Death's Shadow

Snapshots of Beranabus III

Beranabus thought his world had ended when I died. He’d been developing while we were together, the disjointed fragments of his mind linking up, learning to think and reason as other humans did. My magic helped. Unknown to me, I smoothed out many of the creases inside his brain, opening channels which were blocked. Perhaps, deep down, I loved him as he loved me. I was certainly fond of the strange boy.

When the rocks closed, trapping me in the cave with Lord Loss and his familiars, Beranabus went wild with grief. He tried to carve through the wall, using small stones and his bare fingers. When that failed, he kept vigil for several months, drinking from the waterfall inside the cave, abandoning his post only to catch the occasional rabbit or fox.

He held long, garbled conversations with himself in the darkness. Time got confused inside his head and sometimes he thought he was in the Labyrinth and the Minotaur was hiding behind a stalagmite. He’d repeat my name over and over, along with his own—he managed to say “Beranabus” for the first time in the cave. He wept and howled, and sometimes tried to bash his head open on the rocks. Normally he stopped before damaging himself, but a few times he knocked himself unconscious, only to awake hours later, scalp bruised and bloody, his ears ringing.

He knew I was dead, the rock wouldn’t open, that I’d never step out and throw my arms around him. But for a long time he clung to the belief that a miracle would return me to the world. Then, one day, without warning, he kissed the rock, climbed to the surface and staggered away, with no intention of ever coming back.

Beranabus retraced our steps, following the route we’d covered from the shoreline to the cave. He hoped, by doing so, to recall any small memories of me that he might have forgotten. His vague plan was to march west to the shore, then back inland to the crannog where I’d first met Drust, finishing up at my village. After that… he didn’t know. Thinking ahead was a new experience for him and he found it hard to look very far into the future.

When he reached the shore and gazed down over the cliff where we’d sheltered, to the ever-angry sea below, his plan changed. Grief exploded within him and he saw only one way to escape it. He’d had enough of demons and humans, slaughter and love. He didn’t know much about death, but the many corpses he’d seen over the centuries had all looked peaceful and unthinking. Maybe he wouldn’t feel this terrible sense of loss if he put life and its complicated emotions behind him.

Beranabus smiled as he stepped off the cliff and fell. His thoughts were of me and the Minotaur. He knew nothing of the possibility of a life after death, so he had no hope of seeing us again. His only wish was that our faces were the last images in his thoughts when he died.

The water was colder than he expected and he shouted with alarm when he hit. But as he sank into the new subterranean world, he relaxed. The cold wasn’t so bad after a while, and though he didn’t like the way the salt water washed down his throat, he’d experienced more unpleasant sensations in the universe of the Demonata.

That should have been the end of him, an anonymous, pointless death as Theseus had predicted so many centuries before. But beings of ancient, mysterious magic dwelt nearby and they were watching. Known to humans as the Old Creatures, they’d once controlled the world. Now they were dying, or had moved on, and only a few were left.

Some of those lived in a cave beneath the cliff which Beranabus jumped off—they were the reason Drust had gone there in the first place. They sensed the boy’s peculiar brand of magic and curiously probed the corridors of his mind. The Old Creatures took an interest in the drowning boy and instead of letting him drift out to sea and a welcome death, they drew him to the cave against his will. He washed up on the floor, where he reluctantly spat out water and instinctively gasped for air, even though he would rather have suffocated.

When Beranabus could speak, he roared at the pillars of light (the Old Creatures had no physical bodies). He knew they’d saved him and he hated them for it. He cursed gibberishly, trying to make them explain why they hadn’t let him die.

“We Have Need Of You,” the Old Creatures answered, the words forming inside the boy’s brain. “You May Be Able To Help Us.”

Beranabus roared at them again, and although he couldn’t express his feelings verbally, the Old Creatures knew what he wanted to say.

“Yes, She Is Dead, But Her Soul Has Not Departed This World. She Can Return To You.” Beranabus squinted at the shifting lights. “If You Remain With Us, Let Us Teach And Direct You, And Serve As We Wish, You Will Meet Your Bec Again.”

The promise captivated Beranabus and filled his heart with warmth and hope. It didn’t cross his mind that the Old Creatures could be lying, and he never wondered what they might ask of him. They’d said he’d see his young love again—that was all that mattered. Putting dark thoughts and longings for death behind him, he presented himself to the formless Old Creatures and awaited their bidding, leaving them free to mould and do with him as they wished.

Beranabus could never remember much of his time with the Old Creatures, even though he spent more than a century in the cavern. They taught him to speak and reason, completing his evolution from confused child to intelligent young adult.

As his intellect developed, he came to believe that the Old Creatures had lied about my return. He didn’t blame them—he knew it was the only way they could have calmed and controlled him. He accepted my death and moved on. He was older and wiser, tougher than he’d been as a child, and although he still loved and mourned me, he had other issues to focus on. He had demons to kill.

Beranabus hated the Demonata—they’d slaughtered his beloved—and the Old Creatures encouraged this hatred. They showed him how to open windows to the demon universe and explained how he could channel magic to kill the beasts. They sent him on his first missions, directing him to specific spots, targeting vulnerable demons.

Beranabus never questioned their motives. He assumed that everyone on this world hated the demons as much as he did, even though the Old Creatures were not of the human realm and seemed to be under no threat. They were more powerful—in this universe at least—than the Demonata, so they had nothing to fear from them.

As he developed a taste for killing, Beranabus spent more and more time in the demon universe, using the cave of the Old Creatures as a base which he visited rarely, when he needed to sleep, treat his wounds and recover.

One night, after an especially long spell butchering demons, he returned to the cave and the Old Creatures were gone. He would have known it even if he was blind. The magic had faded from the air and it now felt like a cold, dead place.

In a panic, Beranabus scaled the cliff which he’d hurled himself off many decades before and searched frantically for the Old Creatures. He found traces of them in a place called Newgrange. Druids had claimed the celestial dome and worshipped and studied the stars from there. But it had been built by the Old Creatures, who used it as a navigational point when travelling between worlds.

One of the Old Creatures was waiting in the gloom of the dome for Beranabus. It took the form of a small ball of swirling light, less grand than any of the pillars had been in the cave. “It Is Time For Us To Go,” the Old Creature said. “We Must Leave This Planet.”

Beranabus went cold. Without the protective magic of the Old Creatures, the world would be at the mercy of the Demonata.

“You’re abandoning us!” Beranabus cried angrily.

“We Are Leaving,” the Old Creature agreed, “But We Have Left You In Our Place. You Must Guard This World Now.”

“I can’t protect humanity by myself,” Beranabus exploded. “I can’t be everywhere at once, stop every crossing or kill every demon who makes it through.”

“No,” the Old Creature said calmly, “But You Can Try.”

“Why?” Beranabus groaned. “Why desert us now, when we need you most?”

“Our Time Has Passed,” the Old Creature said. “You People Must Fend For Yourselves Or Perish. We Cannot Protect You Forever.” As Beranabus started to argue, the Old Creature hushed him. “We Have One Last Thing To Tell You, One Final Mission To Send You On!”

“I won’t be your servant any longer,” Beranabus snarled, tears of rage hot in his eyes.

“There Was A Force Once, A Weapon Of Sorts,” the Old Creature said, ignoring his protest. “The Kah-Gash. It Shattered Into A Number Of Pieces Which Have Been Lost Ever Since. You Must Search For Those Fragments And Reunite Them.”

“I don’t understand,” Beranabus said, intrigued despite his bitter fury.

“The Kah-Gash Can Be Used To Destroy An Entire Universe. If The Demonata Find The Pieces And Assemble Them, They Can Annihilate This Universe And Remove Every Last Trace Of Mankind. But If You Find Them…”

“…I can destroy their universe!” Beranabus exclaimed.

“Perhaps,” the Old Creature said. And then it was gone, the ball of light shooting through the hole in the roof, streaking towards the stars, not even bidding Beranabus farewell.

Beranabus had a hundred questions he wanted answered, but there was no one to ask. He could feel the loss of the Old Creatures in the air. They’d left artefacts behind—lodestones charged with powerful Old magic—but their influence would fade with time, opening the way for more demon attacks.

He had to act quickly. The Old Creature hadn’t said as much, but Beranabus assumed there were demons looking for the Kah-Gash and he would have to race against them to find the missing pieces. It occurred to him that the demons might have been searching for millions of years, but that didn’t deter him. He was arrogant. He believed he would succeed where the Demonata had failed, find the weapon and deliver the ultimate blow.

Setting off through the countryside, he steeled himself for what was to come. He sensed it wouldn’t be easy, that it might take centuries—or longer—to locate all the pieces. But he would triumph eventually. Nothing could stand in his way. In his youthful arrogance he believed this was his destiny and that if he needed more time to complete his mission, he could even defy death if he had to.

KIRILLI

I step through the window and find myself on a highly polished wooden floor. There are no walls or ceiling, only a clear blue sky and glaring sun far overhead. I squint and cover my eyes with a hand. When my pupils adjust, I slowly lower my hand and stare around with awe.

We’re surrounded by water—we must be on a boat. Everywhere I look, an ocean stretches ahead of me, small waves lazily rippling by. I’ve only seen the sea once before and that was from the safety of land. Finding myself stranded in the middle of it makes me feel sick. Even though the floor is steady, my legs seem to wobble beneath me and I have to fight to calm my stomach.

“Easy, Little One,” Beranabus murmurs, touching my arm and smiling.

“It’s so vast,” I whisper, eyes round.

“Aye, but it’s only the sea. You’ve nothing to fear.”

“But the monsters…” I catch myself. In my time we thought the sea was home to an array of terrors. Now I know that isn’t so. I remind myself that I’m not living in the fifth century any longer. Frowning at myself for overreacting, I order my legs to steady and my stomach to stop churning.

Breathing more calmly, I pivot slowly and study the vessel on which we’ve landed. We’re on the deck of a massive ship, a luxury cruise liner, but its grandeurs have been spoilt by a recent, vicious attack. Deckchairs are strewn everywhere. We’re close to a swimming pool—the water is red and there are bodies floating in it. A man lies spread-eagled on a diving board, blood dripping from his throat into the water. More corpses dot the deck and some are draped over deckchairs.

There are carcasses everywhere. Freshly dead, with blood oozing from them. Men, women and children. Some are in crew uniforms, others in swim wear or casual clothes. Apart from the soft dripping noises of the blood, there’s no sound, not even the chug of an engine. The boat is as dead as the butchered passengers and staff.

As I gaze with horror at the carnage, the more experienced Sharmila checks a few of the bodies to ensure they’re beyond help. “Juni could not have killed all these people by herself,” she says quietly.

“She could,” Beranabus grunts, “but I don’t think she did. You can see different marks if you look closely. A group of demons had a party here.”

“Where are they now?” Dervish asks, fingers flexing angrily.

“That’s what I’d like to know.” Beranabus walks to the diving board, steps on to it and pushes the body off into the water as if it was a rubbish bag—he can be as detached as a demon when he needs to be. The splash disturbs the silence. We wait edgily, but nothing reacts to the noise.

“Are you sure Dervish and Sharmila are safe here?” I ask Kernel, trying to find something other than the corpses to focus on. “There’s magic in the air, but I’m not sure it will hold.”

“It’s secure,” he assures me. “We wouldn’t have brought them over if we had any doubts. We’re surrounded by a bubble of magical energy. The entire ship’s been encased.”

“Like the town of Slawter,” Dervish notes, then tugs anxiously at his beard. “This bubble—it’s pretty impenetrable?”

“Yes,” Kernel says.

“So if the window to the oasis blinks out of existence, we’re trapped.”

Kernel smiles. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep it open. That’s what I excel at.”

Beranabus returns from the diving board. “They must have a lodestone on board. No demon could maintain a shield like this without a lodestone.”

Lodestones are stones of ancient—Old—power. Demons can use them to seal off an area and fill it with magic. That lets them operate as if they were in their own universe. They can use them to open tunnels as well, if the stone is especially powerful. But they need human help. They can’t do it alone.

Lodestones are rare. When the Old Creatures inhabited the Earth, they used the stones to help keep back the Demonata. But in their absence the demons learnt to turn the magic of the stones against the humans they were originally intended to protect. Beranabus scoured the world for lodestones centuries ago and destroyed as many as he could find, or sealed them off like the one in Carcery Vale. But some evaded him and remain hidden in various corners of the world. Every so often a mage or demon tracks one down and trouble ensues.

“Is Juni still here?” Dervish asks Kernel.

“Yes,” I answer first. “I sense her near the bottom of the ship.”

“This feels like a trap,” Sharmila mutters.

“Aye,” Beranabus says. “But you learn to live with traps when you’re chasing demons.” He looks around. “Are there any others, Bec?”

I let my senses drift through the areas below deck. “There’s one demon with Juni. Not very powerful. If there are others, they’re masking themselves.”

“There’s a window open down there,” Kernel says.

“Fairly ordinary. Only weaker demons can cross through it.”

“Could there be armed humans?” Dervish asks.

“Perhaps,” I mutter. “Humans are harder to sense than mages or demons.”

“We can handle a few soldiers,” Beranabus barks. “I’ll turn their guns into eels—see how much damage they can do with them then!”

“We should go back,” Sharmila says. “Juni has set this up to ensnare us.”

“Why would she be expecting us?” Dervish argues.

“Lord Loss may have reasoned that we would target Juni. Perhaps everything—the attacks on Dervish, Juni revealing herself on the roof of the hospital—was designed to lure Beranabus here. The demon master might be poised to cross and finish us off personally.”

“Not through that window,” Kernel insists.

“Then through another,” she counters. “We have never been able to explain why Lord Loss can cross when other masters cannot, or how he goes about it.”

Beranabus considers that, then sighs. “You could be right, but we might never get a better shot at Juni. If she’s not expecting us, it’s the perfect time to strike. If she is and this is a trap, at least we can anticipate the worst. The magic in the air means she’ll be dangerous, but it serves us as much as her. If Lord Loss doesn’t turn up, we can match her. If he does cross, we’ll make a swift getaway.”

“Are you sure of that?” Sharmila scowls. “If we have to open a new window…”

“We won’t,” Beranabus says. “Kernel will stay here and guard our escape route. You’ll know if any other windows open, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Kernel says.

“Then keep this one alive and watch for signs of further activity. If you sense anything, summon us and we’ll withdraw. Is everyone satisfied with that?”

He looks pointedly at Sharmila. She frowns then shrugs. Taking the lead, Beranabus picks his way across the bloody, corpse-strewn deck and the rest of us cautiously, nervously follow.

My feet are soon sticky with blood, but I ignore my queasy feelings. This isn’t the way the world should be, having to creep through pools of blood, past dozens of slaughtered humans. But when you find yourself in the middle of a living nightmare you have two choices. You can cower in a corner, eyes shut, praying for it to be over. Or you can get on with things and do your best to deal with the job in hand. I don’t think I’m particularly brave, but I like to think I’ve always been practical.

We undertake a circuit of the upper deck before venturing into the depths of the ship, making sure there aren’t any surprises waiting for us up here if we have to make a quick getaway. We don’t find any demons or soldiers in league with the Demonata. Just one corpse after another, slowly frying beneath the merciless sun.

We’re passing a row of lifeboats when I feel a twitch at the back of my eyes. It’s the subtlest of sensations. I’d ignore it any other time. But I’m trying to be alert to the least hint of anything amiss, so I stop and focus. The twitch draws me to the third boat ahead of us. It hangs from hooks high above the deck.

“What is it?” Beranabus whispers. I feel magic build within him. He’s converting the energy in the air into a force he can use.

“Somebody’s there.” I point to the lifeboat. “A man. Hiding from us. He’s using a masking spell.”

“Get ready,” Beranabus says to the others. He points a finger at the hooks. They snap and the boat drops abruptly, landing hard on the deck. The man inside it yelps and tumbles out as the boat keels over.

Sharmila and Dervish step ahead of Beranabus, fingers crackling with pent-up magic. The man shrieks and wildly raises his hands, shouting, “I surrender!”

“Wait!” Sharmila snaps, grabbing Dervish’s arm. “I know him.”

The man pauses when he hears Sharmila’s voice. He stares at her shakily as if he doesn’t believe his ears or eyes.

“Kirilli Kovacs,” Sharmila says.

“I… I recognise you… I think,” he croaks.

“We met several years ago. You were with Zahava Lever. She was your mentor. My name is Sharmila—”

“—Mukherji,” the man says, breaking into a big smile. “Of course. Zavi spoke very highly of you. She said you were a great Disciple, one of the finest. I should have recognised you immediately. My apologies. It’s been a hard few…” He frowns. “I was going to say days, but it’s only been hours.”

“This is one of your lot?” Beranabus sniffs. We’re all a bit mystified. The man is wearing a dark suit, but there are silver and gold stars stitched into the shoulders and down the sides. He sports a thin moustache and is wearing mascara. He looks like a stage magician, not a Disciple.

“This is my cover,” he explains sheepishly. “I ran into fiscal complications…” He clears his throat. “Actually I gambled away my cash and my credit card was taken from me by a woman in… but that’s another story. I had to get on the ship. I could have used magic but it was easier to get a job. So I did, as Kirilli the Konjuror. I’ve used this disguise before. It’s always been effective. I can put on a first-rate stage show when I have to.”

“Your standards are slipping,” Beranabus says to Sharmila. “I might have to review the recruiting policy of the Disciples.”

“I’m of a first-rate pedigree, sir,” Kirilli snaps. “Even the best of us can fall prey to the occasional vice.” He tugs the arms of his jacket straight and glares.

“Zahava said Kirilli was an excellent spy,” Sharmila says. “He is very adept at trailing people and hiding from them. The fact that he survived the massacre here is proof of that. The Disciples need spies as much as they need warriors.”

“Precisely,” Kirilli huffs. “There’s a man for every job, as my dear departed father used to say.”

“I bet he worked in sewerage,” Dervish says drily.

Kirilli flushes, but ignores the jibe. “By the way,” he says stiffly, “I didn’t catch your names.”

Beranabus shrugs. “This is Dervish Grady. That’s Bec. I’m Beranabus.”

Kirilli’s jaw drops and he loses his composure completely.

Beranabus winks at me. “I have that effect on a lot of my idolising Disciples.”

“Only until we get to know you,” Sharmila mutters, then addresses Kirilli again. “Can you tell us what happened? Swiftly, please—we do not have much time.”

“That’s really Beranabus?” Kirilli says, wide-eyed. “I thought he’d look more like Merlin or Gandalf.”

“He’ll turn you into a hobbit if you don’t start talking,” Dervish growls.

Kirilli blanches, then scowls. “I was tracking a pair of rogue mages,” he says, adjusting his bow-tie—I spot a playing card up his sleeve. “They were planning to open a window.”

“Why didn’t you stop them?” Dervish asks.

“They were working for somebody else, taking orders from a superior. I wanted to expose their partner. I felt that was more important than stopping the crossing, although I hoped to do that as well.”

“No prizes for guessing who their boss was,” Dervish grimaces. “Ugly cow, disfigured, covered in pus and blood?”

Kirilli nods and shivers. “They were in regular contact, but I couldn’t get a fix on who they were talking to. From what I overheard, it sounded like there were no imminent plans to open the window. They made it sound like they’d be on the boat for months, waiting for an order to act.

“They either knew I was eavesdropping and said that to fool me, or there was a change of plan. Either way, they opened the window earlier today. About twenty demons spat through and set to work on the crew and guests. I managed to shield myself. That’s all I could do. There was no point fighting them—I wouldn’t have stood a chance.” He looks at us appealingly.

“You did all you could,” Sharmila says kindly. “You are a spy, not a warrior. Besides, Disciples never fight when the odds are stacked against them. You have no reason to feel guilty.”

Gratitude sweeps across Kirilli’s face. “I expected the window to close after a few minutes but it stayed open and there was more magic in the air than I’ve ever experienced. The demons went on torturing and slaughtering. They took most of the people below deck. Maybe the sun bothered them and they wanted to do their work in the shade.”

“No,” Beranabus grunts. “Lodestones need blood. They were feeding it.”

“What’s a lodestone?” Kirilli asks but Beranabus waves at him to continue. “Balint and Zsolt— the mages—remained up top. They did their share of killing but nothing to compare with the demons. Not long before you lot arrived that woman… that thing crawled up from below.” He shudders. “I wasn’t sure if she was human or Demonata. I’m still not certain.”

“I doubt if she knows herself anymore,” Beranabus says softly.

“She barked orders at the demons and they killed the last few survivors,” Kirilli goes on. “Then they retreated through the window and the woman said a spell to close it. Balint and Zsolt were grinning, mightily pleased with themselves, but she turned on them. Melted them into twin pools of bloody goo. Laughed as they screamed for mercy. Told them they were fools to trust the word of a monster. She lay down and wallowed in their juices when they were dead, then went below deck. That’s when I climbed into the lifeboat.”

“Interesting,” Beranabus murmurs. Then he winks at Sharmila. “This definitely stinks of a trap.”

“So we will leave?” Sharmila asks eagerly.

Beranabus chuckles. “I’ve walked into more traps over the centuries than I can remember. The Demonata and their familiars think they’re masters of cunning but they haven’t got the better of me yet. Let Juni and Lord Loss spring their surprise. I’ll blast a hole in it so big, you could sail this ship through.”

“Are you sure?” Dervish asks uneasily. “Juni was your apprentice. She knows all about you. Maybe you have a weak spot which she plans to exploit.”

Beranabus shrugs. “I love a challenge.”

“I really do not think we should—” Sharmila begins.

“We’ve no choice,” Beranabus snaps. “She’s our only link to the Shadow. It’s a gamble, but this is a time for gambling. I don’t think you understand the stakes. This is the end game. We don’t have the luxury of caution. If we don’t risk all and find out who the Shadow is and what its plans are, the world will fall.” He waves at the corpses around us. “A world of this, Sharmila. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not,” she mutters.

“Then trust me. We’re precariously balanced and I might be testing one trap too many, but we can’t play safe. It’s all or nothing now.”

“You truly believe matters are that advanced?” Sharmila asks.

“Aye.” Beranabus’s eyes glitter. “The Disciples have exercised caution over the years because there have always been other battles to fight. But this could be the final battle. Ever. Better to risk all on a desperate gamble than play it safe and hand victory to the Shadow. Aye?”

Sharmila hesitates, then smiles shakily. “Aye. If we fail, at least I will have the pleasure of saying, ‘I told you so’.”

“That’s the spirit,” Beranabus booms and heads for the nearest door. Without any sign of fear he leads us down into the bowels of the ship in search of the vile viper, Juni Swan.

HER MASTER’S VOICE

We progress in single file, Beranabus leading, Sharmila second, then me and Kirilli, with Dervish bringing up the rear. As we start down the first set of steps, Kirilli whispers, “Care to let me know what’s going on? I caught some of it but I’m in the dark on a lot of issues.”

“There’s a powerful new demon called the Shadow,” I explain. “We need to find out more about it. Juni—the mutant you saw—possesses information.”

“And all that talk of a trap…?”

“We think Juni or Lord Loss may have lured us here, that they might be trying to trap us. This could all be a set-up.”

“The plot thickens,” Kirilli says, trying to sound lighthearted, but failing to hide the squeak in his voice. “Any idea what the odds are? I’m a gambling man, so I knew where Beranabus was coming from when I heard him talking about the need to take risks. But I like to have an idea of the odds before I place a bet.”

“We honestly don’t know,” I tell him.

He makes a humming noise. “Let’s say two-to-one. Those are fair odds. I’ve bet on a lot worse in my time.”

He’s trembling. This is a new level for him. The wholesale slaughter on the deck shook him up and now he’s being asked to disregard Disciple protocol—run when the odds are against you—and fight to a very probable death.

“You don’t need to come with us,” I murmur. “We left someone up top to keep our escape route open. You could wait with him.”

Kirilli smiles nervously. “I’d love to, but I’ve always dreamt of standing beside the legendary Beranabus in battle. I was never this scared in my dreams, but if I back out now I won’t be able to forgive myself.”

We start down a long corridor. There are bodies lying in tattered, bloodied bundles at regular intervals. I wonder how many people a ship this size holds. Three thousand? Four? I’ve never heard the death screams of thousands of people. The noise must have been horrible.

“Have you fought before?” I ask Kirilli, to distract myself.

“Not really,” he says. “As Sharmila said, I’m a spy. Excellent at sniffing out intrigue and foiling the well-laid plans of villainous rogues like Zsolt and Balint. But when it comes to the dirty business of killing, I’m more a stabber in the back than a face-to-face man. Never saw anything wrong with striking an opponent from behind if they’re a nasty piece of work.”

“I doubt if Juni will turn her back on you. The best thing is to trust in your magic and try not to think too much. If you’re attacked, use your instincts. You’ll find yourself doing things you never thought possible.”

“And if my instincts come up short?” Kirilli asks.

Dervish snorts behind us. “That’ll be a good time to panic.”

Kirilli frowns over his shoulder at Dervish. “It’s rude to eavesdrop.”

“I’m a rude kind of guy,” Dervish retorts. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Hang back when we get there, fire off the occasional bolt of energy—at our opponents, not us—and try not to get in anyone’s way.”

“I can tell you’re a true leader of men,” Kirilli says sarcastically.

“Quiet,” Beranabus snarls. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Sorry, boss,” Dervish says, then sticks his right hand under his left armpit and makes a farting noise. We all giggle, even Beranabus. It’s not unnatural to laugh in the face of death. It’s not an act of bravery either. You do it because you might never have the chance to laugh again.

We descend slowly, exploring each level, wary of booby traps. But there are no secret windows, no army of demons, no humans packing weapons.

We pass a mound of bodies, mostly uniformed crew. They armed themselves with axes, knives, flares—whatever they could find—and tried to block off the corridor with bulky pieces of furniture. The demons ripped through them. They never stood a chance.

The lights suddenly snap off. Kirilli gasps and grabs my hand. I get images of his previous, limited encounters with demons, his stage act, the tricks he performs. He wanted to be a famous magician when he was young. Practised hard, but didn’t have the style. Good enough for clubs and cruisers, but he never had a real crack at the big time. He was pleased when he joined the Disciples, proud of his talent. But he’d have much rather succeeded in showbiz, where the worst he’d have ever had to face was being booed off stage.

Emergency lights flicker on. There’s a harsh metallic ripping sound somewhere far below. It echoes through the ship. The floor shudders, then steadies.

“Turbulence?” Beranabus asks.

“You only get that on planes,” Dervish says. “It could be the roll of the sea but I doubt it. Have you noticed the lack of movement? We haven’t tilted since we came aboard. The ship’s been steady, held in place by magic.”

“I knew there was something strange,” Kirilli growls. “I get terrible seasickness. I have to take pills to keep my food down. But I’ve been feeling fine for the last few hours. I thought I’d found my sea legs at last.”

The ripping noise comes again, louder than before. It reminds me of a noise Bill-E heard in a film about the Titanic, when the iceberg sliced through the hull and split it open.

“Any idea what’s going on down there?” Dervish asks.

Beranabus shrugs. “We’ll soon find out.”

We press on.

Eventually we hit the bottom of the ship. Except there isn’t much left of it. When we step into the cavernous hold, we instantly see what the noises were. The lowest layer has been peeled away. A huge hole has been gouged out of the hull, twenty-five or thirty metres wide, stretching far ahead of us, through the middle of the hold and up the walls at the sides. Water surrounds the gap, held back by a field of magic. If that field was to suddenly collapse, the sea would flood through and the ship would sink swiftly.

There are bodies all over the place, but a huge pile is stacked in the centre of the floorless hold, resting in a heap on the invisible barrier. It looks like they’re floating on air.

The tip of a large stone juts through the covering of corpses. Red streaks of blood line the cracks and indentations of the ancient stone. The bodies around it are pale and shrivelled. The stone has drunk from them. I recall the stone in the cave where I was imprisoned, when I sacrificed Drust, how it sucked his blood. These stones of magic are alive in some way. The Old Creatures filled them with a power we no longer understand.

A demon stands to attention behind the stone. He has a squat, leathery body and a green head, part human, part canine. A large, surly mouth. Four hairy arms and two long legs. Floppy ears. His white eyes are filled with fear and he holds himself rigidly, as if standing still against his will.

There’s a grey window of light a few metres from the stone and demon. In front of it, grinning lopsidedly in her warped, pus- and blood-drenched new form, is the monstrous Juni Swan.

“You took your time getting here,” she snarls.

“We stopped for a bite to eat,” Dervish quips. Sharmila is studying the demon. Beranabus is looking at Juni with a mixture of sadness and disgust. Kirilli is just gawping.

“What happened to you?” Beranabus asks quietly.

“Don’t you like my new body?” Juni croons, posing obscenely. “I preferred my old frame, but this is what I’m stuck with. The price of cheating death.”

“How did you survive?” Beranabus presses, the pity in his voice vanishing in an instant. “Dervish killed you. I felt your soul leave. Did Lord Loss have the Board with him? Is that how he pulled off this trick?”

Juni shakes her head smugly. “That’s for me to know and you to guess, old man.” She looks at the rest of us, sneering spitefully. “I told them you’d come. My master said you wouldn’t be so foolish, but I knew you would. You’re arrogant. You never let the threat of a trap put you off. I always knew your ridiculous self-belief would prove your undoing—and so it has.”

Beranabus stares at his ex-assistant, shaken by her hideous appearance and the mad hatred in her expression. “How did it come to this?” he croaks. “Life with me can’t have been worse than what you’re going through now.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Juni says. “You were far worse than Lord Loss. I serve him willingly, by my own choice, but I was a slave to you, with no say over what happened to me.”

“But—” Beranabus starts.

“No!” Juni barks. “You’re not worth arguing with.” She glares at the rest of us. “You can choose too. You don’t have to serve this fool or perish with him. Join me now and live. Stay loyal to him and die.”

Dervish laughs. “You’ve lost your marbles. Nadia Moore would have known that wasn’t an option. Even Juni Swan could have seen that it’s a no-brainer. But you’ve become something warped and inhuman. Do you honestly believe any of us would throw in our lot with a thing as twisted and insane as you?”

Juni’s lips tremble and the skin around her cheeks cracks in a series of tiny channels. “How dare you speak to me like that!”

“You were my love,” Dervish says. “I’ll speak to you any way I like.”

She starts to curse him, then restrains herself and giggles. “We’ll be lovers again, darling Dervish. I’ll keep you alive in a body even more wretched than this. I’ll lavish you with torment and pain. You’ll beg me to kill you, every single day for the rest of time, but I won’t.”

“Sounds nasty,” Dervish yawns.

“Um, I don’t know how these things normally work,” Kirilli speaks up, “but shouldn’t we be ripping her into a million pieces instead of trading insults?”

“Don’t knock the insults,” Dervish growls. “This is the best part of a fight. If you don’t get the digs in at the beginning, there’ll be no time later.”

“Who is this charlatan?” Juni huffs, glaring at Kirilli.

“A Disciple,” Beranabus says. “A friend and assistant, as you once were.”

“Assistant only,” Juni corrects him. “Never a friend.”

“You were Kernel’s friend,” Sharmila says softly. “You saved his life, even after you had turned traitor. Do you hate him too? Will you kill him along with the rest of us if you get the chance?”

“Without blinking,” Juni says coldly. “I warned him not to get in my way again. I might not kill him today—if he has any sense, he’ll slip away when the rest of you are dead—but I’ll catch up with him soon. It’s the end of mankind’s reign. Within a year we’ll cleanse Earth of its human fungus and take the world forward into a new demonic era. Your precious billions are living on borrowed time, Beranabus, but you reckless fools don’t even have that. Which is where Cadaver comes in…” She nods at the demon behind the lodestone.

“Cadaver?” Beranabus frowns.

“He stole the demon which was masquerading as Kernel’s brother,” Sharmila reminds him.

Cadaver whines and strains his neck. He’s not a willing participant in this. He’s a prisoner. When he opens his mouth and speaks, we learn who his captor is.

“Greetings, my brave, doomed friends.”

Cadaver’s lips are moving, but the words and accent aren’t the demon’s—they belong to the sentinel of sorrow, Lord Loss.

“A cheap trick,” Beranabus grunts. “Too afraid to face us in person? Reduced to speaking through a puppet?”

“Why not use Cadaver’s mouth?” Lord Loss counters, speaking from his realm in the Demonata’s universe. “I gave it to him. I could have made use of any of my familiars, but I thought this one most fitting. Such a pity Kernel isn’t here. I’m sure Cadaver’s appearance would have revived many fond memories.”

“I have had enough of this,” Sharmila growls. She takes a step forward and raises her hand, taking aim at Cadaver.

“Wait,” Beranabus stops her. “He’s close to the lodestone. If we kill him, his blood will drench it.”

“Will that make a difference?” Sharmila asks.

Beranabus grimaces. “I doubt he’s there for show.”

“Astute as always,” Lord Loss murmurs through the unfortunate Cadaver. “You would have made a fine demon, Beranabus. You have wasted your talent on a far inferior species. But it’s not too late to change. Join us. Live forever as one of the rulers of the universes.”

“Live forever?” Beranabus laughs. “Nonsense! All things die. That’s the nature of existence.”

“Nature is about to be reversed,” Lord Loss says.

“By who?” Beranabus asks. “Your shadowy master? What’s his name? I can’t serve him if I don’t even know his name.”

Lord Loss tuts. “No names, not unless you join us.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Beranabus sniffs. “And I don’t think you really expected me to switch sides. So why are we here? Do you want to gloat before your master kills us?”

“No,” Lord Loss says. Cadaver’s head swivels and his eyes fix on me. “We want Bec.”

Beranabus, Dervish and Sharmila shuffle towards me, forming a protective barrier. I’m touched by their show of support.

“What do you want with me?” I ask in a small, trembling voice.

“Your piece of the Kah-Gash, of course,” Lord Loss says.

Beranabus puts a hand on the nape of my neck. His fingers are shaking. By reading his thoughts, I understand why. Though I’m afraid, I place my hand over his and squeeze, giving my assent.

“You can’t have her,” Beranabus croaks. “I won’t let a piece of the Kah-Gash fall into your foul hands. I’ll kill her first.”

“But you love her,” Lord Loss gasps with mock shock.

“Aye,” Beranabus says. “But I’ll kill her anyway.”

Kirilli is gawping at us, confused and dismayed. Dervish and Sharmila look distraught but resigned.

“Then kill her,” Lord Loss purrs and I catch a glimpse of his wicked leer in Cadaver’s terror-stricken eyes. “It makes no difference. If she dies, the piece will be set free and faithful Juni will capture and deliver it to our new master. Death isn’t an obstacle to us, not any longer.

Beranabus squints at Cadaver, not sure if this is a bluff.

“The piece was originally mine,” Lord Loss says petulantly. “It lay dormant within me for hundreds of thousands of years. But when I shared my magic with Bec, back when I wished to preserve humanity, it slipped from my body into hers.” Cadaver shakes a hairy finger at me.

“It can move from one being to another?” Beranabus frowns and his thoughts move quickly. He uses a spell to communicate directly with me. Give it to me, he whispers silently. Pass it on.

I can’t, I reply. I don’t know how.

“Master,” Juni interrupts. “This window will close soon. If I am to return to your side, we must act now.”

“Of course,” Lord Loss says. “Wait a few moments more, my dear. Then you can come home.”

Cadaver bends forward over the lodestone, but his eyes remain rooted on us. “I must say farewell, old friends,” Lord Loss murmurs. “I don’t think any of you will survive the coming battle. You have caused me much displeasure over the years, but I shall miss you.”

His eyes settle on Dervish and he smiles. “Don’t worry about how Grubitsch will cope without you. He walked into a trap, just as you did. He will be dead soon if he isn’t already.”

Dervish hisses and starts to respond, but Lord Loss is looking at Sharmila now. “There will be much chaos before the end,” he tells her. “Humanity will be given time to scream before we cleanse the universe of its miserable stain. I will track down those you love and execute them personally. I will lavish extra attention on the children and babies.”

Sharmila is close to tears, but she holds them back and curses Lord Loss foully. He chuckles and his gaze flickers to Kirilli. The stage magician braces himself. “Go on,” he snarls manfully. “I can take any threat you dish out.”

“I don’t know who you are and I have no interest in you,” Lord Loss says dismissively, and Kirilli deflates.

“Bec,” the demon master hums, staring at me directly. “It has been such a long time since our paths—”

“Let’s get out of here,” I snap, backing away from the lodestone and the mound of dead bodies, having no desire to listen to more of his rhetoric.

“Aye,” Beranabus says, retreating beside me. He thrusts a hand in Juni’s direction, but she darts through the window before he can strike. A crazy, lingering cackle is her only parting shot at us.

“Very well,” Lord Loss sighs. “Let the slaughter commence.”

Cadaver’s head explodes and the demon’s blood soaks the lodestone. It glows beneath the stack of corpses, sucking the blood as it pumps from Cadaver’s neck. A bolt of light shoots from the base of the stone, down through the watery layers of the sea, disappearing a second later into the murky depths below.

We should run. It’s crazy to linger. But we’re held, captivated, curious to see what will happen. This is new even to Beranabus, who’s seen virtually everything in his time.

For a few seconds—nothing. Then a ball of light rises from the darkness of the ocean floor. It’s larger than the ball which shot downwards, and expands the closer it comes. There’s a dark glob at the centre, almost like a pupil in an eye. It’s a long way off, but I’m certain it’s the Shadow. A strange, tingling energy washes into the ship, saturating the air around us. I’ve never felt any magic quite like it.

“Enough!” Beranabus shouts. “Let’s get out before it tears through the hold and rips us apart.”

We surge towards the door, a terrified Kirilli leading the way, Sharmila behind him, then me. Dervish and Beranabus bring up the rear, preparing themselves to fight off the Shadow.

Just before we get to the door, something moves nearby. It’s one of the humans. A woman. Her arms are twitching and her head is rising slowly. The demons must have mistakenly left her for dead.

“Wait!” I yell, breaking left. “There’s a survivor.” I bend over the woman, grab her arms and haul her to her feet. “Come on. We have to get out. I’ll help…”

I come to a sickening halt. The woman’s face is missing from the nose down. Scraps of her brain trickle down her chest as she gets to her feet, through the gap where her jaw should be. She can’t be alive, yet she’s looking at me. But not with warmth or gratitude—only with hunger.

My mind whirrs and I realise what’s happening. But before I can yell a warning, dozens of corpses around us thrash, slither, then rise like dreadful ghouls. The dead are coming back to life!

SHIP OF THE LIVING DEAD

Bill-E loved zombie films. He thought there was nothing cooler than corpses coming back to life and eating the brains of the living. But I don’t think he’d have been thrilled if it happened to him in real life, like it’s happening to us now.

The revived dead throw themselves at us slavishly, mindlessly, silently. They move as fluidly as in life, not in the shambling manner of movie zombies. Some are hampered by the loss of limbs and stumble sluggishly. But most are as quick on their feet as any living person.

They look more like living people too. They’re not rotting, misshapen monsters. It’s easy to rip the head off an inhuman beast from another dimension, but doing that to someone who looks human feels like murder. It’s horrible.

The woman I picked off the floor tries to claw my throat open. I shove her away and turn to kick a man in the head before he bites my thigh. Ahead of me, a girl throws herself down the stairs and knocks Kirilli over. She snaps at his left hand and chews off his two smallest fingers. He screams, then sets her aflame, instinct lending him the magical fighting impulse which he previously lacked.

“Zombies!” Dervish snorts with disgust, scattering a handful with a ball of energy. “First werewolves, then demons, now zombies. What will they throw at us next?”

“There might not be a next,” Sharmila says, helping Kirilli to his feet and shooting a bolt of fire up the stairs. There are shrieks from the zombies above us and the stench of burning flesh and hair fills the air. Sharmila grimaces, but sends another burst of flames after the first.

“You’re not worried about this lot, are you?” Dervish says, sending more of the living corpses flying across the hold. “We can handle them. We’ve faced a hell of a lot stronger in our time.”

“You miss the point,” Sharmila replies with forced calm. “The dead are meant only to delay us. There is our true foe.” She points to the centre of the hold. The ball of light is almost level with the ship. As we watch, it breaks around the hull and disintegrates. A black, hissing ball of nightmares explodes through the shield of energy and gathers around the lodestone.

We only got a glimpse of the Shadow that night in the cave. Here, in the lights of the hull, it’s revealed in all its furious glory. The creature is the general shape of a giant octopus, about fifteen metres broad, ten metres tall, covered in a mass of long, countless, writhing tendrils, which whip around the lodestone, tightening and loosening as the creature saps strength from the ancient stone. A few of the living dead wander too close to the lodestone and are beheaded by some of the knifelike tentacles—the Shadow doesn’t suffer fools gladly. The beast doesn’t seem to have a face, but I’m sure it sees us and is focused upon us.

As I gaze with horror at the massive, pulsing creature of shadows, a fat man trailing guts hurls himself at me, gnashing his teeth. I flick him away with the wave of a hand and shuffle closer to Beranabus. He’s eyeing the Shadow warily.

“It doesn’t feel like a demon,” I note.

“I know,” he mutters.

“Can we outrun it?”

“We can try.”

“The stairs are free,” Sharmila calls. “But more of the dead are coming. If we are to flee, we must do so now.”

“What are we waiting for?” Kirilli yells. He hasn’t managed to cauterise his wound. Blood spurts from the jagged stumps where his fingers used to be.

“You think we can fight it?” Dervish asks, stepping up beside Beranabus.

“I don’t know.”

The window Juni escaped through blinks out of existence. That seems to decide Beranabus. “Let’s test it,” he grunts, moving away from the door, back towards the lodestone. “Maybe it’s not as powerful as it thinks.”

He unleashes a ball of bright blue magic at the Shadow. The ball strikes the creature directly and crackles around it. Its tendrils thrash wildly, then return to their almost tender caressing of the lodestone. Its body continues to throb. A high piercing sound fills the hold—I think the Shadow’s laughing at us.

Sharmila bends, touches the invisible barrier where the floor should be and creates a pillar of fire. It streaks towards the lodestone, slicing through several zombies on the way. When it reaches the Shadow, Sharmila barks a command and it billows upwards, forming a curtain of flames. The Shadow’s consumed, its tendrils retracting like a spider’s legs shrivelling up. But when the flames die away, it emerges unharmed, oozes over the lodestone and slides towards us.

Dervish leaps through the air and chops at a thick tendril. He cuts clean through it, severing the tip. The amputated piece dissolves before it hits the floor, crumbling away to ash.

The Shadow catches Dervish with another tentacle, roughly shakes him, then flings him across the hold. Beranabus halts Dervish’s flight and the spiky-haired mage drops to the floor a few metres in front of the magician, gasping with pain, his skin burnt a bright pink where the tendril touched him.

“Stuff this!” Kirilli pants, and darts up the stairs. I let him run. No point trying to make him fight if he doesn’t want to. Besides, I doubt he could make much of a difference.

About a dozen walking corpses converge on me. I work a quick blinding spell, then plough through them as they mill around. I squat by Dervish as Beranabus and Sharmila engage the Shadow, and swiftly cool his burnt flesh.

“Are you OK?” I ask as he sits up, dazed.

“Three,” he mutters. When I frown, he smiles sheepishly. “Sorry. I thought you asked how many fingers you were holding up.”

I help him to his feet. He gulps when he looks at the Shadow, but advances to try again.

“What can I do?” I shout at Beranabus.

“Get out,” he roars. “You’re the one it’s after.”

“But I can’t—”

“Go!”

Cursing, I turn and run. Before I’m even halfway to the door, I feel a whoosh of hot air on my back. Glancing over my shoulder, I see the Shadow directly behind me. It’s swept past Beranabus and his Disciples, barrelling them aside. They lie sprawled on the invisible floor. They’re picking themselves up, turning to help me—but too late.

The Shadow seizes me with several tentacles and lifts me high into the air. I scream, pain filling all parts of my body at once. It’s like being on fire, except the agony cuts deeper than any natural flame, burning through flesh and bone, turning my blood to vapour.

I somehow hold myself together. It takes every last bit of magic that I possess, but I fight the terrible, fiery clutch of the Shadow and wildly restore blood, bones and flesh as it grips me tighter and tries to fry me again. I’m absorbing memories from the beast, mostly garbled, but what I comprehend is more terrifying than I would have considered possible.

The Shadow’s surprised I’m still alive. It meant to slaughter me and absorb the freed piece of the Kah-Gash. But it’s not dismayed by my resistance. The beast is much stronger than me and knows it simply has to keep applying pressure. I can last a matter of seconds, no more. Then…

Beranabus is suddenly beside me, bellowing like a madman. He slashes at the tentacles, slicing through them as easily as Dervish did. The Shadow is more of a menace than any demon I’ve ever faced, but it’s insubstantial. It’s not by nature a physical creature. It can easily and quickly replace what we destroy, but it can’t harden itself against our blows.

I fall free and Beranabus drags me away. Sharmila and Dervish dart into the gap we’ve left and attack the Shadow with bolts of energy and fire. It makes a squealing noise and lashes at them with its tentacles. They duck and dodge the blows, punching and kicking at the tendrils.

“Go!” Beranabus gasps and tries to throw me ahead of him.

“Wait,” I cry, holding on. “I know what it is.”

“Tell me later,” he roars. “There’s no time now.”

He’s right. I won’t have the chance to explain, not with words. But I have to let him know. He thinks he can defeat this beast, that if they keep working on the tendrils, they’ll eventually chop their way through to the body. He believes they can kill it, like any other demon.

He’s wrong.

I clutch his small, clean hands and use the same spell he used earlier to bypass the need for words. He gasps as I force-feed him the information. Then his eyes widen and a look of shocked desperation crosses his face.

“How?” he croaks.

“I don’t know,” I sob.

Sharmila screams. The Shadow has ripped one of her legs loose. It rains to the floor in a shower of bones and flesh. A few of the zombies fall on the remains with vicious delight.

Beranabus is thinking hard and fast, trying to turn this in our favour. He’s always been able to outwit demons who were certain they’d got the better of him.

Even in recent years, ancient, battered, befuddled, his cunning gave him a crucial advantage. He can’t believe it will fail him now, but he’s never had to deal with anything like the Shadow.

The lines of his face go smooth. He half-nods and his lips twitch at the corners. My heart leaps with hope. He’s seen something. He has a plan!

“Tell Kernel,” he wheezes, standing straight and scattering a horde of zombies as if swatting flies. “Tell him to find me.”

“You want me to send Kernel down?” I frown. “But he’s not a fighter. He—”

“Just tell him to find me,” Beranabus sighs, then bends and kisses my forehead. “I loved you as a child, Bec, and I love you still. I always will.”

Through the brief contact, I catch a glimpse of what he’s planning. It’s perilous. He probably won’t make it out alive. But it’s the only way. Our only hope.

“Don’t watch,” he says, and his voice is guttural, unnatural, as his vocal cords begin to thicken and change. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

He whirls away and bellows at the Shadow, an inhuman challenge. Dervish and Sharmila glance back, astonished by the ferocity of the roar. Their faces crumple when they see what Beranabus is becoming.

I back away slowly, but I can’t obey Beranabus’s final command. I have to look. Besides, he thought my feelings would alter if I saw him in his other form, but they won’t. If you truly love someone, you don’t care what they look like.

Beranabus is transforming. He outgrows his suit, which falls away from him like a banana peel. His skin splits and unravels. Bones snap out of his head, then lengthen, fresh flesh forming around them. Muscles bulge on his arms and legs, like pustulent sores. They burst, then reform, even larger than before. Tough, dark skin replaces his natural covering. Only it’s not really skin—more like scales.

A tail forces its way out through the small of Beranabus’s back. It grows to two metres… three… four. Spikes poke out of it, as well as several mouths full of sharp teeth and forked tongues.

I catch sight of his face. Purplish, scaly skin. Dark grey eyes, round like a fly’s, utterly demonic. His mouth is three times the size of my head, filled with fangs that look more like stalactites and stalagmites than teeth. Yellowish blood streams from his nose but he takes no notice. Raising his massive arms, he pushes through the undulating nest of tentacles and hammers a fist at the Shadow, driving it back.

“What the hell is that?” Dervish croaks, backing up beside me, helping the one-legged Sharmila along.

“Beranabus,” I answer quietly. “The Bran we never saw. The demon side that he kept shackled. This is what he would have looked like if he’d let his father’s genes run free, if he’d chosen the way of the Demonata.”

Beranabus lashes the Shadow with his tail. The spikes rip through the shadowy wisps of its body, the teeth snapping at it, tearing open holes. The Shadow shrieks angrily but the holes quickly close and the beast fights without pause, smothering Beranabus with its tentacles.

Dervish, Sharmila and I are by the doorway. We should take advantage of the situation and race up the stairs. But we’re mesmerised. We can’t flee without knowing the outcome. Sharmila clears the stairs of zombies, to keep the route out of the hold open, but she doesn’t take her eyes off the battling pair.

“Can he control himself like that?” she asks quietly as the behemoths wrestle.

“Not for long,” I whisper. “This is the first time he’s completely unchained his beastly half. If he maintains that shape and lets the monster run free too long, it will take over.”

“How much time does he have?” Dervish asks.

“He doesn’t know. He’s not even sure he can turn back again. Maybe he’s given it too much freedom. The Beranabus we knew could be gone forever. He might turn against us and work with the Shadow to destroy mankind.”

Dervish and Sharmila stare at me as if I’m the one who’s changed shape.

“Why would he take such a risk?” Sharmila gasps.

“He had to. I’ll explain later. If we survive.”

The beast that was Beranabus shrugs free of the Shadow’s tentacles and staggers away. For an awful moment I think that he’s about to attack us. But then he bellows at the Shadow and darts past it, making for the lodestone.

“Ah!” Sharmila exclaims with sudden hope. “If he breaks the stone…”

“…the Shadow will be sucked back to its own universe,” I finish.

“We hope,” Dervish adds gloomily.

Finding its path to me unexpectedly clear, the Shadow lunges forward, eager to finish me off. Then it pauses. It doesn’t glance back—as I noted earlier, it doesn’t have a face—but it’s somehow analysing Beranabus. There’s a brief moment of consideration—can it kill me and steal the power of the Kah-Gash before Beranabus breaks the stone?

The Shadow decides the odds are against it and reverses direction, launching itself at the transformed magician. It catches him just before he reaches the lodestone. The pair spin past. Beranabus roars with frustration as he shoots beyond his target. The Shadow whips him with its tentacles. Deep cuts open across his arms and legs, and many of the protective scales on his chest and back shatter under the force of the blows.

Just before they fly out of striking distance of the lodestone, Beranabus’s tail twitches. The tip catches a notch in the stone and Beranabus jerks to a halt. The Shadow loses its grip and ends up in a heap. It’s back on its tentacles within seconds but Beranabus has already jerked himself within reach of the lodestone.

He grabs the stone with his massive hands and exerts great pressure, trying to snap it in half. There’s a cracking sound and a split forms in the uppermost tip of the rock. But then it holds and although Beranabus strains harder, it doesn’t divide any further.

The Shadow hurls itself at Beranabus and lands on his back. Tendrils jab at him from all directions, destroying his scaly armour, penetrating the flesh beneath. One of his grey eyes pops. Several of his fangs are ripped from his jaw. Blood flies from him in jets and fountains.

Beranabus howls with agony, but otherwise ignores the assault and focuses on the lodestone. He’s still trying to tear it in two. The stone is pulsing. The split at the top increases a few centimetres. The gap’s just wide enough for Beranabus to jam his unnaturally large fingers into it. Snapping at the Shadow with the remains of his fangs, he transfers his grip to the crack, gets the tips of all his fingers inside and tugs.

There’s a creaking sound, then a snapping noise, and the stone splits down the middle to about a third of the way from the top. Beranabus yells with triumph, wraps both arms around the severed chunk of rock and rips it free of the lodestone, tossing it to the floor as an oversized ball of waste.

The Shadow screeches and scuttles after the rock, perhaps hoping to reattach it. I quickly unleash my power and send the piece of stone shooting across the hold. It smashes into the side of the ship and explodes in a cascade of pebbly splinters.

Beranabus roars with ghastly, demonic laughter and bites into one of the Shadow’s tentacles. As he rips it off, another tendril strikes the side of his head and slices through to his brain. The triumph that had blossomed within me vanishes instantly.

“Bran!” I scream and dart towards him. Dervish holds me back.

The Shadow strikes repeatedly at Beranabus in a tempestuous rage. It gouges great chunks of flesh from his chest and stomach. Scraps of lung, slivers of a heart and other internal organs splatter the broken lodestone. Then, in a childish sulk, the Shadow tosses him aside like an old doll it’s finished playing with.

The demonic beast that Beranabus has become rolls over several times before coming to a rest near the side of the hull. Again I try to race to his aid, but Dervish has a firm hold and doesn’t let go even when I bite him.

Beranabus raises his huge, transformed, scaly head. He glances at the Shadow and the lodestone with his one bulbous grey eye and grins. Then his head swivels and he looks for me. When he finds me struggling with Dervish, his grin softens and I see a trace of the Beranabus I knew in the expression. I also see the boy he once was—scatterbrained Bran. He smiles at me foolishly, the way Bran used to, and gurgles something. I think he’s trying to say, “Flower.”

Then the grey light in his eye dims and extinguishes. The smile turns into a tired sneer. He coughs up yellow blood and tries to drag himself forward. But the strength drains from his arms. His body sags. A jagged breath dances from his lips and his head drops. By the time his forehead connects with the cold steel floor of the hold, the three thousand year old legend is part of this world no more.

GOING DOWN

In desperation the Shadow clambers after me, but a funnel has formed in the water beneath the broken lodestone. It stretches far down and whirls violently, creating a magical vacuum which drags at the mass of shadows. The beast’s rear tentacles are stiff behind it, drawn towards the vortex, and its body begins to lengthen and narrow. The creature strains against it, but the vacuum is too strong. There are laws which even the Shadow has to obey, at least for the time being.

In a rush, and with a hateful shriek, the Shadow’s ripped away. It smashes through the lodestone, shattering the remains of the rock, and disappears down the funnel, howling all the way. Moments later the funnel collapses in on itself as swiftly as it formed.

I want to rush to Beranabus’s corpse and bid him farewell. I’m weeping and all I want is to be by my dead friend’s side. But that’s not possible. Because now that the lodestone’s magic has evaporated, the shield keeping the sea at bay has started to give way.

The fragments of the lodestone fall first, trickling through cracks in the invisible barrier. Water seeps up through the cracks, spreading neatly across the surface of the shield. Then one of the living dead stumbles and drops out of sight as if crashing through a thin layer of ice.

“Let’s get the hell out of here!” Dervish shouts, hauling me through the door.

“Beranabus!” I cry.

“We can’t help him now,” Dervish pants. As he says it, the shield flickers out of existence and water floods the hold.

The ship lurches. A wave of foaming water surges towards us, washing away the helpless bodies of the zombies. We should be washed away too, but Sharmila acts swiftly to avert catastrophe, establishing a barrier around us and the doorway. The wave breaks and seethes away, the sea temporarily cheated of its victims.

“Quick,” Sharmila gasps, hopping up the stairs. “The magic is fading. The barrier will not hold.”

She’s right. I can feel the energy ebbing away at a frightening rate. I look one last time for the body of Beranabus, but the ocean has already claimed it. Wiping tears from my cheeks, I hurry after Dervish and Sharmila, knowing that if we don’t climb sharply, we’ll soon be joining Beranabus in his watery grave.

We move a lot slower going up than we did coming down. It’s not just the fact that we’re climbing. We’re tired and drained. We were fine when the air was thick with magic, but the unnatural energy is fading fast.

We’re halfway up the second flight of stairs when I hear the sea gush up the corridors behind us. I’ve no idea how long we have. I imagine it would usually take a ship this size at least a couple of hours sink, but the hole in the hull was extremely large.

The zombies are still going strong. The strange magic of the Shadow which reanimated them is fading slower than the energy we were tapping into. While we’re rapidly weakening, the zombies haven’t been significantly affected.

We don’t use bolts of magic anymore, or arrogantly dismiss them with a wave of a hand. We’re reduced to close-quarters fighting. We can still repel them with our charged fists and feet—the magic hasn’t disappeared entirely—but there are thousands of zombies. If we’re still here when the last of the energy fades, they’ll swamp us. Unless the sea claims us first.

Sharmila’s second leg fragments. She pumps magic into it to hold the bones and scraps of flesh together.

“Don’t bother,” Dervish grunts, lifting her. “Save your strength. Get on my back. I’ll be your legs. You keep the zombies off.”

“What about your heart?” Sharmila shouts.

“It’ll hold for a while.”

I can move much quicker than Dervish now that he’s burdened with Sharmila. I’m tempted to race ahead of them, up through the ship, away from the encroaching water. But they’re my friends and they wouldn’t desert me if I was in their position. If it becomes necessary to flee, I will. But as long as there’s a chance we might all make it out alive, I’ll stick with them.

I take the lead, knocking flailing, snarling zombies out of our way, pushing ahead, the undead humans crowding the staircase behind and in front. I should feel fear in the face of such warped, nightmarish foes, but my emotions are focused on Beranabus—there’s only room within me for mourning.

I can’t believe he’s dead. It’s hard to imagine a world without the ancient magician. He’s been mankind’s saviour for longer than anyone should have to serve. What will we do without him? I doubt the Disciples can repel the waves of Demonata attacks by themselves. Beranabus believed our universe created heroes in times of need. If that’s true, perhaps someone will replace him. But it’s hard to picture anybody taking the magician’s place. He was one of a kind.

We hit another level. I’m about to lurch up the next set of stairs when I spot Kirilli Kovacs tussling with a gaggle of zombies. He’s in bad shape, bitten and scratched all over. A dozen of the living dead surround him.

I should leave him. He doesn’t really deserve to be rescued and I can’t afford to waste any of my dwindling power. But I can’t turn my back on a man just because he’s a coward. Kirilli didn’t betray or undermine us—he simply gave in to fear, as many people would have.

Drawing on my reserves, I mutter a spell and gesture at the zombies packed around Kirilli. They fly apart and a path opens. “Run!” I yell. Kirilli doesn’t need to be told twice. He stumbles clear of the zombies and is by my side moments later. Blood cakes his face, but his eyes are alert behind the red veil. He starts to say something.

“No time for talking,” I snap. “Get up those stairs quick, and if you fall, I’ll leave you.”

Kirilli flinches, draws a breath, then darts ahead of me, taking pole position, staggering up the seemingly endless flights of steps towards the upper deck and its promise of escape.

As we’re forcing our way up another staircase clogged with zombies, Dervish gasps and collapses to his knees. One hand darts to his chest. I think it’s the end of him, but Sharmila presses her hands over his and channels magic into his heart. She pulls a stricken face as she helps—the magic she’s directing into his flesh means she has less to ward off the pain in her legs. But she has no real choice. Without Dervish to carry her, she’s doomed.

Kirilli is struggling with the zombies. He’s weak and afraid. He lashes out at them wildly, not preserving his energy or channelling it wisely. I’ve tried warning him, but he either doesn’t hear me or can’t respond. He knows only one thing—he has to go up. That’s tattooed on his brain, driving him on.

Thankfully the walking corpses are moving more like regular zombies now. Their magic is fading. The attacks are clumsier, less coordinated. But they’re still on their feet, our scent thick in their nostrils, licking their lips at the thought of biting into our soft, juicy brains.

As we hit the last step of another flight, Kirilli screams something unintelligible. I’m exhausted, but I push forward in reply to his cry, fearing the worst. But when I clear the step, I realise it was a yell of exhilaration, not dismay. We’re back at the upper deck.

The ship is lurching at a worrying angle, and the deck is littered with hordes of zombies. But we get a fresh burst of hope when we breathe the fresh, salty air.

Dervish lays Sharmila down and squats beside her. “I need… a minute,” he wheezes, face ashen, rubbing his chest.

“We can’t stop,” Kirilli shrieks, knocking over a zombie in uniform who’s either the ship’s captain or a highly placed mate.

“Shut up,” I growl and crouch next to Dervish. “Let me help.”

“No,” he mutters. “Save your magic… for yourself.”

“Don’t be a fool.” I shove his hands away and rest my left palm on his chest. I pump magic into him, enough to keep him ticking over.

“Do you know the way back to Kernel?” Sharmila asks, wincing from the pain in her thighs. They’re bleeding at the stumps, the flesh we knotted together in the demon universe coming undone.

“Yes.” I grin at her. “Perfect memory, remember?”

She returns the smile, but shakily. “Perhaps you should leave me here.”

“We’re not leaving anyone behind,” I say firmly. “Except maybe Kirilli.”

He stares at me with a wounded expression. “I hope you don’t—” he starts.

“Not now,” I stop him. My cheeks are dry. I must have stopped weeping at some point coming up the stairs. The ship is slipping further into the water. The angle of the deck to the sea is increasing steadily. Kernel’s at the end of the ship which is rising. If we don’t act quickly, we won’t make it.

“Come on,” I command. “One last push. We can rest once we slip through the window.”

Dervish sighs wearily but staggers to his feet. He reaches for Sharmila. “Wait,” I tell him and glance fiercely at Kirilli. “It’s time you proved yourself worthy of rescue. Carry her.”

“But I have a bad back,” he protests. “I never lift anything heavier than—”

“Carry her,” I repeat myself, “or I’ll cut your legs off, glue them to Sharmila and let her walk out of here on your feet.”

Kirilli gives a little cry of horror. He suspects I’m bluffing, but he’s uncertain.

“I am not that heavy,” Sharmila chuckles. “Especially without my legs.”

“We’re nearly there,” I tell the stage magician. “You won’t have to carry her far.”

“Very well,” Kirilli snaps. “But if I throw my back out of joint, I’ll sue.” He flashes me a feeble grin and picks up Sharmila. I help settle her on his back, then push through the zombies converging on us, lashing out with both my small fists, praying for the strength to stay on my feet long enough to guide us all to safety.

I’m almost fully drained. Only a sheer stubborn streak keeps me going. I refuse to fall this close to the end. It happened before, in the cave all those centuries ago. I almost made it out. I could see the exit as the rock ground shut around it. It was horrible to come up short with freedom in sight. I won’t taste that defeat again.

Deckchairs and unbolted fixtures slide down the deck. Some of the zombies topple and slide too. Extra obstacles for us to dodge. The end of the ship continues to rise out of the water. A few more minutes and the angle will be too steep to climb. We’ll slip backwards to perish with the zombies when the ship’s dragged under.

We catch sight of the swimming pool. The window’s still open and Kernel’s in front of it. But he’s struggling with a zombie. There are dozens around him and the window, separated from them by a circle of magic. But one has pierced his defences and is wrestling with him.

“Kernel!” I cry. “Hold on. We’re almost with you. We—”

Kernel shouts something in response. He tries to tear himself away from the zombie, then reaches for its head to rip it loose—it’s only attached by jagged strips of flesh to the neck. There’s a flash of blinding light and we all cover our eyes, Kirilli dropping Sharmila out of necessity.

When I open my eyes a few seconds later, it’s like looking at a bright light through several layers of plastic. I blink furiously to clear my vision. When I can see properly, I look for Kernel. The circle where he was is still in place. The zombies around it are all momentarily sightless, stumbling into each other, rubbing their eyes. But the window is gone. And where it stood—where Kernel and the zombie were battling—is an ugly swill of tattered flesh, clumps of guts, fragments of bones and several pints of wasted human blood.

THE ONLY WAY

Stunned, I stare at the spot where Kernel and the window were. I’m not sure what happened. Where did the explosion of light come from? Are those the remains of Kernel and the zombie, or just one of them? Did Kernel slip through the window before it closed or did he perish here, the window blinking out of existence along with its creator?

“Is he dead?” Dervish roars, smashing the nose of a zombie which was about to sink its teeth into my skull.

“I don’t know.”

“Sharmila?”

She shakes her head uncertainly.

Dervish doesn’t bother to ask Kirilli. He glances around, desperation lending a wild look to his already strained features. “The lifeboats,” he mutters. “We have to get away from here or we’ll be sucked under.”

“But—” I begin.

“No time,” he barks, staggering towards the nearest lifeboat. “Come on. Don’t stand there gawping.”

Kirilli moans and stumbles after Dervish, picking up Sharmila without having to be told. She punches weakly at a couple of zombies, not much strength left. We’re all firing on our final cylinders. Only the promise of escape keeps us going. But I’ve thought of something Dervish hasn’t. Escape will be more complicated than he thinks.

Dervish is working on a lifeboat when I reach him. He doesn’t have the magic to release it, so he’s having to manually lower it over the side. Kirilli is helping.

“We had a safety drill a few days ago,” Kirilli boasts. “Leave it to me. I know what to do. If we pull this lever here…”

“That’s where the oar goes,” Dervish growls, pushing Kirilli aside.

The lifeboat slides towards the edge of the ship, but comes to a sudden halt just above the rails. “It’s stuck,” Dervish grunts, pushing at it, looking for something—anything—else to pull.

“No,” I sigh, keeping an eye on several zombies heading our way. “It’s the barrier. The ship’s still encased in a bubble of magic.”

“Nonsense,” Dervish snorts. “That’s gone. My heart wouldn’t be hammering like a pneumatic drill if—”

“The barrier’s still there,” I stop him. “I don’t know how, but it is.” I point at the nearest zombie, a woman a long way ahead of the others. “Kirilli, grab her and throw her overboard.”

“With pleasure,” Kirilli says—the zombie is much smaller than him. He runs across, picks her up and chucks her over the rail. She bounces off an invisible wall and lands on top of Kirilli. As she chews his left forearm he squeals and wriggles free. He kicks her hard, then glares at me. “You knew that was going to happen!”

I ignore the irate conjuror and lock gazes with Dervish. The fight has sapped his strength. He looks like an old man ready for death.

“The barrier might crumble before the ship sinks,” Sharmila suggests, more out of wretched hope than any real conviction.

“It’s as strong as when we arrived,” I disagree. “We could have maybe swum out through the hole in the bottom—the barrier must be breached there, since the water’s coming in—but we can’t get back to the hold to try.”

“The zombies!” Dervish cries, coming alive again. “We can use them to punch a hole through the barrier. I did that in Slawter, exploded a demon against the wall of energy. It worked there—it can work here.”

“I’m not sure,” I mutter, but Dervish has already set his sights on a zombie. Finding extra power from somewhere, he sends the dead person flying against the invisible barrier and holds it there with magic.

“Sharmila,” he grunts. “Blast it!”

The old Indian lady tries to focus, but she’s too exhausted.

“Leave this to me,” Kirilli says, preening himself like an action movie hero. He slides a playing card out from underneath his torn, chewed sleeve, takes careful aim and fires it at the zombie. When it strikes he shouts, “Abracadabra!” and the card and zombie explode. “There,” Kirilli smirks. “I’m not as useless as you thought, am I?”

“Nobody could be,” Dervish murmurs, but the humour is forced. The explosion hasn’t dented the barrier. It holds as firmly as before.

“They’re not powerful enough,” I note sadly, felling another zombie as it attacks. “The magic they’re working off isn’t the same as ours. They’re puppets of the Shadow, not real creatures of magic. We could butcher a thousand against the barrier, but it won’t work any better than exploding normal humans.”

“That’s why Juni sent the demons back to their own universe,” Dervish groans. “So we couldn’t use them if we got away from the Shadow.”

“Lord Loss isn’t a fool,” I smile sadly. “He learns from his mistakes.”

“We’re finished,” Dervish says miserably.

“Aye,” I sigh, unconsciously mimicking Beranabus. “All that’s left to determine is whether the zombies eat us or if we drown in the deep blue sea.”

I stare at the ranks of living dead shuffling towards us. The Shadow’s magic is dwindling. Many of the zombies have fallen and lie twitching or still, returned to the lifeless state from which the Shadow roused them. But a lot remain active, clambering up from the lower levels, massing and advancing, hunched over against the sharp, angled incline of the deck. If the ship doesn’t sink within the next few minutes, they’ll overwhelm us.

“I don’t want to drown,” Kirilli says softly “I’ve always been afraid of that. I’d rather be eaten.” He tugs at the tattered threads of his jacket, trying to make himself presentable. Facing the oncoming hordes, he takes a deep breath and starts towards them.

“Wait,” Sharmila stops him. She’s smiling faintly. “Disciples never quit. Zahava must have taught you that. We carry on even when all seems lost. When dealing with matters magical, there is always hope.”

“She’s right,” I tell him. “If Kernel’s alive, he might open another window and rescue us. Or I could be wrong about the barrier. Maybe it will vanish before the ship sinks and we can clamber overboard.”

“What are the odds?” Kirilli asks.

“Slim,” I admit. “But you don’t want to surrender to the zombies, only to spot the rest of us slipping free at the last second, do you?”

Kirilli squints at me, struggling to decide.

“Actually I was not planning on a miracle,” Sharmila says. “We have the power to save ourselves. We do not need to rely on divine intervention.”

“What are you talking about?” Dervish frowns.

“There is a way out,” Sharmila says. “We can blow a hole in the barrier.”

“You’ve sensed a demon?” I cry, doing a quick sweep of the ship, but finding nothing except ourselves and the zombies.

“No,” Sharmila says. “We do not need demons.” She looks peaceful, much younger than her years. “We are beings of magic.”

Dervish’s expression goes flat. So does mine. We understand what she’s saying. As one, our heads turn and we stare at Kirilli.

“What?” he growls suspiciously.

“No,” Sharmila chuckles. “I was not thinking of poor Kirilli. I doubt he would volunteer and we are not, I hope, prepared to turn on one of our own and murder him like a pack of savages.”

“We’ll draw lots,” Dervish says quickly. “Kirilli too, whether he likes it or not.”

“Draw lots for what?” Kirilli shouts, still clueless.

“There will be no lottery,” Sharmila says firmly. “Bec is too young and Kirilli is not willing.”

“Fine,” Dervish huffs. “That leaves me and you. Fifty-fifty.”

“No,” Sharmila says. “You must be a father to Bec. She has lost Beranabus. She cannot afford to lose you too.”

“Wait a minute…” Dervish huffs.

“Please,” Sharmila sighs. “I have no legs. I am the oldest. I have no dependants. And I am now too weak to be of any use—I do not think I could find the power to kill you even if you talked me into letting you take my place.”

Dervish gulps and looks to me for help. He wants to persuade her not to do this, to let him be the one who goes out in a blaze of glory.

“Everything she says makes sense,” I mumble, practical as always.

“Quickly,” Sharmila snaps. “There is almost no magic left. It might be too late already. If you do not act now, it will fade entirely and we will all be lost.”

“You’re a stubborn old cow, aren’t you?” Dervish scowls.

“When I have to be,” she smiles.

Dervish checks with me and I nod sadly. We move side by side and link hands. Focusing, we unite our meagre scraps of magic. I wave a hand at Sharmila and she slides across the deck, coming to a stop next to the invisible barrier. She sits up and wipes blood from her cheeks. She smiles at us one last time, then serenely closes her eyes and places her hands together. Her lips move softly in prayer.

Dervish howls, partly to direct our magic, partly out of horror. I howl too. Blue light flashes from our fingertips and strikes Sharmila in the chest. The light drills into her head, snapping it back. For a moment her form holds and I fear our power won’t be strong enough.

Then the light crackles and a split second later Sharmila explodes. Her bones, guts, flesh and blood splatter the barrier behind her, while the unleashed energy hammers through the shield, creating a porthole to freedom.

We’re both shaken and crying, but we have to act swiftly or Sharmila will have died for nothing. We try nudging the lifeboat over to the hole in the barrier but the restraints won’t let it be moved in that direction. Weary beyond belief, I yell for Kirilli to join us. When we link hands, I draw on his energy—he hasn’t used as much as we have, so he has a fair supply in reserve. I snap the ropes and chains holding the lifeboat in place. Guided by us, it glides through the air, centimetres above the deck. We shuffle along after it.

When the boat is level with the gap, I edge forward, dragging the others with me, refusing to focus on the gory remains of Sharmila which decorate the rim of the hole. I glance over the rails. We’re high up in the air. The water’s a long way down. Two options. We can let the boat drop and try to scale down to it. Or…

“Climb in,” I grunt.

“Will it fit?” Kirilli asks, studying the lifeboat, then the hole, trying to make accurate measurements of both. Typical man!

“Just get in, you fool!” I shout. “That hole could snap shut in a second.”

Kirilli scrambles in. When the contact breaks, the lifeboat drops and lands on the deck with a clang. I push Dervish ahead of me, then crawl in after him. The zombies are almost upon us, mewling with hunger.

I grab Kirilli’s left hand and Dervish’s right. Focusing the last vestiges of our pooled magic, I yell at the lifeboat and send it shooting ahead.

It catches in the hole, jolts forward a few centimetres under pressure from me, then stalls. It’s too wide. We’re stuck. Worse—it’s plugged the hole, so we can’t try jumping to safety. What a useless, stupid way to—

The lifeboat pops free with a sharp, creaking noise. We shoot clear of the hole, the barrier and the ship, gathering momentum. We sail through the air like some kind of crazily designed bird. We’re whooping and cheering.

Then, before any of us realises the danger of our situation, we hit the sea hard. The boat flips over. I bang my head on the side. My mouth fills as I spill into the sea. I try to spit the water out, but I haven’t the energy. As I sink slowly, I raise my eyes and steal one last look at the sky through the liquid layers above me. Then the world turns black.

ALL AT SEA

Arms squeeze my stomach and I vomit. My eyes flutter open and I groan. My head’s hanging over the edge of the lifeboat, bits of my last meal bobbing up and down in the water beneath me. I know from the memories flooding into me that Dervish is doing the squeezing.

“It’s OK,” I groan as he tenses his arms to try again. “I’m alive.”

Dervish gently tugs me back over the side. There’s water in the bottom. Kirilli is bailing it out with his hands. But we’re afloat and the lifeboat doesn’t look like it sustained any major damage.

“We thought we’d lost you,” Dervish says, smiling with relief. “Kirilli fished you out, but you were motionless…” He clears his throat and brushes wet hair back from my eyes. The tenderness in his expression warms me more than the sun.

“Have I been unconscious long?” I ask.

“No.”

“The ship…?”

“Still there.”

Dervish helps me sit up and we gaze at the sinking vessel. It’s listing sharply. It can’t last much longer. We’re quite far away from it, but if I squint I can make out the shapes of zombies throwing themselves through the hole in pursuit of us. They don’t last long once they hit the water.

Kirilli stops bailing and studies the ship with us. We don’t say a word. It’s a weird sensation, watching something so huge and majestic sink out of sight. It’s as if the ship is a living creature that’s dying. I feel strangely sad for it.

“All those people,” Dervish sighs as the last section slips beneath the waves in a froth of angry bubbles. “I wish we could have saved them.”

“Beranabus,” I whisper, fresh tears welling in my eyes. “Sharmila. Kernel.”

“A costly day’s work,” Dervish says bitterly. “And we didn’t even destroy the Shadow. It’ll come after us again. We’ve lost our leader and two of the strongest Disciples. If Lord Loss was telling the truth, Grubbs is probably dead too. Hardly counts as a victory, does it?”

He doesn’t know how true that is. I start to tell him what I learnt about the Shadow, but Kirilli interrupts.

“When I left you in the hold,” he says shiftily, “I hope you didn’t think I was running off. I just wanted to make sure the stairs and corridors were clear, so we could make a quick getaway together.”

“Of course,” Dervish murmurs. “It never crossed our thoughts that you might have lost your nerve and fled like a cowardly rat, leaving the rest of us in the lurch. You’re a hero, Kirilli.”

Dervish claps sarcastically and Kirilli looks aside miserably. I put my hands over Dervish’s and stop him. “Don’t,” I croak. “He helped us in the end. We couldn’t have escaped without him.”

“I suppose,” Dervish mutters.

Kirilli looks up hopefully. “You mean that?”

“We’d never have shifted this boat ourselves,” I assure him. “We needed your magic. If you’d fought in the hold and used up your power, we’d have all died.”

“Then it worked out for the best,” Kirilli beams. “I did the right thing running. I thought so. When I was down there, sizing up the situation, I—”

“Don’t push your luck,” Dervish growls. Then he narrows his eyes and studies Kirilli closely. “Are those bite marks?”

“Yes,” Kirilli says pitifully. He stares at the stumps where his fingers were bitten off. He must have unwittingly used magic to stop the bleeding, scab over the flesh and numb the pain. He’ll be screeching like a banshee once the spell fades.

“Those beasts bit and clawed me all over,” Kirilli says sulkily, ripping a strip off a sleeve to wrap around the stumps. “I’m lucky they didn’t puncture any vital veins or arteries. If I hadn’t fought so valiantly, they’d have eaten me alive.”

“Such a shame,” Dervish purrs, shaking his head.

“What?” Kirilli frowns.

“You’ve seen a few zombie films in your time, haven’t you.”

“One or two,” Kirilli sniffs. “I don’t like horror films. Why?”

“You must know, then, that their saliva is infectious. When a zombie bites one of the living, that person succumbs to the disease and turns—”

“No!” Kirilli cries, dropping the strip of shirt and lurching to his feet. “You’re joking! You must be!”

Dervish shrugs. “I’m only telling you what I’ve seen in the movies. It might all be nonsense, but when you think about it logically…”

As Kirilli’s face crumples, Dervish winks at me. I stifle a smile. This isn’t nice, but Kirilli deserves it. Not for being a coward, but for trying to lie. A good scare will do him no harm at all.

We drift for hours. The sun descends. Night claims the sky. After letting Kirilli fret for an hour, Dervish finally told him it was a wind-up. Kirilli cursed us foully and imaginatively. But he calmed down after a while and we’ve been silent since, bobbing about, absorbing the refreshing rays of the sun, thinking about the dead.

It all seems hopeless without Beranabus, especially knowing what I do about the Shadow. Mankind has reached breaking point and I can’t see any way forward. I doubt if even Beranabus could have made a difference. There are some things you can’t fight. Certain outcomes are inevitable.

Kirilli has spent the last few minutes examining the lifeboat, scouring it from bow to stern. He returns to his seat with a bottle of water and a small medical box. “Good news and bad,” he says, opening the box and looking for ointment to use on his wounds. The healing spell must have passed because he’s grimacing. “The good news—both oars are on board, there are six bottles of water and this medical box. The bad news—there’s no radio equipment or food, and once we drink the water we can’t replace it.”

“Do you know if the crew of the ship sent a distress signal?” Dervish asks.

“No idea. Even if they did, would it have penetrated the magical barrier?”

“Probably not,” Dervish sighs. “Can I have some water?”

Kirilli takes a swig, then passes it across. “Not too much,” he warns. “That has to last.”

Dervish chuckles drily. “It’ll probably last longer than me. My heart could pop any minute.”

“Let me check.” I place my hand on his chest and concentrate. I can sense the erratic beat of his heart. He’s in very poor condition. He needs hospitalisation or magic. If we could cross to the universe of the Demonata, we’d be fine.

I try absorbing power from the air, to open a window, but there’s virtually nothing to tap into and I’m in a sorry state. The moon will lend me strength when it rises, but it won’t be enough.

“Were you trying to open a window?” Dervish asks softly.

“Yes.”

“No joy?”

“I’ll be able to later, when I’m stronger,” I lie. But Dervish sees through me.

“No tears,” he croaks as I start to cry. “Don’t waste the moisture.”

“It’s OK,” Kirilli says, trying to cheer me up. “Even if there was no distress signal, the ship’s absence will be noted. The seas are monitored by computers and satellites. Most passengers had mobile phones and were in regular contact with family and work colleagues. They’ll be missed. I bet there’ll be an army of planes, helicopters and ships out here by dawn.”

“What if we’ve drifted so far they can’t find us?” Dervish asks.

“We can do without the pessimism, thank you,” Kirilli protests.

Dervish laughs, then his expression mellows. “Listen,” he says earnestly, “if I do croak and help doesn’t come, I want you to use my remains. Understand?”

“I’m not sure I do,” I frown.

“There’s not much meat on these bones, but it’ll keep you going for—”

“No!” I shout. “Don’t be obscene.”

“I’m being practical,” he says. “I’m letting you know I won’t object if—”

“There’ll be no cannibalism on this boat,” I growl. “Right, Kirilli?”

“He has a point,” Kirilli mutters. “He wouldn’t just be a food source—humans are seventy per cent water. And we could use his skin for shelter. His bones might come in handy too, if we have to fight off sharks or—”

“Nobody’s eating anybody!” I yell, then burst into tears.

“OK,” Dervish soothes me. “I was only trying to help. Don’t worry. If you don’t want to eat me, I won’t force you.” He pulls a crooked expression. “Does that sound as crazy as I think?”

I laugh through my tears. “You idiot! Besides,” I add, wiping my cheeks clean, “it doesn’t matter whether we live or die. It might even be better if we perish on this boat. I’m not sure I want to go back.”

“What are you talking about?” Dervish frowns.

I take a deep breath and finally reveal what I learned on the ship. “I touched the Shadow and absorbed some of its memories. I told Beranabus. That’s why he gambled so recklessly and sacrificed himself. He knew the Shadow couldn’t be defeated, that we couldn’t kill it. Sending it back to the Demonata universe for a while was the best we could hope for.”

“I don’t believe that,” Dervish snorts. “I don’t care how powerful it is. Everything can be killed.”

“Not the Shadow,” I disagree.

I lie back in the boat and stare at the darkening sky, listening to the waves lap against the sides of the boat. It’s peaceful. I wouldn’t mind if I fell asleep now and never awoke.

“The Shadow’s not a demon,” I explain quietly, and Dervish and Kirilli have to lean in close to hear. “It’s a force that somehow acquired consciousness. I don’t know how, but it has.”

“A force?” Dervish scowls.

“Like gravity,” I explain. “Imagine if gravity developed a mind, created a body and became an actual entity—Gravity with a capital G, intelligent like us, able to think and plan.”

“That’s impossible,” Dervish says. “Gravity’s like the wind or sunlight. It can’t develop consciousness.”

“But imagine it could,” I push. “You’ve seen the true nature of the universes. You know magic exists, that just about anything is possible. Imagine.”

Dervish takes a moment to adjust his thinking. “OK,” he says heavily. “It’s a struggle, but I’m running with it. Gravity has a mind. It’s given itself a body. And it’s coming after humanity. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Almost,” I smile weakly. “But it’s not gravity. It’s an altogether different force. More sinister. Inescapable. Every living being’s final companion.”

“Don’t tease us with riddles,” Dervish snaps. “Just spit it out.”

“I think I already know,” Kirilli says softly. “The greatest stage magician ever was Harry Houdini. He was a master escapologist. He could cheat any trap known to man. But there was one thing he couldn’t escape, no matter how hard he tried, and it caught him eventually—the Grim Reaper.”

“Aye.”

I sigh as Dervish stares at me with growing understanding and horror, then close my eyes and cross my hands over my chest. I think about Beranabus, Sharmila, Kernel. Dervish’s weak heart. The trap Lord Loss set for Grubbs. What will happen to Kirilli and me if help doesn’t arrive in time.

Dead ends everywhere. The dead coming back to life on the ship. Juni and me returning to life from beyond the grave. The Shadow’s promise to the Demonata, that they’ll live forever once the war with humanity is over.

“The Shadow is ancient beyond understanding,” I whisper. “It’s as old as life. It doesn’t have an actual name. It never needed one. But we’ve given it a title. The demons have too. It’s the darkness when a light is quenched, the silence when a sound fades. It takes the final breath from the smallest insect and the mightiest king. It knows us all, stalks us all, and in the end claims us all.

“The Shadow is Death.”