’re worse. I wonder if you’ll squeal like he did when I kill you?”

“Bill-E didn’t squeal. I know. I was there.”

“So you were. I forgot.”

A crab-shaped demon with a cat’s face jabbers something and shuffles towards me.

“Not yet,” Juni snarls. “I want to torture her first.”

The crab snaps at her and she scowls. “I don’t care what he said. I…” A look of disgust crosses her face. “No. You’re right. We’ll kill them and get out of here. But not before we’ve had some sport.” She waves at Sharmila. “The Disciple is yours, along with the humans below. Leave the girl and Dervish to me.”

The demons peel away. Three of them—the fastest—converge on Sharmila and set to work on her legs, gobbling the flesh of her feet and shins, pausing only to dance diabolically to the rhythm of her tormented screams. The square-headed demon is still feasting on the remains of Kealan. The rest barrel down the stairs, back into the bowels of the hospital.

Juni smiles horribly. “Alone at last,” she wheezes.

I say nothing, backing away slowly, trying to think of a way out of this. Down the wall and through the window on the first floor? But Lord Loss is probably waiting on the other side. I’m surprised he didn’t cross with Juni. Maybe he wasn’t sure who he’d find and didn’t like the prospect of a run-in with Beranabus.

“I won’t kill you immediately,” Juni says, edging after me, leaving a trail of slime-like, bubbling flesh, blood and pus behind. “I’ll keep you alive a while, like Sharmila.” She points at the wailing woman. The monsters have stripped the flesh from her bones beneath the knees and are slowly moving up her thighs. Sharmila should have fainted by now. They must be keeping her conscious with magic.

“I’ll kill you,” I sob.

“I think not,” she chuckles. “You’re the one who’ll perish tonight. But I’ll kill Dervish first. I’ll wake him and make sure he knows what’s happening. Can’t let him sleep through his death. I’ll bring him round, no matter what shape his brain is in. Slaughter him nice and gruesomely. Then finish you off.”

The square-headed demon gets through with Kealan and heads down the stairs to find more pickings below. I set my gaze on it, bark a quick spell and send it flying at Juni’s head. She deflects it upwards. It squeals as it shoots into the air.

“You’ll have to do better than that, little—”

I yank my walkie-talkie out and toss it at the demon. When it hits, I make it explode. The demon explodes too and its blood rains down on Juni. Before it splatters, I transform it into acid. It hits with a burning hiss. Juni shrieks and tries to brush away the acidic blood. A drop splashes over her left eye and it sizzles like an egg frying in a pan, washing the insect loose. She howls with rage, hate and pain.

I race towards the staircase. I’ll grab Sharmila if I can and flee. A window between universes can’t last more than a few minutes, even with a mage working to keep it open. If I can evade capture for that long, Juni and the demons will have to return to their own—

The door next to Sharmila tears free of its hinges and smashes into me, knocking me down. I saw it coming at the last second and erected a partial shield, otherwise I’d be dead. But it cracks a few ribs and bones, and almost punctures my lungs.

As I struggle to my feet, the door rises into the air, hovers a moment, then explodes in a hail of splinters. Again I manage to construct a weak barrier around me, which stops most of the splinters penetrating. But dozens hit home and pierce me, a few just missing my eyes, a long, thick shard almost staking me through the heart like a vampire.

“Look at the pitiful hedgehog,” Juni gurgles as I writhe on the roof, trying to make the splinters pop out of my flesh. She’s cleansed herself of the acidic blood, looking no worse than she did before. “All pink, bloody and spiky. I’m going to slice your stomach open and keep you alive while I fish your guts out. How do you like the thought of feeding on your own intestines before—”

A ball of crackling energy strikes Juni hard. She shrieks with shock as she’s blown through the air, coming to a stunned stop a metre from the edge of the roof. As she staggers to her feet, she looks for her assailant. I look too and find him standing near the trolley, leaning on it for support, exhausted and the colour of death, but fired up for action—Dervish!

“Leave my girl alone, you crazy bitch,” he growls, unleashing another bolt of energy. This one hits Juni in her distorted chest, blasts her off the top of the building, and she yowls like a cat on fire as she drops.

KID’S STUFF

Dervish takes out two of the demons feasting on Sharmila, using magic to pop their brains like grapes. They’re dead before they hit the floor. The third glances up, sees that Dervish has beaten off Juni and disappears down the stairs.

Dervish limps across the roof. I’m closer and faster, so I get to Sharmila before he does. She’s slumped unconscious. I leave her that way and pour magic into her legs to stop the worst of the pain and cauterise the open wounds. The demons have stripped her to scraps below her thighs. Most of the bones are intact, but I can’t restore the flesh around them.

“Will she live?” Dervish barks, hobbling close to inspect the damage.

“Maybe. But I can’t do much with the legs. She’ll lose them.”

He sighs, eyes drifting, then snaps back into focus. “Where are we? What’s happening? Be quick.”

“You had a heart attack. We’re on the roof of a hospital. You’ve been in a coma for four days. Demons are attacking. Juni Swan was leading them.”

“I thought I killed her in the cave,” he growls.

“You did. She came back.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.” I gulp. “You didn’t finish her off this time either. I can sense her. She’s wounded but alive.”

“Is she returning for more?” he asks eagerly, fingers twitching, for a moment looking half as crazy as Juni did.

“No,” I answer, tracking her mentally as she slips through the window on the first floor. “You must have hurt her. She’s gone back to the demon universe.”

“Damn.” He stares around, eyes going vague. He looks like he’s about to collapse. I step forward to support him but he comes alert again and waves me away. “We’re exposed. We have to get out of here.”

“There are at least nine demons downstairs,” I tell him. “We could create a barrier, block their route to the roof…”

“What if more cross and climb the walls?” he grunts. “No, we have to move.” He takes hold of the bar pinning Sharmila to the door. “Can you make sure she doesn’t feel this?”

“I’ll do my best.” Once I’m focused, I nod and he pulls sharply. The bar rips out of the wood and Sharmila’s flesh. She moans softly, but I use magic to numb the pain and she falls silent again. Dervish slides around and takes Sharmila on his back, holding her arms crossed around his neck.

“Will you be able to carry her?” I ask. He’s sweating and trembling.

“Only one way to find out,” he mutters and staggers down the first of the stairs, back into the demon-infested building.

We make our way down through the levels of the hospital. The air throbs with the screams and moans of people who were struck by glass shards when the windows shattered. We spot some of them as we descend. They’re milling around helplessly, while nurses and doctors try to calm and help them.

I spy a demon on the fifth floor, chasing a man with a cast on his right leg. I look at Dervish, silently asking if we should help. He shakes his head. “We can’t do anything,” he wheezes. “I’m running out of strength. We need to save our energy—we might have to use it to break free.”

“We weren’t sure you were going to recover,” I tell him as we stumble down the next set of steps.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have. But they made the mistake of opening a window too close to me. The magic flooding through hit me like a wave and revived me.”

“Magic brought you back to life?”

He nods. “And it’s keeping me going. Which is fine. But when the window closes, I’m toast. That’s why we have to get out of here. The demons will have to return to their own universe or perish when the window shuts, but there might be soldiers or werewolves waiting to move in.”

We trudge on in silence, Dervish panting, struggling to support Sharmila. His legs are shaking badly. Even with all the magic in the air, he can’t last very long. He might drop before we make the ground. If he does, I’ll have to leave him. Sharmila too. I’m not a coward but it would be foolish to stay. In desperate times you have to act clinically. Dervish and Sharmila understand that and would only curse me if I let myself be slain for no good reason.

As we come to the second floor I spot a lizard-like demon slithering through the door from the stairs. I motion for Dervish to stop and we wait until the creature has passed. As we come abreast of the door, I glance through the circular window. There are two more demons with the lizard. One looks like an anteater, only it’s bulkier and has several long snouts. The other is some sort of demonic insect with a heavy golden shell, the size of a large dog.

As I watch, they kill an elderly woman and a nurse, then claw open a door and slip into a ward out of sight. Dervish has moved on, but I remain where I am, a wretched feeling in my gut.

“Hurry,” Dervish huffs. “We’re nearly there.”

“Dervish…” I say hesitantly.

“What?” he snaps.

“There are three demons.”

“So?”

“They’ve gone into the maternity ward.”

Dervish shuts his eyes and sighs. He looks more like a corpse than one of the living. I think he’d be happier if he was dead. I wait for him to say something, but he only stands silent and unresponsive.

“The babies,” I whisper. “We can’t let them slaughter babies.”

“We should,” Dervish croaks. “It’s the first law of being a Disciple—if you don’t stand a decent chance in a fight, run.”

“I’m not a Disciple.”

“I am.” He pulls a weary face. “But to hell with it.” He gently lays Sharmila down, stretches and groans, then steps up past me, pushes the door open and holds it like a doorman. “Ladies first.”

The ward rings with the sound of crying, but it’s the natural noise of babies who have been abruptly awoken. I’m sure the mothers are terrified, but they’re trying to control their fear so as not to alarm the little ones.

The half-dissolved bodies of two nurses line the corridor ahead of us. Fresh corpses. They must have tried to stop the demons. I pray we have more success.

Dervish is looking a bit better than he did on the upper floors. We’re close to the window—the mage has managed to keep it open, curse him—so there’s more magic in the air. He moves ahead of me, his legs no longer shaking quite so badly. His gown gapes at the back. I can see his bottom. That would make me smile any other time, but nothing strikes my funny bone at the moment.

We find the insect demon terrorising a young mother in a room on our left. She’s no more than three or four years older than me. Another woman’s with her. The pair are shielding the baby from the beast. It’s snapping at them, relishing their fear, stretching out the terror.

“Hey, roach!” Dervish calls. The demon turns and Dervish fires an energy bolt at it. The demon shoots across the room and smashes into the wall. But it recovers quickly and propels itself at Dervish. He catches it and they roll to the floor, wrestling. “Go!” he shouts at me.

My instinct is to help him, but the other demons could slaughter several babies while we battle with this one. Better to advance. Even if I can’t kill them, I can delay them and hope the window closes while we’re fighting.

I let the women escape with the baby, then hurry down the corridor. I catch evidence of an attack in a room to my right—a small hand lying on the floor near the door, attached to nothing—but I don’t stop to probe. Best not to look too closely at something like that.

The anteater demon staggers into the corridor ahead of me unexpectedly, erect on two legs, holding a squealing baby over its head. I see the child’s mother frantically reaching for it through the doorway, but she’s being held back by the other demon. She’s too shocked to scream.

As one of the anteater’s snouts attaches itself to the baby’s face, I use magic to rip the infant away. It flies safely into my arms. A boy. I absorb his memories of birth as I set him down, then turn to face the demon.

The anteater’s snarling. It barks a command and the lizard joins it. The mother rushes out of the room, darts past all three of us, snatches her baby and flees. I remain focused on the demons, waiting for them to make the first move.

The anteater rears back two of its snouts and spits twin tendrils of mucous at me. I deflect the missiles and they spatter the walls on either side, burning into them. One thing about demons—they love to spit acid.

The lizard scurries towards me, using its tail as a whip to accelerate. When it’s a metre away, it gives an extra hard thwack with its tail and shoots up at me, jaws stretched wide to clamp around my throat.

I made my fingers hard while the lizard was advancing, transforming them into a makeshift blade, a trick I learnt from Beranabus. Now I duck and swipe at the lizard’s stomach. But it realises my intention and sucks in. I open a shallow cut, but it’s only a flesh wound.

The anteater is on me before I can react. It wraps two snouts around my chest, one around my neck, and lashes at my face with the others. The one around my neck is the worst. It digs in tight, cutting off my oxygen.

I drop to my knees, then spring into the air like a frog. I hammer hard into the ceiling, knocking chunks out of it and shaking up the anteater. Its snouts loosen and when we hit the floor again I jerk free and leap to my feet.

I create a small ball of fire and blow it up one of the anteater’s snouts. When it hits the demon’s head, an eye bursts. The anteater squeals and stumbles away. Before I can pursue it and finish it off, the lizard bites down on my hip and jabs its forked tongue deep into my flesh.

I shake the lizard off, but I feel poison in the wound. Deadly, fast-acting. If I don’t deal with it immediately, I’ll be dead within seconds.

I use magic to counteract the poison, expelling most of it from my system and sapping the sting from the rest. I’m successful but the healing spell is draining. There’s not much fight left in me. The demons sense my weakness and move apart—the anteater’s recovered from his nasal mishap—then advance, trapping me against a wall. I summon what’s left of my power, but before I can unleash a spell against them…

A window of orange light opens a few metres away. The demons gawp at it. I prepare for the worst, expecting Lord Loss or Juni to emerge. This is the end. I’m going to die here, surrounded by demons and newborn babies. My only hope is that some of the young survive. If they do, I won’t have entirely wasted my life.

A man steps through the window and my heart leaps.

“Bran!” I shout.

A grave-faced Beranabus winks at me, then glares at the quivering demons. “I bet you thought you’d make off with easy pickings,” he growls. “You meant to harvest this crop of babies and gorge yourselves, aye?”

An anxious Grubbs steps through the window, followed by Kernel, who looks different somehow, and a cautious Shark and Meera.

“What do the pickings look like now?” Beranabus asks.

The demons turn and flee. Kernel, Shark and Meera set off after them.

“Dervish?” Grubbs snaps.

“Back there,” I pant. “Hurry. He was fighting a demon. I don’t know—”

Grubbs is gone before I finish.

Beranabus squats beside me. “Hello, little one,” he says softly. Then he hugs me and I weep into his shoulder. I absorb more of his memories as I clutch him but I don’t care about the theft. I’m just delighted that, despite all the odds, it looks like I’m going to end this evening of butchery alive.

THE SPLIT

Back on the roof. The Disciples killed several demons and the mage who’d been helping them. A few of the beasts fled through the window before it closed. The rest died here, helpless without magic, choking to death on our clean, human air, then rotting like the disgusting, hellish globs that they are.

The patients and staff inside the hospital are safe, although not many remain. They’re being evacuated. A huge operation, still under way. I watched it with Beranabus while we were waiting for the others to join us. I’m impressed by how swiftly the people of this time can move in an emergency, how selflessly they rise to the occasion and risk all to help.

Sharmila is lying close by, unconscious. Beranabus removed her thighbones and has been working on the tattered flesh, sealing off veins and arteries, mending nerve endings where he can, destroying others to lessen the pain that Sharmila will experience when she wakes.

Dervish is sitting nearby on the trolley, head bowed, feebly stroking his beard, shivering from shock and the cold night air. His heart has held, but Beranabus had to help him climb the stairs, carrying him as Dervish had earlier carried Sharmila. Meera is sitting beside her dear friend, watching over him like a faithful hound.

Shark’s by the staircase, ready to turn away anybody who ventures up this far. He enjoyed tackling the Demonata and ripping a few to pieces. He’s delighted with his evening’s work.

I’m bringing Beranabus, Grubbs and Kernel up to date, telling them about the werewolf attack, my gift of soaking up memories, what I sensed from the werewolf I touched, the assault at the hospital. Shark and Meera hadn’t told them much—there wasn’t time. It took them several weeks in the demon universe to find Beranabus. Thankfully they passed through zones where time moves faster than it does here.

“You’re sure the Lambs masterminded the attack in Carcery Vale?” Grubbs asks. He’s grown a few centimetres since I last saw him and towers above everybody. But he’s lost some weight and doesn’t look so healthy. His ginger hair has grown back—he was bald in the cave—but has been scorched bare in a few patches. There are dark bags under his eyes and an ugly yellowish sheen to his skin. He looks exhausted and distraught.

“I can’t be certain,” I admit. “We didn’t see any humans. Sharmila wanted to go after the Lambs once Dervish was safe, but we decided to wait until we’d discussed it with you. The werewolves might have been the work of some other group…”

“But they were definitely teenagers who’d been given to the Lambs?” Grubbs presses.

“Yes. At least the one I touched was. I don’t know about the others.”

“They must have been,” he mutters. “I’ve never heard of anyone outside our family being inflicted with the wolfen curse. But why?” He glances at Dervish. “Have you been rubbing Prae Athim up the wrong way?”

“I haven’t seen her since she paid us that visit before Slawter,” Dervish answers. “I’ve got to say, I don’t have much time for Prae, but this isn’t her style. I could understand it if they were after something—you, for instance, to dissect you and try to find a cure for lycanthropy—but there was nothing in this for them. Those who set the werewolves loose wanted us dead. The Lambs don’t go in for mindless, wholesale slaughter.”

“But if not the Lambs, who?” Kernel asks. The bald, chocolate-skinned teenager was blind when I last saw him, his sockets picked clean by demonic maggots. He’s restored his eyes in the Demonata universe, but his new globes don’t look natural. They’re the same blue colour as before, but brighter, sharper, with tiny, flickering shadows moving constantly across the surface.

“I think Lord Loss was behind the attacks,” I answer Kernel’s question. “Maybe he realised I was part of the Kah-Gash and wanted to eliminate the threat I pose, or perhaps he just wanted to kill Dervish and me for revenge. The attack tonight by Juni Swan makes me surer than ever that he sent the werewolves. It can’t be coincidence.”

“Juni Swan,” Beranabus mutters guiltily. “I’d never have thought poor Nadia could turn into such a hideous creature. I don’t know how she survived. Your spirit flourished after death, but you’re part of the Kah-Gash. Juni isn’t. Lord Loss must have separated her soul from her body some way, just before her death. That’s why he took her corpse when he fled. But I don’t understand how he did it.”

He broods in silence, then curses. “It doesn’t matter. We can worry about her later. You’re right—Lord Loss sent the werewolves. I cast spells on Carcery Vale to prevent crossings, except for in the secret cellar, where any demon who did cross would be confined. Even if he found a way around those spells, he would have been afraid to risk a direct confrontation. If he opened a window, the air would have been saturated with magic. You and Dervish could have tapped into that. You were powerful in the cave, stronger than Lord Loss in some ways. He probably thought humans and werewolves stood a better chance of killing you. But that doesn’t explain why the Lambs agreed to help him. Or, if they weren’t Lambs, how they got their hands on the werewolves.”

“Maybe he struck a deal with them,” Dervish says. “Promised them the cure for lycanthropy if they helped him murder Bec and me.”

“Would they agree to such a deal?” Beranabus asks.

“Possibly.”

“Prae Athim’s daughter turned into a werewolf,” Grubbs says softly. “She’s still alive. A person will go to all manner of crazy lengths when family’s involved.” He winks at Dervish.

“An intriguing mystery,” Beranabus snorts. “But we can’t waste any more time on it. We have more important matters to deal with, not least the good health of Dervish and Miss Mukherji—they’ll both be dead soon if we don’t take them to the demon universe. Open a window, Kernel.”

Kernel starts moving his hands, manipulating patches of light which only he can see. That’s his great gift—he can open a window in minutes instead of hours or days, to any section of the demon universe. In the past he couldn’t work his magic on this world, but he seems to have developed since I last saw him.

“I’m not going,” Dervish says.

“You can’t stay here,” Beranabus retorts.

“I have to. They attacked me… my home… my friends. I can’t let that pass. I have to pursue them. Find out why. Extract revenge.”

“Later.”

“No,” Dervish insists. “Now.” He gets off the trolley and weaves to his feet. Meera steadies him. He smiles at her, then glares at Beranabus.

“It would help if we knew,” Meera says in support of her friend. “The attack on Dervish and Bec might have been a trial run. The werewolves could be set loose on other Disciples.”

“That’s not my problem,” Beranabus sniffs.

“There’s been a huge increase in crossings,” Meera says. “We’ve seen five or six times the usual activity in recent months. The Disciples are stretched thinly, struggling to cope. If several were picked off by werewolves and assassins, thousands of innocents would die.”

“It might be related,” Kernel says, pausing.

“Related to what?” I ask but Beranabus waves my query away. He’s frowning.

“This could be part of the Shadow’s plan,” Kernel presses. “It could be trying to create scores of windows so that its army of demons can break through at once. We’ll need the Disciples if that’s the case—we can’t be everywhere at the same time to stop them all.”

“Maybe,” Beranabus says grudgingly. “But that doesn’t alter the fact that Dervish will last about five minutes if we leave him here.”

“I’ll be fine,” Dervish growls.

“No,” Beranabus says. “Your heart is finished. You’ll die within days. That’s not a guess,” he adds as Dervish starts to argue. “And you wouldn’t be able to do much during that time, apart from wheeze and clutch your chest a lot.”

Dervish stares at the magician, jaw trembling. “It’s really that bad?”

Beranabus nods soberly. “In the universe of magic, you might survive. Here, you’re a dead man walking.”

“Then get him there quick,” Grubbs says. “I’ll stay.”

“Not you too,” Beranabus groans. “What did I do to deserve as stubborn and reckless a pair as you?”

“It makes sense,” Grubbs says, ignoring the cutting comment. “If the attacks were Lord Loss trying to get even, they’re irrelevant. But if they’re related to the Shadow, we need to know. I can confront the Lambs, find out if they’re mixed up with the demon master, stop them if they are.”

“Is the Shadow the creature we saw in the cave?” I ask, recalling the dark beast who even Lord Loss seemed to be working for.

“Aye,” Beranabus says. “We haven’t learnt much about it, except that it’s put together an army of demons and is working hard to launch them across to our world.” He studies Grubbs, frowning as he considers the teenager’s proposal. “You’d operate alone?”

“I’d need help,” Grubbs says. “Shark and Meera.”

“I want to stay with Dervish,” Meera says.

“He’ll be fine,” Grubbs overrules her. “He has Beranabus and Bec to look after him. Unless you want to leave Bec with me?” He raises an eyebrow.

“No,” Beranabus mumbles. “If you’re staying, I’ll take her to replace you.”

“Then go,” Grubbs says. “Chase the truth on your side. I’ll do the same here. If I discover no link between Lord Loss and the Lambs, I’ll return. If they are working for him, I’ll cull the whole bloody lot.”

Kernel grunts and a green window opens. “Time to decide,” he tells Beranabus.

“Very well,” the magician snaps. “But listen to Shark and Meera, heed their advice and contact me before you go running up against the likes of Lord Loss or the Shadow.” He carefully picks up Sharmila and steps through the window with her. “Follow me, Bec.”

I look around at the others, dazed by the speed with which things have been decided. Dervish is hugging Grubbs, squeezing him tightly, the way I wish he would have squeezed me all these long months.

“Are you OK with this?” Meera asks. “You don’t want to stay?”

“I’ll do what I must,” I sigh.

“Take care of Dervish,” Meera whispers.

“I will,” I laugh, wishing I could remain with Meera instead of Dervish.

“Be wary,” she croaks, dropping her voice even lower. “Beranabus has always been strongly driven, but he’s almost insanely focused now. He says this Shadow he’s been hunting is a massive threat to mankind and he’s determined to defeat it at all costs. But he’s old and fuzzy-headed. He makes mistakes. Don’t let him lead you astray.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” I promise.

Dervish and Grubbs complete their farewells and the elder Grady stumbles through the window, rubbing the flesh around his chest, fighting back tears.

“Sorry we couldn’t have more of a chat,” Grubbs says to me.

“Next time,” I smile.

“Yeah,” he grunts sceptically. I can tell he thinks there will never be a time for simple chat. We belong to the world of pitched battle and Grubbs believes we’ll never escape it. I think he’s right.

As Grubbs and Meera work their way across the roof to tell Shark about their new mission, I face Kernel Fleck. He’s grinning at me sympathetically. “The world moves quickly when Beranabus is around,” he says.

“What’s it like through there?” I ask, nodding at the window.

“Bad.” His grin slips. “The Shadow’s promising the eradication of mankind and a new dawn of demon rule. Others have threatened that before, but it’s convinced an army of demons—even powerful masters like Lord Loss—that it can make good on its vow. We could be looking at the end this time.” Kernel puts one foot into the panel of green light bridging two universes and beckons half-heartedly. “Let’s go.”

I take one last look at the human world—the night is bright with fires from the crashed helicopter and police searchlights—then wearily follow Kernel into the den of all things demonic.

CHASING SHADOWS

We’re at an oasis in the middle of a desert. The trees are made out of bones, flaps of skin instead of leaves, and the well at the centre is filled with a dark, sulphurous liquid. The liquid’s alive and can suck in and kill passers-by, but it only has a reach of two or three metres, so as long as we don’t stray too close to it, we’re safe.

The oasis was designed by a demon master a long time ago, based on something he’d seen on Earth. As much as demons hate humans and our world, they envy our forms and shapes. That’s why many of them base their bodies on animals from our planet. They lack our imagination or the skills of Mother Nature.

We’ve been here for a week, although it’s hard to judge the passage of time. There’s one sun and moon above the oasis, like on Earth, but they never move. The sun shines for hours on end, holding its position in the sky, then abruptly dims to be replaced by the light of a three-quarters full moon.

I haven’t had to eat or drink since I came, and I’ve only slept twice, a couple of hours each time. The magic in the air is far thicker than it was on my world sixteen hundred years ago. I could perform amazing feats here, turn a mountain upside-down if I wanted. The trouble is, if I can do that much, so can the demons.

We haven’t seen any of the Demonata yet. This is an abandoned region. Its master moved on or died, leaving only the skeletal trees and cannibalistic well. Individual demons wander through occasionally—some are picked off by the well—but incursions are rare. Beranabus has used it as a bolthole on several occasions.

Sharmila is still recovering, but we haven’t been able to restore her lower legs. Magic works differently in each person. Kernel was able to replace his eyes when he lost them, but Sharmila can’t grow new legs. You never know for sure what you can or can’t do with your power until you test it.

Beranabus and I have used some of the bones and fleshy leaves from the trees to create artificial legs. We’ve attached them to Sharmila’s thighs and she’s spent the last couple of days adjusting, using magic to operate the limbs and keep her balance. She moves clumsily when she walks, and with great discomfort, but at least she’s mobile. I don’t know what will happen when she returns to the human world—the legs we’ve created won’t work in a place without magic—but for now she’s coping.

Dervish looks healthier too. I’ve taught him ways to direct magic into his heart, to strengthen and protect it. He should be fine as long as he stays here, but if he returns home the situation will rapidly change. His heart won’t hold up long over there.

Dervish wove the material of his hospital dressing-gown in with scraps of flesh from the trees to create a costume. He’s also given himself a full head of silver hair and stuck it up in six long, purple-tipped spikes. I was startled when I first saw it.

“I had spikes like this the last time I fought alongside Beranabus,” he explained, blushing slightly. “I walked away alive then, so maybe they were good luck. We’ll need all the luck we can muster when we fight again.”

There’s no doubt we’ll have to fight, either the Shadow or its army. The first battles have already been waged. Before Meera and Shark tracked them down, Beranabus, Kernel and Grubbs were flitting from realm to realm, hunting demons and challenging them, trying to find out more about the mysterious Shadow.

We saw the Shadow the night Bill-E was killed. A huge, nebulous cloud of a monster, darker than any night, almost as black as the cave when I was sealed up there. Immensely powerful even by demonic standards.

Lord Loss said the creature would destroy humanity. The maudlin demon master craves human misery, feeding on it like a cat slurping milk. In my time he slyly helped me close a tunnel, to stop a demon invasion. He needs humans the way a fish needs water.

But he’s afraid of the Shadow. He doesn’t believe mankind can defeat this new threat. He sided with the creature, served as if he was an ordinary demon, not a powerful master. He did the Shadow’s bidding, even though that might mean the end of the human suffering he cherishes.

Lord Loss’s fear of the Shadow fills Beranabus with unease. He believes the war between humanity and the Demonata can’t last forever. In the distant past, the powerful Old Creatures ruled the Earth and demons couldn’t cross. By my time their power had waned. That led to the current war between humans and demons. Beranabus thinks we must find a way to block their passage between universes or they’ll wipe us out completely.

The Kah-Gash has been Beranabus’s only real hope. According to the ancient legends, the weapon can destroy a universe—ours or the Demonata’s. He’d love to do that. It doesn’t bother him that he’d be eradicating an entire life form. He sees this as a blood-drenched fight to the finish. The universes are colliding and only the victors will survive.

Beranabus has the Kah-Gash now—in the shape of Grubbs, Kernel and me—but he doesn’t trust it. The weapon has a will of its own. It worked through us when the world was last threatened by a demon breakthrough but it’s been silent since. We don’t know what its plans or desires are.

Beranabus hoped to experiment, unlock the Kah-Gash’s secrets, find out how to direct its great power. But so far he hasn’t learnt anything new.

Unwilling to unleash the Kah-Gash, Beranabus instead hunted for the shadowy monster we’d glimpsed in the cave. Having no name for it, he dubbed it the Shadow. The more he chased it, the more apt that name became.

Beranabus has interrogated many demons who know about the Shadow, but not one knows its real name. It’s rumoured to be more powerful than any other demon. They say it’s been working in secrecy for hundreds of years. That it recently made itself known to a number of demon masters, recruiting them to help it achieve its ultimate aim—the removal of the human stain.

That’s how demons see us, as a stain on the universes. They were here long before us and consider themselves superior. They hated the Old Creatures but respected them. They have nothing but contempt for our weak, mortal kind.

The Shadow has promised to kill every human and make the Demonata more powerful than ever. A few demons told Beranabus that it had even promised a return to the original state of the universes and the elimination of death, but we’re not sure what that means. The demons weren’t sure either.

Beranabus hasn’t dared go after any of the masters. They’re too powerful. He thinks the creature has made its base in Lord Loss’s realm, but he dares not set foot there. And Kernel—who can usually find anything in either universe—isn’t able to search for the beast since he doesn’t know the thing’s name and didn’t see it in the cave, being blind at the time. Beranabus has tried to magically recreate a picture of the Shadow, but it always comes up blurred and indistinct.

We spent the first couple of days here arguing about what to do next. While I worked tirelessly on Sharmila’s legs—and helped her adjust to the shock when she regained consciousness—Dervish pressed Beranabus to focus on the werewolf and demon attacks.

“You’ve been chasing this Shadow for months without result,” he argued. “This is something concrete, a puzzle we can solve. Better to direct our energies at a problem we can crack than waste them on an enigma.”

“But all else is irrelevant,” Beranabus bellowed. “The Shadow is the greatest threat humanity has ever faced. We have to pursue it relentlessly, down as many blind alleys as it takes, until we find a demon who knows its name, where it comes from, how powerful it is. The knowledge is out there. We just have to find it. But we can’t do that if we squander our time on a bunch of hairy Grady miscreants!”

Dervish countered by insisting the attacks were linked to the Shadow. We know Lord Loss is working for him, and that the revived Juni Swan works for Lord Loss.

“Maybe Lord Loss and Juni just want to kill us before the world is ruined,” he said. “But they might be planning to use the werewolves to target the Disciples, kill as many as they can and clear the way for crossings.”

Kernel supported Dervish. “We can’t go after Lord Loss directly—he’s too powerful,” he said. “But we can target Juni. Lord Loss didn’t show himself at the hospital but Juni was acting on his behalf. She might have been part of the group in Carcery Vale too. If more assaults on the Disciples are planned, she’ll possibly act as the go-between again, conveying Lord Loss’s orders to their allies. If we can trap her, we can find out what she knows about the Shadow.”

Beranabus was swayed by that and told Kernel to devote himself to tracking her movements. I think he’s keen to get his hands on Juni for personal reasons. She betrayed him. But it’s not just revenge he’s interested in. He also wants to know how she came back.

We don’t understand how my soul remained trapped in the cave when I died, or how I returned to life. That’s never happened before. Ghosts exist, but they’re mere after-images of people. We don’t know where a person’s soul goes when they die, if there’s a heavenly realm, if they get reborn or if they simply cease to exist. But they always move on. Never, in all of history, has a person’s soul survived death and returned to life. Until me. And now Juni.

Beranabus believes I survived because I’m part of the Kah-Gash. The mystical weapon turned back time, so it could feasibly cheat death too. But Juni isn’t a piece of the Kah-Gash. She shouldn’t have been able to survive the destruction of her body. Her return troubles Beranabus deeply. He suspects it’s linked to the rise of the Shadow. If the new demon leader has the power to restore life, maybe it shares other powers in common with the Kah-Gash. Beranabus wants—needs—to know.

So Kernel has been focusing on Juni and Lord Loss for the last few days. He’s developed in many ways since the three of us worked in league as the Kah-Gash. He can do more than open windows now. He can search for several people at the same time, and track their movements—he knows when they switch from one realm or universe to the other.

Juni is currently in Lord Loss’s kingdom, with her master. But as soon as she moves, Kernel will know and we’ll blaze into action.

I’ve spent a lot of time with Beranabus. He’s changed so much over the centuries, made himself hard and uncaring, believing he had to be like a demon in order to fight the Demonata. It helped that he is half-demon. There’s a monster within him, always active, struggling to rise to the surface. Beranabus has to fight it constantly to maintain control, but through those battles he’s learnt more about demons and their ways than he ever could have otherwise.

One of his greatest fears is that he’ll go insane and the demon within him will take over. It would be the ultimate irony—the man who spent all his life battling to save humans from the Demonata turns into one of them and goes on a massive killing spree.

Beranabus can discuss such fears with me because I already know about them. I absorbed his secrets along with his memories, so he can’t hide them from me. I know almost as much about the ancient magician as he does.

“Sometimes I wonder if my life’s been worthwhile,” he muttered last night when we were apart from the others. “I’ve gone without pleasure or company for most of my years. If we lose and the Demonata kill us all, there won’t have been a point. Maybe I should have settled, married, had children, lived a normal life. It might not have made any difference in the end.”

I tried to make him see that millions of people owe their lives to him, that the Demonata would have taken over our world many centuries before this if not for his stubborn resistance. But he’s fallen into a dark state of mind. I think partly it’s because of my return. I’ve made him aware of all that he’s missed out on. If he’d allowed himself to be more human, he’d have had friends and family, and perhaps been much happier.

I’m sitting beneath the shade of a bony tree, trying to think of a way to ease Beranabus’s troubled mind. Someone coughs close by, disturbing me. I open my eyes and find Dervish standing there. “Mind if I sit down?”

I nudge over. When he’s sitting, he smiles awkwardly. We haven’t said much to each other since he recovered. I think he’s embarrassed—we’d had that big conversation prior to the attacks, but never had a chance to wrap it up.

“How are you getting on?” he asks.

“Not too bad.”

“It’s pretty boring here, huh?”

I shrug. “I’d rather this to the excitement of fighting demons.”

He strokes one of his newly grown spikes. “What do you think of the hair?”

“Some of the warriors in my time styled their hair like that,” I tell him.

“Yeah?” He looks proud.

“But they were all a lot younger than you.”

He pulls a face. “I started going bald early, so I had no choice other than adapt. But I never liked looking like the crown of an egg.”

“Baldness suits old men.”

“I’m not…” he starts to protest, then sighs. “No, you’re right, I am old. It happened while I wasn’t looking. Old, bald, dodgy heart, ignorant.”

“Ignorant?” I echo.

“The way I treated you,” he says softly. “I was an ignorant old man. If Billy or Grubbs had seen me acting that way, they’d have kicked me hard and told me to stop being an idiot.”

“You were upset,” I excuse him. “People do strange things when they lose a loved one.”

“I should have known better,” he grunts. “I would have been more sensitive a few years ago, but you don’t see things so clearly when you let yourself become a grumpy old fogey. I used to criticise Ma and Pa Spleen—Billy’s grandparents—for being cranky and small-minded. But I was turning into a carbon copy of them.” He shudders.

“Bill-E loved his grandparents regardless of their flaws,” I say. “He would have gone on loving and forgiving you too, no matter what.”

“How about you?” Dervish asks.

I frown uncomfortably. I should say something diplomatic, but I was reared to speak my mind. “I don’t love you. I hardly even know you.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Dervish says quickly. “I meant, can you forgive me? Can we be friends? Or will I always be the ogre who made you tell him stories about a dead boy for months on end?”

“You’ll always be an ogre,” I say seriously, then laugh at his expression. “I’m joking. Of course we can be friends.”

“We can start over?” he says eagerly. “Get to know each other properly?”

I nod and he sticks out a hand to shake on the deal.

“You know about my gift?” I say hesitantly.

“Yes. But I don’t care. You don’t hold things back from friends.”

I smile, then shyly shake his cool, wrinkled, welcome hand.

Kernel is off by himself, doggedly monitoring Juni’s position. The rest of us are duelling, practising our skills, learning. It’s difficult to define your magical limits. Magic is a mysterious, ever-shifting force. You can test yourself in certain ways on Earth, but you never know how far you can stretch until circumstances compel you to improvise.

Sharmila told me that when Kernel first came to this universe, Beranabus threw him at a flesh-eating tree to establish his magical potential. When his life came under threat. Kernel reacted and he fought free. If he’d been of lesser potential, he’d have perished. That’s a cruel way to test a person, but there’s no easy alternative. Magic is part of a harsh universe. Those who wish to channel its power must accept that.

Beranabus sends twin balls of fire shooting at Dervish and me. I turn the ball aimed at me into an icy mist, but Dervish isn’t as swift. He disperses the flames, but not before they singe his beard and redden his cheeks and lips.

“You’re slow,” Beranabus grunts while Dervish repairs the damage.

“So are you!” Sharmila shouts, hitting Beranabus with a burst of energy from behind. He shoots forward, yelling with surprise, and smashes into a tree, sending bones flying in all directions.

“That hurt,” Beranabus complains, staggering to his feet and rubbing the small of his back. He bends to pick some splinters out of his bare feet. We’ve all got rid of our shoes—they hinder the flow of magic.

“Be thankful I was not aiming to kill,” Sharmila says coolly. “We are all slower and weaker than before. It is the penalty of old age. No one can avoid it.”

“I’ve done better than most for a millennium and a half,” Beranabus growls.

“But time catches up with us all eventually, even you.”

Beranabus twists slowly left, then right, working the pain out of his back. “I suppose you’re right,” he grumbles. “I’ve known for a long time I’m not as quick or powerful as I once was.”

He waves a hand at Sharmila and her artificial legs snap apart. She collapses with a yelp of shock and pain.

“But there’s life in the old dog yet,” Beranabus shouts triumphantly, before guiltily hurrying to Sharmila’s side to fix the damage.

Kernel has kept himself distant, sitting in the open with his legs crossed, tinkering with the lights that only he can see, keeping tabs on Juni. Beranabus told me his bald assistant finds it hard to focus these days. Since he got his new eyes he’s been seeing patches of light which were invisible to him before. He can’t control the new patches and they distract him. He’s been trying to ignore them, but I often spot him scowling and cursing, waving an irritated hand at the air around him.

In the middle of another dry, lifeless afternoon, as the others are resting while I leap from tree to tree testing my powers of flight, Kernel uncrosses his legs and stands.

“She’s moving,” he says.

We’re by his side in seconds. His bright blue eyes are alive with flickering spots of light. He looks nervous.

“Where did she go?” Beranabus asks.

“Earth.”

“And Lord Loss?”

“He stayed in his own realm.”

“Can you tell where exactly she is?” Dervish asks.

“No.” He frowns. “I should be able to, but I can’t place it.”

“Is she close to Grubbs?” Dervish presses.

Kernel concentrates, then shakes his head.

“Well?” Sharmila asks Beranabus.

“Kernel and I will investigate. The rest of you stay here.”

“Nuts to that,” Dervish huffs.

“Don’t forget about your heart,” Beranabus says. “Or Sharmila’s legs. You’re a pair of wrecks on that world. Let us check the situation and report back. We won’t engage her if we can avoid it.”

“What about me?” I ask. “I can survive there.”

“Aye, but I’m asking you to wait. Please. Until we know more about what we’re walking into.” I don’t like it, but I know Beranabus worries about me. Better to go along with his wishes, so he can operate free of any distractions.

Kernel opens a window within minutes. It’s a white panel of light. I think I can smell the real world through it, but that’s just my nose playing tricks. Without saying anything, Kernel steps through, Beranabus half a step behind him.

“We’ll give them five minutes,” Dervish rumbles. “If they’re not back by then, we—” Beranabus sticks his head through the window, catching us by surprise. “It’s an area of magic,” he says. “Sharmila and Dervish will be fine there. Come on.”

He disappears again. We glance at each other uneasily, then file through one by one, back to the human universe, in search of the semi-human Juni Swan and a host of shadowy answers.