I tremble and reach out to close his eyelids, blinking back tears. My fingers are just a few centimetres from his eyes when… snap! Dervish’s teeth clamp together and he bites the tip of my index finger.
“Hellfire!” I roar, toppling backwards, heart racing.
“Your face,” Dervish snickers — always the bloody joker!
“Try it again,” I snarl. “Next time I’ll dig a hole and bury you alive.”
“Don’t be so sensitive,” Dervish coos, still giggling. He runs an eye over my unnatural muscles, the tufts of ginger hair sprouting from my skin, my wolfish features, yellow eyes, jagged claws and blood-spattered fangs. “You’re a real mess.”
“With a role model like you, I never had a hope,” I sniff.
“Poor Grubbs.” Dervish makes goo-goo eyes at me. “All you ever wanted was for someone to show you some love.”
“Get stuffed.”
We both laugh.
“I’m going to miss you,” Dervish sighs.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I’ll… y’know… you too.”
“Part of me wishes I could hang on and see how it all turns out. But then I think about the odds…” He shakes his head.
“Don’t worry,” I say grandly. “I’ll take care of the Demonata. The Shadow too. I’ve seen enough movies to know how these things end. We’ll all be high-fiving each other and celebrating a famous victory by this time next month. But you won’t see any of it. Because you’ll be dead.”
Dervish scowls. “You really know how to comfort a dying man.”
We’re silent a while. The flow of blood has slowed, but I don’t kid myself — it’s only because he doesn’t have much left. There’s no getting better, not this time. Dervish has cheated death for the last few months, but he played his last card when we faced the demon hordes.
“What’s going to become of you, Grubbs?” he asks. “This new look… the way you kill so freely…”
“I’ll be fine.” I poke the ground with my bare, hairy toes.
“No,” he says. “You’ve changed, and not just on the outside.” He lays a weak, bloodstained hand on mine. “Don’t become a monster. Remember who you are, the people who love you, why you fight. Beranabus acted inhumanly, but he was never fully human to begin with. You were. You are. Don’t lose track of that.”
“Is this really how you want to go?” I squint. “Lecturing me like some second-rate TV psychiatrist?”
“I’m serious,” he growls.
“Don’t be stupid,” I smile. “It’s far too late for that.”
Dervish rolls his eyes, then shrugs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I won’t.”
Dervish shivers and glares at the sun. “It’s so cold. Why’s there no warmth in that thing?”
“Eclipse.” It’s the first thing that pops into my head. Dervish cocks an eyebrow, but otherwise ignores the inanity.
“I wish we could have had more leisure time,” he says. “Apart from the trip to Slawter, I never took you on any holidays.”
“If Slawter was your idea of a holiday, that was probably a good thing.”
“Orlando,” Dervish nods. “That’s where we should have gone. Roller coasters. You, Billy and me. We’d have had so much fun.”
“We were never meant for a life like that,” I mumble. “I used to think I could choose it, just turn my back on magic and demons. But I’ve been locked into this course since birth, just like you. Bec, Beranabus – all of us – we never really had a choice. I hate the unfairness of fate, but…”
I pause. Dervish’s head has slumped. I tilt his head back, keeping my fingers clear of his mouth, expecting him to bite again. But this time it isn’t a joke. His eyes are closed. The last breath has slipped from his semi-parted lips. His heart has stopped beating.
“Guess the last laugh’s on you, old-timer,” I croak, letting his head rest on my shoulder and patting him clumsily.
Rising, I gently lay him back against the rock, then pad away and choose a spot in the shade. As I bend, I get the feeling that Dervish is sneaking up on me. I turn quickly, lips lifting into a smile, but he hasn’t moved. He never will again.
Sighing emptily, I clench my fingers tightly, then drive them into the dry, hard-packed soil, scooping out the first fistful of my dead uncle’s grave.
CLOCKING OFF
→ Creeping through a factory, in pursuit of a snake demon seven or eight metres long. I wouldn’t have thought a beast that size could hide easily, but I’ve been searching for several minutes without success. I should be out on the streets, battling the masses, but this demon killed a Disciple. She was an elderly, frail lady, but she could swing a spike-headed mace more effectively than anyone I’ve ever met. I never asked her name, but I liked her. I’m going to make her killer pay.
I slide around a corner, checking the pipes overhead. I feel edgy, which is odd. I haven’t felt anything but cold, detached hatred recently. I guess the tension of the moment has got to me. I’m sure the demon won’t prove to be a serious threat – I’m more than a match for any of the familiars who cross through windows – but it’s fun to pretend I’m in danger. I’d almost forgotten what fear was like.
A scraping noise behind me. I whirl, a ball of magical energy crackling at my fingertips. But it’s only Moe. He followed me into the building, even though I told him to stay outside. Moe’s one of three werewolves who’ve been with me since Wolf Island. Werewolves don’t need names, but after a few weeks with the trio, I felt like I should call them something. So I christened them Curly, Larry and Moe, after the Three Stooges. I never had much time for the Stooges, but Dervish loved them, so I named the werewolves in his memory.
I growl at Moe to let him know I’m displeased. He makes a soft whining noise, but he can tell I’m not that bothered. Moe takes his bodyguard duties seriously. He never likes to be too far from me. I think he feels a bit lost when I’m not there for him to protect.
Letting Moe fall into place behind me, I push further into the factory, past a long conveyor belt. Workers were sitting in the chairs alongside it just an hour ago. It’s been nearly a month since Dervish died in the desert. There have been dozens of crossings since then. Hundreds of thousands of humans have been killed. People are terrified and desperate, but life goes on. A few of us know the cause is hopeless, but we haven’t shared the bad news. As far as the general population is concerned, we can beat these demonic invaders.
So, as the body count mounts, folk carry on normally, manning their posts even in the face of an impending crossing, slipping away to safety at the last moment, returning as soon as the window closes.
Moe growls and darts to a nearby locker. I start to follow, assuming it’s the demon, but when he rips the locker door off and tears open a lunchbox, I realise he’s found a sandwich.
“Idiot,” I grunt, turning back to the conveyor belt.
Fangs sink into my thigh. Yelling, I fall and the snake drags me into the gloom beneath the belt, where it’s been lying in wait. I strike at its eyes, but it doesn’t have any. Gripping me tightly, it drives its fangs further into my flesh, crushing the bones in my leg.
I once read a survival pamphlet that said if