by Darren Shan
“Steal him back from Cadaver?” Beranabus laughs again. “You’re brave, but stupid. You couldn’t find him, not if you searched for the rest of your life. So it doesn’t really matter if he’s alive or not, does it?”
“Is that the demon’s name?” I ask, ignoring his question. “Cadaver?”
“Aye. But that’s no use to you. What are you going to do — report him to your police?”
“We have to send this boy back,” the young woman says. “Open another window. Return him.”
“We don’t have time,” Beranabus says. “Cadaver knows we’re after him. He’s on the run. The farther ahead he gets, the harder he’ll be to find.”
“That doesn’t matter. We must —”
“You’re chasing him?” I cut in, excited. “You’re going after the monster who stole my brother?”
“Aye,” Beranabus says, eyes twinkling.
“Then I’ll come with you. Please. Let me. When you find him, if Art’s still . . . you know . . . I can snatch him back. Take him home.”
“No,” the Indian woman says immediately. “It is too dangerous. You do not know what you would be getting yourself into. . . . Excuse me, but what did you say your name was?”
“Kernel. Kernel Fleck.”
“My name is Sharmila.” She smiles. “You must go home, Kernel. If we find your brother, we will return him to you. I promise.”
“No,” I say stubbornly. “I want to help find him.”
“Help?” Beranabus repeats, cocking an amused eyebrow. “How exactly do you plan to help?”
“I . . . I don’t know. With the spells? The lights?”
“What lights?” Beranabus frowns.
I point to the patches of light that are joining together ahead of him. He looks at where I’m pointing and his frown deepens. I realize these people can’t see the patches either. Before I can explain, the black man speaks up.
“Sharmila and Nadia are right, master. This child does not belong here. We must return him. If we don’t . . . if we leave him in this nightmarish world of water and screaming trees . . . we will be no better than the demons we seek to stop.”
Beranabus sniffs. “A nice plea, Raz, but I never claimed to be any better than the Demonata. I say we leave him, and my word is final — isn’t it, Nadia?”
He looks hard at the young woman. She stares back defi-antly for a few seconds, then drops her gaze. “It wouldn’t take long to open a window . . .” she mutters. “I could do it while you search for Cadaver.”
“You’re not very skilled at finding your way around,” Be-ranabus says. “What makes you think you could locate the right place?”
“I could try,” she insists. “And even if I don’t find the exact spot, I can return him to our world. He could make his own way home from there.”
Beranabus thinks a moment, then shrugs. “So be it. Waste your time if you wish. But keep out of my way, so you don’t interfere with —”
“I’m not going!” I shout. “I came to find Art and I’m not going home without him!”
“Kernel,” the black man — Raz — says, “you don’t know what is happening. This is not a place for children. You must go home. Mustn’t he, Sharmila?”
“Yes,” the Indian woman says, glaring at me like an angry teacher. “I gave you my word that I will return your brother to you if we find him alive. That will have to be enough.”
“Trust me,” the younger woman — Nadia — says with a sad smile, “you don’t want to stay here. You’ve followed us into a different universe — the home of the Demonata. It’s a hellhole. This part isn’t so bad, but we’re going to encounter far worse very soon. You don’t want to be with us when that happens. I wouldn’t be here if I had a choice.”
“I don’t care,” I say, close to tears. “Art’s my brother. Mom told me to look after him. I’m not going back alone.” Softly, voice cracking, I add, “I can’t.”
Sharmila’s eyes go soft with pity. “I am sorry, Kernel. We have spoken harshly. But you have to understand — it is impossible. You cannot stay. You could do no good here. You must go home. Your parents will be frantic, thinking they have lost you both. That is not fair, is it?”
“No, but . . .” I can’t find the words to explain.
“Enough talk,” Beranabus grunts, losing his patience. “The boy wants to stay . . . you all want to send him home . . . this is easily decided.”
He flicks a hand at me. Suddenly I’m flying through the air. I smack hard into a tree and cry out with shock and pain, mostly from my broken arm. As I fall to the ground, the branches of the tree move quickly. Catch me. Wrap themselves around me. Squeeze.
I catch sight of Sharmila darting to my rescue. Beranabus waves a hand, stopping her. The branches tighten. The tree howls louder than ever. I’m lifted up. The holes in its bark are expanding. It means to crush and swallow me. A few seconds more and I’ll be dead, killed and eaten by this monstrous sham of a tree.
Something flares within me. I scream at the tree, set my teeth on the nearest branch to my face, and bite hard. The tree screeches. I chew through the branch, snapping it loose. Another. My left arm comes free. There’s heat in my palm. I grab a branch and feel power shoot through my hand, into the wood.
The tree howls with pain, then abruptly releases me. I drop, hit the water, go under, come up spluttering and thrashing. I dip under again. This time I stay there, feeling the water drag me down. I realize the water’s alive too, like the trees. Just as hungry and eager to kill.
I fight the panic. Force my legs to stop kicking wildly. Direct the power in my palm down towards my feet. I imagine myself as a rocket, blasting off, breaking free of the pull of the water. For a few seconds nothing happens. My lungs tighten. My mouth twitches.
Then, in a sudden burst, I explode upwards, out of the water, coughing, shivering, but free. I land on my feet, and this time the surface of the water holds. There’s terrible pain in my broken arm as I land, but I quickly use the power to numb myself to it.
I face Beranabus, furious at him for launching me at the tree and nearly killing me. Ready to attack him, to use my power to smash him to pieces.
He’s laughing. The others are staring at me, stunned, but Beranabus is laughing. “I thought so!” he cackles. “I guessed there was more to this one than mere flesh and bone. Ordinary children don’t step out of their own world into the universe of the Demonata. You need to be one of us to be that crazy. We’ll hold on to him.”
“No!” Sharmila cries.
“But . . . master . . . he’s only a child,” Raz mumbles. “This is a bad idea,” Nadia adds.
“I don’t care,” Beranabus says, waving away their protests. He grins at me, but it’s the smile of a cutthroat pirate. “You want to stay and help us find Cadaver? You want to search for your brother and rescue him like a knight of old? Very well, boy, you’ve got your wish.” He sticks out an arm, even though we’re too far from each other to shake hands. “You’re one of us now, Kernel Fleck. A demon hunter. Welcome to the Disciples!”
DEMONS AND DISCIPLES
BERANABUS is still working on his spells. Trying to find Cadaver and open a window which will lead us to the creature. According to Nadia there are thousands of demon worlds like this. Cadaver could be on almost any of them.
I’m squatting with the Disciples in a semicircle. We can’t sit down, because of the water. They look tired and upset. Sharmila argued with Beranabus for a long time, insisting he send me back. She said he was irresponsible and vile. He just swore and told her not to tell him his business. He said when she’d lived as long as he had, and seen all the things he’d seen, she could lecture him — but only then.
I study the Disciples while Beranabus works. Sharmila’s the oldest, fifty or more (though I’m not very good at guessing ages). She has a painted red spot in the middle of her forehead. I should know the name for it, but I can’t remember. Wrinkly skin. Dark, soft eyes. A long sari, many colors, ripped in several places an
d stained around the edges with blood and dirt.
Raz is fat and black. His skin’s incredibly dark. If it was night, no moon, and he shut his eyes, he’d be invisible. Tight, curly hair. Not overly tall. Maybe in his thirties. He wears a very fine suit. I think he’s wealthy — he looks like someone who hasn’t worked with his hands a lot. No shoes — none of the Disciples wear shoes or socks.
Nadia is in her late teens or early twenties. She has short blond hair, blue eyes and very bad skin. Lots of spots and acne scars. A hard, plain face. She wouldn’t be especially pretty even if she had the clearest skin in the world. Plump, but with bony legs and arms. She wears jeans and a dark green top. Looks unhappy, as though she’s suffered a lot.
Nadia catches me watching her and smiles. Her whole face changes. She looks a lot prettier. “Strange days, huh, Kernel Fleck?”
“I still don’t understand it all,” I mutter. “Actually, I don’t really understand any of it.”
Nadia laughs. “At least you’re honest.” She chews a fingernail, considering what to say. Eventually she gestures at the elderly man on his feet. “That’s Beranabus. He’s a magician. There aren’t many of them in the world. Lots of people can do some magic if the situation is right, but only a few are born with full magical powers.”
“He is our master,” Raz says, gazing at Beranabus adoringly. “He unites us, gives us direction, shows us the way.”
“He is an egotistical, reckless fool!” Sharmila disagrees, snorting harshly. “He does not care for any person’s life. He claims to be on a greater mission to save the world, but I have my doubts. I do not trust him and I advise you to be cautious also, Kernel.”
“But isn’t he your leader?” I ask, confused.
“Yes. But we follow him reluctantly, not out of choice.” She looks at Raz and smiles. “Well, some of us do.”
Raz and Sharmila start arguing about Beranabus’s faults and strong points. Nadia listens for a while, then shuffles away from them and nods for me to follow.
“They’re new to this,” she says quietly when we’re out of earshot. “Beranabus has always been a legendary figure to them. They haven’t spent time around him, so they’re not sure how to respond to his... peculiarities. Raz overidolizes him. Sharmila criticizes. But he doesn’t care what people say or think, as long as they obey his orders.”
“You’ve been with him a long time?” I ask, and she nods. “Is he your father or something?”
Nadia laughs. “No, he’s just.. .” She pauses and chews another fingernail. “We’ve all been where you are now. Sharmila, Raz and I led normal lives once. We sensed we were different, not completely like other people. But we had families and friends, jobs and dreams. We were ordinary. Happy. Then, one way or another, we found out about the Demonata.”
“The demons?”
“Yes. That’s their proper name — Demonata. They exist in a multiworld universe of their own. They’ve been around as long as mankind, maybe longer. Evil, murderous creatures, who revel in torment and slaughter. They try to cross over into our world all the time, but most are either too weak or too strong.”
“Too strong?” I frown.
“You stepped through a window to get here,” she explains. “Windows are the most common way of moving between universes, but they’re limited in size. Larger, stronger demons can’t squeeze through. There are other ways to cross — tunnels can be created — but they’re rare.
“Anyway, demons are real and they like nothing better than to cross into our world and murder humans. They’re usually unable to stay in our universe more than a few minutes, so they only have time to kill a handful of people. They’ve slaughtered hundreds of thousands over the centuries, but for the most part we’ve escaped pretty lightly, protected by laws of physics.”
Nadia glances at Beranabus, still working to find Cadaver. The patches of light have stopped gliding towards him, but there are lots in the air around the magician, pulsing at different speeds. As he chants spells, pieces slot together, joining in a panel forming ahead of him. It’s strange that only I can see the lights, but I don’t comment on that in case I break Nadia’s train of thought.
“Centuries ago, a few mages — people with magical talents, but not true magicians — decided to actively combat the demons,” Nadia continues. “They studied the disturbances created in advance of a demon crossing to our universe. If they could predict their coming, they could stop the beasts or fight them when they entered our world. They recruited other mages, then approached Beranabus and tried —”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupt. “You said this happened hundreds of years ago.”
“Yes.”
“But . . .” I stare at the elderly, bearded magician. He looks maybe sixty or more, but nothing like a guy in his hundreds, assuming a man could live that long — which is impossible.
“Time works differently in the Demonata’s universe,” Nadia says. “It can move more slowly or quickly, depending on where you are. But normally it’s slower. An hour here could be a day or more on Earth. A week could be a year. You could spend three or four years here and return to a brand new century. Or spend ten years here and return to a world which has only moved on by a week.
“But humans can’t survive in this universe. Even real magicians fall victim to the demon forces. Several have tried to extend their natural life span by coming here, but they’ve all been ripped to shreds by the Demonata. Except Beranabus. He’s strong enough to fight the demons as an equal, to survive among them. He’s a few hundred years old. At least.”
Raz and Sharmila have stopped arguing. Raz moves close to his master, in case he needs help. Sharmila comes to squat by Nadia and me, and listens as Nadia continues her explanations.
“The mages who wanted to fight the Demonata contacted Beranabus. He’d been fighting demons long before they came along, but usually in this universe. He saw it as his duty to prevent the stronger demons from building tunnels and crossing over. He focused on the demon masters — the ones who could destroy our world if they found a way across.”
“Have you ever fought a demon master?” Sharmila asks Nadia.
“Not yet,” she says, and a troubled expression flits across her face. She falls silent and starts chewing her nails again, biting hard. Sharmila squeezes the younger woman’s shoulder, then takes up the story. She has a soft but firm voice.
“The mages asked Beranabus to teach them his ways. They wanted to study his methods, so they could fight the stronger demons too. He told them he was not interested in being their teacher. But they were persistent. Dogged him. Begged to become his students, to learn, to help.
“Finally, because he was tired of being bothered, or because he thought they might serve some good, he agreed. He let a few travel with him through this universe, showed them how to fight, helped them understand more about their enemies. They passed that knowledge on, teaching others how to destroy windows before they were fully formed, how to fight demons who made it through. Although often, when a demon crosses, it is better not to engage them directly, just try to limit the damage.”
She pauses and shrugs stiffly. “That is not the way we like it, but it is the way it must be. There are too few of us to take risks. Better we avoid direct conflict and prevent other crossings, than fight, perish and leave the demons free to come as they please. Some disagree with that and take the fight to the Demonata, but they do not last very long.”
“You tried fighting when you were younger,” Nadia says, and Sharmila nods. “That’s why Beranabus recruited you. You and Raz have fought demons. He knows he can take advantage of your nobler nature.” She chuckles dryly and shoots Beranabus a dark look. I realize she doesn’t like the ancient magician. Maybe even hates him. But in that case, why does she work for him? Before I can ask, Nadia picks up the story again.
“The mages called themselves the Disciples, to honor Beranabus. He didn’t care about that, but to them it was important. It still is. Their followers have kept
the name. There are never many Disciples — maybe forty or fifty at any time. They patrol the world, thwarting the plans of lesser demons, searching for other humans with powers like their own, to recruit, train and set against the Demonata.”
“Mostly we act independently of the master,” Raz says, and all our heads bob up. He’s standing over me, rubbing his hands together, smiling. “We were not properly introduced earlier. My name is Raz Warlo. This is Sharmila Mukherji. And Nadia Moore. We are — I’m sure I speak for us all — delighted to meet you, and will do all in our power to make you feel that you are among friends and allies.”
Sharmila laughs shortly. “Always the diplomat, Raz.”
“One of us needs to be.” He laughs back, then squats. “As I said, the Disciples mostly act without orders from the master. He leaves us free to operate as we see fit. Occasionally he’ll assign one of us a task, perhaps to watch for signs of demonic activity in a certain area, or to come into this universe with him to fight. But mostly we follow our own path.”
“Lucky you,” Nadia says bitterly, and shoots another harsh look at Beranabus.
“Are you his... slave?” I ask hesitantly.
“I might as well be,” she spits out, then smiles painfully. “No. Beranabus is a real son of a bitch, but I’m free to leave if I wish. I’m different from Raz, Sharmila and the rest of the Disciples — more gifted. Not necessarily more powerful, but I can.. .” She trails off and glances at Raz and Sharmila, who are staring at her curiously. They don’t know this bit either.
Nadia sniffs. “It’s not a secret. Beranabus didn’t tell you because there wasn’t time. He won’t mind if I fill you in. And I think I should, because it concerns you and Raz too. It’s the reason you’re here.”
“I have been curious about that,” Sharmila says, and though Raz says nothing, I can see that he’s intrigued also.
Nadia rubs her arms, shivering slightly. “I’ve been with Beranabus a long time, maybe seven or eight years — though it’s been a lot longer than that in the human world. When Beranabus recruited me, talking movies had just come into fashion. It was 1929.”
We gape at her. Sharmila covers her mouth with a hand. Raz blinks owlishly.
“1929?” I echo. “But you’re so young.”
“I’ve spent most of those seven or eight years here, where — as I’ve explained — time works differently.”
“You mean you missed out on the 1930s?” Raz asks. “The second World War? Rock and roll? The Beatles?”
“Beetles?” Nadia asks innocently.
“The Beatles. The biggest band in the world. They...” He stops, not sure how to explain The Beatles to somebody from 1929.
“Poor girl,” Sharmila says, tears of pity in her eyes.