Hell’s Heroes. Darren Shan

looks much the way it did when I cast my final look back on that sad night.

      The spare key isn’t under the pot to the left of the front doors and I prepare to break in. But when I try the doors, they’re not locked. Entering, I call “Hello?” but nobody answers. There are no noises apart from the creakings of the house.

      As the others follow me in, I spot scores of bullet holes in the walls and ornate old staircase that is the spine of the house, and much of the furniture has been torn to pieces. On Dervish and Bec’s last night here, they were attacked by soldiers in the employ of Antoine Horwitzer, a rogue Lamb.

      “It smells stale,” Kirilli says, limping along behind me.

      “It’s been deserted for ages,” I tell him.

      “Not that long,” Kernel mutters.

      “Perhaps it’s mourning the death of its owner,” Kirilli says. “Houses have feelings too. They don’t live and feel like we do, but they absorb part of the spirit of those who inhabit them.”

      “Weirdo,” Kernel grunts and I laugh with him. Kirilli shrugs and shuffles off to explore.

      “Do you want to come with me?” I ask Kernel, feeling faint traces of the bond that once existed between us.

      “No,” he sighs, moving to a window and standing by it as if he can see out. “I’ll stay here and admire the moonlight. You go cheer up the house. Grubbs?” he adds softly as I turn to pad up the stairs. “I know how much this place means to you. Take your time.”

      “Thanks,” I smile.

      I head for Dervish’s office first. This is the room he spent most of his time in, where he worked, plotted and relaxed. It’s been shot up badly, but it still reeks of my uncle. His books lie scattered across the floor. His computers have been blown to smithereens, but I can picture him hunched over the screens, frowning as he read about some old spell or other. And maybe it’s just my imagination, but I’m sure I can smell the musty stench of his feet — he loved to kick his shoes off in here, but he wasn’t great at changing his socks regularly.

      I want to say something to mark the occasion and pay homage to the memory of my dead uncle. But everything I think of seems trite and clichéd. I was never the best with words. They’ve failed me often in the past, and they fail me again now. In the end I just pat the back of the chair where Dervish used to sit.

      I visit the hall of portraits and run my gaze over the faces of the dead, all our family members who have perished over the centuries, most as a result of lycanthropy. I’d like to add photos of Dervish and Bill-E to the rows of frames, but I don’t have any on me. I could fetch a couple from the study, but I don’t want to go back there.

      I settle for writing their names in the dusty glass of a couple of the larger pictures, along with their dates of birth and death. Pausing, I smile and add a line under Dervish’s name. “Died fighting the good fight.” A longer pause, then, with no smile, I write under Bill-E’s name, “Killed by his half-brother.”