Slawter

LIFE AS WE KNOW IT

“My eyes! They stabbed out my eyes!”

I shoot awake. Start to struggle up from my bed. An arm hits the side of my head. Knocks me down. A man screams, “My eyes! Who took my eyes?”

“Dervish!” I roar, rolling off the bed, landing beside the feet of my frantic uncle. “It’s only a dream! Wake up!”

“My eyes!” Dervish yells again. I can see his face now, illuminated by a three-quarters full moon. Eyes wide open, but seeing nothing. Fear scribbled into every line of his features. He lifts his right foot. Brings it down towards my head—hard. I make like a turtle and only just avoid having my nose smashed.

“You took them!” he hisses, sensing my presence, fear turning to hate. He bends and grabs my throat. His fingers tighten. Dervish is thin, doesn’t look like much, but his appearance is deceptive. He could crush my throat, easy.

I swipe at his hand, yanking my neck away at the same time. Break free. Scrabble backwards. Halted by the bed. Dervish lunges after me. I kick at his head, both feet. No time to worry about hurting him. Connect firmly. Drive him back. He grunts, shakes his head, loses focus.

“Dervish!” I shout. “It’s me, Grubbs! Wake up! It’s only a nightmare! You have to stop before you—”

“The master,” Dervish cuts in, fear filling his face again. He’s staring at the ceiling—rather, that’s where his eyes are fixed. “Lord Loss.” He starts to cry. “Don’t… please… not again. My eyes. Leave them alone. Please…”

“Dervish,” I say, softly this time, rising, rubbing the side of my head where he hit me, approaching him cautiously. “Dervish. Derv the perv—where’s your nerve?” Knowing from past nights that rhymes draw his attention. “Derv on the floor—where’s the door? Derv without eyes— what’s the surprise?”

He blinks. His head lowers a fraction. Sight returns gradually. His pupils were black holes. Now they look quasi-normal.

“It’s OK,” I tell him, moving closer, wary in case the nightmare suddenly fires up again. “You’re home. With me. Lord Loss can’t get you here. Your eyes are fine. It was just a nightmare.”

“Grubbs?” Dervish wheezes.

“Yes, boss.”

“That’s really you? You’re not an illusion? He hasn’t created an image of you, to torment me?”

“Don’t be stupid. Not even Michelangelo could sculpt a face this perfect.”

Dervish smiles. The last of the nightmare passes. He sits on the floor and looks at me through watery globes. “How you doing, big guy?”

“Coolio.”

“Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly.

“You couldn’t if you tried,” I smirk, not telling him about the hit to the head, the hand on my throat, the foot at my face.

I sit beside him. Drape an arm around his shoulders. He hugs me tight. Murmurs, “It was so real. I thought I was back there. I…”

And then he weeps, sobbing like a child. And I hold him, talking softly as the moon descends, telling him it’s OK, he’s home, he’s safe—he’s no longer in the universe of demons.

Never trust fairy tales. Any story that ends with “They all lived happily ever after” is a crock. There are no happy endings. No endings, full stop. Life goes on. There’s always something new around the corner. You can overcome major obstacles, face great danger, look evil in the eye and live to tell the tale—but that’s not the end. Life sweeps you forward, swings you round, bruises and batters you, drops some new drama or tragedy in your lap, never lets go until you get to the one true end—death. As long as you’re breathing, your story’s still going.

If the rules of fairy-tales did work, my story would have ended on a high four months ago. That’s when Dervish regained his senses and everything seemed set to return to normal. But that was a false ending. A misleading happy pause.

I had to write a short autobiography for an English assignment recently. A snappy, zappy summing-up of my life. I had to discard my first effort—it was too close to the bone, and would have only led to trouble if I’d handed it in. I wrote an edited, watered-down version and submitted that instead. (I got a B minus.) But I kept the original. It’s hidden under a pile of clothes in my wardrobe. I dig it out now to read, to pass some time. I’ve read through it a lot these past few weeks, usually early in the morning, after an interrupted night, when I can’t sleep.

I was born Grubitsch Grady. One sister, Gretelda. Grubbs and Gret for short. Normal, boring lives for a long time. Then Gret turned into a werewolf.

There’s a genetic flaw in my family. Lots of my ancestors have turned into werewolves. It hits in your teens, if you’re one of the unlucky ones. You lose your mind. Your body alters. You become a blood-crazed beast. And spend the rest of your life locked up in a cage—unless your relatives kill you. There’s no cure. Except one. But that can be even worse than the curse.

See, demons are real. Gross, misshapen, magical beings, with a hatred of humans matched only by their taste for human flesh. They live in their own universe, but some can cross into our world.

One of the Demonata—that’s the proper term—is called Lord Loss. A real charmer. No nose or heart—a hole in his chest full of snakes. Eight arms. Horrible pale red flesh. Loads of cuts on his body from which blood flows in a never-ending stream. He’s big on misery. Feeds off the unhappiness, terror and grief of humans. Moves among us silently when he crosses into our universe, invisible to normal eyes, dropping in on funerals the way you or I would pop into a cafe, dining on our despair, savouring our sorrow.

Lord Loss is a powerful demon master. Most masters can’t cross from their universe to ours, but he’s an exception. He has the power to cure Lycanthropy. He can lift the curse from infected Grady teenagers, rid them of their werewolf genes, return them to humanity.

Except, y’know, he’s a demon, so why the hell should he?

“What are you reading?”

It’s Dervish, standing in the doorway of my room, mug of coffee in one hand, eyes still wide and freaky from his nightmare.

“My autobiography,” I tell him.

He frowns. “What?”

“I’m going to publish my memoirs. I’m thinking of Life with Demons as a title. Or maybe Hairy Boys and Girls of the Grady Clan. What do you think?”

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

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

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

One of my more cunning ancestors was Bartholomew Garadex, a magician. (Not a guy who pulls rabbits out of a hat—a full-on, Merlin- and Gandalf-class master of magic.) He figured out a way to cash in on Lord Loss’ love of chess. He challenged the demon master to a series of games.

For every match Bartholomew won, Lord Loss would cure a member of the family. If old Bart lost, Lord Loss would get to torture and kill him.

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

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

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

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

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

Damn. He knows all my weaknesses.

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

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

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

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

“Huh?” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he’s not that much of a threat. We keep the knives locked away and have bolted the other weapons in the mansion—it’s dotted with axes, maces, spears, swords, all sorts of cool stuff—to the walls. I usually keep my door locked too, to be safe. The only reason it was open last night was that Dervish had thrown a fit both nights before and it’s rare for him to fall prey to the nightmares three times in a row. I thought I was safe. That’s why I didn’t bother with the lock. It was my fault, not Dervish’s.

“I will kill him for you, master,” Dervish says softly.

I lower my fork. “What?”

He turns, blank-faced, looking like he did when his soul was fighting Lord Loss. My heart rate quickens. Then he grins.

“Asshole!” I snap. Dervish has a sick sense of humour.

I get back to wolfing down my breakfast and Dervish tucks into his, not caring that the scrambled eggs are cold. We’re an odd couple, a big lump of a teenager like me playing nursemaid to a balding, mentally disturbed adult like Dervish. And yeah, there are nights when he really frightens me, when I feel like I can’t take it any more, when I cry. It’s not fair. Dervish fought the good fight and won. That should have been the end of it. Happily ever after.

But stories don’t end. They continue as long as you’re alive. You just have to get on with things. Turn the page, start a new chapter, find out what’s in store for you next, and keep your fingers crossed that it’s not too awful. Even if you know in your heart and soul that it most probably will be.

PRAY AT HIM

School was strange when I first went back. I’d spent months outside the system, first in the asylum, then in the mansion with Dervish. It took me a while to find my feet. For the first couple of terms I didn’t really speak to anybody except Bill-E and the school counsellor, Mr. Mauch, better known as Misery Mauch because of his long face. I’d always been popular at my old school, lots of friends, active in several sports teams, Mr. Cool.

All that changed at Carcery Vale. I was shy, unsure of myself, reluctant to get involved in conversations or commit to after-school events. On top of the hell I’d been through, there was Dervish to consider. He needed me at home. I became an anonymous kid, one who spent a lot of time by himself or with a similarly awkward friend (step forward Bill-E Spleen).

Things are different now. I’ve come out of my shell a bit. I’m more like the old me, not quiet in class or afraid to speak to other kids. I’ve always been bigger than most people my age. In the old days I was a show off and used my bulk to command respect. At the Vale I kept my head bent, shoulders hunched, trying to suck my frame in to make myself seem smaller.

Not any more. I’m no longer Mr. Flash, but I’m not hiding now. I don’t feel that I have to.

I’ve made new friends. Charlie Rail, Robbie McCarthy, Mary Hayes. And Loch Gossel. Loch’s big, not as massive as me, but closer to my size than anybody else. He wrestles a lot—real wrestling, not the showbiz stuff you see on TV. He’s been trying to get me to join his team since I started school. I resisted for a long time, but now I’m thinking of giving it a go.

Loch also has a younger sister, Reni. She’s pretty cute, even if she does have a nose that would put Gonzo to shame! I stare at her a lot and sometimes she makes eyes back. I think she’d go out with me if I asked. I haven’t. Not yet. But soon… maybe… if I can work up the nerve.

The end of a typical school day. Yawning through classes, desperate for lunch-time so I could hang out with my friends and chat about movies, music, TV, computer games, whatever. Bill-E joined us for some of it. I don’t spend as much time with Bill-E as I used to. He doesn’t fit in with my new friends—they think he’s geekish. They don’t slag him off when I’m around, but I know they do when I’m not. I feel bad about that and try to help Bill-E relax so they can see his real side. But he gets nervous around the others, acts differently, becomes the butt of their jokes.

Thinking about Bill-E as I walk home. I don’t want us to stop being friends. He’s my brother and he was really good to me when I first moved here. But it’s difficult because I don’t want to lose my new friends either. Guess I’ll just have to work harder to make him feel like part of the group. Try and be like one of those TV kids who always solve their problems by the end of each show.

Dervish is sitting on the stairs when I let myself in. I’m dripping wet—it’s been pouring for the last couple of hours. Normally, when the weather’s bad, he picks me up on his motorbike. When there was no sign of him today, I figured his mood hadn’t improved since breakfast. I was right. He’s as blank as he was this morning, staring off into space, not registering me until I’m right in front of him.

“Dervish! Hey, Derveeshio! Earth to Dervish! Are you reading me, captain?”

He blinks, frowns as if he doesn’t know who I am, then smiles. “Grubbs. You’re alive. I thought…” His expression clears. “Sorry. I was miles away.”

I sit beside him. “Bad day?”

“Can’t remember,” he replies. “Why are you home early?” I hold up my watch and tap it. Dervish reads the time and sighs. “I’m losing it, Grubbs.”

My insides tighten, but I don’t let Dervish see my fear. “Losing what—your sanity? You can’t lose what you never had.”

“My grip.” Dervish looks down at his feet, bare and dirty.

“I wasn’t like this before. I wasn’t this distracted and empty. Was I?” He looks at me pleadingly.

“You’ve been through hell, Derv,” I tell him quietly. “You can’t expect to recover without a few hiccups.”

“I know. But I wasn’t this way, right? Some days I can’t remember. I feel like it’s always been like this.”

“No,” I say firmly. “It’s just a phase. It’ll pass.”

“All things must pass,” Dervish mutters. Then he looks at me sideways, his cool blue eyes coming into focus. “Why are you wet?”

“Took a bath. Forgot to strip.” I rap his forehead with my knuckles, then point to the windows and the rain battering the panes. “Numbnuts.”

“Oh,” Dervish says. “I should have picked you up.”

“No worries.” I rise and stretch, dripping steadily. “I’m going up to shower and change into dry clothes. I’ll stick this lot in to wash. Anything you want me to add?” I did all the jobs around the house when Dervish was a vegetable. Hard to break the habit.

“No, I don’t think so. I…” Dervish stares at his left hand. There’s a black mark on it, a small ‘d’. “There was something I meant to tell you. What…?” He clicks his fingers. “I had a phone call, a follow-up to some e-mails I’ve been getting recently. Ever heard of someone called Davida Haym?”

“No, can’t say…” I pause. “Hold on. Not David A. Haym, the movie producer?”

“That’s her.”

“I thought that was a guy.”

“Nope. She uses David A. on her movies, but it’s Davida. You know about her?”

“Sure. She makes horror movies. Zombie Zest. Witches Weird. Night Mayors—that’s, like, Nightmares, only two words. It’s about evil mayors who band together to set up a meat production plant, except the meat they process is human flesh.”

“Win many Oscars?” Dervish asks.

“Swept the board,” I chuckle. “I can’t believe she’s a woman. I always thought… But what about her? I didn’t think you were into horror flicks.”

“She phoned me earlier.”

I do a double-take. “David A. Haym called you?”

“Davida Haym. Yes.” Dervish squints at me. “Have I grown a second head?”

“Hell, it’s David A. Haym, Dervish! That’s like saying Steven Spielberg was on the line, or George Lucas. OK, not as big as those, but still…”

“I didn’t know she was famous,” Dervish says. “She told me the names of some of her movies, but I don’t watch a lot of films. She made it sound like she was a cult director.”

“She is. She doesn’t make films with big-name stars. But her movies are great! Anyone who loves horror knows about David A. Haym. Though I’m not sure many know she’s a woman.”

“That’s a big sticking point for you, isn’t it?” Dervish grins. “You’re not turning into a chauvinist, are you?”

“No, I just…” I shake my head. Water flies from my ginger hair and splatters the wall. “What did she want?”

“She’s making a new movie. Asked if she could meet me. She’d heard I know a lot about the occult. Wants to pick my brain.” He tweaks his chin, forgetting the beard isn’t there. “I hope she didn’t mean that literally.”

“Did you say yes?” I ask, excited.

“Said I’d think about it.”

“Dervish! You’ve got to! It’s David A. Haym! Did she say she’d come here? Can I meet her? Do you think—”

“Easy, tiger,” Dervish laughs. “We didn’t discuss where we’d meet. But you think I should agree to it?”

“Absolutely!”

“Then meet we shall,” Dervish says, getting to his feet and heading up to his office. “Anything to please Master Grady.”

I tramp up the stairs after him, pulling off my clothes, thinking about how cool it would be if I could meet David A. Haym… and also how weird it is that one of the world’s premier horror producers is a woman.

“David A. Haym’s a woman? No bloody way!” Loch howls.

“You’re having us on!” Robbie challenges me.

“How stupid do you think we are?” Charlie huffs.

“Of course she’s a woman,” Mary says. We gawp at her. “You didn’t know?”

“No,” Loch says. “You did?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

Mary shrugs. “I dunno. Years.”

“And you never told us?” Robbie barks.

“It never came up,” Mary laughs. “I’ve no interest in horror movies. I always tune out when you guys start on that rubbish.”

“Then how did you know she’s a woman?” I ask.

“There was a feature on her in a magazine my mum reads,” Mary explains. “I think the headline was, ‘The horror producer chick who beats the boys at their own game’.”

They’re nearly as excited as I am. Most of my friends don’t know what to make of Dervish. In a way he’s cool, the adult who rides a motorbike, dresses in denim, lets me do pretty much what I like. On the other hand he sometimes comes across as a complete nutter. Plus they know he was a veg for more than a year.

But now that he’s in talks with the slickest, sickest producer of recent horror movies, his cred rises like a helium balloon. They want to know how she knows about him, when she’s coming, what the new movie’s about. I act mysterious and secretive, giving nothing away, but dropping hints that I’m fully clued-in. In truth, I know no more than they do. Dervish wasn’t able to get through to her last night. He left a message and was waiting for her to phone back when I left this morning.

“Did she call?”

“Who?”

I groan, wishing Dervish wasn’t a complete airhead. “David A. Haym, of course! Did she—”

“Oh, yeah, she rang.”

“And?” I practically shriek, as Dervish focuses on getting dinner ready.

“She’ll drop by within the next week.”

“Here?” I gasp. “Carcery Vale?”

“No,” he smirks. “Here—this house. I told her she could stay the night if she wanted, though I don’t know if—”

“David A. Haym’s going to stay in our house?” I shout.

“Davida,” Dervish corrects me.

“Dervish… the terrible things I’ve said about you… the awful names I’ve called you… I take them all back!”

“Thanks,” Dervish laughs. Stops and frowns. “What awful names?”

Everyone wants David A. Haym’s autograph. They want to meet her, have dinner with us, maybe snag a part in her next movie. Loch auditions for me several times a day, moaning and screaming, pretending bits of his body have been chopped off, quoting lines from Zombie Zest and Night Mayors—“We elected a devil!” “That’s not my hand on your knee!” “Mustard or mayo with your brains?” Draws curious stares from teachers and kids who haven’t heard the big news.

Bill-E talks up script ideas. Reckons he can pitch to her and become the brains behind her next five movies. “Writers are getting younger all the time,” he insists. “Producers want fresh talent, original ideas, guys who can think outside the box.”

“You’re about as far outside the box as they come,” Loch laughs.

“I wouldn’t have to write the whole script myself,” Bill-E says, ignoring the jibe. “I could collaborate. I’m a team player.”

“Yeah,” Loch snorts. “Trouble is, you’re a substitute!”

I let them scheme and dream. Smile smugly, as if they’re just crazy, dreamy kids. Of course, I’m as full of wild notions as they are—I just prefer to play it cool.

Days pass—no sign of Davida Haym. The weekend comes and goes. I bug Dervish constantly, asking if there’s been any further contact. Sometimes he pretends he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, just to wind me up.

By Tuesday I’m starting to wonder if it’s a gag, if Dervish never spoke to David A. Haym at all. It would be a weird, unfunny joke—but Dervish is into weird and unfunny. I’ll look a right dope in school if she never shows. I’ll have to invent a story, pretend she was called away on an emergency.

Thinking about excuses I could use as I’m walking home. Nothing too simple, like a sick relative or having to pick up an award. Needs to be more dramatic. Her house burnt to the ground? She caught bubonic plague and had to go into isolation?

Warming to the plague theory—can people still get it these days? — when a car pulls up beside me. A window rolls down. A thin, black-haired woman leans across. “Excuse me,” she says. “Do you know where Dervish Grady lives?”

“Yeah.” I bend down, excitement building. “I’m his nephew, Grubitsch. I mean, Grubbs. Grubbs Grady. That’s me.” Can’t remember the last time I called myself Grubitsch. What a dork!

“Grubbs,” the woman says, nodding shortly. “Yes. I know about you.”

“You do?” Unable to hide my delight. “Dervish told you about me? Wow, that’s great! Uh, I mean, yeah, cool. I know about you too, of course.”

“Really?” She sounds surprised.

“Sure. I’ve been waiting all week for you.”

“You knew I was coming?” Sharp this time.

“Yeah. Dervish told me.”

She taps the steering wheel with her fingernails. They’re cut short, down to the flesh. “Well, may I give you a lift home, Grubbs? That way you can direct me as we go.”

“Sure!” I open the door and slide in. Put my seat belt on. Smile wide at David A. — I mean, Davida Haym. She smiles back thinly. A narrow, pale face. Moody, if not downright gloomy. Exactly the way I expected a horror producer to look. “Just go straight,” I tell her. “The road runs by our house. You can’t miss it—only mansion in the neighbourhood.”

Silence. Davida is focused on the road. I’m trying to think of something to say that’s casual and witty. But my mind’s a blank. So I check her out. Thin all over, a long neck, bony hands, straight black hair, dark eyes. Dull white shirt and skirt. Flat, plain shoes. No jewellery, except one ring on her left hand with a large gold “L” in the middle of a circle of flat silver.

“How have you been, Grubbs?” she asks suddenly.

“Fine.”

“I know something of your past. What happened last year with Billy Spleen.”

“What do you know about me and Bill-E?” I ask suspiciously, guard rising.

“I know about the lycanthropy. How you fought it.”

“Dervish told you that?” I cry, astonished.

“How has Billy been? Any recurrences of his old patterns?”

“Of course not! We cured him! He’s normal now!”

“And you?” she says quietly, and her eyes flick across, cold and calculating.

“Who the hell are you?” I ask, a tremble in my voice.

“Who do you think I am?” she replies.

“I thought you were David A. Haym. But you’re not… are you?”

In answer she raises a finger and points. “That must be the mansion.”

She pulls into our drive. I have a bad feeling in my gut, not sure who this woman is or how she knows about Bill-E. She kills the engine and looks at me calmly. Her eyes are really dark. A robotlike expression. No make-up. Thin lips, almost invisible. A small nose with a wartish mole on the right nostril.

“Shall we go in together, or do you want to go on ahead and tell your uncle I’m here?” she asks.

“That depends. What’s your name?” She only smiles in reply. She looks more normal when she smiles, like a teacher—stern, but human. I relax slightly. “You can come with me,” I decide, not wanting to leave her here in case she’s an old friend of Dervish’s and I appear rude.

“Thank you,” she says and gets out of the car. She’s smoothing her skirt down and studying the mansion when I step out. “Nice place,” she comments, then raises a thin eyebrow, the signal for me to lead the way. I start ahead of her, whistling, not letting her see that I’m unnerved, acting like she’s an ordinary visitor. In through the oversized front doors. The juicy smell of sizzling steak drifts from the kitchen.

“Goodness,” the woman says, looking at the high ceilings, the size of the rooms, the weapons on the walls, the staircase.

“This way,” I tell her, heading for the kitchen. “You’re just in time for dinner.”

She follows slowly, absorbing the surroundings. Obviously hasn’t been here before. I keep trying to put a name to her face, thinking of all the people Dervish has mentioned in the past.

I reach the kitchen. Dervish is hard at work on the steak. “No!” he shouts before I say anything. “She hasn’t rung and there’s been no sign of her. Now stop pestering me or I might—”

“We have company,” I interrupt.

Dervish turns questioningly. The woman enters the kitchen. I step aside so he can see her. Instant recognition. His face goes white, then red. He steps away from the hob, abandoning the steak. Eyes tight. Lips quivering. With anger.

“You!” He spits the word out.

“It’s been a long time, Dervish,” the woman says softly, not moving forward to shake his hand. “You look better than I expected.”

“I thought she was David A. Haym,” I tell him.

“She’s not,” he barks. “She’s Prae Athim.”

“Pray at him?” I echo.

“Pray Ah-teem,” the woman says, stressing the syllables.

“She’s one of the Lambs,” Dervish says with a sneer.

And the fear which was tickling away at me in the car kicks in solid, like a nail being hammered into my gut.

LAMBIKINS

In Dervish’s study. Like most of the rooms, it’s huge. But whereas the others have bare walls, with stone or wood floorboards, the study is carpeted and the walls are covered with leather panels. There are two large desks, bookcases galore, a PC, laptop, typewriter, paper and pens. There used to be five chess sets, but not any more. The swords and axes which hung from the walls are gone too.

Prae Athim doesn’t want me here. That’s obvious from her disapproving look. Dervish doesn’t care. He’s seated behind the computer on his largest desk, one hand on the mouse, moving it around in small circles, waiting for his unwelcome guest to speak. Prae Athim is seated opposite. I’m standing close to the door, ready to leave if Dervish tells me to.

Prae finally speaks. “Billy Spleen still lives with his grandparents?” Dervish nods slowly. “I thought you might have moved him in with you. To observe.”

“You’re the master observer, not me,” Dervish says quietly.

“Isn’t it dangerous, leaving him there?” she presses.

“Billy’s time of turning has passed. There’s nothing to fear from him now.”

“That’s debatable,” Prae smiles.

“No. It isn’t.”

Prae looks at her hands crossed over her lap. Thinks a moment. Then nods at me. “I’d rather not speak in front of the boy.”

“Is this about him?” Dervish responds.

“Partially.”

“Then you’ll have to.”

“I really don’t think—” she begins.

“Grubbs faced the demons with me,” Dervish interrupts. “He fought by my side. I’m not going to keep secrets from him.”

“Really?” Prae sniffs. “You tell him everything about your business?”

“No. But I don’t hide things from him. When he asks, I answer. And since I’m certain he’s going to be asking about this, he might as well stay and hear it first-hand.”

Prae sighs. “You never make life easy for us. You’ve always treated the Lambs like enemies. We’re on the same side, Dervish. You should afford us respect.”

“I do respect you,” Dervish says. “I just don’t trust you.”

I’d forgotten about the Lambs. They loomed large in my thoughts while Dervish was zombified, especially around the time of a full moon. If I’d found myself turning into a werewolf, I was going to phone them and ask them to put me out of my misery. But since Dervish returned, I haven’t had time to brood about my potentially fatal genes or the family bogey men.

The Gradys and their kin have been cursed for a long time. We’re talking a lot of generations. Over the centuries, family members have tried to figure out the cause of the curse, find a cure for it, and develop ways of dealing with the infected children quietly and efficiently.

The Lambs are the result. A group of scientists, soldiers and I don’t know what else, all focused on the problems and logistics of lycanthropy. They spend a lot of time, money and effort trying to unlock the secrets of the rogue Grady-genes. But they also play the part of executioners when necessary.

A lot of parents decide to kill their children if they turn into werewolves. But most can’t perform the dirty deed themselves. So they call in the Lambs, who take the transformed child away and do what must be done.

“How did you find out about Billy?” Dervish asks.

“We keep tabs on all the family children,” Prae says.

“But Billy didn’t leave a trail. There was no evidence that he was turning.”

Prae smiles. “You covered up admirably. Gathered the bodies of the animals he slaughtered, disposed of them quietly. But you couldn’t be expected to find every corpse. And you couldn’t do anything about the operative who saw him sneaking out of his house during a full moon.”

“You had him under direct surveillance?” Dervish snaps.

“Sometimes, yes.”

Dervish’s hand goes rigid on the mouse. “You had no right to do that.”

“We had every right,” Prae disagrees. “If a guardian chooses to deal personally with an infected child, it’s not our business. But you didn’t. You gave him free reign.”

“I was in control,” Dervish growls. “He wasn’t a danger to anyone. I was waiting for the right moment to act.”

“I understand,” Prae says. “But we couldn’t take any chances. We guessed you would handle the matter this way if he turned, so for some years we’d been keeping an eye on the boy. On your brother’s children too.”

Dervish starts to retort. Stops and scowls. “Tell me why you’ve come.”

“A few reasons,” Prae says. “One—to make sure Billy is normal.”

“He is,” Dervish says. “We cured him.”

“But how certain is your cure?” Prae asks. “We know about the demon you deal with, but there’s much about the process that’s a mystery. You and the others who have faced him keep it a secret. You don’t let the rest of us benefit.”

“We can’t include you,” Dervish says stiffly. “He deals with one case at a time, and only with those who have some experience of magic. That’s how it works. It’s not our choice—it’s his.”

“The demon,” Prae nods. “Lord—”

“Don’t say his name here,” Dervish stops her. “It’s dangerous.”

Prae looks around nervously. I feel the hairs rise on the back of my neck. Then Dervish catches my eye and tilts his head ever so slightly. It’s a gesture I know well—he does that sometimes instead of winking. I realise he’s winding Prae up, giving her a scare. I hide a smile behind my hand and wait for her to settle down.

“It’s not fair,” Prae resumes, less composed than before. “We’ve never had any contact with the demon. Maybe we could strike our own deal if you put us in touch with him.”

“You couldn’t.”

“But you should let us try. We—”

“We’ve had this conversation before,” Dervish interrupts. “We’re not having it again. The Lambs follow the path of science. Demons are creatures of magic. The two don’t mix. End of story.”

“Very well,” Prae says, showing open anger for a second, her pale face flushing. “You choose to lock us out—there’s nothing we can do about that. But it means we don’t know all that we should about the cure. We have no proof that it works in the long term, or why. So it’s natural for us to be suspicious, to run our own checks, to be safe.”

“Totally natural,” Dervish says sarcastically. “But I don’t think you’d have waited until now to make sure Billy wasn’t killing. If you were checking on him prior to his change, I’m sure you’ve monitored him in the year-plus since. So your first reason for being here is a crock—you know Billy’s fine. Let’s move on to reason two and try to make it a bit more believable this time.”

Prae glares at Dervish, then glances at me. “Two,” she growls. “We wanted to check on Grubbs. He’s at a dangerous age. Both his brother—” My stomach tightens another notch. She knows the truth about Bill-E! “—and sister turned. We thought it advisable to have a look at him. We kept out of the way while you were… indisposed, but now that you’re back on your feet, we felt it was a good time to have a chat.” She faces me and smiles. “How have you been sleeping lately? Any bad dreams? Woken up with dirt under your fingernails or—”

“You know what she’s doing, don’t you, Grubbs?” Dervish asks.

“Trying to freak me out,” I mutter edgily.

“Correct. If they wanted to check up on you, they’d do it secretly. You’d never know they were there. She’s saying this to upset you, because I’ve upset her. So ignore it. And you,” he says to Prae, “tell me the real reason you’re here or get the hell out.”

“Very well.” Prae stares at Dervish challengingly. “We want to run some tests on Billy under laboratory conditions.”

“You want to turn my nephew into a guinea pig?” Dervish laughs harshly. “You want me to sign him over, so you can prod and poke him and have him urinate into a bottle at your command?”

“It’s not like that. We—”

“Get out!” Dervish shouts.

“You’re being unreasonable,” Prae objects. “Let me finish.”

“Oh, you’re finished,” Dervish laughs. “I’ve heard enough. Now march back out to your car and—”

“Have you seen a child who’s turned?” Prae asks me, raising her voice. “You must have seen your brother, but only in the early stages of his transformation. It takes a few months for the disease to properly set in. They grow hair. Their features distort. Their spines twist. I have some photographs which—”

“No!” I shout. “I don’t want to see any photos. I’ve seen them before.”

“Children your own age,” Prae says quickly as Dervish stands and strides towards her. “Some even younger. We have an eight-year-old girl. Her parents didn’t know about the curse. She killed her mother. Chewed her throat open and—”

“You’re so out of here,” Dervish snarls, reaching to grab Prae’s collar.

“Wait,” I stop him, holding up a hand.

“Grubbs, don’t listen to—”

“Just wait a minute. Please?”

Dervish breathes out heavily, then takes a step back.

“We’re trying to help,” Prae says, speaking to me but looking at Dervish. “Your uncle is a man of old science—he calls it magic, but to us it’s science by a different name. We’re of the new school. Dervish fights one battle at a time. Your mother and father made that choice too. But we’re trying to attack the root of the disease. We want everyone to benefit, not just a few. To do that, we have to examine and explore.

“Your brother is one of the very few victims to beat the curse. If we can study him, unlock the secrets behind his remarkable cure, perhaps we can replicate it and save others—without the need for demons or so-called magic.”

“You can’t,” Dervish says wearily. “I’ve told you before, it’s not science. It’s not of this universe. You can’t understand it and you can’t mimic it. Do you think I’d stand in your way if I thought there was the slightest chance that you could?”

“You can’t be sure,” Prae says.

“I am.”

Prae mutters something beneath her breath, then tries me again. “We wouldn’t hurt Billy. You and your uncle could come and observe. We just want to know more, to understand… to help.”

I feel sorry for Prae Athim. Despite her scary appearance and manner, she only wants to do good. But the thought of her taking Bill-E away, locking him up, experimenting on him… I shake my head.

“You should leave now,” Dervish says quietly. “We can’t help you.”

“You’re condemning others to change, to die,” Prae says angrily.

Dervish shrugs. “We’ve been condemned a long time. We’re used to it.”

He lays a hand on Prae’s shoulder. She jerks away from him and stands. “My daughter changed,” she hisses. “I tried to cure her, but I couldn’t. She’s still alive. Because I hope and believe. By denying us, you deny her and all the others like her. How will you sleep with that on your conscience?”

“Lousily,” Dervish says. “But Billy will sleep sweetly. And to me, that’s what matters most, just as your daughter matters most to you.” He leans towards her. “If the positions were reversed, would you allow your loved one to be taken?”

“Yes,” Prae answers immediately. “Without question.”

“Well, that’s where we differ. Because I always question.”

“There are other ways,” Prae says, a dangerous tremble to her tone. “We didn’t have to ask. We could just take him.”

Dervish’s expression goes dead. “Try it,” he whispers. “See what happens.”

“You couldn’t stop us,” Prae insists, a red flush of anger rising up her throat. “You’re powerful, but so are the Lambs. We could—”

“Mess with me and you mess with us all,” Dervish interrupts. “Do you really want to do that? Do the Lambs now think themselves the equals of the Disciples?”

“We aren’t afraid of your kind,” Prae says, but her words ring hollow.

Dervish smiles lazily. “If you lay a hand on Billy or Grubbs, I’ll teach you to be afraid. That’s a promise.”

“You don’t want us as enemies,” Prae warns him. “Nobody stands alone in this world, not even the Disciples. You may need us one day.”

“Yes,” Dervish agrees. “But not today.” He points at the door.

Prae opens her mouth to try again. Realises she’d be wasting her breath. Shakes her head with disgust. Shoots a look at me. “Pray you never turn. Because if you do, thanks to people like your uncle, we won’t be able to help. All we’ll be able to do is kill.”

She strides to the door, throws it opens and marches out. The front doors slam several seconds later. Then the faint sound of her engine starting, rising, fading.

Dervish stares at me. I stare back. Neither of us says anything. I don’t know what my uncle’s thinking, but there’s only one glaring thought in my head—who the hell are the Disciples?

MONSTERS GALORE

Dervish has another nightmare. Four nights in a row—he must be going for the record. Luckily I’d been expecting this one. Dervish shut himself off from me after Prae Athim left. Kept to his study, pacing around, muttering, brooding. I guessed nightmares would follow. Stayed awake after he went to bed, alert, prepared for a long, active night.

I catch Dervish in the hall of portraits. He snuck past my room without me hearing, even though I’d been listening closely. But a minute ago the screaming started and it was easy to track him down.

The walls of this hall are lined with photographs and paintings of dead family members, mostly teenagers who became werewolves. It’s on the first floor, close to my bedroom. When I arrive, Dervish has knocked several photos to the floor and is wrestling with a large portrait, trying to tear it free of its peg.

“Leave me alone!” he screams. “It’s not my fault!”

“Dervish,” I call, hurrying over to him, grabbing his right hand, trying to prise his fingers loose. “Derveeshio! Derv on a curve—don’t lose your verve. Don’t roar and bawl—not in this hall.”

He ignores the rhymes and jerks free. “Get out of my skull! You’re eating my brain!” He collapses to his knees, grips his head hard with both hands, moans with pain and terror.

“Dervish, easy, it’s OK, it’s coolio, you have to chill. You on the ground—everything’s sound.”

His eyes fix on a nearby photograph. His breath catches. “I didn’t do it!” he gasps. “I didn’t kill you! Leave me alone!”

I sweep the photos away, then grab Dervish’s hands, pull them down from his head and lock gazes with him. “Wake up, you crazy, bald coot! It’s only a dream—no need to scream. None of it’s real—fantasy’s the deal. You have to snap back. Come on, I know you’re in there, I know…”

His expression clears. He looks like a lost child for a few seconds, pitiful, silently begging me for help. Then the real Dervish surfaces and terror gives way to exhaustion and embarrassment. I release him, nodding slowly and repeatedly to show that everything’s OK, no damage done.

Dervish looks around at the photos on the floor. Most are ripped, a couple beyond repair. No glass in the frames. We removed all the glass a few months ago, in case something like this happened. Didn’t want him hurting himself—or me.

“I thought they’d come back to life,” Dervish says. “They blamed me. Claimed I was the cause of the curse. They wanted revenge.”

“It was just a dream.”

“I know. But still…” He shivers. “I could have done without Prae Athim and the Lambs. I didn’t need them now. Not in this state. Why do bad things always come at the worst time?”

“Forget about her,” I tell him. “She’s gone. You ran her off.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe…” He coughs, then stands. “No. That’s the nightmare talking. The Lambs can’t help. They mean well, but in matters like this they’re helpless.”

“Unlike the Disciples?” I ask, broaching the mysterious subject for the first time, not sure if it’s the right moment, but curiosity getting the better of me.

Dervish shakes his head. “I’ll tell you about them later. Not now. OK?”

I sniff like it doesn’t matter.

Dervish grows thoughtful. “Billy doesn’t know about the change, Lord Loss, what we did for him. It’s better this way. No point throwing his world into chaos. The Lambs are part of the human world. They’ve no direct experience of the Demonata or magic. They couldn’t learn anything from Billy.”

“Then don’t worry about it,” I mutter. “Go back to bed, get a good night’s sleep, kick the nightmares out the window.”

Dervish laughs. “If only it was that easy.” He checks his watch. Yawns. “But I’ll try to snooze, to keep nurse Grubitsch happy.” He glances at me. “If I drop off, I might go walkabout again. You should lock me in.”

“Nah,” I smile. “You’d wreck the room. Don’t worry about it. I’ll sleep with one ear open. I’ll see you don’t come to harm.”

Dervish reaches over, squeezes my hand, then shuffles off for the stairs and bed. I watch until he turns the corner. Stay for a while, thinking about Bill-E, the Lambs, demons, the mysterious Disciples. Then I start clearing up the photos and hanging the less tattered snapshots back on their pegs, knowing I won’t be able to sleep.

Tired. Finding it hard to stay awake. My friends want to know if there are any David A. Haym updates, but I only grunt at their questions. Studying Bill-E during lunch. Thinking about him in the hands of the Lambs, strapped to a table, hooked up to banks of electrodes. Can’t let that happen. I faced Lord Loss for my brother. If Prae Athim tries anything with Bill-E, she won’t just have to worry about Dervish and the Disciples—she’ll have to deal with me.

Yeah, I know, she’s hardly trembling with terror at the thought of having to go up against a teenager. But I’m big. And I can be nasty. If I have to.

A limousine’s parked in the drive when I get home. A chauffeur sits behind the wheel, dozing. No prizes for guessing who the limo belongs to.

I hear her as soon as I push open the front doors. She’s in the TV room. A loud voice, high-pitched, very theatrical. She’s talking about one of her earlier movies—it might be Zombie Zest— telling Dervish about the problems she faced trying to get the look of the monsters right.

“…but everybody’s using CGI these days! I don’t like it. The audience can tell. They’re not afraid. It’s psychological. You see a guy in a monster costume, or a cleverly designed puppet, and even though you know it’s not real, you can trick yourself into believing it is. But if you see something that’s the work of a computer, your brain can’t accept it. It doesn’t scare you. I think…”

I walk into the room and cough softly. Davida Haym looks up from where she’s sitting on the couch. A surprisingly normal-looking woman. Fiftyish. Black hair streaked with grey. Pudgy. A warm smile. Purple-rimmed glasses. A bright flowery dress. She looks more like a giggling granny than a horror-movie meister.

“Davida, this is my nephew, Grubbs,” Dervish introduces us. He’s sitting beside her on the couch, looking a bit overwhelmed—I have the feeling Davida hasn’t stopped talking since she came in. “Grubbs lives with me.”

“Hello, Grubbs,” Davida says, rising to shake my hand. A short woman. Barely comes up to my chest. “Neat name. Is it short for something?”

“Grubitsch,” I mutter. “I’m a big fan of yours. I thought Night Mayors was the best horror film of the last ten years.”

“Why, thank you!” Davida booms, not releasing my hand. “Although, to be honest, my input wasn’t so great. The director—Liam Fitz—is a real hardhead. Likes to make the creative decisions himself. I set him off, gave him whatever he asked for, but after that…” She shrugs, still holding my hand.

“And this is June,” Dervish says, drawing my attention to a third person in the room, sitting in a chair to my left.

“Juni,” she corrects him, getting up. “Juni Swan.” Davida Haym finally releases my fingers and I shake hands with the other woman. She’s small too, but slightly taller than Davida. Thin. Pretty. White hair, very pale skin, pinkish eyes. An albino. Her hair’s tied back in a ponytail. Hard to tell her age because her skin’s so white and smooth.

“Juni is Miss Haym’s assistant,” Dervish says.

“Davida,” the producer corrects him. She tuts loudly. “I don’t stand on ceremony.”

“And I’m not her assistant,” Juni says, almost apologetically. She speaks very softly. “Although I am here to assist.”

“Let’s sit down,” Davida says, as if this was her house. She leads us back to the chairs and pats the space on the couch beside her, forcing me to sit with her and Dervish. “I’ve been telling your uncle about my problems on my other movies. As I’m sure you know—I can tell you’re a horror buff—I love monsters. LOVE them! Fangs, tentacles, bulging eyes, slime… all great stuff, right? Right! But getting them to look real… believable… scare people to the max… that’s hard as hell. But I’m telling you nothing new. You’ve seen loads of terrible monster flicks, I’m sure. Where the creatures are about as scary as a baby in a pram?”

“Yeah,” I grin. “Most horror films are crap. That’s why they’re fun.”

“I agree!” Davida shouts. She thumps Dervish’s knee so hard that he gasps. “I like this kid! He knows his nettles from his roses!” She turns back to me. “We all love schlocky horror, where the effects are lame and the monsters tame. I grew up on old Universal and Hammer pictures! And that’s fine. Sometimes you just want to sit down to a corny bit of hokum and have a laugh.”

She raises a finger and lowers her voice. “But there are times when you don’t want to laugh, right? When you want to be scared, when you want your world turned upside-down, when you want to sit there in the dark and really feel fear bite. Right?”

“Hell, yeah!” There was a period, after my battles with Lord Loss and his familiars, when I didn’t enjoy horror. Life was fearful enough. But as the months passed, and the memories of the real horror faded, I rediscovered my love of fictional terror.

“That’s where I want to go with my next movie,” Davida says, loud again. “I’ve been off the scene for a while—almost four years since my last film. That’s because I’ve been researching and planning. I want to do something BIG with my next one, not rehash an older story. I want screams, not laughs. I want to go for the jugular and shake audiences up, send them home shivering.”

“Coolio!” I exclaim.

“Which is where your uncle comes in.” Davida smoothes down her skirt and turns her smile on Dervish. “Will we talk business now or do you want to wait?”

“Now’s good for me,” Dervish says.

“OK.” Davida glances around, to be sure nobody’s eavesdropping. “I’m about to shoot my new film. Everything’s set. I’m not only producing—I’ve written the script and I’m directing too. Can you imagine? Me—a director!” She throws her head back and laughs. Dervish and I laugh too, even though we’ve no idea what the joke is.

“I’ve kept the project secret,” Davida continues. “I keep quiet about all my films, but I’ve been especially hush-hush on this one. Everyone connected has signed a lips-sealed contract. The monster designs are locked in a state-of-the-art safe, and only two other people beside myself have seen them in their entirety—everybody else gets a small piece to work on. We won’t be shooting in any of the established studios. I’ve created my own, far away from prying eyes. Most people aren’t even aware that I’m at work again—they think I’m sitting on my ass on a beach, twiddling my thumbs, creatively defunct.”

“Sounds like you’ve given yourself a lot of headaches,” Dervish says.

“Are you kidding?” Davida snorts. “I’m having a ball! It’s the film I’ve always wanted to make. I love intrigue, suspense, secrets. It’s a game, the best in the world, and I’m the only one who knows all the rules. I wouldn’t trade places with anybody right now, not for anything.”

“I’m glad you’re happy,” Dervish says. “But I don’t see why…?” He leaves the question hanging.

“Why I’m telling you?” Davida looks at me and winks. “Why I’m telling the two of you.” She lowers her voice again. I don’t think she’s capable of whispering, but this is as close as she gets. “What I say now has to remain between us. I haven’t asked you to sign a confidentiality form yet—you’ll have to do it later, if you agree to my offer—but from what I’ve heard, you’re a man of your word. I’m not sure about Grubbs…”

“I can keep a secret,” I huff. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Excellent.” She gives my right knee a squeeze and almost crushes it. “So, when I ask you to keep what I’m about to say to yourselves, not tell anybody, even your best friends… can I trust you?”

“I won’t speak, even under torture,” Dervish laughs.

“Me neither,” I back him up.

“Great!” Davida beams. “Then listen close and keep it quiet. The film’s called Slawter.”

“Slaughter!” I echo. “Brilliant!”

“I think so too,” Davida chuckles. “Slawter—which is spelt with a ‘w’ instead of a ‘ugh’—is the name of the town in the movie. A bit obvious maybe, but I’ve always liked a gruesomely OTT play on words. I think it’ll look great on the posters—‘Welcome to Slawter!’ or ‘Let the Slawter commence!’ ” She squints. “Maybe we’ll have to work on the tagline, but you get the picture. Now, here’s the good part, the reason I’m here, and the bit I know you’re going to love the best. Slawter is going to be all about… demons!”

She sits back, grinning, and awaits our response, unaware that she’s just dropped the mother of all bombshells.

Davida can’t understand why we’re not excited. Doesn’t know what to make of our shifty glances and awkward silence. She keeps talking about the movie. Tells us that demons take over the town of Slawter. She describes some of the characters and scenes. Dervish and I listen stiffly.

“OK,” Davida finally says, “what’s wrong?” She sniffs at her armpits. “Do I stink?”

Dervish forces a thin smile. “There’s nothing wrong. It’s just… We’re not fond of demons, are we, Grubbs?”

“No,” I grunt.

“Why not?” Davida asks. “Demons are the scariest monsters of the lot.”

“Too scary,” Dervish mutters, then laughs edgily.

Davida frowns. “But you’re supposed to be a demon expert. The more I research, the more your name crops up. I’ve been told you know all about their ways, their habits, their appearance.”

“You’re talking about them as if they were real,” Juni Swan chuckles.

“Of course they’re not real,” Davida snorts. “But there have been loads of stories and legends about demons, plenty of descriptions and paintings, and Dervish knows more about them than most. He has some of the hardest-to-find demonic books and manuscripts in the world. Right?”

“I know more than many, not as much as some,” Dervish answers cagily. “What I can say is, demons aren’t to be taken lightly. If you want to make stuff up, go ahead, use your imagination, have fun. But I suspect you want to do more than that.”

“Damn straight,” Davida huffs. “I want the real deal, the fiercest demons on record. I want this to be believable. I’ve got most of what I need—as I said, I’ve been working on this for four years. My demons are ready to go. But I want them to behave realistically. I want to get every last detail right, so even the greatest demon scholar won’t be able to find fault.”

Davida points at Dervish. “That’s where you come in. I want your expertise, your insight and knowledge. I want you to come on set as an advisor. Tell us when we make mistakes, steer us right, help us pin the images down.”

“You’ve got the wrong guy,” Dervish says. “I know nothing about movies.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Davida insists. “I’m not saying you look on this as a career move—just a break from the norm. You get to see a film being made… hang out with the actors and crew… tell us what to do when we’re messing up… and the money’s not bad either!”

Juni coughs politely. “Davida, have you seen this place? I don’t think money is an issue. Correct, Dervish?”

“I have to admit, I’m not hard up,” Dervish says, smiling at the pretty albino.

“So don’t do it for the money,” Davida shrugs. “Do it for the experience. This is the chance of a lifetime. You could bring Grubbs along too. You’d like to see a movie being made, wouldn’t you, Grubbs?”

“You bet!” I reply enthusiastically. Then I remember what the film’s about. “But demons… they’re… it sounds silly, but…” I pull a face.

“This is incredible,” Davida snaps. “I thought you guys would be dying to get in on this. There are others I can ask if you’re going to be ridiculous about it. I’m not—”

“Davida,” Juni interrupts calmly. “You won’t convince them to get involved by antagonising them. If they don’t want to do it, you’ll have to accept their decision and move on.”

“I know,” Davida mutters. “I just don’t get why they’re turning me down!”

“It’s nothing personal,” Dervish says, then looks at Juni. “What’s your role in this, Miss Swan?”

“I’m a psychologist. There are lots of children involved in this movie. I’ve been hired to look after them on set.”

“Do you do a lot of this type of work?” Dervish asks.

Juni shakes her head. “This is my first time.”

“I brought Juni along because we’re going to interview a young actor later,” Davida says. “I like her to be involved with the kids as early as possible. She can spot a problem child a mile off.”

“What about problem adults?” Dervish asks.

“I don’t think you’d be any problem,” Juni responds with a shy smile.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Davida grumbles. Then she suddenly turns the full force of her smile on Dervish. “Hellfire, Grady! I don’t care if you’re a problem or not. I want you on my team. What can I do to convince you?”

Dervish starts to say there’s nothing she can do, then hesitates, glances at Juni and frowns. “Do you have a copy of the script?”

“No,” Davida says. “And I wouldn’t show it to you if I did. But I’ve got some excerpts on disc, along with a rough plot outline and descriptions of some of the demons—I needed something to grab the interest of potential investors. But I don’t like revealing even that much, especially to someone who hasn’t signed a contract.”

“I understand,” Dervish says. “But if I could have a look, I’d be able to tell you whether or not you need me. I don’t want to waste your time or mine. If there’s no reason for me to be there—nothing I can help you with—then…”

Davida doesn’t look happy. “I have a few copies of the disc,” she says, nodding at her handbag on the floor. “They’re digitally protected, so you shouldn’t be able to copy the material or send it to anyone by e-mail. But…”

She thinks it over, then reaches into the bag and produces a boxed disc. “I don’t know why I’m trusting you with this. You’re not that important to me. But you’re the first person to turn me down on this movie and I don’t like it. People aren’t supposed to say no to the fabulous Davida Haym.” She laughs shortly, then rises.

“You can have it for twenty-four hours. Juni and I have that interview tonight. We’ll be passing back this way tomorrow. We’ll drop in to collect the disc. I’ll ask—just once—if you’ve changed your mind. If you don’t want to do it, fine.” She beams at Dervish, nods at me, then heads for the door like a person of noble birth.

Juni gets up, smiling. “She’s a drama queen, isn’t she?” Juni says when Davida is out of earshot.

“And then some!” Dervish laughs.

“But she’s sweet,” Juni says. “And a natural with the children. She treats them like a mother. Not a bad bone in her body, despite the horrible films she makes.”

Juni starts for the door. Pauses. Looks at Dervish. “I hope you change your mind. I…” She stops, clears her throat, smiles quickly and exits.

Dervish hurries after her, to see the pair out. I remain in the TV room, staring at the disc on the couch, sensing trouble of the very worst kind, though I’m not sure why.

DON’T GO DOWN THE CELLAR

Dervish is humming when he returns. “Nice people,” he says.

“Especially Juni,” I note drily.

“Yes.” He picks up the disc and looks at it silently.

“What made you change your mind?” I ask.

“I haven’t,” he says.

“But you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“Yes. This is probably nothing to worry about, just a filmmaker conjuring up the usual smorgasbord of hysterical fakes. But I got the feeling Davida knows too much for her own good. She wants the film to be realistic. Maybe she plans to dabble where she shouldn’t, use old rites that might backfire. I’m a hard man to find. I’m worried that she was able to root me out. It makes me wonder what else she might know.”

“So you want to check the plot and demon descriptions, make sure there’s nothing dodgy going on?” I ask. Dervish nods. “Except I got the impression you only agreed to think it over when Juni smiled at you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Dervish protests. “She had nothing to do with it.”

But by the strength of his reaction, and the way he storms out of the room in a huff, I’m sure she did!

Having shrugged off my foolish sense of unease, I try convincing Dervish to let me have a look at the disc. I want to know what a David A. Haym film looks like at this early stage. But he refuses and locks himself in his study. Back downstairs, I fall asleep on the couch. Wake some time during the night, cold, shivering. Think about hauling myself up to bed, but I’m too lazy. Instead I grab a few pillows and stack them around me for warmth. Starting to drift off to sleep again when I suddenly snap wide awake.

Dervish is in trouble.

Not sure how I know—gut instinct. I slide off the couch, scattering the pillows, and race upstairs. Dervish isn’t in his bedroom or study. Nowhere on the second floor. Or the first. I wind up back on the ground floor. A quick scout—no sign of him. That means he either went out… or down to the cellar.

Before descending, I go to the kitchen and make sure Dervish hasn’t broken into the cutlery cupboard and stocked up on knives. Then I head down the stairs, automatic lights flickering on as I hit the bottom steps. The cellar’s where Dervish stores his wine. I don’t come down here much. Nothing of interest for me.

Listening to the hum of the lights, watching for shadows, trying to pinpoint Dervish’s position. After a minute I take the final step and explore the rows of wine racks, fists clenched, anticipating an attack.

I don’t find Dervish in the cellar. Search complete, I want to go back upstairs and try the area outside the house. But there’s one place still to look. It’s the last place I want to try—which makes me suspect that’s where Dervish is.

One of the walls houses a secret doorway. I make for that now. It’s covered by a giant wine rack, mostly containing normal bottles. But one’s a fake. I find it and press hard on the cork with a finger. It sinks in. The rack splits in two and both halves slide away from each other, revealing a dark, narrow corridor.

“Dervish?” I call. My voice echoes back to me, unanswered.

I start down the corridor, breathing raggedly. The halves of the wine rack slide back into place. I’m plunged into darkness. But it’s temporary. Moments later, lights flicker on overhead, the glow just strong enough to see by.

The corridor runs to a secret underground cellar. It’s where Dervish keeps his most magical and dangerous books, where he goes if he wants to practise magic. It’s where we fought Lord Loss all those months ago. Where I almost died.

I come to a thick wooden door with a gold ring for a handle. The door stands ajar and there’s a pale light coming from within. “Dervish?” I call again. No answer. I really don’t want to go in, but I must.

I push the door all the way open and enter, heart pounding.

A large room. Wooden beams support the ceiling. Many torches set in the walls, but none are lit. A steel cage in one corner, the bones of a deer lying on the floor within. Two broken tables. A third in good repair. Chess pieces, books, charred pages and other bits of debris brushed up against the walls. A stack of weapons close to the rubbish, lined with dust, riddled with cobwebs.

And Dervish, squatting in the middle of the room, a candle in one hand, a book in the other.

I approach cautiously. Freeze when I catch sight of the book. There’s a painting of Lord Loss on the cover. Just his face. And it’s moving. His awful red eyes are widening, his lips spreading. Dervish is muttering a spell, bending closer to the book. Lord Loss’ teeth glint in the light of the candle. His face starts to come off the page, like a 3D image, reaching for Dervish, as though to kiss him.

I hurl myself at Dervish. Knock him over and punch the book from his hand. The candle goes out. We’re plunged into darkness. Dervish screams. I hear him scrabbling for the book. I thrash around, find Dervish, throw myself on top and pin him to the floor, yelling at him, keeping him away from the book, calling his name over and over, using all my weight to keep him down.

Finally he stops fighting, pants heavily, then croaks, “Grubbs?” I don’t reply. “You’re squashing me,” he wheezes.

“Are you awake?” I cry.

“Of course. Now get off before…” A pause. “Where are we?

“The secret cellar.”

“Damn. What was I…?”

“You had a book about Lord Loss. You were chanting a spell. His face was moving. It looked like he was coming alive—coming through.”

“I’m sorry. I… Let’s get some light. I’m awake. Honest. You can get off me. I promise.”

Warily I slide aside. Dervish gets to his feet. Stumbles to the nearest wall. I hear him rooting through his pockets. Then he strikes a match, finds the nearest candle and sets it aflame. The room lights up. I see the book, lying facedown. No movement.

“Could you have brought him here?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the book.

“No,” Dervish says. “But I could have summoned part of his spirit. Given him just enough strength to… hurt me.”

“And me?”

“Absolutely not. You were safe. The spirit couldn’t have got out of this room.”

“But when I came in?”

Dervish says nothing. A guilty silence. Then a deep sigh. “Let’s get out of here. There are things we must discuss.”

“And the book?” I ask.

“Leave it. It can’t do any harm. Not now.”

Standing, I stagger out of the room. Dervish follows, leaving the candle burning, shutting the door on the past, trailing me back up the corridor to the safety of the normal world.

“The Disciples fight the Demonata and do what we can to keep them out of our universe.”

We’re in Dervish’s study. We both have mugs of hot chocolate. Sitting facing one another across the main desk.

“We’re all magically inclined,” Dervish continues. “Not true magicians, but we have talents and abilities—call us mages if you like. In an area of magic—the Demonata’s universe, or a place where a demon is crossing—our powers are magnified. We can do things you wouldn’t believe. No, scratch that—of course you’d believe. You fought Lord Loss.”

“How many Disciples are there?” I ask.

“Twenty-five, thirty. Maybe a few more.” Dervish shrugs. “We’re loose-knit. Our founder is a guy called Beranabus. He is a true magician, but we don’t see a lot of him. He spends most of his time among the Demonata, waging wars the rest of us couldn’t dream of winning.

“Beranabus sometimes gives orders, sets one or more of us a specific task. But mostly we do our own thing. That’s why I’m not sure of our exact number. There’s a core group who keep in touch, track the movements of demons and work together to deal with the threats. But there are others we only see occasionally. In an emergency I guess Beranabus could assemble us all, but in the usual run of things we don’t have contact with every member.”

“So that’s your real job,” I say softly. “Fighting demons.”

He smiles crookedly. “Don’t misinterpret what I’m telling you. This isn’t an organisation of crack magical heroes who battle demons every week. There are a few Disciples who’ve fought the Demonata several times, but most have never gone up against them, or maybe only once or twice.”

“Then what do they do?” I frown.

“Travel,” he says. “Tour the world, watch for signs of demonic activity, try to prevent crossings. Demons can’t swap between universes at will. They need human assistants. Wicked, power-hungry mages who work with them from this side and help them open windows between their realm and ours. Usually there are signs. If you know what to look for, you can stop it before it happens. That’s what we do—watch for evidence of a forming window, find the person working for the demon, stop them before it gets out of hand.”

“You don’t travel around,” I note. “Is that because of me?”

“No,” Dervish smiles. “I used to travel a lot, but I do most of my work here now, at the command of Beranabus. It s my job to… well, let’s not get into that. It’s not relevant.”

Dervish sips from his mug, looking at me over the rim, awaiting my reaction.

“What happens when a demon crosses?” I ask.

“It depends on the strength of the demon. Most of the truly powerful Demonata can’t use windows—they’re too big, magically speaking. They need a tunnel to cross—a wider, stronger form of window. They’re much more difficult to open. It’s been centuries since anyone constructed a tunnel.”

“Lord Loss is a demon master,” I note. “He crosses.”

“He’s an exception. We don’t know why he can cross when others like him can’t. He just can. There are rules where magic’s concerned, but those rules can be bent. Anything’s possible with magic, even the supposedly and logically impossible.

“The other demons who cross are nowhere near as powerful as Lord Loss,” Dervish continues, “We drive back the lesser specimens, but we leave the stronger demons alone and try to limit the damage.”

“You let them get away with it?” I cry. “You let them kill?”

Dervish lowers the mug. “It’s not as heartless as it sounds. There’s far less magic in our universe than theirs. When they cross, they’re nowhere near as powerful as they are in their own realm. And most can only stay here for a few minutes. Occasionally a window will remain open longer, for an hour or two, but that’s rare. Thankfully. Because if they could cross with all their powers intact, and stay as long as they liked, we’d have been wiped out long ago.

“We stop maybe half of all potential crossings,” Dervish goes on. “Which is pretty good when you consider how few of us there are. Although we’re only talking six or seven attempts to cross in any given year.”

“So three or four get through?” I ask.

“Approximately. We aren’t always there when one crosses. When we are…” He sighs. “If it’s a weaker demon, we try to drive it back. A single Disciple will engage it, occasionally a pair. We don’t like to risk too many in any single venture.”

“And when you don’t think you can stop it?” I ask quietly.

Dervish looks away. “A demon will normally kill no more then ten or twenty people when it crosses.”

“Still!” I protest. “Ten people, Dervish! Ten lives!”

“What do you want us to do?” he snaps. “There are battles we can’t win. We do what we can— we can’t do any more. We’re not bloody superheroes!”

“Sure,” I say quickly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound critical. I just…”

“I know,” he mutters. “When I first heard about the Disciples, I was like you. I didn’t want to admit the possibility of defeat or make concessions. But when you see enough people die, you realise life’s not like the movies or comics. You can’t save everyone. It’s not an option.”

Dervish falls silent. We never talked much about his past. To be honest, with all the problems I’ve faced over the last couple of years, I haven’t had time to think about anybody else’s troubles. But now that I consider it, I realise my uncle must have seen a lot of bad stuff in his time. We got lucky against Lord Loss. We beat him at his own game and walked away relatively unharmed. But Dervish told me there are more failures than successes when humans battle demons. And if he’s been around for even a few failures… seen people die like I saw my parents and sister die… had to stand by and let it happen because he didn’t have the power to stop it…

“I’m telling you this because of Davida Haym,” Dervish says, interrupting my thoughts. “I went through her disc earlier. From the outline it sounds like fun—demons run wild and take over a town—but I don’t like it. The few demons she described are very realistic. She mentions rituals you can use to summon them. She’s gathered information cleverly but I don’t think she knows how dangerous that information is.

“I’m going to accept her offer to work on set as an advisor. I want to make sure she doesn’t accidentally summon a demon or supply others with the means to. The chances of that happening are slim, and in the normal run of things I wouldn’t bother with her.

“But I need to get away from here for a while.” His eyes are dark, haunted. “I haven’t been the same since I came back. The nightmares… fear… confusion. Maybe my brain will never properly recover and I’m doomed to live like this until I die. But I’m hoping I can shrug it off. I’ve been living the quiet life—too quiet. I need something to focus my attention. A challenge. Something to sweep away the cobwebs inside my head.”

“But you’re protected by spells here,” I note. “You might not be safe outside Carcery Vale. Lord Loss…”

“Remember the book in the cellar?” Dervish says. “Unless I dig myself out of this hole, I don’t think I’m safe anywhere.”

I nod slowly. “How long will you be gone?”

“However long the shoot lasts,” Dervish says. “I’ll ask Meera to keep an eye on things while I’m away.”

“Meera’s going to be staying with me?” I ask, not minding the sound of that one little bit—Meera Flame’s hot stuff!

“No,” Dervish says. “You won’t be here either. Unless you object, I want to take you with me. Billy too.”

“You want to take us on set?” I yelp.

“Davida said I could,” he reminds me. “Well, she didn’t mention Billy, but I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”

“Brilliant!” I gasp, face lighting up. Then doubt crosses my mind. “But why?”

“Two reasons,” Dervish says. “One—I need you to look out for me at night, to help me if the nightmares continue.” He stops.

“And the second reason?”

“I don’t trust Prae Athim and the Lambs. They might pull a fast one if I’m not around.”

“You think they’d kidnap Bill-E?”

“It’s possible. Right now I want Billy where I can protect him, twenty-four seven. I’ll rest easier that way.”

“So we’re going into the movie business,” I laugh.

“Yep.” Dervish laughs too. “Crazy, isn’t it?” He checks his watch. “Three-thirty in the morning. Ma and Pa Spleen would hit the roof if we phoned Billy at such an ungodly hour.” He cocks a wicked eyebrow at me. “Do you want to ring or shall I?”